Rise of the Beast: A Novel (The Patmos Conspiracy Book 1) (14 page)

31

New York City

THERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT can’t be said out loud. So Jonathan Alexander wrote them down, slowly and carefully, using classic lettering that wasn’t taught in modern Greek schools. The words were his secrets. He planned for them to be revealed in the light of day sometime in the distant future. But not now. Only at his death so that his name would never be forgotten, thus insuring his immortality.

Alexander reached in the pocket of his lightweight coat and pulled out one of the few tokens he still possessed going back to his childhood. A switchblade. His father had given it to him. He touched the well-worn lever and the blade popped out. He closed it but kept it in his hand. His fingers traced the groove on the side of his head.

No, now was probably not the time to have committed words to a journal. He had not written anything that made him criminally liable or anything that would reveal the extent and specifics of his plans. But anyone reading his journal could portray him as a deranged, crazy chauvinist, undoing the forty years he had carefully cultivated a public persona of refinement after climbing from the treacherous docks of Marseilles, Istanbul, Naples, and Gioia Tauro, along with countless Balkan and Turkish overland routes that supplied the drug trade, the source of his swift rise to wealth.

Alexander flicked open the knife. His fingernails were perfectly manicured but he could not resist the muscle memory of using the blade to clean the dirt, grime, and blood that oozed into the pores and lines of a fisherman’s hands.

Alexander had always been subject to rumors about his past and present that claimed he was a sociopathic megalomaniac who would do absolutely anything to get what he wanted. The volume of stories had grown exponentially in the Internet age. Many of those rumors were actually fairly accurate, even if the specifics were often wrong. He had a publicist who was quick to point out that the Internet was an unregulated realm where people could make spurious accusations with no accountability—and thus was not taken seriously.

“Besides, with a man like you, there is no such thing as bad publicity.”

That’s not what he wanted to hear so she shut up and got back to her job to make sure his charitable acts were well reported by the international press.

Yes, there is such a thing as bad publicity.

If people read his words in his own handwriting that would be bad publicity. Hard, much harder to deny. The public relations team would claim that anything displayed in the media was a forgery and hoax. She had well-compensated sources throughout the press who would give her a heads up if something big and negative about Alexander was about to be published or aired. She would immediately contact Klaus. Alexander’s legal team would move quickly to issue cease and desist orders that threatened massive lawsuits that would cause pause for even the most powerful of media conglomerates. But there were too many outlets to ensure everything was stopped. Who knows what would catch fire?

His journal would.

Patmos was using this dynamic of the World Wide Web to help accomplish his plans. But he didn’t want the same dynamic used against himself.

He and Nicky were alone on the balcony outside the private office in his Manhattan townhouse, a bottle of wine between them, only half empty. Nicky smoked a Cuban cigar. Alexander thought it was a nasty habit, but he could think of worse substances for Nicky to indulge in— all of which his nephew eschewed under Alexander’s watchful gaze—so he paid it no heed. Uncle and nephew were comfortable with silence.

Much had been done in the previous 24 hours. More was undone.

Alexander’s mind wrestled with a series of problems that had arisen at precisely the wrong moment. Pauline was wounded and at large. A particularly despicable man, Colonel Arnold Grayson, who had been hired to infiltrate him was also at large. Who knew how many others Grayson involved in the subterfuge? Who had actually seen the pages of his journal? Based on that, who would come after Alexander next?

He had moles in a vast array of governments and corporations worldwide. What did he tell them to look for without revealing too much?

If there were leaks, could he trust the key co-conspirators in the Patmos machination? One of the brethren called him to let him know of his “innocent” involvement in the heist of pages from his journal. The man didn’t have to say what Alexander knew was on his mind.

I didn’t think you would be foolish enough to write anything down.

The man who called him was a religious man yet failed to grasp the need for a connection to the divine in an undertaking that meant life or death for all that was good and honorable in a world of unremitting misery and thralldom.

What of the other chosen associates he had cultivated and brought into the plan or as much of the plan as he wanted them to know? Did he reach out now to tell them there was a potential problem? If they knew there were new risks, would their commitment and resolve hold? Not every powerful man had the iron will to rule, which was a major reason Patmos was so important. In a world of fantasy and flames, someone had to be the grownup and rule.

Yes, he would reach out to his brothers. He needed them. When he no longer needed them, he would then judge their commitment and deeds before determining their fate in a new world order. Those who did not measure up would be dispatched. He was certain which man would be the first to die.

“Jonto, how was I to know?”

He wondered if any would truly be found worthy. It still chafed that he had to spin such elaborate stories of a new Illuminati, the enlightened few that controlled events from a shroud of invisibility. Why did people need such fanciful notions? Why did lesser men want their names surreptitiously associated with the Grove? The Bilderberg Group? The 32
^nd
Degree Masons? A secret consortium of Central Bankers? Yes, they all held the necessary positions and wealth to exercise power to advance Patmos, but did they possess the true substance to see it to completion? Were they the true descendants of the Illuminati?

Of course not. Alexander knew too well that whatever power a father bequeathed to his son, not every son was capable of donning a mantle that required iron will.

The original Illuminati was historical fact. Jacob Frank was a disciple of the 17
^th
Century occultist, Sabbati Zevi, the man who codified a plan to undermine power structures through chaos. When Frank, Adam Weishaupt, and Mayer Amshel Rothschild founded the Order of the Illuminati in 1776, it was the energy that rallied disparate power brokers to topple the French monarchy. The men infiltrated the highest levels of Judaism, Christianity, Islam, the Scottish Masons, and countless governments. Weishaupt’s writings continued to dominate and guide the thinking of many secret societies in the centuries to follow. But there was no contiguous ruling cabal, even if many heirs to the original triumvirate believed themselves to be puppet masters in a shadow government that controlled and profited from both sides of every significant world conflict.

Even if the name and ideals lived on, Alexander was certain that no extant organization existed that had the means to create the disorder
required to build a new world order. If a man attended a meeting of the Bilderbergs or the Grove, it was a sure sign to Alexander that he was a mere poseur.

Greatness simply wasn’t a byproduct of heredity or wealth.

Alexander would continue to feed their egos, letting them believe they pulled the strings of world events.

The problem with the teachings of Weishaupt was that he was a man of his times, which made his vision myopic. He sought to dissipate the control of Western powers, never factoring in emerging demographic realities. Those who followed his rules were equally near-sighted. What good was it to control the mechanizations of a dying carcass? The savages of the world were the new world order. It was a simple numbers game. Rockefeller’s Club of Rome brought population control to the forefront, but again, missed the point by assigning nearly equal desired cuts across the board, rather than focusing on the wastelands of human existence. He, Jonathan Alexander, would not make the same mistake in his plans. The West must rise from the ashes of decay to reassert its world hegemony. The only way that was possible was that much of the world must die.

Alexander thought of his journal again. Would he have done anything differently? How could he? First, there was the question of his own immortality. His name must be spoken through eternity. Second, if there was a God, Alexander must have him on his side or bend him to his will. He knew that God had allowed Lucifer freedom of rebellion throughout history. Alexander was convinced God had a blind spot in regard to the most beautiful being of His creation. Alexander would use that. Had not the Beast prevailed against God countless times throughout history?

He, Alexander, knew without a doubt he must be the man to cleanse the world of unrighteousness, with or without God.

No, he would have done nothing differently. The words had to be written for posterity sake.

He thought back to the second he reached for the journal on the steps of Reverend Garrison’s church and discovered it was missing
from his vest pocket. He knew in a flash it was Pauline’s doing. Jules had warned him of her. That he would do differently. He should have listened. But he liked her. And yes, she carried a remarkable semblance to the young Helena he had fallen in love with. Both were difficult to control, which was both alluring and inconvenient.

“GET SOME SLEEP, UNCLE,” NICKY said.

Sleep was difficult. Alexander felt restless. He liked to keep Jules near him, particularly in foreign situations. He knew he was well protected but still felt uneasy.

He had no choice but to dispatch Jules to find Pauline and the journal. Jules was successful in retrieving the journal and her phone, which was helpful, even if he failed to capture the girl.

The phone was rushed to Klaus in Geneva where a trusted technical specialist awaited its arrival. She tore it apart and quickly found the invisible app that forwarded the pictures Pauline took. The woman determined that Pauline had sent only six images. That would equate to between six and eleven pages. Those pages were in someone’s possession. And that someone was a threat to him and his plans.

What form would this threat take? Most obvious, if whoever read the journal pages correctly interpreted the words to mean that Alexander had plans to strategically eliminate a sizeable portion of the world’s population, he could provide that information to governmental authorities to investigate. Alexander’s Patmos activities were laundered through a myriad of corporations, none of them linked to him. But that didn’t mean the brightest minds with unlimited resources couldn’t connect the dots.

Even if he was too well insulated from being implicated in events that were about to unfold, the plans themselves might be discovered under intense scrutiny. That would be catastrophic. He cared about the plans themselves. Deeply. Almost as much as he cared for himself.

A second form the threat might take, extortion, would be preferable to him. He would of course agree to pay anything on any terms when the demand for money came. But the blackmailer would make the ultimate payment. Painfully. Alexander would spend whatever it took to make it so.

But something else teased at him. Whoever had hired Pauline to photograph the pages of his journal had to be someone he knew and someone who knew him. How else would they know about the journal and become curious about what it contained?

Was it someone that worked for him? Klaus was digging deep into the activities of his top lieutenants this very moment, while one of those lieutenants was digging deeply into Klaus’s every activity.

Some would be daunted or discouraged by the task of looking under every rock for an enemy. Not Alexander. What he had Klaus doing was absolutely necessary. But he also knew that among all his enemies, one man stood above. He was not easy to get to, but it helped that one of the man’s most trusted friends was also on Alexander’s payroll.

Alexander pursed his lips and thought. He appreciated Jules’ attempt to take the blame for the Pauline fiasco when he called to let him know the driver had suffered a massive heart attack. That was kind of Jules to care about his feelings and thusly show his loyalty. But it also bothered him; even angered him. When had he ever needed coddling or encouragement? He had performed everything Jules had with his own bare hands long before Jules was but a gleam in his parents’ eyes.

Did Jules perceive that he had become soft? Had he become soft at the precise time he needed to be hard? Was the introspection of Patmos dulling the edge of his blade?

“Nicky, am I as strong as I used to be?”

“I think you’re stronger than ever.”

“Then why did I let an enemy inside my home?”

“You couldn’t have known. She was looked at from every angle. She was clean. There was nothing suspicious about her.”

“Who introduced her to us?”

“I don’t know. Klaus handles that stuff.”