The Demon Signet (36 page)

I imagine this will be my last word. If so, then may I take Solomon the King’s words, whether recorded actually or fictitiously in the
Testament of Solomon,
as my own, for surely I can utter the same truth
.
“I became the sport of idols and demons. Wherefore I wrote out this Testament, that ye who get possession of it may pity, and attend to the last things, and not to the first. So that ye may find grace forever and ever. Amen.”

Many Years Later

excerpt from
THE SOLOMON KEY

The Senator punched the roof of the car with a large hand while swearing under his breath. And then he swore again, louder. Sweat was forming on his brow and, in an attempt to ignore it, he turned his attention to his pockets, searching for a pack of cigarettes and lighter. He was angry. They got him. And this time they got him good. Those idiots were there again, despite the late hour and the scattered rain. Every weekend for the last month. It didn’t matter how many of them were arrested or beaten, even tortured, they just kept coming. But this time was different—the major media had caught it on tape.

He looked out the window, exhaling smoke into the dimly lit, brand new town car. He spread his legs, unbuttoning his expensive suit jacket and slouching heavily into the back seat. The confrontation had ended badly.

He hated them—the “people.” Hated that they were still able to agitate him. Hated that he couldn’t just squash them all under his heel and finally be done with them. At least not yet.
Soon,
he told himself, trying to relax. But it wasn’t working. He knew the media would spin it in his favor, but still…it was just more work. And the people he answered to didn’t like more work.

He lowered his hand to grip the edge of the seat beside him, the cigarette sticking up and sending smoke whisking throughout the yellowish lighting of the car’s interior. He began to panic. Should he worry? Arrogance chased the notion away. By his own esteem, he was much too important a figure to discard or demote. They needed him. And that made him valuable, untouchable. He convinced himself to rest easy, believing that a subtle rebuke might be a possibility, but certainly nothing more.

The most recent terrorist attack had the people practically begging for a police state to keep them safe, and the ensuing loss of their liberty just about took them out of the picture all together—which is why he was sure he had nothing to fear from this last encounter with them. The power of the former Republic was no longer a threat to men like him or to their secret agendas.

“Are you comfortable, sir?” the shadow from the driver’s seat asked.

The Senator blinked, tapped his cigarette with a free finger, and watched the ashes flutter to the carpeted floor at his feet. “Sure,” he grumbled.

“We’ll be there in about ten minutes, sir.”

He stared out through the wet window, ignoring his own reflection, his mind dazed by the blurred city lights. He tried to concentrate on the task at hand.

The driver pulled over on East 157th Street, and a man with an umbrella was waiting at the curb. Opening the rear door, he ushered the Senator out, escorting him under the umbrella into the newly renovated Yankee Stadium. The game was just going into the 7th inning after two rain delays, but the Senator wasn’t there to be entertained.

They made their way through scores of local police and NAU soldiers before using an alternate entrance into the stadium.

Three police officers dressed in black uniforms scrutinized them as they approached, their trigger-fingers dancing on their weapons. The man with the umbrella flashed some kind of ID, and the cops let them enter without a word. Once inside and on their way to the owner’s box, a security guard ran up to the Senator, ranting rather excitedly about a smoke-free zone.

Stopping, the Senator turned, his overcoat swinging in pursuit. “Excuse me?” he growled.

“It’s an eco crime, sir. I’m going to have to ask that you get rid of it.”

He smiled a wicked smile and blew smoke into the young security guard’s face.

“I passed that law, son.” Then he flicked the butt off the guard’s chest, turned, and continued to the owner’s box.

The security guard reached for his taser gun, but the man with the umbrella stepped in front of him and waved a finger before he could get it out of its holster.

“Don’t even think about it, young man.” He folded the umbrella. “Or you’ll be working in a labor camp before the game is over.”

They left the young officer staring blankly at their backs as they walked away.

The man with the umbrella opened the door for the Senator, ushering him through. Once the Senator was in, the man followed, closing the door behind them and locking it.

“You look terrible.”

The voice came from behind the bar.

The Senator stepped forward, reaching into the chest pocket of his jacket, and extracted an envelope. “I have the information.”

A man emerged from behind the bar carrying a bottle and two glasses. “Seriously Bill, you look like hell,” he said.

“Rough night.”

The man was a good twenty years younger than the Senator, dressed in slacks and a cotton shirt underneath a sweater vest. “A drink then.” He filled both glasses, handing one to the Senator who drained the whole thing in one gulp. The man raised an eyebrow, turned, and walked to an oversized chair, sitting to the sound of the crowd cheering a Yankee homerun. “You hear that?” he asked, nodding toward the tinted glass that hid them from the 53,000 standing fans on the other side. “The sound of ignorance.” He took a sip and waved his hand at the air. “Bliss. They care more about the pennant than their country.” He laughed.

It was an old tale, and the Senator didn’t need a lesson in how the world really worked by someone younger than himself. Obviously the guy was a Bonesman, but so was he, as well as being a frequent guest to Bohemian Grove. The Senator stepped toward him and tossed the envelope into his lap. “The diagnostics from DC.”

The younger man sat up, immediately tearing it open. “Is it what we thought?”

“It’s all in there,” responded the Senator. “Can’t imagine why it’s so important.”

Pulling a coin-sized disc out of the envelope, the man smiled. “Have the loose ends been taken care of?” He placed the disc on the table next to him.

“As we speak.”

The man nodded. “We can’t be too careful these days… What’s the cover?”

“One of the scientists tried to steal it, to sell it on the black market. He murdered the others before being stopped by security.”

He nodded his approval. “Will you stay and watch the remainder of the game?”

He swallowed the lump in his throat, suddenly feeling the walls press in on him. “No. I have to get back. It’s been an awful day.” He made his way back to the door where the gentleman with the umbrella opened it for him.

“Senator,” the man called, standing.

He stopped and hesitated, looked back over his shoulder.

“Did you happen to come from the Pratt House?”

He answered methodically, trying to sound as disinterested as possible. “No. I came from your wife’s.”

The man chuckled. “Senator—” he tossed the bottle of scotch to him.

The Senator caught it, looked it over.

“Relax,” the man finished. “We’re untouchable. We’re dealing with people that believe kerosene can disintegrate 110 stories of steel and concrete in an hour.” Then he picked up the disc. “People that believe whatever we tell them to believe.” He walked back behind the bar. “That’s the beauty of this place. We can always count on half a million people coming to watch someone hit a ball with a piece of wood.”

The Senator forced a smile. To which the man raised his glass and turned away, walking through another door behind the bar. “See you later, Bill.”

The Senator walked out of the owner’s box, the umbrella man closing the door behind him.

“I’ll escort you back to your car, sir.”

****

In the owner’s box, the man who did not own the Yankees—but was very close to the one who did—turned the huge four dimensional Ultra Definition TV back on, its nanocrystals shining bright while the visible light technology stimulated his senses with high frequency blinking. He knew it was a Pepsi add, because he suddenly needed to have one, and he again reminded himself to get the feature removed. He hated
being
manipulated, especially by something he couldn’t see. That was
his
role, to manipulate. Putting the urge for an ice cold Pepsi out of his mind, he focused on the image that was projected. There he was…the Senator, coming from the Pratt House, ambushed by protestors.

They were all screaming, holding signs. As the Senator approached his car, one young man stepped out from the group, video camera in hand, and yelled, “America won’t give in to your agendas! We know what you’re doing, and we’re not going to let it happen!”

The Senator turned, glaring at the punk kid, and slapped the camera out of his hand. “There is no more America!” Then he seethed, “You’re treading on dangerous ground here. Someone could get hurt doing this.”

To which the kid responded, “Sir, was that a threat? Did you just threaten me, Senator?” It was at that instant that the Senator noticed a major news reporter standing nearby, face frozen in shock, his cameraman recording the whole event. The tape ended just as security guards and police began closing in on the crowd.

The news anchor began talking, the clip over and the picture now of the studio, but the man wasn’t really listening. Something about more laws needing to be passed against this kind of anti-government rhetoric. “Nazi propaganda” was what he was calling it.

He drank the rest of his scotch and touched the earpiece in his ear, dictating a codeword the phone used to connect with the desired recipient, the voice recognition software authenticating and securing the line simultaneously. “He just dropped it off. What do you want to do? Yeah, I’m watching it.” A pause. “Pity.” Then he touched the earpiece again, tapping it twice, and spoke another name as he took the disc to the TV, anxious to see what those working on the artifact had concluded. He pushed it into the side of the thin television, activating its use as a four dimensional computer.

****

The Senator sat in the back seat of the car and ignored the umbrella man as he closed the door. He did, however, notice the driver quickly tap his earpiece.

“Home, sir?” the driver asked.

“Yes.” He pulled the top off the bottle of scotch and started drinking. Then he leaned forward and turned on the TV that was built into the back of the bench seat in front of him.

There he was. On a major news station.

“Someone could get hurt doing this…”
Had he been twenty years younger, he might have tried running or something. But not now. Now he knew it was useless. It was his own stupid fault anyway. He drank some more. It wasn’t as if the Council on Foreign Relations hadn’t been suspected of conspiracy in the past, but it had always come out unscathed.

And even now while the news was spinning the story in the CFR’s favor, he knew that those he answered to would not be happy about the new enemies they’d be waking up to in the morning. It would just be more work for them in the end. He lit a cigarette. The fact that public awareness posed no threat to the Establishment suddenly didn’t mean so much to him.

It started to rain again.

“Perfect,” he muttered.

“What was that, sir?” asked the driver, looking back through the rearview mirror.

“Nothing.” He watched New York blur past the window. Like the rest of the country, it was a mess. The economic collapse and the violence that ensued had turned it into a trash heap. He glanced at the driver. “So what happens now?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, boy.”

After a moment of silence, the response came. “You know how it works, Senator. You made yourself a liability.”

His heart froze. He couldn’t believe it. “It’ll look suspicious, me getting offed right after my statement. It’ll lend credence to my words. To theirs.”

The driver shook his head. “Your wife. She’s twenty-three years younger than you.”

The Senator closed his eyes, tilted the bottle straight up, and drank as much as he could.

The driver continued. “You followed her to her lover’s house. Shot them both, then turned the gun on yourself.”

He stopped drinking, held the bottle away from him. “And I suppose I’m to be in a drunken rage?”

“Nothing personal, sir.”

The Senator’s face flushed red, the alcohol emboldening him, but before he could utter another word, the driver turned around and shot him in the head.

As Melissa Strauss pressed her hand
onto the shiny surface, seeing a red light turn green and then hearing the big steel door release its hold on the walls surrounding it, she wondered again at this special assignment. It wasn’t every day her employers had her prancing through super hi-tech facilities, touting around hi-level security clearances, and keeping the company of armed guards. No, it was the desert she was accustomed to, maybe some remote villages in South America if she was lucky, but a place like this? It had been years since she had the luxury of working in air-conditioning, let alone all the space-age equipment that was everywhere in this place.

Just a few weeks ago she was in some disease-ridden part of Africa overseeing the creation of a water reservoir, part of a two-year sanitary project to elevate Africa’s state of living to meet UN law. But that came to an abrupt stop when an “order from above” suddenly changed her itinerary, sending her instead halfway across the continent and into the Middle East. Her new directive, which she understood to be top secret and a matter of national security, was to obtain an undisclosed object from another “government employee.” She was then to transport it back to North America. To
this
place. There was no turning it down, it was an order. Besides, if it got her back to Vermont quicker, she couldn’t complain.