Silence gripped the room.
“Granted, that’s a common goal for all those nations, but it’s also impossible. That state is here to stay.”
“That’s what was said about the Soviet Union. Yet when its purpose was seriously challenged, then exposed for the fraud that it was, look what occurred. Dissolution in a matter of days.”
“And you can make that happen?” asked another.
“I wouldn’t be wasting our time if I didn’t think it possible.” One of the other members, a friend of long standing, seemed frustrated with his obliqueness, so he decided to be a bit conciliatory. “Let me offer this. What if the validity of the Old Testament were called into question?”
A few of the guests shrugged. One asked, “So what?”
“It could fundamentally shift the Middle Eastern debate,” Hermann said. “The Jews are intent on upholding the correctness of their Torah. The Word of God and all that. Nobody has ever seriously challenged them. There’s been talk, speculation, but if the Torah was proven wrong, imagine what that does to Jewish credibility. Think how that could incite other Middle Eastern states.”
He meant what he’d said. No oppressor had ever been able to defeat the Jews. Many had tried. The Assyrians. Babylonians. Romans. Turks. The Inquisition. Even Martin Luther loathed them. But the so-called children of God had stubbornly refused to surrender. Hitler might have been the worst. And yet, in his wake, the world merely granted them their biblical homeland.
“What do you have against Israel?” one of the committee members asked. “I’ve questioned from the beginning why we’re wasting time on this.”
The woman had indeed dissented, joined by two others. They were clearly in the minority, and relatively harmless, so he’d allowed their discourse simply as a way to add a semblance of democracy to the process.
“This is about far more than Israel.” He saw he held their collective attention, even his daughter’s. “Played correctly, we may be able to destabilize both Israel and Saudi Arabia. On this, the one is linked to the other. If we can create the appropriate amount of turmoil in both states, control it, then properly time its release, we may be able to irrevocably topple both governments.” He faced the Political Committee chairman. “Have you discussed how our members can exploit that process once we set it into motion?”
The older man nodded. He’d been a friend for decades and was near the top of the list for a place in the Circle. “The scenario we envision is based on the Palestinians, Jordanians, Syrians, and Egyptians all wanting whatever we provide-”
“That’s not going to happen,” said one of the men, another of the dissenters.
“And who would have thought the world would displace nearly a million Arabs and grant the Jews a homeland?” Hermann made clear. “Many in the Middle East said that would not happen, either.” His words came out sharp, so he laced what he was about to say with a tone of compromise. “At the very least we can bring down that silly wall the Israelis have erected to guard their borders and challenge every ancient claim they’ve ever made. Zionist arrogance would suffer, perhaps enough to galvanize the surrounding Arab states into unified action. And I haven’t even mentioned Iran, which would love nothing more than to totally obliterate Israel. This will be a blessing for them.”
“What could do all that?”
“Knowledge.”
“You can’t be serious. All this is based on us
He hadn’t expected this frank discussion, but this was his moment. The committee huddled around his dining room table was charged by Order statutes with formulating the collective’s political policy, which was closely intertwined with initiatives from the Economic Committee because, for the Order, politics and profit were synonymous. The Economic Committee had established a goal of increasing revenues for those members desiring to heavily invest in the Middle East by at least 30 percent. A study had been undertaken, an initial euro investment determined, potential profits estimated under current economic and political conditions, then several scenarios envisioned. In the end a 30 percent goal was deemed achievable. But markets in the Middle East were limited at best. The entire region could explode over the most minuscule occurrence. Every day brought another possibility for disaster. So consistency was what the Political Committee sought. Traditional methods-bribes and threats-were not effective with people who routinely strapped explosives to their chests. The men who controlled decisions in places such as Jordan, Syria, Kuwait, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia were far too wealthy, far too guarded, and far too fanatical. Instead the Order had come to understand that a new form of currency needed to be found-one Hermann believed he would soon possess.
“Knowledge is far more powerful than any weapon,” he said in a hushed whisper.
“All depends on the knowledge,” one of the members declared.
He agreed. “Success will hinge on us being able to disseminate what we learn to the right buyers for the right price at the right time.”
“I know you, Alfred,” one of the older men said. “You’ve planned this thoroughly.”
He grinned. “Things are finally progressing. The Americans are now interested, and that opens a whole new avenue of possibilities.”
“What of the Americans?” Margarete asked, impatience in her voice.
Her question annoyed him. She needed to learn not to reveal what she didn’t know. “It seems there are some in power within the United States who want to humble Israel, too. They see a benefit to American foreign policy.”
“How is any of this possible?” one of the committee members asked. “Arabs and Arabs, along with Arabs and Jews, have been warring for thousands of years. What’s so damn frightening?”
He’d established a lofty goal for both himself and the Order, but a voice inside him said that his diligence was about to be rewarded. So he stared down the men and women seated before him and declared, “I should know the answer to that question before the weekend ends.”
THIRTY-NINE
WASHINGTON, DC
3:30 AM
STEPHANIE SAT IN THE CHAIR, EXHAUSTED. BRENT GREEN faced her from the sofa. He was actually slouching, which she’d never seen him do before. Cassiopeia had fallen asleep upstairs. At least one of them would be rested. She certainly wouldn’t. It seemed like forty-eight days instead of forty-eight hours since she’d last been here, not trusting Green, leery of what he had to say, angry at herself for placing Malone’s son in jeopardy. And though Gary Malone was now safe, the same doubts about Brent Green swirled through her mind, especially considering what he’d told her a few hours ago.
She cradled a Diet Dr Pepper that she’d found in Green’s refrigerator. She motioned with the can. “You actually drink these?”
He nodded. “Taste just like the original, but no sugar. Seemed like a good concept to me.”
She smiled. “You’re a strange fellow, Brent.”
“I’m just a private man who keeps what he likes to himself.”
She was heart-sore and mind-weary, wrestling a deep anxiety that wanted to jar her attention away from Green. They’d intentionally left all the lights off to convey to any watchful eyes that the house’s occupant was down for the night.
“You thinking about Malone?” he asked through the dark.
“He’s in trouble.”
“Nothing you can do until he calls in.”
She shook her head. “Not good enough.”
“You have an agent in London. What are the chances of finding Cotton?”
Not likely. London was a big city, and who knew if Malone was there? He could have left for anywhere in Britain. But she didn’t want to think about impossibilities, so she asked, “How long have you known about
