The Circle of Eight (19 page)

“Neither do I, Sergeant Major, and I
know
I’m
smarter than him,” said Laura with a wink at Acton’s feigned wounding.

“Ouch,” he said. “That’s it, we’re done. Spock, I insist
on separate rooms.”

Spock cocked an eyebrow and looked at him through the
rearview mirror.

“Doc, I like you and all, but I insist on separate rooms
as well.”

Laura giggled, whispering, “burned!” as they came to a
stop.

“This is it.”

They climbed out and walked about fifty feet to the
intersection. Acton immediately saw what they were looking for and walked up to
the lamppost. Dawson, still holding the photograph, held it up once he saw
where he was supposed to look, and cursed.

“How the hell did I miss that?”

Posted on the pole was a black sheet of paper with a
bright red rose filling most of the page, and a golden cross in the center.

Proof that Maria Esposito’s death was no suicide.

It was an assassination.

Lacroix Residence, San Marino

Dr. Martin Lacroix’s time was being eaten up by this entire fiasco.
If it wasn’t for his apprentice, he wouldn’t even have time to eat or sleep. He
certainly wouldn’t have time for his daily stem cell harvesting. At the moment
he was hooked up to a machine that was drawing his blood, extracting stem
cells, and reintroducing the blood, freshly oxygenated, back into his system.
It was a daily ritual when at home, and it made him feel terrific, and it
prepared him for the future when he would need the cells to reverse any damage
to his body from heart attacks, strokes, his drinking—whatever might ail him.

It was the future. Forget fetal stem cells. They were a
dead end—there simply weren’t enough, and science had moved beyond that,
discovering stem cells were in everyone’s body their entire lives, not just in
the fetus. There were just far fewer of them, and they were harder to get, but
the beat of science drummed on, soldiering forward, and adult stem cells were
getting easier and easier to harvest, and store, to ultimately be used when
needed.

His intent was to have these cells injected into each of
his organs to repair any damage caused by age and a libation filled life. Stem
cells had already restored sight to the blind, repaired damaged heart muscle
and more. It was the future of medicine, and would ultimately lead to the
extension of useful human life far beyond anything imagined today.

And he was alive at the right time to take advantage of
it. In his mind 150 years old was a reasonable life expectancy, and by then, he
was certain nanotechnology along with computer and cloning technology will have
progressed enough for science fiction like possibilities.

The thought was what kept him going.

Soon it would be time for him to exit the public eye,
and move into the shadows. Already he looked ten years younger than he should,
and in another ten or twenty years, it would become far too obvious unless the
technology they now used went mainstream. But if their plans were to succeed,
that mainstream would be far smaller than anybody today could imagine.

Earth will be the Eden God intended, once again.

The machine beeped indicating the end of the procedure.
His private nurse entered the room immediately and removed the needles. Lacroix
hurried to his study and found his apprentice huddled over a computer. He
turned to face him.

“Master, you won’t believe what I’ve found!”

“What?”

“I’ve had the first team tailed since they arrived.
About an hour ago two of them went to the airport to pick up a new set of
arrivals. Four of them we knew about, Delta Force, but they had two other
people with them—a man and a woman. I ran their faces and found out they are
two archeology professors—a Professor James Acton from St. Paul’s University in
Maryland, and a Professor Laura Palmer from University College London.”

“What would they be doing with the Delta Force?”

“Classified files indicate these two professors have
been involved in a few incidents lately, but that doesn’t matter. What matters
is this.” He pointed at a photo on the screen and Lacroix felt his knees about
to give out in excitement.

Rue du Mont Blanc, Geneva, Switzerland

Acton pushed away the photo showing the Laviolette family crime
scene. It was disturbing, a clear message being sent to any who would
understand it.

Don’t mess with us, or this could be your family.

He squeezed Laura’s hand.

“What now?” he asked. “We’ve got the evidence to prove
they are behind the killings, but since nobody knows who
they
are, and
nobody knows that Lacroix is one of
them
, it’s pretty much useless.”

“Not true,” said Dawson. “We now know that the
Rosicrucians are real and that Lacroix is high enough in the organization to
warrant this type of effort to protect. We know where this man lives, we know
that he goes to France in the next couple of days for what is most likely some
sort of Rosicrucian meeting or ritual, and we know that this meeting will most
likely attract the rest of the leadership. I think we know a lot more than what
we did before we arrived.”

“Okay, again I ask, what now?”

“When the others get back we pre-position in France and
get a team on Lacroix in San Marino. When he goes to France and this meeting
starts, we hit them with everything we’ve got.”

“Which isn’t that much,” said Niner, looking about the
room. Acton actually thought they had enough to start World War III, but
perhaps it was only enough to start it, not win it.

“We’ll make do,” said Dawson.

“Aren’t we forgetting one thing?” asked Laura.

All eyes turned to her.

“What’s that?” asked Acton.

“While I understand your desire for revenge—blast, even
I want to stomp on their bollocks until they die—don’t we have a responsibility
to find out what they are up to?”

There was silence for a moment, then Acton nodded.

“She’s right. You heard what that CIA guy said. All of
these programs he supports are aimed at reducing the population of the third
world through reducing the birthrate. They seem innocuous enough, but it just
fits too nicely into their desire to cap the planet’s population. What if there
are other plans they have, already set into motion? Shouldn’t we try to find
out what these are and stop them?”

“Isn’t a reduced population not necessarily a bad
thing?” asked Niner. “I mean, they keep saying we’re running out of resources
and killing the planet. Maybe a few less births are a good thing.”

Acton pursed his lips, nodding slowly.

“Yes, but remember, those are all aimed at slowing down
population growth, which I agree is an excellent thing. But what next? Reducing
the population through birth control is a laudable and plausible goal, but
would take centuries to accomplish any significant population
reduction.
We’re already seeing it in countries like Japan and most of Europe. The only
thing sustaining European populations now is immigration, and that has proven
to be a disaster. Their cultures are being overwhelmed by incompatible
cultures, and if they keep trying to solve their demographic problems by
bringing in cultures from around the third world that don’t share their belief
systems, they’ll lose the very culture they’re trying to preserve.

“Europe and the other Western societies plagued by low
birth rates need to embrace these rates and recognize that they aren’t a
negative thing. The problem is we have massive pension liabilities and debts
that were designed around the thinking that our societies would continually
grow so that there would always be more workers than retirees. That simply
isn’t true anymore without immigrants, but now with our social safety nets,
many immigrants simply arrive and become a burden on society rather than a contributor.
The West needs to rethink how it’s going to survive in a one point five birth
rate world.

“Incentives to increase the birth rate, incentives for
people to stay at home and raise kids rather than treating it as some horror
that one spouse inflicts on the other, increased automation, reduced pension
expectations, revamped health care aimed at prevention rather than treatment,
allowing people to work longer, allowing people to continue working part time
without clawing back pensions and entitlements. Treat our seniors as an asset
rather than a liability. There are many solutions beyond opening the floodgates
to fill jobs that perhaps just aren’t necessary or needn’t be thought of as
beneath us.

“Take a maid for instance. Nobody wants to be a maid;
it’s considered a subservient minimum wage position, so nobody in our society
wants to do the job unless they’re desperate. So what do we do? We bring in an
immigrant who is more than happy to do the job, doesn’t think it’s beneath
them, and happily takes that minimum wage job so they can have a better life.
Laudable if they then integrate into our society, support our constitution and
institutions the way we do, and a generation later their offspring are as
American as we are—or British!” he added with a wink at Laura. “But those
immigrants aren’t available anymore for the most part. We’re bringing in people
who don’t like our ways, so keep their own.

“But what would happen if we shut that down? Would
everybody have to clean their own houses? No, it would be just like after the
Black Death. In Europe, half the population died within a few years. Did that
mean that the work didn’t get done? No. Before the Black Death labor was
plentiful, jobs weren’t necessarily so. This meant low wages and an inefficient
work force. After the Black Death, when labor was scarce, but jobs still needed
to get done, those who wanted it done the most, paid the most. Those who worked
the hardest, or the most efficient, commanded even more pay, and those who
wanted the same, had to work harder and more efficiently to get it as well.

“It revolutionized the work force. If we didn’t have
people to fill the menial jobs, but the menial jobs still needed to get done,
those who didn’t have work today because they weren’t qualified for the good paying
jobs, and just didn’t see the point of toiling for minimum wage, or were too
ashamed to take minimum wage jobs, would start jumping at those jobs because
the people who wanted the work done would need to pay more. Instead of paying
six bucks an hour for a maid, suddenly you’d have to pay fifteen or twenty.
Being a maid would become a well-paying job, a job that Westerners wouldn’t
feel is a sign of failure. The work would get done, those who fell through the
cracks of our own society would be lifted up, and everybody would benefit.”

“How the hell did we get to talking about this?” asked
Niner, a grin on his face.

“My other half has a habit of ranting about things he
feels passionately about,” said Laura, holding his arm.

Acton felt his cheeks flush.

“I’m sorry, she’s right. I flip into professor mode too
easily, and start to lecture. Just stop me whenever I do that.”

“You had a point,” said Dawson diplomatically. “We were
discussing why it was important to determine what the Rosicrucians were up to,
because reduced birthrates wouldn’t accomplish their goal.” He paused for a
moment, then looked at Acton. “To me it seems they would need a Black Death
type event to accomplish their goals.”

“That’s disturbing,” said Niner to which the rest of the
room agreed. “I think Professor Palmer is right, we need to figure out their
endgame, and stop it.”

“I agree,” said Dawson, “but no matter what we find or
don’t
find, we are taking them out at their meeting.”

“Which means we don’t have much time,” said Acton. “And
I can’t even begin to think of where to start.”

“There is one place,” said Dawson. “His office right
here in Geneva. There might be files.”

“We’ll leave that to you,” said Acton as Dawson and his
men rose. “We’ll do what we do best.”

“And what is that?”

“Research.”

There was a knock at the door.

They all spun toward the sound.

“That wasn’t the code,” said Niner as they all jumped to
their feet. Dawson pointed toward a rear corner of the room on the same side as
the door. Acton took Laura by the hand and headed for the corner, but not
before Laura grabbed two Glocks off a nearby table and several clips. By the
time they reached the corner they were armed, with Niner and Jimmy on either
side of the door, Spock and Jagger at the corners near the windows, Red and Dawson
kneeling behind furniture with their weapons trained at the door.

“Who is it?” asked Niner.

No response.

Acton could feel the entire room tense up.

“Anything on the street?”

“Nothing unusual except somebody exited the building a
moment ago and got in a black van. They left right away,” replied Spock.

“Open it,” ordered Dawson.

Niner pressed against the wall then reached over,
unlocking the deadbolt, then turned the knob and pulled the door open.

Nobody.

Niner peered down the hallway to the right, then stepped
out with his weapon gripped tightly in front of him as he made a semi-circle around
the door, clearing the area, ending at the frame on the other side.

“Clear!” he announced. “But we’ve got a package.”

Dawson rushed forward, probably thinking exactly what
Acton was thinking.

Bomb!

Suddenly Dawson picked it up, stepping back into the
room with a smile on his face.

“Pardon me, Sergeant Major, but are you nuts?”

It was Niner who asked what they were all thinking.

Dawson put the package on a nearby table. It was about
the size of a briefcase, but twice as thick as usual. As Acton approached,
holding Laura slightly behind him with his outstretched arm, his eyebrows
climbed.