The Eye of Moloch (37 page)

N
oah had pledged to Ira Gershon that if he ever got a chance to leave that Denver compound he’d take his two coworkers along with him. At that time he hadn’t believed there would ever be such an opportunity, and yet here they were—a promise is a promise. So when he’d been granted a travel pass to attend his father’s memorial service, Noah had insisted that both Ira and Lana be allowed to accompany him, for moral support from his only friends in captivity.

Apparently even the most callous of deskbound bureaucrats has a hard time ignoring the wishes of the bereaved, especially when the request is delivered through the renowned attorney of a powerful family.

Formerly powerful, that is; the death of Arthur Gardner marked the end of the line for his brief dynasty, and with all due respect, Noah thought, good riddance to it all.

And so the flight to northern California found the four of them seated in the executive cabin of a small private jet—Noah, Ira Gershon, Lana Somin, and old friend Ellen Davenport—with four security guards buckled in behind them. Except for the crew, the rest of the plane was empty and so it had been a very quiet ride.

Toward the end, as the fasten-seat-belt light came on, Ira leaned to him and spoke in a hushed voice.

“Thank you for this, again,” Ira said. “Not so much for me, but for her.” He looked toward young Lana as he said this. She was in the far window seat, earbuds in her ears and her music playing loud enough that its muffled beats could be heard across the aisle. Her hand was to the glass and her gaze was intent and distant and directed outside. She looked as though perhaps she’d never seen her home planet from this altitude before.

“It might seem like a little temporary freedom but let’s not get carried away,” Noah said. “It’s just a few hours, and then we’re turning around and going right back to the grind again.”

“You never know what’s in store.” Ira looked at him. “And I realize your upbringing couldn’t have been ideal, I do. But still, you’ve lost your father, and I’m sorry about that.”

“Thanks.” That was one way to put it, that his upbringing hadn’t been ideal. In similar terms the last voyage of the
Hindenburg
hadn’t been without its hiccups. But though Noah was surprised to admit it, there was a trace of sorrow in him. His father did have his moments, and despite everything else those moments are what you remember when you finally realize there’ll never be another.

Even before he’d stumbled into his star-crossed involvement with Molly Ross last year, Noah was certain that he’d been a disappointment in many ways. The biggest of these had probably been his complete lack of ambition in the field his father had once hoped he’d pursue. It wasn’t public relations, it was politics that Dad had pushed him toward, and Noah had never felt any interest in that hard life whatsoever.

This thought brought to mind that wacky note that Ira had given him the night before, the one that had contained that bizarre
r reagan
nonsense. He’d destroyed the note, of course; its contents could be incriminating for both of them. He hadn’t forgotten it, though.

“You know, Reagan was far from a perfect man,” Ira said, as if he’d
been sitting there reading Noah’s mind like an in-flight magazine. “Even his admirers admit to that. He didn’t have the background most men in government have, he wasted a lot of years in what some would call a frivolous profession, he was a liberal Democrat for a while, he was a big fan of FDR and the New Deal even when he was old enough to know better.

“But flaws and all, he had a gift that his country needed, and he was brave enough to use it. He was good with people, he had those skills just like his father, but he got his heart and his vision from his mother. And it was a simple thing that he did, really. It didn’t take a genius, just the right ideas and the right man at the right time. When a lot of us had lost our faith in America, he found a way to lead us to see the dream again.”

“But that isn’t me,” Noah said.

“And how do you know that?”

“I’m not a politician—”

“Neither was he, at your age. You’ve got time. Hell, when he was twelve years older than you he was still best known as the star of
Bedtime for Bonzo.
”

“Look, thank you for those videos of my mom, that meant a lot to me. And I see what you’re saying, I do, even though it’s more than a little crazy. But believe me, you’re trying to pin your hopes on the wrong guy. That business in your note, with the letters in my name? I’m sorry, but it’s meaningless. You know that guy Reince Priebus, the front man for the Republican National Committee? If you take all the vowels out of his name it spells out ‘RNC PR BS.’ Get it? I know it would be fun to believe that’s some hidden message, but it’s just a coincidence.”

“Think what you like,” Ira said. “As I said, you’ve got time. All I hope is that if you ever get another chance to make a real difference, you’ll find the courage to take it.”

•   •   •

From the point where the limo let them off there was still quite a walk through the wilderness to reach the site where Arthur Gardner’s memorial service was to be held. The rocky path wound through thickets
of brush and stands of soaring redwoods to a timber-beam bridge that seemed to mark the end of the journey toward a place called Gaia Point. These were the secluded meeting grounds of the only club his dad had ever joined, the Ordo Seclorum.

That name they’d chosen means
the order of the ages,
so yeah, the membership had quite a high opinion of themselves.

Noah had been there once before at some father-son retreat back in his early teens, and he hadn’t enjoyed the experience. It wasn’t a funeral then, but a sort of after-party to the club’s regular annual summer meeting. Once a year they all traveled here for a secretive gathering of the supposed cream of the crop from the intertwined worlds of politics, media, entertainment, commerce, old money, and the military-industrial complex.

The motto of the club was “Weaving Spiders Come Not Here.” This was a warning that crass networking and shop talk were strictly prohibited lest the violators spoil everyone’s fun. These titans were here to relax among their own, to smoke fine pre-embargo Cubans, to get roaring drunk and carouse, to occasionally run around buck naked, and to take a leak at the base of a two-thousand-year-old tree if they felt the urge. They came here to be themselves, in other words, with no fear of judgment from the lower classes.

Despite the posted ban on talking business this was nevertheless one of the places where the really big deals got done. The Manhattan Project had been planned in the central clubhouse, as had the wholesale cooperative thievery that led to the current worldwide financial crisis. Presidents were groomed and anointed here, scams hatched, cartels and monopolies formed, allies and enemies chosen, and wars approved. Once those decisions were made it often fell to men like Arthur Gardner to go forth to beat the drums and make the magic happen. That’s why his memorial was being held in this place; it was one of the few environments on earth where his greatest accomplishments could be openly discussed and appreciated.

As they walked they passed into a clearing, into full view of a crystal lake with the four-story, moss-covered statue of a giant watchful owl enshrined behind a stone altar on the other shore.

“I always thought this place was just a myth,” Ellen said.

“I really wish it was,” Noah replied.

Chapter 45

W
ith the exception of some perky young servers and the top-shelf call girls brought in by the busload to service these old reprobates, women were strictly forbidden from the main property. As a result the female members of Noah’s group were escorted to one of the more remote and comfortable cabins to wait.

Ira chose to stay behind with the women and their guards as Noah left unescorted for the gathering by the lakeside.

There were world leaders in the crowd, past, present, and future, and many faces known from their regular presence in the news. There were also men familiar to Noah only because of his past work on their behalf. They didn’t wish to be known but many of them were far more influential than those who craved the limelight. Though much of their scheming was focused on the United States, the majority of them lived elsewhere, being citizens only to the extent that such status could benefit their portfolio.

His father’s body wasn’t present, just a gilded vessel containing his ashes. These were to be scattered later in accordance with a provision in his will. The urn had been placed center stage on a pedestal beside
an amplified speaker’s podium, and a number of distinguished-looking gentlemen were assembled on the dais to deliver a final send-off. The mood seemed to be light, even jovial, like the prelude to a roast at the Friars Club.

An usher took Noah to a row near the front and pointed toward a seat that had a place card bearing his name. In the chair next to this one sat an elderly man he vaguely recognized. Their eyes met and after a moment’s thought he remembered that face, though it had been a number of years since he’d seen it. Noah walked over to where this man was cheerfully tapping the cushion of the empty chair by his side.

Unlike the others nearby, who were dressed to the nines, this old fellow wore plain, loose, pale clothing more suited to a backyard barbecue than the funeral of a friend. And
old
was hardly an adequate word; he looked absolutely ancient, thin-skinned and dry as parchment, as if his fragile substance might begin to flake off and blow away in the slightest breeze.

“You can’t be,” Noah said.

“But I am,” replied Aaron Doyle. “The one and only.”

•   •   •

The speeches proceeded, with the crowd engaged and enjoying every one. Noah had heard all the various tall tales and anecdotes many times before, but he listened to them again as they were told with the new perspective of a last tribute. During a refreshment break before the concluding speaker, Mr. Doyle turned to him again.

“They’d asked me to stand up last and close things with a final word,” he said, “but I told them it would be more fitting if that honor was passed to you.”

“I’d rather not,” Noah said. “I haven’t prepared anything.”

“I know you’ll be fine. You’ve never been shy in front of a crowd, have you?”

“This isn’t just any crowd.”

“No, no it isn’t, but I think your father would have wanted it this way.
Just remember that you’re among friends.
My
friends.” Doyle sat back in his chair and patted Noah on the knee. There were skintight and nearly transparent gloves on those old hands, like something a clean-freak might wear to fend off the germs. “I’ve watched you for many years, Noah, as many years as you’ve been alive. We all had such high hopes.”

“Well. Sorry if I let you all down.”

“Oh, don’t think of it that way. You’ve served a purpose, and you may yet live to serve another.” Aaron Doyle considered him for a while, and then he spoke again. “Do you know why your father died, Noah?”

He was caught off guard by the question, and thought at first that the man had misspoken. “I was told that he had a fall.”

“That’s
how
he died, yes. I was referring to why.”

For a few seconds Noah tried hard to reject the meaning of what he seemed to be hearing, but he didn’t quite succeed.

“It was the same reason that your mother died,” Doyle continued. “Even to the most insignificant degree in your mother’s case, and in your father’s only at the very end, they both had dared to try to stand in my way.” The old man leaned in close. “And these trailer-trash rebels you became involved with last year? We’d hoped to push them into another futile act of desperation so we could permanently put their sad little patriotic cause into the dustbin of history. But I’m told their young leader, this special friend of yours, Molly Ross, she’s now dead as well. No matter; terror isn’t so difficult to create, and she’ll still take the blame. We’ll find another way.”

Noah felt no fear and hardly any anger as all this sank in. The only thing he felt was a rising level of strength that seemed like it might be finding a permanent home in him where there’d been only emptiness before.

“Who do you think you are?” Noah said.

“Ask anyone here,” Doyle replied. “For all intents and purposes, young man, I’m the king of the world.”

The event had reconvened and the man standing at the podium had
already introduced Noah by name a few seconds earlier. But he didn’t move. He continued to sit, eyes locked with Aaron Doyle. A scattering of applause and clinking glasses began to urge the last speaker to the stage.

“If I learned one thing from Molly,” Noah said, “it’s that this is one country that doesn’t need a king.”

“Oh, it will,” Doyle replied, “soon enough.”

There was only a tepid ovation as Noah stepped up to the speaker’s platform. His situation would be well-known to most of them, and these were people who had no great love or respect for the disowned and disinherited.

“My father was a great planner,” Noah said into the microphone, “but I don’t believe he ever planned to die. And yet here we are.