The Standard E-Book

John Reinhard Dizon

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

An international coalition is planning a return to the gold standard.

Meanwhile, a network of drug cartels and financial speculators are preparing to launch Operation Blackout: an attack against gold depositories that would give them control over the global economy.

With both US and UK pitted against a worldwide criminal enterprise, MI-6 assigns William Shanahan to disrupt Operation Blackout with the help of Jack Gawain, of the Ulster Defense Association. As the operation moves forward with full force, Shanahan and Gawain face an array of moral issues and deadly enemies.

With the fate of the world hanging in the balance, the two enter a race against time and insurmountable odds.

Leseprobe

The Standard

John Reinhard Dizon

Copyright (C) 2018 John Reinhard Dizon

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

PART ONE: The Pledge

Chapter One

Captain William Shanahan always thought of himself as the gold standard of the SAS. He considered himself the prototype of what every secret agent in MI6 should be. At six-foot-two, two hundred and ten pounds of surgical steel and sex appeal, he was the ladies' pet and the men's regret. He had religiously followed a rigorous training schedule and personal diet over the course of his lifetime that gave him an imposing athletic build featuring a washboard waist and perfect musculature. Whenever he had any concerns or doubts about undertaking a difficult assignment such as this, one look in the mirror quelled his apprehensions.

He had arrived at Craigavon two days early in order to brace himself for the task ahead. Craigavon was one of the most refreshing outdoor venues in County Armagh, a place where one could be forgiven for thinking they were still in the United Kingdom and not merely in Ulster. He spent his first day at the Craigavon Golf and Ski Centre, savoring the perfect spring day as he mentally rehearsed this juncture in the mission ahead. He played eighteen holes and tallied a decent score which he conveniently excused for the preoccupying distraction.

The next day he divided between a morning at Tannaghmore Gardens, where he spent time watching mothers and children at the petting zoo before wandering around the botanical areas. He had been motivated by a lifelong desire to have a family, a wife and children of his own. MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service, had been his universe for nearly two decades. He had worshipped at its altar, been one of its most devoted acolytes, and gave it place over his life. After this job, he would call in his markers and get the desk job. After this he would find a wife, reclaim his life, and live happily ever after.

That afternoon he drove over to the Craigavon Watersports Centre where he rented out a canoe and leisurely coasted around the Craigavon Lake. It had been an idyllic forty-eight hours that recharged his batteries, helped him clear his head and focus on the task ahead. He loved the outdoors, it helped remind him that there was a loving God Who loved mankind and brought His people to peace and goodness beyond the valley of death. It helped remind him that they were the white knights fighting the good fight, although it seemed his hands got dirtier and dirtier as the fight wore on.

He enlisted in the service in order to take part in Operation Desert Shield in 1991, and when it escalated to Desert Storm, he volunteered for the Special Air Service. He served with them for his first tour of duty before being transferred to the Special Boat Service. He spent his second and third tours with the SBS before being dispatched to Afghanistan for a fourth tour. It was during that time he was offered and accepted a position with MI6. It was then that he could look back and say he had sold his soul in the process.

Yet there was that deep, dark recess inside him that would always question who his soul had belonged to in the first place. It was there on his birth certificate, the fact that he had been born a Catholic, to a Catholic father and a Protestant mother. In England and almost anywhere else abroad, it made little or no difference. In Northern Ireland it was like a scarlet letter, a birthmark he could never erase. Despite the fact his father had converted to the Protestant faith, and that his parents lived in East Belfast, the hospital officials had record of his Da's birth certificate and dutifully traced the lineage onto his son's record. William Shanahan was forced to deal with it all his life, hiding it as best he could and backing down all who challenged it when it came out.

He was a proud citizen of the realm and enlisted in Her Majesty's service as soon as he came of age. His service record spoke for itself and he was decorated numerous times for bravery. His parents died while he was overseas, erasing even more of his past as he continued his journey towards self-fulfillment. He had reached a turning point in his career, the juncture where a coveted desk job was now within his reach. He had proven himself as a soldier, as a commando, and as an undercover operative. If he successfully completed this one last mission, his next place of employment could well be on Downing Street in London. He might have finally found his true station in life.

His parents had compensated him well for the stigma of their mixed marriage. He was a very handsome man with thick blond hair, piercing blue eyes, a perfectly chiseled nose, Cupid's bow lips and a granite jawline. He could easily run ten miles, swim a mile at full speed, and held a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. He maintained a perfect tan throughout the year and never failed to catch the eye of beautiful women who could not take their eyes off his chiseled abdominals.

He had also been a grade-A student, having earned an associate degree in economics. He was earning a Captain's wage in the military and had managed to save almost half his earnings over a twenty-year career. Once he was given a coveted position at SIS (*Secret Intelligence Service) at 85 Albert Embankment, it was a hop, skip and jump from Central London to Downing Street. He knew lots of guys who had made the grade, and he had no doubt he would be one of them.

He knew there was a defining moment in every man's career, beyond the battlefield heroics that set a commando apart from the rest. The move from the SBS to MI6 had set the stage, and now his time had come at last to truly break away from the pack. They had offered him this mission, and he accepted it without reservation or question. His mentors told him that this was a top secret assignment that many above his station would have given their eyeteeth for. They told him to take it and run, not to dare look back, and sink his teeth into it and take everything he could from it. Few got such an opportunity at this stage of their career, and he would forever regret it if he did not make the most of it.

He spent the afternoon canoeing and had a sumptuous supper at a classy restaurant, treating himself to filet mignon and a baked potato with a vintage Merlot. He flirted with his sexy auburn-haired waitress and even got her phone number, but knew he might possibly never return. He knew that somehow he would marry an Englishwoman in London, a woman of noble lineage or at least a wealthy background. Marrying an Irish lass could very well be a heavenly thing, especially in the case of a woman like this, but life was lived only once and one had to make the very best of what it had to offer. After dinner he wandered around town, collecting his thoughts and enjoying the rural domesticity of Craigavon before turning in for the night.

He drove from Craigavon to Maghaberry HMP (*Her Majesty's Prison) the next morning after a fitful night of sleep, and the ride along M1 was windswept and slick from a light drizzle that had descended overnight. The weather had turned gray and dismal, and he felt somewhat blessed by the quality of the climate he took advantage of the day before. He expected it to be a harbinger of the luck he would anticipate in the days ahead. No matter what came his way, he fully intended to capitalize on his momentum and press irresistibly towards his goal.

The prison complex could appear as an industrial park to the unknowing. It was only when one approached the front gates would they realized they were entering into a different world.

Just as any other prison, the blue signs with their crude printing gave fair notice of what was to come. Shanahan drove to the gate and handed his papers to the guard, who gave him directions to the parking area where he would begin his guided tour of the facilities. He was hoping it would end in the cell of the man he was scheduled to interview.

He was well-dressed in a metallic gray suit, midnight blue shirt and pastel tie, his boots shining as mirrors as he strutted along the pathway to the series of checkpoints leading to the maximum security area. He did his best to hide his contempt for the brutish guards who completed their rubdown search as their drug dogs watched languidly. He protested mildly as his personal items were collected in a basket, but the captain of the guard assured him it was a mandatory procedure.

“I'm not pleased at all with the arrangement,” the captain informed him as he escorted Shanahan through a corridor of steel doors that could only be opened electronically by guards at protected stations. “I don't like you being in a cell by yourself with a bastard such as that. It was arranged by forces beyond our control, and if anything goes wrong I hope to God they are prepared to accept the consequences.”

One of Shanahan's redeeming qualities was his reluctance to boast. He wanted to tell the ruffian that he had survived a thirty-man siege of his position alongside two wounded comrades in a shack in the mountains of Kandahar in Afghanistan. He wanted to tell him about fighting off a pincer attack by two squads of ex-Republican Guards in Fallujah over in Iraq. He wanted to tell him that he was willing to lock himself in a cell with the man and four of his best, to see who would remain standing.

“Let me remind you,” Shanahan said before two guards prepared to allow him access to the metal door at the end of a narrow, poorly-lit corridor. “This is a top secret interview. If you have any eavesdropping devices in the cell I strongly suggest you turn them off lest you be in violation of Her Majesty's laws.”

“We've been well advised,” the captain growled, ordering his men to open the door and permit Shanahan entry.

Shanahan entered the small cell, where a chair had been placed a couple of feet from the entrance. There were pictures, posters, a Union Jack and a Red Hand of Ulster banner along the walls. There was a small table by the wall next to which sat a small chair, and beside it a tiny bookcase holding about a dozen books. The King James Bible and a scented candle sat atop it. On the metal cot laid the sole occupant of the cell, who rose lazily and stood to face Shanahan.

“Right on time, I like that. Have a seat.”

“Captain William Shanahan, Military Intelligence,” he introduced himself.

“Jack Gawain. My pleasure.”

Gawain stood 5'9” and weighed one hundred eighty pounds. Although he was fairly smaller than Shanahan, he was thickly muscled which suggested a lifetime of powerlifting. His black hair was trimmed, his skin was pasty from lack of sunshine which accentuated his coal-black eyes. His eyes brimmed with energy as he stared at Shanahan, his lips curling just short of a perpetual smirk.

“I trust you were informed as to the nature of my visit.”

“West Belfast?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“West Belfast. You were born there. I'm sure you moved to the East Side at one time or another, then the UK for a short time before or after you enlisted. You never lose the accent, you know. It's kinda like a coal miner, once they get the soot in their skin it never comes out.”

“Just like they'll always know you're from Ulster to the day you die,” Shanahan replied curtly.

He knew this was coming and did all in his power to avoid it, but he took an immediate dislike to the man. Gawain was everything he remembered about the street punks in East Belfast, from the cocksure sneer to the Scottish accents. He remembered the horror stories of what had happened to his relatives on the West Side, how the hooligans in the street would watch his face when they told their stories, searching desperately for a flinch of emotion. It was the same way Gawain was studying him, and it made him want to bash his face in.

“I must say I always envied you fellows who took the plunge,” Gawain lit a cigarette without offering one to his visitor. “It was the best thing, the noble thing to do. It truly changes a man's character, and you certainly are a perfect example of that.”

“I'm sure you had plenty of chances,” Shanahan was brusque. “The Constabulary, the reserves, the Army…but you chose your own path.”

“And so I did,” Gawain blew a stream of smoke to the side. Shanahan noticed his fingertips lacked the tobacco stain of the typical chain-smoker, and his nails were well trimmed. “For Queen, God and country, though not as traditionally as you.”

“I'm sure you and your colleagues thought so. Yet here I am, and there you are. So, putting all that aside, now is your chance to make amends.”

“And what makes right and wrong?” Gawain narrowed his eyes. “The victors are the ones who write history, yet the revisionists rewrite the history and put a different spin on it all. Do y'think those ragheads demonstrating in the streets of London are going t'let matters rest twenty years from now? Right now, whatever medals you've earned make you a hero of our nation. How will it feel once you've retired and they start mocking your efforts as a criminal attack on the Iraqi people? I think you may get an idea of how I'm feeling right now.”

“Sorry to differ, but I was part of an international campaign against a criminal regime,” Shanahan said blandly. “You were part of a vigilante organization that murdered civilian relatives of organized criminals. Not to mention the blackmarket operations you masterminded after the so-called hostilities ended. Perhaps the Iraq War will be whitewashed and reinterpreted in generations to come, but yours was an illegal enterprise from start to finish.”

“And who do you think it was that gave us the power, Captain Shanahan?” Gawain grinned wickedly. “Do you think for one minute that it wasn't the PSNI (*Police Service of Northern Ireland) or the British Army standing by while we stood up for them in the line of fire against the IRA? We have our share of KIA's, and our share of martyrs. You can sit there and gloat while I sit here as a prisoner of war, but the day will come when you are as old and weak as the tea we're given here daily. The day will come when those Paki kids are pissing on your porch, blowin' their nose on the Union Jack on your front lawn and there won't be a feckin' thing you'll do about it.”

“All you're doing is changing the cast of characters,” Shanahan shrugged. “Five years ago you would've been talking about Catholic weens doing such things. All you've done is set your sights on different game.”

“And what'll it be for you, Captain Shanahan?” Gawain's gaze bored into his eyes. “Maybe this is the pot at the end of your rainbow, but do you think varnish lasts forever? It'll never erase that accent, nor will it change the mark of the papists on your birth certificate. Sure, and you'll get that promotion, find a flat not far from Downing Street, but will it ever erase the stigma your missus will always endure, or your children, for that matter? You'll always be a West Sider, Captain, no matter how far ye move away to escape it.”

“You know this is a one-time offer,” Shanahan cleared his throat despite his best efforts. “The offer expires once I walk out that door. I'm interviewing candidates on a very short list, and when I'm gone you'll never hear from us again.”

“Pray tell,” Gawain clasped his fingers. “Who do I have to kill? I'm here for a triple life sentence. Does your Government think it more expedient to have me done on the field of honor, and give me a proper sendoff thereafter? I would think someone who has sent over thirty IRA men and their confederates to hell deserves as much.”

“According to what I've heard, there were a number of women and children that were unaccounted for at your trial,” Shanahan could not restrain himself. “Even in a traditional war scenario, most of what you did would place someone before a firing squad.”

“Let me ask you this, Captain,” Gawain leaned forward intently. “You won your medals by saving lives against impossible odds. Why don't we change the channel and take a peek at an East Sider fighting off ski-masked IRA riflemen, with his screaming wife and children huddled about him. It's the same game played on different sides. You wear your medals with pride, and though mine are invisible, so do I.”

“Like I said, Gawain,” Shanahan rose from his chair, “it's a one-time offer, and if you won't take it I've other fellows to talk to.”

“You didn't tell me who I had to kill?”

“What does it matter,” Shanahan would regret having lost control, “to a murdering bastard like you?”

“You've got a point,” Gawain chuckled. “No matter who you've singled out, I'm certain it will be far better than sitting around here.”

“Good,” Shanahan rapped on the door, resulting in the door being yanked open immediately. “We'll be in touch shortly.”

“To God and Country,” Gawain called behind him as the door slammed shut.

Shanahan would drive back to Craigavon and drink a large volume of Irish whiskey at the nearest hotel before spending an inordinate time in the shower to wash the psychological stench away.

Chapter Two

Rise of the Hacker

Shanahan flew from Belfast International Airport to Heathrow Airport in London the next morning. He had been summoned to a briefing by Colonel Mark Shaughnessy, the legendary SAS veteran who was now a key figure on Downing Street. The meeting was being held at the SIS Building, the ziggurat-shaped structure at 85 Albert Embankment near Vauxhall Bridge on the River Thames. Shaughnessy had been in the game most of his life, finally securing a desk job after undergoing hip replacement surgery. Though he walked with a cane, he was still an imposing figure and Shanahan considered it an honor to meet him.

“I'm glad you were able to successfully interview the prisoner and decide for yourself whether he is what we're looking for,” Shaughnessy disclosed. Shanahan was seated across from him in his plush yet conservative office, comfortable in the overstuffed leather chair.

“I just connected the dots on this one, sir. My orders were to interview the subjects in order from top to bottom of the list and cut a deal with the first to accept.”

“Your perspective, Captain?” the 6'4”, 300-pounder leaned back in his heavily-padded swivel chair.

“I was given a dossier on the subject. It confirmed my opinions after the fact.”

“Well, what of it?”

“May I speak freely, sir?”

“By all means.”

“This fellow is scum. I think he is right where he deserves to be for the rest of his life. If anything goes wrong with this mission, I believe we will have no one but ourselves to blame.”

Shaughnessy allowed himself a laugh before folding his hands atop the enormous mahogany desk.

“When you've been in this business as long as I have, you start realizing the truth of the saying that the scum does indeed rise to the top. The ones who make it past the local police and earn the attention of the special operations units are usually the worst of the worst. For this particular assignment, you are going to need someone readily identifiable within the low-life community. This fellow is made to order.”

John Oliver Cromwell Gawain was the youngest of four children born to a working-class family in East Belfast. His father was a known and respected member of the Ulster Defense Association. After a drive-by shooting in West Belfast when Gawain was six, the Official IRA mistakenly identified his father as the gunman. They ordered that his death be made a warning and an example to others. A hit squad was sent to the Gawain home, and his father was shot to death after his mother was raped and strangled before the entire family.

They said Gawain lost his soul that night. The personable, spirited young boy became a troubled youth when he and his siblings were separated and parceled out to foster homes. He became obsessed with fighting, spending his time at youth centers finding others to wrestle and box with. When the center closed he spent the nights with street gangs, and when he rose to leadership he started skipping school. He took a fancy to the Apprentice Boys, a junior paramilitary force whose regimentation bringing out the best in him. His foster parents began treating him much kinder and gentler once they found he was under the tutelage of the UDA. When he reached his teens, the top guys began grooming him for full membership.

After a stint with the Ulster Young Militants, he was reassigned to C Company of the 3rd Battalion of the Ulster Freedom Fighters under Johnny “Mad Dog” Adair. The UFF leadership liked the young man and predicted great things for him. After the Good Friday Agreement of 1998 went into effect, Gawain was given charge of his own platoon. They promptly cornered the local market in bootleg cigarettes and drug trafficking, and more and more leaders turned to him for his ability to move merchandise and turn quick profits. Gawain soon became one of the biggest dealers on Shankill Road, which caused him to run afoul of the Continuity IRA.

After the GFA ceasefire, the Continuity IRA and the Real IRA remained the only splinter groups active in Ulster. The conflict had shifted from political to mercenary issues as both sides sought to take control of the local black market. The UDA and its offshoots engaged in fierce warfare with the IRA factions throughout the streets of Northern Ireland. Gawain soon established a reputation as one of the most hated and feared Catholic killers.

“So why do they call him the Hacker, is he good at computers, that sort of thing?” Shanahan wondered.

“Not quite,” Shaughnessy frowned. “He has a reputation for beating his victims during interrogations with the backs of his blades. When the handle shifts in his hand, either accidentally or on purpose, he winds up hacking into his victims. It leaves most of them grievously wounded, maimed or dead.”

“Wonderful fellow,” Shanahan was curt. “Sir, you know I come from an Irish Catholic background. I'm not sure I'll be the right man for this assignment.”

“It's part of what makes you just right for the job,” the Colonel reasoned. “This fellow is sublimely clever and intelligent. He is arrogant and calculating, the textbook definition of a ruthless opportunist. The greatest danger would be for him to cast you under his spell. I am quite confident that would not be the case here.”

“Impeccable logic, sir,” Shanahan did not want to offend. “Who might be waiting for us at the other end of this viper's nest?”

”This fellow,” Shaughnessy slid a second dossier over to Shanahan. “Enrique Chupacabra, real name Muniz. You talk about slimebuckets, this fellow is one of the worst you'll find. He's from Medellin in Colombia, one of the top enforcers in the Medellin Cartel. This is the conundrum we are faced with, Captain. Chupacabra and his gang have been converting large sums of cash into gold bullion all along the cartel's international network. We are talking about a territory that extends from South America to the Canadian border. I'm sure you've been reading the papers about a proposed global shift to a gold standard economy. The Prime Minister is quite certain these fellows intend to gain some serious leverage in this matter.”

“So the PM wants me to toss that shitebag over at Maghaberry into his path to keep him from buying up too much gold,” Shanahan deduced.

“It gets a tad more complicated than that,” the Colonel explained. “Chupacabra is just a puppet on a string at this level. Neither he nor the people behind him have the brains or the resources to play this kind of game. There is someone above them giving the orders, and we have to find out who it is.”

“And if we create a train wreck, maybe someone pops out from behind the curtain to clean up the mess,” Shanahan was sardonic.

“Captain, let me be more precise and to the point,” Shaughnessy leaned back. “You were highly recommended for this assignment. You've got an excellent service record, you're very well-liked and respected. You're known for your intelligence, courage and natural ability. As much as we hate seeing men like you leave the field, we all know that the desk job is the big prize in this line of work. Men like you, who accomplish so much in Her Majesty's service, are well deserving of it. However, it's going to take one last push to get you to the next level. I would be more than glad to provide it. Yet the stakes are rather high, from both our points of view to those of the Prime Minister and the Crown. Let us approach this assignment with all due care, and avoid being overzealous or presumptuous. We cannot let this great opportunity degenerate into a crisis that could jeopardize our nation.”

“You are absolutely right, sir,” Shanahan quickly deferred to his superior. “I have no reason not to keep all things in perspective. How are we to approach this matter?”

“Chupacabra's weaknesses are common: sex, liquor, drugs and gambling, the fatal Four Horsemen,” Shaughnessy explained. “We believe the chink in his armor is the gambling. He likes participating in high-risk games at high-profile events, loves being seen in public. It's the only time anyone can actually get near him. Even in public, he travels with anywhere from six to twelve armed guards. He's been known to rent entire penthouse suites to ensure his privacy and charters his own Lear Jets. He always has a beautiful woman as a companion, but treats them like pets so they provide no way to get to him. His role is as a troubleshooter and an emissary, if you can call it that. He eliminates congestion along the drug pipeline and sits down with rival connections as necessary to make sure things flow smoothly. When he gets involved, it usually means someone is going to die. He operates along the East Coast, the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, and spends most of his time between New York, Miami and Houston. They call him in once a month, and he'll spend a weekend in Medellin before he's back on the circuit.”

“Are you planning to have Gawain liquidate this fellow?”

“What we're planning to do is have Gawain draw Chupacabra offsides,” Shaughnessy said flatly. “Chupacabra's a loose cannon. Apparently he's got some big backers in the Cartel who've been keeping him from getting knocked off. He's already killed a mayor, a congressman, a sheriff and a couple of police officers. He was looking at a governor one time before the Cartel made him back down. Our contacts in the States tell us that one more major slipup may be just enough to put him in a pine box. Hopefully Gawain will do the trick.”

“Why aren't the Americans doing the heavy lifting here?”

“Frankly, we can't take a chance of them going to sleep at the switch,” the Colonel replied. “They're in the middle of a major political transition and are going to be more concerned with who has the power before they get focused on the economy. Unfortunately, the Crown doesn't have that luxury. If there's some kind of conspiracy going on between the drug cartels and one of the terror networks like Al Qaida, or even some rogue nation like Iran or North Korea, a disruption of the gold standard system could plunge us into a Depression.”

“I hate to think that such a scenario could be directly impacted by my success or failure,” Shanahan was hesitant.

“Not entirely, but if we can find out what the drug cartels are up to in buying up all that gold, and what their agenda is, it will have a significant effect on the shape of things to come,” the Colonel assured him. “Your mission is to report to our people in Montreal where Gawain will also be brought for briefing. They will prepare you for your rendezvous in New York where Gawain will be put into play against Chupacabra.”

“How will I go about this?”

“We've provided detailed instructions,” Shaughnessy pushed yet another folder towards Shanahan. “There's contact information along with travel accommodations, maps of the areas you'll be working, everything you need to know. Your plane leaves tomorrow morning. Gawain will be brought to Montreal for the briefing at a time and place to be determined.”

Shanahan returned to his vehicle and headed back to the Hotel Europa, psyching himself to once again face this man he loathed.

Only this time, Jack Gawain would be a free man in her Majesty's secret service.

Chapter Three

Days had passed since the release of Jack Gawain from Maghaberry HMP and his briefing by Captain William Shanahan and other agents of MI6 in Montreal, Canada. The legendary Canadian city became the meeting place of yet another group who would be establishing the groundwork for the global catastrophe to be known as Operation Blackout.

The speech by Tea Party Chairman Paul Wallace in New York City was the trigger the attendees of the meeting had been awaiting. The meeting was confirmed by cell phone and e-mail shortly after the nationally publicized press conference held by the Tea Party. Though the speech had tremendous ramifications for governments and financial institutions around the world, it was of vital importance for this particular group.

Wallace had announced that the Tea Party would use its national influence to urge Republican leaders to take immediate steps in initiating a long-awaited return to the gold standard by the United States of America. The grand strategy was to appoint a Gold Commission that would supervise the linkage between the dollar and the Federal gold reserve. It would be a last-ditch effort by the government to restore balance to the Federal budget in the face of a worldwide Depression.

“The creation of a Gold Commission will provide us with a cornerstone in establishing a worldwide gold standard in this new century,” Wallace declared before the world press in a speech held at a conference room at the New York Stock Exchange. 'It will restore the financial security and economic independence of the American people and the global community. It will liberate us from the insolvency of the paper dollar foisted upon us by financial wizardry and banking conglomerates. It will return the control over our economic future from Wall Street to Main Street across the country. It will save our Social Security system, restore fiscal control over State budgets across America, bring a halt to energy prices and restore price stability to the stock market. It would ensure the financial stability of our middle class, end the Great Recession, and guarantee us a four percent annual increase in national economic growth.”

He urged Congress to unite behind Republican and Tea Party leaders in their efforts to pass legislature restoring the gold standard and creating a Gold Commission. Only a concerted grassroots movement by the American public, he insisted, could counter the effects of an impending global depression that could lead to the financial destruction of world governments in months to come.

“I am glad you were all able to take time away from your busy schedules in order to attend this meeting,” the tall, portly man came to the fore of Le Lutetia conference room at the luxurious Hotel de la Montagne in downtown Montreal. They were afforded cocktails at the private bar before being seated to watch a videotape of Wallace's speech. “I will introduce each of our honored guests, going from right to left, so that everyone will be acquainted with one another. I would ask that each of you provide any additional comments upon introduction that will enlighten us as to the intentions of the sponsors you represent.”

“I am Amschel Bauer,” he continued. “I am an investor in gold bullion. I represent a network of what you might call billionaires with interests throughout Europe and the Middle East. As you can see from the video, this so-called grassroots movement threatens to change the face of international commerce and finance across the globe. My associates believe that, by means of a coordinated effort of our own, pooling our resources, we can sabotage these plans and capitalize on a financial collapse that can and will earn us mastery of the world economy.”

“First, let me introduce our guest host, Nathan Schnaper. He is the one who so graciously coordinated our meeting today. He is the chairman of what might loosely be considered the Commission of the Canadian Syndicate. Although most people believe that organized crime has been eliminated in Canada, his associates in Montreal, Toronto, Vancouver, Edmonton, and other major cities would think otherwise.” Schnaper remained silent, raising a hand in salutation.

“Next is Tony Ramos, the president of the Mara Salvatrucha, or MS-13, in Los Angeles. The MS-13 is a transnational organization that supervises drug traffic from California to New York in conjunction with their associates throughout the Caribbean and along the Mexican border.” Ramos greeted them in Spanish before lighting a cigarette.

“To his left is Alberto Calix, el patron of the Mexico City drug cartel. Mr. Calix has worked miracles in uniting the various factions throughout Mexico, bringing peace to the underground network and earning the cartels billions of dollars in the process.”

“I am very glad to be here,” Calix gave a gold-toothed grin.

“We also have with us Ernesto Guzman of the Mexican Mafia. Mr. Guzman is a Filipino national trained by the CIA in his homeland and has provided the MM infrastructure with a wealth of knowledge along with his capable leadership. He operates throughout South Texas and will be making a vast contribution long with his connections in the weeks to come.”

“Seated to his left is Julio Cruz, representing the Cuban Syndicate operating out of Miami. Mr. Cruz's associates have established a confederation of dealerships who have established control over a large portion of the southeast coastline and, in doing so, holding a monopoly over most of the Caribbean drug trade.”

“Next we have Enrique Chupacabra, who represents the Medellin Cartel in Colombia. Mr. Chupacabra oversees the daily operations of the cartel from LA to New York, and ensures the supply of narcotics from South America to dealerships throughout North America.”

“Finally we have William Bruce, who speaks for the European Council. The Council is another confederation of organized crime groups from the United Kingdom to the Mediterranean. Ironically, it is the Council of Europe itself which is the archenemy of Mr. Bruce's associates. They feel it is in their best interests to establish ties with their counterparts in the Americas to provide alternative trade routes in expanding their operations.”

“A pleasure to be here,” William Shanahan greeted them. MI6 had set up a cover in conjunction with EUROPOL, establishing a bogus network across the Continent. They had been working Bauer's connections for months and finally convinced them of their legitimacy, leading to Shanahan's invitation to the meeting.

“The Council calling itself the Council,” Alberto Calix chuckled. “Excellent idea. I'm going to approach my partners about renaming ourselves Los Federales.” The others joined him in raucous laughter.

“Gentlemen,” Bauer called their attention. “As you have seen and heard from the broadcast, the gold standard will redefine the international banking community and reset the balance of economic power across the globe. Unlike the current electronic system, this new structure will be based on material wealth as opposed to values existing only in cyberspace. Therein lies its weakness. Before we could deceive and manipulate cybersystems into redistributing assets, only once the theft was detected it could be restored once the error was found. Now, once we buy, steal or destroy the physical asset, once it is gone, it is gone.”

“If that is the case, why would anyone think of destroying gold?” Calix insisted. “Anything can be stolen, given the time, place and opportunity. Like you said, once it's gone, it's gone.”

“Perhaps not destroying it,” Bauer replied. “Let's say making it irretrievable or unusable to the competition. If we have access to our assets and the competition does not, then we are the ones with the power at that given time.”

“How do we end up with more money on the table than any of the world powers?” Schnaper squinted.

“The world debt of the United States in sixteen trillion dollars,” Bauer pointed out. “This is sixteen thousand billion dollars. If, my friends, we can accumulate sixteen billion dollars of gold in sixteen thousand isolated, fortified locations around the planet, we will have enough to match the amount owed by the richest country in history. At that point, if we can seize or freeze the assets of any one or all of the G8 nations, it is easy to see that we become the most powerful financial conglomerate in the world.”

“I am beginning to think your vision is impairing your judgment, my friend,” Cruz shook his head. “Let us say that, in fact, my associates and I actually did have sixteen billion dollars in assets. If we were to consolidate all of these assets and convert them to bullion, our business would come crashing down around our heads. It takes money to make money, and cashing in one's chips means they are leaving the game. We cannot afford, nor do we wish, to sell everything in order to participate in this scheme. And even if we did, this would be but one-sixteenth of your billions. I do not see nine hundred and ninety-nine other men sitting in this room.”

“Excellent point,” Bauer agreed. “Let us look at it from this perspective. Once the gold standard is established, then the entire debt system would have to be recalibrated. Either the value of gold would have to be increased or the total debt be reassessed. This is why the Americans moved in and quashed the real estate predators throughout the country. You cannot hold a man to a two million dollar debt if the home he has borrowed against is only worth two hundred thousand. If the total gold assets of the international market is only nine trillion, then not only will the value of our gold increase but the world debt will decrease. It is during this reshuffling and reorganization when we strike.”

“Tell us of your plan,” Guzman chewed his gum furtively. “Let us know how you intend to make all this happen.”

Bauer then proceeded to explain a grand strategy that would leave them with gold in their hearts, souls and minds.

As Shanahan returned to the lobby nearly an hour later, he found Jack Gawain holding court amidst a group of bodyguards waiting outside for their own charges. Gawain was in the middle of a story and it seemed the others were having trouble maintaining their composure.

“So, the fellow can hear the police breaking down the door with the battering ram,” Gawain explained, “and the lass is yelling at him, 'Take it out! Take it out!'.Now, he keeps on trying to tell her, 'You have to calm down, girl, your arse is locked tight. If you do not calm down it will not come out!' ”

Shanahan remained at a distance, watching in bemusement as one of the gunmen wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.

“Well, at that point, the peelers came crashing through the door, grabbed Jimmy and smashed his face against the wall,” Gawain continued. “The girl lost it at that point, and she threw open the patio door and went running out into the back yard across the lots. There you have it, a naked lady running off dressed only in her high heels, with a horse's tail sticking out of her arse.”

“No mas, no mas!” one of Julio Cruz' gunmen seemed about to wet his pants as he shook with laughter.

“Now hold on,” Gawain insisted. “Here's the kicker. She runs off, but the back yard seems to be deserted behind her. Only a few moments later, a couple of boys come running out of their house chasing after her with a lasso.”

“Charming,” Shanahan strolled up to them. “We'd best get a move on, we've got a plane to catch. There's some serious digging to be done ahead, and it's said that the early bird gets the worm.”

The two of them bade farewell to the gunmen awaiting their charges' emergence from the conference hall. They walked together in silence to the elevator, and continued thusly to the crosswalk leading to the parking garage. Only when they reached the other side, Gawain signaled Shanahan to a halt.

“Come now, quit screwing around,” Shanahan was irritable. “Did I not tell you that we have to be at the airport for the first flight tomorrow?”

“Hold on, Gummo,” Gawain nodded to the lower level across from them where Julio Cruz and his gunmen were getting into their rental car. He brought out a disposable cell phone and watched the vehicle as it prepared to drive off.

“What in bloody hell are you on about?” Shanahan insisted.

“Just watch, boyo,” Gawain insisted.

Shanahan continued to watch, and at once his impatience turned into astonishment as the rental car erupted with a deafening roar. The explosion was so powerful that it tore a huge chunk of concrete out of the garage wall, sending it crashing to the street as bystanders fled to safety. Shards of burning metal and glass were as shrapnel gouging into everything in its path. Shanahan gazed in awe as smoke and flames belched from the vehicle with no sign of survivors.

“There ye go,” Gawain grinned wickedly, dropping the cell phone over the rail to where it shattered on the sidewalk below. “I'd say we won the first round. On to round two, then. Off we are.”

Shanahan was torn between the need to flee the approaching police sirens, and an urge to hurl Gawain over the ledge from the fourth floor of the garage. He reluctantly chose the latter, trotting down the stairwell with Gawain close behind as they hurried into their rental car and sped away from the scene of the impromptu assassination.

Chapter Four

They arrived at Newark International Airport that evening, and William Shanahan was as edgy as Jack Gawain was nonchalant. Neither of them exchanged small talk, and it was almost as if they were conversing via telepathy as they were loathe to be the first to break the ice. Yet they could not help being impressed by their first visit to America. When one stopped at a store window the other would step inside if equally impressed, otherwise they kept moving. When they arrived at length at Ruby Tuesday's, they shrugged and nodded and went inside. Inwardly they both felt childish about how they were acting. Yet Shanahan felt as if he was being forced to consort with a thief and a murderer, while Gawain felt slighted by having to deal with a pogue.

They ordered drinks at the bar and were immediately taken in by the wide-screen plasma TV. Gawain quickly lost interest and began looking about at the crowds passing by and people walking in and around the lounge. At once he saw a couple of lovely stewardesses coming into the area and taking seats at a table in a far corner.

“I'm going to go over and see if we can sit with them,” Gawain decided.

“Sure you will,” Shanahan grunted. “Go on and try your luck.”

Shanahan watched on his peripherals as Gawain walked over and introduced himself. He was still bent out of shape over the series of events from yesterday. He had not yet contacted Downing Street and was greatly concerned as to how MI6 was going to react. Shaughnessy would undoubtedly ask what motivated Gawain's terroristic attack, and Shanahan had yet to figure that one out or pick Gawain's brain for it. He had never seen anything as erratic or irresponsible in his life, and fully intended to regiment this operation as soon as possible.

To his surprise, Gawain came over with a big grin on his face.

“It's fine with them, let's go and join them.”

Shanahan dutifully followed Gawain to the table, both of them having collected their drinks as they went. He was at once taken aback by the stewardesses as they drew nigh. The statuesque blonde was something of a Nicole Kidman type who Shanahan thought the most striking woman he had ever come across. The auburn haired woman was not as gorgeous but had a sensuality that seemed to have an aura about it.

“William, this is Morgana and that is Fianna,” Gawain made the introductions. “Ladies, this is my associate, William. We are traveling on business on behalf of Universal Exports out of London.”

“Nice to meet you,” they had grins on their faces.

“The girls work for Aer Lingus,” Gawain explained. “They say they're back and forth between London, Scotland and the Republic all the time. I thought it was pretty poor luck that we hadn't come across each other sooner. Now's a good time as any, I always say, and if anything happens again like yesterday, at least we have a couple of angels on hand to escort us.”

“Okay, I'll bite,” Morgana rolled her eyes, still smiling at William. “What happened yesterday?”

“Well, we just happened to be on the way back to our motorcar when this explosion of sorts went off in the lot across the street from where we stood,” Gawain explained. “William was quite calm, but I had never had such a fright. Can you imagine, I'll bet you saw on the telly about it being drug dealers up there in Montreal. I was beside myself for most of the afternoon. I says to William, here am I on my first business trip and they send me on to the middle of a war zone. I certainly hope such things are covered by workman's compensation.”

“Were you actually there when that happened!” Fianna's eyes widened as William just managed to stare at Gawain in disbelief. “My goodness, what a sight that must have been!”

“You know, I'm about to tell all about it, but I think they're playing our song there, aren't they?”

“What?” Fianna glanced around. “That's just the muzak playing from behind the bar.”

“And you've never danced muzak?”

Gawain shifted his eyes towards William and Morgana, and Fianna flashed him a knowing smile as she accompanied him to the open space beside an empty entertainment dais.

“So how are you feeling?” Morgana grinned at William.

“I'm just fine, thank you,” he replied, then leaned slightly towards her. “Say, not to appear boorish or anything, but I seem to be missing something here. Everyone seems to find something to be funny that I'm not catching onto.”

“Well,” she tried to look serious, “he said you only had three months to live, and it would be kind of us to have you two sit with us.”

“He said…” William squinted in astonishment, then looked over at Gawain and Fianna dancing. He looked back to Morgana, then broke into a big smile. “He certainly is a piece of work, isn't he?”

“It was quite an unusual pick-up line,” her laughter tinkled like chimes. William had been struck by the Irish thunderbolt, and he could not remember the last time he felt so tentative. “You don't look very sickly, and you don't seem very sorry for yourself.”