The Black Knight Page 4

  Members of the Bilderberg, together with their sister organizations - the Trilateral Commission and the Council on Foreign Relations, were charged with the post-war take-over of the democratic process. The measures implemented by this group provided general control of the world economy through indirect political means.

  Bilderberg was originally conceived by Joseph H. Retinger and Prince Bernhard of the Netherlands. Prince Bernhard, at the time, was an important figure in the oil industry and held a major position in Royal Dutch Petroleum, otherwise known as Shell Oil.

  In 1952 Retinger approached Bernhard with a proposal for a covert conference to involve NATO leaders in general discussion on international affairs. The meeting would allow each participant to speak his mind freely because no media representative would be permitted inside; nor would there be any news bulletin about the meeting or the topics discussed. If any leaks occurred, the journalists responsible would be “discouraged” from reporting it.

  Prince Bernhard supported Retinger’s proposal for an international meeting, and in 1952 Bernhard approached the Truman Administration and briefed them about the proposed conference. However it was not until the Eisenhower administration when the first American counterpart group was formed. From the outset the American group was influenced by the Rockefeller family, the owners of Standard Oil - competitors of Bernhard’s Royal Dutch Petroleum. From then on, the Bilderberg business reflected the concerns of the oil industry in its meetings.

  Bilderberg took its name from the Bilderberg Hotel in Oosterbeek, Holland, where the first meeting took place in May, 1954. The concept of Bilderberg was not new, although none attracted and provoked global myths in the way that Bilderberg did. Groups such as Bohemian Grove, established in 1872 by San Franciscans, played a significant role in shaping post-war politics in the US. The Ditchley Park Foundation was established in 1953 in Britain with a similar aim.

  Around a hundred and fifteen participants attended the meeting, coming from government and politics, industry, finance, education and communications. Participants were invited to the Bilderberg meeting by the Chairman, following his consultations and recommendations by the Steering Committee membership. The individuals were chosen based on their knowledge, standing and experience - just like the members of Majestic Twelve.

  LeMay heard voices approaching from outside the apartment and turned to face the door as it opened. A butler walked in, carefully holding the door open as a lone individual entered the apartment. LeMay remained silent and still as the door was closed by the butler and the new arrival looked him up and down appraisingly.

  ‘Director LeMay, what a pleasure to finally meet you.’

  ‘And you are?’ LeMay asked.

  The older man smiled. ‘My name is Victor Wilms, and I represent Majestic Twelve.’

  ‘I thought that they would be coming here in person,’ LeMay said.

  ‘They are here in person,’ Wilms assured him, ‘but new developments have resulted in them being delayed elsewhere in the city. Right now, I’m here to brief you on those new developments. If you will?’

  Wilms gestured to one of the plush leather couches, and LeMay obediently sat down as Wilms perched on the arm of a couch opposite and continued on.

  ‘The group have been concerned about the recent breaches of protocol at the FBI that you have endured, and of the increased risk of exposure.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ LeMay replied. ‘The Defense Intelligence Agency has embarked upon a mission to bring me down and perhaps to expose the members of MJ-12. General Nellis is spearheading the initiative and they’ve proven most efficient and derailing our plans. I’ve recently lost two valuable agents to their cause and narrowly escaped a jail sentence myself.’

  ‘Thanks to us,’ Wilms reminded him. ‘It was not a cheap venture to purchase the loyalty of a military court judge.’

  ‘I’m aware of that also,’ LeMay admitted. ‘What can we do to put this all right?’

  Wilms watched the director for a long moment as though assessing him. Apparently satisfied, he decided to continue.

  ‘The Defense Intelligence Agency has begun an initiative to recover from orbit a relic of some kind that our members believe may hold the key to mankind’s origins. As you know, we have in the past made it a mission to recover similar objects and artifacts, but this one has always been beyond our reach.’

  ‘Do we know where it is?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Wilms chuckled. ‘It’s some two hundred miles above our heads and it may soon be coming down to Earth. We would very much like to take possession of it.’

  ‘It’s in orbit?’ LeMay uttered in amazement. ‘Do you have a location for its landing area?’

  ‘Somewhere in the Antarctic,’ Wilms replied. ‘It’s only a matter of time before the CIA get word of the object, and when it re-enters Earth’s atmosphere everybody is going to be scrambling to get to the landing zone.’

  LeMay rubbed his temples. ‘My biggest problem now is that with Aaron Mitchell out of the picture I don’t have a trustworthy agent to undertake this mission.’

  Wilms nodded as he glanced out of the apartment windows at the sprawling city.

  ‘Mitchell began to question his place among the order of things, began to question Majestic Twelve’s mission. He started to act as though his opinion mattered in the grand scheme, which it of course did not. A shame, but he will no longer be an issue for us.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate him,’ LeMay warned.

  ‘I trained him,’ Wilms replied. ‘He is incarcerated in the Florence ADX Maximum Security Facility. There is no danger of his escape and no reason to concern yourself. I have no doubt that within just a few weeks the isolation and his impotent rage will cause Mitchell to suffer a tragic demise of which the rest of the world will know nothing. It is all in hand.’

  LeMay considered Wilms for a long moment.

  ‘He’ll be after my head should that tragic event not occur.’

  ‘Your purpose is to ensure that Majestic Twelve’s bidding is fulfilled by the Bureau of Investigation,’ Wilms snapped.

  ‘That’s precisely what I do,’ LeMay shot back, ‘and it’s precisely what Mitchell did for thirty or so years, and look where he is now! What guarantees do I have that should I be met with failure, I won’t find myself incarcerated in a Black Prison somewhere?!’

  Wilms’ anger faded and the calm smile returned.

  ‘Failure is not met with a price by Majestic Twelve,’ he replied, ‘only betrayal. Mitchell was in a position to complete his last mission and yet he deliberately failed to do so, for reasons that I myself cannot fathom. Combined with his age and apparent desire to subvert Majestic Twelve’s mission, it was decided that he should be disposed of as quickly as possible, a mission made far easier by his arrest by agents of the Defense Intelligence Agency.’

  Wilms gestured the city outside and the country beyond.

  ‘You and I both know that this country is governed by its administration only to give the people the impression that they have some kind of control over their futures, some sort of influence on the politics of their day. It is an illusion that has served this country well, and many others, since the end of the Second World War. The people are not capable of self-governance and democracy is a poor means to effectively maintain peace and prosperity across the developed world. Far better to govern from behind the scenes, to allow business to dominate politics rather than the other way around – that’s where Communism went wrong.’

  LeMay winced.

  ‘Nobody in this country’s going to take a socialist hard-line, Victor, least of all me. This is all about survival and prosperity, right? You want me to recover this object of yours, then I’ll need more resources than I’ve ever had before. It’s a major operation.’

  Wilms nodded in agreement.

  ‘The funds will be at your disposal,’ he promised, ‘as will a reliable armed force of not less than one hundred men, with tactical support of whatever kind you and your
connections are able to provide. Naturally, this must be done under the radar.’

  LeMay was already thinking, names of people he knew popping into his head, former soldiers and specialists. Mercenaries.

  ‘I can arrange the deployment of your force, and support should be possible via private mercenary units. I won’t have the necessary power to enact a complete radio blackout of the region, however.’

  ‘Leave that to us,’ Wilms replied. ‘We have enough influence to subvert even military monitoring of the local environment for a limited amount of time. The DIA is already in motion on this, so we must act fast. Forty eight hours, Gordon, to gather the forces required and deploy them to the Antarctic.’

  LeMay felt a quiver of alarm at the limited time to perform such a gargantuan task, but knowing that money was no object would smooth the process and he was loathe to show any sign of weakness before Wilms at such a crucial moment.

  ‘The force will be deployed on time,’ he promised.

  ‘Good,’ Wilms said as he stood. ‘You may use all of the facilities here at your disposal to arrange the deployment. All of the phones have been provided with suitable electronic shielding. Call me, when it is done.’

  Wilms left the apartment without another word, leaving LeMay to ponder the magnitude of what he was being asked to do.

  ‘Whatever the hell it is you’re after, I hope it’s worth it,’ he uttered to himself as he picked up the phone and began to dial.

  ***

  VI

  Florence, Colorado,

  Byron Thomas drove north along Highway 67 as the sun rose to the east across the barren deserts. The sky was a flawless light blue, and although the cool of the night still lingered he knew that within an hour or so the deserts would be once again scorched by the sun, the temperature forecast to be in the nineties.

  He wore a prim tweed suit, a small bow tie against his tightly buttoned collar and square-rimmed glasses shielding his dark eyes, their arms resting alongside his gray temples. Although a physically imposing man, partly due to his African American heritage, Byron was an academic through and through, a student of both law and psychology and a career psychologist who had made his fortune rehabilitating some of the most violent criminals the world had ever known. But today, he was afraid.

  Beside him on the passenger seat of his Prius lay a slim folder, within which were the medical history and doctor’s assessment of a patient so dangerous that they had been incarcerated without charge in the most secure prison in all of the continental United States. The final words of the physician who had begun treatment on the patient some years before, written in bold letters across the bottom of his psyche report, sent a shiver down Byron’s spine.

  Aaron James Mitchell is without a doubt the most powerful and dangerous man I have ever attempted to treat.

  ADX Florence, as it was known, was America’s most secure Super-Max prison, designed to house the most feared inmates within the country’s prison system. Sited on a thirty seven acre complex, the majority of the facility was above ground with a subterranean corridor linking the cellblocks to the lobby. Enshrouded both in secrecy and endless glittering razor wire fences, few journalists or outsiders were ever permitted entry. Its inmates were among the worst that humanity had to offer; mass murderers, terrorists and cult leaders with the blood of hundreds of people on their hands, Mafia dons and other hardened convicts so repulsively violent that it made Byron’s stomach clench at the mere thought of being in the same building, let alone confronting them. And yet, today, confront them he must.

  The low, white buildings and watch towers loomed before Byron on the side of the road, bathed in warm orange sunlight but still somehow clinical in their appearance, indicative of a place where memories and hopes went to die. Byron pulled slowly into the parking lot, stopped at the security gates and showed both his identification and his letter of admittance to the guards there before being waved through and parking in front of the southern block.

  Byron killed the engine and took one last look at the file, even though he had read it a hundred times before. He knew that he was merely delaying the inevitable, but he could not help himself as he flicked through the pages.

  An image of a dark skinned Afro-American, born August 12th, 1955 – Aaron James Mitchell. Mother; Florence Mitchell, nee Spencer, an American by birth, Detroit. Father; Jackson. J. Mitchell, former soldier, service record; Pacific Theatre, Iwo Jima, decorated veteran. Devout Catholics, both now deceased. No other siblings. Aaron Mitchell, service with United States Marines, Vietnam, decorated twice, two tours of active duty, two further tours as instructor…

  Byron, as he suspected like many others, had initially felt a sense of relief upon first reading the file’s opening pages. He’d believed that he was reading the operational file of an all American boy and veteran, a man whom he could harbor some hope of liberating from whatever madness had consumed him.

  Wife; Mary Allen Mitchell. Daughter; Ellen Amy Mitchell, born 1972, Oakland, California…

  Byron’s relief had quickly turned to melancholy.

  … died, 1978. Interred Oakland, California.

  Aaron James Mitchell; Diagnosed with acute anxiety and depression, revised as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Original PTSD from combat service enflamed via suppressed grief after loss of family. Two years medical hospital, San Diego. Released 1981.

  Mitchell’s record vanished into vagrancy sometime after his release from hospital, as had sadly so many of America’s Vietnam veterans, before being mysteriously picked up by the CIA and maintained under strictest security. Byron scrolled down rapidly toward the physician’s report near the bottom of the file, written some years’ previously.

  Physically impressive. Doctor’s note: Aaron J Mitchell is without a doubt the most powerful and dangerous man I have ever attempted to treat.

  The rest of the medical report was heavily redacted, no doubt as a result of Mitchell’s work within the military. Byron could only guess at the horrors faced by this patient in the steaming jungles of South East Asia, and then again perhaps in foreign countries undercover as an operative of some kind, perhaps a spy.

  Byron took a deep breath as he looked up at the walls of the prison, unmarked, bleached it seemed, scoured of any trace of humanity and compassion. He only hoped that his mission here today would be worth it, worth more than the tremendous sum of money that had been deposited into separate bank accounts belonging to Byron over the last two months.

  Byron stepped out of the air conditioned vehicle and into the hot sunshine, already flaring off the asphalt as the heat began to rise. He walked across to the block entrance, where the first of many security gates opened and then closed behind him as he walked through. Pinned between two steels gates, he was searched thoroughly by prison security teams. The guards checked his letter of admission in his pocket, his file and his pockets before waving him through to a reception area where he was required to leave his cell phone, wallet and other personal belongings.

  An alarm sounded that made Byron flinch as the next set of steel gates rumbled open and he walked slowly forward, hating every footstep as he eased into the darkened maw of a sally port that led into the prison’s interior.

  ‘This way, Doctor Thomas.’

  A sergeant, his khakis perfectly pressed, his hair immaculately combed, gestured for Byron to follow him as they walked through a cool corridor that descended beneath the block walls and led to more security gates. Each was governed by operators in remote stations and covered by security cameras – there were no keys, no means for a prisoner to escape even if they did get somehow manage to out of their cell.

  They passed through the gates, and Byron saw an X-Ray machine sunk into a revetment in the wall that scanned him as they moved by. No alarm was emitted and Byron continued under the sergeant’s guidance until they emerged into the cell block proper.

  Unlike most prisons, Florence did not have any communal areas for prisoners to mingle, for they all spent their
days on permanent lockdown. Byron had heard that even exercise time, a single hour per day, was strictly organized so that no prisoner ever crossed paths with another. Complete and utter solitude was the facility’s answer to the incomparable brutality of its inmates - they could harm nobody if they never encountered a soul.

  Byron was led through the pristine, silent block. Most normal prisons were never, ever silent, filled with complaining, cursing cons and stressed correctional officers, the stench of urine and faeces staining the air. But here it was almost peaceful, and Byron felt himself relax somewhat as he walked alongside the sergeant toward an austere interview room located on the south side of the block.

  The sergeant held the door open for Byron and he walked in to see a small table, steel rings bolted into its surface and poured concrete pillars for seats on either side, more steel rings in the floor either side of the seats. The walls were likewise built from poured concrete, featureless and bare, the room utterly empty and even the table bolted into the floor.

  ‘There are no cameras in here due to the need for absolute security,’ the sergeant informed him. ‘In the past, patients have been known to punch out the lenses and use the glass as a weapon. I’ll have the patient brought through. He will be secured to the table by both wrist and ankle restraints and two guards will be right outside the door, which will be left partially open throughout the meeting. If you have any issues, or you fear in any way that the encounter is becoming dangerous or the patient agitated, you merely have to call the guard and they will intervene instantly. Do you have any questions?’

  Byron smiled up at the guard and shook his head.

  ‘No, thank you. Please do bring the patient through.’

  The sergeant turned with military efficiency and marched off down the corridor.

  Byron waited a moment and then he slipped from the corner of his mouth a slim, silvery object that he concealed in one hand. Then, he made sure than the envelope in his pocket was open and ready. Finally, he took a deep breath and waited.