“X”
The Washington Monument stands most impressive against a cobalt blue sky, its marble
face nearly blinding in the
late October sun. Well, the first one hundred
and fifty feet are nearly blinding, the upper four hundred and five are, frankly, a little dingy.
Inside the world’s tallest man-made stone structure, Woodhead
and Blundstein are feeling the burn as they
struggle to climb the granite stairs... Jack with his beanstalk never climbed so high. Blundstein counts
off the last few steps
as they finally reach the Observation Deck. “...896...897.”
The spectacular view of the nation’s capital will have to
wait, as the reporters are bent over desperately gasping
for air. A kid wearing an Air Force
One ball cap gives them a puzzled look.
“Why didn’t you just
take the elevator?”
Woodhead and Blundstein look up, holding their sides and wheezing.
The reporters turn to see the doors of an express elevator slide
open. The place is starting to clear out as a group of sightseers board the
waiting car.
After a few deep breaths the boys
manage to stand upright again.
“How will we know the
guy from the note?” Blundstein asks.
Woodhead studies the dwindling crowd.
“I don’t know. I guess
we’ll just have to trust our instincts.”
They look around and spot a tourist in a ‘WE
THE PEOPLE’ t-shirt taking pictures of the National
Cathedral through the north window.
They exchange a
confident smile.
The tourist takes a few more pictures then lowers his camera to
find himself sandwiched between
Woodhead and Blundstein. The reporters speak in a low tone while pretending to
admire the view...they know how to be discreet.
“So...who are the men
behind the conspiracy?” Woodhead asks, out of the side of his mouth.
“Don’t worry, we can
protect you,” Blundstein adds, also out of the side of his mouth.
The tourist looks at them like they’re crazy. He backs away
and quickly darts into the elevator just as the doors are closing.
“Please!” Woodhead
calls after him. “You’ve come this
far!”
The
reporters are left alone on the observation deck. Blundstein frowns. “Damn!”
Woodhead shakes his head, sadly. “He must’ve got cold
feet.”
A low and cautious voice intones behind them.
“Gentlemen, I believe I’m the man you’re looking for.”
Woodhead and Blundstein turn to find a man in
a long raincoat standing in
the shadows. The reporters shrug and cross to him.
The man looks around, nervous.
“I have a lot to tell
you and not much time.”
Blundstein takes out his notepad. Woodhead gives the mysterious
man a grateful nod. “We appreciate you coming forward, Mr...?”
“I’m not going to tell
you my name, or who I work for,” the man in the long raincoat says. “Just call
me...‘X’.”
Blundstein looks up from his notes, his curiosity piqued.
“As you know,” X
continues. “Bellamy was assassinated to keep him from giving you the original
draft of a secret trade agreement.”
X stops to give Blundstein a sideways glance then continues.
“This is far more than
just a trade agreement. It’s an instrument of surrender. Once signed, entire
nations will fall. The treaty will force countries to give up their national sovereignty through an
unbreakable contract, which guarantees private investors the right to extract
global resources without restriction. This is
a new form of colonialism…contractual
colonialism. Any law, or regulation, that
interferes with corporate profits will be seen as a violation of the
agreement and the offending country will be subject to sanctions, or sued for
up to half of its GDP.”
Blundstein turns to Woodhead.
“Sounds like your phone
contract.”
“Yeah, those guys own
me.”
“This
document goes way beyond the level of greed that has run the world to this
point,” he says gravely. “Beyond the simple capture of trade routes and the
control of energy resources. With this agreement, wealth extractors have
found a way to legalize their spread of Empire. This trade contract will
supersede the rule of law, and with nothing to stop them, this consortium of money monarchies will divvy up the wealth of
the world in a modern day conquistador
pursuit of gold and return us all to feudalism.”
Blundstein turns to Woodhead.
“You really should
change your carrier.”
Woodhead shakes his head.
“I can’t…you heard what
he said. They’ll sue me for half my GDP!”
X hears a sound from the elevator shaft.
He listens for a moment then lowers his voice even further and continues.
“The operation is run by
a high-ranking military officer, the same man who ordered Barton and Farrell to
assassinate Bellamy.” He pauses, “Let’s call him...General ‘Y’.”
Blundstein looks up, his curiosity piqued. He takes a guess.
“It was General Y who
gave the order to bug Green Party
Headquarters. The Green Party candidate has
promised, if elected, to get off fossil fuels and switch to renewable energy. General Y cannot allow that to
happen.”
“...uh...Gener-al...Yardley?”
X gives Blundstein another sideways glance.
“General Y works for a
secret group of men. Men with no names and no allegiances. Men whose only
concerns are wealth and absolute power.”
The boys exchange an ominous look.
“Yes, and they must be
stopped. But you’ll need proof. The original
draft memo, Document 214.8, which
outlines the provisions of the secret treaty is kept in the National Archives.
You must find a way to get that document to the public, but be
careful...the conspiracy goes everywhere.”
Woodhead gives him a solemn nod.
“You can count on us,
Mr. X.”
Woodhead and Blundstein shake hands with X.
Blundstein takes one last shot.
“We shouldn’t leave
together…you go first.”
The boys step into the elevator. X tenses at
the sound of footsteps on
the stairs. He turns to the reporters.
“Are you sure you
weren’t followed?” he asks, in a hoarse whisper.
“We didn’t see anybody,”
Blundstein says, with a shrug.
“Did you take the
precautions I outlined for you on the phone?”
The reporters give him a blank look.
The elevator doors slide shut. X is alone on the observation deck.
He turns toward the stairs as the footsteps grow louder.
“Shit!”
© 2015 S.A. Gorman and S.J. Curwick
