CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Examining himself in a section of his bedroom wall, temporarily converted to a mirror, Alex admired his look: well-groomed hair styled with Rosa’s supervision, a coal black suit. Very respectable. His true opposite.
When thinking of the acts he had put in motion over the last three weeks, Alex was eighty-twenty. Eighty percent crippled with depression, twenty percent filled with exhilaration, both pertained to his future. The disproportionate, yet fluctuating emotions left him feeling woozy, almost numb, like a hypnotized man standing on an automated walkway, whose path would take him through the next four hours, regardless of his desire to deviate or turn and run.
Attending the summit as a representation of knowledge and confidence, his suit displayed a side of him he was unsure existed. Embracing his deceit bolstered the eighty-twenty skew toward a complete meltdown. Having read a smile blocked melancholy, he forced the muscles into position multiple times each hour.
Rosa spent the majority of her morning at her preferred salon. She’d spent the last hour in the bathroom, with the occasional dart to the closet for this or that.
The inner him might dislike what his appearance portrayed, but as he rotated for peripheral views, he could see this Alex photographed on the red carpet and plastered in major magazines. He sniffled, shook his head, thought about his first magazine cover, on Computer World. The look of uncertainty in the eighteen-year-old misfit in the gray sweatshirt had caused him to question his purpose, his confidence, his choices. Compared to the man he was today, that Alex epitomized self-assurance, confidence, pride of action.
By this time tomorrow, Alex would head thousands of magazines, newspapers, and webpages. He hoped the captions would read: Alex Cutler, The Catalyst of Peace. He feared many would be labeled: Alex Cutler, Assistant to Tyranny.
This big ticket event lacked the glitz of a red carpet gala. Most present would possess average looks, be slightly overweight, not pretend to care about issues they know little about. However, the global summit would provide more drama than anything the most talented fiction writer in Hollywood could sensationalize.
Everyone with access to media would be glued to their screen until the summit concluded, and they learned if their nation, and, by proxy, their loved ones, would be involved in a war.
Throughout the previous weeks, Alex had been circling the United States. In each major city, he employed his resources to gather the network he strived for. His station gained him access to any office, his presence garnered attention, his belief in his work instilled dedication.
Through these meetings—often with well-connected individuals—and the encrypted updates from Luke Dean, Alex learned of many nefarious plans in incubation. They propelled him.
In spite of continued silence, the rumors of Adisah being murdered and Eridu being hijacked by an American-born terror organization threatened to stunt him with despair. A heavy workload buried the pain.
More verified information said a general in the United States Army planned terrorist acts against Atriums on foreign soil.
Alex believed that he, and his team, presented the only possible scenario for thwarting all of those plots, avoiding World War III, conflict to dwarf all prior.
Every fiber that constructed him had issues with his strategy. He avoided actions on such a grand scale. Lying to people hurt, but the wheels rolled on; momentum reached an avalanche. With his network growing exponentially, that force would soon meet an immovable object.
Stepping out of the bathroom, Rosa commanded an overhead light to shine on her. “How do I look?”
Taking her in, his eyebrows raised of their own volition. Despite the worry as to his finale’s implication, he swelled with affection toward Rosa. If he deserved to cover a magazine, she would wallpaper newsstands. She wore a hip-hugging black dress that showed off the continued hours she dedicated each day to her fitness. A diamond necklace glittered around her neck. A matching bracelet cast flecks of light on the wall and floor, but none of those accessories outshined the beauty of her face; the softness of her skin; the fullness of her lips. Her brown eyes beamed as if polished. Her satiny dark hair had a light curl and bounced softly against her shoulder.
A lump caught in his throat when he thought of all she might endure as a result of his actions. She deserved a life free from strife. Knowing such a life didn’t exist pained him.
“That good, huh?” she said playfully.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said honestly. He then strode over, kissed her passionately.
After a half-minute of mutual enjoyment, she gently pushed him off. Her smile of pleasant surprise threatened to pull him in for more, but she placed her palms on his chest and shook her head.
“You know there is a presidential motorcade waiting for us?”
“You deserve nothing less.”
“Look at the big charmer,” she blushed, reexamined herself in the mirror. “If only all the death threats didn’t necessitate my chariot being bomb-proof.”
Turning her, he wrapped his arms around her waist. With their stomachs pressed together, Alex’s weight gain stood out. He’d been knocking out two, three, even four packages of Oreo’s each day.
“Everyone of those threats are directed at me. Without me in the picture, you’re perfectly safe.”
She put her hands on his forearms. “They want a piece of you, they’re going to have to go through me.” Another grin, and she pried his hands off, tugged the wrinkles form her dress.
The thought that some psycho might agree with her constantly troubled him. He kissed her neck and stepped away, dabbing a tear from his eye.
“It is ten minutes to four,” Victor announced per Rosa’s instructions.
Alex, along with three military officials from the west coast, would log into the Lobby at five-thirty from the Los Angeles Atrium and rendezvous with the rest of their delegation by using President Tanner as a reference.
Alex knew America’s committee members had been cramming all day, every day, for the past few weeks on what to say to who, on the cultural differences for displaying respect, but he’d been on his own mission to save humanity.
Last night marked his first night home, leaving him no time to do the one thing he had hoped: bring Rosa up to speed on all the intricate details of his plan and the reasoning behind them, attempt to convince her of its benefits.
On the flight home, he penned a letter, figuring he could revise it a time or two and then read it aloud.
That opportunity never presented itself.
Swallowing his regret, he focused on the task at hand. In an hour and a half, she’d have her explanation. Hopefully his actions would be seen as the genius that averted what analysts predicted as guaranteed conflict; globally, in every nation, in all cities.
Alex stared at the back wall, viewing the gently rolling surf of a private Caribbean beach: a large sun in the distance; crystal blue waters; white rippling sand. Illusion or not, it provided the soothing effect Rosa intended.
“We’ll get there,” she said, siding up to him, taking his hand, and staring at the twelve feet by ninety feet screen.
Dabbing another tear, he thought, they were in so much danger, and she had no idea.
Adisah had been, at best, incommunicado for a month, and the possibility of his murder, however unpleasant, loomed high. If he had been killed with a cult-like following of ex-military security forces around him, what chance did Alex and Rosa stand?
As she squeezed his hand, he thought about the approaching events.
When caught between a rock and a hard place, you either got squashed or changed your location.
Releasing each other’s hands simultaneously, they made their way to the elevator.
As soon as the doors opened to the main floor of Legion, he saw the security presence. Professional types: suits, earpieces—crack shots that emptied clips into center mass.
Six men occupied the space from the elevator to the front door. As the couple passed them, they fell silently in tow.
Outside, the real weather appeared: a light drizzle, clouds, suffocating humidity. More than unusual for Los Angeles in the summer, but these were more than unusual times.
A pair of helicopters hovered overhead. Men with dark shades and rain slicks scanned everything in sight. Thanks to Luke, Alex knew military vehicles filled with soldiers waited nearby, that snipers manned roofs, that a dedicated satellite would monitor the entire trip.
They passed by foot-thick, reinforced steel doors to enter the limousine. Alex had learned they could withstand a direct hit from a rocket propelled grenade.
Inside, the small, muted television flickered with activity. The news broadcasted a crowd of Lobby protestors, accentuating their emotion with a constant jostling. Judging from the surrounding architecture and vehicles, Europe hosted this particular skirmish.
Retrieving the remote, Rosa turned off the monitor. “Seeing that doesn’t help.”
Staring at the blank screen, thinking about the shock approaching the world, Alex wondered if the extreme work he had put in would have the positive effect he imagined, or had he just doomed humankind.
* * * *
“Mr. Cutler?” Luke’s voice came through an intercom in the vehicle.
Aware that Luke rode in the passenger seat, Alex pressed the button to reply. “Yes?”
“You may want to watch channel seventeen, a local station with coverage around the Los Angeles Atrium.”
Rosa selected the remote, held it away from Alex a moment, and then powered on the screen.
Though interested, he continued to stare out of his window.
They had chosen a route through a residential neighborhood. Two police motorcycles led and trailed the motorcade. Their blue and red lights swirled, but no siren sounded. He figured the nine vehicle convoy presented quite a spectacle when viewed from a living room couch.
Rosa sucked a breath between her teeth, drawing his attention to the television.
He suspected the displayed pandemonium matched an angry mob storming a warehouse holding the depleting cure of a virulent pandemic.
From aerial shots, one could see thousands of people littered the light-industrial area surrounding the Los Angeles Atrium—a place he had grown so familiar with. The picket signs were split between support in all forms, and calls for the Lobby’s annihilation.
The parking lot remained clear, yet seeing it absent vehicles seemed nearly as strange as the demonstrators. Police and military officers in full riot gear manned wooden barriers along the parking lot’s exterior, shoving back the swell of bodies.
More sophisticated barriers were erected fifty yards in. The officers protecting that area held rifles. No doubt armed with tear gas and rubber pellets, but the live stuff—ammunition of the killing type—would be close at hand.
The armored limousine slowed in the middle of a side street and halted. Alex surveyed each window view. Why had they stopped?
Behind him, two SUVs formed a V by parking their noses together to block the road.
“Mr. Cutler?” Luke said over the intercom.
Alex attempted to peer out the front, but the length of the car prevented a view.
“Do you see something?” Rosa asked.
“Mr. Cutler,” Luke said, “they have decided to bring you and Mrs. Cutler in by air. The upcoming roadways are congested and becoming increasingly hostile.”
A final glance at the program ended any thoughts of opposing the suggestion. The camera panned out, granting an expanded sight. Tents, barrel fires, booths—the scene reminded Alex of a Third World refugee camp. Except, outrage, anger, and defiance—not necessity—bound those present.
Turning off the television, Rosa stated, “I hope this helicopter has a closed cabin. I spent four hours on my hair.” Her smile faded before it fully formed.
A squadron of men rushed to the limousine and stood sentry around it, patiently waiting for the black helicopter, which had a sealed cabin, to touch down.
Each side of the limousine opened simultaneously. One team attended to Alex, the other Rosa. With a force just short of a yank, they pulled Alex out, bent him forward at the waist and huddled around him as if snipers waited in the windows of the surrounding suburban homes.
During liftoff, he noticed many of the neighborhood residents had exited their homes, stood in driveways, or on front lawns. Alex couldn’t shake the scary truth. Going by the math, at least one of them, hated him.
The thought of living that paranoid, and the danger applied to Rosa, once again reminded him of the past invitations from Dr. Brad Finder, who lived isolated on his own island off the coast of Argentina. But he knew that wouldn’t work. If insurgents could root out Adisah, location presented a minor obstacle.
Seeing Rosa patting her hair, Alex gave her a thumbs up as to its perfection, and with the exception of one side being puffed out two inches, and fifty strands seemingly zapped with electricity, he shared truth.
Approaching the mob revealed it stretched ten times further than the news had shown. A half-mile separated them from the edge of the bedlam, yet even directly beneath them—in a residential area—groups of people camped out.
The passing helicopters drew faces with magnetic-like force, subverting people from smoking grills, car windows, and huddles. Umbrellas tipped like dominoes. Arms waved, and plastic-wrapped signs shook up and down and from side to side. Driving through that would have been impossible.
A tink sounded against the underbelly of the craft. The helicopter jerked upward, climbed at a steep angle.
A security officer across from Alex held his finger to his ear and then leaned forward. “Someone took a potshot at us. Small arms can’t penetrate our armored hull but we’re increasing altitude as a precaution.”
The new elevation exposed more of the crowd. Once they centered over the parking lot near the main door they eased onto the pavement. Strangely, the helicopter coming to rest on the asphalt elevated his anxiety. It made today and his actions, real.
Alex and Rosa had spent enough time with security details to remain seated until instructed otherwise. Two groups of soldiers rushed from the Atrium. A few carried bulletproof shields. They formed a horseshoe on both sides of the craft, and whether by design or bad luck, they landed to where Rosa had to climb out on the far side, closest to the protestors.
Indoors, he rose to his full height and found himself in a sea of suits and military uniforms.
Rosa led him by the hand to a nearby bench.
Before he gathered the strength to reach for her letter and read the important words, she spoke, “Big day, huh.”
He allowed his hand to pause. Today represented an enormous day.
“You’re going to be okay, Alex.” A beat passed. “It’s all so awful; but do you ever step back and think you may end up being a man historians talk about for generations.”
Over the past few weeks, that sentiment had increasingly crept into his thoughts. If the world survived, would his actions be considered noble or heinous? Would he be a liberator or a slaver? In his unrecognized arrogance, he’d never thought about how the world would view his loyal, supportive wife. Perhaps because that one was easy: “Whatever the future historians teach, all the mentions of benevolence will start with you.”
Her face lightened, but her lips frowned, as if anchored by an inner sorrow. She had seen the restlessness, weight gain, and irritability. “I know this has been a whirlwind,” she said. “I just hope when it’s done, we can get away for a while.”
He resumed his reach for the envelope.
“Mr. Cutler?” A man in a navy blue uniform said. The many medals on his chest clanked with each movement like a tambourine of pride. A man in a designer suit waited behind him. Alex should shove the envelope into Rosa’s hand, but he wanted to read it aloud. “Excuse me, ma’am.” The officer said to Rosa. Then, to Alex, “Mr. Cutler?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Colonel Emelander. There is a room full of people waiting for you. If you’ll excuse us, ma’am, it really is quite urgent we brief your husband.”
“I understand,” she rose, looked to Alex.
He wasn’t ready. He had so much to say; to her, about her, about him, about the world, and the Lobby, and his work these past weeks.
Leaning over, she kissed him, and despite the uncertainty of his plan, the soft touch of her lips scattered his worry—he’d always have her love.
He exhaled, forced the letter back into his pocket. At least he wrote it all down. He appreciated that, because after this meeting, no matter how it went, the world would be a very different place.