True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(33)



Ian closed the trunk, walked around to the driver’s side of the car, and got in. He waited until Margo got into her seat to continue his explanation. “There was political opposition to the Patriot Act because it was a blatant rights grab but that disappeared after anthrax was mailed to some senators, making terrorism personal for them. The anthrax scare was perpetrated by the government, of course, to generate the popular and political support to get the act passed. Ronnie believes the true purpose of the law was to give the government, which is controlled by the global elites, the power to identify opposition and squash dissent among the American people.”

“Uh-huh,” Margo said. “And what’s the point of all these devious machinations?”

“The world has limited natural resources—food, water, land, fossil fuels—all of which are already seriously endangered by population growth and it’s only getting worse. And that’s not even factoring in the pollution and global warming created by an ever-increasing global population.” Ian put on his seat belt, started the car, and drove out of the parking lot, all with only his left hand, which made the simple tasks difficult. “The global elites want to keep it all for themselves so they’ve not only got to stop the population growth but also reduce the current demand for those resources.”

“That’s where the global pandemic comes in,” Margo said. “Some superbug that kills everybody who hasn’t been secretly vaccinated.”

“Yes, but to set the stage, over the last decade or so a startling number of top microbiologists worldwide have been dying in accidents and by natural causes at a rate that Ronnie believes is far above normal, according to actuarial tables. That was done to get rid of anybody with the ability to stop the global pandemic that only the elites, and their chosen followers, will survive.”

“Why was the government spying on your friend?”

“They’re spying on all of us but giving him extra scrutiny because he knew what they were doing and was warning others on secret message boards on the dark web. They started following him, reading his e-mails, listening to his calls, drugging his food, and messing with his head. So, to save himself and his sanity, he fled Los Angeles and got completely off the grid. He couldn’t stop them from pulling off their global pandemic or whatever apocalyptic event they created but he was determined to survive it. That would be his rebellion.”

Ian drove onto the highway heading southeast and waited for Margo’s reaction. She was silent for a few moments before she spoke.

“The bottom line is that we’re driving hundreds of miles to seek the advice of a crazy survivalist preparing for the zombie apocalypse.”

“I didn’t say anything about zombies.”

“But you aren’t disputing that he’s crazy.”

Ian chose his words carefully. “He has an unusual worldview but he also has the vital skills we need to learn if we want to survive.”

“The zombie apocalypse,” she said.

“The rest of the week,” he said.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Bethesda, Maryland. July 20. 11:45 a.m. Eastern Standard Time.

Cross was in a conference room, briefing the three owners and founders of Blackthorn Global Security about the status of his “outside efforts,” as he quaintly characterized them, to exert pressure on the government to accept their proposal to privatize most of the CIA’s covert operations business. Not that it was a business yet, but it would be soon, and an extraordinarily lucrative one, if everything worked out as he’d planned. And so far, with the exception of a minor hitch with Ian Ludlow, it was. He left that hitch out of his briefing to the three owners—an oil company magnate, the leader of a major bank, and a former US vice president who had a significant stake in a major defense contractor.

“The bodies of Ayoub Darwish and Habib Ebrahimi and their computers will be arriving here in the morning,” Cross said, concluding the substance of his briefing. “We’ll be taking the lead on the autopsies and analysis of the devices recovered from the farmhouse.”

“Excellent work, Wilton,” the oilman said. “Where does the success of this operation leave us on the outsourcing proposal?”

“Senator Holbrook went straight to the Oval Office to convey to the president the committee’s unanimous recommendation. I’m confident the president will sign a classified executive order within forty-eight hours outsourcing the majority of the agency’s covert operations to us . . . under the guise of a standard ‘administrative and management support’ contract. The president was a businessman himself. He’s always believed the private sector can do a better job than government.”

“What does Mike Healy think?” asked the former vice president.

“He thinks his balls have been cut off and served to us on a silver platter.”

Everyone smiled. It was a good day. Cross looked out the glass partition and saw Victoria coming his way from the situation room.

“How much do you think we can expect to earn annually from this contract?” The banker could always be counted on to ask about the money.

“Conservatively? One billion dollars,” Cross said.

Victoria paused outside the door and met his eye. He nodded, giving her consent to enter. She came in, gave an airline hostess smile to each of the men, and stepped up close to Cross, speaking quietly into his ear. “Sir, could I have a word? It’s urgent.”

Lee Goldberg's Books