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  “Remember, no matter what, James Standing feels that the ends justify the means.”

  “Do you have any idea exactly what his ends are? What is it he has in mind? Some sort of global governance?” asked Ralston.

  “Standing is a globalist, all right,” replied Salomon. “And he definitely believes he can help usher in some sort of utopia, but there’s one final step that would have to be undertaken, and that’s the most frightening thing of all about him.”

  “What is it?”

  “Remember what I said about him being worse than Hitler, Stalin, Mao, or Pol Pot if left unchecked?”

  Ralston nodded.

  “We found an interview he gave on the sidelines of the economic forum in Davos, Switzerland. It was some small European paper and maybe he didn’t think it would get any pickup, but he allowed his proverbial mask to slip. In the twentieth century, he said, the world saw the loss of about 225 million people due to war, genocide, and disaster. According to him, the only way mankind can survive the twenty-first century is if the world population is cut by at least five billion. And that will only happen if every industrialized nation is forced into collapse, starting with the United States.”

  CHAPTER 16

  NEW YORK CITY

  J ulia Winston crossed her legs in just such a way that James Standing couldn’t help but wonder if she was doing it purposely for him. It wouldn’t have been the first time a female reporter had done that. It didn’t make any difference that he was old enough to be her grandfather. Henry Kissinger had been wrong. Power wasn’t the ultimate aphrodisiac, money and power were and Standing had more than most could even imagine.

  Winston was wearing an A-line skirt, the kind that clung tightly to her upper thighs and showed off her tiny waist. She wore an inexpensive yet chic collared shirt, probably from Brooks Brothers or, God forbid, Banana Republic. Her jewelry consisted of what appeared to be a small pair of diamond stud earrings, but that might have been fake. The only place she seemed to have spent any real money was on her shoes.

  Smart girl, thought Standing. While most men wouldn’t have made it past her tits, any of the women in the field she was competing with would have checked out her shoes. The difference between bitch and classy bitch with women always came down to the shoes.

  Standing did in fact judge women on their looks and how they dressed, but the make-or-break for him was in the brains department. He didn’t have time for unintelligent people. He was too busy and life was too short. Though New York City was filled with gorgeous women, there were few who could keep up with him intellectually. After his penis, there was no greater erogenous zone than his brain. If a woman couldn’t stimulate both, he wasn’t interested.

  The attractive Financial Times journalist sitting across from him, though, seemed more than capable of doing both, so he decided to take the provocative way in which she had crossed her legs as just that.

  “Let’s talk currencies,” Winston said as she chewed the top of her pencil and flipped through the pages of the steno pad balanced expertly atop her stockinged knee.

  They were seated on low-slung couches in the plush sitting area of his office in Midtown Manhattan. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dramatic view of the Empire State Building, and the sheets of polished marble that covered the floors, as well as the walls, gave one the feeling that they had stepped inside some sort of modern Pantheon. It was an aura of grandeur, and it had been created entirely on purpose.

  Standing studied the woman. Who used pencils anymore? he wondered. He liked it. It was a nice touch that made her stand out, made her different. He liked different.

  He also liked how she chewed on the eraser. He was beginning to wonder more and more if she was entertaining the thought of going to bed with him.

  While men’s sexual energy seemed to ebb as they got older, at seventy-eight, Standing’s had increased. He had no idea what those overpriced doctors and high-end nutritionists were crushing up into his so-called vitamin shakes, but he didn’t care. Hell, he had half a mind to reverse-engineer the recipe and put it on the market himself. It’d be like fusing Red Bull and Viagra, both multibillion-dollar products.

  Julia Winston raised her eyebrows, waiting for a response.

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” said Standing. His mind had drifted. Only making money could have taken his mind off the prospect of bedding such an incredibly attractive woman. “What was it you were asking?”

  The woman repeated herself. “Picking up on your remarks about social justice and social responsibility, we talked about your efforts to get affordable medications to AIDS patients in Africa. We also discussed your belief that America should be just as diligent in providing medical care for everyone in this nation, regardless of immigration status. You have described housing, health care, employment, and fair wages as basic human rights.”

  “Exactly,” said Standing, more focused now.

  “Which brings me to currencies; particularly the U.S. dollar. Recently you said you wanted to see a ‘managed decline’ of the dollar. Can you expound upon that remark?”

  “Certainly. The dollar, due to the nation’s huge and rapidly expanding deficit, is not a very strong currency, and it has only grown weaker. Normally, in times of crisis, we see flights to safety. Investors seeking safe havens have historically turned to the U.S. dollar-”

  “Among other things,” the young journalist interrupted.

  Standing smiled and nodded. “Of course. But it’s important to point out that investors no longer consider the dollar a safe haven. They are fleeing to hard assets, commodities. This demonstrates both a lack of confidence in the dollar, as well as a lack of confidence in currencies overall.

  “The system doesn’t work. It is broken and needs to be fundamentally transformed. The worldwide distribution of wealth is completely out of balance-a select few get richer while everyone else gets poorer. The only way to correct this is with a new currency system.”

  “So if the dollar is no longer the world’s reserve currency,” Winston asked, “what is something like oil bought and sold in?”

  “In the beginning, we would use a basket of currencies; special drawing rights, or SDRs, as they’re known. Those would give you the makings of a new currency system. And I would add, that the United States’ reluctance to consider this move only supports what the rest of the world already knows,” said Standing.

  “Which is what?”

  “That runaway capitalism is a failure.”

  “Some would say that the true failure is too much government regulation; too much intervention in the markets. If you unshackle business, you actually have greater growth. That growth creates a rising tide that lifts all boats.”

  Standing winked at Winston. “Tell that to the clients of Mr. Bernie Madoff.”

  The financial reporter made sure she had his remark verbatim.

  As she wrote, the billionaire continued. “The use of the SDRs could greatly benefit the United States, but there is an innate parochialism that exists in America, a xenophobia that has been holding this country back for decades. We live in a global society now. Communications are global, corporations are global, trade is global, tourism is global, why not currency?”

  The woman looked up at him from her pad. “Some would say that a global currency would put the world just one step away from a global government.”

  The billionaire shrugged. “Who’s to say that’s a bad thing? You? Me?”

  “I think the American people, for starters, would say it’s a bad thing. Maybe even a very bad thing.”

  He leaned forward. “I’ll tell you a secret as long as you’ll agree it’s off the record.”

  Julia Winston nodded.

  “The American people aren’t that bright. The entire nation is made up largely of idiots. As long as they have their McDonald’s and their sitcom television, they really don’t care what happens politically.”

  The reporter was at a loss for how to respond.

  “So
back to a global currency,” Standing said, as he leaned back in his chair and signaled that they were on the record again. “America can no longer sit on the couch, resting on its status quo. We have always led the world, not lagged behind. America needs to progress into the future. It cannot stand still or, heaven forbid, fall behind the other nations of the world. In the short run, there will be difficulties, but what matters is the long run.”

  “And what if America says no?” asked the woman, having regained some of her composure. “What’s the downside look like?”

  Standing considered his response for a moment and then said, “The U.S.A. will become a nothing, a nobody. We need to realize that the good old days are not ahead of America anymore. They are behind us, and they will continue to be, unless the United States climbs on board with the rest of the world.

  “A new system has to be created. Part of that system involves shedding our ridiculous reliance on the dollar. America’s economy is pulling the rest of the world down.”

  “You don’t believe that the U.S. economy is showing signs of recovery?”

  Standing laughed. “Who told you that? A little elf in a little hollow tree? If you see him again, you should make sure to ask for a unicorn ride.”

  Winston smiled uncomfortably.

  “I will tell you this,” offered the billionaire. “America must stop seeing itself as the center of the universe. It is not only unhealthy, it’s unrealistic. You talked about a rising tide. What does a rising tide do to people who have no boats? It drowns them.”

  “So you no longer have confidence in America?”

  “I have confidence that the American model, as we understand it, no longer works. And when something doesn’t work, what are your choices? You can either sit and wring your hands, or you can help guide people to something better.”

  “And what’s better than America?”

  Standing looked at his watch. “Excellent question,” he said with a smile. “And one I’m afraid we will have to save for another time. Perhaps we can have dinner and discuss it?”

  The billionaire didn’t wait for the reporter to reply. As he stood, the large doors on the other side of the office opened and Standing’s assistant walked in to show Julia Winston out.

  “It has been an absolute pleasure speaking with you, my dear. I’ll make sure my publicist sends you a photo for your piece. Good?”

  The woman thanked him and shook his hand. Standing watched her leave. He enjoyed the way her hips moved beneath the tight skirt and the sound of her expensive shoes clicking across his marble floor.

  After escorting Winston to the elevator, his assistant returned. “I assume you’d like me to set up a follow-up?”

  The financier had removed his suit coat and sat down behind his expansive desk. “Yes. Do it for tonight.”

  “Tonight?” the assistant said, consulting his iPad. “Tonight you have a cocktail reception for donors to the United Nations’ Infinitum Project. It’s from seven o’clock to nine.”

  “Fine,” replied Standing. “Set dinner up afterward. Something expensive, but not too a la mode. I don’t want to be the oldest person in the room. Le Bernardin or San Pietro.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else?”

  The billionaire wished he could ask him if he’d received any word on California, but his assistant knew nothing about what was transpiring out there. Standing was very careful about keeping things compartmentalized. “No,” he replied. “Nothing else.”

  “Very good,” replied the assistant as he backed out of the office.

  The financier waited until he heard the door click shut and then removed the encrypted BlackBerry from his desk. He had waited long enough. He should have heard something by now.

  He was about to dial, when one of the multiple flat-screen televisions covering the various cable networks cut to footage of a fancy gated driveway. He searched for the remote so he could turn up the sound. One by one, all of the other networks started running similar footage, including aerial shots.

  So, it’s done, Standing thought to himself. Good. He now had something very much worth celebrating tonight. A thorn had been removed from his paw. The California problem had been taken care of. Or had it?

  Turning up the volume of the TV tuned to CNBC he caught the closing remarks of a local reporter throwing back to the studio in New York. “At this point,” she stated, “authorities have no idea where Larry Salomon is or what happened to the man seen accompanying him. All that is known, and again, this is still unofficial at this point, is that Hollywood movie mogul Lawrence Salomon is not-I repeat, apparently not-among the dead. Back to you in New York.”

  CHAPTER 17

  THAMES HOUSE MI5 HEADQUARTERS LONDON

  Robert Ashford sensed his phone was going to ring before it actually did. It wasn’t any grand feat of clairvoyance on his part, though. He’d been expecting the call most of the day. In fact, he should have been the one initiating it.

  Considering how the Los Angeles operation appeared to have gone sideways, he probably also should have taken the day off to monitor things from a secure location. But that was exactly why he had come in to work. On the remote chance that things went bad in L.A., he needed to be able to maintain as much plausible deniability as possible.

  Dismissing his staff from around the small conference table, the barrel-chested man in his early sixties with steel-gray hair and a flat, broad nose unwound the earbuds from around his cell phone. He was one of the deans of British intelligence, and those who worked under Ashford were used to his secretive and sometimes enigmatic nature. They saw him as “old school,” an espionage legend who had cut his teeth in the Cold War and who continued to play his cards very close to his vest.

  From his perfectly knotted tie, neatly manicured nails, and gleaming cufflinks, to the mirror-fine polish of his shoes and knifelike creases in his trousers, he cut the gallant figure of an aging British gentleman.

  He had been with Britain’s domestic intelligence service for more than thirty years. MI5 was responsible for national security, counterterrorism, and counterespionage within the United Kingdom. It was similar to America’s FBI and was often confused with its sister organization, MI6, which was like the American CIA.

  Ashford’s staff also knew that he had personal relationships with many in the royal family, as well as leading figures in the British business world. No sooner had they exited and closed the door to his office than the speculation began about what powerful figure he was most likely speaking to. Little would they suspect that he wasn’t doing any of the talking.

  “What’s going on, Robert?” James Standing demanded. “This was supposed to be a simple undertaking. In fact, what was that stupid cockney expression you used with me? Bright and breezy?”

  Though Standing was speaking on the encrypted phone that Ashford had provided for him, he had been cautioned to speak in code and be as roundabout as possible when discussing things. The United Kingdom hosted two enormous listening posts that fed emails, text messages, and cell phone calls into the Americans’ NSA listening program, Echelon. Every electronic communication in the United Kingdom, be it over the Internet, a cellular network, or a telephone line, was harvested and a copy kept on permanent storage at one of the NSA’s massive server farms. It was always better to be safe than sorry, and Ashford always assumed someone was listening in.

  “There has obviously been some sort of hiccup,” said the MI5 man.

  “Hiccup?” replied Standing back in Manhattan. “You Brits are amazing. I think fuckup would be a more apropos term. Wouldn’t you?”

  Ashford didn’t bother responding. There were times when Standing really got under his skin.

  “Are you still there?” asked the billionaire.

  “Yes. I’m still here.”

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  The MI5 man pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to tell me what happened,” replied St
anding. “I want to know how we went from bright and breezy to all screwed up.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have access to that information right now. The sources we’d normally reach out to in a situation like this are not answering their phones.”

  “Don’t give me that we bullshit, Robert. You need to get to the bottom of this. Right now. Do you understand me? Only some of the bread got baked. What’s more, the bakers seemed to have been very badly burned.”

  Ashford felt a migraine coming on. Before his staff meeting, he’d been flipping back and forth among several American news feeds. He’d been able to assemble a limited picture of what was happening, but there were still too many blanks that needed to be filled in. He had called his contact in Los Angeles, but the number was no longer in service. He had gone dark. Ashford was not pleased.

  The Russians were normally very good at this type of work. In fact, the MI5 man had paid a lot extra to use former Spetsnaz operatives. It was a bit like using a sledgehammer in lieu of a fly swatter, but Standing had a bottomless well of cash, and he wanted the cleanest of clean, the most untraceable of hits.

  Each weapon was only to be fired once and then gotten rid of. The hitters were then supposed to be taken to a hotel near LAX to fly back to Russia the next morning. The good thing about hiring Spetsnaz operatives was that on the outside chance something got screwed up and they were caught, they would never, ever speak. Escrow accounts had been set up for each of the hitters, and news of their arrest would trigger an automatic payment to their designated beneficiary and annual payments would continue to be made for every year they remained in prison. It was referred to in Russian as an annuity of silence.

  The fact that the operation appeared to have been foiled didn’t make any sense. The targets had been three American civilians with no bodyguards or security presence whatsoever. They had neither military nor law enforcement backgrounds. It should have been one of the easiest contracts ever. But somewhere something had gotten screwed up.