Devolution (16 page)

He stood before his people feeding off their energy.  Kabul had an uncanny ability to read emotion and the text of his men’s demeanor was clear.

“Men,” he began in a mellow, yet potent tone. “Understand, this government will hunt us down.” The mellowness in his voice faded as a deep-rooted contempt emerged. “You must be prepared to give your life. I am willing to avenge our fallen countrymen. Are you?”

His men erupted in thunderous agreement.

Kabul looked down at the stack of papers he clutched in his right hand.  Dozens more stacks lay waiting on a table in the back.  When the roar tapered off, he continued, his inflection turning dulcet.  “My friends, there has never been a better time.  This country is on edge.  And this,” he held the stack of papers high in the air as if it were a trophy, “will send them over it.”

His men’s guttural response lasted one-second and sounded more like a deep-throated grunt. The echo was quickly swallowed by the room.

“Men!” Both his arms were now elevated high above his head in preeminent victory. “The protests are over.  The headlines will be ours.”

Their joy, this time, was more prolonged and exuberant.

“Once the world knows what this nation has done in secrecy, our mission will be complete.”

Following his last word of motivation, Kabul and his men solemnly made their way towards an adjacent suite via the back of the office.  Their holy room was painted in a brilliant white.  The opaque, single-stained windows shielded the lavish prayer rugs that graved the hardwood floors from outsiders.

Kabul and his men removed their shoes, neatly placing them next to the threshold before entering single file.  The first man walked to the upper right-hand corner of the room and stood erect with his head down, arms loosely hanging by his side and feet evenly spaced at shoulder width.  He stood motionless as the rest of the men lined up next to and behind him.  Soon all twelve men had entered and assumed a similar position.

Without warning or command, as if summoned by a higher power, they simultaneously placed their hands to the sides of their heads, palms forward, thumbs behind the ears.

“God is great,” they harmonized in a low, melodic tonality.

With eyes shut and chins ever so slightly elevated, they placed their right hands over their left, below the navel and chanted, “Glory to you, O’ Allah, yours in the praise. I seek refuge in, Allah from Satan.  God is great.  Holy is my lord the magnificent.” They followed this with a prolonged bow of silence.

They placed their hands on their knees and lowered their bodies to kneeling positions.  A forward bend, ending with their palms supporting the delicate union of their foreheads and the sacred matting, symbolized their devotion.

They rose to sitting positions with their eyes now fixed on their laps.  Turning up the heels of their right feet with bent toes, they recited the following prayer in perfect unison, possibly for the final time: “O’ Allah! Our Sovereign Lord, grant us good in this world and the world hereafter and protect us from the torment of Hell.  O’ Allah! We implore You for help and beg forgiveness of You and believe in You and rely on You and extol You and we are thankful to You and are not ungrateful to You and we alienate and forsake him who disobeys You. O’ Allah! You alone do we worship and for You do we pray and prostrate and we betake to please You and present ourselves for the service in Your cause and we hope for Your mercy and fear Your chastisement. Undoubtedly, Your torment is going to overtake infidels.”

Moments later, the door shut behind them as they embarked on their mission.  The room they left behind was unchanged but for the exception of the thousands of papers stacked high on the tables, had vanished. The literature and illustrations would circulate around London, and then the globe.

It has always been said that one must be proactive to achieve the unachievable.  The problem is that when the unachievable is achieved, so are the unintended consequences, which may never have been considered, or even worse, blindly ignored.

*

Kabul’s plan worked perfectly.  Word spread among the discontent citizenry with a bent fury.

Kabul and his men entered stores, movie theaters, bus stations, food markets, sporting events, shopping malls, schools and universities, handing out the pamphlets.  A few of the men walked around London distributing the incendiary literature, complete with corroborating illustrations, to anyone willing to accept it. A few more spread the message digitally. Minutes after being dispersed, one of the documents found its way to the cluttered desk of Chris Nash.

A young reporter charged into the newsroom with an imminence rarely seen even in the media.

“Excuse me!”  He dashed through the cubical laden office, the air in his wake lifting papers off desks. “I am so sorry.  Excuse me.” He swiftly snaked through a group of producers conferencing around an empty space.  Onlookers wondered what could be so important. 

“Sir!” He urgently rushed into Nash’s office unannounced and out of breath. “You have to see this.”

Winded, yet energized, he darted to his boss’s desk, handing him the document.

Nash’s eyes swelled a bright white.  “Where did you get this?” 

“These guys are handing them out on the streets. It’s all over the internet.”

Nash hastily swung his chair around and ripped up the blinds that shielded the office from the bright morning sun.  His eyes took a second to adjust to the vivid light.

As his vision cleared, the image of people suspending their daily routines to process the claims came into focus.  Although he was elevated a few stories above them, the litany of reactions were unmistakable: surprise, wonderment, intrigue, anger, and fear.

Under the intense spell surrounding his own emotions, his abashed heart decelerated.  Nash sulked back into his chair appearing physically drained.  He gradually lowered the blinds, again shielding himself from the outside world.

I can’t believe this is happening. 

He could literally feel his aspirations for media immortality vanish.

In the few seconds that passed, everyone realized what had possessed the reporter to sprint through the newsroom.  By the time the mentally defeated Nash rotated his chair around to his desk, his office was filled with eager journalists, editors, photographers and producers.

What are our orders?
 

Oddly, Nash, who lived for breaking news, was somber and subdued and his staff wondered what was wrong. They waited for their commands, dumbfounded by his apathy.  Their confusion rang loudly in their blank or befuddled expressions.  You could feel the excitement drain from the room.

Nash appeared a broken man.  The look of defeat encapsulated his being.  After a short while he mustered the strength to speak, albeit lethargically.

“Get some reporters outside to get reaction as people read it.  Somebody get a hold of the prime minister’s office.  We need reaction.”

His staff wasn’t quite sure how to respond.  They knew this situation was urgent, and they needed information fast.  But the mental state of their leader somehow seemed more important.

Nash continued, following a doleful sigh. “And find the people who are this passing out.  We need sound from them.”

Springing to action, his assistant Ryan Loben took command.  “Go! Go! This is the biggest story of the year! We need sound!  We need information!  I want the prime minister himself!”

With the room now empty, Ryan turned to Nash, who remained in a pitiful state.

“Sir?” he said carefully.

“Put this on the Internet immediately. I need some time, Ryan,” Nash said dolefully.  “Please.”

The assistant took a few steps towards his desk.  “Sir, don’t we want to verify this first?

Nash opened his top desk drawer and pulled out an innocuous-looking brown folder. “I got this a few months ago,” he explained.  “I’ve been working with the man who gave it to me.  And yes, it’s true. I wanted to wait until we proved it all before releasing it—we were so close.”

Nash opened the folder to reveal what looked like a pamphlet, which he unfolded and handed to his assistant.  Instinctively, Ryan compared the document to the one he already possessed. It was a perfect match.

“I waited and waited, trying to be as thorough as possible.  I thought a lot about the implications.  Apparently someone else already made that decision. All that work.  I’ve lost it all.” He paused. “Run it now. At least we can be the first to confirm its authenticity.”

His assistant fully understood his boss’s mood.  Chris Nash had blown his chance.

“This will do great harm to our country,” Ryan said, hesitant to follow the order. He lowered his voice to a near whisper, “But our job is to report the news. Our emotions cannot get in the way.”

“You’re right.” Nash’s apathy morphed into a sudden burst of cynicism.  “It’s no coincidence this information was released now, at a time when the nation is at its weakest.  This was calculated. We need to find out why.”

*

“What the hell is this?” demanded an enraged prime minister, throwing the pamphlet on his desk. Those who filled the room remained silent. In his short time in office, the PM proved to lack the leadership skills of his predecessor. But what he lacked in confidence and ability, he made up for with a powerful physical presence and masterful oratory skills, both of which he skillfully utilized to usher himself and his party into power.

“Mr. Prime Minister,” the icy female voice emanated from the speaker phone on his desk.  “You have a guest, sir.”

The PM leaned in to press “talk.”  “Not right now, Deloris.  This is
not
a good time.”

“He said it’s urgent.”

“About what?”

“The information released today.”

The prime minister leaned towards the speaker, his imagination running wild with speculation. “Send him in.”

“Why not?
This
isn’t getting us anywhere,” he uttered under his breath, yet loud enough for his administration to hear.

Moments later, the door to the PM’s office eased open. In walked a leather-faced, middle-aged, dark-haired man dressed in a black pinstripe suit.  His white shirt and solid blue tie
perfectly complemented his pressed outfit.  His hair, parted off to the right, and brilliantly patent leather shoes made him a distinct presence that demanded respect.  He carried himself with great
authority, pride and confidence. Yet his eyes told the story of a different man.

“Can I help you?” asked the prime minister.

“I need to talk to you, alone.”

In all the excitement, the PM hadn’t even thought to ask his secretary how he had gotten into the building. However, the seriousness of the man’s demeanor convinced him.  He waved for his cabinet to exit.

“Please take a seat.”

While the prime minister reclined back, crossing his legs at the knees, his counterpart sat with a rigid back and feet flat on the floor.

“Well,” the PM inquired somewhat haughtily.  “Do you have a name?”

“I prefer to be addressed by my title...Major General.  I work for the Bushtell Counter Intelligence Division of MI-6.”

The PM tried to ignore the man’s cold and abrupt delivery. “I’ve never heard of that department.”

“I know.”

The PM was quite skeptical, yet intrigued.  This was obviously not someone who just walked in off the street. “How did you get into this building?”

“I am here to help you.”

“Are you?” The PM’s pronounced arrogance was typical of his weak character.  As the nation’s highest ranking public official, and subsequently most powerful person, he believed there wasn’t much he didn’t already know.

The man looked down at the pamphlet that the PM had carelessly thrown on his desk.  “That information, I know where it came from.”

The PM sat relatively unstirred with a smug look.

“It comes from a former officer of mine,” the man said, his tone remaining void of emotion—though that fact must have troubled him.  “At the end of his career, he defected and created this pamphlet using the information he had acquired throughout his years at the agency.  It somehow got into the wrong hands and now we have a problem.”

The prime minister was now leaning intently forward with his elbows perched on his desk and his stately frame resting on the last few inches of the chair.

“My men and I specialize in the preservation of the Crown.  Our involvement goes undetected.  But I assure you, our impact is immense. Without us, Mr. Prime Minister, Great Britain and the world is a very different place, and not for the better, I assure you.”

“Why have I not heard of you until now?”

“There was no reason for you to know of us.”

“I’m the prime minister...”

“Which means nothing,” the man said unapologetically. “There have been many men in your position whose paths we’ve never crossed.  We only invite people into our world when it is necessary.”

The PM’s cavalier perception of his own power and influence had suddenly fallen into question.

“So this is accurate?” the PM asked, looking at the pamphlet.

“The truth is irrelevant. All that matters is what the public believes.”

“Did my predecessor know of this?”

“We had great trust in him.”

“And me?” the PM inquired.

“Right now,” said the major general, “I don’t have a choice.”

*

The greatest fears of many and dreams of others had come to fruition.  The pamphlet and its contents spread around the globe in a matter of hours.  By nightfall it went from the streets of London to nearly everyone in the world.  It was accompanied by little media skepticism, thanks to Chris Nash’s signature of authenticity.

The nations of the world took to the news unkindly. After all, the true agenda of many of their allies had been exposed. What the former members of the FLEC failed to realize in their selfish pursuit of revenge was in order to out the British government, the actions of other nations must also be unmasked.  This would inevitably turn allies against one another and strengthen the animosity between existing enemies.