Son of Perdition (Chronicles of Brothers) (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

Council of Thirteen

1981
One week later, ‘The Square Mile’, North Bank, River Thames, London, England

Charsoc detested the colour black. He detested the sombreness of earth. He detested the Race of Men. But for now, he was on his Master’s business and all his options were severely limited.

He wondered how Jether was reacting to the news that he had now entered the world of the Race of Men as one of them. He dug his nails deeply into his palm. The thought of Jether, however fleeting, incensed him. How much longer must he remain in this infernal inferior human body? Its blood pressure must be rocketing. He sighed.

The end justified the means. And his Master’s ends were no doubt different from the ends of the thirteen men waiting silently in the chamber.

He leaned back in his ornately carved throne and surveyed the thirteen, dressed in charcoal robes, who were seated around the massive polished table.

The Grand Druid Council of the Illuminati.

Thirteen Warlock High Priests.

The most powerful male witches and warlocks who existed in the world of the Race of Men, their ancestral lines steeped in the most heinous forms of satanic and occult practices dating back to Nimrod himself.

By night they engaged in iniquitous occult practices, the conspirators behind thousands of satanic rituals and abuses, child abductions, blood sacrifices, drug and human trafficking, ritual murders. They were the cold-blooded architects of the countless terrorist atrocities, assassinations and bloody coups that filled the front pages of the newspapers of the world.

By day they resumed their respectable existences in London, Berlin, New York, Washington, Los Angeles, Rome, Tokyo and Zurich. They were global financiers, intelligence experts, oil barons, newspaper magnates, CEOs in the military and industrial sectors, Vatican bankers.

The controllers of the Illuminati.

Thirteen ruling families of the New World Order who answered to only one.

Their grand master – Lucifer.

Their heads were bowed, their eyes closed.

The only movement came from the flickering flames of sixty-six black candles surrounding the golden Sigil of Baphomet in the centre of the table.

‘The Race of Men and their infantile sorceries
,’ Charsoc thought.

Sir Piers Aspinall, Chief of British Secret Intelligence, got to his feet. ‘It is our privilege to have with us on this momentous occasion Baron Kester Von Slagel, Lorcan De Molay’s emissary.’

He bowed to Charsoc. ‘Baron Von Slagel. If you would grant us the privilege of administering the Cup.’

‘The family has been chosen by our Master, His Excellency,’ Charsoc declared. ‘Before His Excellency’s choice is revealed, let us partake of the Cup of Diabolas.’

He removed his pale grey gloves slowly, one finger at a time, then raised his goblet.

‘As we drink the blood of those innocents that were sacrificed for the partaking at this table, we reaffirm our commitment to the Left-Hand Path. We vow to avenge Golgotha. We vow to erase the blood sacrifice of the Nazarene.’

He sipped the fresh blood of the newly sacrificed infant.

‘Golgotha.’

The thirteen warlocks held up their goblets.

‘Golgotha!’

They drank as one.

Charsoc nodded and two men in livery moved to the windows and pulled back the crimson velvet curtains revealing the characteristic grey gloom of London’s overcast skies. The men exited leaving only a strapping six-foot-six bodyguard by the door.

Aspinall glanced at the guard and raised his eyebrows to Charsoc.

‘Travis is one of us.’ Charsoc acknowledged Astaroth. ‘Special Forces.’

Aspinall nodded, then removed from his briefcase a black file marked
Eyes Only
with an Illuminati crest on the cover and handed it to Charsoc.

Charsoc gazed at the thirteen men around the table. Every eye was riveted to the file in his hand.

‘We have waited century after century. Finally the family has been chosen. The Prince will be placed into the family chosen by His Reverence himself.’ Kester Von Slagel smiled. ‘Into the family of one at this very table, a
most
devoted servant of the Fallen.’

He raised his gaze to a distinguished-looking man in his late fifties with a silver moustache who sat directly across the table from him. Julius De Vere. Chairman of the De Vere banking dynasty and the European and New York communications industry.

‘Into the De Vere family.’

Xavier Chessler nodded. ‘An advantageous start for our master’s seed. Our Master’s decisions are flawless.’

Raffaello Lombardi, patriarch of the Black Nobility Family of Venice and director of the Vatican Bank, frowned.

‘Julius . . . ’ Lombardi interjected in his thick Italian accent. ‘You are as we are all aware a most esteemed paragon of the Left-Hand Path.’

‘I remain eternally our Master’s devoted disciple,’ the older man murmured,He ran his fingers lightly over his wrist. Instantly a strange blue brand glowed – the ‘Warlock’s Mark’. Julius De Vere was one of only three who wore the brand signifying a pact between Lucifer and certain of the Race of Men. He gazed at Lombardi through hooded eyes.

‘Unfortunately,’ Lombardi said, returning his inscrutable gaze, ‘your own son, conceived of your blood, does not seem to have upheld the Brotherhood’s ambitions with the same . . . um . . . ’ he caressed the jewelled Masonic pin on his lapel. ‘ . . . fervour.’

Julius De Vere looked out at Lombardi from under bushy silvering eyebrows. His black eyes glinted with intelligence. He smiled thinly. ‘James De Vere is essential to our plan. For the moment . . . Your fervently harboured ambitions for your own four sons do not escape this table, Raffaello.’

Lombardi squirmed in his chair.

‘I am well aware that my only son,’ Julius continued, ‘regrettably, takes after my first wife. Although one of us, she became . . . let us say . . .
unresponsive
to our way of life. She met with an unfortunate accident. My son is weak like his mother before him. He holds a “righteous” streak and has no propensity for getting his hands dirty.’

Julius De Vere’s eyes hardened. ‘I am fully aware of his deficiencies. I shall make sure they are used to our advantage. Then he becomes expendable.

‘I, as my father before me and his father before him, have long awaited this day, in the expectation that our family would be chosen for the sacred task. To that end through five generations we have generated wealth in oil, banking and communications in preparation for our adopted son’s rapid ascension through the ranks of the Race of Men. All our resources remain entirely at the Brotherhood’s disposal.’

Kester Von Slagel gave a thin smile.

‘You are
most
generous, Julius. Our Master is gratified. So are we assured of your family’s complete collaboration?’

‘My son will go to any length to protect his family. I shall ensure his full cooperation.’

‘The plan must not be disclosed to James De Vere,’ Von Slagel added. ‘We dare take no risks. He must not know of the infant’s exchange.’

Julius De Vere nodded. ‘My son will bring up this infant as though it were his own, with no knowledge of the clone. We will make our demands. Though ignorant of our covert strategy, he will obey each instruction. His passivity will weigh in our favour.’

‘He will be eliminated at the appointed time?’ Lombardi inquired.

‘In the event of my own demise, Chessler will ensure his silence.’

Xavier Chessler, blond, blue-eyed, newly appointed vice-chairman of the Chase Manhattan Bank nodded. ‘James De Vere roomed with me at Yale. James trusts me. I’ll keep a close eye on him. Look after our interests. He won’t be the least bit suspicious.’

Dieter Von Hallstein, ex-German Chancellor, spoke. ‘When the Lorcan clone turns forty years of age, the First Seal will be broken. He will rise to world power. After that point, they are
all
expendable.’

He turned to Julius De Vere, his voice soft but intense.

‘Your son, daughter-in-law . . . your grandchildren, Julius. All to be exterminated. The first to be executed at the exchange of the clone, the remainder slain after the clone turns forty. This is acceptable to you?’

‘They are to be sacrificed for a higher good,’ Von Hallstein added. ‘A New World Order. Our Master’s Rule.’

Julius De Vere nodded. ‘The terms are acceptable to me.’

Von Slagel signalled to Piers Aspinall who handed him a document. Von Slagel reviewed it, then passed it to De Vere.

‘Your signature. Their death warrants.’

De Vere scanned it, took a fountain pen from his pocket and scrawled his name with four deep strokes in green ink on four pages. Von Slagel nodded to Aspinall.

‘Thank you.’ Aspinall replaced the document in his briefcase.

Ethan St Clair looked up. ‘The boy will come of age in Europe, educated in the school of our fathers. Our Scottish brothers will let Gordonstoun know that they will be receiving a “special” pupil.’

Aspinall lowered his pipe. ‘Our close friends in Washington will make James De Vere an offer that he cannot refuse – the Ambassadorship to the United Kingdom. We will ensure that the boy grows to maturity in Europe. It is essential to our plan for One World Government.’

Naotake Yoshido, Chairman of Japan’s Yoshido Banking dynasty addressed the table. ‘My esteemed colleague Julius is, as we know, in charge of the International Security Fund. During the next two decades, under Julius De Vere’s oversight, we will orchestrate the biggest, most secretive private placement financing operation in world history. My esteemed colleague, Julius, and I propose to start the fund as a token of our good faith.’

De Vere nodded to Yoshido.

‘A small token of twenty trillion dollars,’ Yoshido added.

A murmur of approval rippled round the table.

‘Your generosity shall be greatly rewarded by our Master,’ Von Slagel said warmly. ‘You are both devoted servants of the Fallen.’

‘The fund will be based in Zurich,’ De Vere continued. ‘Its connections will be to a myriad of European Union institutions, untraceable back to the Brotherhood. The trust will contain over two hundred trillion dollars by the year 2021 – the year our clone will be in position. Equipped with such limitless resources, as well as the private fund of wealth I have amassed for him in the De Vere vaults, the Brotherhood will amass sufficient finance to bribe every president, prime minister, policymaker, intelligence operative and political figure worldwide, for the rest of this century, in pursuit of our aims.’

Aspinall picked up a second file and passed it to Von Slagel who studied the papers. He addressed Julius.

‘Your daughter-in-law Lilian has suffered three miscarriages and has been receiving fertility treatment from a top specialist in the Brotherhood’s employ, Dr Morice. He has now confirmed that she is eleven weeks pregnant. Nevertheless, as agreed, the family will travel from New York to London in the fall.’

Von Slagel looked up from the papers. ‘It is essential to our Master that to execute the Brotherhood’s strategy for his political future, the Lorcan clone be born in Great Britain. Lilian De Vere will be advised in the strongest possible manner to see her term out in the UK and to stop all travel for the duration of her pregnancy.’

De Vere nodded. ‘She has been managed since a child.’

Von Slagel continued. ‘The birth is planned to coincide with the Winter Solstice and will be managed at the private nursing home she frequents in London. We are aware that she will insist on Rupert Percival, her British obstetrician. Percival will be discreetly replaced by the Brotherhood’s counterpart at the time of the exchange.

‘After extensive investigation the genetic scientist who will incubate the Lorcan clone has been chosen. The subject is a Scotsman. Fifty-six years old. Single. No children. A loner – dedicated to his field. He received the Nobel Prize in 1978 for his ground-breaking contribution to genetic research. He was the scientist in charge of the Los Alamos cloning programmes from ’77 to ’79.’

Ethan St Clair frowned. ‘He is not one of the Brotherhood.’

Von Slagel’s eyes narrowed. ‘He is the world’s foremost expert on animal and hybrid cloning. He is essential to our task. We can afford no mistakes. Last night, his Reverence’s genome was delivered into the hands of the scientist at the laboratory at our safe house in Marazion, Cornwall. He has been provided with the cloning blueprints and all the technology he requires to complete the task. The DNA of the genome has been deliberately reconstructed to coincide precisely with the projected birth date of the human infant.’

Aspinall broke in. ‘It is a classified Black-Ops operation. The identity of the genome will not be revealed to him.’

‘Is the scientist aware he is dealing with non-human matter?’ Ethan St Clair asked.

‘He is aware only that it is “alien” matter,’ Aspinall replied. ‘He spent years dealing with alien – human hybrid experimentation in Black-Ops’ underground bases. He is a brilliant man who asks no questions and expects no answers. Regrettably, as soon as the procedure is complete, he will suffer an untimely and catastrophic accident.’