Storiesonline.net
-------

                                 Pfand X
                            by Lazlo Zalezac

Copyright© 2011 by Lazlo Zalezac


-------
Description: It is a harsh cruel world in which danger lurks for the unwary. After a small town is wiped out, ten families sign the Pfand X, the pledge of ten, in which they promise to support and help each other in good times and bad. After 18 generations, the families of the Pfand X are once again threatened.

Codes: MF
-------



-------

Chapter 1: Germany, 1643



Smoke and ashes filled the night air, thick enough to block out the stars overhead. Tendrils of acrid smoke rose from the charred remains of what had once been a small thriving town, and threaded their way among the ruins. Stone chimneys and walls glowed with a pale red tint reflecting the flames and glowing embers that surrounded them.

The fires, started by the invading Swedish soldiers, had been burning since the early morning. They would continue to burn until the next morning. Homes, crops, and forests ... all had been put to the torch in a frenzy of blood lust.

What little breeze there was did not dispel the smoke. Instead, it merely stirred up ashes to sting the eyes, clog the sinuses, and irritate the lungs.

Now that the soldiers had left, there were very few eyes in town to be bothered. Of the three hundred families that had lived there, only a handful of people had survived the day. All of the others had been cremated inside their burning homes or left for dead where they had fallen. The stench was horrible, but would only get worse.

Pity the poor fellows who had resisted the Swedes and were captured rather than killed. It was better to get cudgeled from behind while fleeing than to suffer the Schwedentrunk, the Swedish Drink. That was a painful death, in which a vile liquid was forced into a person through a tube, until the body was bloated from the effects. If that wasn't bad enough, the hapless victim was then trampled underfoot, to increase the pain.

Women and children had not been spared. Men, feeling the blood fury of battle, savagely used females to satisfy their carnal desires. It didn't matter if the female was a young child, or an old crone. Ten, sometimes twenty men, participated in gang rapes, in which the least resistance or even screams of pain were rewarded with sheer brutish violence. Seldom did the victims survive the beastly ordeal. Those few who survived physically, were left with empty minds. They were made unaware of anything around them, and their eyes stared unseeing into the distance.

The town of peasants, armed only with pitchforks and clubs, stood no chance against well armed and battle hardened soldiers. For the horde, it was take what they wanted, rape the women, and kill anyone in front of them. It was a simple mindset that was unleashed on a battlefield to the north. It continued on, unchecked, to the nearby town. Once the passions had been sated, the horde moved on to the next battle, to repeat the process. Behind them lay devastation.

Siegfried Bauer, on legs that were only just capable of supporting him, stumbled down what had once been the only street of the town. The destruction barely registered on a mind that had been overwhelmed by the brutality he had witnessed over the past ten hours. Dimly, one partially intact building registered in his tired brain. Alone and looking abandoned stood the town's gasthaus. One wall had collapsed, bringing half of the roof down with it.

Siegfried went into the building thinking he might find something to drink. He hoped the Swedes had missed something in their haste. It was a faint hope. Soldiers ransacking a town seldom failed to miss anything that could make them drunk. Beer, wine, brandy, and schnapps ... It didn't matter what it was, so long as it contained alcohol.

He nearly died of fright when he heard a muffled noise from within the ruined structure.

"Who goes there?" Old man Grun asked in a weak voice that could barely be heard.

"Is that you, Grun?" Siegfried asked torn between the fear that he had heard a ghost and surprise at finding the man was still alive.

He looked around but didn't see the man. The roof had collapsed. There was a lot of debris on the floor. He figured one of the dark mounds was Grun.

"Siegfried?"

"It's me."

"Could you help me up? My leg is broken."

"Where are you?"

"Under the roof."

Siegfried dug around in the rubble until he located Grun. It took a little work to free the man from under the section of roof that had pinned him down. He carried the man over to a spot relatively clear of debris. Grun cried out in pain when Siegfried put him down.

"Your leg is broke."

"I know. Do you know how to doctor it?"

"No."

"Get Johann."

"He's dead. I saw his body. It looked like they gave him the Schwedentrunk."

"That's horrible."

"Do you need anything?" Siegfried asked.

"I could use something to drink. I've been trapped under there since morning," Grun said.

"Let me see if there's anything left of your stock," Siegfried said.

"Those damned Swedes probably drank it all," Grun said.

Siegfried went over to the cask that had sat behind the bar. There was still a little liquid left in it. He poured a little out into the palm of his hand. It was the dregs – a little liquid and a lot of sediment. He looked around for something to pour it in.

While looking around, he asked, "What happened to you?"

Grun said, "I heard a noise outside and was heading towards the door to find out what it was. It sounded like a wagon was being pushed against the wall or something. I was standing right where you found me when the wall collapsed and the roof caved in. I was pinned down. The Swedes came in and started drinking. I don't think they knew I was there. Maybe they did. They kept walking over the section of roof that covered me. I thought I was going to die from the pain."

"You were lucky," Siegfried said thinking about how his wife had died.

He found a pewter cup that had been partially flattened when someone had stepped on it. He held it up in the dim light from the fire still burning down the street. The cup would still hold enough liquid to wet the mouth.

"This will have to do."

Siegfried filled the cup with some of the beer from the cask. He took a sip to ease his parched throat before taking it over to Grun. It was vile.

Grun took a drink and then exclaimed, "That's horrible. How in the hell did they drink the cask that low without getting sick?"

"It's better than the water from the well."

"It can't be."

"There's a dead body in the well."

"Who?"

"Does it matter?" Siegfried asked. He had walked past so many dead bodies that he couldn't even count them.

"I guess not," Grun answered.

A voice called out, "Is there anybody here?"

Siegfried shouted, "Schmied? Is that you, Schmied?"

"Yes. Where are you?"

"In the gasthaus," Siegfried shouted.

Fritz Schmied tripped upon entering the ruins of the gasthaus. On regaining his balance, he said, "I was afraid that my family and I were the only ones left alive."

"Your family is still alive?" Grun asked.

He could see that Fritz had been beaten. His left eye was swollen shut. There was blood covering his clothes.

"My wife and son. She's hurt bad."

"What happened to her?"

"The Swedes ... they ... took advantage of her," Fritz answered in a voice that broke from emotion.

The big man wiped his eyes with hands that could bend iron bars. He hadn't even had a chance to fight before being overwhelmed by the Swedes. They had thought it fun to rape his wife and daughters while he was forced to watch. After they had finished with the women, they had taken turns hitting the man. They had left him for dead.

After the soldiers left, his son emerged from his hiding place on the roof of the forge and untied him. Barely able to move, Fritz had gone over to check on his wife and daughters. His daughters stared up at the sky with dead eyes that wouldn't see anything ever again. His wife stared in much the same way. Her mind was gone, though her body was alive. He had hidden his family away before searching for others who might be alive, and could help her.

"What about your daughters?"

"They ... didn't ... survive the Swedes. My wife's mind is gone. She just lays there staring at nothing. Can you help her?" Fritz asked.

"No," Siegfried said.

"Is there anyone else around?"

"Not that I know of," Siegfried answered.

"I've got to find someone who can help her."

"My wife didn't make it. I found her by the stream," Siegfried said remembering what had happened to his wife.

He had been helping his family flee into the woods. He had been carrying his two sons. His daughter and wife were behind him. They could hear the soldiers following them. The hooves of their horses shook the ground and sounded like rolling thunder.

On reaching the woods, he had turned to tell her something and discovered that she wasn't there. He didn't know when his wife had stopped. He glanced back toward the field and spotted his wife being surrounded by Swedes. Knowing that the soldiers would chase her, she had taken off on her own so as to draw the pursuers away from her children. It was the act of a mother desperate to protect her family.

Heinrich Wald stepped into the ruined building. In a low coarse voice, he said, "You're making a lot of noise in here. I could hear you down the street."

"Heinrich! I saw that your place was burnt to the ground. How'd you get away?"

"We hid in the cellar. It's deep and stone lined. It kept us alive even though the house burned down over our heads."

"You were lucky."

"Dieter Weber and his family were with us," Heinrich said.

"At least we won't go without clothes," Grun said.

"All of Dieter's wool is gone. So is my wood. The fire took it all," Heinrich said.

"I'm far more worried about food than clothes or furniture," Siegfried said.

Winter was coming. There wasn't enough time to plant another crop. Their provisions had been burnt in the field.

"You'll be plenty worried about having a roof over your head when winter comes," Heinrich said.

"I'm not sure which is worse: starving, or freezing to death."

"Does it matter? Dead is dead."

Heinrich asked, "Where were the Baron's men? The Baron taxes us to death. He's supposed to protect us."

"I give him three quarters of my crop every year," Siegfried said.

"The Baron is dead," came a voice from outside.

The three men exchanged guilty glances. It wasn't good to be caught talking negatively about the Baron. The Baron wasn't the kind of man to suffer insult lightly. It would be a cruel act of fate to die at the hands of the Baron after surviving the Swedes.

Siegfried worked up enough courage to call out, "Who's there?"

"I'm Manfred Wache."

"Come in here, where we can see you," Grun shouted.

A slender man wearing the uniform of the Baron's guards entered the gasthaus. Where his sword should have been hung an empty scabbard. He looked around at the others gathered there surprised to find only three men. He had expected to find more men alive in the town.

"Where's the rest of his soldiers?" Fritz asked.

"Dead. They're all dead," Manfred answered tiredly.

"What about the Baron's son?"

"He's dead."

"What are we supposed to do without a Baron?" Grun asked.

"There's always been a Baron," Siegfried said.

"Not any more."

Manfred knelt down by Grun. He took a moment to examine the man's leg. It was twisted in an unnatural direction.

"Your leg is broken."

"I know that. Do you know how to doctor it?"

"You – big guy – grab hold of him," Manfred said.

"Why?" Fritz asked.

"We need to fix his leg," Manfred said.

"What are you going to do?" Grun asked.

"Hold him down," Manfred said gesturing from Fritz to Grun.

Fritz grabbed Grun and pinned him to the floor. Manfred pulled on the leg. Grun screamed and then passed out. Manfred continued to pull on the leg until he was satisfied that it was almost straight. It was the best that he could do. He knew that even if it healed, Grun would walk with a limp for the rest of his life.

"I need some wood. Give me a couple pieces of wood slats from the roof over there."

"Is he alive?" Siegfried asked looking down at Grun.

"Yes," Fritz answered. "He's still breathing."

Heinrich returned with two slats from the roof. Manfred used the two boards to stabilize the leg. It wasn't the best job, but it was dark and would have to do.

Manfred said, "If his leg doesn't heal, we'll have to remove it. Otherwise, it'll poison him."

"I know that," Siegfried said.

The others nodded their heads in agreement. Everyone knew what happened when a limb started to smell. If the limb had to be removed, the person usually died. Grun didn't stand much of a chance of surviving that. It was just the state of medicine at the time.

Manfred sat down on the floor and looked around. It was a pretty sad looking lot gathered there. An old man with a broken leg and a couple others who probably couldn't fight. There was the one big guy who might be of some use in a fight, but judging by the looks of him he wasn't going to be that good of a fighter.

Tired, he said, "Get your families somewhere safe. Get all of the heads of the surviving families over here. You've got to decide what you're going to do until we get a new Baron."

"What about the Swedes? Won't they come back?"

"I wouldn't worry about that. There's nothing left here to interest them," Manfred said.

"That makes sense."

"There's someone out there."

A woman stepped into the building. Her clothes were shredded and barely covered her. The right side of her face was swollen.

Siegfried shouted, "Frau Damenstern!"

"Hello."

"What happened to you?"

"Me and my girls 'entertained' the officers," Frau Damenstern answered.

She had been at the door of her brothel when the Swedes had arrived. She knew enough Swedish to spare her and the girls from being raped. Her offer of drink, food, and willing women had immediately gotten the attention of the officers. That didn't mean they had an easy time of it. It just meant that it wasn't quite as violent as a rape would have been.

"They let you live?"

"I think they appreciated being able to do it on beds. You should have seen the looks on their faces when I demanded payment for the services we had provided."

"Did they pay?"

"No." Pointing to her face, she said, "That's when I got this."

She looked down at Grun on the floor.

"I'm going to miss Old Man Grun."

"He's not dead," Fritz said.

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Manfred Wache. I see you managed to survive," Frau Damenstern said.

"Hello, Helga."

"I heard about the battle from the Swedes. Was it as bad as they said?" Helga answered.

"I don't know what they said, but it was pretty bad. They hit us at dawn. We didn't even know they were there. Most of the Baron's men died getting out of their tents. Me and a handful of others fought until we were pushed back to the stream. It was pretty bad. We were horribly outnumbered.

"I saw one of them take the head right off of the Baron. His son got it in the stomach. About that time, I got hit on the head and fell into the stream. I should have drowned, but I woke up on the bank near here."

"Did anyone else survive?"

"I don't know. I doubt it," Manfred answered. He held up a hand and then said, "I hear a wagon."

Worried that the Swedes had returned. Heinrich looked though the door. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"That's Adolf Wagner. He's got two people with him that I don't recognize."

"I wonder what he's doing driving his wagon at night."

Heinrich said, "He left the day before yesterday to deliver some charcoal. He was supposed to return tomorrow with some dye for Dieter."

"Call him over here," Helga said.

"Hey, Adolf! Over here!" Heinrich shouted.

Fritz looked over at Helga. "My wife is hurt. Can you help her?"

"What's the matter with her?" Helga asked.

"The Swedes ... they ... uh ... you know. She's just staring off into space, now," Fritz said.

Helga shook her head.

"There's not anything that can be done for her. Maybe she'll come out of it. Maybe she won't."

"Damn those Swedes to Hell!"

Helga asked, "Where is she?"

"She's at my forge with my son."

"Shouldn't you be there?" Helga asked.

"I've got to find someone to help her."

In a state of shock, Adolf entered the gasthaus. He had stopped at his house only to find it a smoking ruin. There were bones in the ashes, but he didn't want to accept what they suggested.

Adolf asked, "What happened here? Where's my family?"

"The Swedes came. They killed everyone," Siegfried said.

Grun groaned. He was beginning to regain consciousness.

"Where's my family?"

"We don't know. As far as I know, we're it," Siegfried said.

"There's no one else?"

"No. It's just us and few members of our families."

Adolf sat down on the floor and wept.

One of the strangers knelt down by Grun. He asked, "Who set the leg?"

"I did."

"Does anyone have a lantern?"

"No."

"I'll have to check it in the morning," the man said.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Roberto Curado."

"Are you Swedish?"

"Spanish."

"What are you doing here?" Manfred asked.

"We hired Adolf to bring us this way from the town west of here."

That had been in the morning. It was a twenty-five mile trip that would normally take all of one day and most of the next. The spot where they had intended to camp for the night was near where the Baron's men had been killed. Adolf had seen the birds and driven on worried about what he would find. Upon finding the dead men, he had continued on to town despite the darkness of night.

Siegfried asked, "Why are you here?"

"Ah, well. My friend and I got into a little trouble in Spain."

"Who is your friend?"

"I'm Samuel Goldstein."

Heinrich thought about it for a second and then asked, "Are you a Jew?"

"Yes."

"That was his trouble," Roberto said.

"Didn't the Jews kill Jesus?"

Roberto said, "Technically, it was the Romans who killed Jesus."

"I thought it was the Jews," Siegfried said.

"Nope. It was definitely the Romans who killed Jesus. Pontius Pilate was a Roman. The soldiers who nailed him to the cross were Romans. The fellow that stabbed him with the spear was a Roman."

Manfred asked, "Did you say things like that in Spain?"

"Yes. That was the trouble I got into," Roberto said.

"I can imagine you weren't very popular," Manfred said.

"I'm a scholar. I read things and try to learn great truths. Sometimes people don't like the truth."

"What are we supposed do with Jews?" Siegfried asked.

"Aren't we supposed to kill 'em?"

"I would prefer that you didn't do that," Samuel said.

Roberto said, "We saw the dead soldiers down the road. I take it that the same folks who killed them ravaged this town."

"That's right," Helga said.

"Who held the land?"

"The Baron."

"Where's he?"

"He's dead."

Samuel said, "Do you mind some advice?"

"Why should we listen to a Jew?" Siegfried asked.

"My people have a little experience with their towns getting destroyed," Samuel said.

"He's right, you know," Roberto said.

Siegfried scratched his jaw thinking about it. He was pretty sure the local priest would object to them taking advice from a Jew. Of course, the local priest was dead. The church had been ransacked and burnt to the ground with the priest in it. Finally, he asked, "So what do you suggest?"

"I suggest that you go back to your families and rest. In the morning, you'll have to take care of the dead before the plague comes. Then you'll need to salvage everything of value left in the town," Samuel said.

"Isn't that robbing the dead?" Heinrich asked, looking at Samuel suspiciously.

"It's either that, or join them in death," Roberto said.

"You're foreigners. Why should we trust you?" Fritz asked.

Manfred said, "He's not asking you to trust him. He's telling you what you need to do. I happen to agree with him. Take care of your families. Get some rest. Tomorrow we start to rebuild."

-------

A week later, the heads of the ten families (Siegfried Bauer, Fritz Schmeid, Deiter Weber, Heinrich Wald, Helga Damenstern, Roberto Curado, Samuel Goldstein, Ernest Grun, Adolf Wagner, and Manfred Wache) met at the remains of the gasthaus. All of them were considerably thinner. Their clothes were threadbare.

Manfred said, "I guess, as the last guard of the old Baron, I ought to start things."

When no one argued, he said, "We're in pretty bad shape, here. Winter is coming. We've got no shelter, no food, and no clothes."

As the only farmer amongst the group, Siegfried said, "The food situation is not that bad. We found a cow, a few pigs, some sheep, and several chickens. Although most of the fields were burned, there are many patches that have grain. We can harvest that. Since there are less than thirty of us, we can probably live off of that until spring.

"The cow is giving milk, so that will get us some cheese and butter. We can slaughter one or two of the pigs and one of the sheep. We should have enough meat to last through the winter. The chickens can lay eggs. With the grain from the fields, we'll have bread."

"I can't eat pork," Samuel said.

"You can eat pork, or die," Siegfried said.

Samuel said, "I guess I can eat pork, or die, or I can find something else to eat."

Heinrich Wald said, "The fire did a number on the woods to the south, but we've got trees to the north. I can cut down some trees and make some simple planks. They won't be cured, but we can build a shelter using it."

"A shelter?" Siegfried asked.

"A big shelter. One that is big enough for all, or most of us. Between it and Helga's place, we'll have a place for everyone to stay when winter gets here."

"Where we will build it?"

"I suggest that we build it over my cellar. It gives us someplace to store our provisions."

"That's not a bad idea." Manfred said.

"If you give me the scraps from your trees, I can make some charcoal. With the metal that I've found around here, I'll be able to restart my blacksmith shop. We'll need metal when we start to rebuild," Fritz Schmied said.

"I'm sorry I delivered that load of Charcoal."

"Getting your forge restarted sounds good," Manfred said.

After taking a big breath, Samuel said, "I have some gold."

Everyone turned to look at him.

"I can give Adolf Wagner a gold coin. He can use it to buy some supplies," Samuel said.

Manfred asked, "Why would you do that?"

Roberto answered, "Samuel and I have been talking. We've got an idea that we would like all of you to consider."

"What kind of idea?" Manfred asked.

"Look at us. We've got a farmer, a carpenter, a weaver, a smith, a drover, a banker, a soldier, and a scholar. Working together, we can accomplish great things," Roberto said.

"You've got an innkeeper and the owner of a brothel, too. What about us?" Helga asked.

Samuel said, "You are very important to our plan."

"What are you talking about? What kind of plan?" Manfred asked.

Roberto said, "When a new Baron is installed here, he will need people to work the land. He's going to have to bring a bunch of new people here. We'll be here first, but the newcomers are going to try to use their influence with the Baron, to displace us."

"I can see that happening."

"In order to survive, we have to be ready for them. We have to have food that they will buy from us, until their crops come in. We have to have a carpenter, and be ready to supply them with lumber to build their homes. We have to have a weaver to make cloth for them. We need a smith to provide the tools they'll need. We'll need a drover to bring supplies in and to take our goods out. We'll need a soldier to keep the peace."

"None of that will do us any good unless we have eyes and ears to hear what the newcomers might plan," Samuel said.

"Innkeepers know what people are planning. You'd be surprised what people say while deep in drink," Grun said.

"Whores get told the secret things others have done," Helga said with a knowing smile.

"Exactly," Roberto said. "We can always use the help of a banker to help manage our money."

"A scholar can teach our children to read and write, to understand numbers, and speak foreign languages. Our children will know more than the others. They'll be able to enter into trade agreements," Samuel said.

Siegfried said, "I'm just a farmer. How do I fit into this?"

"Everyone has to work together. You need tools to grow food. Fritz can provide those tools to you at a discount. You need to get your crop to market. Adolf can deliver your crop at a discount. You make more money, which you can use to buy more cattle, sheep, chickens, and pigs. The same for goes for the others.

"Adolf gets your business as well as the business from the rest of us. Manfred will protect Adolf against bandits. Adolf will have more business than other drovers and will be able to get more wagons and hire people to work for him. We each help each other with our businesses.

"With the increased profits, we bank the money with Samuel. He will loan it out to our competitors. They are paying a higher interest than we charge ourselves. It all works to make it easier for us to succeed."

"That's clever. That's real clever," Heinrich said.

"Won't other people complain?" Siegfried asked.

"That's why it has to be done in secret. We can't let anyone else know," Roberto said.

Samuel said, "We are pledging ourselves to each other, over King and country."

"We have to swear allegiance to the Baron," Siegfried said.

"You can do that. It is just that your oath to each other, has to come first," Roberto said.

Adolf said, "May the Baron rot in hell! My family is dead, because he didn't fulfill his oath to us."

Siegfried said, "You're right ... The Baron didn't protect us from the Swedes. In the end, it was each of us on our own. I say we do this!"



-------

Chapter 2: USA - 2010



After leaving for home from work early that evening, Tom Farmer pulled onto the exit ramp. The radio was playing a CD of his favorite opera. His little commuter car wasn't much to look at, but it had a very good stereo system installed in it. Tom had a singing voice that sounded a lot like a cat in heat, but he sang along anyway.

Unlike a lot of commuters, Tom truly enjoyed the ride to and from his business. As the owner of a business, he didn't have a moment of peace during the day. There was always some crisis demanding his attention. At home, there were always little errands to perform. His wife was a firm believer in the "Honey Do" list. All she had to do was purr, and he'd be doing!

The thirty-minute drive to and from work was his time. There were no interruptions, no demands on his time, and no problems to solve. He could have carpooled, but he didn't want to give up that little slice of freedom.

He turned right onto the main road at the end of the exit ramp knowing that he was now six minutes from home unless he got caught in bad sequence of traffic lights. Traffic that evening was light compared to the usual. That meant he'd get home a little quicker than on most days. It was kind of strange to think that he regretted good traffic.

Tom launched into another portion of the opera. With mouth wide open, he waved his right hand in an artistic manner. He wasn't concerned with how other people might view him. Other drivers, who noticed him, looked at him like he was a crazy man despite the fact that their heads might be bouncing in time with the music playing in their own car.

At the third light, he turned onto the road that would take him into the middle class neighborhood where his home was located. He was two minutes from home, and there were four minutes left to the opera. He considered taking an extra spin around the block in order to hear the rest of it, but chose not to do that. His wife was waiting for him at home, and he hated to disappoint her. They were having a guest that evening, and he was pretty sure that his wife would have something that had to be done before the guest arrived.

The house was located at the end of a little cul de sac. It wasn't a very big house, just a three-bedroom ranch. It was on a lot that was just a little bigger than the rest of the lots in the housing development. It happened to be on the end of a circle, and was given a slightly larger proportion of the circle. That had been planned by the original architect of the development, a man by the name of George Wood.

He pulled into the driveway, taking note of the strange car parked in front of the house. He frowned. His guest had arrived early. He knew his wife could deal with the guest in a very gracious manner, but he had wanted to be there to greet the young man. He parked the car in the garage and then headed into the house.

Silvia greeted him at the door with a kiss. He couldn't believe his good fortune in having her for a wife. Every time he looked at her, he was overwhelmed by her beauty. In his opinion, she was one of the top ten beauties in the world. He wasn't the only one to think so. Even magazines dealing with the rich and famous had declared her one of the most beautiful women in the world. That was twenty years ago, a few years before they had married.

"Carl Wagner is waiting for you in the dining room," Silvia said.

"I saw his car," Tom said.

"Should I lock up, now?"

"Please. Let Mr. Strong know that we are not to be disturbed."

"It'll take me a couple of minutes," Silvia said.

Tom went into the dining room. Carl shot out of his chair and faced Tom. He was there to arrange funding for his business idea, and wanted to make a very good impression. Perhaps it was a sign of an overly developed ego, but at twenty-four he was trying to start his own company. Seeking funding at that age was like trying to push a boulder with a feather. He couldn't get into most places. His father had sent him to a banker and the banker had sent him to Mr. Thomas Farmer.

Extending a hand, Tom said, "Hello, Carl."

"Hello, Mr. Farmer," Carl said while shaking hands.

"Call me, Tom."

"Yes, Sir."

Tom knew that it was a hopeless cause to get the young man to address him informally. He could see that Carl was nervous about the reason that had brought him there.

"Have a seat, Carl."

Carl sat down while Tom took a seat across the table from him. There was a long uneasy silence while Tom studied the young man. He was handsome, and probably had women throwing themselves at him. He carried himself with a degree of confidence that was rare among men his age. All in all, Tom was impressed.

Tom said, "I read your resume. I see that you graduated from the Cura Private School."

"Are you familiar with it?" Carl asked surprised to be asked about his early education.

Most people had never heard of the Cura Private School. It was a boarding school that provided a very advanced education for a small set of students. Students had to learn five languages, mathematics through calculus, business classes, philosophy, and sciences including physics, chemistry, and biology. It was a demanding curriculum. Carl hadn't realized that it was different than what most people experienced until he had gone to a public college. He had been dismayed by the lack of education of his fellow students.

"I graduated from there," Tom said with a smile.

"I didn't know that," Carl said.

"You went on to Texas A&M," Tom said.

"Yes, Sir."

"You graduated Magna Cum Laude."

"Yes, Sir."

"I wouldn't have expected less from a graduate of the Cura Private School. Your initial education was very demanding. I'm sure that college was breeze after that."

"I don't want to boast, but I was surprised by how easy college was. I had expected it to be a lot more difficult."

"Having been through the Cura Private School myself, I know that you're not boasting."

"Thank you."

Tom said, "I read your prospectus."

"What did you think of it?" Carl asked nervously.

"You want to start a gourmet pickle company," Tom said.

"Yes, Sir."

Tom asked, "What do you know of your family history?"

"Not much," Carl answered wondering why he was asked the question.

Years spent in boarding school with summers spent working internships did not give a young person that much insight into family life. That's not to say that he had been ignored by his parents. Four times a year he was given a week off from school to spend with his family. Local internships allowed him to live at home during the summer. That was in addition to holidays and frequent visits at the school. His parents would drop everything to spend his time off with him. They were quite expressive with hugs and kisses.

Silvia stuck her head in the dining room.

"The house is in lockdown."

"Thank you, Dear."

Rising from his seat, Tom went over to the wall.

Turning to Carl, he said, "You are a descendant of a family with a long and rich history. The Wagners have always been in the transportation industry."

"I know. My father owns a trucking company. My grandfather owns a taxi company in Chicago," Carl said.

"I know your father. We went to school together," Tom said.

"I was not aware of that," Carl said.

Tom said, "Wagners do not go into the food industry."

"Why not?" Carl said.

"That's business of the Bauers."

"I don't understand," Carl said.

Tom said, "It's simple. In order to get the money from me to start your pickle company, you're going to have to change your name."

"Are you crazy?" Carl said rising out of his chair.

He had never heard of anything so bizarre. He couldn't imagine that qualifying for a loan would require him to change his name.

Tom said, "Have you discussed your plans at all with your father?"

"Not really. I told him that I intended to start my own business, but I didn't tell him what kind of business," Carl said.

"Call him."

"I will."

"I mean, call him now. Tell him about your plans and that I insist you have to change your name if I'm to help you start your company," Tom said.

"My Dad would blow his gasket if I were to change my name. He's very proud of being a Wagner," Carl said.

Tom chuckled. "Please do as I ask. Call him. Tell him that you want to begin a gourmet pickle company."

Carl called his father. After a few minutes of discussion, Carl closed his cell phone. Stunned, he stared at it.

"What does your Dad say?"

"My Dad says that I should change my name to Carl Plante."

"That's a good name. I was going to suggest that you go with Carl Palmer, but we haven't had a Plante join the family in a long time," Tom said.

"I don't understand," Carl said bewildered by his father's acceptance of changing his name.

"Before I can explain further, I must have your word that you'll never reveal what we are about to discuss."

"Sure."

"Please state it explicitly."

"I give you my word that I will never reveal what we are about to discuss."

"Excellent," Tom said with a grin.

Tom pressed on the wall. There was a click and the wall opened. Carl stared at the doorway wondering what was going on here. He had expected a little business meeting, not demands to change his name and secret doors.

Gesturing to the door, Tom said, "It is time for you to learn a little history."

Carl followed Tom down the stairs. When they reached the bottom, he looked around the room. He was very disappointed. Considering the hidden stairway, it was like any other basement he had been in. There was a washer and dryer stuck in corner. A water heater was set against the wall. The only odd thing about the basement was that there was a secret door with two hidden staircases behind it.

Carl followed Tom to one end of the room. Tom reached up and pressed another button. A door opened that led to a long passageway. There were rooms off to the sides.

"One of the requirements to be a member of the 'Pfand X', is that your house has to have a safe room, and an emergency exit."

"The 'Pfand X'? What's that?" Carl asked thinking it was odd to be using a German word meaning 'pledge' as the name for a group.

"Pfand is the German word for 'pledge'. The 'Pfand X' is a group of ten families who, in 1643, pledged to cooperate for their mutual survival. You and I are descendants of that original group," Tom said.

"You're kidding?"

"No. I have studied your genealogy. There is a direct family line from Adolf Wagner as well as the daughter of Siegfried Bauer. Actually, all ten family lines are in your genealogy."

"Ten family lines?"

"Yes. The families of the 'Pfand X'."

"You're talking about a pledge that was made in 1643?"

"Yes."

"What's that got to do with getting a loan from you and having to change my name?"

"We have kept that pledge, to this very day," Tom said.

"That's over three hundred and fifty years," Carl said incredulous.

"If you want to start a gourmet pickle company, you'll have to become a member of the Bauer family line. We are spread across four continents. We control over two hundred companies with close to five hundred billion in annual sales."

"I can't believe this. I've never heard of this syndicate," Carl said.

Tom said, "The reason you've never heard of it, is because it is a secret that has been kept since 1643."

"No one can keep something like this secret for that many years."

There was a well-known saying: 'two people can keep a secret, only if one of them is dead.' Keeping something secret for that long was impossible. A secret syndicate? Carl didn't believe it.

"We have! And we'll keep it secret for another four hundred years, or for as long as necessary."

"What does this have to do with me? Why does my starting a pickle company require me to change my name?"

"You aren't just changing your name. You are joining the Bauer family. The Bauer family line is in charge of agriculture. Any business that is affiliated with the 'Pfand X', which has anything to do with the production, processing, or sale of food, is run by a member of the Bauer family. That's in the 'Pfand X' charter.

"The Wagner family line is in charge of transportation. The Schmied family line is in charge of industrial equipment and manufacturing of metal parts. The Goldstein family line is in charge of banking. The other families have their separate business emphases.

"The 'Pfand X' is a pledge for the families to support each other. As a member of the Bauer family line, you will have the support of all ten families. You will also be required to support the other families.

"Just to give you an idea of what this kind of support means, your company will only require half of the start up capital you identified in your prospectus. If you need trucking, equipment, or a loan; you'll be able to call upon a member of that family line, and get it at a great discount. You'll have a competitive advantage over every other pickle company."

"I can't imagine that."

"There is one thing to keep in mind. You won't be able to compete against any of the other members of the Bauer family line. This means that you can't expand your product line into olives since there is already a family member who runs an olive company."

"This is incredible," Carl said backing away.

He had never heard of anything like this. He really wanted to talk to his father and get his take on this subject. There was just one problem, it sounded as though his father was part of it.

"We are into nearly every aspect of the agricultural business. From the basics of meats, vegetables, diary, grains, and oils, all of the way to instant and microwavable food. You name it, we've got a finger in it. Your pickle company proposal made me realize that there are still product lines for us to expand into."

Tom smiled. "Just think of it. For eighteen generations, parents have helped their children start businesses. Members of the family have helped groom heirs to their business empires. If another older member of the family had been in the pickle business, we would have offered you a position with that company, with the understanding that you would take it over. The elder would have helped you introduce the new pickle product or even spin off a subsidiary. It would have been a cooperative effort rather than a competition."

Stunned by the implications, Carl echoed, "eighteen generations."

"I must warn you that not all of our children are invited to continue on with the 'Pfand X'. We only invite those who we believe are capable of upholding the 'Pfand'. We lose about a quarter of each generation. There are some who fall into drugs, gambling, or just aren't smart enough. We take care of them, but we don't include them in the 'Pfand X'."

"My parents are members?"

"Your father was born a member of the Wagner family line. Your mother is a member of the Damenstern family line. She ran her own business until she retired. It was only after she retired that she took your father's last name," Tom said.

"The Damen ... who?"

"The Damenstern family line. It started with Helga Damenstern who ran a brothel. It has since expanded into the entertainment and music industry. About a third of the members of that family have remained in the sex industry," Tom said.

Carl frowned on hearing the bit about family members being in the sex industry.

"You're saying that my mother was in the Damenstern family."

"Yes. She ran a rather successful escort service in the capitol," Tom said.

Carl glared at Tom. "Are you saying that my mother was an escort?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe it."

"Call her," Tom said.

Carl pulled out his cell phone and made the call to his mother. After a few minutes of conversation, he hung up the phone.

"I can't believe it," Carl said dismayed by what his mother had told him. "My mother was a whore."

"Don't talk about your mother that way," Tom rebuked sharply.

"Why not?"

"She was our eyes and ears into Washington politics. We knew everything that was going on in that town, because of your mother. She probably helped the families make a billion dollars. Your mother is a very respected woman within the 'Pfand X'," Tom said.

"I'm shocked."

Tom said, "Actually, your mother and my wife are cousins. They went through the Cura Private School together. My wife was a very well paid entertainer of men in Paris. She gave us inside information about several meetings of OPEC. I personally made almost fifty million dollars on the basis of information that she provided."

"Your wife doesn't look at all like my mother."

Tom said, "Well, my wife has a more racially diverse background than your mother. That's common among the members of the Damenstern family line. You know ... an occupational hazard. My wife has Asian, Hispanic, Black, Middle Eastern, Indian, and Caucasian ancestry. Your mother has Asian, Middle Eastern, and Caucasian in hers. They are both very exotic looking women, but in quite different ways."

"It doesn't bother you what your wife used to do?" Carl asked.

"Not at all. Why should it?"

"She was an escort..."

"Your high school girlfriend was Jennifer Damen," Tom said.

"How did you know?"

"I understand you still carry a lot of feelings for her."

"Yes."

Carl said, "She's retiring as an escort. She's starting her own escort service."

"I don't believe you."

"She's been working in New York. Her customer base has been Wall Street. We get more insider tips from her than anyone else. You'd be well advised to renew your friendship with her. She's a gorgeous young woman," Tom said.

"Isn't that illegal?" Carl asked.

"What?"

"Prostitution ... insider trading..."

"Our pledge to assist each other is above King and country."

"I'm a proud American."

"So am I, but one thing that we've learned over eighteen generations is that Kings come and go and that countries change. The only thing that has lasted is the 'Pfand X'.

"The Damenstern family has been in the sex trade for nineteen generations. There have been times when it was legal and times when it was illegal, but prostitution has always existed regardless of its legal status. Damenstern women have slept with Kings and got paid for doing it.

"Jennifer Damen is a Damenstern woman and is proudly carrying on a tradition that was started with Helga Damenstern."

Carl stared at Tom. To learn that his high school sweetheart was an escort dismayed him. He didn't know what to think of it.

"Your roommate was Ed Mann? He's got an adult toy business."

"Ed? Geeky Ed is in the sex industry?"

"Yes. He's a member of the Damenstern family. Mann is one of the modern Damenstern names," Tom said.

"I guess I should have guessed he would end up in the sex industry," Carl said. "Although I always figured he'd be in the high tech world."

"His toys are quite high tech," Tom said. "You should visit him sometime. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to give you some samples of his products."

Tom realized they had been standing around talking. There were things Carl had to see.

He said, "Come with me."

Carl followed behind Tom thinking about his mother, Silvia, Jennifer, and Ed. What kind of organization required some people to work as prostitutes? The only kind of organization that included prostitution as a business interest was organized crime. He couldn't believe that his father was part of some hidden crime syndicate. It was disturbing to say the least.

Tom reached a walk-in safe. It took him a full thirty seconds to open it. Carl followed him into the safe and then froze. He stared at the shelves. There were bars of gold and stacks of cash. There had to be at least fifteen million dollars just sitting around in the safe.

Tom stopped in front of a framed document. It wasn't yellow like a sheet paper, which had aged. Rather, it was more of a yellow with a tinge of orange to it.

Pointing to the document, he said, "That is the original Bauer family copy of the 'Pfand X'. It was written and signed in 1643, by the heads of all ten family lines."

"That's incredible."

Tom pulled out two pieces of vellum. This wasn't the imitation vellum, but real vellum made of calfskin. He held them out for Carl.

"These are a copies of the original 'Pfand X'. You will need to sign both copies. You will keep one and I'll keep the other. Once you sign them, you will be a member of the 'Pfand X' until the day you die. It is also a statement that you are being adopted by the Bauer family. Read it and then sign it."

Carl looked at the document. It was written in the old German language that had been mandatory at the Cura Private School. He had always wondered why they had been required to study it in school. Now it made a little sense. The roles of each family line and the responsibilities of family members, were clearly identified. The penalty for an individual who failed to uphold the responsibilities was death.

"Death?"

"Yes. The original members of the 'Pfand X' viewed this as a matter of life and death. I have a copy of the diary of Roberto Curador. He wrote it at the time the 'Pfand X' was created. We're talking about a time that was very different from today. If the Baron had discovered it, they would have been tortured and put to death in a horribly gruesome manner. Other residents in their town would have killed them if they had discovered the agreements for preferential treatment that are specified in the 'Pfand X'."

"That was then."

"Yes, but that doesn't make it any less true today. We have family members in South America and Africa. They have different rules there."

"You don't kill people who talk about the 'Pfand X'."

"Yes, we do," Tom answered. "The Wache family line provides security for the family. If you talk, they will discover it and they will kill you."

"What if I don't sign?" Carl asked.

"Nothing You'll leave here just like you came. You won't get any support from the 'Pfand', but you'll be free to start your pickle company. Hopefully you'll be a success. Just because you don't join the 'Pfand' doesn't mean that your family doesn't care about you. Your mother and father will love you just the same. They might even give you some money for you to start your business. You'll get a nice inheritance when they pass; you just won't get the family business."

"Wouldn't you be worried about me talking about this?"

"The Wache family will make sure that only happens once."

Feeling like there was no choice, Carl said, "I guess I'll sign it."

"Hold on a moment. I don't want you to feel like you're being pressured into joining. Take your time and think about it. Call your mother and father. Ask for their advice."

"You're being awful understanding about this."

"I was in your position when I was your age. I remember how I felt upon learning about the 'Pfand X'. I thought I was joining some mobster kind of outfit."

"Isn't it a gangster outfit?"

"No. We are businessmen and women. We make products and provide services in exchange for money. We don't extort money. We don't threaten or intimidate people ... and we don't deal in drugs.

"All we do is support one another. If a Damenstern or a Grun hears of something that will affect a member of the family, he or she reports it. If a member of the family is threatened, then we all protect them. There is nothing immoral about that."

"You told me that you kill people."

"Only in self-defense."

"Don't give me that baloney. You told me that talking about the 'Pfand X' is punishable by death."

"That is an act of self-defense. Family members have been tortured and murdered because someone talked about the 'Pfand X'. I know you won't believe me, but this isn't a game. Other people with a lot of money can be very ruthless. Even today there are individuals in this world who would track down and kill every member of the 'Pfand X' if they were to learn of our existence."

"Like who?"

"How about the CEOs of half of the Fortune 100? They think they rule the world. How do you think they would react if they were to learn that there was group that could shut them down overnight? Or that we controlled ten times the wealth they, collectively, have? They wouldn't like that at all. We represent a significant threat to their self-perceived superiority. Their egos are so large that it is amazing they can fit inside a football stadium.

"They would react with everything at their disposal. We would have every government agency of every country in the world hunting us down. We'd have mercenaries searching under every rock in the hopes of getting the best payday of their lives.

"You might not believe me, but I can prove to you that there are hundreds of men who went up against those assholes and ended up on skid row either as drunks, drug addicts, or broken men. There are men who have lost everything of any value to them. There are women who've been shipped off to foreign lands to work in whorehouses that would sicken you to even try to imagine them."

"Actually, I believe that," Carl said.

"If it wasn't for the Damensterns, there would be members of the 'Pfand X' on skid row. They are our eyes and ears in a dangerous world."

"I still don't understand why I have to change my name," Carl said.

"The 'Pfand X' lays out areas of business by family line. It was quickly discovered that children don't necessarily want to follow in their parent's footsteps. Changing the 'Pfand X' didn't make much sense. It was a nice brief document that touched upon the essence without getting bogged down in the details. Roberto Curador was a very brilliant man for his time.

"It was decided that rather than change the 'Pfand X', that children could change their family affiliation. It wasn't really all of that big of a deal. We've had so many intermarriages that the surname was more or less immaterial. Your surname is an indication of occupation more than genetics. That's all."

"You mean, Farmer is the surname for someone who is a farmer."

"Exactly," Tom said with a smile.

"That does make a certain amount of sense."

"Our ancestors felt so."

Carl asked, "You said that you could shut down the Fortune 100. Just how rich are members of the 'Pfand'?"

"Very. The overall collective wealth of the 'Pfand' is several trillion dollars," Tom said.

"Trillion?"

"Trillion."

"My God."

"We control a great deal more than that."

Tom said, "My official worth is around two hundred to three hundred million. In a day and age where people measure wealth in billions, it's enough to be recognized as wealthy without appearing to be rich. My name doesn't appear on any of those 'richest people' in the country or world lists. My actual worth would add a zero, maybe two, to that amount. I'm not the wealthiest in the Bauer family line."

"I don't understand. You don't act like you're rich. You live in a suburban house like my parents."

"Your parents are wealthier than I am," Tom said. He chuckled at the expression on Carl's face.

"I had no idea."

Tom said, "It is a tricky business. You need to appear wealthy enough to be able to talk to the people who think they are in charge, but you don't want to be so wealthy that you're watched all of the time. It is a matter of balance. You'll learn how to walk that tightrope with time."

"I'm not wealthy."

"Not yet, but you will be. You'll start your business, and make a little money. A member of the Goldstein family will help you invest it. You'll make a little more money. A Goldstein will help you set up holding companies that own other companies and you'll make more money. One day, you'll be a very wealthy man."

Carl asked, "How do you know that I won't decide to live like a jet setter?"

"Your father gave you ten thousand dollars when you graduated high school to help cover your expenses while going through college. When you graduated with degree, you still had a thousand dollars of that money left. Most college kids would have blown through that money their freshman year."

"My Dad said that the money had to last for my entire time at college."

"That's my point."

Carl looked down at the copy of the 'Pfand X' that he was to sign. He frowned.

"What's the matter?"

"It says that my home must have a safe room and an escape tunnel. I live in an apartment," Carl said.

"You'll move into a 'Pfand X' compliant house after signing the document," Tom said.

"I can't afford that."

Tom shook his head. He wondered if he had been that dense when he had joined. He remembered that it had taken him almost six hours to make the decision to join. The essence of the decision came down to what was more important – King and Country or Family. In 1643, his ancestors had come to the conclusion that it was family.

Tom said, "The house you move into will have been built by a member of the Wald family. You will buy it 'at cost', and without any money down. A bank owned by a Goldstein will approve a loan for you, at much less than official market rates. You're borrowing 'Pfand' money. Your house payment will probably be half your apartment rental. Your moving costs will be minimal since you'll be using a Wagner company.

"At the same time, I'll make an initial investment in your pickle company. A Goldstein bank will loan additional money for your company. A Goldstein financial company will help you in setting up your business. A Curador company will assist you in incorporating, and will provide you with legal advice. You will, at that time, start drawing a reasonable salary.

"A Wald construction company will build the facilities that you need, at cost. A Schmied company will provide, at a discounted price, the equipment you need to make your pickles. A Wagner company will contract for shipping. Other Bauer families will sell you cucumbers, salt, spices, vinegar, and any other ingredient that you may need. You will get a discount that only the biggest companies might get. Bauer families will pick up the distribution of your pickles, and get them into the stores where customers can purchase them.

"Even your business travel will cost significantly less than you can imagine. You'll fly chartered jets owned by Wagners. You'll stay at hotels owned by a member of the Grun family. You'll have lifetime discounts at restaurants."

"Jesus!"

Carl knew that with that kind of backing it would be almost impossible to fail. Almost all of the cost items in his prospectus had just been slashed significantly. Most of the risks had disappeared. He'd have to produce the worst tasting pickle in the world to fail.

"There is one thing to keep in mind. For the most part, you will not be dealing with another member of the 'Pfand X' directly. You'll be working with their employees. That means that you can't say anything about the 'Pfand X' to them."

"I understand."

Carl thought about what was being offered. This was the stuff of dreams, yet it had been a reality for eighteen generations. It was remarkable that they had been able to keep it going for that long. They must really trust their children a lot. Then it dawned on him that maybe there weren't trusted at all.

"You've been watching me for a while, haven't you?"

Tom laughed.

"Of course. We've been watching you for your whole life. You've been watched, tested, and judged ever since you started walking. The Cura Private School is run by the Curador family. Every child in that school is the child of a 'Pfand' couple.

"We've been involved in every part of your life. When you were fifteen, you lost your virginity to an older woman. She was a member of the Damenstern family. Her job was to teach you the fine art of making love. I'm sure that none of your sexual partners has ever complained about your performance in bed.

"Even now, your mother and father are in their safe room at home waiting by the phone in case you want to talk to them about the 'Pfand X'."

Everything that Carl thought he had known about his life, had just been turned upside down. He couldn't believe it.

He looked at his copy of the 'Pfand X', knowing that he would sign it.



-------

Chapter 3


Carl Plante had just finished breakfast and was in the process of refilling his coffee cup when there was a knock on his apartment door. Upon answering it, he found an attractive woman standing there, holding a briefcase. She smiled at him expectantly.

"Hello?" Carl said wondering what a woman was doing standing at his door first thing in the morning.

Based on her conservative dress, his first thought was that she was some sort of religious doorknocker trying to save his soul. He looked around to see if there were any others with her. Usually, those types came in packs.

"Mr. Plante?"

"Yes," Carl answered.

"I'm Julie Witherspoon from Goldberg Realty."

"Goldberg Realty?" he asked recognizing one of the names of the Goldstein family line.

"Are you ready for the closing on your new house?"

It dawned on him that this had something to do with meeting the housing requirements dictated by the Pfand X. Tom Farmer had warned him not to make any plans for the weekend. Of course, that could have meant anything. He had assumed that Tom Farmer had wanted to meet with him sometime over the weekend. This was the first that he had heard of a closing on a house. He decided to go with the flow.

"Sure," Carl said

"Mr. Goldberg gave me some papers for you to read. Could I come in?" Julie asked not wanting to try balancing her briefcase while extracting the envelop from it.

"Sorry, how rude of me. Please, do come in," Carl said while backing away from the door to give her room to enter.

Julie stepped into the apartment. She glanced at his table and noticed the dirty dishes there. The first thought was that he was a sloppy housekeeper, but then she noticed that the margarine hadn't gotten soft, yet.

She said, "I'm sorry. I didn't realize was interrupting your breakfast."

"I just finished. Please come in and have a seat," Carl said gesturing to the chairs in his rather small apartment.

Julie sat down and opened her briefcase. She pulled out a large envelop with his name on it. She handed it to him. It was easy to see that she was extremely curious about the contents of it.

"Mr. Goldberg said that you should read the material inside before the closing."

"When is the closing?" he asked.

"At ten thirty. I'll meet you there."

Carl opened the envelope and glanced at the papers inside. There were several papers inside. The one on the top was just a picture of the house. Just beneath it, was a map showing where the property was located. It made sense. It would be rather awkward not to know what the house looked like or where it was located. He would examine the other papers at a later time.

"Excellent. Is there anything else I need to know?"

"No. May I ask you a personal question?" she asked somewhat hesitantly.

"Go ahead."

"I normally meet my clients several times before a closing. If it isn't in person, then it is usually by telephone or email. I didn't even know you existed until late last night when Mr. Goldberg called me at home and asked me to handle the closing."

"Mr. Goldberg is a friend of the family," Carl said anticipating her question. He gave her his most charming smile.

"I suppose that explains it," she said feeling less than satisfied by his answer.

"Anything else?"

Julie stood and said, "No. I guess I'll met you there at ten thirty."

"I'll be there," Carl said.

Carl showed her out of the apartment. He quickly returned to the envelope and pulled out the papers. A quick glance through them, was sufficient to know that he'd have to take his time with them, later.

He looked at the picture of the house. It was a very nice looking middle class place. It wasn't a mansion, just a simple plain ranch. It had a red brick exterior. A small retaining wall ran around the property. There were a few older looking trees surrounding the house. They would one day be very majestic. The lawn looked like it had been re-sodded not too long ago.

"Nice," he said.

He looked at the map and saw that it was located only twenty minutes from his apartment. It was near where he had been considering putting his pickle company. It was also the same neighborhood in which Tom Farmer lived. He looked back at the picture of the house. It looked new, which was odd, since he remembered the majority of the houses in that neighborhood looking more than twenty years old.

There were a few more pages that included the realtor's description of the house, the insurance details, the loan application. Another page had a summary paper breaking out what his monthly payments would be. They included taxes, insurance, and mortgage. It was significantly lower than his apartment rent.

There was a page stuck in the packet that didn't make too much sense. It had a set of characters and numbers along with names. It looked like some kind of coded message, but he couldn't figure it out.

The final paper was an invitation to use Goldberg Realty to handle the purchase of the site for his pickle company. When he was ready to search for a site, he was to contact Julie Witherspoon. Her card was stapled to the top of the page. She would handle all of the details.

Thinking that his day was going to be very busy, he stuffed the papers back into the manila envelope, and set them on the table. He needed to clear the breakfast dishes before leaving for the closing.

He had just finished putting the perishables in his refrigerator when there was a knock on his door. He answered it. A middle-aged man was standing there holding a package.

"Hello?"

"Are you Carl Plante?"

"Yes."

"I have a package for you. You'll have to sign for it."

Carl signed the delivery form. The package wasn't that large, but it was heavy. After closing the door, he opened the package. Inside were plastic cards for a hundred different restaurants and hotels along with VIP membership cards to numerous clubs around the world. The majority of the plastic cards identified percentage discounts, as much as eighty percent, that would be applied to the bill without restrictions. He stared at the stack of cards thinking about how much money they represented. He found a couple that were local and put them in his wallet thinking that he might have to eat lunch or dinner out.

There was a letter inside with instructions on how to get replacement cards should it be necessary. Cards that expired would be automatically renewed. There was also a hotline for travel services that could arrange a trip within two hours.

"Amazing."

He glanced down at his watch. It was time for him to change his clothes into something that would be a little more suitable for a closing. He was about to head into the bedroom when there was another knock on the door.

"Jeeze, is this Grand Central Station or something," Carl muttered while walking towards the door.

There was a man standing at the door. The man wasn't big or muscular, but he looked intimating regardless of that. It wasn't really that he had a military bearing, just an aura of confidence that let you know that he could handle anything that came his way.

"Hello?"

"I'm David Thornton from Strong Executive Protective Services."

"I'm Carl Plante. What can I do for you?"

"I'm here at Mr. Strong's request. I'm to take you over to your new house, and explain the security features to you."

"I was planning on driving my own car," Carl said.

"We'll take your car, but I'll do the driving."

"I can drive my own car."

"Will you be getting lessons on defensive driving?"

"I don't think so."

"You will if I'm driving."

"Oh, I didn't know about that," Carl said.

"Are you ready to go?"

"Let me change my clothes," Carl said.

After changing his clothes, Carl went with David to his little car. It was a small Japanese commuter car. David studied the car for a second and then shook his head.

"What's the matter?" Carl asked.

"This car."

"What's the matter with my car?"

"Your little egg-beater is a nice low key car; which is a positive. However, it's going to need a bit of work to bring it up to an acceptable standard security-wise. We'll have to put in a slightly larger engine, tighten up the steering, upgrade the suspension, and change out the transmission."

"It's a great car. You wouldn't believe the gas mileage it gets."

"Thirty-five highway and twenty-eight city?"

"Right."

"By the time we're done with it, you'll be getting about twenty-five highway and eighteen city."

"I'm not sure that I want you to change it," Carl said.

"Get in. We're going for a drive," David said with a wicked grin.

For the next thirty minutes, Carl had the ride of his life. A short detour through an empty parking lot had demonstrated that his little car could do donuts on dry pavement. The sliding u-turn had Carl grabbing on for dear life and praising God for the invention of the seat belt. By the time they arrived at the house, Carl was covered with a light sheen of sweat.

"By the time I'm done training you, you'll be able to do everything I did today and more."

"This car wasn't built for that kind of treatment," Carl said.

"It will be."

"If you say so," Carl said.

David said, "Your realtor hasn't arrived yet. I'll take you around the outside of the property and show you some of the external security measures."

Carl followed David who walked around the outside of the house pointing to various features.

"First, there are security cameras mounted under the gutter every five feet. Every other one is aimed to show everything from the neighbor's house across the street up to about ten feet from the house. The other cameras show everything from the house out to about thirty feet. It gives you complete coverage all of the way around the house.

"Second, the windows are reinforced to withstand small arms fire. They won't stand up to a round fired from a high-powered .50 caliber rifle, but they will take just about everything else.

"Third, the doors have steel deadbolts that slide through the entire door. No one is breaking that door down once you activate the deadbolt. The windows are steel framed with deadbolts to prevent them from being opened by an intruder.

"Fourth, the exterior is brick and won't burn. They can set fire to the outside and you'll remain safe inside. However, the roof is a weak point. We'd have liked to have gone with ceramic shingles, but that made the house stand out from the neighboring houses. The material under the shingles has been treated with flame retardant chemicals, but that will just slow down the spread of fire.

"Fifth, there is wire mesh under the roof. It won't stop someone from cutting into the house through the roof, but it will give you enough time to react."

"You make it sound like an army is going to attack me," Carl said.

Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he thought about what Tom Farmer had said about how some very wealthy men would react if they were to learn of the existence of the Pfand X. If the reaction was as bad as Tom Farmer had suggested, he wondered if the security provisions were adequate.

"I don't know the details of the threats against you. We just followed Mr. Strong's instructions when designing the security measures."

"I appreciate Mr. Strong's attention to detail."

"I'll tell him that," David said. "You'll also notice that your lawn on this side of the sidewalk is two feet above the level of the sidewalk with a stone retaining wall to limit erosion. Its real purpose is to prevent anyone from driving a car into the house."

"Nice," Carl said.

"You will be living alone?"

"Yes."

"I suggest you get a dog."

"What kind? A German Shepard? Doberman?"

"No. I'd suggest something right-sized for living in a house. I'd recommend a Miniature Schnauzer. You want a dog that will make a lot noise when a stranger stops by," David said.

"I'd never figure a Schnauzer to be a good attack dog," Carl said.

"It's not. If things get to a point where you're relying on a dog to protect you from harm, then you've waited way too long to get the hell out of here. You don't want to confront bad guys. You want to avoid them.

"A Schnauzer is not a good guard dog, but it is a good watch dog. They react quickly to strange things happening around them. They are more bark than bite. It is a perfectly fine animal to give you the kind of warning that will let you leave before the bad guys get to you. Besides, you'll feel a whole lot better hearing that Schnauzer greet you when you're walking up to the house. It lets you know that all is good inside."

"I never thought of it that way," Carl said.

"A little dog like that is great around the wife and kids when you finally get started raising a family," David said.

"You sound like you like Schnauzers."

"I've got one. I love that dog."

Without even glancing in the direction of the street, David said, "Your realtor is coming."

Carl looked around and spotted a car turning the corner. It looked like the woman who had been by his apartment that morning, although at that distance it was hard to tell for sure. He had no idea how David had spotted her.

It wasn't long before she was slowing down in front of the house as if double-checking the address. They waited for Julie to park her car and walk up to the house. She looked surprised to see David standing there.

"Hello," Julie said.

"Hello," Carl said.

"Are you here representing the Lam Development Company?" Julie asked looking at David.

"No, I'm David Thornton. I'm here from the security company. I'm supposed to show Mr. Plante how to operate the alarm system."

"Sorry, I wasn't expecting you. I was afraid something had happened to Candice Charles. She's their usual representative."

"I'm not a Candice," David said with a chuckle.

"I can see that."

"I guess she's running a little late," Carl said.

Julie said, "While we're waiting for her, let me just say that I think you picked a great neighborhood to move into. It's nice and quiet. There are number of young couples about your age living on this street. When you get around to having children, I'm sure that they'll have a lot of little playmates nearby. I've got to tell you, the school system is great."

"I'm glad to hear that," Carl said.

"Location is everything, and this is a good location for a lot of reasons," Julie said.

David said, "I believe Candice is here."

Carl wondered how David was able to look in one direction and see something in the opposite direction like that. It was kind of unnerving.

"That's her," Julie said.

Based on the name, Carl had been expecting some young sexy looking woman to show up. Candice was in her early sixties. She might have been a beauty at one time, but that had been a long time ago.

"Hello, I'm Candice Charles."

"I'm Carl Plante."

"Hello, Candice."

"Hello, Julie. It's nice to see you again."

"It's good to see you. Let's get this show on the road," Julie said.

"I've got the keys here. I'll just open it up.

"Carl, if you would like, you can do a walk-through to make sure everything is ship-shape. However, Mr. Lam told me that he's sending the foreman over later this afternoon to go through the checklist with you. That should take about four hours. Mr. Lam has given his personal word that any problems that may arise will be fixed," Candice said.

"I'm sure that everything will be fine," Carl said.

Carl made a quick walk-through of the house. It was more of a tour to see the layout than an inspection. He was impressed with the place and could barely believe that it was going to be his within a few minutes. It wasn't particularly big or pretentious in any manner, but he could see himself living there for the rest of his life.

It only took a few minutes to sign all of the papers, and for Candice to hand the keys to the house over to Carl. For Julie, this was the easiest commission that she had ever earned. The whole deal seemed a little strange, but she was more than willing to take the money and turn a blind eye. When the deal was finished, everyone sat there looking at her.

Julie asked, "Is there anything else?"

"No," Candice said. "Our business is done. I'm looking forward to a little lunch. What do you say?"

"That sounds good to me," Julie said.

"Thank you very much," Carl said. After quick glance over at David, he added, "However, David and I have to go over the security measures."

"Of course," Candice said.

After the two women had left, David said, "Let's go over the interior security features. These are much more extensive than the exterior features."

"I'm ready," Carl said.

David went over to the security panel next to the front door. He explained that there were three security codes that would control the primary security functions of the house. The first code, a four-digit number, would allow him to turn off the alarm upon entering the house. The second code, an eight-digit number, would lock down the house. The third security code, a ten-digit number, would activate a self-destruct mechanism.

In lock down mode, the house would be nearly impregnable. The deadbolts would extend through the door and the windows would be locked shut. David warned that a highly trained team could blow a hole through the exterior wall within a minute of reaching the house. He suggested that Carl assume that anyone who attacked the house was a member of a well-trained team. The best action in any event was to head for the safe room or take the escape tunnel.

The self-destruct mechanism would blow a fifty-foot section of the escape tunnel five minutes after being activated. It would also incinerate the contents of the safe. Jokingly, David said that it wouldn't be a good idea to be in the safe when that happened. Carl had to agree with that.

David stepped away to allow Carl to set the security codes. After telling Carl to leave the house in lock down mode after setting the codes, he went into the living room to wait.

After Carl was finished with setting the codes, he joined the other man in the living room. David pressed on a section of the wall. There was a click. He stepped back and a door opened.

"This is one of three entrances to the basement. There is a standard stairwell in the kitchen, which you can use for regular access to the basement. This stairwell and one in the master bedroom are for emergency use.

"If you'll follow me."

Carl followed David down the stairs. There was a weak light illuminating the stairwell. At the foot of the stairs, there was another set of stairs leading upwards. He assumed that it went to the bedroom. At the landing was a door. David touched a spot along the frame and the door opened.

"We've put the two emergency stairwells behind a wall. This allows you to invite others into the basement without raising any suspicion over why you have so many ways to get into the basement. As far as anyone is concerned, this is a three-quarters basement.

"The door is part of a built in shelf that runs along the length of this wall. I know it sounds like the classic hidden staircase, but ... well ... it's a classic because it works."

David turned around so that he was facing away from the basement proper. He pushed on the wall, which slowly swung open.

"This is your bolt hole. You have a safe room at the end of the hallway. The door immediately to your right will take you up into the garage, or more accurately, it will take you from the garage to here. The door to the left will take you to an escape tunnel. I was not informed about where it goes."

Thinking back to what he had thought was a coded message, Carl wondered if it wasn't directions through the tunnel system.

He said, "Okay."

"The two doors on down the hallway open into two large rooms. You can use them for whatever purpose may arise. I suggest that you consider making one of those rooms a bedroom. It's handy in case you have to provide lodging for security personnel."

"Good idea," Carl said.

"Your safe room has two parts. The front half has the security equipment and limited living quarters. The back half is the safe."

Carl followed David through a tour of all of the rooms and passageways, with the exception of the escape tunnel. It was very much like the area at Tom Farmers' place. Carl didn't need to be told that it met all of the conditions specified in the Pfand X.

Upon reaching the safe room, David explained the security equipment. There were digital recorders that could store one week's worth of video from the surveillance cameras mounted outside the house. There was a secure telephone that could be used to request assistance. A computer allowed him to see all of the cameras. It also allowed one to scan through the recorded images. The computer was loaded with additional software that could be used to process the video, but David warned him that it was for use by security personnel only.

The door to the safe was open. David showed Carl how to set the combination on the door. After warning him that they would have to remove the safe door if Carl failed to set the combination correctly, he then stepped out of the room. Carl set the combination and closed the safe door. He was relieved when he was able to open the safe.

After the tour was over, Carl and David returned to the main floor. David handed Carl a small piece of paper.

"Every Saturday afternoon for the next four weeks you need to go to the address on that paper for driving lessons. There's a car in the garage for you to use. I'll be taking your car to be modified. It should be ready two Saturdays from now."

"Oh."

"Now, if you'll unlock the house, I'll leave you to settle into your new place. I was told that you could expect an interior decorator to arrive here any time now."

"You didn't show me how to access the hidden staircase in the bedroom."

"Just give a good stiff push on the rear wall of the walk-in closet. It will swing open."

"Thanks."

Carl entered the code to unlock the house and to turn off the alarm.

Outside, David said, "By the way, congratulations on your new home. I hope you'll like it."

"Thank you."

He watched David drive off in his car. He was kind of sad to see his car disappear down the street. He was used to all of its idiosyncrasies. It wouldn't be the same after being modified.

Carl was in the closet pushing on the rear door when the front doorbell rang. He closed the secret door and headed for the living room. Once there, he opened the front door expecting to discover another stranger. Before he had a chance to even identify who was at the door, a young woman had wrapped herself around him. It took him a moment to realize the identity of his visitor.

"Donna!"

"Hello, little brother."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm your interior decorator," Donna answered.

"You're kidding?"

Donna replied, "No. I joined Jake in his decorating company after I retired."

"Where is your husband?" Carl asked wondering what she had meant by retiring.

"He's bringing the catalogs from the car," Donna answered.

"You brought catalogs?"

Donna said, "I brought catalogs from every company that counts."

"Is that a lot?"

"He's loading up a dolly with them."

"This is going to take a little get used to," Carl said.

Jake came up the walk to the front door with a dolly loaded with boxes. He struggled a little to get it onto the porch.

"Hello, Jake. I hope you're taking good care of my sister."

"You bet. She takes great care of me, too," Jake said.

"Let me give you a hand with that," Carl said although he wasn't sure what he could do.

"That's okay. I've got it," Jake said.

The three went into the living room. Carl was about to sit down when Donna said, "You should probably lock up the house. We're going to be talking about some family stuff."

"Okay," Carl said.

It took a few seconds to set the security system to lock up mode. He was going to have to start remembering to do that, whenever he was likely to talk about Pfand X matters. He returned to the living room, and sat down on the floor next to his sister. Jake was to his other side. He looked over at the stack of catalogs thinking they were going to be there for a month.

Donna said, "All of these catalogs are from Pfand X companies. So any item you want, you'll get at cost."

"That's good to know," Carl said.

"Let's go room by room staring with your bedroom. Do you want metal or wood?"

"Wood."

"Excellent. Jake, get the top box down."

Jake got the top box of catalogs and opened it up. Donna reached in and pulled out a stack of colorful brochures. She laid them out in a simple array and asked him to point to two of them that had the style of furniture that appealed to him on the cover. He pointed to two of the catalogs. She removed all of the others and then set out a couple more catalogs. He pointed out the same two catalogs when asked for his preferences.

She handed him the catalogs and told him to pick out the bedroom set that appealed to him. It didn't take him long. There were a lot of choices, but only a few really reached out to him. He picked the nicest looking one of them.

"Good choice," Donna said. "We can get the whole bedroom set here in two or three days."

"That's fast," Carl said.

Jake said, "There's a set in some store warehouse somewhere. They'll find it and have it shipped to you. The Wagners are pretty good at fast delivery to members of the Pfand X."

"It is still surprising that they can get here that quickly," Carl said.

He was going to have to stop acting so surprised at that kind of service. Supposedly, he would soon be a wealthy man, and should start acting like he deserved that kind of service. Of course, that didn't mean that he was being given a license to act like a jerk.

"Let's do your study," Donna said.

"I liked the desk ensemble in the other catalog," Carl said.

"You don't want to look at others?" Jake asked.

"No. I really like it," Carl said.

"You're easy. I wish some of my dates had been that easy," Jake said with a wink.

"You're evil," Donna said reaching across and lightly slapping him on the arm.

Jake said, "Let's get to the guest room. It should be a different style than your room. It should be something a little more edgy. You know ... comfortable, but not too comfortable."

"Why?"

"It helps keep the visits short," Donna said. "Guests, like fish, start to smell bad after three days."

"I'll keep that in mind," Carl said.

"We'll want to use a lot of yellows in that room."

"I don't really like yellow."

"Yellow has a friendly look, but staying in a yellow room tends to make people uncomfortable after a while. That's why a lot of fast food places use yellows and reds in their décor," Donna said.

Jake opened the second box and pulled out the top catalog. Opening it to a set in the middle of the catalog, he said, "You might like this."

"That's nice," Carl said. "We can go with that."

"Let's consider the living room," Donna said.

"Leather," Carl said before she could even ask a question.

"Leather?"

"Yes. I'd like the living room to have that old time feel of a gentleman's social club like in the movies. Nice leather chairs with wingbacks and solid wood tables next to them. I don't want couches or loveseats. Everyone seated on a couch or a loveseat ends up facing in one direction. It makes it hard to talk. I want individual chairs that can be moved so that people can face each other when talking. I want the room to have a classy-but-conservative feel to it."

"Wow!"

"I've got just the thing for you," Donna said. Snapping her fingers impatiently, she said, "Give me that bottom box."

Jake moved the stack of boxes around until he was able to get at the bottom box. He opened it and slid it over to his wife. She looked through it for a minute and then pulled out a catalog. She flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for.

"Look at this."

"That's perfect," Carl said.

She flipped through a couple more pages and then held the catalog out for him. "For your entertainment center and bar."

"That's nice."

"Let me worry about the glassware, knickknacks, artwork, and curtains. I know exactly what you want," Donna said excitedly.

"I haven't seen you this excited since the day you retired," Jake said.

"I love his concept," Donna said. "It's so old world and manly. Do you remember that brass engraved map that we saw in the antique shop a couple of months ago."

"That would look perfect."

"It would BE perfect."

"Dining room."

"I'd like a solid table and chairs. Nothing too ornate or simple, just a muted elegance."

It took them almost an hour to find a table with chairs that Carl liked. Donna talked him into having a glass protective cover for the table. The cover would allow the wood to show without risking damage to table's surface. It hadn't been a tough sell. She suggested a couple of wall sconces that would match the overhead light fixture. There wasn't enough room for a hutch or china cabinet.

"Are you going to use one of the rooms downstairs as a living area for security personnel?"

"Yes."

"We've got a standard package for that. Bunk beds with two work tables and two comfortable chairs."

"That sounds good."

"Will you want the other room downstairs fixed up as a refuge for you?"

"Yes."

"We have another package for that. It has a queen bed, two recliners, a desk, and a table. It's comfortable enough for a week or two stay, but I wouldn't want to stay in ours for any longer than that. It's kind of like staying in a hotel."

"That's fine," Carl said.

Donna said, "You do realize that when you get married to Jennifer..."

"What?"

"I'm sorry. You know that when you meet and marry the woman of your dreams that she'll want to redecorate the bedroom."

"Jennifer?" Carl asked. "What do you know about Jennifer?"

"Jennifer Stern? You know that she's a member of the Damenstern family."

"Yes, I know that."

"She talks about you a lot," Donna said.

"She positively creams her jeans when she talks about you," Jake said.

"Do you know her well?" Carl asked while staring at Donna.

Her comments were coming back to haunt him. He was beginning to think the worst.

Donna said, "Sure. We talk all of the time."

"Oh, I didn't know," Carl said.

He frowned upon putting all of the pieces together. First he had learned that his mother had been an escort. Then he learned that his high school sweetheart was in the business. He didn't know what to think. He suspected that his sister had been an escort as well, but now she was a member of the Weber family.

Seeing that the tension was rising in the room, Jake said, "I guess we're done here. We'll be back in two days to start putting this place into shape."

"This is going to be so much fun," Donna said.

"It sure is nice seeing you again," Carl said.

After they left, Carl walked around his new home. It was empty and looked huge. He knew that every room would appear to shrink once furniture was added to it. Still, it was a large house for a single man of his age.

So many things were coming together in his life. He had a house and a business. He felt that he was in a position to conquer the world of gourmet pickles. Life was looking up.



-------

Chapter 4


Tom Farmer, with a frown on his face, grabbed the first of several envelopes that had arrived by private courier earlier that morning. The fact that they came by private courier, working for a Wache firm, was enough to let him know that the contents of the letters dealt with business of concern to the Pfand X. He had been getting a lot of letters, lately, and it was beginning to worry him.

He opened the envelope knowing that it contained a second envelope containing the letter. The inner envelope was sealed with wax imprinted with the seal of the family to which the sender belonged. He carefully examined the seal, convincing himself that it was intact.

He broke the seal and extracted the letter. Opening it, he saw that it was addressed, as expected, to 'The Landowner, ' his official title as head of the Bauer family line. he groaned on reading the first line.



The Landowner,

My farm is officially closing this week. As a result of water restrictions by the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation and Federal Courts, all of my Almond trees have died. It took three years to kill them all off. As you are well aware, our attempts to get emergency measures through Congress have failed.

James Farmer



Tom was well aware of the situation referred to in the letter. It was a triple whammy for farmers – drought, increases in urban demand for water, and an endangered fish believed to be threatened by pumping water from the Sacramento-San Joaquin Delta in Northern California. One million acres of farm land had been put out of production with another two million growing less food than normal.

Congress wouldn't touch the issue with a ten foot pole. The courts wouldn't even take up the case. The fact that they had been unable to prevent this from happening, despite their tremendous economic assets, worried and angered him. People could fill swimming pools and water their lawns to have green patches of grass around their house, but farmers couldn't water their crops. There was something seriously wrong when one of the most productive farming areas in the country was shut down like that.

He wondered who in their right mind would favor lawns and swimming pools over food. Nothing about this situation made sense to him. With unemployment in California at an all time high, they were putting even more people out of work by destroying so many farms. It was irrational, to say the least.

He grabbed the next letter off of the stack, and opened it dreading what it would contain.



The Landowner,

My dairy farm was closed yesterday morning by the EPA. Apparently I am guilty of violating a new environmental regulation concerning spilled milk. Milk is now to be treated as a toxic hazard equivalent to oil. I was unaware that I was required to have a documented and approved spill prevention plan.

A Curador is currently trying to find out the details of the regulation, but has not made any headway. He has been told that the regulation exists, but they can't provide him with a copy of it until he files a Request for Public Information. He's puzzled by this since regulations are supposed to be a matter of public record and they will have to present the regulation in court.

I am not allowed to milk my cows until I have an approved spill prevention plan. Apparently, the process for getting a plan approved will take a minimum of six months. I won't have a dairy farm if my cows aren't milked soon.

If I am found guilty, I will be barred from dairy farming for life. I am facing a multimillion dollar fine and possible jail time. It is doubtful that I will be found not guilty. As they say, ignorance of the law is no excuse. The Curador lawyer believes otherwise.

I should mention that ten other dairy farms in the area are affected as well. None of those farms are affiliated with the Pfand X. The Curador and I believe that this is a test case that is being brought in an EPA friendly court in order to establish a precedent that will effectively block contesting the regulation in the future. The local judge was at one time a lawyer for an animal rights organization.

Henry Plantar



Henry was the fourth generation Bauer to run that dairy farm. He ran a tight operation that was well above national standards. He was well connected and well liked within the farming community. Tom was sure that Henry's farm closure had sent shock waves through the farming community. There was no telling how people would respond to this action by the EPA.

This letter was very worrisome. He had heard that the EPA was proposing such a regulation, but had not heard that the regulation had actually passed. The fact that neither he or Henry had known about the regulation was very disturbing, although nowhere near as disturbing as learning that a Curador could not get a copy of it. The EPA was required to publish regulations, but ... there was publishing and there was publishing. For all he knew, the regulation could have been published in a mathematics journal ... by accident ... instead of a dairy trade magazine. The mailing list for dairy farmers could have been confused with the mailing list for cod fisherman.

Tom tended to side with the Curador lawyer. He felt that Henry would be found not guilty, but only on appeal. The absence of proper notification of the regulation would get the case thrown out during appeal. The rejection of the Curador's request for a copy of the regulation would be passed off as his contacting a low level drone, who didn't know any better.

If the EPA wanted to shut down the dairy industry, the EPA didn't need to win the case in order to win the battle. In the time that it would take the case to move through the courts, all dairy farmers would have been put in an impossible situation. They would have to comply with the regulation, possibly having to close their dairy farm during the approval process, until the regulation was thrown out by a court or a grace period was established by the court. Ignoring the regulation would allow the EPA to forcibly close the farm and revoke the farmer's license to produce milk. No matter what, the dairy farms would be closed.

The dairy industry had been hit with enough regulations over the past four years to effectively put nearly every farm out of business. It was plain to Tom that someone wanted the dairy industry shut down. A lot of dairy farmers agreed with Tom on that matter. Even arguing that dairy products were an important source of nutrition wouldn't fly. The typical dairy section of a store now had as much soy milk as dairy milk.

Farms that managed to survive the increased regulations weren't out of the woods by any stretch of the imagination. There were now attempts to require farmers to have enclosed, air tight barns to capture the methane produced by dairy cattle. The idea was that the methane gas would be used in generating electricity and eliminate a green house gas from the environment in the process.

It sounded good on paper. Of course, no one had showed that it would be cost effective. No one knew how much it would cost to put the kind of structure and supporting equipment into place. There was the added danger that OSHA would declare such a structure an unsafe work environment. Animal rights activists would argue that trapping poor defenseless cows in a methane rich environment was cruel.

There was an alternative to hermetically sealed barns. That was the cow backpack for trapping methane gas. It was basically a plastic tank on the back of the cow with tube running to the exit port of the poor animal to collect the methane released when it farted. Tom had seen pictures of the device and considered it the stupidest thing he had ever seen – his apologies to the person who invented it.

Disheartened by the direction that his thoughts had taken, Tom grabbed the next envelope, and opened the enclosed letter following his standard procedure of checking the seal before opening the inner envelope.



The Landowner,

Three days ago, Lawrence Plante was taken away by Homeland Security. Someone within Homeland Security decided that his purchases of nitrogen based fertilizers were excessive for the size of his farm. The best that we can tell it was because he rounded his fertilizer order up to the nearest ton, in his case-- three tons, which put him four hundred pounds over the DHS estimate. Our hypothesis for why he was arrested is that four hundred pounds of nitrogen fertilizer and the presence of diesel fuel tank for refueling his farm truck suggested to some overzealous agent that Lawrence was planning on building an explosive device.

At the present time, he is being held in an unknown location. I have Wache security firms trying to locate where he is being held. My attempt to get a writ of Habeas Corpus was denied on the grounds of national security.

Demitri Cura



Tom sat back in his chair stunned by the letter. He couldn't believe that Lawrence was hauled off by DHS for ordering an excess four hundred pounds on an order of six thousand pounds of fertilizer. That was practically nothing for a farm that size. Lawrence would have just stored the excess and used it the next year.

The presence of diesel fuel on the property was another red herring. It was common practice for farmers to have storage tanks of fuel, gasoline and/or diesel, on their property. Fuels for vehicles and equipment that were for farm use only were exempt from excise taxes. The fuel was dyed red so that law enforcement could prove if the fuel in a truck stopped on a public road had been sold without paying the excise taxes.

Having fertilizer and diesel fuel stored on a farm was business as usual and not a terrorist act. The fertilizer was necessary to grow the crop and the fuel was necessary in order to farm. Effectively, Lawrence had been arrested for trying to grow food.

He grabbed another letter.



The Landowner,

Four women employed by a Damenstern escort service were entertaining executives from several of the large agricultural companies last week. Three turned up dead from drug overdoses. Their naked bodies were found in Central Park with signs of having been tortured. The fourth was found wandering around Soho in an obviously drugged state and was taken to a hospital. She died the next day under what I consider to be suspicious circumstances.

Initially, I treated this as a simple 'party gone bad' and started the investigation to locate the perpetrators until I discovered that the party was supposed to have taken place in Chicago and not New York. A Wache company employee did manage to interview the last woman before she died. Our take on the situation changed immediately when the woman mentioned something about a group of companies getting ready to seize billions of acres of farmland. I repeat, billions, not millions, of acres.

I think the matter is serious enough for you to request a Pfand X meeting.

The Whore



Tom's heart was pounding in his chest. This communication from the head of the Damenstern family line put everything that had been happening into context. Someone, or rather some group, was attempting to take over the entire agriculture industry. It explained why water was cut off to hundreds of farms in one of the richest farming areas in the country, why dairy farms were being shutdown, and dozens of other actions that were taking place to kill independent farmers.

The farmers without water would be forced to sell their farms. Without water, the land was useless for farming. No one wanted to live in a desert like that so it would be worthless for real estate developers. The value of the land would drop to nothing and could be bought up for pennies on the current dollar value. The water tap could be turned on and instantly the land would be valuable again.

If someone had been informed about the new EPA regulations, they would be in a position to purchase existing dairy farms that had been found non-compliant and claim they were now covered by an EPA approved milk spill prevention plan. They would get land, dairy cows, and equipment at cut-rate prices.

There were still envelopes to read.



The Landowner,

My application to the FDA to start an organic cookie company was denied again. Apparently, as a new food production facility it has to be compliant with the European Union Hazard Analysis Critical Control Point (HACCP) system. I don't even know what that means.

I have no idea when it was decided that we have to follow EU practices. A Curador lawyer can't find where that regulation is buried. She is still looking, but believes that the individual who made that ruling was incorrect in thinking it had been adopted. She did find a proposal for such a regulation.

The last time my application was denied, it was denied on the basis that my facility failed an OSHA inspection. My loading docks were two inches too low. Before that, they were two inches too high. Someone is playing games.

Edward Plantar



Tom decided that the threat to the family wasn't only on farming, but food production as well. Edward had been trying for three years to open his production facility. The Pfand would continue to pump money into the project, but most individuals didn't have the backing that the Pfand could provide.

His jam and jelly companies had been hit with a number of new regulations over the past four years. There were probably a dozen government agencies that could pass regulations that impacted him. OSHA, FDA, EPA, and the USDA were the federal agencies that most easily came to mind. The state had additional agencies that were involved with health codes, worker safety, and tax codes. Then there was local government involvement with building codes and fire safety codes. He had even been required to perform a traffic impact study to determine if the local roads could sustain any increased in truck traffic to and from his factory. Complying with those regulations had nearly destroyed his profit.

Usually his problems started with some person showing up unannounced at the front door with credentials identifying him as an inspector for some government agency. The person would walk through the plant for an hour or two and produce a report declaring him to be out of compliance with some regulation. He'd be told that he was being fined and had to correct the problem within some impractical time period or face future fines. In one case, it had been discovered that the regulation hadn't actually been passed yet.

In light of what was happening, he realized that Carl Plante would have a very tough time getting his pickle factory opened. His time-line of having his facility operational within a year's time was overly optimistic.



The Landowner,

My entire cocoa harvest was destroyed by Frosty Pod Rot, a fungus. Sixty other plantations were likewise affected. At the end of the growing season, cocoa will be worth its weight in gold.

According to a Wache investigator and a Curador scientist, the fungus appears to have been spread intentionally since only small producers like myself have been affected. The Curador scientist says that the fungus is a highly resistant strain. My plantation may never recover from it.

Juan Brewer



Tom was beginning to get a headache. He revised his hypothesis to make the plot global in nature.

There were still more envelopes for him to open. He grabbed one.



The Landowner,

The E. Coli infection of my crop has required that I destroy the whole field. Local experts have theories that place the blame on the farmers, but they have no real evidence to support their theories. My farming practices run counter to the practices on which they base their theories. There is no reason that I can find for my crops to have been infected.

Heinrich Bauer



Tom muttered, "There's a reason all right."

He grabbed another envelope.



The Landowner,

A potential problem area has come to my attention. Corn is one of the most significant crops in the United States. It is used directly as food for people, feed for animals, and as a source of fuel. Farmers have been converting their operations to take advantage of the high prices corn has been fetching of late.

Earlier this month, I was studying corn taken from the cornfield grown by our agriculture department of the university where I am employed. A small area of the cornfield didn't look right. Some of the plants had mottled leaves. I investigated further suspecting Maize Dwarf Mosaic Virus (MDMV). My suspicions were confirmed. As best as I can tell it is a genetically engineered variant of the Dwarf Mosaic Virus.

It appears that this virus is extremely active. Over the past two weeks it has spread to almost the entire cornfield. Interestingly enough, it is hybrid specific – that is, only a specific hybrid of corn appears to be susceptible to it. I know this because a nearby cornfield with a different hybrid of corn shows no sign of the virus despite the fact that there is less than twenty yards between fields. Unfortunately, the corn that is susceptible to the virus is a very widely used hybrid since it happens to be one of the cheapest seed stocks on the market.

A lot of farmers may be impacted by this virus. I know that your farmers do not use this particular hybrid, but the virus could mutate. I suggest that you warn members of your family about this issue. Some may want to avoid corn for the next few growing seasons while others might want to take advantage of the high corn prices that may result.

Daniel Cura



Tom shook his head in despair.

A failure of the corn crop would be a major economic catastrophe. Thousands of small farmers could lose their farms with a significant failure of such an important crop. He had no doubt that the release of the virus was intentional. The MDMV virus was spread by aphids. Of course, aphids were small insects that were easily transported and distributed. He couldn't imagine anyone in their right mind raising aphids, but they made a simple delivery mechanism.

The timing of the release didn't fit a large-scale outbreak. For it to have a significant effect on the harvest this year would require that it had been released last year. He figured that this was a test crop and would likely be burned before it had a chance to spread beyond the field.

Tom knew that are only three things that are necessary for life-- food, water, and air. Someone was attempting to gain control over the world's food supply. With control of food, one could rule the world. Anyone willing to go to that extreme would not tolerate any competition. If he was right, then the entire Pfand could be destroyed.

The more he thought about the letters he had received, the more concerned he became. Today's delivery were not the first letters suggesting that something big was happening. The letters from Europe and Central America gave evidence of the full scope of the problem.



The Landowner

The Colony Collapse Disorder that is affecting the bee population appears to be spreading. An entire hive can collapse in two days time. My studies indicate that we could lose twenty-five percent of the bees over this season. We are talking about tens of billions of bees.

It should be noted that this kind of die-off has a historical precedent. Several times in the last century there were reports of similar events. So far, we have no explanation for the die-offs. The leading suspects are a fungus, a virus, or pesticides. That is just speculation.

The costs to farmers could be tremendous. Without sufficient bees to fertilize the plants, there will be reduced production. Harvests will be down over the next few years.

Lisa Cura



Tom was willing to treat the bee die-off as a natural phenomenon despite the fact that the timing was suspicious. There were natural cycles in which the population of a species fluctuated wildly. There were a lot of causes for it. For now, he felt the scientists had to address the problem. Lisa was a very good scientist with global connections. He had faith in her abilities and trusted her to report anything suspicious.

He picked up the last letter. Like all of the others, there was a sealed envelop within the outer envelope.



The Landowner,

My coffee crop was 'accidentally' sprayed with a defoliant during a DEA mission to eliminate a coca plantation. Two other small coffee growers were hit as well. The problem is that there isn't a coca plant within a hundred miles of my place. I suspect it was done intentionally although I have no proof.

Juan Granja



This last letter was one too many. Outside of the bee problem, too many of the letters pointed directly at a concerted attempt to destroy independent small farmers. The only survivors would be the huge mega-farms owned by the largest agricultural companies. It appeared that the large agricultural companies were deeply involved in the events that were occurring. He hoped that he was wrong, but feared that he wasn't.

The agriculture industry had been undergoing significant change since the mid-sixties. The political environment had grown increasingly more hostile to small scale farmers. It was a multi-pronged attack. Energy fanatics, animal rights groups, and global warming supporters were placing a lot of the blame for the world's problems on farming.

Regulations were targeting things that could happen rather than correcting problems that had happened. There had been huge increases in the amount of paperwork required to produce a crop. Tom had come to feel a twinge of fear each time a legislator made the comment that all that compliance would require was just a little more diligence on the part of a farmer.

There were food safety 'activists' who wanted a complete traceable record of food from the farmer all of the way through consumer. As a manufacturer of jams and jellies, that meant he had to have access to records that would identify the source for the ingredients for each batch of jam or jelly and who distributed each jar of his product. It sounded like a nice idea until one realized that each time he dumped a fifty pound bag of sugar into a batch of jam that he had to record the source of that bag of sugar. The same was true for each box of fruit.

He already had quality control processes in place that tested and recorded each batch of jam or jelly. Every jar that was shipped out had a batch number and production date stamped on it. He also had records of each purchase of ingredients and from whom he purchased them. If there was a problem he had sufficient information to identify the likely source of the problem.

However, his records weren't good enough. The food safety 'activists' wanted the ability to contact individual consumers who purchased a jar of his jam or jelly in case there was a problem identified with one of his sources of raw ingredients. That was an entirely different level of record keeping and would cost a fortune.

The flip answer to cost concerns that was often given was that it could be all handled by computer. No one thought about how it would add record keeping steps into his food production process and require a significant upgrade to his IT systems. The cost would be significant and the consumer would ultimately pay for it. At least, the consumer would pay for it if the business was able to afford the upfront costs that compliance would place upon his company.

This kind of legislation would also wipe out little farmers markets since the person selling apples at a roadside stand would have to record the name and address of each customer who purchased an apple. Pick-your-own farms would have to record the names of all customers and what they had purchased. There was a kind of intrusiveness to this that raised his hackles.

Huge fines were often imposed on individuals who violated one of the myriad of regulations. Legislators would often say that the million dollar fines were targeted at the large producers since they wouldn't feel a small fine, although many of the largest wouldn't be impacted one bit by a million dollar fine. However, the laws didn't distinguish between the family farmer and a huge corporate farm. Since the laws didn't distinguish between the two groups, neither did the enforcers of those regulations.

Tom's family members fell into an unusual middle group. They intentionally kept from becoming megalithic overt near monopolies, by maintaining multiple independent businesses that couldn't be classified as small. His six jam and jelly companies, each of which was owned through a holding company, were, in combination, one of the largest producers of consumer jams and jellies. The fines would hurt, but it wouldn't kill his businesses.

The more insidious threat was that as the smaller farms and businesses went under, his companies would become the smaller businesses. The fines would be increased until they were large enough to put him out of business. The large agricultural companies would buy up all of the small places and, hence, become even larger. It was a cycle that could continue unchecked until all that remained would be a few monopolies.

FDA regulations were nowhere near as intrusive as EPA regulations. The EPA wanted to regulate almost every aspect of farming. Even stock tanks were about to come under close scrutiny. A small catch pond intended to allow a farmer to use runoff water for livestock was suddenly being treated as 'wetlands' and hence under EPA regulation. Water quality, fish populations, and wildlife visitation records would have to be established. The EPA wasn't the only government agency interested in stock tanks. So were water management boards. Regulations could pop up from anywhere and everywhere.

Even simple things like disposal of trash could create problems for farmers. Without trash collection services in rural areas, many households used to burn their trash in open barrels. That was now illegal in a lot of areas. So were individual landfills. There wasn't a cost efficient option other than to haul trash, often hundreds of miles, to approved landfills.

A suburban homeowner could water his or her front yard without much concern except when water restrictions were in place. However, once the property became labeled a farm, watering the yard could be labeled irrigation and the farmer had to deal with regulations dealing with water runoff issues. A suburban homeowner could purchase manure and spread it in their garden. A farmer couldn't use the manure from his livestock for the same purpose without assuring compliance with a dozen regulations.

Tom wasn't against regulating real problems. He admitted that burning trash in open barrels was a real problem, particularly with the newer materials used in consumer goods. Paper and old wood didn't have the heavy metals, hydrocarbons, and other toxins that were present in modern waste. His concern was the imposition of regulations for which there were no cost effective means of compliance.

Farmers were being nickled and dimed to death. It might only cost a hundred dollars to comply with some regulation, but when you were faced with hundreds of regulations the costs became a real burden.

Tom grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper.



The Watchman,

A number of situations have arisen that impact the entire Bauer family line. The situation is not yet dire, but it could well be the beginning of the end of the Pfand X. In essence, I believe that we are under attack.

A number of the Bauer family line may have to move out of the country and I look to you to begin planning a large scale evacuation. I believe that we have been specifically targeted – not because we are Pfand, but because we are farmers. The situation appears to be global and I have no idea where we may find safe haven. I have received communications detailing acts of sabotage from the United States, Central America, and Europe. I have heard nothing from Africa, but that doesn't mean that bad things aren't happening there.

I am formally requesting that you arrange a Pfand X meeting of all family heads. I know that we have not held such a meeting since we recognized the threat that Hitler posed to our family with the annexation of Austria by Germany at the start of World War II. The situation is just as serious now as it was then. The need for immediate action may even be higher now.

I will also need you to arrange for all Bauer family members to receive the following message, with my formal signature: The weatherman predicts that weather conditions will destroy crops in North America, South America, Central America, Europe, and Africa before harvest.

On a final note, I'm sure that you are aware of the situation with Lawrence Plante since it involves Homeland Security. We have never had a Bauer arrested as a threat to national security for attempting to grow crops. Please evacuate the members of his family from their farm. Get them out of the country and to a safe location. Destroy the house. We must find Lawrence Plante immediately. I leave it to your discretion how Lawrence should be treated upon extrication from DHS.

The Landowner



Tom sat back and read over the letter he had written. It had a number of hot button phrases in it that demanded immediate action from the other families. The Pfand X had emerged out of a catastrophe and, at heart, was a response to an existing threat. Throughout its history, members of the Pfand had remained paranoid in the sense that they were always looking for threats to their existence.

If history had taught the Pfand anything, it had taught them that governments were not to be trusted or relied upon to represent their best interests. Farms were destroyed when they became the site of a battle. Manufacturing facilities were viewed as legitimate military targets or national assets that could be confiscated. Bombs dropped from air killed indiscriminately. Governments, almost without warning, could nationalize businesses of all kinds. Regimes routinely killed or jailed the intelligentsia who might object to heavy handed policies.

Government stability was an illusion. Kings came and went. Kings were replaced by parliaments. Parliaments were replaced by popular democracies. Popular democracies were replaced by dictatorships. Each change could be for the better or worse, but it was always the small guy at the bottom who paid the highest price for each change.

The current situation was different from any that the Pfand had faced in the past. Tom knew that, but he wasn't sure in what way it was different. Even worse, he didn't have the slightest clue concerning how the Pfand could respond to the threat.

He placed the letter in an envelope, and then sealed it with two colors of wax impressed with the Bauer family seal. Sealing an envelope with two colors of wax was an archaic means for the receiver of the message to know that no one had tampered with it. The two colors of wax would leave a trace on the envelope that could be compared with the wax seal that had been removed. If an old seal was removed and a new seal were applied, the old trace would still be visible. He then placed the envelope inside a second, larger, envelope.

After making the call to the courier to come get his letter for delivery to the Watchman, he left the safe room to talk to his wife. She, of anyone he knew, would have an idea how to progress in terms of stating clearly the threat that the Pfand was facing. It was one thing to know that a threat existed, but it was another to convince others.

Tom sat down in the living room facing Silvia. She looked up from her knitting and frowned when she saw the expression on his face. He looked worried.

"What's the matter?"

"It is getting tougher to maintain our secrecy. At one time, we could send a coded message and no one would be able to break the code and read the message. Now they've got computers that can try billions of codes in the same time that it took to write and encode the message. We're left using old approaches that are novel only because no one uses them any more," Tom said.

He sighed.

"Tell me all about it, dear," Silvia said.

Tom told her about the letters he had read. As expected, she was angered when learning about the four women who had been killed. The women were not Damenstern, but she empathized with them. She understood the dangers they faced whenever they met with a client. She had faced those same dangers at one time in her life.

The Damenstern family members who went into the prostitution business knew they were putting their lives on the line for the Pfand. While members of the Wache were often involved in dangerous law enforcement, security, or intelligence activities, the ones in danger usually carried a weapon. That was not the case for Damensterns. They went into danger unarmed except for their wits.

While other segments of society frowned upon individuals involved in prostitution, everyone who had been in the Pfand for any amount of time respected the Damensterns. In fact, many of them respected the Damensterns more than other family lines. After all, a Damenstern had hung on the arm of a French Officer, listening while Napoleon discussed his strategy for the Russian invasion. A Damenstern, the male lover of an English officer, had traveled to India during the India campaign to scout out the opportunities present in that far away land for members of the Pfand. Damensterns, male and female, had infiltrated the highest levels of the Nazi party.

Gruns were also important sources of information. The general staff of the Allies during World War II had stayed in a hotel run by a Grun. Little was discussed among the officers that didn't make its way back to the Pfand. Conversations over dinner in restaurants owned by Gruns were recorded.

Because of Damensterns and Gruns, the Pfand knew just about everything that was going to happen long before it happened. There were too many examples of where the entire Pfand owed its continued existence to the Damensterns. In the words of Helga Damenstern, they were all whore, part diplomat, and part spy. They moved with equal ease among the highest members of society and the dregs. Mata Hari was a rank amateur compared to the least capable of Helga's descendants.

Tom asked, "How can I convince others of the danger to the Pfand?"

Silvia was quiet while considering everything that Tom had told her. On the surface, it looked like a problem that only affected the Bauer families. Her instincts were screaming that it was a threat to them all. She trusted her instincts.

"Let's start with something that we do know for a fact. There are fast food companies that already do everything from raising food, processing it, transporting it in trucks they own, and selling it in buildings that their own construction company has built. Fast food companies are not the only ones in the food industry that have that same level of infrastructure. I wouldn't be surprised if some of them already have their own security companies. I know for a fact that a few of them have prostitutes on their payrolls. I would say that touches upon the interests all of the families."

"You've got a good point," Tom said.

"Now, what happens when a handful of companies effectively put all of the smaller companies out of business?"

"Disaster for anyone who owns a small company."

"Exactly. There won't be a single family of the Pfand X that won't be put out of business. We could very well be the last generation of the Pfand that own their own businesses."

Tom said, "I can sell that to the other families."

"It could be worse than that," Silvia said.

"In what way?"

"At some point in the future, we'll have a hundred or so companies that completely control the world. They'll have taken over the restaurant business. They'll have taken over the trucking industry. They'll have taken over manufacturing. They'll have built 'theme' parks and hotels. They'll have taken over the entertainment industry. They'll have taken over security. Where do they go from there?"

"I have no idea," Tom said.

"They will effectively have made slaves of every human on the planet. If you want to work, you have to work for them. The only game left to the people in charge of those companies is a trade war in which the hundred or so companies fight for ultimate control," Silvia said.

"You can't mean that," Tom said.

Deep down inside, Tom knew that she was right. If someone controlled food, then everyone was a slave. It wasn't a matter of choice, people had to eat. To eat, they had to earn money. To earn money, they had to work for the groups who controlled everything. The kind of person who could come up with the kind of plan that allowed them to control a major slice of everything wouldn't settle for anything less than total world domination.

"I do."

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 5

Carl was seated in his safe room reading a copy of a diary that had been written in 1643 by Roberto Curador. His command of modern Spanish was just barely up to the task of making out the much older version of Spanish Roberto had used. Spelling, style of use, and meaning had drifted a bit since 1643. He had just finished reading the entry in which Roberto had described the stories he had been told about the events of the day when the Swedes sacked the town. There were times when reading it that he could feel tears running down his cheeks.

In reading about the disaster that had befallen his ancestors, he understood why they had chosen to pledge loyalty to each other over King and country. The Baron, charged with protecting them in exchange for taxes, had failed them. Since peasants ... and there were no doubts that they were peasants ... were not allowed to possess weapons, the Baron's failure had left them at the mercy of the Swedes. The Swedes had lacked mercy of any kind.

There was a violence in those times that was unimaginable to the modern mind. By today's standards, pillaging a village and ravaging its occupants was a war crime. In those days, it was just part and parcel of war. A field of grain with peasants to work the field was a source of food for the enemy. Destroying peasants and taking the grain was an acceptable tactic of war. No one expected it to be otherwise. In the ruins of an inn, they realized that the only people they could turn to for help was each other.

It was a sobering thought. In 1643, that kind of sentiment was tantamount to heresy. The accepted hierarchy was God above Church, Church above King, and King above Subjects. For a subject to place himself above the King was to defy the Church. It just wasn't done.

They had accepted a woman, a prostitute no less, to be an equal member of their council. It was a break from custom to raise a woman to that social level. By the time Roberto had recorded the story of that night in his diary, the single men had married the women who had once worked for Helga. In effect, they had given her and her profession a legitimacy that was unprecedented.

Those weren't the only heresies they had committed. They had brought a Jew into their midst, and given him an equal voice in their council. In Spain, anyone suspected of being a Jew, could find themselves facing the Inquisition. The situation was only a little better in Germany. It was agreed that he would publicly declare himself to be a Conversos, a Jew who was a Christian convert, with the name: Gold. In private, the other families would help him practice his Jewish rites.

Their actions would have condemned them to death if anyone in power had learned of them. The Baron would have tortured them before killing them for defying his authority. The Church would have burned them at the stake as heretics. Secrecy was the only way to assure their security. One single misspoken word could doom them all.

Learning that two families had survived intact by hiding in a cellar under the house, explained the Pfand X requirement for a safe room. If more families in that town had had that same option available to them, a lot more of them would have survived the sacking of the town by the Swedes. It was the first lesson of that night, captured in the Pfand.

He had read about how the wife of Siegfried Bauer had led the Swedes away from her family in an attempt to assure their survival. She knew that she would be savagely raped, yet she did it anyway. That kind of bravery and sacrifice was almost unimaginable. Roberto recognized that she would not have died if they'd had a protected escape route to a safe place. It was the second lesson of that night, captured in the Pfand.

There had been a third lesson learned when clearing away the bodies on the morning after the sacking of the town. The wealthiest of the town's people had suffered the worst. The mayor and the male members of his family had been given the Schwedentrunk. The women had been brutally raped, probably in front of the men, before they died as a result of swords inserted through their sex. The priest had been nailed to the church's floor, before the church had been burnt. It was better to be a faceless member of the mob than to stand out from the crowd. The Pfand X stated that they were to live a life of moderation in every respect: wealth, religion, and community.

Anticipating the cold harsh winter, it was obvious that food would be their greatest problem. Their scavenging expeditions through the ruins of the town had allowed them to come up with the barest minimum necessary to survive. The gold coin of Samuel Goldstein had helped significantly, but everyone admitted that his presence in town was fortuitous. The Pfand X stated that they had to have sufficient hidden food and financial resources on hand, to survive until the next harvest.

In light of the lessons of the sacking of the town, and the clean up afterward, the Pfand X was a very practical document. It stated quite clearly what was necessary for survival in an uncaring world. Carl realized very quickly that was why it had managed to last over three and a half centuries.

Reading about how Helga Damenstern and the women who worked for her had survived had intrigued Carl. The way that she had managed to divert the intentions of the Swedish soldiers had been an inspired act of desperation. The amount of courage it had taken to stand in front of soldiers in a state of blood lust and offer the comfortable services of her house to the officers was almost unimaginable. He picked up the biography about her life, which had later been penned by Roberto.

After three hours, he put down the biography. Whether it was her profession or an integral part of her character, Helga Damenstern was exceptionally practical and honest about how the world worked. Every woman, regardless of age or appearance, had an asset between her legs that could serve to protect her or be roughly taken by others. She believed that a smart woman would allow it to protect her by learning to use it to her advantage in every situation.

Helga had spoken of different kinds of sexual congress. There was the congress of love. It was passionate and filled with positive caring emotion. It was the type of sexual congress that was given willingly to lovers.

There was the congress of relief in which a participant expected fun and sexual release from his or her partner. It was a one-sided form of congress, almost selfish at root, unless both partners recognized it for what it was: relief. Having lain with many a married man, she recognized that it had nothing to do with marriage and love. Being a woman, she knew that it was a need that wasn't restricted to just men. It was a view that she repeatedly drilled into the men of the Pfand X.

There was the congress of trade in which a participate would provide congress of relief to another in exchange for something of value. The something of value could be anything including money, food, shelter, or information. She saw this form of sexual congress, i.e., prostitution, as a very fundamental means of survival with which women had been blessed. A man who stood in the way of such congress was threatening the survival of the woman, her children, and often himself. It was a view that was slow to be accepted by the men of the Pfand, particularly when it was their wife or daughter involved in the congress of trade.

She also spoke of the congress of rape, not as a sex act, but as a violent demonstration of power over another by the rapist. This was one of the worst things that could befall a woman, or even a man. Elimination of the threat represented by a rapist, required avoiding or surviving a rape. The key to survival was recognizing that it was an act of power. Playing to the power could eliminate the need for its demonstration. Submitting to the power, could limit the violence of it. Meek submission could turn instantly violent, and catch the rapist by surprise. Even the strongest man, caught unprepared for an attack, could be overcome by a much weaker opponent.

Integral to her view on sex was her opinions about the relationship between men and women. In an idea that was extremely radical for the times, she viewed men and women as being equal partners in the family. The wife was more than cook, housekeeper, nanny, and brood mare; she was a partner in everything.

In times when women weren't allowed to run businesses, she convinced the men of the Pfand to take their wives into their businesses as equal, albeit silent, partners. If an extra hand was needed to plow the field, the husband should turn to the wife. Likewise, the man should support his wife in whatever manner was necessary.

The man who ignored the valuable resource that a wife represented, was a fool. A wife's council would have the husband's best interests at heart. She had just as much at stake in the family's future as the husband. It was practical advice that defied the beliefs of the time. If anyone actually thought about it, they would see she was correct. The Pfand thought about it.

Her attitude about sex and a woman's relationship with a man was remarkable for the time in which she lived. Even more remarkable was that she had been able to get the other members of the Pfand to accept her views. In a way, it spoke highly of the character of the men involved. Rejecting the rigidity of belief that often characterized the peasant mind, they had become agile in their thinking and could accept what was basically the unthinkable. Even today, there were few men outside the Pfand who could entertain the idea of their wife or daughter engaging in 'congress of trade' without anger.

Carl knew that he was having difficulty in accepting that his mother, his sister, and his high school sweetheart had been involved in congress of trade although reading Helga's biography was making it easier. He wasn't sure if it was the subtle change in label that made it more palatable: 'congress of trade' sounded much better than 'prostitution'.

After locking the safe, Carl went upstairs where his sister was putting some of the final touches on his bedroom. The living room was still a disaster, boxes of nick-knacks were piled along one wall, pictures in wooden frames leaned against a box, and furniture was scattered about the room. It would take a while to arrange it to her exacting standard. What he could see of it all, he could envision what the room would look like when she finished.

He walked into the bedroom and looked around. It was a very masculine looking bedroom. Above the solid bed was an oil painting of a nude woman reclining on a settee with an equally naked man between her legs.

Donna asked, "What do you think of the painting?"

"It's rather explicit. I'm not sure that I would have had the nerve to purchase it," Carl answered.

"It's a good painting for a bedroom. It will give your female guests something to anticipate," Donna said.

"I didn't think about it that way," Carl said.

Donna said, "You might want to think about giving Jennifer a call."

"I'll think about it," Carl said.

"Are you concerned about her job?" Donna asked.

"I'd be a liar if I said that I wasn't a little upset about it," Carl answered.

Donna asked, "Do you remember that two year period when the boys and the girls were kept separate from each other at the Cura Private School?"

"Yes."

"That's when got our sex education."

"Same for us," Carl said.

Donna said, "I don't know what the boys got, but the girl's lessons were pretty explicit."

"We ended up having sex with our instructor," Carl said.

"Ours didn't go quite that far," Donna said. "Well, I guess maybe it did. We were given a choice about the time we turned sixteen to have sex with one of our male instructors or to wait until we found the right guy."

"Male instructors? I thought you would have women like us," Carl said.

"We had male and female instructors. We were given the full arsenal of sex toys and taught how to use them on ourselves and on others – including men and women."

"Same here," Carl said.

Donna said, "One of the lessons was to read a cleaned up version of Helga Damenstern's biography."

"Cleaned up?"

"All references to the Pfand were removed. Her name was changed. The time period in which the events took place was two hundred years later," Donna said.

"That makes sense," Carl said.

"At the time that I read it, I didn't know that it had been cleaned up. It was presented as excerpts from a personal diary that had been found," Donna said. "It really affected me a lot. I mean, the whole idea that my vagina was the greatest survival asset, was just earthshaking to me. Until reading that, all of the history that I had learned, presented men as the foundation of survival for the family.

"Women were nothing but brood mares. Women were weak. Even queens had to fight for recognition as political powers. Henry VIII married and disposed of wives in a constant effort to get a male heir. Queen Elizabeth I, one of the strongest queens in history, was under unrelenting pressure to get married and have babies. It was almost enough to make me regret being born a woman.

"Then one day in school, I'm reading a diary that is a couple of hundred years old. It says women can use sex for love, for fun, and for survival of the family. I was enthralled when she described how the wife of the miller saved the town by having a long term sexual relationship with a Prince..."

Carl said, "I didn't get to that part yet."

"Actually, in Helga's biography, it was the new Baron who came to town and it was Gertrude Grun who had the long term affair with him. It was more or less expected that a woman would sleep with a nobleman and the husband would not complain."

Carl said, "Why would Gertrude Grun have a long term affair with the new Baron when there was a Damenstern available?

Donna said, "Helga was there and quite prepared to entertain the Baron. Unfortunately, the Baron had other ideas. He had become infatuated with Gertrude. It should be noted that Gertrude was a rather busty woman, whose chest was probably exaggerated as a result of carrying steins of beer around. Helga, as well as Ernest Grun, picked up on the fact that the Baron was interested in Gertrude. Ernest was not happy.

"Helga knew that trouble was on the horizon. She managed to get Ernest off to the side, and explained to him that the Baron was going to have Gertrude, whether he wanted it or not. Ernest, despite being upset, knew that Helga was correct. Putting a smile on his face, Ernest went out and made sure the Baron had the best food and beer that was available at the gasthaus.

While Ernest was plying the Baron with food and drink, Helga was busy talking with Gertrude and explaining that she shouldn't resist the Baron's advances. In fact, she should play up to the Baron about how rich and powerful he was. Using flattery and all of the other tools that a woman has at her disposal, she was to get the Baron talking about himself and what plans he had for the Barony. She was to be the best lover that the Baron ever experienced.

"To make a long story short, she spent the entire night with the Baron. When she wasn't keeping the Baron busy in bed, she kept him busy talking about himself. He told her why he was there and what he planned to do. The Baron didn't fall in love with her, but he did appreciate her skills in bed.

"In the morning, Gertrude told her husband ... who happened to be in a very grumpy mood ... that the Baron suspected that a number of people in town were holding back on their tithes to him and he was having every house searched. By the time the Baron had finished breakfast, every member of the Pfand had hidden away anything of value that had been in their house. Of course, the first place they searched was the gasthaus. The Baron's men only found the coin they had spent plus a few coins consistent with what a gasthaus would have with local trade.

"Ernest, as a result of his wife's warning, had managed to hide a hundred times that amount during breakfast. After a massive search of the other houses, the Baron left believing that he could not get more in tithes from this poor town. Not a single member of the Pfand lost the smallest coin as a result of her warning."

Carl asked, "How did Ernest feel?"

"I'm sure you can imagine. On one hand he was upset that Gertrude had spent the night with the Baron. On the other hand, he was pleased to have kept his head attached to his shoulders, and to keep his money, also. I would also say that Helga probably helped a little. After all, she spent the night with Ernest."

"I feel sorry for Ernest," Carl said.

Donna said, "In a way, Ernest and Gertrude became heroes within the Pfand. Families that could have lost the bulk of their savings and, possibly their lives, thanked the pair of them. Everyone realized just how valuable of a service Gertrude had performed for the Pfand. Helga made sure that Ernest was portrayed as having behaved in the way that a man should act and that Gertrude was portrayed as being the kind of supportive wife that any man should wish for. As you might suspect, that helped both of them come to grips with what they had done."

"It sounds like a fairy tale to me."

"In a way, it is, but it isn't fiction."

"Still, I just can't imagine some guy in 1643, or whenever it took place, patting another guy on the back and saying that he respected him for having let his wife sleep with another man. I really can't imagine some guy being okay with his wife sleeping with someone else," Carl said.

He couldn't imagine that happening in 2010. Most men today would divorce their wife and find another woman who would say, 'Not me. I'm not sleeping with that jerk.'

Donna said, "That's because you're not seeing it from the perspective of a man who has seen nearly everyone in his town die violent horrible deaths at the hands of well armed soldiers. The Baron was surrounded by well armed soldiers. He was a very real threat. For the amount of money they were hiding from the Baron, the punishment would have been death. You don't think they appreciated what Gertrude did. She saved their asses!"

"So what happened next?"

"Well, Gertrude slept with the Baron every time he came to town. Each time she managed to get him to tell her why he was there. Once he was there to find young men to serve in his guard. When the Baron went to look over the young men, the only ones of the Pfand that were available were those who wanted to be there. The others were busy in the fields or off doing something else. The Baron, very pleased with his visit, left town with two young men ... one of them was the son of Manfred Wache."

"That worked out well for everyone," Carl said.

"The details in the story version that we read in school differed in minor ways, but the essence remained true to the events reported in Helga's biography. The fact that things worked out well for everyone involved is what got to me. I thought about that story a lot. To me, Gertrude was a heroine. She was a wife of a respected man who was more or less forced to sleep with a nobleman. Instead of fighting it, she turned it to her advantage and in the process essentially saved her husband and the town."

Carl asked, "Is that when you decided to be an escort?"

"I was wondering when you would figured out that I used to work as an escort in New York," Donna said.

"I suspected it when you were talking about having retired and knowing that you are a member of the Weber family now," Carl said.

"What do you think of me?" Donna asked.

"I don't know. Did you want to be an escort?"

Donna said, "Actually, I wanted to be an interior decorator."

"So how did you become an escort?" Carl asked.

"When I graduated high school, a Weber came to talk to me about interior decorating. I imagine the discussion was much like when you joined the Bauer family. It was only after I joined that I learned that mother was a member of the Damenstern family. I heard about what a great woman our mother was. I couldn't believe it.

"Well, I talked to mother after having joined the Weber family. To say that I was shocked when I learned what mother had done in the past would be an understatement. I screamed at her. I called her a whore. She laughed at me and said that she was a Damenstern and damned proud of it.

"She told me about what she had done in Washington. The stories she told were just like the one in that book that I had read in sex education. She had slept with Senators and learned the backroom deals that were being made well before they became public knowledge. You wouldn't believe the kinds of things she discovered. Even today, every time I talk to an older member of the Pfand, they all praise mother."

Carl asked, "Did mother convince you to become an escort?"

"No, but she changed my thinking on the matter. I dropped the prostitute as victim mindset as a result of talking to Mom. She also convinced me that there was nothing romantic about it. I had seen Gertrude as a romantic figure. Mom straightened me out on that matter. Gertrude was a pragmatic figure."

Carl was getting frustrated. He was still trying to figure out how Donna had become an escort and she kept changing the conversation.

"So what convinced you to become an escort?"

"I've been telling you that."

"Continue with your story," Carl said giving up on ever getting an answer.

Donna rolled her eyes. "I was busy searching for a good location for my business. Every time I would go somewhere, I would stay with someone in the Pfand. Mostly I stayed with Gruns, either at their home or in their hotel. Occasionally, I would stay with a Damenstern. Almost every Damenstern would sigh and say it was a shame that I wasn't interested in the escort business because with looks like mine I could make millions just like my mother had.

"One day, I challenged Wanda Damen to prove to me that I could make millions. She took me shopping. Five hours later, she had spent over five thousand dollars on outfits for me. Of course, she said it was just a loan. That night, I went on my first date as an escort. We went to a fancy restaurant, a cocktail party, and then to his hotel. All he wanted was good old fashioned straight sex. Even though he paid for the whole night, he sent me home before two in the morning.

"I come home from a date with a check for twenty thousand dollars from the escort agency, a tip of five thousand dollars in my purse, and the knowledge that my date had a meeting the next day with another man about finalizing a merger. The next day, Wanda took me to the bank. She left with five thousand dollars of my earnings. I left with five thousand dollars of my earnings. The tip about the merger and the remaining fifteen thousand were given to a Goldstein.

"My next date went the same way although he definitely wanted more than straight sex and he kept me all night. The man was a real slime bucket. I mean, he was pretty horrible and didn't even give me a tip. I later discovered that I was a 'gift' for the Senator. I came home with a lot of money and a lot of knowledge that some major scam was taking place in the energy industry. A company name kept coming up in the conversation. Another trip to the bank and I left all of my money and knowledge with a Goldstein.

"I figure that I've had two dates and made about forty-five thousand dollars. It sounds like a lot of money, but it isn't. At that rate, it would take an awful lot of dates to make millions. I told Wanda that. She laughed at me and then told me to call Goldstein. He tells me I'm worth a hundred and fifty thousand dollars and that if the tip about the energy company collapsing was correct, that I'd be worth a hundred times that in a couple of months.

"My third date takes me to a cocktail party with a lot of financial analysts who are talking the whole evening about the weird accounting practices taking place at some company in the energy business. I'm standing there listening to all of this like some kind of bubble headed blonde with a vacuous expression on my face. Later, I tell my date that he must be so brilliant to understand all of that stuff about accounting practices. I'm really feeding his ego. Well, he explains it all to me. He tells me what he thinks is happening. I'm shocked when I discover the magnitude of the scam that has been perpetrated.

"I take my money to the bank and hand it all over to the Goldstein. He told me that I was now worth more than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He smiles at me and says that he had seen me at the cocktail party. He had confirmed that my tip was a good one and we were going to make a fortune. I tell him about what my date had told me. The Goldstein gets real excited.

"I realized that Wanda had been right about being able to make millions as an escort. So far, I'm making over eighty thousand dollars a date. For an nineteen year old woman, that's a lot of money for a little sex. I officially became a Damenstern.

"The next thing I know, I'm getting calls from other members of the Pfand thanking me for making them millions on the basis of my merger tip. I discover that I'm getting another quarter of a million dollars as thanks for my tip. I've gone on three dates in one month and I've earned half a million dollars. Needless to say, I'm stunned."

"I can imagine," Carl said.

"I was still thinking about opening a home decorating company, but by that time I was a little more willing to put it off for a couple of years. I mean, I was making a lot of money."

"I can understand that. It's got to be tempting," Carl said.

"I started taking four or five dates a month with some of the movers and shakers in the financial industry. It's almost always the same, a little dinner, a social event of some kind, a little entertainment, a lot of ego stroking, a little sex, sometimes a lot of sex, and a lot of information. I realized that the twenty thousand I'm getting from the escort agency was nothing compared to the knowledge that I'm getting. There's a lot of greedy bastards out there and they've egos the size of the solar system.

"Then one day I hear on the news about an energy company and a major scam that had been perpetrated. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The stock in the company was dropping like a rock. I'm thinking, I'm ruined.

"I get a call from my Goldstein. He's telling that I was now worth over five million dollars, and if the stock fell to around ten dollars a share that I would be worth sixteen million. He had invested every dollar that I had given him against the company and it was paying off big time. Ultimately, I ended up with about twenty-six million as a result of the fall of that one company."

"Jesus," Carl said.

"For the next four years I kept taking four or five dates a month..."

"Wait a second, you say that you were only taking four or five dates a month?" Carl asked imagining that an escort dated every night.

"Yes. When your dates are some of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the country, they don't want people to know that you're an escort. As result, you might have dates with one or two men in a particular social circle. The arrangement will last for a couple months or even a year, but you are limited to who you can date. You don't want to show up on the arm of the business competitor of your last date one week and then on the arm of one of his competitors the next week. If you're lucky, you might break into four or five different social circles."

"What do you mean by social circles?"

"The automotive people, oil barons, investment bankers, entertainers, fashion folks, real estate moguls, and other major business areas each form a closed social circle. Basically, a social circle is made of people who are brought together because they have common business interests."

"Interesting," Carl said.

Donna said, "From my perspective it was good that I had to limit my contact within a specific social circle and to engage as many social circles as possible. If I met with the same people all of the time, I would not learn much new. If I was stuck with the same group, it might be five or six months between good tips. As it was, in an average month, I might pick up one tip that was worth something."

"I get it."

"Well, after a while I got tired of dealing with power hungry assholes and jerks. I quit dating, for the most part, and took over the New York escort agency."

"Why did you retire from running the agency?"

Donna grinned. "That's a long story. Despite running the agency, I would still go on an occasional date. One day I got a request for a woman and a bisexual man for a single private date..."

"Your agency dealt with bisexuals?"

"Bisexual men and women, lesbians, and gays. There's a demand for all of them," Donna said. "You learn not to be too judgmental."

"I suppose so," Carl said.

"I didn't have anyone available, so I call up this guy who retired a couple of years earlier. I make the arrangements for him and I to met with the client. So we get there and start talking. By the end of the evening, I've really fallen for Jake..."

"Jake? Your Jake?"

"Yes."

"He was your client?"

"No. He's the guy I called out of retirement."

"Jake was a prostitute?" Carl asked.

"I guess you didn't figure that one out," Donna said.

"I'm just surprised."

"I learned that Jake had a home decorating business here where we grew up. We dated for a while and then I married him. I retired from the escort business, returned to being a Weber, and went into the interior decorating business with him."

"I had no idea," Carl said. "I can't believe he's bisexual."

"He's not really bisexual. He can perform and that's all that's required. You don't have to enjoy the act, just act like you enjoy it. That's what congress of trade is all about," Donna said.

"I never thought of it that way," Carl said.

Donna asked, "So what do you think of your big sister now?"

"It's a lot to take in."

"You'll get used to the idea of what I've done, over time," Donna said softly.

"It's all just so sudden. I had no idea," Carl said apologetically.

Donna said, "You might want to talk a little with Mom and Silvia Farmer before it's too late. They might let you understand a little better than I can."

"Too late for what?" Carl asked.

"Jennifer."

"What about Jennifer?"

"You know what she does," Donna said.

"She's an escort."

"Right. She's looking to retire in a year or two," Donna said.

"What is she planning on doing?"

"She's planning on going into public relations. She has been taking college courses at Columbia in communications," Donna said.

"She'd be great at that," Carl said.

Donna said, "She'd love to be in charge of public relations for a brand new gourmet pickle company."

"Why on earth would she choose a pickle company?"

"Are you serious?"

"You're right. Stupid question."

Donna asked, "Why did you choose to make pickles?"

Carl laughed at the question. He didn't know how many people had asked him that. It was like no one could believe that someone would want to make pickles.

Carl answered, "At school we had to work in the garden."

Donna said, "I remember doing that. I hated it. For an hour every morning and every afternoon, we had to go out there and weed. I grew a bunch of carrots. Every week I had to plant more carrots. I picked carrots until I thought my name was Bugs Bunny."

Carl said, "I was in charge of the cucumbers. I planted about three different varieties of cucumbers because I didn't know the difference between one kind of cucumber and another. I figured with three different kinds of cucumbers that one of them would be good to eat.

"Unlike you, I really enjoyed taking care of my cucumbers. Every time I went out to the garden, I would check each hill to see how my plants were doing. I weeded, fertilized, and watered them.

"I guess as a result of all of the work I put into my plants, I had a bumper crop. I'm talking about hundreds of cucumbers. There was absolutely no way we were going to be able eat all of them. They were going to throw the ones we couldn't use away, but I didn't like that idea at all. I mean, I had put a lot of work into raising them. I decided to pickle the ones we weren't going to eat.

"I don't mean to brag, but my pickles were the best pickles I've ever eaten. Everyone agreed with me that they were damned good pickles. The next year, I didn't get to work in the garden, but I did get to work in the kitchen. Guess what? I got to make another batch of pickles and they were even better.

"After graduating from the Cura Private School, I continued to make pickles as a hobby. Every summer break during college, I made pickles. Sweet pickles, dill pickles, garlic-dill pickles, and a dozen other recipes. When I graduated, I looked around and decided I wanted to continue making pickles."

"That's an incredible story," Donna said.

"I am good at it, so why not?" Carl said.

"So how's it going?"

Carl was silent for a moment. "I don't know. Tom Farmer called me this morning and said that he wants to meet with me next Monday to discuss the matter. He says there's a problem with going into the pickle business. When I asked him what the problem was, he said he couldn't explain it over the phone."

"That doesn't sound good," Donna said with a worried expression on her face.

"I know. Five days ago, he thought it was a great idea. We even have a real estate agent looking for a place to put the processing plant," Carl said.

"I don't understand why he would suddenly reverse himself like that," Donna said.

"Neither do I," Carl said.

"Maybe you can meet with him sooner than next Monday."

"He's traveling on business."

Donna said, "I should get back to decorating your bedroom. Hubby's waiting for me at home. I want to get there before he gets tired of waiting and finds someone younger than me."

"Younger? Not prettier?"

"Look at me! I'm one hot babe!"

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 6


"Welcome to Wilowra, Australia."

"Where is it?" Tom asked.

He had looked out the window of the plane on the way there. He hadn't seen anything that looked like a town anywhere below.

"About twenty miles south of here."

"We're in the middle of nowhere," Tom said.

"That's the whole idea. We're having a meeting in the middle of nowhere."

"There's got to be two hundred people here," Tom said.

The view out the window of the plane when they had been landing had shown him a lot of people milling around. It looked like a three-ringed circus. There were three helicopters parked on the ground, two jets, fifteen SUVs parked everywhere, a couple dozen trailers, and a few tents.

"They're our crew."

"It looks like a zoo out there. That's not exactly keeping a low profile."

"We're on the set of a movie. That crew out there is making a film. There are cameras and props. We've got actors, directors, makeup people, and grips. Every one of them is a Wache."

"A movie?"

"That's right. Unless I get the money situation fixed, it may never be released."

"That's a shame," Tom said understanding that his host was avoiding any mention of why they were there while explaining that this was cover for their meeting.

"Locals keep coming out to take a gander, but we keep herding them away so that nothing walks off the set unless we let it walk away."

"What did the locals say when they heard you were making a movie here?"

"They laughed and told us we were out of our fucking minds. They said it was too bloody hot."

Tom and the other gentleman climbed down a covered stairway to the ground. The man lifted up a section of the ground to reveal the entrance to a tunnel. The man handed him a card. 'Go through the tunnel until you hit the first door. There are stairs up to the meeting room.'

The man said, "We've got to get in the SUV and go over to the set. The little folks need to know that the producer is on top of things."

Tom entered the tunnel. He could hear the pilot and co-pilot coming down the covered stairway. Three men would get off the plane and drive to the set. No one would know about the fourth man who got of the plane. At the end of the tunnel, the Watchman, head of the Wache family, was waiting for him.

After shuttling around for almost half a day to get to an airport, taking three flights with changes of plane taking place inside hangers, and now sneaking into a trailer through a tunnel, Tom asked, "Isn't this a little excessive?"

"Hey, you called for a kind of meeting that hasn't been held in over sixty years. If someone knows about us, then I have to assume they are watching us. There are folks that can shine lasers on our windows from sixteen miles away and hear every word we say. There are satellites that can estimate the size of your cock through your pants."

Tom felt a little uneasy about the problems his message may have caused. He hoped that the others would agree with his assessment of the situation. At the same time, he really wished someone would have an alternate explanation for what was happening. His belief might be based on hearsay and circumstantial evidence, but there was just so much of it, that he couldn't ignore the simple conclusion that the Pfand was under attack.

They climbed a set of stairs that led into a double-wide trailer that was set up like a conference room. Tom was the last to arrive and went to his assigned seat.

Eighteen generations can come up with some traditions that become ingrained. It was tradition for the heads of the families to use titles rather than names when addressing each other about Pfand business. In 1643 there weren't secure meeting rooms, but there was darkness. Anyone overhearing a muffled conservation on a dark night and from a distance would hear only titles exchanged and not names. Names could identify someone while a title didn't.

There was a large round table with ten places equally spaced around it. Each place setting had a name plate identifying the family line, using only the title of the head of the family. Although there was a fixed order of seating, it was tradition for the individual who called a meeting of this kind to sit to the right of the head of the Wache family, the heads of the Damenstern and Grun families to sit next to each other, and the heads of the Goldstein and Curador families to sit next to each other. Outside of that, it was basically sit where ever.

Consistent with tradition, the Watchman was seated to Tom's left. He was a solid looking man, with short hair, blue eyes, and a thin tight mouth. He exuded confidence in how he held himself and moved with the grace of a panther.

The Woodman, head of the Wald family, was next to the Watchman. Her hair was short, there were wrinkles from the sun around her eyes, and her skin had a generally leather-like appearance. In build, she was a hefty woman who looked like she would be very comfortable out on a construction site.

The Smith, head of the Schmied family, was the next person at the table. Unlike his namesake, he was a small man with delicate looking hands. He looked like the stereotype of an engineer complete with black framed glasses. His shirt suggested it was a rare occasion when his pocket was without a pocket protector.

The Innkeeper, head of the Grun family, sat beside The Smith. He was perhaps the most unremarkable looking person at the table. He was the kind of man who could go unnoticed, in an empty room.

The Whore, head of the Damenstern family, sat beside the Grun. She was an elegant looking woman. If one didn't know her occupation, one would think she was royalty. She just had that kind of majestic presence. Her eyes could turn from warm and pleasant to cold and hard in an instant.

The Drover, head of the Wagner family, sat next to the Whore. He looked like a cowboy. He had a slim build with rough facial features. His brown eyes seemed to stare off into the distance. His movements were stiff as if he had back problems.

The Weaver, head of the Weber family, was next at the table. Although her business was clothing, she dressed like a frump. It was almost as if clothes weren't important to her. Her hair was a mess that would give nightmares to a beautician.

Next at the table was the Banker, head of the Goldstein family. He looked like a banker. He was a little overweight, but not overly noticeable. His hair was grayed at the temples. He sat, ramrod straight, with his hands folded on the table in front of him.

Seated to the right of Tom was the Scholar, head of the Curador family. She was the smallest person at the table, just a hair over five feet tall with small delicate features.

The Watchman said, "Now that the Landowner is here, it is time to start this meeting. Since the Landowner called this meeting, he should start it by explaining why we're here."

Tom took a deep breath. "There is threat to the Pfand that is likely to destroy it."

Although everyone in the room expected to hear those words, having them spoken aloud still caused a reaction. Everyone tried to ask the same question all at the same time.

The Smith's voice overwhelmed the others when he asked, "What kind of threat?"

"I believe that there exists a group that is making a systematic attempt to take over total control of the food industry."

A number of eyebrows rose upon hearing that. It was clear that few of them believed him. The idea of taking total control of the food industry sounded ludicrous.

"A number of food companies are transitioning to their own trucks and away from independent trucking companies."

The Drover fixed Tom with a stare. He hadn't thought about how many food companies were setting up their own trucking fleets. There was still plenty of business, but that might not be true for much longer. What would happen if the burger companies decided to make trucking one of their business areas? He growled.

"At least two chains have created construction companies to build their stores."

The Woodman, head of the Wald family, rubbed his chin with a thoughtful expression on his face. He knew some large chains had prefab buildings that could be moved in and set in a matter of a couple of weeks. It was one of those things that slipped below his radar. Was it possible they might transition into the construction business?

"They are purchasing the companies that manufacture the equipment they use."

The Smith frowned. They were already having problems in the manufacturing area. There were too many regulations. It wasn't labor that was forcing them out, but the cost of complying with so many regulations. Some of the families had moved their operations overseas.

Tom said, "It is only a matter of time before the food industry falls. We've four, maybe five, years."

The Smith said, "You might be a little over optimistic in your estimate. It might be sooner than that. Manufacturing in this country is basically dead. They've outlawed some of the products we make. Even stupid simple things like light bulbs. I can't make incandescent light bulbs because they are illegal and I can't make fluorescent light bulbs because of mercury and the EPA."

The Innkeeper said, "The high price of gasoline and the high unemployment rate are killing the hotel industry. I've got hotels along the highways that are running at five percent occupancy, even when they are only charging forty-five dollars a night. We've got husband and wife teams running places alone and they're working twenty-four hours a day. We're still having a problem covering costs."

The Woodman said, "I'm not going to talk about housing."

The Scholar asked, "How much of this is due to the economy?"

The Whore answered, "I'm positive that it is intentional, particularly the situation concerning farming."

Nearly everyone sat up straighter. When a member of the Damenstern talked about plots, everyone believed that person.

"Why do you say that?" the Scholar asked.

It wasn't that he doubted her, but he wanted to know what she might know that hadn't come to his attention. He had a lot of information that suggested the same thing was happening in the agricultural industry. His desk, at home, was loaded with cases of Pfand owned farms filing bankruptcy, fighting legal actions, and strangling under red tape.

"Four women who worked for us were killed. One of them managed to tell us before she died that an agriculture mega-firm was planning on stealing billions of acres of farm land," the Whore answered.

The Watchman said, "There are some additional details about that particular case that came to light. One of the executives of a rather large breakfast cereal company turned up dead at the same time. The best that we have been able to establish is that he attended the party with the women who were killed. We suspect that he was killed for having talked about their plans with the escorts."

The Whore said, "That's not good."

The Innkeeper asked, "Is there any chance that this party took place in one of our facilities?"

The Watchman answered, "We don't know where it took place. When the arrangements were made, the women were supposed to be picked up in a limousine in Chicago and taken to the party. The women were found in New York."

The Whore said, "The Damenstern who arranged the party tells me that the arrangements were quite clear that the party was supposed to take place in downtown Chicago, in a private home. However, it appears that the women were taken somewhere else. The man whom she dealt with has disappeared as well. She had done a lot of business with him in the past, and is now concerned that he might be dead."

The Watchman said, "We've been unable to locate him."

"This whole thing stinks," the Smith said.

The Weaver had been silent to this point. She had been considering the impact on her industry. She asked, "What about cotton and wool?"

"I don't know of anything that is threatening wool at the moment. Cotton hasn't been a great money maker until recently. There's a shortage of cotton and the price has suddenly shot up. I imagine both will be targeted before long, also."

The Banker, head of the Goldstein family, said, "I see signs that money is starting to move. It will take some time for us to see what is going on. Right now, I can't tell you who has what, nor how much. I really hope the Landowner is wrong."

Tom said, "I'm convinced that the government is involved in this up to its neck."

"Can you identify who in the government is calling the shots?" the Woodman asked.

Tom said, "I can't identify a single person in charge."

The Weaver asked, "Is there any evidence?"

The Scholar said, "I've got plenty of evidence that the Landowner is right."

"Like what?"

"Lawrence Plante was arrested by homeland security."

The Woodman shouted, "Homeland Security has got one of our people!"

The Smith asked, "Why on earth would they arrest him?"

Tom answered, "He's a farmer. He had fertilizer for his crops and fuel for his farm equipment. If you are a good guy and put those two together, you get a tractor being used to fertilize a field. If you are a bad guy and put those two together, you get an explosive. DHS decided that he wasn't a farmer, but was a bad guy."

The Weaver said, "We've got to get him out of there. What if they..."

The Watchman interrupted, "Lawrence died yesterday before they could get any hint about the Pfand from him."

Tom said, "Damn!"

Although he had told the Watchman to use his discretion concerning the resolution of this problem, he had hoped that Lawrence wouldn't be killed. Lawrence hadn't done anything wrong except to be a farmer.

"What happened?" the Scholar asked.

The Watchman said, "Assisted suicide. One of our people inside DHS managed to slip him a poisoned piece of paper with the sword of the Wache under the words, 'Eat me, ' written on it. He ate it and died."

"How do you know he's dead?"

"Our person inside DHS helped remove the body," the Watchman said.

He had also checked to make sure that the body was autopsied. Lawrence was definitely dead. It was a shame that the cause of death wouldn't ever officially be determined. Certain lab tests had been contaminated as a result of a water leak in some of the labs plumbing.

The Whore asked, "I'm sorry he died. Was it necessary?"

The Watchman answered, "Yes. According to our man inside, they were going to start using more advanced interrogation techniques. They were convinced that he was a member of some kind of organization. They would have gotten everything Lawrence knew about the Pfand out of him."

The Wache inside DHS had been present during several of the interrogations. These were the informal interrogations where a couple of agents chatted with the suspect about trivial matters in an attempt to build trust. An agent would tell a little story about going fishing with a buddy in an attempt to get Lawrence talking about his buddies.

The Wache did his part in the interrogation making up a story about the last time he had gone hunting. During an appropriate time in the story, he had given Lawrence the sign of the Wache, a sword standing upright, to let the man know that he was of the Pfand. A casual observer would have seen the sign as a poorly made cross, but Lawrence had recognized it for what it was.

Lawrence had then complained intensely and bitterly about his incarceration to the interrogator while giving as many details about his treatment as possible to the Wache. Lawrence had asked the interrogator questions about his family. The interrogator had avoided answering the questions. The Wache had shifted his weight from one leg to another to provide the answers. After not getting any answers from the interrogator, Lawrence had sat back, made an ill-formed cross, and exclaimed, 'You might as well kill me now.' Upon being questioned why they should kill him, he had answered that they weren't going to ever let him go.

"Damn," Tom said.

"He knew he was going to disappear for good. He let us know that he was ready to die," the Watchman said.

The Whore asked, "What about his family?"

The Watchman answered, "They are now living in a tropical paradise with a bodyguard."

Tom was relieved to hear that.

The Watchman said, "In case you're wondering, his home was totally destroyed by a gas leak. His wife set off the self-destruct before leaving the house. There's no evidence of the Pfand remaining."

The Woodman said, "That's how a member of the Pfand is supposed to act. That whole family ... well ... they're heroes."

Tom said, "I'll tell his wife about Lawrence on my way back to the states."

The Watchman said, "It's too dangerous. You can bet that every three letter agency is searching for them."

The Drover asked, "Just how deeply is the government involved in this?"

Tom described some of the actions that the government had been taking against farmers. He spoke about the water situation, the milk spill prevention plan, and the regulations that were in the works. He described how crops had been mysteriously infected and accidentally destroyed. It was a pretty bleak picture that he painted. He started presenting the Curador investigations into unnatural spreading of plant diseases.

He hadn't finished presenting his evidence when the Watchman slammed his hand on the table. Surprised, Tom looked over at the Watchman. The Watchman looked furious.

"Stop it. I'm so mad that I want to kill someone. You've convinced me well beyond a reasonable doubt," the Watchman said. "Is there anyone in this room who isn't convinced?"

No one answered.

The Scholar said, "I'm sure that we're all convinced. There are a few things you need to know."

The Woodman asked, "What?"

The Weaver asked, "What else do we need to know? I mean, you've told us that they are going to control food and clothes. What's left? Shelter?"

"Yes, shelter could be going too. The housing market collapse has put a lot of home construction companies out of business. About the only construction going on is business and high density dwelling. My firm is big enough to build high density dwellings – apartments, townhouses, and condos. I'm getting just enough to keep me in business," the Woodman answered.

The Scholar told them about scientific investigations into the fungus that had been introduced in a few coca plantations in Central America. It was not enough to severely cripple the harvest, but it represented a good test case for the next year or the year after that. He presented a time line, based on weak evidence and a lot speculation, that suggested that while they were seeing the first moves towards grabbing complete control over food, that the real action couldn't happen for at least another three years. They would likely get control over the dairy industry in a year, maybe two, but that would be their first major agricultural sector they'd control. It was their invasion of Poland using a World War II metaphor.

Tom exploded. "That would kill all of our dairy processing companies. We'd lose our plants that make ice cream, cheeses, packaged milk, and..."

"It would also kill our trucking companies that transport your milk and finished products," the Drover said.

The Banker said, "I don't think the money is there for them to move on that large of a scale right now."

The Whore said, "Screw that. Spit in one hand and wish in the other, then tell me which one is full first. We've got to assume they will do it today."

"But the money..."

"Screw the money. If I got it right, all it will take is two major milk spills and we'd be lucky if the selling price of a dairy farm is a dollar."

"Actually, you're probably right about that," the Scholar said.

Tom said, "I should have caught this earlier."

The Whore snorted. "You? You think you should have caught it earlier? No. I should have caught it earlier. That's the job of my family and we've failed. I'm embarrassed. I'm angry. I can tell you one thing. The people behind this are going to learn that you don't want to piss off a whore!"

The Watchman said, "I appreciate that, but we are going to have to be careful."

"I'm going to be careful. Don't worry about that."

Tom asked, "What are we supposed to do?"

The Watchman said, "We find out who is behind all of this and we kill them. It could be a real bloodbath. They are dead. They just don't know it, yet."

The Smith said, "All of this talk about killing is one thing, but we don't know who they are."

"We'll find out."

The Scholar said, "I need to get my family working on tracing all of the paperwork. There's got to be something that identifies who or what is behind this. I just need to get them to a safe place."

"I've got empty hotels all over this country. Pick one. Hell, pick a hundred of them. Let them move around," the Innkeeper said.

The Drover said, "I can move people all over this country without them ever being seen."

The Innkeeper said, "My hotels have internet. Your folks will be connected."

The Scholar said, "That's good. We can set up servers in Nigeria, Cambodia, China, Bangladesh, and the Philippines. We can route all of our searches through them."

The Banker said, "While you're doing your search, I'll have my people follow the money."

"You'll want them in hotels, too."

"I agree."

The Watchman said, "I'll bring in one or two of these government inspectors for questioning. It's kind of strange that people are showing up and writing violations of regulations that don't exist. I figure we'll get one who knows who is giving the orders."

Tom Farmer said, "I can have my people talk to other farmers. We'll collect as much evidence as we can. At the worst, we can find an inspector for you to question."

The Drover said, "I've got three thousand truck drivers picking up or delivering loads in every town in this country. If they can't find something for us, I'll eat my shoe."

The Whore said, "You're forgetting that we're in Australia, at the moment."

Everyone laughed. There was a need for a little lightening of the atmosphere.

"You know what I mean."

The Whore said, "You forget that I live in Amsterdam."

"I did forget that."

Getting very serious, the Whore said, "I'll put my people on it. You don't have to sleep with the people at the top, to find out what the people at the top are doing. I promise that a third of the directors of food companies will get laid in the next six months. Some of them are going to talk."

The Smith said, "I'm going send out a recall a part, common to most food production machines. I'll get someone inside factories, to see if there's anything odd going on."

"What good would that do?"

The Smith said, "You never know. Some of those places could have capacity out the ass, just sitting idle as they wait for the smaller guys to shutdown."

The Woodman had been getting frustrated. She wanted to contribute in some fashion, but she didn't see much that she could really do. Outside of construction and furniture, she was pretty far removed from the food production industry.

She said, "There's not too much that I can see for me to do. I will put out word to look for any facilities that are being built under unusual circumstances. If the bad guys don't have spare capacity, they'll have to build it. My people know all of the site inspectors and even our competitors. Perhaps, they can pick up something from one of them."

The Watchman asked, "Does anyone else have any other ideas about what we can do to identify who is after us?"

Tom sat there staring down at the table for a minute hoping someone would make a suggestion. He didn't like the idea that was rattling around in the back of his head.

Finally, he said, "A young man by the name of Carl wants to start a gourmet pickle company."

"A pickle factory?"

"What can I say? He likes making pickles. That isn't the important thing, though. He wants to open a food processing plant. Everyone is going to try to shut him down. I've got a feeling that it is going to get real bad for him," Tom replied.

"How bad can it be? Unemployment is through the roof. The government should want us to create as many jobs as possible."

Tom said, "An important ingredient in making pickles is vinegar. Vinegar is an acid. Can you imagine what kind of red tape they'll throw in his way over that? The Department of Transportation is going to want to approve the routes that trucks take in delivering the vinegar, because of the increased traffic they'll represent. The EPA will get involved because a spill would be 'horrible'. The FDA will be there in tutus and ballerina slippers, just hoping to prove that he's a danger to the poor consumer."

The Scholar said, "He's right."

The Watchman said, "Will he be willing to be our bait?"

"I think so," Tom said. "I've already got a meeting with Carl arranged for Monday."

The Whore asked, "Are we talking about my little Jennifer's love interest, Carl?"

"Yes."

The Whore said, "The young man will need emotional support. I'll have her in his house in the morning."

The Watchman said, "No, he needs protection. I'll send Samantha to live with him. She's very competent at protection services."

"Send them both," Tom said.

"Lucky Carl," the Whore said with a grin.

The Scholar said, "No one outside the Pfand can be involved in any way. There's too much at risk."

The Banker said, "There's too much money in play. We can't trust anyone who is not in the Pfand."

The Watchman said, "I agree."

Looking directly at Tom, the Whore said, "I'll have to call some of my family out of retirement."

"I understand," Tom said.

It wouldn't be the first time she had been called out of retirement. She liked to keep a hand in the business, so to speak. He hoped she wouldn't get a dangerous assignment. Of course, Lawrence showed that times were already very dangerous.

The Banker asked, "How much of our wealth are we willing to expend against this threat?"

The Woodman answered, "All of it."

Sitting up, the Whore asked, "All?"

The Scholar said, "She's correct. We've gathered this wealth to protect us against all threats. This is it. This is the big one. If we fail, there will be no place to hide. They'll control all of the food. We'll be slaves if they don't manage to hunt us down and kill us."

The Whore asked, "How much money are we talking about?"

"Collectively?"

"Yes."

"In direct assets, we own more than three trillion; but we control a little less than seven trillion dollars."

Whistling, Tom said, "That's a pretty big war chest."

The Banker said, "I just hope it is big enough!"

The Scholar said, "All we have to do is expose them. Attempting a criminal act like will not go unpunished."

The Woodman asked, "What now?"

"I suggest that we go to our trailers and contact the members of our family. We have to let everyone know that we are threatened," the Watchman said.

"I'll write my message and I'll give it to you," the Whore said.

The heads of families never posted the warnings from their homes out of fear that it might be intercepted or traced back to them. Instead, they gave it to a Wache who would then post from a secure machine.

The Watchman said, "Not this time. I've set up secure computers in the trailers for you to use. You can post your messages yourself."

"Okay," the Whore said.

The Watchman said, "We've got an underground passage from here to the trailers. There are three of them. You can sort out the sleeping arrangements. I'll let you know right now that I've got my stuff in trailer number one."

Tom shuffled through the tunnel thinking about the outcome of the meeting. He was scared. The idea that the entire dairy industry could fall in as little as a year, terrified him. It looked to him like his family had its collective neck on the chopping block, and he didn't see any way to save it.

For eighteen generations the Pfand had protected the ten families. The Pfand used more of a flee or hide approach to avoiding threats. There was no fleeing or hiding from this threat. This time they weren't facing an army versus army kind of threat where if their fields were destroyed they could take their money and move to greener pastures. This threat was directed right at them. There would be no greener pastures to move to.

He reached the third trailer without thinking about how he got there. He entered and looked around. The computer was on the table. He sat down to consider what he was going to tell his family members.

Each family handled notification in a different way. The Bauer family used weather analogies. Clear skies mean good times. Scattered showers meant that a few members might get caught up in bad circumstances like a drought or falling crop prices. A heavy thunderstorm with hail was the most serious warning. Predictions, warnings, and alerts were key words to indicate the likelihood of the outcome. Saying that the source was a weatherman meant it was from him. Saying that the source was from the National Weather Service, indicated that it was from all of the heads of the families.

Tom started typing, "As a result of a rare meteorological condition in which a storm front is stalled over the affected area, the National Weather Service is issuing an alert for severe heavy thunderstorms accompanied by hail and tornadoes."

He sat back and read over the message. He knew that it conveyed the seriousness of the situation, particularly with the addition of tornadoes. Unfortunately, all the message would accomplish is to terrify everyone. He didn't know what course of action to recommend.

He stared at the screen thinking he had to give them something actionable that wouldn't be a total waste of their time. He typed, "Seeking shelter is not necessary until the storm system fully develops. Preparation ... in terms of arranging shelter, boarding up windows, and securing loose items ... is advised."

He reread that last sentence feeling unsatisfied with it. The problem with messages of coded allegorical phrases like that was that it was virtually impossible to communicate the unexpected. They weren't dealing with the unexpected. They were dealing with the unimaginable.

He wanted them to know that they needed to arrange to hunker down through the storm rather than flee as an evacuation advisory would suggest. He wanted them to recognize that they had to protect against external threats that might be thrown their way. The 'securing loose items' was an attempt to let them know that they had to make sure that what they owned couldn't be taken away from them easily.

He submitted the text to the server. Members of the Bauer family, all over the world, would get notifications of different kinds. There would be attempted fax deliveries on answering machines, recorded calls about ordering vacuum cleaners by mail, emails about the Edsel, and text messages with a nonsense phrase. None of the notifications would even point to the message he had posted. Members of the family would traverse a maze of web pages, passing the one that held the message in the process. It could take several days before everyone would see the message.

He sat back in the chair feeling uneasy.

Mary Damenstern asked, "Are you back in this world?"

"I don't know."

"Scared?"

"Terrified," Tom answered.

"I don't blame you. In our history, we've survived pitched battles in our backyards, kept mobsters from taking over our businesses, and survived changes in governments. We've never faced anything like this," Mary said.

"We've always been able to pack up and move, before things got bad. There's nowhere to move, to escape this," Tom said.

"It won't be the first time in our history that we had to fight," Mary said.

"We could see the enemy," Tom said.

Mary shook her head. "We'll find the enemy. They can't hide that well."

"We've hidden for eighteen generations."

Mary replied, "Yes, but we weren't out trying to steal everything around us. You can't do that without being seen by somebody."

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 7


Skippy, a black and silver Schnauzer, chased after the ball with the boundless energy that only a puppy can exhibit. Rather than returning with the ball, he came back and looked at Carl expectantly.

Gesturing to the ball, Carl said, "Go get the ball, Skippy."

Skippy turned in a circle, and then started to squat down. Carl picked up the puppy and set it down on the newspaper that covered the pee pad while saying, "Time to pee pee."

Once on the pee pad, Skippy resumed his squat and let loose. When the puppy had finished his business, Carl said, "That's a good boy, Skippy."

Carl played with the puppy for fifteen more minutes. He went over to the crate and used a squeak toy to get Skippy's attention. He tossed the toy in the crate and said, "Nappy time, Skippy."

Skippy went up to the cage, but stopped just before going into it. Carl picked the puppy up and placed it inside the cage. Skippy started crying. Carl went over to the newspaper and carefully put it in the trash. He had gotten a diaper pail for the dirty newspaper and pee pads. He laid another piece of newspaper over the pee pad. The training manual had said to use newspapers over a pee pad to keep a little scent in the area and to save a bunch of money on pee pads.

Skippy stopped crying after a minute. Carl looked over and saw that Skippy was sleeping. The puppy was curled around one of Carl's old socks. Rather than disturb the dog's nap, he went around the basement collecting the dog toys and putting them into the puppy's toy box.

He sat down on one of the chairs from his old apartment to wait for the puppy to wake. It seemed to him that training a puppy was a full time job. There were some things that he needed to think about. He had received the strange message from the Landowner and couldn't decipher it. All that he knew was that something horrible was happening. How it would affect him, was a mystery. He hadn't done anything, other than to join the Pfand, which could create a problem for him. Basically, all he had done was to read a couple of the histories of the Pfand. He hadn't even been a member of the Pfand for a week, yet.

The Pfand had done a lot for him, though. He was living in a new house, had a business loan to start his pickle company, and was having his car upgraded. By living within his means, he would be able to last two years on the start-up capital, before the pickle company would have to pay its way, to cover his full cost of living.

He was still thinking about his pickle company when the doorbell rang. Skippy woke and started barking. It barked about five seconds, and then looked around its cage.

Carl opened the cage door and grabbed Skippy. Carrying it over to the newspaper, he put the puppy down and said, "Time to go pee pee."

While Skippy was peeing, Carl said, "That's a good boy, Skippy."

The doorbell rang again. When Skippy finished doing his business, he started barking again. It appeared that puppies couldn't tinkle, and bark, at the same time. Carl picked up Skippy and headed upstairs to answer the door. Skippy wiggled to get loose and kept barking each time the doorbell rang.

Carl opened the door. There was a very healthy woman standing there with a suitcase on the ground, next to her. She looked athletic, similar to some of the women on the soccer team, back in college. Her legs looked like she could run on them for hours without them giving out. She had the upper body strength that was reminiscent of a swimmer. Her short blond hair was cut in a bob cut: straight bangs, with the rest of her hair cut level with the jaw line.

She was wearing a plain dark blue skirt that came almost to her knees with a simple white shirt tucked into it. It almost looked like a Japanese school girl outfit.

"Hello?"

"Carl Plante! You didn't look through the spyhole in the door before opening it."

"Wha?"

"At least you took David's advice and got a Schnauzer."

"Uh ... Who are you?"

"I'm Samantha Strong. I want you back in the house, right now."

The woman ran a finger along her belly in the shape of an upside-down cross. She did it once and then, when he didn't react, she did it a second time. Carl wondered if she was a Satanist or something. He stared at her.

"Why?"

"I need you to go inside the house."

She was wondering if she made a mistake coming here without David. Her principal would have listened to David. Unfortunately, David had to take over her assignment. She was Pfand, and he was not. She was needed, here.

"I was thinking about playing with him out here," Carl said obstinately.

"He looks like he's about to piss all over you. You better get him back in the house, and onto his paper."

Holding the puppy out in front of him, Carl rushed out to the middle of the front lawn. He put Skippy on the grass. The puppy squatted and did its thing. Carl praised the puppy. He didn't give it a chance to wander around. He picked it up as soon as it had finished.

Samantha stood there watching him in disgust.

"Do you want to die?"

"No."

"Then get back in the house."

"Why?"

Samantha, with an irritated expression on her face, stood there trying to decide what to say. She was half temped to slam him against the door, push him into the house, and close the door behind them. The only thing stopping her, was the fact that he was holding a puppy.

"When a Strong tells you to get in the house, you had better be in it before a Strong finishes giving you the order. Now if you don't get in the house, I'm going to kick your ass, through the door."

"Okay ... Okay ... I'm going."

Carl backed into the house watching Samantha as if she was some kind of crazy person. She followed him into the house before he could shut the door. He stopped, holding the puppy in one arm and holding the other out, palm towards her, to stop her.

"Would you mind staying outside?"

"Jesus, you are stupid."

Samantha swung the door closed behind them. She stepped back so that she was leaning against the door. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Please, leave."

"Put the house into lock-down. We need to talk," she said.

"About what?"

"I can't tell you, until you put the house into lock-down."

Carl stepped over to the alarm system. "Turn away."

Snorting, Samantha turned to face the other way. Carl entered the lock-down code.

"The house is locked-down."

"When a member of the Wache family tells you to do something, you should do it. We are the security arm of the Pfand. Didn't you know that?"

Carl felt a little foolish. He had forgotten that the Strongs were a branch of the Wache family.

"I'm still learning about the families," Carl said defensively.

"Did you get the warning message that the Pfand is under attack?"

"Yes, I did. I know it means something bad, but..."

"Damn!"

Carl started to get angry. He said, "I've only been a member of the Pfand for five days. I'm still reading the books. I'm still learning about the families. I don't know all of the family names outside of the Bauer family. So excuse me for being ignorant."

Samantha took a deep breath. "The Pfand is under attack. I'm here to protect you from anyone who might try to harm you, physically."

"Why me? I haven't done anything."

It was a good question. Why him? Samantha didn't know why she was protecting him outside of the fact that her orders came directly from the Watchman. There were a lot of Bauers and only a few had members of the Wache family protecting them. She was going to assume nothing for the moment.

"The attack is primarily directed against the Bauers. You are a Bauer, so you get protection."

Carl looked down at Skippy. The puppy was really starting to struggle to be put down.

He said, "I've got to let Skippy play a bit. I'm still cage training and paper training him."

"All right," Samantha said.

While walking down the regular stairs to the basement, Carl asked, "Why couldn't you tell me that you were a Wache when we got in the house? Why did I have to put the house into lock-down?"

"When you put the house into lock-down, you activated a number of security features. One of them is a random noise generator hooked up to the window panes. It prevents anyone from being able to listen to what we are saying by detecting the micro-vibrations of the glass pane using a laser. We do not talk about the Pfand where others can hear us."

"I know that. I didn't see anyone out there except for you," Carl said.

He squatted and put the puppy down on the basement floor. It immediately ran over to the toy box, and took out a rubber bone.

"The person who dropped me off was parked down the street."

"He was?"

Samantha said, "She was. You aren't very aware of your surroundings. In the future, listen to me. Do what I say, without a bunch of questions."

Carl looked over at the puppy. It was looking around. Carl carried it over to the newspaper. "Good boy, Skippy."

"They go pee a lot, at that age. They've got small bladders, and very little control."

Skippy went over to the cage. He went in and curled up around the sock.

"Good boy, Skippy."

A few seconds later, the puppy was sound asleep. The interrupted nap had not been sufficient to fully recharge the puppy's batteries. Carl closed the door to the cage.

"How am I supposed to know if a total stranger is a member of the Pfand, or not?" Carl asked beginning to get his feet under him.

Samantha said, "That's a good question. Have you read about signs?"

"No."

Samantha went over to the wall and leaned against it.

"When the Pfand was small, everyone knew everyone. It was just ten families living in a single village. In just a couple of generations, the Pfand had grown in size and spread out over a large area. Now there were aunts, uncles, and cousins, of which only some of them were members of the Pfand. It was quite possible that you would never meet someone in the Pfand who was living just three towns away. Remember, this was in the sixteen and seventeen hundreds. You didn't pack up and attend a family reunion every year.

"Basically, the problem was that it was impossible to know who was who. According to the Pfand, you couldn't talk about it. To protect their secrecy, the members of the Pfand adopted a set of signs ... or if you prefer, a set of secret symbols ... that would allow them to identify themselves to each other.

"The sign of the Wache family is an upright sword. It looks like an upside-down cross."

"So you weren't a satanist by making that upside-down cross when you were outside?"

"No. I'm not a Satanist.

"The sign of the Bauer family is the plant. It has a main trunk with two branches. A lot of us joke that it looks more like the foot of a chicken."

"My secret sign is a chicken foot. Oh, great."

Samantha laughed. "When you're introduced to someone with a Pfand family name and they give you the symbol of that family, then you know that you're dealing with a member of the Pfand. It's pretty old-fashioned, and stupidly simple, but it works."

Carl said, "Let me get this straight. When you told me your name and made the upside-down cross, then I should have known you were a member of the Wache family and gotten inside the house when you said so."

"Exactly," Samantha answered.

"So, what now?" Carl asked.

Samantha answered, "I get my luggage and move into your guest room."

"I haven't really got a guest room yet," Carl said.

"I'll order a bed," Samantha said wondering for the hundredth time why she was there.

Carl said, "Let me call my sister."

Several hours later, the doorbell rang. His sister Donna had arrived, along with a dozen people. They started hauling boxes of furniture into the house. The guest room was soon set up. He had most of a study although the chairs he wanted had not arrived yet. There was a stack of boxes in the basement containing the furniture for the rooms in the hidden part of the house.

After the movers left, Donna and Carl unpacked the boxes for the two hidden rooms. Samantha helped move the furniture into the room for the security staff. She then proceeded to unpack her luggage.

Carl was playing with Skippy amongst the discarded boxes. The puppy thought all of the boxes had been provided for his entertainment. It was busy sniffing everything and checking out all kinds of nooks and crannies. Carl was glad someone was enjoying the disruption to his life.

While Samantha was occupied with unpacking, Donna pulled Carl aside and whispered, "What's she doing here?"

"She says she's here to protect me," Carl answered.

"Why you?"

"I have no clue," Carl answered.

Donna was confused. She knew there was a threat against the Pfand, but Carl hadn't done anything deserving the level of protection that having a Wache in the house, provided.

She understood how things worked with the Wache almost as well as a Wache. Of all families of the Pfand, the Damensterns lived the most dangerous lifestyle. They had more occasions to need the services of the Wache than all of the other families combined.

"This is strange," Donna said. "I'm worried for you."

"Don't be. I haven't done anything," Carl said.

"You've got a Wache living in your house for protection. That isn't a good sign."

The siblings returned to their work. Carl organized the empty boxes for removal, while playing with his puppy. Donna arranged furniture in the guest room, and in the shelter.

Samantha came out from the hidden tunnel.

"You've got a Damenstern visitor walking up the steps. You should let her in."

"I wonder who that could be," Carl muttered while heading up the stairs. "Maybe Mom has come by for a visit."

After removing the house from lock-down, he opened the door.

"Jennifer!"

He staggered back when she jumped onto him and wrapped her arms around his neck and legs around his waist. He was surprised to find his high school sweetheart kissing him, and clinging to him like that. She was lucky that he hadn't dropped her.

"Hi, lover!"

"What are you doing here?" Carl asked when he managed to untangled from her.

"I heard that you had moved into a new house. I thought you might want some help decorating it," Jennifer said brightly.

"My sister is doing the decorating," Carl said.

He hadn't come to grips with Jennifer's occupation, and he didn't know how to react. He stepped back a pace. Once again he was struck by her beauty.

He said, "God. You are still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Jennifer had seen the flicker of unease flash across his face. She knew what it meant. He was disturbed by her occupation as an escort. She could understand that. It took people time to understand the full implications of the work performed by a member of the Damenstern family.

"You found out about my career."

"Is it really a career?"

"Yes."

Making an oblique reference to the Pfand, Carl said, "I'm still getting used to the whole idea of all of this."

"I should have thought about that, before coming here."

"I'm happy to see you."

"No you're not."

"I'm sorry. I'm ... I don't know ... lost," Carl said.

"Lock-down the house," she said while picking up two suitcases.

Carl stared at the suitcases wondering if she was expecting to move in with him. Jennifer eased around him, and then made her way to his living room. She took a seat. When he had finished dealing with the alarm system, she pointed at a chair across from her.

She said, "Carl Plante, I love you. I have loved you ever since we were sixteen. Every night before I go to bed, I kiss the stuffed rabbit that you gave me, the night you took my virginity. I dream of the day when I will be able to kiss you good night, every night."

"You still have that stuffed rabbit?" Carl asked.

At the Cura Private School, the boys and girls were kept apart outside of the classroom beginning at the age of thirteen. Then, at fifteen, they were allowed to mingle freely on school grounds under the watchful eyes of the school faculty. Then one day, a boy would be given permission to start taking girls out on dates away from the school and its prying eyes.

The week after losing his virginity, Carl was given permission to start dating. The first girl he asked was Jennifer. They had gone to a little fair, and he had won a little pink stuffed rabbit in one of those games of skill. She had told him that she would kiss it goodnight, and think of him.

Later that evening, their kisses turned to petting which then became making love. Carl, wanting to impress his date, had done all that woman who had taken his virginity had taught him. It was the most intense and memorable experience of his entire life. He smiled remembering that time.

"It's my greatest treasure," Jennifer said.

"I'm glad," Carl said.

Jennifer said, "Don't let my occupation get in the way of something beautiful."

"I'll try," Carl said.

Knowing that was the best that she would get at the moment, she said, "I've been sent here to ... uh ... well ... provide moral support for you."

"Moral support?"

"Yes..."

The conversation was cut short by an excited scream from Donna, "Jennifer!"

"Donna!" Jennifer shouted jumping out the chair.

The two women hugged, and exchanged small talk about mutual acquaintances. Carl watched the pair, wondering how he had come to have three women in his house all of a sudden. Suddenly, the two women broke apart and Jennifer returned to her chair.

Donna went to the stairs to the basement and shouted, "Samantha, get up here. We need to talk."

It took a minute for Samantha to come out of the basement. She had to put Skippy into his cage. They could hear him whining.

As soon as Samantha entered the room, Donna said, "The Whore sent Jennifer here, to stay with Carl."

Carl knew that Donna was making reference to the head of the Damenstern family. First a Wache showed up with orders from the head of her family and now a Damenstern. From their reactions, he knew this wasn't normal.

"Really?" Samantha asked looking puzzled.

"I'm here for moral support," Jennifer said.

Samantha said, "My cover story is that I am his live-in girlfriend."

"Sweetie, that ain't going to happen," Jennifer said.

Samantha looked at Jennifer for a second. "Okay. I guess we'll need some other cover story for me."

"Why don't you three work out the details? I'm going to play with my dog," Carl said tired of being ignored in his own home.

He went down to the basement and let Skippy out of his cage. Petting the dog, he said, "Well, Skippy, I've got no idea what's going on. This time last week I was looking forward to a meeting, to get some funding for my pickle factory.

"Now, I belong to some secret organization and everyone says that I'm in danger. I've got an ex-girlfriend moving in. Another woman who carries a gun up her skirt is living here. I'm not in danger, I'm in trouble.

"What happened? All that I really want to do is make pickles. What's so dangerous about that?"

Skippy didn't take notice of Carl's problems. There were toys to drag out of the toy box. That was much more import to him.

"I think you've got the right idea, Skippy."

With the door to the basement open, Carl could hear the conversation taking place in the kitchen. He couldn't tell who was talking.

"His refrigerator is loaded with jars of pickles."

"Pickles?"

"Oh! Hey, these are good!"

"He wants to open a pickle factory."

"These are really good. Here, try one."

"You're right. These are good."

"Has he got any of those sweet pickles in there?"

"Yes."

"Oh! These are sooo good. They're even better than I remember."

Carl muttered, "You know you're in trouble when you've got three women going through your refrigerator."

"We're going to need some yogurt ... juices ... eggs ... milk ... diet soda..."

"His cabinets are empty. We might as well buy everything."

"He's got lots of spices."

Carl shouted, "Leave my pickle spices alone!"

"Oops. Scratch the spices. We'll need to pick up some spices."

"I'll head to the store. You need to finish setting up the shelter bedroom. You need to move into his room."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

Carl stormed up the stairs shouting, "No one is moving into my bedroom, without me inviting them!"

Three women turned to stare at him.

Angrily, Carl said, "I woke up this morning, the Master of My House. I plan to go to bed tonight as the Master of My House. If someone is shooting at me, you can yell 'Duck'. Outside of that, no one is telling me how to live in my house!" He glared at the three women, as he asked, "Got it?"

"Sure."

"Yeah."

"I'm just visiting," Donna said meekly.

"Good!"

Carl turned around and went back down to the basement. He could hear them talking.

"I guess he told us."

"I've never seen him so forceful."

"Your nipples are sticking straight out."

"My panties are wet, too."

"You've got it bad for him."

"He was my first, and my best."

"Your best?"

"Oh yeah."

"You're a Damenstern."

"That's right."

"And he was your best?"

"Yep."

"Damn. I'm gonna have to try me some of that."

Carl said, "Hey, Skippy, what would you say to moving out of this joint?"

Skippy looked over at him, then carried the chew toy over to Carl.

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 8


Tom Farmer looked around the living room. He was impressed with the look and feel of the room. It was the kind of room that made a person want to settle in a chair and read a book while listening to classical music. There were high backed leather chairs scattered around the room, with solid wooden tables beside them, and standing lamps to provide over the shoulder illumination. The walls were decorated with antique maps held within substantial wooden frames. Ceiling lights illuminated the items on the wall. The bar, on one side of the room, was filled with crystal decanters and crystal glasses. An entertainment system with a small stereo was on the other side.

This wasn't exactly the kind of room that he expected someone of Carl's age to enjoy. It was a very masculine looking room. An old movie would have placed a retired British Major puttering around and telling stories of his campaign in India.

Carl, wearing dress slacks and a button down blue shirt, sat back in his chair with his legs crossed. He looked comfortable seated there with a drink on the table next to his chair. It would have been more fitting for the environment if the drink had been a Scotch rather than a soda.

On the other hand, the two women looked a little out of place. It wasn't that they appeared uncomfortable. It was just that having a casually dressed woman in the room, didn't fit the atmosphere that had been created. Jennifer could have fit in with a minor change in outfit and hairstyle. He wondered how long it would take her to adjust her appearance to fit the room. Samantha, with her short hair style and manner, would never fit the room.

Looking at Carl, Tom asked, "Do you know what a lightning rod is?"

"Sure," Carl answered with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Samantha groaned upon hearing the question. She knew what was coming next. If he was the lightning rod, then her job was to intercept the lighting bolt. That was never pleasant.

Carl asked, "I get it. You need a lightning rod and I'm it."

"Yes."

Carl glanced over at Samantha. He wondered if she would be given orders to kill him if he refused. He couldn't imagine that happening, but the initial discussions about joining the Pfand hadn't mentioned anything about being in immediate danger.

"What am I supposed to do?" Carl asked.

"Try to open a pickle company," Tom answered.

"And?"

"That's it."

"I don't get it," Carl said.

Samantha said, "I hate to say this, but neither do I."

Jennifer sat back in her chair with her lips slightly parted. With an elbow resting on the arm of the chair, she ran a fingernail over her teeth. It was a nervous tick, of which she wasn't even aware that she had. She did get it.

Tom said, "Someone is trying to take over the entire food industry. They want total control over farming, food production, food distribution, and possibly retail sales. There have been concerted efforts to shut down farms.

"There have been efforts to prevent food production facilities from opening. That's where you fit in. We need someone to pursue opening a business with almost fanatical intensity."

"Fanatical intensity?" Carl asked.

"Yes."

"I have no idea what that means."

"It's simple. You aren't going to take 'no' for an answer. When an application is rejected, you are going to show up with a dozen lawyers, challenging whatever board or bureau is preventing you from going forward with your plans. You are going to be very vocal, and very visible," Tom answered.

"That goes against the Pfand X," Jennifer pointed out.

Tom said, "All heads of the ten families agree that it has to be done."

"Shit," Samantha said.

She could just imagine what kind of reaction Carl was going to provoke. She'd have to deal with crowds and nutcases. Even worse ... She'd have to deal with the press.

Tom said, "You're going to have to point fingers, and name names. You have to become their worst nightmare. If Inspector Gadgit says that your building is out of compliance with some regulation, you're going to have a news conference, specifically naming Inspector Gadgit as an enemy of the pickling industry."

"You're going to have to be ruthless in your pursuit of anyone and everyone who stands in your way. You'll be filing lawsuits against any and every government agency that even voices so much as a concern about your company. I'm not talking about trying to get individual rulings overturned. I'm talking about suing the entire agency, for anything and everything.

"You won't be alone. We have two Curador law firms who are volunteering their full staffs. You'll have a public relations firm who will help you prepare your statements."

"Hey! Isn't that my job?" Jennifer asked.

"You're going to be reminding him to stay 'on message', at all times. I've got a feeling that he's going to need a lot of that," Tom answered.

"I can do that," Jennifer said confidently.

Tom said, "It would have been better, in a lot of ways, for Samantha to be the girlfriend and for you to be the personal assistant."

"That ain't going to happen," Jennifer said.

Much sharper than he intended, Tom said, "You're a Damenstern. Act like one."

"Why should Samantha be the girlfriend?"

Tom answered, "Her job is to protect him. How can she do that if she isn't near him?"

"Aren't bodyguards supposed to be in the background?" Jennifer asked.

Tom asked, "Do you think she's going to be the only Wache around when he has a public appearance?"

"She won't be?" Carl asked.

"I won't?"

"Nope. You're going to be surrounded by Waches when you go out in public. We aren't even trusting any employees of Wache owned companies. Your security entourage will actually be members of the Wache family."

"Jesus," Samantha said turning pale. "How many are we talking about?"

"As many as it takes to make sure that Carl isn't abducted or killed."

"This is insane," Carl said.

Tom said, "I know the three of you don't appreciate the seriousness of the situation"

"Just how serious is it?" Samantha asked.

"We've already had a member of the Bauer family die in this war. He committed suicide rather than submit to advanced interrogation methods from Homeland Security. I doubt he'll be the last of the Bauer family to die in this war."

"They were going to torture him?" Carl asked.

"Yes."

"Jesus."

Samantha said, "I take it that we won't be dealing with just crowds and nutcases. We'll be dealing with law enforcement as the enemy, also."

"Yes, and possible assassins."

"Get real," Carl said.

Tom said, "I can't predict exactly what is going to happen. There are some things that I can say with almost absolute certainty will happen. At some point in time, you'll be announcing that some petty bureaucrat has taken a bribe. You'll present evidence showing who did what, and I'm sure that it will point to some very important people. When you start shining a light on their criminal activities ... and believe me, they are criminal ... you'll be drawing a giant bull's eye on your back.

"People are going to want you to die, and they'll have the money to make that happen."

"Aren't you being a little melodramatic? I mean, we're talking about a pickle factory, here," Carl said trying to put things in their proper perspective.

Tom said, "These people want to control every aspect of food production in the whole world. If they are successful, a handful of people will end up with six billion slaves; slaves who will suck cocks and take it up the ass in order to get food. Don't think, even for a minute, that they won't try to kill you if you threaten their plans.

"You don't want to mess with the kind of people who can envision that kind of scenario, much less pursue it. Yet, that is exactly what I'm asking you to do."

"Is there any chance I'll get out of this alive," Carl asked.

Tom answered, "Yes."

Samantha answered, "Maybe."

"I just left a meeting with the heads of the ten families. Every family has people dedicated to this. We spent a tremendous amount of effort trying to pull together a plan to identify and then destroy this enemy. We are dedicating every resource available to us. I'm talking about trillions of dollars."

"Trillions?" Jennifer asked sitting upright.

"Yes."

"Damn," Jennifer said.

Samantha said, "That improves our odds a little."

"All of this is riding on me alone?"

"No. You won't be the only Bauer who is serving as a lighting rod. There are nine others. They are farmers who are already fighting to keep their farms. For some of them, it is going to be too late to save their farms from being taken without tapping into resources that, officially, don't exist.

"To be honest with you, you aren't even a target at the moment. However, you will have a pivotal role in this, before it comes to a conclusion. You'll be the only one in food processing, who is challenging them. It is going to be important to get people to understand that it isn't just fresh fruits and vegetables at stake, here. It is going to be every can of food on the supermarket shelf."

Carl asked, "Won't people realize that if farmers go out of business that they won't have any food?"

Tom said, "It is interesting that you ask that. You see, people don't think about farmers. Those who do, don't think much of farmers. As far as they're concerned, we're a bunch of ignorant hicks. They think that our world consists of the Bible, beer, and belching. We're lazy. We're gullible.

"They don't realize that some farms generate millions of dollars in crops every year. Every farmer is a small businessman. When a farmer loses his place, everyone just shrugs their shoulders and think, 'he should have gone to college and gotten a real job.' No one ... I repeat, no one ... cares about farmers. They all want to put them down, call them animal abusers, and destroyers of the environment.

"As far as most people are concerned, food appears as if by magic at the grocery store. The fact that someone spent a year making that food a reality, is lost on them. So to answer your question, people don't realize that if farmers go out of business they won't have food. It's sad, but true."

Jennifer, not realizing she was pushing one of Tom's hot buttons, asked, "How can you say that no one cares about farmers? What about farm subsidies?"

Tom snorted. "You mean giving free money to the largest farms? The major corporate farms received two thirds of that money, even though they represent only ten percent of the farms. It is sickening. You should see a map of the people in Manhattan who are receiving farm subsidies. There isn't a single acre of farmland in Manhattan."

Tom felt that corn and soybean subsidies were the biggest joke of them all. Last year there had been almost four billion paid out in corn subsidies and another one and half billion in soy bean subsidies. A little four hundred acre place with corn wasn't getting a cent. There was no money for folks raising fruits, vegetables, or nuts.

Cotton and rice crops constituted less than three percent of California's agricultural output, but received more than forty percent of the subsidies that went to that state. It was obvious that there was something wrong when numbers got that skewed. No one was investigating it.

Tom said, "There are games being played at the expense of the small farmer. A Bauer, officially, is just a small farmer. So what if a Bauer has a farm in his name, another in wife's name, a third in his father's name, and fourth in his mother's name. The one that is in his name makes him just a small farmer. It doesn't matter that we could combine our farms and become the largest farming conglomerate in the country."

"So why don't you combine your farms?" Jennifer asked.

"The Pfand X prohibits it," Tom answered.

"Oh."

Tom said, "We've got over two thousand families running approximately five thousand farms in this country, alone. If we were to combine our farms, most of our families would lose out. We'd have to put into place an overall management team. That would suck money away from the individual families.

"We've managed to optimize for all of us, rather than to allow a few to dominate. Everyone works for themselves, and reaps the rewards of that hard work. They aren't in competition, but work in cooperation. It's the best strategy for long-term growth. The next generation will add to our numbers. Eighteen generations of growth, prove it."

Realizing that they had gotten off topic, Tom said, "The fact that we have remained small farms makes us vulnerable to whoever is trying to take over the world's food supply."

Carl frowned. "I don't get how my trying to start a pickle company is going to save farms."

Tom said, "You aren't going to save the farms. You are going to give people a reason to save the farms. We're looking to expose some of the corruption that's going on in the agricultural world. We're hoping to tie the same people to all of the problems that we've identified. Your pickle company will expand the breadth and depth of the scandal. That's the goal."

"I think it is stretching things a bit."

Tom took a deep breath while trying to organize his thoughts. "Look, a guy trying to steal one farm won't make the national news. It's small time. It might not even make the local news.

"A group of people trying to steal all of the diary farms in a state could be viewed as good business sense. We've seen a lot of cases where the local government goes in and tosses people off their property and gives it to a third party. Everyone complains that the government is overstepping its bounds, but they don't hold the third party responsible. Everyone is impressed when the third party does something with the property that was basically stolen from the original owners.

"You take that to a national level and people will get a little nervous. It starts to sound like a monopoly and people don't trust monopolies. Dairy farms? That's not like a car company, or an airline. Besides, it might be easier to regulate if there's only one group who owns dairy farms. They might insist on some kind of congressional hearing about the matter. A committee will meet and then write a report. At the end of the day, one group of people will own all of the dairy farms.

"However, if you tell people that not only are these people taking over the dairy farms; but also the production of homogenized milk, cheese, ice cream, and every other processed dairy product; then they get outraged. It starts to affect them directly. People get angry when Mom's favorite ice cream goes off the market, because the company that owns the dairy farms won't sell milk to the company that makes her favorite the ice cream."

Carl said, "That makes sense."

"That's the story that we have to tell," Tom said.

"Too bad I'm not trying to go into the ice cream business," Carl said.

"Pickles are fine. Until you get your pickle plant up and running, you aren't going to be selling your pickles, you're going to be selling the fact that people will never get to taste your pickles, because someone doesn't want them to know what a quality pickle tastes like," Tom said.

Jennifer smiled. "You're gonna tease them with what they could have, but can't have. That's not a bad idea."

Tom looked at Jennifer with a critical eye. "I'm going to insist that you act like his personal assistant. Publicly, Samantha will be his girlfriend."

Sullenly, Jennifer said, "If it has to be that way."

"It's got to be that way if you want him to be alive after everything is over," Samantha said.

Tom said, "Of course, some people might think that the best way to get at him, is by getting to his personal assistant. You have his private schedule, and that kind of information is very valuable when you want to assassinate someone."

"Okay ... okay ... I get it."

Tom said, "Samantha, you're going to have to learn how to look cute."

"Cute?"

"People will look at Carl. They'll look at Jennifer and you standing beside him. He's good looking, she's good looking, and you're a tank. They'll start to wonder. We don't want them wondering," Tom said.

Samantha asked, "I look like a tank?"

She had been on the swim team in college. She had broad shoulders and strong legs. Jogging had further built up the strength in her legs. When she added a little weight training and martial arts, her body had gotten a little stockier. She still thought of herself as having a rather feminine appearance, but admitted that she was solid.

"Yes," Tom answered.

Jennifer said, "Actually, I thought you were a butch dyke until you started talking about wanting a piece of Carl."

"A butch dyke," Samantha asked wondering if it could get any worse.

Carl said, "I thought you looked like a Japanese school girl when you showed up."

"A Japanese school girl?" Samantha asked open mouthed.

She had images of school girls with blue, red, or purple hair walking around giving panty shots like in the Anime cartoons. She'd rather be viewed as a tank, or a butch dyke, than like that.

"Yes," Carl said.

"I want to die," Samantha groaned.

Carl said, "It was kind of sexy in a sick sort of way."

Jennifer shot Carl a dirty look and then said, "We probably ought to get a Weber over here, to work her over."

"That's a good idea. You probably ought to let a Weber fix you up, too," Tom said.

"Why?"

"You're too sexy. You start dressing like a secretary and everyone is going to be fantasizing about you," Tom said.

Samantha said, "He's right, you know. You'll have guys lined up around the block trying to get into your panties."

"I've made a lot of money dressed that way," Jennifer admitted.

Carl said, "I always figured my secretary would be in her fifties with a manner about her that would terrify anyone trying to pull a fast one. Can we make her look fifty?"

"Fifty!"

"That would be a stretch," Tom said. "We'll just make her look plain."

"That might do it," Carl said.

Jennifer said, "I hate to say this, but I don't do plain well."

Tom said, "Your legs can be covered, your breasts minimized, and the right clothes can hide your curves. We could change your hair color and maybe its style ... you know ... shorten it a bit. With proper makeup, you could look like a dull boring personal assistant."

"I really don't like this."

Tom said, "You won't have to look all that plain. You've got to look good enough that a business man of Carl's stature would want you around."

"Okay."

"We'll have to get a Weber to dress you up as well," Tom said pointing at Carl.

"Me?" Carl asked. "Why?"

"Hey, I like the way he looks now," Jennifer said.

"You're going to have to look like an aggressive business shark at times and like a regular Joe next door at times," Tom said.

"I don't know. He could use a little more muscle," Samantha said.

"You'll have to work with him on that," Tom said.

"Wait a minute!"

"It is going to be a tough balancing act ... looking business tough, and looking average," Tom said.

Carl sat there thinking about what Tom had said. This wasn't what he expected when he was trying to get a business loan to start his gourmet pickle company. The idea that there would be people out there, who would try to prevent him from opening a factory, was unbelievable.

Carl said, "I just thought of something."

Tom asked, "What?"

"Did you know that I would have trouble opening my pickle company when I came to you about a loan?"

Tom said, "Actually, no. In fact, I was excited about the idea. After talking to you, I got some information that made me think twice. I realized that there might be considerable opposition to your plans. The more I looked into it, the more I became convinced that you were going to face real difficulties."

"What convinced you?"

Tom said, "Believe it or not, it was a letter about a cookie company that was being kept from opening based on the height of its loading docks. It dawned on me that if they were holding up a cookie company with basically harmless ingredients, what were they going to do with a company that required an acid."

Vinegar wasn't a dangerous substance. Every home, with very few exceptions, has a bottle of vinegar in the kitchen. People put it on their salads and eat it, yet Hannibal had used massive quantities of vinegar and fire in order to break apart a rockfall that had blocked his way.

The problem was that vinegar was an acid, and people were nervous about 'dangerous chemicals, ' such as acetic acid lying about. It is a fact that in strong concentrations, acetic acid is dangerous. Hearing about the dangers of concentrated acetic acid could invoke fear in people even though the concentration of it in vinegar was harmless.

The problem was that Carl wouldn't have to deal with fact in a public hearing, but with fear if someone was attempting to keep him from opening his factory. Undoubtedly, after being warned of the dangers of acetic acid, there would be some people who would return home and dispose of the vinegar in their house, probably by pouring it down their drain.

Carl said, "Vinegar isn't dangerous. It's the ammonia that you have to watch out for."

"Ammonia? What's that for?" Tom asked wondering how ammonia fit into making pickles.

"The refrigerators," Carl answered. "For refrigerators the size I'll need, you use ammonia as the coolant."

"I didn't even think about refrigeration," Tom said wanting to slap himself on the head for missing something that should have been obvious.

Ammonia refrigerators were in wide use in all kinds of industrial applications, but no industry used them quite as extensively as the food processing industry. Processing food, everything from plain old fashioned ice, to making chocolate bars, required refrigeration.

Ammonia refrigerators were relatively efficient, inexpensive, and easy to operate and maintain. The only problem was that an anhydrous ammonia leak could be fatal, and the fumes could cover an extensive area fairly quickly. Any facility that had ammonia refrigerators had to have containment facilities, hazmat plans, and proper equipment in place to respond to any leaks. There had to be evacuation plans, not only for the facility, but for the neighboring area.

Tom said, "You're going to have a bigger fight than I thought."

"I will end up with a pickle company, won't I?" Carl asked.

"That's the general idea."

"Good."

Tom said, "If we win this war, we'll be making the world better for millions of businessmen. If we lose, no one will be opening anything, for a very long time."

Carl said, "Now I'm depressed."

"We need to talk about how you'll have to adjust your lifestyle as a result of what's going on."

Samantha said, "I can basically handle that. I am in the business of protection services."

Tom said, "I know you can. I just want Jennifer and Carl, particularly Carl, to understand that he's going to have to think twice before going off to the corner convenience store for a soda. He's going to have to accept the idea that he can't go anywhere, in public, alone. You'll have to be with him or his backup security will have to be in the area."

"I feel like I'm going to be under house arrest, or something," Carl said.

Samantha said, "You aren't a target yet. However, you need to get in the habit of being aware of your environment, before the threat emerges. If you wait until things start to get dangerous, it will be too late."

"I get it. I'm not entirely stupid," Carl said.

Tom said, "Does everyone understand their roles?"

"I'm the girlfriend."

"I'm the personal assistant."

"I'm the lightning rod."

"Excellent," Tom said. "I'll be leaving now. I figure this will be the last time we'll have a chance to talk face to face like this for a long time."

"Oh," Carl said.

Tom looked at Jennifer and said, "You might want to talk to Silvia in the near future. She's an amazingly wise woman."

"I will," Jennifer said.

After Tom left, Jennifer said, "Carl, why don't you go play with your puppy? Samantha and I need some time for a little girl talk."

"Gladly."

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 9


"Sir."

"What?"

"We have a report of an individual attempting to open a pickle plant."

"What's the problem?"

"His application for necessary zoning changes to build the factory was turned down by the city."

"Great. Why are you telling me this?"

"He showed up with a team of lawyers. They scared the crap out of the city council, who then reversed themselves and approved the zoning change."

"Get a lawyer there to stop him on the next step in the approval process."

"Yes, Sir."

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 10


The chauffeur drove the sedan into the parking lot of the office building that housed the corporate headquarters of Plante Gourmet Pickles, Inc. It wasn't a particularly large building. It stood alone on the rather large piece of property. The property had been purchased in rather poor condition, but a Walde construction company had refurbished the building, while incorporating a number of security elements into it.

It was, in many ways, an impressive building. Where it had once had a plain lawn, it now had an extensive pond, often occupied by the wild ducks that ran around the building. A footbridge over the water provided access to the building from the parking lot. Trees dotted the landscape providing shade for lunch tables.

It had gone from being a standard box-shaped office building to one with character. The use of two colors of brick, light and dark red, on the building gave it a warmer appearance than the gray flat exterior that had once graced the building. A small brick ledge that ran around the full exterior broke up the flat face of the building. Arched windows softened the straight lines of the building.

Getting the appropriate building permits had been a continuous battle. Ultimately, it was the environmentally friendly features of the plans that allowed a public relations campaign to force approval from the planning board. Solar panels covered the roof, allowing the sign outside to boast that it was a 'Green Building.'

The chauffeur parked the car and then got out to open the door for Carl. There was a slight pause while he looked around before opening the door. Carl and Samantha exited the vehicle holding hands. Jennifer exited the front seat of the car and waited for them at the walkway to the building. They made their way to the building at a slow walk, pausing once to watch the fish in the pond.

The receptionist, Cynthia Shieldman, buzzed them in. She greeted them with a friendly 'good morning.' She informed Carl that his visitors were already waiting for him in the conference room. They had, in fact, been there for several hours.

Carl went into the conference room, looking forward to the meeting. The assembled team had been working towards this day for months. The engineers had finalized the design for the factory and generated the blueprints necessary to get the permits required to build it.

The facility was way over engineered, and had been designed that way for a reason. Walde construction teams and Schmied engineers had gone over every facet of the design, to assure compliance with every law and building code known to man. There were a lot of codes and regulations. The lawyers had spent 'man years' reading through every regulation, ruling, and law from every government agency that might possibly be interested in this project.

The security folks had gone through the backgrounds of every man and woman on the council, and had targeted two of them for increased surveillance. Their surveillance had paid off. One of the councilmen, Joe Parelli, had been having frequent meetings with a lawyer from out of town. Investigation showed that the lawyer was in the pay of a small subsidiary of a very large frozen vegetable company. They now had a thread to one of the enemy. It was now a matter of time to trace it back to the person in charge.

George Smyth looked up when Carl entered the room. He smiled and pointed over to a table to the side of the wall.

"The mock up is finished."

Carl said, "Great."

Carl went over to the large model positioned in the middle of the table. Laid out in three dimensional glory, was his pickle factory. The model showed the access roads, added traffic lights, parking lots, and the three buildings all to scale and with the landscaping.

George walked over and said, "This is the most expensive pickle factory in the history of mankind. The only way to increase its price tag, would be to gold plate everything inside."

"Will that be necessary?" Carl asked sarcastically.

"It may be," George answered. He laughed. "I've never seen anything like this. You do realize that this building will stand up to a F6 tornado and a magnitude 9 earthquake."

"How about a forty-foot Tsunami?"

"If a tsunami can travel more than five hundred miles inland, the last thing anyone will be worried about is this factory," George answered.

"Terrorists?"

"The security plans are in place. A US Navy SEAL team could take it out, but some whack-job? No. Of course, there are the official plans and the private plans. Our private plans would give even a SEAL team a few surprises."

"I can't believe that our security plans have to be a matter of public record. It's like they want to make it easy for someone to find out how to break in," Carl said.

George asked, "So why were you late?"

"Another traffic ticket," Carl said tiredly.

It was another minor harassment resulting from taking on city hall. After the second ticket, the limousine had been wired with cameras like those used in police cars. Every ticket after that had been tossed out of court. One officer had been suspended. That had only worked up the frenzy to catch him doing something illegal to an even higher pitch.

George said, "It seems like the city council wants to fill the city coffers up with your money."

"That does appear to be the case," Carl said.

Jennifer stuck her head in the conference room. "There's a Mr. Anthony Gamboni here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment, but he insists it is important that you meet with him."

Carl looked over at Herman Steward.

Herman said, "Go ahead and meet with him. I'll stand outside. I'll have someone pick up his boss, Mr. Marcelo Caggiano."

"Thanks," Carl said.

Carl went into his office. A minute later, Jennifer led Mr. Anthony Gamboni in. After a short exchange in which coffee was offered and rejected, Jennifer left the room.

Carl said, "You wanted to see me."

"This town doesn't want a pickle factory. You might want to consider another location for it."

Carl said, "I like the location that I found."

"Maybe you didn't hear me. We don't want a pickle factory here."

"Who is 'we'?" Carl asked.

"The town."

Carl looked up at the ceiling with an exaggerated expression of confusion on his face. He scratched his head. He frowned. He rubbed his chin.

Anthony frowned.

Carl asked, "You're here on behalf of the town council, mayor's office, or ... who, exactly?"

"Some of the business leaders."

"Some? Which ones?" Carl asked.

"The ones who are the leaders of the business leaders."

Carl said, "That's odd. I've never seen you at one of the Chamber of Commerce meetings."

"We have our own Chamber of Commerce."

"You don't say," Carl said lightly. "That's very interesting. How many members are in your Chamber of Commerce?"

"Enough. Now, I'm trying to tell you nicely that we don't want your pickle factory in our nice little town."

"I'm here to stay," Carl said. "Is that all?"

"You really don't want to build your factory here. This area is prone to a lot of accidents."

Carl said, "You are a fascinating man."

"What do you mean?"

"You claim to represent the town, but you don't have a real role in the government. You say you represent some business leaders, but none of them are in the Chamber of Commerce. Then you give me an interesting statistic that this area is prone to accidents. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to intimidate me into leaving town," Carl said.

"You might consider my advice and find somewhere else to build your little factory. Okay?"

Carl said, "Anything else."

"No."

"It's been fascinating talking to you. I didn't realize that people like you still existed."

Carl was thinking that it would be kind of nice to make reference to how endangered species had to be protected to keep them from becoming extinct. He wasn't sure if the man seated across from him would get the implication. He refrained only because he didn't want to provoke some incident that a Wache would have to handle.

"I'll be talking to you again."

"I seriously doubt that," Carl said.

Carl stood and held out his hand. When his visitor did not shake his hand, he withdrew it with a sad shake of his head.

After Mr. Anthony Gamboni left, Carl sat down at his desk with a sigh. If he wasn't surrounded by security people, he would have been terrified by this visit. As it was, it just angered him. How dare they send an idiot like that to try to intimidate him into leaving town?

Herman stuck his head in the door. "Come walk with me."

Carl followed Herman out of the office. They went over to Herman's office.

"Mr. Marcelo Caggiano is on his way to our private suite at the hotel just outside of town. We'll have another thread to follow by the end of the day."

"It sounds like you were expecting our visitor."

It seemed a little fortuitous for them to be able to pick up Mr. Marcelo Caggiano while his minion, Mr. Anthony Gamboni, was delivering his threats. He wasn't sure what was going to happen to Mr. Caggiano, but he knew that Wache family members did not respond lightly to threats, and a threat had been delivered.

"It was just a matter of time. This will free up two more of our people."

"Good."

Carl had no idea how many members of the Wache family were involved with his pickle factory. He knew of at least twelve, although there had to be close to a hundred of them in the area. His chauffeur, the receptionist, his secretary, and Herman were all Wache. Then there was his 'girlfriend.'

"We'll need them. Things are heating up."

"Why did you want me to come here to tell me that?" Carl asked.

"We're sweeping your office for bugs," Herman answered.

"Do you think that is necessary?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Herman answered, "He could have talked to you anywhere. Instead, he chose to come here. There had to be more of a reason for that than just a simple conversation."

There were times when Carl wondered if Herman had a clinical case of paranoia. However, the man had been proven correct, time and time again. He had come to trust Herman's insights.

Carl said, "Let's go back to the conference room to discuss tonight's meeting."

The two men returned to the conference room. Jim Woodman was fiddling with the computer while George was staring off into space, deep in thought. Juan Torres, the lawyer, was reviewing some folders.

Carl said, "I want to see the presentation."

"Right," Jim said.

"Before we begin, let me say that we've got some hints as to what kinds of questions we're going to get. Their lawyer has basically identified a couple of contradictory regulations. They're going use that to make sure that they can ask a bunch of questions for which there are no obviously correct answers," Herman said.

Juan Torres said, "We've got those covered. According to the law, the most restrictive version can be assumed. In cases where there are explicit contradictions, the broadest authority has precedence. In other words, state law can not violate federal law, and local law can not violate state law. We will get arguments on that. What will end up happening is that we'll have to start quoting case law at them. They aren't going to want to play that game, particularly since locals have invariably lost."

Carl said, "I can't believe that they are fighting a pickle factory like this."

This particular area had an unemployment rate of nearly fifteen percent. The city should be begging to get companies to move into the area. The pickle company would have direct hires, but would also trigger an increase in other businesses. They would need gasoline, office supplies, and other essentials for a business of that size.

"We haven't even gotten the big boys involved yet. Things are going to get very interesting when we get above the local level. They will want to play the case law game with us," Juan said.

Not wanting to dwell on the legal games that would be played in the future, Carl said, "Let's get to the presentation."

For the next thirty minutes key elements of the design were presented. Carl watched the presentation impressed by the work the others had done to help make his dream come true. After listening to it, he couldn't believe that anyone could object to them beginning construction. He knew they would.

The factory was comprised of three buildings. The smallest building was an office area for managing the operational aspects of the company. Basically, there wasn't much to the building other than a reception area, offices, and break rooms.

The middle sized building was a warehouse for storing his products until they could be sent for distribution. It was a basic warehouse type structure with loading docks for trucks. There was enough space to store more product than he would be able to produce, during the first few years of business. However, the building did have expansion points in case more space was required. There was a conveyor system that ran through a covered connection to the warehouse for delivering the pickles for storage.

The largest building was where the cucumbers were pickled. It was the most complex building of the three with pickling tanks, canning equipment, packaging equipment, and lines for preparing the cucumbers. There was a covered unloading dock for bringing in the raw materials, namely vinegar, spices, and cucumbers. A separate dock was used to bring in the bottles, labels, and packaging materials. It incorporated clean design practices to assure that no foreign contaminates would be introduced into the product. There was even a small laboratory for food quality inspections.

He was very impressed with the layout of all three buildings. The fact was that the whole site was far larger than what he had initially planned. He had wanted a little gourmet pickle company that served specialty markets. Instead, they had gone after the larger grocery store market with a presence sufficient to challenge the existing pickle companies. It was necessary for his company to be large enough to attract the attention of those wanting to control food.

After the presentation was over, they went to the mock-up of the factory site. George Smyth pointed out key features of the site. He lifted the roofs off of the model buildings to show how the interiors would be laid out. Little details, like the safety lines on the floor denoting where it was safe to walk, were present.

Looking at the model, Carl could see his factory in production. It was easy to imagine walking from vat to vat checking the status of the pickles and taking samples to assure that nothing had been contaminated. He could feel the coolness of the refrigerated area. He could hear the noise as hundreds of glass jars rumbled along conveyers, through the wash, and onto the pickle packing equipment.

He thanked the men for the presentation, stating that he would see them that evening at the city council meeting. He left the conference room and went back to his office.

His secretary, Liz Knight, greeted him. "We found a bug under the chair your visitor used."

Liz fit the ideal that Carl had for a secretary. She was in her mid-fifties and had the kind of manner that would intimidate anyone trying to pull a fast one. She even managed to keep Samantha and Jennifer off his back when he was in the office.

"What did you do with it?" Carl asked.

"We destroyed it. It was a cheap-ass low-tech piece of crap. It wouldn't have even broadcast out of the building."

"I guess that's good. Was that the only one?" Carl asked.

Even as he asked the question, he wondered if he was becoming clinically paranoid. There had been a time not that long ago when he would have been amazed that they had found one and would never have suspected that there might be others.

"Interesting that you should ask that. We found one in the reception area," Liz answered.

Carl said, "You know, when I think of plots of world domination, I think of British spies and evil villains who are trying to steal nuclear weapons to hold the world hostage. I never really thought of a plot of world domination involving individuals trying to squash Carl Plante's pickle factory."

Liz laughed. "It does sound a little absurd when you put it that way."

"I'm glad to know that I'm not the only one who feels that way," Carl said.

There were still times when he thought that Tom Farmer's assessment of the situation was way out of line. His experience in starting the pickle factory was giving him evidence that there was indeed a plot. Still, it just seemed like a bad piece of fiction.

"Just because it sounds absurd doesn't mean it isn't happening," Liz said.

"I know," Carl said with a sigh.

Liz asked, "Will you be heading home to get some rest for tonight's event?"

"I'll go as soon as I find my 'girlfriend' and my personal assistant," Carl said.

Living with two women was not easy. There was a little competition between the two of them as to which one would bed Carl first. To be honest, there was no competition – Carl was interested in Jennifer. Even dressed and coiffured to minimize her attractiveness, she was still the most beautiful woman that Carl had ever seen.

Unfortunately for all three of them, Carl knew he was not a good enough actor to pretend to be in love with Samantha when he was intimately involved with Jennifer. Of course, every time he hugged and kissed Samantha in public, Jennifer would throw a hissy fit in private. After nearly eight months of living together, the tension in the house was getting nearly unbearable.

Hearing a little anxiety in his voice, Liz asked, "Are there problems in the Plante household?"

"That would be putting it lightly," Carl said.

There were times when he didn't want to go home. There would be little catty comments between the two women. There would occasionally be emotional outbursts in his direction. He would get irritated and shut them both down. At least, Skippy was always happy to see him.

"You're going to have to take matters in hand," Liz said.

"What do you mean?"

"Sleep with both of them. Do it with Jennifer first and then with Samantha. Let Jennifer know she's special and that you're engaging in congress of trade with Samantha. Jennifer will understand that. She's a Damenstern," Liz said.

"The problem isn't Jennifer. The problem is me," Carl admitted.

Liz said, "In that case, talk to your mother. She'll straighten you out."

An hour later, Carl was at home in his living room, with his mother. Jennifer was in the basement playing with Skippy. Samantha was in the security section of the safe room checking the tapes for unusual activity around the house.

"How are things going for you, Carl?"

"I don't know, Mom. This whole cloak and danger thing isn't me."

His mother reached over to the little table beside her chair and grabbed her drink. She took a sip while studying her son. He looked tense. She recognized that kind of tenseness.

"You didn't ask me over here to talk about your pickle factory problems," Angela said.

Carl said, "I've got girl problems."

Angela said, "That's simple enough to fix."

"How?"

"Have congress of love with Jennifer and congress of trade with Samantha."

He should have expected his mother's advice to be the same as what Liz had suggested, but he hadn't. He had grown up knowing how much his mother and father loved each other. Maybe it was his youth, but he couldn't have ever imagined her mother being with a man other than his father or allowing his father to be with another woman.

"What am I trading for?"

"The woman needs release and you need security. It sounds like a fair trade to me," Angela said.

"It's not that easy."

"Sure it is."

"I'd feel weird about sleeping with two women."

"Then you're not being very clever," Angela said.

She took another sip of her drink appreciating the rich flavor. Someone had picked out a very good brand of single malt Scotch. She figured it had to be Jennifer.

"Why?"

"You're mistaking sex with love. Members of the Pfand don't do that. We know that they are separate things. There are four kinds of congress and only one of them is predicated on love," Angela said.

"Still..."

Angela sighed. "I guess I should have expected this of you. You've got a lot of your father in you. He's a bit of a romantic. It took him a long time to make peace with my former job as an escort. Your sister took after me. She's pragmatic."

"I never thought of myself as romantic," Carl said.

His idea of a romantic was a guy who showed up at a girl's house with a box of chocolates and a bouquet of flowers while spouting poetry on bended knee. That wasn't his style.

"You're definitely not pragmatic. If you were, you'd know that Jennifer desperately needs to know that you love her. The poor girl is in love with you and has been since you were sixteen, but you've been keeping her at arm's length. I'm sure she's hurt by that.

"The sad thing is, that you're in love with her, too. I even think that you now understand her life as an escort, or, at least, you accept it. You haven't told her that, either. I imagine she's hurt by that, too.

"If you were pragmatic, you'd recognize that Samantha is stuck here in this house, unable to get any kind of release, without it being derelict in her duty to the Pfand. For your part, you're getting the benefit of her protection, and you aren't paying your personal debt to her."

"What about Jennifer's feelings?"

"She's a Damenstern. She is pragmatic. She has to be in order to engage in congress of trade for so many years while being in love with you. She will understand," Angela said.

She actually thought that Jennifer would ultimately lose respect for Carl if he didn't engage in congress of trade with Samantha. She wasn't going to point that out to Carl unless he got really stubborn.

Carl asked, "What if I have feelings for Samantha?"

"There's no if about it. You're going to have feelings for Samantha. You already have feelings for Samantha. You have feelings about every person with whom you interact. Some of those feelings will be negative, some neutral, and some positive. Are those feelings for Samantha going to be Love with a capital 'L' or friendship? I'm pretty sure it will be friendship, but love wouldn't be a bad thing either."

"I don't know."

Angela smiled. "Spoken like a romantic."

She took a sip of her drink. "This is very good Scotch."

"Jennifer bought it," Carl said.

Setting the empty glass down on the coaster, she said, "She has very good taste in Scotch."

"I'll tell her that," Carl said.

His mother rose from the chair. She looked at Carl who was rising from his chair.

"I'd like to think that she has very good taste in men," his mother said. "Don't disappoint me."

"Yes, Mom."

Carl walked his mother to the front door. After turning off the security, he let her out the front door.

He was about to follow her to her car when she said, "Don't be a fool. Get back in the house."

"Good bye, Mom."

"Take care of yourself and those two girls."

"Yes, Mom."

Carl went back into the house and watched his mother get into her car. After she had driven off, he put the house back into lock-down. He turned to find Samantha watching him.

"You started to go outside without me," she said sounding highly irritated.

"I forgot."

"You got a visit from the mob, this morning, and you're now forgetting basic security precautions?" Samantha said.

The tone of her voice had turned a little more edgy.

"I'm sorry," Carl said.

"You need to start thinking," Samantha said.

The tone of her voice was starting to sound angry. He knew that she was about to start yelling. Thinking quickly, he stepped up to her and kissed her. She was so shocked by his actions that her mouth was moving without any sound coming out.

He said, "This afternoon and tonight is Jennifer's. Perhaps tomorrow, if you're interested, we can retire to your room for a little privacy."

Samantha said, "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Yes."

"I'll get Jennifer. She'll be right up."

"Thank you," Carl said.

Thirty seconds later there was an excited squeal from the basement and then the sounds of heavy steps running up the basement stairs. Carl waited for Jennifer to come charging into the room. There was about a ten second delay before she appeared through the door walking calmly and sedately.

"Samantha said that you wanted to talk to me."

"Yes."

"So what did you want?" Jennifer asked trying not to sound impatient.

Now that the moment had come, Carl found that he was at a loss for words. He didn't know how to say what he felt. He stood there looking at her while she looked at him.

"Well?"

Carl took a deep breath and then blurted out, "I love you."

"I know that," Jennifer said.

It was as if she were dismissing his statement as though he had just stated the obvious. Of course, her face lit up like it was Christmas.

Three hours later, a sated Carl and an ecstatic Jennifer left for the city council meeting, with an excited Samantha. The driver picked them up from the front of the house, and delivered them to the steps of city hall. Carl walked in with an arm around Samantha while Jennifer walked beside them carrying a briefcase filled with notes. They stopped outside the council room and looked at the posted agenda.

Carl frowned. "We're third on the agenda."

The first item on the agenda was to approve a trash collection contract with the Caggiano Sanitation Company. The second item on the agenda was a regulation concerning the colors that were to be used when painting house numbers on the curbs in front of residences. It looked like those two items could be completed within ten minutes. Carl doubted anyone would vote against giving a contract to Mr. Marcelo Caggiano. The second item couldn't possibly take more than ten minutes.

"They've got old business from the previous council meeting," Jennifer said.

Juan Torres joined them and said, "It looks better than it is."

George Smyth, Jim Woodman, and Herman Steward joined them. As a group they entered the council room. Mr. Anthony Gamboni was seated in the audience. He looked over at Carl with an angry glare. The seats at the table at the head of the room were empty.

Five minutes after the city council meeting was supposed to start, the council members entered the room and took their places at the table.

The chairman said, "I call this meeting of the town council in session."

There was a long pause while the chairman fiddled with some papers. Finally, he said, "The first item on the agenda is the renewal of the sanitation contract with the Caggiano Sanitation Company. This is to renew the contract for ten years, under the terms and conditions specified in the top handout in front of you. Is there a motion for renewal?"

One of the councilwomen raised her hand.

"Is there a second?"

One of the councilmen raised his hand.

"The matter of renewal of the garbage contract has been motioned and seconded. Are there any questions or comments?"

There was a long pause in which no one said anything.

"It appears that there are no questions or comments. Let's vote on the matter. All those in favor, say aye."

A chorus of ayes filled the room.

"Let the record show that the motion was passed unanimously."

Mr. Anthony Gamboni left the room. Carl watched him leave wondering why he wasn't bothering to stay for the approval of the plans for building the factory. It seemed odd that the man would make a threat in the morning and then leave before the matter came up in the meeting.

The chairman filled with the stack of papers in front of him. He looked around the room in an officious manner for a second.

"The next item on the agenda is passing a regulation for painting numbers on the curbs in front of houses. Do I have a motion?"

The same councilwoman raised her hand.

"Do I have a second?"

The same councilman who had seconded the previous motion raised his hand.

"The matter of house numbers on curbs has been motioned and seconded. Are there any questions or comments?"

"I think the colors should be black letters on a white background."

"No. It is better to have a green background with white letters."

Carl listened to the town council argue over the colors for three solid hours. It was well after ten when they finally passed a regulation requiring a green background with white letters. Several times, Jennifer had to lean over to whisper in Carl's ear that he was to remain calm.

There was a long pause while the chairman fiddled with some papers. Finally, he said, "It appears that we have gone over our scheduled time."

One of the councilwomen raised her hand. "I would like to move that we table the rest of the agenda until our next meeting next month."

"Is there a second?"

One of the councilmen raised his hand.

"The motion to adjourn has been moved and seconded. Are there any questions or comments?"

Juan stood up and said, "I have a question."

"Sit down. You haven't been recognized by the chair."

"It appears that there are no questions or comments. Let's vote on the matter. All those in favor, say aye."

A chorus of ayes filled the room.

"Let the record show that the motion to table all remaining agenda items until next month was passed unanimously.

"Are there any other matters?"

There was a long pause.

"I, hereby close the meeting. We'll meet the same time next month."

Furious, Carl said, "I could learn to hate politicians."

Juan said, "I expected this to happen."

"So we've got to wait another month?" Carl asked.

"No. I'll be filing against them in court, tomorrow morning. They'll have to have an emergency meeting within seventy-two hours," Juan said.

"How do you know that?"

"They violated the procedures to be followed in a public council meeting," Juan said.

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 11


"Sir?"

"What?"

"The pickle factory situation has escalated."

The man grabbed the blond's hair, and pulled her head away from his crotch. Ignoring her complaint about his rough treatment of her, he sat up.

"What happened?"

"They filed suit against the town council, and pushed for an emergency meeting. They won the suit. Our lawyer ended up looking like a fool. Their lawyer started spouting case law, and the city council folded. They gave permission to start construction."

"Tell the pickle guy he has to leave town or else."

"We did."

"And."

"Our contact disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is the pickle guy connected?"

"I don't think so."

"Let the building inspectors go after them. Get the state involved. While you're at it, I'm sure the pickle guy won't like an IRS audit."

"Yes, sir."

The man reached out and grabbed the blond by the hair.

"Get back here, bitch. I'm not done with you, yet."



-------

Chapter 12


The IRS agent looked at the folder and exhaled loudly. There was nothing there.

"You were a college student in 2008."

"Yes."

"You earned $6431.23 at Wheeler Trucking."

"Yes."

Just as he had done when the 2005, 2006 and 2007 earnings had been stated, Jonathan Sharp said, "Any additional income recorded in your system may be a result of identity theft. If the name used and the number agrees with that of my client, then we request that an investigation into the crime of identity theft be pursued. If the name does not agree, then someone else used the number. According to past IRS rulings, my client is not responsible for the taxes owed on income earned by another individual who either intentionally or accidentally used his social security number."

The IRS agent stared at Jonathan Sharp knowing the man was a brilliant tax attorney. He wondered how Carl could afford his services.

"You filed a 1040-EZ form."

"Yes. As a college student, I was still a dependent on my father's income tax."

"It looks like everything is okay here."

The IRS handed over an initial audit report stating that no irregularities were found.

"Thank you. We'll expect an final audit report stating that all taxes from 2005 through 2008 have been paid in full post haste," Jonathan said.

"You'll get it."

"My client will be looking for it in the mail," Jonathan said.

"I did notice that there was a recent legal change in name. Why?"

Jonathan answered, "That has no bearing on his tax matters."

"I'm just curious."

"Curiosity is a good thing," Jonathan said staring flatly at the IRS agent.

"That's all. You can go now."

Carl said, "Thank you."

"Thank you," Jonathan said while picking up the recorder that sat on the table. With a flourish, he turned it off earning a sour look from the IRS agent.

Samantha had been waiting for Carl in the lobby before the security area. She had spent the time drinking a coffee and watching the crowd. She joined the two men when they walked out of the elevator and outside the security perimeter.

Outside, Carl said, "Thank you, Jonathan, for all of your hard work."

"That was the most pitiful fucking excuse for an audit that I've ever seen. That was a clear case of someone attempting to use the IRS for harassment purposes," Jonathan said.

In all of his years dealing with the IRS, this was the first time he had witnessed the audit of a 1040-EZ filing for a student with a single summer job without any evidence of additional income. He had been incredulous when he had heard about the audit. He was insulted sitting through it.

"Can we sue them?" Carl asked.

So far they had spent nearly a million dollars of Pfand money pursuing various lawsuits. Every chance where someone could say no, they said no. It was getting disheartening. The state archeologist had shown up at the construction site demanding that they stop work until after he could perform a study of the land to assure that it wasn't archaeologically important. The archeologist had been followed by a wildlife biologist from the state who wanted to assure that there weren't any endangered species living in the area.

"If I understand things correctly, we should," Jonathan answered.

The Pfand had tasked more than a hundred members of the Curador family to defend Carl against the kind of harassment they were experiencing. There was some thought that whoever had the deepest pockets would win.

Head down sending a text message, Samantha said, "No. That is not advised in this case."

"Why not?" Carl asked.

"Don't ask that question," Samantha replied.

Carl had a pretty good idea that he knew what that answer meant. The Pfand was going to abduct and question an IRS agent. He knew that with the results of the audit in hand, there would be few questions asked of him when the man disappeared. He felt sorry for the other folks who had recently had an audit with negative findings or were in the process of having one done. They were going to be put through hell.

Carl asked, "Now what?"

Samantha looked around with a frown.

She said, "You are going to sit down on the ground behind that cement wall over there."

"Why?"

"Do it now!"

Carl went over to where she had indicated and sat down on the ground. The idea of what it was doing to his thousand dollar suit made him sick to his stomach. Samantha sent Jonathan away and then went to stand over Carl. She put her purse on the cement wall. Her hand was stuck into the fold of the purse which concealed her pistol.

"What's the matter?"

Samantha said, "Mike didn't reply to the text message I sent him."

Mike Speer was the driver of the limousine. He had been brought out of retirement for that purpose. He was the best defensive and offensive driver in the Wache family line. Once a month he taught officers in the State Police how to handle their cars in high speed chases. Even the best driver couldn't keep up with him on the high speed course.

"Maybe he's in the restroom," Carl said hoping that Mike was unharmed.

Worried, Samantha said, "No. There's something wrong."

"What are we supposed to do?"

"We're going to wait here until help shows up."

"How long will that take?" Carl asked.

The temptation to look over the cement wall was almost overwhelming. Each time he shifted position, Samantha pressed down on his head to keep him from popping up to take a look around. He was about to get frustrated when a sudden light breeze changed things.

Looking up, Carl said, "Nice view."

"Get your mind out of the gutter," Samantha said cracking a small smile.

"You wear granny panties."

"Of course I wear granny panties. You don't know misery until you've tried to run a mile wearing a thong," Samantha said.

"I can't imagine."

Relaxing a little, Samantha said, "Our people are here. It'll take them a minute to set up and then we'll get you into a car."

"I owe you one," Carl said.

"You'll pay it when we get home," Samantha said with a snicker.

"Willingly."

Herman walked over to where Carl was hidden.

He looked over the wall and asked, "Do you have any idea what that looks like?"

Carl nodded his head in the affirmative.

Samantha replied, "No. What does it look like?"

"He's on the ground between your legs. You're leaning over him trying to look nonchalant. I bet a dozen people walked past thinking he was doing obscene things of an oral nature to you," Herman said.

Keeping in character, Samantha said, "I'm his girlfriend."

"You better back away before they arrest you for performing an indecent act in public," Herman said.

Samantha stepped back.

"You're definitely going to have to start wearing pants," Herman said.

"Suck eggs and die," Samantha said.

Herman laughed.

Samantha asked, "What happened to Mike?"

"One of the local boys in blue had him spread eagle on the hood of the limousine," Herman answered.

"What in the hell for?"

Herman smiled. "I don't know, but the officer is trying to explain it to one of our lawyers right now."

Carl said, "I don't believe this shit."

Samantha got out a makeup case and a stick of lipstick out of her purse. After looking around to see if there was anyone close enough to listen, Samantha opened the makeup case and started to apply the lipstick.

She asked, "So was there a shooter stationed anywhere around here?"

"Not that we were able to find," Herman answered while smoothing out his mustache. "We're still looking."

"Keep looking," Samantha said.

Carl asked, "When am I going to be able to get up?"

"Not until I tell you," Samantha answered.

"This is ruining my suit," Carl said.

"You should see what blood stains do to a suit," Samantha said.

She paused and held up the mirror to check her lips.

She added, "Oh, I'm sorry. You won't be around to see what a blood stain does to your suit."

"I guess a little dirt won't hurt," Carl said.

She put away the stick of lipstick and examined her lips in the mirror. Samantha closed up the makeup case and returned it to her purse.

Samantha said, "The car is here. Let's go."

"With pleasure," Carl said.

The three of them scurried over to the car, moving quickly without appearing to run. They looked like important business people in a hurry.

Once they were in the car, Herman said, "Mike, take us to the house."

Samantha said, "Carl, when I tell you to move, you need to move."

Herman said, "Still breaking him in, I see."

"At least he didn't argue too much this time," Samantha said offhandedly.

Herman looked down at Carl. "Don't argue, just do."

"I know."

"If you know, then why did you argue?"

"I didn't realize she was telling me to do something for my safety. I thought she was just telling me to wait over there for the car."

"It doesn't matter why she's telling you to do something, when you're outside you just do it," Herman said.

"All right," Carl said.

Herman said, "For your information, that spot was probably the best place for you to wait for the car to arrive even if there wasn't an apparent problem. You had good cover, two exit routes, and a clear field of vision."

"This is ridiculous. I can't believe all of this cloak and dagger shit over a pickle factory," Carl said.

"Anyone else would have already given up by now. This is becoming personal with them by now," Herman said.

"It started being personal with me a long time ago," Carl said.

Herman said, "Well, we're getting closer to the bad guys."

"How much closer?" Carl asked.

"Much closer," Herman answered.

Trying to get an answer out of a member of the Wache family was like trying to get water out of a rock. It just wasn't going to happen. However, it did seem that each time something happened, they would make the comment that they were getting closer to finding who was behind the attempt to gain control over the world's food supply.

There was a low buzz of a cell phone on vibrate mode. Samantha reached in her purse and grabbed her cell phone. After a curt greeting, she listened for a minute and then closed it. She sat there for a second deep in thought.

"What's up?"

She said, "I just got news of some interesting developments. It appears that a private eye dropped his camera over the side of a building. His camera bag went over the side, too. The camera was totally destroyed. The poor guy, all of his pictures in it were ruined."

"That is interesting," Herman said.

They had known that someone had Carl under surveillance, but hadn't been able to catch him. Now they had caught him and soon they would have some questions answered.

"It also appears that our friendly IRS agent met someone right after Carl's meeting. The man he met didn't seem too happy with him. We let the IRS agent leave. As soon as he was out the door, our people picked up his friend," Samantha said.

Sounding disappointed, Herman said, "I was really looking forward to interviewing our friendly IRS agent. I've always wanted to see how one of them reacts when you put the fear of God into them."

"There's always next time," Samantha said.

"Next time?" Carl asked.

"You aren't the only one in this fight," Samantha said.

Carl said, "I guess I forget that at times."

"I do too."

"How are the others doing?"

"Haven't you been watching the news?" Herman asked.

"No. I've been buried up to my ass in lawyers and public relations people," Carl answered.

Samantha said, "That's true. We haven't seen a news broadcast in weeks."

Herman said, "Henry Plantar's place was burned to the ground earlier this week in an ATF raid on a suspected right-wing extremist. The initial story was that a fire started as a result of a smoke grenade malfunction. Authorities assume that he and his family died in the fire."

"Shit!" Samantha said.

Carl couldn't believe it. He knew that dairy farmers are chained to their cows morning and night seven days a week. They didn't have time to be extremists.

"Did they die?"

"No, they are on their way to Iceland."

Carl was shocked. "Iceland? Why in the hell are they going to Iceland?"

Samantha answered, "If you were to name the top one hundred places people select to hide when running from the law, you would quickly discover that Iceland is not one of them. As a result, it is a good place to run to."

"Where would you send me?" Carl asked.

He didn't like cold weather and couldn't imagine being happy living in Iceland. With no offense intended to Icelanders, he couldn't imagine anyone being happy there.

Herman said, "The ATF and FBI probably won't be breaking your door down accusing you of being a right-wing extremist. They only do that for folks out in the country. You're a businessman and live in the suburbs. They'll grab you for fraud, embezzlement, drugs, rape, or murder."

"That's reassuring to know," Carl said sarcastically.

He figured that they would lock him up and throw away the key. He wondered if he was going to become the modern equivalent of the 'Man in the Iron Mask.'

Samantha said, "Don't be so negative. I'm sure that the bad guys will try to burn you out before the Feds get to you."

"Jeez Louise."

Carl sat there thinking about what Tom had said about powerful men punishing individuals who chose to challenge them. He wondered if he would end up on skid row, addicted to heroin or wearing an aluminum hat and babbling about the government beaming rays into his head after receiving a lobotomy. He was firmly convinced that these bastards were the kind who would make sure you survived just well enough to know that you had been royally screwed and that there was nothing you could do about it.

"Don't worry. You've got us protecting you," Herman said.

"What's going to happen with Henry Plantar and his family?"

Herman answered, "I wouldn't worry about them. Unbeknownst to anyone other than ... well ... us, they had chosen to leave on a vacation the morning of the incident. They'll return home in a week or two shocked and dismayed to discover that their house was burned to the ground by the government. I believe they will become very wealthy as a result of this."

"How?"

Herman answered, "Since everyone assumes they're dead, we've filed a one billion dollar lawsuit on behalf of their next of kin against the federal government. Now that made the news."

"They're going to toss a lawsuit like that out of court. You can't sue the government for damages made while trying to execute a warrant," Carl said.

"Yes and no."

"It's pretty clear cut, if I recall correctly."

Herman said, "It turns out that there was a camera on the barn that caught the whole raid. Somehow or another, the Feds missed it during their search of the property. Unfortunately for them, the film and their report on the event don't agree very well. The incendiary grenade they fired at the house bounced off the window rather than flying through it – something about bullet proof glass that had been purchased in an auction. It is quite an impressive video. You should watch the news."

The original report had stated quite clearly that the Plantars were firing out the windows of the house at the agents when they approached it. The video clearly showed that no one was at the windows. At the time the family was supposed to be resisting, they were actually halfway through the escape tunnel to the abandoned house on the farm next door. By the time the firetrucks arrived, the Plantars were on a Wagner jet bound for Iceland.

Mike came to a stop in the driveway of Carl's house. "We're here."

Carl looked over at the front window. Although they couldn't hear him, they could see Skippy standing on the arm of a chair barking at the big black car. Carl smiled upon seeing the dog. He couldn't help but think back to what David had said about appreciating the welcome when arriving home.

Upon stepping out of the car, Car watched Skippy stop barking and start wagging his tail. The dog disappeared from view while the group made their way to the front door. They entered the house only to be greeted by a very excited dog.

"Hello, Skippy," Carl said kneeling down and petting the dog.

Herman said, "You should probably spend a little watching television. There's some pretty serious things happening in the government."

"Like what?" Carl asked.

"You'll see," Herman answered. "Now, I've got to interview a bad guy."

Carl closed the door behind Herman and set the house to lock-down. He sat down on the floor in his dirty suit and played with the dog.

Samantha said, "I didn't know about Henry Plantar."

"At least he wasn't killed," Carl said.

"We ought to practice getting to the escape tunnel," Samantha said.

"That might be a good idea."

"Let me find Jennifer and we'll make some timed runs," Samantha said.

Jennifer came out of the bedroom looking horrible. Her eyes were red and puffy. It was obvious that she had been crying.

"What's the matter?" Carl asked while getting off the floor to go to her.

"They killed Mark Cura," Jennifer answered nearly breaking into tears when she said his name.

Carl staggered back in shock. Mark Cura had been a classmate of theirs at the Cura Private School. They had spent twelve years together. Mark had been the funniest guy in the entire school. He had a quick wit and could slide into a serious discussion the most horrible pun imaginable – all with a straight face. Everyone liked Mark. He was just that kind of guy.

They even kept in touch after graduating. He had talked to Mark only two weeks ago. Mark had been accepted into law school and was working over the summer in his father's law firm. He was looking forward to spending time around the lawyers, listening to their stories and watching them at work.

"How?" Samantha asked.

Jennifer flew into Carl's arms sobbing wildly. Carl stood there holding her, unable to believe that Mark Cura had died. It didn't seem possible.

Samantha asked, "How did he die?"

Jennifer answered, "He was shot."

"What happened?" Samantha asked.

Jennifer couldn't answer.

Seeing that she wasn't going to get an answer from Jennifer, Samantha went into the living room and turned on the television hoping that it might be covered in the news. It was definitely being covered, as one might expect when a high ranking government official was the key suspect in a murder.

John Stevenson, an under secretary in the Department of Agriculture, had stormed into the law offices of Cura and Burgess waving a gun. After terrifying the secretarial staff, he had gone into the office of Robert Cura and fired his gun until it was empty, killing Mark Cura in the process. A security guard had subdued the the man and held him until the police arrived.

There were no questions about the motive. The shooting took place shortly after an audio recording of John threatening the life of Robert Cura had been released to the press. In the recording, which almost every news service discounted as forged, John had made mention of evidence linking him to serious crimes that had been turned over to a Federal Prosecutor by Robert. John had stated that the Federal Prosecutor had buried the evidence and that if Robert ever opened his mouth about the matter that he would be buried right beside the evidence.

Robert Cura, along with a body guard, had been at one of the news stations handing over copies of the tapes showing John Stevenson engaged in criminal activities. The tapes showed him taking bribes from several large agro-corporations and ordering a number of family farms to be seized without due process. The news station was hesitant about showing the tapes until their legal staff had cleared them. Clearance came after the news story broke about the shooting.

The tapes made when taking bribes were particularly devastating to a number of influential individuals - not only to John Stevenson and the executives who handed over the money. A lot of names had been mentioned, as well as their roles in following the agenda which was to be pursued. Specific congressmen were named, as were the amounts of money they were to receive in exchange for turning a blind eye to any complaints from farmers in the jurisdictions.

The recorded conversations, in which he ordered the farms to be seized, were particularly sickening. He joked about how he'd like to watch the sad faces of the farmers while they were being forced off their farms. He laughed about how, despite the fact that the reasons were bogus, the farmers were too small to fight big government.

The Federal Prosecutor to whom the evidence had been submitted was not available for comment. None of the executives who had been captured on film were willing to make a public statement. The congressmen who had been named disavowed any interaction with John Stevenson. In essence, a lot of powerful people were hiding, either physically or metaphorically.

In what might have been interesting news if anyone had bothered to take note of it, the stock prices for the companies employing those executives had not changed a cent that day. It appeared that Wall Street did not see that kind of management tactics as a negative.

Samantha said, "He's the second of the Pfand to die in this war. I fear there will be more."

"I don't get it," Carl said.

"What don't you get?" Samantha asked.

Carl said, "That guy was an asshole. Surely someone noticed what he was doing."

"I'm sure that a lot of people noticed," Jennifer said fighting back a sniffle.

"So why didn't anyone do anything?"

"They did. They got in line for the bribe money," Samantha said in disgust.

Carl said, "There's got to be some honest people left."

"There are. They're the ones losing their farms," Samantha said.

In a way, Carl was the innocent among the three despite the situation in which he was embroiled. Samantha had spent years in the protection business. She had first hand experience with the less honest members of society. Jennifer had been involved in the harsh world of 'congress of trade' – seeking information from the rich and powerful.

"I just don't see how they could get away with it."

Jennifer said, "Those kinds of people were my customers. They don't see people the same way that you or I do. To them, people are little pencil dots on a page of paper. If the dot is in the wrong place, they just erase it. That's what they see themselves as doing. They are removing dots to make the picture they want."

"And these are the people running our country?"

Jennifer answered, "Yes. They are running our government, our large corporations ... and, even, our charities."

"And we are nothing to them?"

Jennifer said, "That's right. You see, they like to work with big numbers, not individuals."

"What do you mean?" Carl asked afraid of the answer.

Jennifer answered, "Let's see, there are three hundred million people in this country so if we take a hundred dollars from each person every year that translates to thirty billion dollars in revenue per year. Thirty billion a year isn't enough? Then just take two hundred dollars and you get sixty billion. Pretty soon, you're talking big money. It's easy when you do the math.

"There's a problem with the math. If you have to deal with individuals and individual choice, how can one person deal with three hundred million people? You can't, so you don't.

"Instead, you deal with the collective. You pass laws and regulations that force everyone into the behavior that you want. You force the exclusion of the choices you don't want the masses to make. You push conformity rather than individualism. You use peer pressure to get the individualists to do as you want. You shape the game so that people have no choice except to give you the money.

"And if all else fails, then lie. Give false statistics, make fake promises, and say what people want to hear rather than the unpleasant truth. Shout down the naysayers. Bribe the guardians of truth. Convince people that the things they remember weren't really that way. Remake reality as you want others to believe it to be."

"I don't want to believe that things are that bad," Carl said.

"Twenty or thirty people were identified in this scandal. Two or three will be prosecuted. Why not the others? Well, you didn't hear the tapes correctly. It was all hearsay and not fact. No, it wasn't hearsay – just a couple of jerks dropping names to sound important. That wasn't really money, and it wasn't really a bribe, but a campaign contribution. Senator So-and-so wasn't even there," Jennifer said.

She sighed and said, "I would attend a party and hear a dozen jerks spin the truth. They'd talk about how to sell some ridiculous scheme to people, and how much money they'd make as a result. There was no respect for people. It was sickening."

Samantha said, "Users. They are all users."

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 13


"Sir?"

"What?"

"The farmer was on vacation, in Iceland, when the government folks went in to take them out. There's a shit storm in Washington over burning his house."

"Damn it."

"We haven't been able to stop the pickle guy."

"Kill them. Kill them all."

"Them? Who?"

"That fucking farmer, and the pickle guy."

"Yes, Sir."

"Where's that fucking blond bitch?"

"She's in the hospital."

"Send in the red head."

"Yes, Sir."

"Make sure the blond dies."



-------

Chapter 14


Silvia Farmer was seated in a visitor's chair next to the hospital bed, reading a romance novel. She was there, because an old friend of hers had said that her daughter had been drugged and beaten by a client, during a party. She watched the young woman sleeping, taking note of the visible injuries. For some reason, her gut instinct was that Gloria was far more important than met the eye.

Gloria McQueen was a physical mess. Her left eye was swollen shut, and covered with a horrible swirl of black and blue bruises. The right side of her face was swollen as a result of her broken jaw. It was the classic injury produced by being backhanded by a right-handed man. There were carpet burns, partially scabbed over, on her forehead and nose. She assumed that Gloria had been anally raped at some point in her ordeal.

Looking at the young blond made her blood boil. There was no reason for her to be there. A girl with her experience knew enough to know how to adequately prepare for a full evening of sex. Sexually, she could have taken on an entire room full of men, and walked out in the morning leaving the exhausted men behind. Injuries like this were the result of meanness.

Silvia had been there for two hours without anyone coming into the room to check on the young woman. Several times, she stuck her head out of the room to see if she could spot a nurse. After the fifth time of not finding anyone, she picked up the phone and made a call. After a minute of conversation, she hung up satisfied. Gloria would not have to worry about getting adequate treatment, or even about anyone finding her. She sat back to wait for the results of her call.

Within ten minutes of making call, a nurse came into the room and said, "I just got a call that we're transferring her."

"Really?" Silvia asked pretending to be surprised.

In a way, she was surprised. She didn't expect such a quick response to her call. The bureaucracies of hospitals could almost be as bad as those of government, although things did speed up when a Curador got into the act.

"If you'll step outside, I'll prepare her to be moved," the nurse said.

"That's okay. I'd like to stay with my niece," Silvia said thinking she didn't want to leave the young woman alone.

"You're family?"

Silvia could lie with the best of them.

"She's my sister's daughter. I practically helped raise Glory."

"You don't look much alike," the Nurse said.

Silvia said, "We're half sisters. Same mother, different fathers."

"Ah, that explains it," the nurse said. "Still, I'd prefer if you left."

"That's not going to happen," Silvia said studying the nurse intently.

"Please leave now," the nurse said starting to sound irritated.

Silvia let loose with a loud shrill whistle that echoed in the small hospital room. It was the same whistle she had used to summon taxi cabs, when visiting large cities. It was loud enough to be heard over street traffic.

A second later, a deep rumbling voice cut through the room. "Ma'am, is there a problem?"

Silvia said, "She's insisting that I leave."

"I'll have hospital security here in a minute and we'll straighten this all out."

"Thank you, Manny."

The nurse stepped closer to Gloria.

In a voice cold enough to freeze ice, Silvia said, "I wouldn't take one step closer to Glory if I were you."

Moving closer to Gloria, the nurse said, "I've asked politely, now I'm demanding that you leave."

"Don't move, or I'll drop you where you stand."

"What?" the nurse shouted.

"Step back from Miss McQueen," Manny said in a threatening low growl.

The nurse froze staring at the stun baton that had magically appeared in Gloria's hand. The electrodes were an inch from her arm. She hadn't seen Silvia draw it. She glanced over at Manny and saw that he had a pistol aimed at her head. She'd be angry if she wasn't so scared.

Silvia said, "The picture on your badge doesn't look much like you."

"I stopped dying my hair," the nurse said.

Silvia said, "I've never heard of a dye job changing the entire face."

Two more men entered the room. One of them had a hospital badge. He looked at the two armed individuals and nearly wet his pants. He turned to complain to the man with him and froze on seeing that he had drawn a gun as well. The gun was pointed in his side.

"What's going on?" the new man asked.

Silvia said, "This nurse is an imposter."

"No she's not. I've worked with her for years," the security person said.

Silvia said, "I don't know you either."

The small room was now crowded with the bed, the nurse, Silvia, the hospital security person, and two members of the Wache family. The two members of the Wache family took up a great deal of space all by themselves.

"She's a nurse here," the security person said.

"Well, her picture on her ID doesn't look like her."

The man looked at the badge and then said, "Why do you have Meg's badge, Mary?"

Mary looked down at her badge. "What the hell? How did I end up with her badge?"

"That's what I want to know."

"I had my badge this morning when I entered through the employee entrance," Mary said looking confused.

Wearing a badge as a nurse was a pain. If worn on a lanyard, it would swing out when leaning forward to deal with a patient. It was always getting in the way. She wore her badge clipped to her uniform. The problem with that was that it would come off several times a day when moving patients or moving around.

"Will everyone be quiet," Manny said. Looking over at Silvia, he said, "Ma'am, would you like to get a real nurse who might be able to identify these two?"

"I'm the only nurse on duty," Mary said.

"I don't believe that," Silvia said.

This was a large hospital; there should be nurses everywhere. She became even more suspicious of Mary. She glanced at the security person from the hospital wondering if his cooperation had been bought by party or parties unknown.

The security man said, "I bet that Meg has stolen your id to get into the pharmacy."

"What am I supposed to do if she's stolen some drugs? The records are going to show that I took them," Mary said more worried about losing her job than the gun that was being held on her.

"I'll fill out a report and take care of it," the security man answered.

Silvia closed the stun baton and put it into her purse. She moved around Manny and went into the hallway. There was no one around. She went over to the nurses station only to find it was empty. She walked up the hallway looking in the rooms. There were patients, some with visitors, but no hospital staff. She was beginning to get worried until she spotted an elderly woman wearing an outfit with a hospital logo on it.

"Excuse me," Silvia said.

The older woman looked at Silvia. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for a nurse," Silvia said.

"Mary is the only nurse on duty on this floor. She should be around here somewhere," the woman replied.

"Why only one nurse?" Silvia asked.

"Budget cuts. They kept reducing the staff until they were left with one nurse per shift. They have them work overtime so that they usually get two nurses on staff. Meg was fired last week. With the shortage of personnel, they've staggered the shifts so that there's only one nurse on duty during the quiet times and two at the other times."

"What do you do here?"

"I'm a volunteer. I do whatever I can to help out. Usually, there are more of us here, but not today."

"What can you do?"

"I can make sure that the patient really needs something. Most times, the patient wants something to drink or something like that and I can fill up the water pitcher and talk with them a bit. If it is a little more serious than that, I can chase down a nurses aide. It is only when it is a real problem that I call Mary," the woman answered.

"Where are the nurses aides?" Silvia asked.

"They're around here somewhere. There are only two of them. They are probably in the other hallway."

Silvia asked, "There are only three employees on a floor with ... what ... sixty rooms?"

She couldn't see how three people could take care of a hundred and twenty patients. That would require each of them assist forty patients each hour – essentially they could spend one minute with a patient. In reality, it would be the nurses aides who would deal with sixty patients each with the nurse being called only for the problem cases. Unfortunately, changing a bedpan took longer than a minute, so it was doubtful the patients were getting that much care.

"Yes."

Silvia said, "I guess you'll have to do. Come with me."

The elderly woman followed behind Silvia thinking that she wanted some help dealing with a patient. She hoped the patient wasn't in pain. The delays in getting the nurse who could do anything about it would feel like forever for the patient.

Outside the door to Gloria's room, Silvia stopped the old woman. Pointing at the nurse, she asked, "Is that Meg?"

"No. That's Mary. She's the nurse on staff," the elderly woman answered.

"Thank you," Silvia said. "I don't need you any more."

The old woman said, "I'll just see if she needs some help."

"She doesn't. You should just go on and help the others," Silvia said.

The elderly woman frowned, but headed towards the nurses station. She was going to call security, but then noticed that the head of security was already there. She watched while Silvia went into the room.

"She's legit," Silvia said.

Looking at the two men standing near the door, Manny, while putting away his gun, said, "Let's step out into the hallway."

"Would you get out so that I can take care of the patient now?" Mary asked looking at Silvia.

It wasn't that she was particularly dedicated to her job, but that she would be legally liable if anything went wrong. At the first sign of trouble, she'd be out the door and she needed the job. The badge was a bad piece of news as well. If Meg had already accessed the pharmacy, she was going to be in big trouble.

"I'm staying," Silvia said.

Deciding that it wasn't worth the fight, Mary turned to Gloria and started to prepare her for being moved. The woman was clearly angered about having had a gun pulled on her. Outside, in the hallway, the security man was arguing with the two men about them having a gun on hospital premises. His rant kind of died an awkward death when they produced carry permits and explained they were in the personal protection business. It was clearly not the low profile presence that Silvia had desired.

Silvia said, "I'm sorry about that. We had a family friend murdered in a hospital and I'm a little sensitive about it."

"Murder, huh?" the nurse said bitterly. "How could they tell the difference from neglect?"

"She was suffocated," Silvia answered.

"The question still stands," Mary said talking while working.

"Why are there so few people on staff?"

Mary answered, "It is cheaper to pay us time and a half for overtime than to hire another person. We've got four nurses for this floor and each of us works double shifts four days a week. They should have four more nurses and another dozen nurses aides, at a minimum, but that's too expensive."

Silvia thought about what Mary had said. Now she understood why the Curador's had insisted on creating a couple of private hospital facilities for members of the Pfand. It was the only way to get halfway decent medical care.

"You don't sound pleased about that," Silvia said.

"I'm tired all of the time. It's hard to care about anything or anybody when you're tired all of the time. The patients aren't happy with their care, management keeps wanting more while supporting us less, and..." after glancing out the door, "today three assholes pulled weapons on me," Mary said. "No. I'm not pleased."

Silvia said, "I'm sorry about the weapons, but your ID didn't match you. This woman is here because of an assault by person or persons unknown. For all I knew, you could have been here to finish the job someone else started."

"You could have asked," Mary said angrily.

Silvia shook her head. "What do you think would have happened if I started to question a paid killer?"

"They'd have killed you," Mary admitted.

"Exactly," Silvia said.

Mary stepped back and said, "She's ready for transport to another facility. If you'll excuse me, I have other patients."

"Go ahead," Silvia said.

It was another hour before two men with a gurney arrived to transport Gloria McQueen to another facility. They had paperwork identifying City General as the hospital to which Gloria was being transferred, but Silvia knew that Gloria wasn't going anywhere near City General. It took time to find Mary, get the appropriate paperwork signed, and load Gloria into the ambulance. Silvia never left Gloria's side.

Riding in the back of the ambulance, Silvia watched the paramedic work on Gloria. The young woman hadn't shown the slightest sign of consciousness in the entire time that Silvia had been by her side. It wasn't natural.

"Why is she still asleep?" Silvia asked.

The man answered, "She's been sedated. It's a whole lot easier dealing with patients like her when they are heavily sedated."

"What do you mean, like her?"

The man answered, "She's not really ill. She's been injured and needs to rest while the body heals itself. They gave her a little something for the pain, which often makes people irritable. Then you've got the boredom factor. Sitting around in bed all day with nothing to do makes people even more irritable and restless. Add in the fact that she was beaten, she is probably going to be jumpy and nervous around strangers. They probably gave her a sedative to keep her from getting too difficult to control.

"Painkillers and sedatives are a double knockout and puts the person into a deep sleep. Now that is a patient that is easy to control."

"So they essentially drug her to the gills to keep her quiet," Silvia said.

"That's basically it."

"When will she start coming around?"

"When we get to the hospital, they'll change her IV bag. She'll come around in an hour or so after that," the man answered.

"Can't you do that?" Silvia asked.

"No," the man answered.

Manny could see that Silvia was starting to get impatient. He wasn't sure why she was so edgy. He knew that prostitutes, even high-end prostitutes like Gloria, were at risk of being assaulted by clients. He knew that Silvia was well aware of the risks of that profession.

He said, "I'm thinking about asking Mary out on a date. Do you think she'd agree to go out with me?"

The families of the Pfand were not inbred. Members of the Wache family often met and married cops and nurses. Bauer men often married the farmer's daughter who lived in the same area with the women marrying other farmers. Members of the Wagner family often married women who worked in jobs dealing with the trucking industry such as waitresses in truck stops.

"After you pulled a gun on her?" Silvia asked.

"There are worse ways to introduce yourself," Manny said with a laugh.

"Name one," Silvia said.

"Shooting her?"

"That would be worse," Silvia agreed.

"So what do you think?"

"She might be married," Silvia said.

"She didn't look married. I think I'll send her some flowers," Manny said.

"What if she's married?" Silvia asked.

"She's not," Manny said confidently.

Silvia shook her head at his attitude. "Just be careful."

"I always am," Manny said softly.

The ambulance pulled into the parking lot of a nondescript building located next to a company that made emergency vehicles. The back of the building had a double wide garage door. The door opened and the ambulance drove into it. The garage door closed, and a team of people entered the loading area.

The driver leaned in and looked at the paramedic.

He said, "We're here."

This place always gave the paramedic the creeps. This was the fourth time he had delivered a patient to this facility. The story was that it was a specialized medical facility for the very wealthy who didn't want rumors of their illnesses to reach the news. However, he suspected it was actually a government facility. He was paid a lot of money to keep his mouth shut. For the money they were paying, he was going to keep his mouth shut.

The door to the ambulance opened, and the woman who had opened it said, "We'll take over from here."

"Okay," the paramedic said while handing over the medical records to the woman.

The woman opened the records and attached them to the clipboard she was carrying. She looked at Silvia and Manny.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Silvia Farmer," Silvia said while absently tracing out the sign of the family on the sheet covering Gloria.

"I'm Manfred Knight," Manny said while making the upside cross where the paramedic couldn't see.

"I'm Betty Smart," the woman said.

She identified herself as a member of the Curador family by putting a finger over the letter 'A' that was on a sticker pasted to the back of her clipboard. She made a production out of looking over some paperwork.

Then she said, "I see that both of you are on the allowed visitor's list."

Silvia and Manny got out of the ambulance, to let the waiting crew unload the gurney from it. Silvia looked around thinking that no one would realize this was a medical facility. It looked like a shipping area with boxes piled at one end of the room. There was a large double door off to the side of the room. The crew pushed the gurney through the double door.

Betty handed each of the two men in the ambulance an envelope each stating, "Remember, not one word."

"Yes, Ma'am," the paramedic answered.

The driver just nodded his head knowing that the envelope contained ten thousand dollars in cash. He visited this facility about ten times a year and the pay was always the same. There was no way that he'd talk about this trip. He liked the money way too much.

The three members of the Pfand watched the ambulance pull out of the garage.

Once the door was shut, Betty said, "Follow me into my private office."

Silvia and Manny followed Betty into her office. Once there, she went to a security panel and pushed some buttons. Turning to look at them, she said, "We can talk now."

"Good," Silvia said.

"Who is the patient?"

Silvia answered, "She's the daughter of a friend of mine."

"She's not Pfand?"

"No, she's not," Silvia answered.

Betty looked irritated. "Why in the hell would you bring her here?"

Silvia answered, "I have a gut feeling about this."

"Big fucking deal," Betty said. "I don't give a damned about your gut feelings. This is a Pfand facility!"

Manny said, "I trust her gut feelings ... as does the Landowner, the Watchman, and the Scholar."

"You're kidding?" Betty said taken aback by the references.

"I used to be a member of the Damenstern family," Silvia said.

"You're that Silvia?" Betty asked wide-eyed.

There were a handful of Damensterns who had made millions for other members of the Pfand. Tips about OPEC, Washington scandals, business scandals, and currency schemes were often acquired at great personal risk. Those who were successful were well known to all members of the Pfand.

"Yes," Silvia said.

Betty sat back in her chair reconsidering the situation. "Does this having anything to do with the current threat to the Pfand?"

"I can't say for sure."

"What do you know?"

"All I know is that a number of whores have turned up in her condition over the past five years. We didn't take much notice of it because drug use is rampant among women in that business, as are assaults. Like the other women, Gloria was given enough drugs to overdose, but not too much that it would be obvious that it was murder. What tipped us off that something might be happening was that one of the other whores gave us some information about the threat to the Pfand. That was right before she was murdered while in the hospital," Silvia said.

"Murdered in a hospital? How do you know it wasn't neglect?"

"She was suffocated," Silvia said finding this conversation eerily familiar.

"We'll put a watch on her," Betty said.

"I'd like to be there when she wakes. Her mother is a friend of mine," Silvia said.

"That would be fine," Betty said. Turning to Manny, she asked, "What about you?"

"I'm here to protect Silvia," Manny answered.

"I'll arrange a room for you," Betty said.

She was unhappy that they were upsetting the normal operations of the hospital, but she also understood that this might be very important. The threat to the Pfand had affected a lot of things. Almost all members of her family line were involved in some way. Researchers, including her husband, were scattered around the country trying to find evidence of who was doing what.

"Thank you," Manny said.

Betty said, "Please remember that the people working here are not of the Pfand."

"I didn't think they were," Silvia said fully aware the almost all employees of a Pfand family business were not members of the ten families.

Betty went over to the security unit and entered her code. She opened the door to her office. "I'll take you to her."

Silvia followed Betty to the room where Gloria had been placed. There was a doctor examining the patient. Betty and Silvia stood off to the side until the doctor was finished with his examination.

"She was heavily sedated," the doctor reported when he finished his examination.

"That's what the paramedic told me," Silvia said.

The doctor frowned at her. He didn't appreciate have his professional judgment compared to that of a paramedic.

"We changed her saline. She should wake up in about an hour."

"Thank you," Silvia said.

Betty said, "The chair folds out into a bed. If you want, you can stay here with her. Just let the staff know that you'll need meals."

"I will," Silvia said.

Silvia sat down in a chair to wait for Gloria to wake. It seemed to her that the entire day had been spent waiting for Gloria to wake. She pulled out her romance novel, and resumed reading it. It was a real bodice ripper, but reading it helped pass the time.

A weak voice interrupted her reading, saying, "Where am I?"

Silvia looked over at Gloria and replied, "You're in a private hospital."

"I know you," Gloria said weakly.

"I'm Silvia. I'm a friend of your mother."

"I remember you."

Silvia said, "I think you were eight or nine when I last saw you."

"Can I have a drink of water?" Gloria asked after looking around.

Silvia said, "Let me see what I can find for you."

Silvia looked around and found a plastic bag with the standard patient supplies. She ripped the package open spilling some of the contents. She took the little pitcher and went over to the sink in the room. She filled it and returned to Gloria's bedside. After filling a plastic cup with water, she put the pitcher within reach.

Gloria took a drink and said, "That's much better."

Silvia returned to her chair. "What happened to you?"

"The asshole I was with liked to hit women. He was a fucking sadist. Actually, all of the men who were there, were sick."

"So he would just haul off and hit you?" Silvia asked.

"Every time he got bad news, he'd take it out on the woman with him. The worse the news, the harder he hit us. He was always bitching about farmers and some pickle guy."

"Why didn't you leave?" Silvia asked.

"We were on a boat and couldn't leave. I don't even know how I got to the hospital. I don't remember anything between him going ape shit, and me and waking up in the hospital."

"You were found drugged and beaten in New York," Silvia said.

"I don't use drugs," Gloria said defensively.

"I'm sure you don't," Silvia said.

Sure that she wasn't believed, Gloria said, "I really don't."

Silvia said, "I believe you. Who was this guy?"

"Jeremy Upton. He was always talking about owning or running a big food company. It was kind of confusing. It wasn't like he actually worked at one, but he said he controlled it. He never said the name of company."

"Jeremy Upton. I don't recognize the name," Silvia said with a frown.

"He was sick, but not like the guy who was with him. Frank Geddes liked to draw blood during sex. I swear that he almost bit one girl's nipple off."

"That's a name I recognize," Silvia said.

Frank Geddes was an Executive Vice President of a huge corporation involved in the food industry. He was one of the leading suspects in the threat to the Pfand. Silvia pulled out her cell phone, and dialed her husband. After passing the names of the two men on, to her husband, she hung up.

Silvia said, "Tell me about the pickle guy."

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 15


Carl crouched behind the car, trying to be as small as possible. His heart was beating fast. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. However, that sound did take a backseat to the gunshots that were going off all around him.

He had once heard that a car wasn't really all that safe to hide behind. Most of the larger caliber bullets went through them, but were slowed down enough to really cause damage to the person hiding. His choices of cover had been rather limited, though. Namely, it was the car, a pair of newspaper vending machines, a light pole, or a very small planter. The car had seemed the most substantial of the choices.

He flinched when a hole opened up in the side of the car, near his feet. Clearly, the story about bullets being able to go through a car, was true. He heard a tire pop on the other side of the car. He looked at the other end of the car, where Samantha was crouched. It was only now that he noticed that there were a lot of holes along the length of car, between them.

There were more sounds of gunfire. Samantha duck walked over to him making sure that her head was never visible to the folks on the other side of the car.

She said, "Don't look so worried. We've got the engine between us and them."

"That's good, right?"

"So long as they don't bring out a fifty."

There was a sudden increase in gunfire, and then silence.

The quiet hung in the air like an oppressive fog. Carl looked around, wondering what was happening. The longer the silence lasted, the more confident he was that the attack was over.

Samantha hissed, "Don't move."

"What's going on?"

"I don't know," Samantha answered.

Her eyes were watching the windows and doors that were overlooking their position. She was waiting to see if someone was going to take advantage of their lack of cover on that side of the car. If she had set up this ambush, she'd have placed a person in one of the buildings near their current position.

A shadow moved into partial view. Samantha couldn't tell if it was a curious bystander or a threat. She brought up her pistol, but didn't pull the trigger. A hole appeared in the window. She noted that the glass did not fall out towards the street. Someone on the other side of the car had made the shot. She hoped it was someone on the side of the Pfand who had fired.

She continued to search the area for a threat. There was another spat of gunfire from behind them. It didn't seem to be aimed in their direction. There were no new holes in the body of the car.

"I wonder who owns this car," Carl said idly.

"Be quiet," Samantha hissed.

Carl leaned against the car and looked around. He noticed a guy moving across a window. The man hugged the wall, and was holding up what was clearly a pistol.

Pointing at the window, Carl said, "There's a man with a gun over there."

Samantha's head swung around to stare at the window. She brought up her gun and fired. The glass in the window exploded in a cloud of shards that reflected the light in an almost artistic manner. The pistol sounded loud in her ears. It was seldom that she fired a gun without proper hearing protection.

She said, "Thanks. Next time, just shout 'gun', and point. There's no need to say more than that."

She looked around at the remaining windows. When she didn't hear anything from Carl, she glanced over at him. He was slumped to the ground.

"Shit!"

Samantha reached over and rolled him onto his back. There was a hole in his suit coat. She tore his shirt open and checked the vest. There was a slug buried in it, but it had not penetrated through it. From experience, she knew that he'd have a horrible bruise from the impact. She checked for other signs that he had been shot elsewhere without finding any. However, there was a big bump on the back of his head.

Since he wasn't bleeding, she returned to watching the environment around them for additional threats. There were still occasional shots being fired behind her. She watched the windows and almost shot an old woman who was drinking tea and watching the action. She couldn't believe that people would peek out windows trying to see what was happening during a gunfight.

"Where in the fuck are the police?" she growled.

By her estimate, they had been pinned down behind the car for at least a full minute. It was hard to tell though since time ran funny in situations like that.

Quiet descended on the street, once again. In the distance, the sound of sirens could be heard. Unfortunately, it sounded like they were headed in the wrong direction. She pressed back against the car, and searched the windows for another shooter.

"Apples!"

Hearing that, Samantha relaxed, but only a little. It was the code word to let her know that everything was under control. But just because they thought things were under control, didn't make it so. They'd all be tense until they got off the street, and into a safe area.

She shouted back, "Bruised banana!"

"Shit."

"Crate coming. Thirty seconds"

The term crate was code for the brown panel van. They were coming to pick up Carl. After almost thirty seconds on the dot, a heavy van drove up, and parked next to the car. Two men Samantha recognized, Mike Speer and Hammond Steward, climbed out of the van. They were wearing their standard disguises: a Nixon mask, and a Carter mask, respectively. There was a story behind their choices, but no one had ever bothered to fill her in on it.

The side door opened. A third man, wearing a Clinton mask, got out. He was looking about, nervously. It was obvious by his body language, that he didn't like being in the middle of a war zone. Samantha stashed her gun in her purse, and tried to look frightened. The masks meant that they were doing an anonymous extraction.

Hammond and the third man stormed over and roughly picked up Carl. Almost dragging him, the two men carried Carl into the van. Mike pulled her along with them, while she pretended to resist. For all intents and purposes, it looked like the pair of them had been abducted off the street, rather than rescued.

Mike climbed into the driver's seat of the still running machine. Once everyone was inside, the van took off at a high speed, even while Hammond climbed up front to ride shotgun. Hammond nodded at his brother, Harmon, who was standing with a group of Waches as they drove past.

Samantha noticed that the police still hadn't arrived. She wondered how that was possible. Then she realized that the police were in on it, and were staying away. Big money must have been involved if they were willing to suffer the kind of news storm that would follow a slow response to a major shootout.

The three men pulled off their masks, once they were out of the immediate area. The dark tint on the windows would make it hard for anyone to see the people inside. Hammond kept his weapon in hand. Mike was busy driving the van. The third man was examining Carl, and was muttering to himself.

"How many of them were there?" Samantha asked.

It sounded like a hundred people had opened up on them, but she knew that couldn't be true. They had just gotten behind the car when they had let loose with a barrage that would have killed them for sure if they hadn't been warned by the foghorn. She had grabbed Carl and pulled him to the ground. Much to her surprise, he had already been diving to the ground.

"Twenty," Mike, the driver, answered.

"Jesus," Samantha said.

"We were lucky," Hammond said. "Only three of our folks were wounded. No one was killed."

"How many of theirs did we get?" Samantha asked.

"Four or five dead, maybe a dozen or more wounded. We didn't exactly take time to make an accurate count," Mike answered.

For a while it had turned into an outright war. Ten members of the Wache, had attempted to end an ambush by twenty well trained men. The ambushers had shot first, but they were aiming at Carl and Samantha. The Waches had opened fire on the exposed backs of half of the attackers. That had been a short-lived exchange of fire, with the Waches having the upper hand.

There had been a period of maneuvering while the two groups tried to out position the other. The Waches had been mostly victorious in that little exercise. The groups were basically equal in size, and the firefight had been intense.

Samantha said, "I only fired one shot, but I know I got one."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Mike said.

She had performed an act that no reasonable person should ever have to perform. He knew that the majority of soldiers in World War II were unable to kill. Many soldiers shot into the ground in front of the enemy. A lot of lead could fly through the air without anyone getting hit. The mind of a humane person has difficulty dealing the the idea of killing another human being. The first shot aimed with real intent, was the hardest. For some, it got easier. For sane people, it never got easy.

"I don't know if I wounded or killed him," Samantha said.

"Don't think about it. It was self-defense," Hammond said.

He knew that his advice was useless, and that she'd have nightmares about it. Nothing anyone could say would change that. He still had nightmares about his first battlefield kill. He had nightmares about every kill after that, as well.

The man examining Carl said, "He's got a minor concussion. He's got a good sized bruise on his chest. I'd say that he got hit in the chest and the impact slammed the back of his head into the car."

"He'll recover?" Samantha asked.

"Yes. He'll be a little sore and dizzy, but he'll be fine."

"I'm glad to hear that," Samantha said relieved.

The van rocked when they took a corner. They could hear the siren of a police car pass them going towards the site where the fight had taken place. They'd find a few of the attackers, but none of the Wache by this time.

Samantha asked, "Where were the police?"

Mike said, "That's a good question. They were conspicuous by their absence. Next time, I fear that we might be going up against the police."

He expected the police to show up at Carl's home, to question him about the gunfight on the street. They knew he was the target, and they'd want to know how he managed to escape. Odds were good that they'd try to take him down to the police station for questioning. Of course, if they got their hands on him, he would probably disappear forever.

"I didn't want to hear that," Samantha said.

One of the hardest things to defend against was a crooked police department. They could run over the innocent who were too law abiding to resist, yet they could rightfully label resisters as criminals. It was a no win situation for anyone who entered their sights. Unfortunately, Carl was now firmly in their sights.

Hammond said, "They were waiting to hear from your attackers that you were dead before leaving for the scene. I'd say that they waited a bit too long. If they had gotten there a little earlier, they could have detained you. That would have been the end of the game, for Carl."

"We're lucky your attackers partied with some hookers, last night," Mike said.

"Our hookers?" Samantha asked referring to the Damensterns.

"No. They were independents."

Hammond said, "Having a drunken orgy is about the stupidest thing you can do, right before a major mission. It is even dumber when you have your party in a hotel owned by the enemy. They had no idea we knew what they were going to do."

They had the whole debauched evening on tape. There were enough comments to have a pretty good idea why the men were there, but not enough details to know when and where they intended to strike. Apparently, the plan was a lot more flexible than anticipated.

Irritated that her first warning of an attack had been the sound of a foghorn going off, Samantha asked, "So why didn't you warn me?"

"Because you can't act for shit," Mike answered.

"You almost blew it, the last time," Hammond answered.

Unfortunately, that was an accurate description of the last time they had gone out, knowing there was someone waiting to kill Carl. She had been so spooked that she had jumped at every sound. The guy sent there to kill Carl, had almost backed out before Harmon had a chance to catch him.

Mike said, "Your reactions are good, though."

"I'm not happy," Samantha said in a low growl.

"We're nearly to the truck wash," Mike said.

Hammond climbed in the back, to help carry Carl out of the van. It was kind of awkward, considering the way the van was bouncing on the road. They wanted to make the transfer from the van to the truck as quickly as possible.

Hammond said, "We've got a truck in one of the cleaning bays. We'll get in it, and it will deliver us to a safe hotel."

"What about Mike?" Samantha asked.

"He's going to take the van to get crushed. It will never be found," Hammond answered.

The transfer from the van to the large truck went like clockwork. Carl woke by the time they got there. He was feeling sick to his stomach, but otherwise he was unhurt. Well, his chest was a little tender. At least they didn't have to carry him to the truck.

The truck drove out of town with Carl, Samantha, and Hammond riding in a space surrounded by mattress boxes. After half an hour, the truck pulled up to a hotel. The owner came out, and opened the doors to a couple of rooms. The truck backed up to one of the rooms with an open door, and a crew of men started unloading mattresses. The fugitives walked between a pair of mattress boxes, and into a room. No one would have been able to see them leave the truck or enter the room.

They hid in the bathroom while the mattresses were unpacked, and the old mattresses hauled out. After the crew had left, closing the door behind them, they stepped out of the bathroom. It was their first chance to examine their surroundings.

This was a rather unique room, for a hotel, in that it had connecting doors to the rooms on both sides of it. They opened the doors on their side of the connecting rooms and settled down to wait, knowing they would eventually have visitors.

Samantha broke the silence and said, "How long are we going to be here?"

"That's hard to say. It all depends on how the police react to the shooting," Hammond said.

"What if they react the wrong way?" Carl asked.

"You two might have to leave the country," Hammond answered.

The Pfand had the infrastructure in place to effectively move them all over the country without being seen. With trucking companies to provide transport and hotels with special rooms, they could travel and sleep in relative comfort.

Carl said, "All of this over a pickle factory? Those assholes shot me!"

It seemed like each time something happened, Carl became even more incredulous that anyone would go to such lengths to keep him from opening his company. The situation had gone from the worrisome to the preposterous. He just couldn't grasp it.

"At least they didn't draw blood," Hammond said.

Carl looked down at his brand new suit. This was the first time he had ever worn it. Now there was a bullet hole in the suit coat. In addition to a hole in his shirt, it was ripped from when Samantha had checked him for injuries. Outside of a slug still lodged in the vest, his protective vest was still functional.

"I hate ruining new clothes," Carl said in disgust. "It's wasteful."

Hammond laughed. "I'll tell the bad guys not to try anything unless you're wearing old clothes."

"I'd appreciate it," Carl said wryly.

Samantha said, "He's feeling better."

Carl said, "I still don't see why this is happening. I mean, all of this over a pickle factory?"

Hammond sat back and thought about it for a minute.

"There's a Lt. Col. Grossman who writes about people in terms of being sheep, sheepdogs, and wolves. He says that wolves eat sheep, as that's their nature. The bad guys that do mean things to people are the wolves. He says that one percent of the population are wolves.

"On the other hand, sheepdogs protect the sheep from the wolves. They accept that there are wolves, and that it is their role in life to protect the sheep. Sheepdogs look for wolves, and anticipate the fight. Grossman says that one percent of the population are sheepdogs.

"Now sheep are a totally different story. They deny that wolves exist, until the wolf comes knocking on their door. Then they are terrified, and paralyzed with fear. That's when they scream for the sheepdog to come protect them. However, when the wolves are not around, the sheep fear the sheepdogs, because they look too much like wolves. Sheepdogs have scary fangs, and can be quite aggressive, but it is their job to keep the wolves at bay.

"Grossman says that ninety-eight percent of the population are sheep. That's where he's wrong. He missed the stags. Unlike sheep, stags don't deny that wolves exist. They don't rely upon sheepdogs to keep them safe. They are ever vigilant in watching for wolves. At the first hint of a wolf, the stag disappears. For the most part, we are stags.

"When Napoleon marched across Europe, there wasn't a single one of us in his path. When Hitler made his bid for world dominance, we were on a different continent. Was it cowardice on our part? I don't think so. It is just a different survival skill than used by sheep, sheep dogs, and wolves.

"The wolves think stags are sheep because they often share the same field. The sheep think stags are sheep because they don't have fangs. Sheepdogs don't trust stags because they are neither sheep nor wolf.

"When a stag is cornered, it doesn't just stand there and bleat, hoping to be rescued by a sheepdog. It will defend itself. It will lower antlers, and try to gore the wolf. It will used its hooves in an attempt to kill the wolf. A stag does not go down gently. That's what we're doing now. We're fighting.

"Repeatedly in our history, we've surprised the wolves when they discovered that we weren't sheep. It is why, when it comes to fighting them, that we surprise them every time."

Carl said, "You're basically saying that most people are sheep and we're not."

"That's right," Samantha said.

Hammond said, "You've got to stop acting like a sheep, Carl. You need to act more like a stag. You have to accept that wolves exist, anticipate them, watch for them, and be prepared to flee or fight."

"You're saying that I'm a sheep?" Carl asked feeling somewhat insulted.

"That's exactly what I'm saying. You keep asking, just like a sheep, why they are going after you over a pickle factory. The answer to that question is meaningless. It is in their nature, just like it is in the nature of wolves to prey upon sheep."

"I don't like the idea of being a sheep," Carl said.

"So stop being one," Hammond said gently.

"How do I do that?"

"Accept that the wolves want to eliminate you. Don't deny the danger. Don't worry about why they want to eliminate you. Take responsibility for your own safety. Sharpen your antlers," Hammond said.

"Isn't protecting us the responsibility of your family?" Carl asked.

He knew that the Waches were the watchmen of the Pfand. He thought of them as security guards and wondered if that wasn't a little unfair. He feared that Hammond was telling him that he was going to be on his own soon.

Hammond said, "Let me tell you a little story."

"Okay," Carl said.

Hammond said, "A long time ago, there was a young guardsman who married a very beautiful woman. She was one of the loveliest women in the whole area, and he was madly in love with her. Of course, a lot of other men desired her, but because he was a guardsman, and armed, none would dare touch her.

"One day, one of the Baron's friends spotted the wife of the guardsman. He decided that he would have her. He watched her and followed her. When he finally found her isolated and alone, he then brutally raped her.

"It was hours after the rape before the guardsman found her. She was alive but was severely beaten. Weak and injured, she told him what had happened.

"The guardsman was furious and wanted revenge. He went to the Baron and complained, but the Baron told him to know his place. The Baron said that nobles, like his friend, had rights and privileges that didn't extend to peasants, in other words – men like the guardsman. One of those rights was to enjoy the pleasures of peasant women.

"The guardsman realized that he had made a mistake by going to the Baron for justice. If he retaliated now, the Baron would know it was him who did it. That would leave his poor wife a widow. Still, he wasn't going to let the man get away with raping his wife.

"Instead of going after the man, the guardsman went to his friends. He told a farmer, a blacksmith, a carpenter, and a drover about how his wife had been raped. Like all good men, they were outraged that the Baron wouldn't punish the rapist. They knew it could be their wives who might be raped next.

"One day, the Baron had a feast. The guardsman was on duty, standing in plain sight of the Baron. The Baron's friend, feeling the effects of too much wine, went outside to get some fresh air. He was never seen again. There was an investigation into the disappearance, but the Baron never learned what happened to his friend. The one thing that the Baron did know, was that the guardsman couldn't have done it.

"So what did happen? You see, the blacksmith crushed the rapists throat, using his bare hands made strong by years spent at the forge. The drover had transported the body out of the Baron's friend in a wagon with a hidden compartment. The wagon had been built by the carpenter. The body was buried in the field of the farmer, where it would never be found. Each of the guardsman's friends contributed in the best way he could."

Samantha said, "I love that story. I remember when I first read it. Until that time, I feared that the safety of the other families fell on our shoulders alone."

"I know. I felt the same way," Hammond said.

Carl said, "I get it. Our safety and security is a shared responsibility. Just as you do your part, I'm to do mine. I am just as responsible for our overall safety as you are."

"Exactly," Hammond said.

Carl asked, "So what do we do now?"

"We wait."

"Can we watch television?" Carl asked.

"No. This room is supposed to be empty," Samantha said.

Carl asked, "Where's Jennifer?"

Hammond shook his head. He knew that Carl was asking so many questions because he felt uneasy. A lot of people tried to take control of a situation, by learning as much about it as they could. It was a good survival skill, but could often be irritating to those around them.

He answered, "Don't worry. She'll be here."

"Why isn't she here now?" Carl asked.

"She's seeing if anyone bought the cover story that you were abducted," Hammond answered.

Carl said, "I don't see how they could. They know they didn't abduct me."

Samantha said, "That's a problem."

There was a knock on one of the connecting doors, just before it opened. Ted Toporek, the owner of the hotel, stepped in the room. He was a short man with a well trimmed mustache, horn rim glasses, and a head of dark hair in the early stages of male pattern balding. He looked like an everyday kind of guy that few would suspect of owning three national motel chains.

"I was thinking about preparing lunch. Are you interested in eating?"

"Sure," Samantha answered.

"I'm afraid that all I can put together, just now, are sandwiches."

"Sandwiches are great."

Ted asked, "Is ham all right?"

The members of the Pfand did not advertise their religious beliefs, particularly in these secular times. The Pfand demanded that they be moderate in all that they did. Still, there were some who kept more strongly to their roots, and the observance of religious beliefs than others. A number of the Pfand still observed the Jewish roots of Samuel Goldstein.

The three looked at each other. Finally, Hammond answered, "That would be fine."

Ted said, "I've been watching the news. It has been announced that Carl was the instigator of the attack. There's a real smear campaign going on at the moment."

"I'm going to get arrested," Carl said with a groan.

Ted said, "No, you won't. A young man, working part-time in a fabric store, did manage to record the entire thing on his cell phone. In a couple of hours, he'll release the video on the internet. It won't be suppressed that way, and it will go viral."

The mention of the young man as working in a fabric store was a subtle way of identifying him as a member of the Weber family. Their role in this fight was small, but they filled in where needed. Small words dropped here and there helped spread the word of what was happening. Carl wore tailored suits that hid the fact that he was wearing a protective vest. Samantha's clothes allowed her to conceal weapons without it being obvious. Webers served as innocent bystanders and witnesses.

"What about me shooting the guy who shot Carl?" Samantha asked.

"I watched the video and there is no evidence that you were even armed. You aren't visible once you ducked behind the car. The video shows you getting fired upon, hiding behind a car, and then being abducted," Ted said.

"That's good news," Hammond said.

Ted said, "I got a call about what is happening next. A couple of people will be checking into the room next to yours in about two hours. They'll update you on what is happening. They'll be visited by a hooker after they've been here a while."

"The hooker will be Jennifer?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Three hours later, a knock on the door to the other connecting room woke Carl up from his nap. Hammond was seated in a chair facing the closed exterior door with his gun on the table in front of him. Looking up from his book, he put a hand on his gun. Samantha was in the bathroom taking a long hot bubble bath trying to come to grips with her actions earlier.

The door opened and four people entered the room. Jennifer was in the background looking somber. Carl was about to greet her, but one of the men made a gesture with one finger held in front of his mouth to remain silent. After looking around, the man made a couple more gestures as if counting people in the room with an expression at three that someone was missing.

Hammond nodded his head in understanding. He went to the bathroom door and opened it.

"You're going to turn into a prune if you stay there for much longer."

"Sorry."

"You might want to get dressed."

"Okay."

A minute later, Samantha came out of the bathroom ready to complain about her bubble bath being cut short. She was surprised to see the visitors and shut her mouth before she said something she'd regret. Carl noticed that she basically snapped to attention.

Ted came in through the connecting door that led to his place and gestured for everyone to follow him. Moving quietly, they made their way down into a basement below the hotel and then into the safe room. The room looked more like a conference room than a typical safe room. Of course, that fit in with the role of being a hotel and potential meeting site for members of the Pfand. It took a few seconds for Ted to secure the facility.

The small delicate looking woman looked around the room, and seemed satisfied with what she saw.

"Please sit down," she said.

Everyone, except her, took seats.

"I am The Scholar."

Carl whistled, and then felt embarrassed by his action. This was the first head of a family he had knowingly met. She glanced over at him, with a look of amusement on her face.

"I am The Watchman."

Carl decided that now would be a very good time to keep quiet. He had a feeling that he was going to learn a lot, in the next few minutes.

"I'm The Banker."

"As per tradition, we shall only refer to each other by title. You'll be The Cook, you will be The Barman, you will be The Guardian, you will be The Sidekick, and you will be The Girlfriend. Is that understood?"the Scholar said pointing to Carl, Ted, Hammond, Samantha, and Jennifer in turn.

"Yes," everyone said together.

The Scholar said, "It should come as no surprise to anyone in this room, that the Pfand is not unique. We are not the only secret organization in the world. We have been tracking the other organizations throughout our existence. We've watched them come and go. We watched the rise and fall of the Illuminati. There have been dozens of others since 1643. Ours is, arguably, the longest lived of them all ... and, perhaps, the most benign.

"Our goal is, basically, to live and let live. Our charter is based upon survival, not domination or power. We are to live without making waves, or drawing attention to ourselves. Basically, I guess you could say that we're not the good guys, or the bad guys. We're the invisible guys.

"There are a couple of secret organizations that are composed of individuals with a less benign mindset. They have plans for world domination. We've known that, but they'd always had so much infighting that we felt it wasn't possible for them to succeed.

"Well, it appears that a group has actually managed to work together for close to eighty years, and their efforts are nearing completion. To be quite honest, they surprised us. We thought they had always been far too public to succeed in their ambitions. We were wrong, and now we'll have to pay the price for our error.

"The Cook happened to have crossed one of those organizations, in a big way. First, he wanted to open a food processing facility at just the wrong time. You see, they were prepared to take over the majority of that industry through a merger. When we put you out there, we didn't realize that the size of the facility would be viewed as a threat to them. They had to block you.

"Second, the Cook happened to get all of his funding from sources that they didn't control. You see, if you had gotten the money from them, say through a venture capitalist, they would have allowed you to open your factory. Then they would either repossess it, or just take it over. They've done it in the past, and they'll do again in the future.

"Third, the Cook just didn't roll over when they put pressure on him to drop it. They knew that if they couldn't get control of him, early, then they would never be able to get control over him. Their standard answer to any resistance is to destroy the resister as a human being. They would have used drugs, alcohol, or even brain surgery, to eliminate the threat. If they catch the Cook, I can assure you that he'd be an addict in four days, if he lived that long."

Carl said, "Jesus."

"Exactly," the Scholar said with a smile.

The Watchman said, "For now, the Cook, the Guardian, the Sidekick, and the Girlfriend are going on a tour of the country. The Cook will release a set of tapes that we'll prepare for him. We're going to start by naming names, about two hundred of them, in the middle of their organization."

Carl raised a hand a little nervously.

"What?"

"How many people are in this group?"

The Banker answered, "Five to six thousand."

Jennifer asked, "That many?"

"Yes. They are the most powerful people in the world. At least, they think they are," the Banker replied with a smile.

The group included the leaders of two dozen countries, heads of major corporations, union leaders, heads of charities, religious leaders, and influential people in the news services. It wasn't going to be easy taking down an organization with that kind of membership. In fact, it was the kind of task that could destroy the balance of power of the entire world.

"They think they are?" Samantha asked.

"We have over twenty-five thousand members in the Pfand, all of whom are very wealthy," the Banker replied. "Collectively, we have three or four times their assets, although they do control the entire wealth of several countries."

The Watchman said, "In approximately three months, we'll start to bring them all down."

"How?" Carl blurted out.

"That's a secret," the Scholar answered.

"Sorry."

The Watchman said, "You'll be traveling around the country for four months. Hopefully, this mess will be over in six months."

"What about my dog, Skippy?" Carl asked.

The Watchman asked, "Is it a Schnauzer?"

"Yes," Carl asked.

"I'll adopt him until this is over," the Watchman answered.

Carl said, "I'm sorry for asking about him. I know that a little dog isn't the most important thing you have to worry about, but I'm very glad to know you'll take care of him."

The Scholar said, "It is the fact we care about our pets, and people around us, that makes us different from our enemies. Never apologize for caring."

The Banker held out a sheet of paper and said, "You'll need to sign this power of attorney. It will allow us to continue the construction of your pickle factory."

Carl signed the form without comment. It was time for him to start acting like a stag.

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 16


The conference table was filled with tired, worried faces. Events were moving at a faster pace than had been anticipated. Two months of releasing videos in which high level government employees were filmed taking bribes, or colluding to destroy the lives of honest citizens, had thrown the government into a frenzy. The alphabet agencies were taking a beating via backdoor channels, mostly via the internet. The press, which was fully under control, was refusing to air the videos.

Carl Plante made the 'America's Most Wanted' list as a terrorist. Twice he had been reported killed resisting arrest, only to have him appear elsewhere, distributing videos of additional crimes. His picture appeared in grocery stores, movie theaters, and public buildings. It appeared on television several times a day. The reward for his arrest and capture was well over a million dollars, and was climbing every week.

Law enforcement agencies were baffled by how he was able to move around so freely. One day he would be in Los Angeles. Two days later, he would be in Miami. He met with community groups, farm organizations, literary circles, and conservative action groups. Each time, he'd tell the story of a government gone mad with power. His story would be backed up with videos of corrupt political appointees, middle level managers, and business leaders conspiring against the American people. He would ask them to post the video to as many places as they could before leaving.

People, horrified by what they saw, responded. The videos showed up on the internet. Videos were distributed by email. After thousands of downloads, websites would get shut down ... sometimes violently, as had been the case of a Nigerian website where the host facility had been bombed.

Attempts to limit distribution via the internet were not very successful. In much the same way that security agencies could not prevent malware from spreading across the internet, they couldn't halt the spread of the videos. NSA was pulling its hair out. Well ... the upper levels of NSA were pulling their hair out. Some of the lower level people weren't all that inclined to prevent the distribution of the videos.

Carl Plante had become a household name. The press was painting him as some kind of anarchist fanatic. Families argued over whether he was a good guy or a villain. Public opinion was slowly swinging to viewing him as being a modern day Robin Hood. In some ways, he was becoming a celebrity. His face was recognized by more people than those who could identify the Speaker of the House from a photograph. He was as well known as the most popular movie star in Hollywood.

Congress was besieged with letters to open investigations into the criminal acts captured on video. Of course, that was like asking the fox to guard the hen house. People began to realize it when the names of their representatives started showing up in videos. People started getting angry.

The public's reaction, at first peaceful, was beginning to get violent. The most publicized of the violent acts occurred during a riot, when a high ranking member of Congress died while in his local office. It burned to the ground, with him inside. That had sent shock waves throughout Washington.

That was nothing compared to what was happening to the heads of the government's alphabet agencies. They were being physically attacked by right-wing and left-wing extremists. Right-wing extremist groups were angered at what was being done to take away their freedoms and national identity. Left-wing extremist groups were furious that their efforts to save the planet were being used by corporations to take over the planet. Moderates were seething, but hadn't unloosed their wrath, yet.

The men gathered around the table knew that this was only the beginning. Worse revelations were soon to be released. Now that the government agencies were in turmoil, the next batch of videos focused entirely on elected officials at state and federal levels. The goal was to defang the government watchdog agencies and the lawmakers, so that they couldn't be brought to the dogfight that was to come.

Tom Farmer said, "I wish we had more time to set this up."

"We're ready, financially," the Banker said.

Large quantities of money, on the order of a trillion dollars, had been moved to where the wealth could do the most damage. It hadn't been easy. They'd had to move it in a manner that wouldn't be noticed. It required making small transactions here and there, spread over one investment or another, in what might be viewed as a random chaotic response to marketplace volatility.

"I'm not worried about the money."

"What are you worried about?"

Tom answered, "I'm worried about our production capabilities. We've always kept our companies in sixth, seventh, and eighth places for our individual industries. To leap up to number one, two, and three ... in a matter of months ... is going to be tough."

"Why such a jump?" the Weaver asked.

"The current top companies are going to go out of business. We can't allow the shelves in grocery stores to become empty. It would cause a mass panic. As a result, we have to raise our production levels to meet consumer needs. I'm worried we won't be able to do that," Tom said.

"It is a valid concern," the Smith said. "I know that we're barely keeping up with the demands for equipment. I'm not even sure if it will all be installed in time."

"We're working twenty-four hours a day. It is going to be tight," the Woodman said, also looking worried.

They were building factories in the middle of nowhere. None of them were licensed or inspected as being food production facilities. They were just random buildings, Quonset huts and block warehouse type buildings, going up in the desert or in cornfields. Even the men working on the buildings had no clue as to their intended use.

"Can't we delay it for a month or two?" the Weaver asked, worried that they were rushing into making acts that could destroy the Pfand.

"We have to act on the current schedule, or we will have to delay everything for a year."

"Why a year?" the Weaver asked.

"It's harvest time," Tom answered.

"I didn't think about that."

Tom said, "I'd love to delay it a year, but we can't. Our farms won't be in business a year from now."

"The Landowner is right," the Scholar said.

"They are moving faster than we thought," the Banker said.

The Scholar said, "They are reacting to Carl Plante. His tapes have devastated the leadership of several government organizations they were relying upon in their plans. They have to move now, or lose the whole game."

The Innkeeper said, "Can we hurt them enough?"

"Yes," the Banker said. "We've got a trillion dollars tied up in this."

The Drover asked, "You're moving around a lot of money. Is there any chance they might get suspicious?"

"No. They think it is a bunch of small players trying to anticipate their moves," the Whore said.

"How do you know that?" the Drover asked.

"Some of my family were at a party with the leadership of that group. We heard them talking about the lack of market volatility in light of some of the recent scandals. We know their attitudes about people outside their group," the Whore answered.

"I'll accept that," the Drover said.

The Banker said, "Actually, it would appear to be a lot of small investors moving money around. All of our holding companies are actually small investors in their way of thinking. The fact that it is about eight thousand holding companies, just reenforces their opinion."

The Whore said, "The leadership of that group is more concerned about Carl, and what he's doing to them. They are frantically trying to get rid of him. They aren't even being circumspect in how they talk about him, anymore. He's stopped being 'the pickle guy'. He's being named by name."

"That's good, isn't it?" the Woodman asked.

"They've put a ten million dollar contract out on him," the Whore said.

Tom groaned as he said, "What are his chances of survival?"

He knew that Carl was in constant danger of getting caught. If caught by the government, he would disappear. If caught by mercenaries, he'd reappear as a mangled corpse. The odds were not in his favor. Of the ten members of the Bauer family set up to publicly fight the enemy, two had been killed, one had disappeared at the hands of the government, and another three were in hiding overseas.

There were now nearly a hundred members of the Pfand families tucked away in a lot of remote places in the world. After continued harassment by the government, all of Carl's immediate family had been moved out of the country. His parents were touring China. His sister and brother-in-law were taking a tour of Russia searching for antiques that could be shipped back to the states when everything was over. Samantha's immediate family was taking a cruise down the Amazon river. Jennifer's family was stashed away in a nudist resort in Australia. Hammond's family was visiting with close friends who owned a rather old and large gun company in Italy.

The Watchman answered, "Better than you might think."

They had a lot of Wache family members watching over Carl and the others traveling with him. Every public appearance had Wache family members scattered throughout the place to make sure that no one would harm them. They had become a well oiled machine in getting into and out of appearances.

The closest they had come to getting caught was a checkpoint that had been hurriedly setup after one of their public appearances. The car that was stopped had been one of several alternatives, one in which Carl had never even been in. There had been the other time when he had ridden past a roadblock as a passenger in a firetruck with sirens blaring. No one would know that the firetruck had been built by a Schmied firm and was being delivered to another town by a Wagner.

That wasn't to say that all of his exits had been by automobile. Carl was becoming personally acquainted with the sewer systems of several of the larger cities in the country. Considering the number of cameras located throughout large cities, it was amazing that one could still weave a path of several miles without once being caught on camera.

"We haven't had any problems in moving him around the country. Not one of our trucks has been stopped or even questioned," the Drover said.

Long distance trips were taken in the back of shipping trucks. The trips weren't ever comfortable, but they managed to get him from one place to another without being observed. No matter how bad the trip might have been, Carl never complained. When asked, he would reply that he was a stag and was gutting the wolf.

The Innkeeper said, "No one has even suspected that he's staying in our hotels or motels."

There would always be local police stopping by with questions after a public appearance in their town, but that was of a general nature with hotels all across the area getting the same treatment. After a few cursory questions the police would leave to hit the next hotel in the area. The low-end 'rent by the hour' kinds of places were questioned more than any of the Grun family owned places.

Tom said, "That's good to know."

"I know you're worried about him," the Scholar said.

The Weaver asked, "How are the Bauer family members holding up?"

Tom answered, "That's kind of hard to say. The current chaos in the government agencies has reduced some of the pressure on us. That has helped morale more than you can imagine, but not enough. The automated systems are still churning out threatening letters."

"Are people worried?" the Watchman asked.

"You bet. A couple of the government agencies have a generic form letter denying the appeal of any past decisions. One of our farmers will appeal a decision, but they are immediately sent a letter back saying that it was denied. It's obvious that no one even looked at the appeal. The legal process is still relentlessly moving forward with the intention of shutting them down.

"The recent chaos means that they don't have inspectors dropping in on them everyday. Of course, they can handle inspectors. That just starts a legal process that they know they'll lose, but that's survivable. They fear the appearance of Federal agents on their doorstep.

"Every time some farm house gets raided on the suspicion that the farmer and his family are right-wing extremists, there are deaths. Every farmer knows that. It doesn't matter what they say or do; the odds are good that they and their family will die.

"In some cases, farmers are resisting and they are doing it in the most nasty way possible. The Federal agents have no idea how many dangerous compounds are on a farm. In one raid, thirty agents were sprayed with pesticide mixed with liquid fertilizer that was pumped through the irrigation system. It was a lethal combination and the agents had no idea of the danger they were in.

"We know that it is just a matter of time before our families are facing federal agents. With the exception of the farmers we asked to stand up against the enemy, we've stayed below the radar. The Pfand prohibition against being too demonstrative of religious beliefs and political action has protected us for the most part. Too many of the so-called right-wing extremists were active in their churches."

"Our ancestors were very wise," the Scholar said getting nods of agreement from the others.

The Weaver turned to the Watchman. "How are members of the Wache family doing?"

The Watchman sighed. "We're spread thin. There just aren't enough of us to provide the level of protection and investigation that's required of us. We've got members of the Bauer and Damenstern family to protect. Carl alone requires incredible resources. The problem is that we can't trust anyone with the appropriate security skills who is not a member of the Wache family.

"I know that our greatest fear is that we're going to fail. Each death in the Bauer family really hits us hard. Each time we find a Damenstern dead, it's like ... I don't know ... it just hurts. It doesn't matter that we've lost members of the Wache family in protecting our charges, we still feel like we aren't trying hard enough.

"I will say that the Landowner did well in selecting Carl Plante. He is a wonderful young man. He follows commands without question. He listens in on planning sessions and asks good questions. He walks into confusing and disorienting situations without losing his cool. You couldn't ask for a better person for the job he's doing."

Tom said, "Watchman, we appreciate everything members of the Wache family have done on our behalf. You have lost many more people that we have and we feel each loss. Tell your people, that..." he swallowed, "we would have already lost if it wasn't for them. All of us in the Pfand, owe you and yours a great debt."

"I second that," the Whore said.

The Weaver asked, "How are the members of the Damensterns doing?"

The Whore was silent. "They are afraid. The worse things go for the enemy, the worse things get for us. In public, these people are suave, controlled, and charismatic. In private, these people have no restraint. Our young men and women have been beaten. A few have been killed."

Tom said, "Perhaps it is time to pull back."

"No. I've issued rings."

The Watchman swore, "Shit! That's bad."

"Rings?" the Drover asked.

Having helped create rings in the past, the Smith answered, "Poisoned rings. The ring can be used to kill an enemy, or to commit suicide when there exists no alternative. The stone setting can be removed by unscrewing it. That reveals a thin needle containing a poison."

"All of us wear our rings at all times."

"No! I object!" Tom shouted.

"I agree with the Landowner," the Woodman shouted. "That ... is asking too much of them."

The Weaver said, "You're going too far. Pull back."

Several discussions broke out around the table. The Whore raised a hand to quiet everyone. It took a moment for everyone to quiet down.

She said, "All of you know the motto of the Damensterns – 'We are all whore, part diplomat and part spy.' That is what we are, and what we do. I am proud of what I am, and of the contributions I have made to the Pfand.

"It is not unknown for 'congress of trade' to turn into 'congress of rape.' When that occurs too frequently, or becomes habit within a particular group, we issue rings. The ring makes it possible for us to survive. It is a tool in our arsenal."

Looking around the room, the Watchman could tell that people were still against the idea. Personally, he was against the idea of sending members of the Damenstern family into danger like that. He did appreciate that they at least had a means of self defense. He'd prefer if they had a Wache watching over them, but in matters of this nature it often boiled down to client and whore alone together.

He said, "You engage in 'congress of trade.' May I ask a question?"

"Yes," the Whore answered.

"Are you getting more, or less, out of the trade than what you're giving up?" the Watchman asked.

Rather than address the question directly, the Whore asked, "Is the continuance of the Pfand worth more than the life of one or two of us?"

Absolute silence answered her question. Everyone looked everywhere else except at her while they considered the question. Stated that way, it was hard to answer no, but each of them felt the answer had to be no.

The Scholar said, "Let me bring reason to this matter."

"Please do."

"As the Whore has stated, the enemy is getting increasingly more violent with each setback. It is approaching the point where their violence is liable to spin completely out of control. You will not be bringing back information if you continue as you have in the past. You will be bringing back broken bodies and corpses. That does not help assure the continuance of the Pfand."

"I agree," Tom said.

"I disagree. One piece of information, the right piece of information, can assure the continuance of the Pfand," the Whore said.

"No," the Scholar said.

Staring at the woman seated across from her, the Whore said, "Let us put it to a vote."

"Okay," Tom said.

"I cast my two votes to continue," the Whore said.

Since this was a matter concerning the Damenstern family; she, as the head of the family, was given two votes. With ten members, a vote could easily become a tie. Allowing the head of the most affected family two votes, served as a means to prevent a tie and to prevent a family from being railroaded into something that was against that family's interests. The extra vote didn't matter. Only the Innkeeper had sided with the Whore. The final tally ended up eight to three against continuing.

The Watchman said, "It is settled. Your family shall withdraw from engaging the enemy."

The Whore asked, "What are we supposed to do? You've taken the only way in which we can contribute."

"The Weber family has been unable to contribute in any significant way throughout this situation. You will do as we have done, and support the others. The Wache families are in need of moral support. Can you not provide them with a respite from their burdens?" the Weaver asked.

"We can," the Whore answered sadly. It was not the kind of contribution she felt was the purview of the Damenstern family line.

Tom said, "Then please do so."

The Weaver asked, "How are the members of the Goldstein family holding up?"

"We're doing well, all things considered. I must say that this is the kind of challenge that occurs once in a millennium. Members of my family are enjoying the challenge," the Banker answered.

"Are they not worried?" the Woodman asked.

"Of course they are. We're the most risk adverse people in the world. That doesn't mean that they are losing sleep over it. The thrill of moving billions of dollars undetected through the markets of the world is what keeps them awake at night."

"You're enjoying this?" Tom asked.

"Well ... yes."

The Weaver asked, "How are the members of the Curador family holding up?"

"The members of the family involved in law have never had such heavy workloads. We've got at least nine thousand lawsuits pending. We've had to hand off the nuisance lawsuits to members of our firms who are not Curador."

The Watchman asked, "Isn't that a risk in security?"

"No. Most of what they are doing is rote procedure. Besides, we're talking about junior members of the law firm. They think that if they win a stupid lawsuit on some obscure technicality that it will bring them to our attention," the Scholar answered.

"If you say so," the Watchman said.

"It's not like they are going to figure out anything if the lawsuit they are handling arose because someone cut their finger on an improperly stapled stack of papers from a government organization."

"Who would file a lawsuit like that?" Tom asked.

The Weaver answered, "A member of my family."

The Smith asked, "Do you expect to win any of them?"

"No. They're nuisance lawsuits. The idea is to tie up their resources answering them. You might think they have infinite resources, but they don't. It adds up when you include our nuisance lawsuits, our real lawsuits, the lawsuits others have filed, and the lawsuits they have filed," the Scholar answered.

"I'll want to talk to you later about it."

The Weaver asked, "Do you have anything else to add?"

The Scholar said, "Now our researchers are absolutely overwhelmed. They're digging into all kinds of records, news stories, and official reports. You can't imagine how much material is out there that is relevant to our efforts. Foreclosures, lawsuits, criminal arrests, regulations, and ... I could continue all day on the valuable sources of information we're gathering.

"We've got so much material that we've tasked the juniors and seniors at our private schools to gather material from the internet on our behalf. They're monitoring support groups, chat rooms, and other places where people are liable to identify what is being done to them. They're doing good work and learning something in the process."

Tom said, "Interesting."

The Scholar said, "The Bauer kids are looking at farm foreclosures, reports of crop disease, acts of violence against farmers, and tracking 'futures' markets. One of the kids discovered that four firms controlled eighty percent of the beef market. Did you know that?"

"Yes," Tom said.

He also knew that one hundred corporations owned one percent of the land in the United States. The federal government owned thirty percent of the land and leased much of that to the same one hundred corporations. Approximately forty-one percent of the total area of the US was dedicated to agriculture which makes the amount owned by the one hundred corporations sound small. However, it mattered whether it was prime or marginal farmland.

Forty-six thousand farms, out of over two million farms, accounted for fifty percent of the total sales. Interestingly enough, the government considered any property that produced more than one thousand dollars worth of crops, to be 'a farm.' What did this mean? Seventy-six percent of the farms produced less than one hundred thousand dollars worth of crop. Furthermore, forty percent of all farms were classified as residential/lifestyle properties.

He also knew that the farm statistics were over a decade old. The situation had only gotten worse for the family farmers. The enemy group was targeting the twenty percent of the farms, that produced less than half a million dollars in crops.

"We're thinking of adding a research project like this to our curriculum," the Scholar said.

The Weaver asked, "Anything else?"

"No."

The Weaver asked, "How are the members of the Schmeid family holding up?"

The Smith answered, "Well, we're producing food equipment at a blistering pace while trying to maintain our existing contracts. We're stretched a little thin. We won't actually have to report our production and sales figures for a while, so all of our work is currently 'under the radar.'

"However, we have had to report the increased employment numbers required to make the products. I think we have accounted for the majority of the improvement in the employment statistics for the entire country. While that is good for the country, I'm not sure that it is what the people in power actually want."

The Woodman interrupted, "We've experienced that same growth in employment. That put us on someone's radar since construction starts are way down. Questions have been raised."

The Smith continued, "Essentially, morale is good, but we are worried about getting everything in place."

The Woodman said, "That's the same as for our family."

The Weaver asked, "Do you have anything more to add about the members of the Wald families?"

"No," the Woodman answered.

The Weaver asked, "How are the Wagner families doing?"

"Our families are spread rather thin. We're personally making the deliveries from Schmeid facilities to the Wald work sites. We're also ferrying a lot of people around the country. Some of us older folks haven't driven this much in years. It's amazing how much bullshit our drivers have to put up with. Other than that, we're doing fine."

The Weaver asked, "How are the contracts?"

The Drover answered, "We've got the majority of them signed with the necessary conditions added. To keep from harming some of the other small firms, we've subcontracted some of our business to them. We're losing money on them, but that was to be expected."

"That's good," the Weaver said. "How about the Grun family?"

The Innkeeper answered, "We're entertaining about four thousand unregistered guests from the other families. They are spread out over all over the country. It feels good to have the occupancy. It's a shame that it has to be under these circumstances.

"So far, our facilities have not drawn any real attention. We have had a few that were checked by local government folks wanting to assure themselves that we were collecting room use taxes from all of our guests. Nobody really watches motels that charge fifty dollars a night that closely except when it comes to collecting a cut of the money. Our books satisfied them, but we've stopped hosting folks at those locations where people tend to ask too many questions.

"We've also made sure not to host folks where too many government officials use our rooms for their affairs. That cuts down the risk of discovery significantly."

The Whore smiled. "There will always be 'congress of pleasure.'"

"Indeed," the Innkeeper said.

"Is that all?" the Weaver asked.

Tom smiled. "You forgot your family."

"That's right. A lot of us wish we could contribute more. We've served as witnesses to a number of events. We've helped outfit the Damensterns for their engagements with the enemy. We've been watching the surveillance videos. Outside of that, we aren't doing much."

The Watchman said, "Don't forget that you're also scouting locations for us. That's an important job."

"Point taken," the Weaver admitted.

The Weaver asked, "Are there any major problems that haven't been addressed?"

There was silence around the table.

"I guess not," she said. "Will we need to meet again before the big day?"

The Watchman said, "Not unless some problems arise that require us to change plans."

"Let's get out of here," the Woodman said.

The room slowly cleared, until only Tom Farmer and the Whore were left.

"How's my wife?" Tom asked.

The Whore answered, "She's over in England dealing with some of the money men over there. So far the pressures in the States haven't reached there, yet."

"That's good. I worry about her," Tom said.

"That's only natural. She's doing a good job," the Whore said.

"Just how bad are they?"

The Whore was silent for a moment thinking about the question. It wasn't an easy question to answer.

"We are dealing with sociopaths and I don't mean the Hollywood kind. I think that is the only way to describe them. They are slick, polished, controlled, and charismatic in public. In private, they have temper tantrums, are abusive, abrasive and lack any kind of control. The majority of them are bisexual with most of the remainder being homosexual. A significant number are pedophiles, with a preference for young boys.

"You know that we do not judge a person's sexuality. Our business is sex and we cater to all forms of it. We do abhor 'congress of rape' and that seems to be common amongst these folks. One of our women reported that her client had told his assistant, 'Bring me a boy. I like the way they squeal.' That just about sums up their mindset. There's a streak of cruelty here that is like 1643 all over again."

"My God and you want your people to stay in that environment?" Tom asked.

The Whore nodded as she said, "I have read the biographies and diaries of every head of my family starting from Helga Damenstern through my predecessor. Never in the history of our family have we seen a time in which so many people in power have the same kind of mindset. It is as though everything in the way our society is structured enables individuals like that to rise in power. A normal person, without the charisma of a sociopath, is viewed as stupid and incompetent. An honest person gets steamrolled by those who are willing to tell the big lie and force others to support it.

"Damensterns are very moral. Although there are some who would argue otherwise based on the fact that we engage in 'congress of trade', we have a well developed moral sense. We have been shocked to our core by the depravity that we've observed. It is truly appalling.

"As bad as they are, it's incredible just how easily they get away with it. It was only a few years ago that it was made public that a congressman had a young man running a homosexual prostitution service out of his home. The clients included individuals in the White House, Congress, and government agencies. That congressman is still in office and has gained in political power. No one has questioned if he's still involved in male prostitution. It is absolutely amazing.

"Damensterns understand what can be learned from clients. We are part diplomat and part spy. What we are doing for the Pfand, others are doing for their governments. There are women from all over the world servicing our political leaders and high powered corporate executives. We're talking about countries like China, Russian, Korea, Israel, Japan, and the Middle East. Yes, there are Middle Eastern women servicing men in the US.

"Even if we get beyond this current crisis, I fear that others are headed our way. There is a huge amount of corruption that has nothing to do with what is going on.

"To tell the truth, I'm worried. World-wide, there are about six thousand people who need to die. Just saying that leaves a foul taste in my mouth. They have to die to protect six billion people from them."

Tom said, "You paint a pretty negative picture."

The Whore said, "To tell the truth, I'm ashamed. We should have spotted this trend sixty years ago. In our defense, we were distracted by a world war. Still, we knew about this group when they were only a hundred people and we discounted them. We ignored the signs that they were exhibiting less self-control in private. We even were taken in by their charisma. Each time they talked about a 'New World Order' we assumed that it was a nice catch phrase rather than a real end towards which they were working.

"Now we know what they mean by a 'New World Order.' They want one world government which they run. They want total control of energy, food, and water. They want to reduce the world's population to a third of its current value. They want to pack people into super-cities and leave the wide open spaces for themselves.

"What kind of person thinks that is reasonable? I really can't imagine it. The Pfand has always been about live and let live."

A shiver went through the Whore's body. She got control of herself.

"You wonder why I'm willing to risk my family members. It's only because I don't want to live in the world that they envision."

"I can understand that," Tom said thoughtfully, then added, "The entire Pfand owes you for recognizing the crisis that is upon us."

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 17


Carl looked out over the audience that was staring back at him. Usually, at these kinds of engagements, there were people who recognized him and were extremely excited about meeting him. This evening, he was getting a much colder reception. It was as if they knew who he was, and resented that he was there.

He was at a support group meeting of service men who were suffering from Gulf War Syndrome. It was an appropriate group, considering the video that he was going to show and hand out.

A high official in the State Department, several members of congressional armed services committees, and a member of England's Parliament were having a discussion. These leaders were debating how to continue culling the population of nationalistic patriots, and religious fundamentalists.

The leaders were looking for ways to assure that more extremists and soldiers would die. The current approach wasn't working. The economic support (and weapons) they were providing to the Muslim extremists, weren't having the bang for the buck that had been anticipated. The death tolls were small, compared to the tens of thousands they wanted. They had been hoping for something more along the lines of Vietnam, which had effectively destroyed nationalistic patriotism in the United States, for almost two generations.

It was pointed out that the difference between the two conflicts was essentially a difference in morals. In Vietnam, the North Vietnamese used prostitutes, bars, and drugs to gather intelligence about American plans. They knew everything that was going to happen, before it happened.

Outside of drugs, the Muslims weren't doing that. Their prohibitions against women having any kind of contact with men, made the use of prostitutes unacceptable.

The leaders had attempted several tried and true methods of increasing the death count. One was to put more soldiers into areas where they were easily targeted. Unfortunately (from the leaders' perspective), that hadn't worked. The surge of troops in the current conflicts, had actually suppressed resistance, rather than increasing the death toll as had happened in Vietnam. The men in the meeting were trying to find some way to change that trend.

The last strategy that they had tried, had also failed. Wiki-leaks had not produced the backlash expected. Instead, it had allowed radical religious groups to gain control of countries that had been supportive of the group's efforts. They had more religious fundamentalists than before, and their supporters were dying off.

It was pointed out that nationalism was on the rise all over Europe. It was possible that a larger conflict could be introduced that would be on the order of another world war. They viewed that as a positive potential outcome, since it would clearly raise the body count. The one fear was that someone, somewhere, would unleash the weapons of mass destruction. That would solve some of their problems, but at the expense of the assets they wanted to gain out of the conflict.

Carl was about to introduce himself, although it was not really necessary, when a foghorn sounded. Without thinking, he dropped to the floor. He was just in time. A bullet hole appeared in the wall behind where he had been standing.

Hammond had sounded the foghorn the instant he had spotted the red dot that had appeared on Carl's forehead. The effect of the foghorn and the sudden appearance of the bullet hole was like hitting a hornet's nest with a stick. Even while drawing his pistol, he realized that every person in the room was drawing a weapon, as well.

"Oh shit! We fucked up," he muttered, convinced that all those guns would soon be directed at Carl.

Much to his surprise, there was a rush of people to the doors and windows. The doors were barricaded and windows cleared of glass. A large box was opened and rifles were being distributed out of it. Shots were fired. Shots were returned. A full out gunfight was suddenly in progress.

One of the men was standing by a door gesturing to them. When they approached, he asked, "What in the fuck are you doing here? Don't you know that we're under surveillance as a radical organization?"

"We didn't know that," Hammond answered furious that they hadn't known that important fact.

"Follow me. I'll get you out of here," the man said.

Without waiting to see what was happening in the street, Carl and the Waches in the room made their escape. They fled, leaving the stacks of CDs with the videos on them, on the table at the front of the room.

Hammond knew they were headed for the tunnels under the facility. They had already mapped out the escape routes.

While rushing through the boiler room, Carl asked, "Why are you suspected of being a radical organization?"

"We know too fucking much. You were going to hand out a video of the government assholes talking about how to kill patriots, right?"

"Yes."

"We know all about that," the man said. "We were about to release a bunch of videos next week. Now those plans are all fucked up."

"We didn't know," Carl said rushing down one of the tunnels.

The man said, "Once you get clear of here, get the hell out of town. We can hold them off for a couple of hours."

"They've probably got you surrounded," Hammond said.

"Bullshit. We got folks all around here. We're fucking warriors despite the shit they did to us over in the big sandy. They may have infected us with some nasty shit, but they didn't take away our ability to fight," the man answered.

At the exit of the tunnel, Carl held out a hand and said, "Good luck."

"Same to you," the man said. He winked and said, "I might not ever see you again, until we're both knocking on the gates of hell, but I guarantee you that a bunch assholes will be there before us."

"Right," Carl said.

Hammond whisked Carl out of the tunnel, through a door, and into a waiting truck. A minute later, they were ten blocks from the gunfight. The radio station was reporting that a major gunfight between right-wing radicals and government forces was taking place in the downtown area.

Slamming a fist against the wall of the truck, Hammond said, "That was a disaster."

Half of the members of the Wache family who had been present inside the building had stayed behind to deter anyone from following them. He wasn't looking forward to hearing about what would happen to them. Most likely, they would hear about ten men committing suicide on the news the next day.

"In more than one way," Carl said.

"We should have known that they were under surveillance," Hammond said angrily.

This had been a major intelligence failure in a lot of ways. He should have guessed that an audience of military veterans would be carrying. All it would have taken, was for one of them to decide to kill Carl for the reward. It would have been hard to stop.

The man driving the truck said, "We've got a report that a helicopter is in the air. I don't know if they're following us."

"Shit. This is a fucking mess."

Carl said, "Calm down. We screwed up. So what? We go on."

Hammond said, "This was a disaster. We just left ten men behind who are going to have to kill themselves if they get captured."

One of the others who had left with them said, "I'm pretty sure that most of them will get away. Those vets expected something like this and I don't think they're the type to give up."

"I saw the ammo those guys were using. They were loaded with cop killers."

"I got a glance out one of the windows when we were leaving. There were a dozen cops down. I'd bet no one is left in that building by now," one of them men said.

"There were three dead cops in the alley. The vets had that escape covered."

"This is going to be all over the television."

"I know that. That's not the only problem. We just gave the government a reason to declare open season on veterans everywhere," Carl said.

"Shit, I didn't even think about that," Hammond said.

"Well, there are going a bunch of dead cops and feds tonight. I've got a feeling that there are going to be a bunch of dead elected officials by the end of the week."

"When I went to pull out my pistol, the guy sitting next to me already had his gun pointed at me. He wanted to know what I was doing there and then he grinned when I said that I was there to protect Carl. He told me I was doing a shitty job. He ran off after telling me that the feds had no fucking idea of what they had done," one of the men said.

"I got the same treatment."

"Me too."

"The hounds of hell have just been released."

Hammond rested his forehead on his arms. He kept swearing in a low continuous mutter. Worried, Carl watched Hammond wondering if the man was about to have a nervous breakdown.

He asked, "Are you okay?"

"I'm tired," Hammond said. "We have started making mistakes, and we can't afford to do that."

"Then let's take a break," Carl said.

It had been a grueling schedule. He had put in twenty-five appearances in twenty-five cities over thirty days. He would spend the whole night cooped up in the back of trucks and sleep days in cheap hotels. They were living on a diet of soup and sandwiches. Everyone was tired. Jennifer and Samantha were already on their way to the next stop.

"How?" Hammond said.

Carl answered, "I'm sure someone owns an isolated hunting lodge where we can hide out for a week and recharge our batteries."

Coming to a decision, Hammond said, "Tell the driver we need to head to a safe spot for thirty minutes. I've got some calls to make."

Forty-five minutes later, the truck pulled up to the loading bay of an old red brick building. The men got out of the truck and looked around. The area where they were standing had a concrete floor, but the rest of the huge room had wooden floors.

An elderly woman greeted them, "Welcome."

"Hello," Carl said. "I'm..."

"There's no need to introduce yourself, Carl. You're famous," the old woman said with a twinkle in her eye. "I'm Mary Naparstek."

"Nice to meet you, Ma'am," Carl said. Gesturing to his surroundings, he asked, "What is this place?"

"This is an old textile mill that my father owned. He passed it to me. Now, I use it for storage, but it was once filled with young woman turning thread into fabric," Mary answered.

"It's an amazing building," Carl said.

In a way, he was envious of the building. It had a nice stately feel to it despite the years that had passed since its original construction. His pickle factory was going to be a thoroughly modern building. It would be plain and architecturally uninteresting. Some of these old factories had features that might have been common in their day, but were totally absent in modern times.

"It was build by Charles Carpenter," Mary said.

Carpenter was one of the family names of the Wald's. He wondered if that meant that it was constructed in a manner consistent with the specifications in the Pfand X. He assumed that he would find out, soon enough.

Carl said, "I didn't think that textile mills were this large."

"It wasn't large, for its time. It seemed very small once you put a bunch of looms in here. The high ceilings were necessary since the looms were driven by leather belts powered by a steam engine. It was loud in here when everything was running," Mary said.

"Do you have pictures of it in operation?" Carl asked.

"Yes, I do. I'd love to show them to you, sometime," Mary said.

Hammond interrupted, "I'm Hammond Steward."

"Hammond? That's an odd first name. You don't run into many men named Hammond. In fact, I think you're the first one I've ever met with that first name. I once knew a Don Hammond," Mary said.

"I was named after a man who saved my mother from drowning when she was a young girl. He made quite an impression on her. She thought his first name was Hammond because everyone called him that. It was years after she named me, that she learned it was his last name," Hammond replied.

"That's an interesting story," Mary said.

Carl hadn't given any thought to how unusual Hammond's name was. Even if he had, he never would have thought to comment on it.

Hammond said, "I don't tell it very often."

"I have such a common name. Growing up, it was like every other girl was named Mary or Margaret. I always wanted to be a Mercedes or Minerva."

"Interesting," Hammond said. "I hate to impose upon you, but I need to make some phone calls. Is there a 'private' place I can do that?"

"How rude of me. You're in a hurry and I'm prattling on about names," Mary said. "Follow me."

In a conversational tone of voice, Hammond said, "I don't know if you are aware if it, but there was a bit of trouble in the city."

"I heard all about it on television," Mary said.

"It was on television?" Carl asked.

Mary said, "Oh my lordy, yes. There was a huge gunfight in the city. Twelve police and federal agents were killed and another thirty were wounded by a bunch of right-wing extremists. The man on television said that a bunch of disgruntled veterans had set an ambush for the police. Not a single one of those 'bad guys' was found."

"They all got away?" Hammond asked hoping to find out how his people had fared.

"Yes. The reporter said that that evil man, Carl Plante, was there. He had convinced them to attack the police."

Carl shook his head at the kind of lies that emerged about him. He had convinced the veterans to attack the police? What a laugh. If he hadn't ducked, he would have been dead. He hadn't even opened his mouth before the attack had taken place.

Hammond said, "I feel sorry for the men and women who died tonight. They were poor saps who showed up to work and died because of it. It's a shame. They were being used as pawns in a game they didn't even know was being played."

Mary stopped in a little room off to the side of the main floor.

She said, "Could you push that metal plate towards the back wall?"

Carl and Hammond knelt down and pushed. They expecting it to be heavy. They nearly fell on their backsides when the plate moved with almost no resistance. Mary covered her mouth in a polite attempt to hide her amusement.

"We go down, here."

The trio entered the tunnel that had been revealed by moving the metal plate.

After a couple of steps down, Mary said, "You can slide the plate closed."

Now that they were in the tunnel, it was possible to talk a little more freely. Still, discipline kept them from saying anything too revealing.

Walking quickly through the tunnel, Mary said, "This tunnel leads to my house, and to a little metal building, which was built alongside the stream that once powered the mill."

"It's old," Carl said.

He paused to examine the walls. The walls were lined with red brick, somewhat brighter than the brick that had been in the textile mill. He wondered if the reason why was because these bricks had not been exposed to the sun and retained their color better. He'd have to look up how bricks aged, sometime.

Mary said, "Yes. It was put in when the mill was built. It used to have another exit, but that was blocked off when the building it connected to burned to the ground. Some folks speculated that it had something to do with prohibition. We let them think that."

"Interesting," Carl said.

Mary stopped and gestured to a door. "Open it."

Hammond opened the door and entered the room at a gesture by Mary. Carl followed him. Mary brought up the rear and closed the door. She turned and punched a code into a security panel.

"We're secure. What in the hell happened?" Mary asked.

All of the sweet old womanly charm in her voice was gone. Carl reached into his pocket and pulled out a CD in a 'jewel' case. He handed it to her.

"We were going to show the video on this CD to them. When I got up to the front of the room, someone from outside the building shot at me. Then all hell broke loose. I guess the guys there were expecting trouble, tonight. They had set up an ambush in case they were attacked. They were better prepared for what happened," Carl said.

Mary grabbed the CD and put it into her computer. She then watched the first minute of it. Steam was coming out of her ears when she heard about killing of nationalistic patriots. She shut it off in anger.

"I can imagine how much they loved this. I bet they were furious," Mary said.

"They didn't see it, but they already knew what was on it. We didn't know that. They've got videos of their own that they are going to release," Carl said.

"I don't approve of killing cops. However, the men in that video deserve to die," Mary said.

Hammond said, "I don't approve of what they did, but I can't blame them. Running around killing people isn't our way."

Mary said, "I'm glad you feel that way."

"I understand why they did it," Carl said flatly.

Not only did he feel that he understood why they had acted the way they had, but he felt they were justified. He doubted one man there would lose a minute of sleep over their actions.

Curious, Hammond asked, "Why do you think they did it?"

Carl answered, "They are sheepdogs."

"And?"

"They believe that too many members of law enforcement are wolves disguised as sheepdogs, so they took care of the wolves. They don't realize that what really happened was that they attacked a bunch of sheepdogs who didn't know they were working for wolves."

Hammond said, "That's an interesting observation. Are you sure that you're not a Wache?"

"I'm a Bauer. All I really want to do is open a pickle factory," Carl said.

"I don't understand what you mean about wolves and sheepdogs," Mary said.

Carl said, "I'll explain it while Hammond's making telephone calls. It'll give me a chance to get my mind off of the events back in town."

Hammond said, "You did a good job back there. If you hadn't ducked, you'd have been dead. It was just a split second difference."

"Thank you for the warning," Carl said.

"You're welcome."

Carl asked, "How did you know that I was about to get shot?"

"A red dot appeared on your forehead. Believe it or not, every guy in the room was pulling a gun by the time I hit the foghorn. I was sure they were going to shoot you," Hammond said.

"I don't think we should go to public places where everyone is carrying a gun," Carl said.

"I agree. Now, let me make my calls."

Carl and Mary chatted about the nature of sheep, sheepdogs, wolves, and stags. By the time he was done explaining the differences, Mary agreed with his explanation as to why the soldiers attacked the police so ruthlessly. She even questioned if some of the sheepdogs who were killed weren't really wolves in disguise. There was no way that a sheepdog should open fire on him like that.

Carl just shrugged his shoulders. To him, it wasn't important enough to pursue. In a way, he felt that the wolves had been whispering half-truths in the ears of sheepdog for decades. The war on drugs was a large part of it. Labeling sheep by painting 'wolf' on them had slowly inured law enforcement folks from fears of harming sheep. Now, it was getting easier to treat sheep as if they were wolves.

Hammond returned after two short phone calls. He sat down and said, "The Watchman is looking for a place for us to rest. He has a request of you that I'm not very happy about."

"What?"

Hammond said, "You're not going to like it."

"What?"

Hammond said, "He wants us to deliver a talk at the National Sheriff's Convention in Vegas."

"No. I'll get killed," Carl said vehemently.

He could just imagine what would happen if he were to show up in front of a room full of law enforcement officers. He was on the FBI's most wanted list. Every law enforcement person in the country would recognize him. He imagined there would be a wolf or two in the audience who wouldn't care if he was 'killed while resisting arrest.'

Mary said, "Just record a talk and let them play it."

"I'm sorry. That sounds a lot like 'bear baiting' to me. All we'll do is piss them off," Carl said.

Hammond said, "You don't understand. We've got some videos that show how law enforcement officers are being used to kill innocent civilians. I don't think they are going to be very happy to learn how they've been manipulated, for the past four decades."

"Maybe," Carl said.

"We need to get the average cop on the beat on our side. This could do it," Hammond said.

Carl said, "What's on the video?"

Hammond answered, "According to the Watchman, the videos show the orders being given for tonight's raid on the veteran's meeting. The FBI SAC was given orders to make sure that every veteran there was killed."

"If the Watchman had that video, then why were we sent there?" Carl asked angrily.

"He didn't know they were going to attack that meeting. There are dozens of VFW meetings every night. Other veteran's groups meet, too. He only put it together when the FBI SAC on the tape, showed up on television, after the raid," Hammond answered.

Carl said, "I want more than that on the CD, when it gets delivered to the Sheriff's Convention. I want them pissed off at the people pulling the strings."

"I'll let him know that," Hammond said.

He rose from his chair, and turned to make some more calls.

Mary asked, "Are you concerned that you're getting used?"

"No. I know that I'm being used. I volunteered to be used. I'm a lightning rod. I'm just worried about getting struck by lightning one time too many," Carl said.

"I can understand that," Mary said.

"You can?" Carl asked doubting that anyone in the clothing industry could understand what he was going through.

Mary said, "I know that you think that being a Weber doesn't seem very dangerous"

Carl said, "I don't see how it could be dangerous. I mean, you design, manufacture, and sell clothes."

Mary nodded her head in agreement with his characterization of what the Webers did now. The idea that the clothing and fashion industry was relatively safe was an easy assumption to make. It ignored that organized crime had once had a major hand in the garment district.

She replied, "I don't see how farming could be dangerous. I mean, you plant crops, you harvest them, and you sell food."

"I see what you mean," Carl said properly chastised.

She said, "Believe it or not, there was a time when the Weber women served the Pfand in much the same way as the Damensterns."

"You engaged in 'congress of trade'?" Carl asked, earning himself a dirty look from Mary.

She replied, "No. We were spies.

"It used to be, that ladies of influential men would have us come to their houses, to make their clothes for special occasions. They talked while we worked. We were privy to gossip, rumors, and stories that even the men wouldn't talk about with the Damensterns.

"We learned many dangerous secrets that could have gotten us killed, if we hadn't been careful.

"It was almost an art to hem a dress while appearing invisible to a group of ladies talking about what their husbands were doing. We couldn't react to anything anyone said. It may have been a Damenstern listening to Napoleon's battle plan, but it was a Weber who learned who Napoleon trusted. Combining those pieces of information cost Napoleon the war.

"The world has changed. Seamstresses no long grace the boudoirs of woman married to the rich and powerful. It doesn't matter. We remember those times. We still listen, in case we should hear something from a customer that is important."

Carl said, "That's good."

Mary said, "You might want to mention to Hammond that rich and powerful men still have occasion to use tailors."

"I'll be sure to do that," Carl said.

"Please do."

Hammond returned, looking a little distracted.

He asked, "Mary, can you fix us up with some painter's clothes?"

"Why?"

Hammond said, "There's a place that is going to be closed for a week due to repairs. We are going there as painters."

"Well, you'll need more than clothes as disguises. I'll see what I can do," Mary said.

Carl asked. "What about Jennifer and Samantha?"

"They are going to meet us there. I guess we'll need disguises for them as well," Hammond said.

"I can create a couple of disguises for all of you. I'll just need a little time to pull it together," Mary said.

"I hate to impose upon you more than already we have, but can we stay here for the night?" Hammond asked.

"Of course you can. You can use the security quarters in my house."

Hammond said, "If you'll let me out, I'll send the rest of the men to stay with a Grun."

"Sure," Mary said stepping over to the control panel.

"I'll wait here for you," Carl said.

After Hammond left, Mary said, "You're a brave man, Carl."

"No I'm not."

Surprised by his denial, she asked, "Why not?"

"There's nothing brave about trying to survive, and that's all I'm doing."

The rush of danger had passed, and Carl was getting tired. Sitting slouched in his chair, he looked like a worn out old warrior, who had seen one battle too many. Mary rose and went over to where he was seated. She put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm nearly eighty, and this is the closest to danger I've ever been. I'm not terribly worried that men dressed in black will come bursting in here and take us away, but I am a little afraid of the possibility. I can not imagine how it must be to live like this for months."

"I'm sorry to have brought danger to your doorstep."

"There's no need to apologize. I'm pleased to have played a part in this battle, however small it might be."

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

"You are brave. You're the bravest man I've ever met."

"Thank you."

"Now, we'll wait for Hammond to return. Then I'll take you to where you can rest. I have two bedrooms for security personnel."

"Thank you, Mary."

She looked at the puzzled expression on his face.

"What's the problem?"

"Why do you have two bedrooms for security personnel?"

"There was a time when organized crime was trying to take over our industry. We had a few occasions where security was a key concern," Mary answered.

"I don't know anything about your industry, back then."

Mary said, "My father used to tell me stories about the early days here. The days of the local mill were coming to an end by the time I got into the business."

"What was it like?" Carl asked.

"Are you really interested or just being polite?"

"I am interested," Carl answered.

Mary told him about what it had been like back in the days when the garment industry was at its height in America. She talked about how a lot of small towns had one or two mills that produced thread or fabric. Often, the mills were the best made buildings in the entire town. They often set the standard for the other buildings.

Fascinated, Carl listened to her describe the process by which raw bales of cotton or wool became cloth. Each step required specialized machines and those machines evolved in complexity over time. She talked about how patterns were woven into cloth. It was hard to imagine that machines of such complexity existed more than a hundred years ago.

She described what the working conditions had been like. In the early days, young farm women were happy to get a job in a mill. It was a demanding job, but the pay was good. Very few women could earn as much money in any other way.

Of course, by the time she had been born, the working conditions in mills had degraded markedly, and unions started impacting the business significantly. There were owners, not Webers, who took advantage of the workers. They demanded longer hours, and greater productivity, at lower pay. The big cities, like New York City, had large populations of immigrant workers. It tended to be the location for the garment shops that made clothes for the masses. The working conditions, there, could be absolutely dismal.

All of that was before things had gone overseas. Some Webers had gone overseas with the factories. The rest of the Webers had adjusted to changing economics.

Rather than manufacture clothes, they entered the fashion industry, and designed them. They opened shops that sold clothes. They now owned chains of high-end boutiques, and also the more common clothing stores. They had also gone into home decorating, since fabrics played such an important role in that industry.

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 18


"Sir?"

"What the fuck do you want?"

"There's a new video, Sir."

"Show it to me."

"Yes, Sir."

"Motherfucker!"

Furious, he grabbed the boy who was quivering at his feet, and tossed him off of the balcony. There was a long scream. Twenty-three floors was a long way to fall.

"I want that bastard stopped!"

"How, Sir?"

"Send the cops after him."

"They won't go after him after seeing that video, Sir."

"Have the President declare martial law. Have the Army do house to house searches if necessary."

"I'll see what I can do, Sir. I doubt he can do it."

"I want to hurt someone."

"Another boy, Sir?"

"No. Bring me Wilkins from yesterday's meeting. I'll teach that bastard to question me."

"Here, Sir?"

"No. I want to hurt him."

"I understand, Sir. I'll get your tools out."

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 19


Tom stopped by the side-table and grabbed a plate. He moved down the table examining the array of food available and then grabbed an apple Danish. He glanced at the clock and then poured a cup of coffee. It was a thirty-one ounce cup and he filled it to the brim. After one more glance at the clock, he grabbed a second Danish, before carrying his late morning 'second breakfast' to the table.

Following behind Tom at the table, the Innkeeper filled a large bowl with fresh fruit. After looking up at the clock, he poured himself an extra-large coffee as well. He carried it to the table and took his seat. He looked up at the clock and made the sign of a cross. He took a sip of coffee, grimaced, and then set the cup down. His stomach was sour enough already.

The Woodman asked, "Does anyone have an antacid?"

The Smith said, "I could use one, too."

No one offered an antacid.

The Weaver looked up at the clock waiting for the minute hand to reach the top. It seemed to her that the closer it got, the slower it moved. Her stomach churned at the idea of what was going to happen next. She looked around the room at the other heads of the ten families. They looked just as nervous as she felt.

"It's time," she said softly.

The Drover asked, "Are you sure that we want to do this?"

Heads around the room nodded in the affirmative. The Drover picked up the telephone. He reached down to punch in the number, and then stopped.

"Last chance to stop it."

The Weaver said, "Make the call."

He entered a number. After two rings, the phone was answered. He spoke one word.

"Strike."

Hanging up the phone, he said, "It has begun."

A minute later, four thousand two hundred and eighteen truckers began to receive telephone calls and text messages. A strike had been called. They were instructed to pull into the nearest truck stop, rent a room, and wait until they were told to return to work. All costs and expenses would be covered for at least two weeks.

One of the drivers, Steve Dickerson, swore on getting the message. He had worked for Mike Porter for over twenty years. He respected the man and the idea of leaving him in the lurch like this made him sick to his stomach. He owed the man. During his divorce, it was Mike Porter who had kept him from driving his semi off the lot and into a bridge. He had stood there in front of that truck and wouldn't budge until Steve came out to talk to him. After a little booze and hours of talk, Mike had taken him to his house and watched over him. Now some asshole was telling him that he was supposed to repay that kindness by crippling the man's company with a strike. That wasn't going to happen.

Steve called Mike on the private number Mike had given him, years ago. He explained that he was more than willing to cross the picket line, or do whatever Mike needed. He was shocked when Mike told him to pull of the road, check into a hotel, and wait until the strike was over. Steve tried to talk some sense into Mike, but the man insisted that he not make waves. Feeling lower than a worm, Steve did as Mike had asked.

Steve wasn't the only employee of a Wagner firm to make a call like that.

Within thirty minutes, trucks loaded with produce freshly picked from the farms started pulling into truck stops. After parking their trucks, the drivers walked away leaving the food to rot under the hot sun. No deliveries of fruits or vegetables would make it to the food production facilities who had contracts with the firms that employed the striking truck drivers, until the strike ended. Not only would there no deliveries, there would be no trucks to pick up any of their products, either.

That didn't mean that all trucks working for Wagner owned companies were on strike. There were a lot of Wagner trucking companies still on the road. After all, each trucking firm was independent of the others. Furthermore, the companies the Wagners had given subcontracts to were still on the road. They were shuttling products from Bauer farms to Bauer food production facilities. Preexisting facilities were running at half capacity, and were prepared for when non-Bauer sources were ready to sell their crops.

The new food processing facilities, not yet inspected or approved for food production, began to start up operation. There were surprisingly few start-up problems and those that arose were dealt with quickly. Schmeids and Walds were on site, to assure sure that everything went smoothly.

The plan for the new food processing facilities was rather subtle. It is completely legal to build a building and stock it full of equipment so long as it passes any and all local building codes. These buildings had been built outside of any municipalities, in counties with populations of four digits or less. A few dollars here and there along with a contribution to local charities had assured the buildings were approved. It didn't take much. More often than not, just the prospect of jobs opened doors.

Operating the equipment required meeting all safety regulations and permits, but since no one had used the machines other than to test them, even that wasn't a problem. Until the previous night, the empty facilities were just large buildings filled with equipment, and guarded by a lonely security guard.

Using the building to create consumer products is when the problems would begin to arise. It is legal to process food without any government permits or oversight of any kind, so long as it isn't for sale or distribution, and that they properly disposed of all waste. Essentially, a person can bake as many pies as they want, stack them up in a refrigerated building, and have no troubles with the law.

Of course, selling or even giving away their products would put them on the wrong side of the law. They weren't going to sell their products until there was sufficient consumer pressure on the government to allow the food to be sold. With the largest food processing companies unable to produce anything, there would be shortages at the grocery store. It wasn't possible to make up for losing a whole harvest. The government would write short-term exemptions if it was necessary to keep people fed.

The sudden absence of trucks to pick up their crops would place a lot of pressure on the independent farmers. Since the big corporate farms weren't going to be able to get the crops to their food production facilities, the farmers would be in trouble. Farmers don't get paid until the crops are shipped. Without trucks showing up to haul away the produce, the farmers were going to make nothing.

That didn't mean that farmers wouldn't be able to sell their products. If farmers chose to sell their goods to other companies, companies who weren't having shipping problems, then trucks would pick up their crops and they would get paid. After a few hours of waiting for trucks to arrive, the farmers would be desperate.

The Pfand would pay fair market value, even though the farmer was basically at their mercy. After all, the farmers were friends and neighbors of members of the Bauer family. One didn't take advantage of friends and neighbors.

Having a good percentage of their trucks out on strike was costing the Wagner families about ten million dollars a day. However, the Bauers were in a position to gain about fifteen million a day in increased product. In essence, the Pfand was making money on the strike!

The liabilities for spoiled freight had been averted as a result of the contracts that had been skillfully negotiated months ago. The contracts freed the Wagner owned companies from direct liability in the event of a driver's strike. Even if they were sued, they had transferred all of their insurance to one of the enemy's companies. The enemy would, effectively, be suing themselves.

While the strike was nominally costing the enemy about thirty million dollars a day, the true effects wouldn't be seen until much later. If the strike lasted ten days, it could end up costing them billions. Nothing in, meant nothing out. If they didn't get the crops when they were harvested, then they would not get any product out, this growing season. Figuratively speaking, cutting the inflow of produce had been a strike directly at their jugular vein.

It would take some time for word to trickle back to the executives of the companies that would be directly affected by the strike. The first anyone would know about it, was when trucks failed to show up with their valuable cargo. Calls would be made to the trucking companies, to find out what was the problem. About the time that word was received that the truckers were on strike, the production lines would start to run out of material, and would have to shut down. Then the calls for guidance would be made to corporate headquarters.

A text message alerted the Drover that inquiries had been made concerning the absence of trucks.

He said, "They're beginning to figure out that something is wrong."

"Give them another forty minutes," the Banker said.

They wanted word to get around that products weren't being delivered. They needed a few calls back and forth between the large corporations and the trucking companies before the executives would feel that they needed to be physically present to make sure that things got handled.

Quiet conversations broke out around the table. Everyone there felt sorry for the small people who were going to get hurt by their companies failing. Most of the employees were just regular people who wanted to make a living. They would never know just how much misery they had been saved from experiencing.

The Drover held up a hand for quiet. He picked up the telephone and punched in a number.

When the party answered, he said, "Gridlock."

Six hundred trucks were about to break down or have accidents on some of the busiest thoroughfares in the downtown areas of the largest cities in the country. They were aiming for maximum confusion. Few people would be able to get to any corporate headquarters located in those areas, since it would soon be impossible to drive anywhere in those areas for at least three hours.

The idea was simple. A large Wagner truck would run swerve so that it was blocking all lanes at a point between two intersections. It would be hit by one or two cars driven by Webers. The drivers would get out of their vehicles and start to argue. All traffic through the intersections to that section of the road would be blocked by inconsiderate drivers, and there are plenty of those, who were unaware that there was an accident just up the street. Consequently, traffic would back up to the adjacent intersection. Cars would soon block that intersection, and the traffic jam would back up to the next intersection.

Within ten minutes, the gridlock would spread five to ten blocks in every direction. It would take the first tow trucks at least two hours to get to the accident so that they could tow away the damaged vehicles. The police would slowly clear the intersections farthest from the scene of the accidents until they could work their way to the accident. Even after the accident was cleared, traffic would still take another hour to flow smoothly.

The ten family heads sat around the table watching the news broadcasts on a wide screen television. Their nervousness had transitioned to tension. Idle chatter had become clenched jaws. They didn't talk much other than common courtesy offers of bringing something back, when one of them visited the snack table.

The news broadcasts were interesting, in how slow they were to catch on that something was happening. It took a while for people to realize that there were wide-spread traffic jams in all of the major metropolitan areas. It took even longer for them to realize that there was a truckers strike that could seriously impact the economy. It was like everything was slowly moving towards a boil.

The telephone rang. The Weaver answered and listened for a few seconds. She nodded her head, thanked the caller, and then hung up the phone.

"They are isolated."

The Banker picked up the telephone and made a call. He said one word into the telephone.

"Sell."

A shiver of fear ran down the backs of everyone in the room.

For the past six months, members of the Pfand had been buying shares in several major companies. It was never a lot of shares all at once, just a million dollars worth here and there. It added up. Their purchases had kept the stock prices high even when minor scandals had been aired.

With that one command from the Banker, all of the families sold off all of their shares in the major corporations. That was sixteen billion dollars worth of stock. It would take a few minutes for all of the orders to be entered, but once the massive number of trades were initiated the stocks of some very large companies would start to plummet. The stock exchange was about to experience a nightmare.

"The stock market will be shut down within ten minutes," the Banker said.

All eyes in the room turned to the television where a business analyst was talking about how stable the market was. It was hard not to laugh at him when the posted prices started falling. Green arrows indicating gains quickly turned into red arrows indicating losses. And the losses were substantial.

It didn't take more than two minutes for the press to realize there was a major problem in the stock market. It was hard to ignore a sudden three thousand point drop in the DOW and it was only beginning. Automatic trades started kicking in and driving the prices down even further. It took three minutes for every alarm in the stock exchange to trigger. People scrambled trying to make sense of what had happened. It took eight minutes before exchange officials were forced to invoke the 'circuit breaker' rule and halt all trading.

The Banker said, "They are cut off from their wealth."

On television, the talking heads on the business channels were speechless. They were searching for any kind of explanation, mostly settling on a computer error. Their frantic grasping for straws was going to turn into horror when the computer records showed that they were all legitimate trades. The stocks most affected were the Fortune 500. In fact, a lot of the smaller companies had their stocks go up.

Only one city was more susceptible to gridlock than Washington DC and that was New York City. In both cities, powerful people were rushing to get control of the situation and they were going nowhere. Helicopter services, often used by important people, were booked solid and couldn't respond in a reasonable time.

In the course of one morning, a number of billionaires had just become millionaires. It was only the beginning of what was going to turn out to be a very bad day for a lot of powerful men. With the market closed there was no way for these men to grab their money. They couldn't even get to their offices to find out what was happening.

The Scholar picked up the telephone. He dialed out and once the phone was answered, he said, "Connect."

With that one word, a dozen hackers in China let loose the toys they had been working on for six months. Each had just earned ten million dollars, paid in gold, silver, and diamonds.

Around the world, five thousand servers came online. Machines started churning out low level networking commands, malware that dropped copies of videos and websites on infected machines, and email with links to websites hosting videos of famous people breaking the law. It was an electronic blitzkrieg that was designed to take no prisoners.

As a result of the low level networking commands, Domain Name Servers started rerouting traffic away from the most popular internet destinations to infected websites. Anyone who tried to perform a search, view porn, or book a vacation found they were watching a video of a powerful individual engaging in a criminal act. Each page included a list of a hundred of the most powerful men in the world with a link to a criminal biography complete with videos documenting their crimes.

The NSA, the security guardian of electronic communications, was specifically targeted in this attack. They were blasted with hundreds of videos showing upper levels of government alphabet agencies, politicians, and business leaders conspiring to use the NSA in a plot to enslave everyone in the world. It was clear that it wasn't just about arresting or detaining people who were threatening the security of the country. The videos caught a lot of very important people talking about how they were planning on making slaves of every human on the planet.

It quickly became personal when those in power were recorded making rude comments about influential people within the organization. One well respected manager had been described as a typical patriotic country bumpkin with an IQ that was easily surpassed by the pile of excrement under which he had been born. They even said that he'd be one of the first people they'd lock up. His reply was to schedule a meeting for the next day, in the most sarcastic language possible, to discuss what to do about this clear threat to national security. Until that meeting, he had recommended that they gather more data before doing something about it.

After waiting fifteen minutes, Webers, Gruns, Schmeids, Walds, Damensterns, Goldsteins, Curadors, Bauers, Waches, and Wagners, from locations spread out all over the world, started contacting acquaintances with messages to check out what was happening on the web. Their messages were simple: check out the web. They were actually slow to start since quite a few of them had already received similar messages from their friends.

There are six billion people on the planet Earth, yet there exists only six degrees of separation between any two people. For the most part, that means nothing except when there is news that is so shocking that people feel obliged to pass it along. This was one of those occasions. Like a wild fire on the Serengeti, the word was being spread that something strange was happening on the internet.

The Halls of Government around the world, like on any normal business day, were initially crowded with people wanting to curry favor or influence others. They quickly emptied when individuals learned that videos of some of their most private meetings were being broadcast all over the world via the web. By the time an hour had passed after the release of the servers, there wasn't a politician or a lobbyist to be found. Court houses had suspended business and few judges could be found, anywhere. Union offices were empty. The upper offices of commercial towers were empty except for a handful of very angry secretaries who had heard some of the very unkind things said about them behind closed doors.

The crisis, which had started in America months earlier, had been slowly spreading around the globe when international connections started getting exposed. Now the crisis was fully global in scope. The videos weren't just of American leaders selling Americans into slavery. These videos captured political and economic leaders from nearly every country in the world, in large meetings of a hundred or more people. These videos showed powerful individuals colluding on how to take ultimate power. Leaders, even rebel leaders, were involved in parceling out various businesses, and claiming parts of the world for their individual use.

The videos, particularly those made in private settings, were very explicit. Rich and powerful men and women had discussed how they would use their control of food to fulfill whatever sick fantasies they harbored. There were casual discussions about how they would grab whatever property took their fancy. They talked about who they would grab and what they would do with them.

Some men, not quite rich enough to be invited to join the plotters, were shocked to learn that their wives, explicitly named in a discussion, would become members of harems and subject to acts of degradation. It was shocking that the suave cultured people with whom they did business were, in fact, despicable people with all of the morals of snakes.

It was almost unbelievable that men who had so much would act like giddy children while talking about what they would make people do. A number of minor business leaders were shocked to learn that they would have been the recipients of sexual attention from other men. It wasn't all sexual. In some cases, the plotters just wanted to watch men they despised kill each other in mortal combat.

The reaction of the public at large was exactly what one might expect, people were violently angered. It didn't matter if the people watching videos of their leaders were American, Russian, English, Chinese, or Ubangi tribesmen. It infuriated them to hear their leaders sell out their country, talk of doing sick and disgusting things to other people, and plot the theft of anything and everything of value.

The people around these leaders were looking at them with outright distrust and extreme anger. Already possessing paranoid personalities, the leaders were incapable of trusting their security guards. The guards were looking at them as if assessing which side of the gunfight they wanted to be on. Even the lowly janitor, who had been mocked the previous day, had become a threat. The desire to flee was very strong.

In America, the rich and powerful may have fled, but they didn't get far. Traffic remained blocked and they were stuck in it. It wouldn't have been so bad except for the proliferation of smart phones that allowed people to keep up with news even when they were away from their computer and television. Crowds, clearly angry about what they had seen, surrounded the cars of the rich and powerful. More than one car burned, complete with occupants trapped inside.

It is said that a fine line separates civilization and barbarianism. For a short period of time, that line was crossed.

More than one rich and powerful man learned first hand the true power of the unruly mob that they had so fervently disdained. The mindless mob was a terrifying sight when one stood against it, alone. No one caught by a mob stood for long. In a few cases, there was barely enough left to tell that it had once been a human being.

Those few powerful people who were at home, barred the doors and huddled in their home offices trying to identify a safe haven. Of course, their searches on the internet only showed them just how badly they had been exposed. A few committed suicide rather than face a future of humiliation.

In less than one day, the rich and powerful had been cutoff from their wealth. Their sources of power had been crippled, their plans exposed, their access to information cut off, and their ties to other powerful people rendered useless. After rising to a level where they thought they were invulnerable, it was a harsh jolt to the system to learn otherwise. For men who could, at one time, snap their fingers and have people jump to attention, it was psychologically devastating.

A television news camera mounted on a helicopter showed a member of the House of Representatives being attacked. He was chased down a street until someone faster than him grabbed him from behind. The crowd moved in, kicking the man curled on the ground. The television quit broadcasting the image when blood became visible. In an interesting form of symmetry, the next scene shown on the news was taken from a helicopter in London where a member of Parliament received nearly identical treatment.

Looking extremely sad, the Weaver said, "The culling has begun."

The Watchman picked up his phone and made a call.

"Capture."

Large, well protected houses around the world were penetrated by individuals who had only learned of their targets an hour earlier. Trained mercenaries blew out walls and walked through rubble to capture men who had once paid them to fight in foreign lands. They didn't have any loyalty to man or nation, only to money. The money they were being paid was more than enough to retire on.

Jeremy Upton was on his yacht when the events unleashed by the Pfand had started to unfold. He had watched horrified at how his plans were crumbling around him. His mind was frantically working overtime in an attempt to come up with some way to salvage the situation. He nearly pissed himself when he had watched, on television, a mob tear apart Frank Geddes.

He was trying frantically to contact his co-conspirators when a helicopter flew overhead. It turned around and then began to hover over his boat. Puzzled, he watched men rappel out of the helicopter and onto his yacht. He realized too late that they were there to capture him. He tried to use his power and connections to intimidate, but they weren't afraid him or his connections.

He was grabbed and chained like a common criminal. Rather than pat him down, they just cut off his clothes with wicked looking knives. After he was thrown to the deck of his yacht, he demanded his constitutional rights and was laughed at. They weren't impressed when he requested a lawyer.

His attempts to bribe his captors failed horribly. They searched the yacht and took his stash of gold and cash. When he complained and called them thieves, they had explained to him that to the victor belonged the spoils. One of the men made a joke about how they were Victor, he was Spoils, and his ass was theirs. Jeremy promised them more money if they would let him go, but they had just laughed at him.

Naked and chained, he presented a pathetic appearance that contrasted sharply with his image as a power broker. He appealed to the crew of his yacht to save him, but they stood aside intimidated by the men with guns. A few of the people he kept as toys spat at him, thankful at the rescue.

Jeremy Upton was hooded before being led from the helicopter to the airplane that would deliver him to his judgment. He, like the other captives taken that day, was placed in a wooden crate. The crate was then buried amongst the cargo carried by the plane.

While the worst of the worst were being rounded up, the heads of the ten families of the Pfand X sat around the table watching the news reports. The news reports were filled with stories of people getting arrested, beaten, or killed. Dictators fell taking their oppressive regimes with them. In some cases, the regimes did not fall without considerable bloodshed. There was too much news for the various news programs to report.

Feeling ill at what he was seeing, Tom said, "Turn off the television. I can't watch it any more."

He looked down at the plate in front of him. Although more than ten hours had passed, he had only eaten one of the two Danishes he had taken earlier. He wasn't the only one lacking an appetite. The table was still loaded with food. The only thing that had disappeared, was the coffee.

The Weaver said, "We have to stay here until things have run their course."

There was always a chance that thing might go wrong. Contingency plans were in place. If things really went to hell, they had evacuation plans that would hopefully save most of the Pfand. They could even turn off the internet servers if it became too disruptive for society. They all felt that the world would survive a day without the internet functioning properly.

The Smith said, "Our plan appears to have worked."

"It was a very good plan," the Weaver said.

Everything had gone according to plan. They couldn't have asked for better results. At the moment, a future life as a slave appeared to be very unlikely. They would have to take precautions to prevent others from stepping in and completing what had been started. There was still a lot that had to be done to assure a good future.

"Good? People are dying," the Watchman said pointing at the television which was showing a riot taking place in Saudi Arabia.

The Weaver said, "I meant good in terms of how well it was designed."

"I'm sorry. I'm a little sensitive," the Watchman said.

There had been too much bloodshed leading up to this day. The death toll for the Pfand was nearly thirty killed. They had also killed too many people, although it was likely they'd never know for sure how many died at their hands. Most of the deaths had occurred because the other side had fired first. A few had been killed for having killed a member of the Pfand.

The Pfand was not made up of cold blooded killers, but they did have a sense of justice. They preferred to imprison criminals, rather than execute them. The people they had captured throughout the war had been placed in jails around the world. Mr. Caggiana, a crime lord and drug dealer, ended up in a Turkish prison after being arrested in Istanbul with a kilo of heroin. The man who had tried to use the IRS against Carl was sitting in a prison camp in Siberia after being arrested for extortion in Moscow. There were low level operatives sitting in jails in Brazil, Columbia, Mexico, Thailand, Singapore, Syria and Venezuela.

The thing that bothered him the most was the death of the innocent families who had been drawn into this mess. Most people, on awakening, had no idea what was about to happen to them. They had greeted the morning thinking about little things like breakfast, work, school, and maybe even a lover. Then they had their nearly impregnable armor of denial ripped from them. Their reactions, often violent, had been met with violence. Unprepared, a lot of young men and women fell to bullets fired by that corrupt core. He wondered if a warning wouldn't have saved lives or cost more.

He muttered, "Evil triumphs when good men do nothing. We did something. Why does it seem to me that we've been lessened by fighting evil?"

"We haven't been lessened," the Whore said confidently

"We should have left it to others."

The Smith took a sip of coffee. It had sat there since breakfast and was stone cold. He drank it down anyway.

He asked, "Who else could have stopped them?"

"No one," Tom said knowing it was the truth.

The Woodman said, "Nearly every government in the world has collapsed today."

"Not really. Sure, a few leaders fell, but they don't mean much in the grand scheme of things. Princes come and Princes go. The world experienced a political earthquake today. The government and economic infrastructures might have been shaken, but the truly robust ones haven't collapsed," the Scholar pointed out.

"Not in this country," the Smith said. "Every aspect of this country has been hurt. Our government is in shambles, our businesses are broken, and the economy has been shattered."

The Scholar said, "The constitution still survives. Local governments are still operational. New people will get elected to state and federal offices. It won't take them long to have elections. Then regulations will be reviewed in light of new information, and bureaucracies will be restructured. It won't be that bad."

"You're an optimist."

'Hopefully people will be a little more careful in electing their representatives," Tom said.

The Scholar frowned. The truth was that the situation could easily return although it would take time. Too many people were complacent and unwilling to face the harsh reality that there were bad people in the world. They would deny that the wolf existed. The memory of today would last for a few years, but then it would begin to fade. They'd start voting for the more charismatic speaker, and the one who made the promises they wanted to hear. They'd stop watching and get on with their lives doing what good citizens are supposed to do – earn a living, raise a family, and pursue their hobbies.

"I don't like that frown," Tom said.

The Scholar said, "They'll be careful for a while."

"How long?"

"Forty or fifty years," the Scholar said provoking a groan from the others.

The Whore said, "The Pfand survived. That is the important thing."

"Yes, it did," the Smith said.

Tom asked, "How do we become invisible again?"

The Weaver said, "A few of us will remain public figures. Carl and his crew will always be recognized. Some of the other Bauers who served publicly might be forgotten in time. We'll have to cover our tracks. Some of us will have to move."

The Scholar said, "Our involvement will pass from the public memory."

"I wish I felt as confident as you sound," Tom said.

He wondered what would happen to Carl, Jennifer, Samantha, and Hammond. There had been enough media coverage of the four of them that people would recognize them for years. He wondered if they would ever be able to return to the Pfand lifestyle. He doubted it, but there was always the chance he would be wrong.

The Whore said, "I think I'm going to retire. It's time I let a younger person carry the burden."

"That sounds like a good idea," the Banker said. "The economic challenges facing the world today are beyond my skill."

The ten people gathered around the table turned to watch the television. They were waiting for the reporters to start pulling together the individual reports of the thousands of events into a cohesive story. It looked like they were going to have a long wait. After a while, they went to their beds to sleep. One remained on duty, watching the television and receiving reports of what was happening.

The airplane carrying Jeremy Upton made several stops to pick up additional captives before landing at its final destination. Thirsty, hungry, tired, and terrified; the captives were taken to a prison, that had been built for the sole purpose of holding them. Blinded by the hood, Jeremy stumbled along on legs that could barely support him.

At heart, Jeremy Upton was a coward. He knew the kinds of things that others could or would do if given the chance. After all, he knew what he would do if given the chance. How could he expect anything different from anyone else? Stumbling along naked, chained, and blind, his imagination was working overtime.

His captors removed the hood, the chains, and the handcuffs before pushing him into a cell. The walls of the cell were made of concrete, with a simple barred door. It wasn't the kind of cell that was found in a prison, although it wasn't that much different. It was a simple ten by ten room with a toilet and sink in one corner. A thin mattress lay on the floor.

Exhausted, Jeremy fell into an uneasy sleep. He woke, occasionally, rousing from nightmares.

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 20


In the room of a small motel that was part of a regional motel chain, Carl watched television from the comfort of a new mattress that had been delivered along with himself. He looked over at Jennifer who was busy painting her toenails. The look of concentration on her face almost made him want to laugh. World leaders were falling all over the place and she was painting her toenails. There was something ironic about that.

Carl said, "We make a good team."

"I think so," Jennifer answered concentrating on getting the light pink nail polish on the nail of her little toe.

"We should make the team permanent."

"That would be nice," Jennifer said absently while inspecting the result of her work on the toes of her right foot.

Satisfied with her work, she shifted her attention to her other foot. She knew that she had attractive feet. Even though Carl didn't have a foot fetish of any kind, she felt it was proper to present the whole package in an attractive manner.

"So you agree?"

"Sure, whatever you want."

Carl smiled. "Maybe I should talk to your father."

"About what?" Jennifer asked wondering if she had missed something.

"About making our team permanent."

Jennifer looked up from her toes.

After replaying the conversation over in her head, she asked, "Are you asking me to marry you?"

"Yes," Carl said.

"Like that?" she asked.

After having been with each other all day, every day, for months on end, there were few conversations that they hadn't already had. This was not the first time they had this conversation although it was a unique approach to it.

"Sure," Carl said.

Pouting a little, Jennifer said, "That's not very romantic."

"What? We're in the best room of the Motor Court Motel watching the civilized world collapse on television. How much more romantic can a guy get?" Carl asked with a grin on his face.

"You have a point," Jennifer said breaking into an equally large grin.

"So what do you say? Wanna get married?"

"Do you have a ring?"

"No."

"Do you have a job?"

"I don't know."

"Do you have a stable lifestyle?"

"No."

"What have you got?"

"I've got a dog that probably doesn't remember me," Carl said.

Jennifer said, "You aren't bringing much to this marriage, are you?"

"Nope."

"I guess I'll marry you," Jennifer said.

"You don't need to think about it?" Carl asked.

"Nope," Jennifer said.

"You're sure?"

Jennifer leaned over and picked up a stuffed rabbit. Holding it out, she said, "Poor Bunny Boy is going to have to sit on the shelf except when you're on trips. No more good night kisses for him so long as we're married."

"I feel sorry for Bunny Boy," Carl said.

"You should be jealous of all the time he's had with me," Jennifer said.

"I'm very jealous."

"Good."

"How about we walk down to the diner and eat a meal around people for a change?"

"That might be a little dangerous," Jennifer said with a frown at the shift away from the lighthearted exchange.

"Hammond and Samantha can be our bodyguards. We won't be in danger," Carl said.

"I don't know."

Carl shouted, "Hey, Hammond."

Hammond charged into the room with his pistol in hand. They were supposed to be quiet and he took the shout as indicative of a threat. Looking around for danger, he asked, "What is it?"

"We're hungry," Carl said.

"I'll let our host know that after I finish beating you for shouting. We're trying to keep a low profile," Hammond said through clenched teeth.

The stress of maintaining a vigilant watch over Carl for so long was getting to him. He and Samantha were mentally and emotionally exhausted. Unfortunately, there just wasn't anyone else who could step in and relieve them of their duties.

"We were thinking of going down to the diner," Carl said.

"You'll get killed."

Carl asked, "Have you been watching the news?"

"Yes."

"I think the storm has passed over me and that a lightning rod isn't necessary any more," Carl said. "There's no one left to pay anyone for killing me. If any rich guy is still loose, then he has much bigger problems than dealing with me."

Tired of living the life of a fugitive, Jennifer said, "You do have a point."

"Besides, after Vegas, the police haven't been a problem. We're in an area of law abiding citizens who have probably been watching the news. I think they'll accept that I helped bring down a bunch of criminals."

Although he had remained on the FBI's most wanted list, the energy with which he was pursued had decreased significantly. He should have been caught by now either by chance or because some clever person somewhere had figured out what was going on. There had been a few very tense occasions, where he had run into a police officer. Those individuals had turned a blind eye to him.

Samantha stepped into the room saying, "I kind of agree with you."

"There are a lot of crazies out there," Hammond said.

His greatest fear was that they would get sloppy near the end, and lose it all. Of course, the events of the past few days did suggest that the worst was over. It would be horrible though if Carl were to die now just when the end was in sight.

"We just watched the worst of the crazies get taken care of by our friends. I think we can manage a minor crazy person. After all, he or she isn't going to have an army with him or her," Carl said.

"I don't know," Hammond said.

Like the others, he was tired of the life of a fugitive. It was uncomfortable and boring, more boring than most people could imagine. The crossword puzzle out of the newspaper, a couple of games of Sudoku, and perusing the business section of the newspaper ate up two hours. There were twenty-two left in the day. His security concerns could eat up another three. It was still way too much free time.

Traveling was even more boring than sitting in a hotel room. It was murder to sit in the back of a truck for most of a night. There were no windows so one couldn't even make up silly road games to pass the time. His social life had collapsed down to seeing the same three people all day long.

Carl said, "Besides, we have to celebrate our engagement. I proposed to Jennifer and she accepted."

"Again?" Samantha asked dryly.

It seemed to her that they had the same conversations a hundred times. In a way, it was pretty pathetic that they couldn't' come up with much to talk about that hadn't already been talked to death.

Giving up, Hammond said, "We'll have to go as painters."

"I hate that disguise," Carl said with a groan.

He had a coverall that basically hid his body. He wore a painter's cap with a fake ponytail that stuck out the back. He had a pair of black plastic framed glasses with little paint specs on it. Hammond had a little bottle of paint they would use to complete the disguise.

"How about us?" Samantha asked afraid that she knew what Hammond would answer.

"The trailer park trash outfit," Hammond said with a grin.

It was a simple disguise consisting of skimpy clothing that showed too much skin, temporary tattoos that looked real enough, and crudely applied makeup. With minor changes in mannerisms, the two women would never be recognized.

"I hate tattoos," Jennifer said in disgust.

"The whale tail, too?" Samantha asked knowing what the answer would be.

Hammond said, "You wouldn't look right without the whale tail of your thong."

"Are you sure that you want to eat out?" Samantha asked.

"Yes," Carl said. "If I don't get out of here I think I'll go crazy."

It took Carl and Hammond ten minutes to get into disguise. It would take the women a lot longer than that considering that they had to apply the temporary tattoos. While waiting for the women, Carl and Hammond watched the news reports on the television.

Hammond said, "It only took them two days, but they are managing to connect the dots."

"They are managing? The whole story is on the web for them to read," Carl said.

"Oh, look at her," Hammond said with a grimace.

The woman on the television had an expression on her face that was downright scary. Her voice was tight while she read the words about the involvement in the plot by the late owner of the network for which she worked. It was easy to see that she was trying to control herself, but it wasn't easy for her.

Carl said, "I guess she finally saw the video where her former boss was talking about her."

A lot of the television stations hired extremely attractive women to deliver the news. Smart, attractive, and confident, the women really were very sexy. In private conversations with others, the late owner had focused primarily on the attractive part while denigrating their intelligence. Some of what he said wasn't too kind. Some of the acts he wanted to perform on her were disgusting.

"I would say so," Hammond said.

Carl said, "I was watching one of the green earthers talking earlier. Despite hearing the so-called expert talking about faking data and using the crisis to herd people into what would effectively be slums, he was still trying to protect that agenda. Doesn't anyone have common sense?"

"He's a sheep. He's denying that he's been feed a line of bullshit. He needs it to be real, or his ego will be devastated," Hammond said.

"The evidence..."

"It doesn't matter," Hammond said. "The easiest way for the mind to protect itself is to deny what it doesn't want to be true. You can rub his nose in it and he will continue to deny. It's not a matter of logic, but of emotion. He can't stand the idea that he might have been wrong, so he tries to force the world to fit his view. It's that simple."

"A sheep, huh?" Carl said.

Hammond said, "Don't worry. There are a lot of stags out there, you just won't see them. Rather than deny what they are seeing, they make an honest appraisal of what is happening. They judge the danger and react to it."

There were a lot of men who viewed themselves as bulls. They felt they were strong and able to take care of problems; that they were above threats and could push their way through a dangerous situation using brain and brawn. Bulls don't survive long. It doesn't take long to discover that there are situations that can't be pushed through.

A lot of men who think of themselves as bulls are actually stags. They are aware of danger and avoid it when possible – not out of cowardice, but out of recognition that there are some situations that just aren't survivable. Training in the martial arts teaches one situational awareness and to avoid the fight where possible. That isn't a 'bull' mindset.

The only time that mistaken association was a problem, was when someone felt that they should have bulled their way through some hopeless situation, when they had followed the nature of a stag. It often led to guilt about what they should have done. In the next crisis, they would try to act like a bull when acting like a stag would have been appropriate.

"Like us?"

Hammond answered, "Yes. There actually are a lot of people just like us, out there."

"What effect do we have on the sheep?" Carl asked.

"Sometimes, the reaction of the stag to danger gives the sheep and sheepdogs enough time to face the wolves."

"Is that what I have been doing? Giving the sheep and sheepdogs enough time to face the wolves?"

"I think that is a fairly accurate assessment of what you've been doing."

Carl was silent for a second while thinking about it. "I guess I should feel proud of what I've done, but I don't."

"I guess I can understand that. You're a stag and you were just being true to your stag nature," Hammond said.

He hadn't realized when he had told Carl about sheep, sheepdogs, wolves, and stags that Carl would embrace the idea of being a stag so thoroughly. In a way, he represented all that was the best of the Pfand. He didn't live in a state of denial concerning threats, he was brave enough to be willing to flee rather than fight, he was willing to fight when there was no choice, he lived without hate for those who were attacking him, and he was gentle with those who helped him. It was a rare combination of characteristics.

"I suppose that's it."

"Have you given any thought about what you'll do once the crisis is over?" Hammond asked.

"I just want to have a normal life. I want to open my pickle factory. I want to have a wife and kids. I want to be able to look out the window when I'm in a vehicle," Carl answered.

He was getting tired of riding in the back of a truck, not knowing what sights were outside. He had crisscrossed the country a dozen times and had not seen any of it. It was strange to know that he had ridden past the Statue of Liberty three times and had never seen it. He had been within two blocks of Niagara Falls without seeing it. There were so many sights that he could have seen, but hadn't. There had been the wall of the truck separating him from the view.

Hammond said, "Anything else?"

"I'm going to marry Jennifer. I'm going to get my dog back even if it doesn't remember me," Carl said.

It was amazing how much he missed his dog. Sure, it was just a dog and he hadn't had it for long, but it was his and he had loved it. Skippy definitely wasn't a lapdog. Skippy would accept some attention before his energy forced him to move around. Perhaps when he got older he'd become a little more sedate.

Hammond understood the desire to have a normal life. The past few months had been hard on him as well. He was looking forward to sitting back and drinking a beer while watching a ballgame at a sports bar. He looked forward to taking some young lady out for dinner and dancing. As shocking as the idea might be, he was even looking forward to mowing his lawn some Saturday morning and then washing his car that afternoon. It was often the simple things in life that one missed the most.

Hammond said, "I don't know if you'll ever be able to have a normal life."

"Why not?"

"People will be after you to tell them where you got all of the videos. They'll want to know if you were the mastermind behind the other day."

"You're probably right," Carl said.

He was just as curious as to how they had managed to get so many videos that were so damning. There had to have been cameras in a lot of locations. There had just been so much evidence.

"Damensterns," Hammond said as if reading his mind.

"What?"

"The Damensterns placed the majority of the cameras."

It had not been easy, and the risks had been high. They had placed cameras in offices, homes, boats, and private planes. A woman with a little hand purse didn't have much room in which to carry cameras. A man had even less room, just a pocket or two. A handful of deaths of Damensterns were believed to be a result of getting caught placing cameras.

Some situations couldn't be handled by Damensterns. There had been meetings, not quite so secret, in which the enemy had taken over entire hotels with a security staff that kept everyone out. Damensterns had learned what area might be the location and Waches had gone in and placed hidden cameras in dozens of hotels. Sometimes Wald construction crews had gone in and placed optical fibers inside the structure of the building.

The scope of spying was global. The people they were watching traveled extensively and used private transportation. Planes were bugged. Almost daily, someone was visiting Paris, London, Hong Kong, New York, Helsinki, Tokyo, Moscow, Beijing, Amsterdam, Mexico City, Caracas, or Rio De Janeiro.

It had cost a fortune to rig up so many places with the kind of thoroughness required to get the videos. The equipment, state of the art, had not been cheap, even though it had been a Schmeid facility that manufactured them. In addition, people had to watch the feeds to find the conversations and acts that would damn them. Collecting the evidence had been the single most expensive aspect of the entire project, costing nearly ten billion dollars.

Carl said, "That makes sense."

"They are the eyes and the ears of the Pfand. All whore, part diplomat and part spy. Too often folks only see the first part of that, the whore. They miss the diplomat and the spy."

Carl was silent for a moment. "They were in a lot more danger than I ever was, weren't they?"

The danger for Carl had been real. He had been in the center of gunfights several several times. He had become like Pavlov's dog in that he just automatically ducked when he heard a fog horn. The fog horn was a simple warning system that could be heard in even the noisiest environment. A number of other attacks had been prevented by the Waches who watched over him. He might have been able to slip past police and security forces, but there were a lot of bad people who were willing to risk it all for a chance of earning ten million dollars.

"I don't know about that. You had a very public and very visible target drawn on your back," Hammond said.

"I was protected. They weren't," Carl said.

"That is true."

Jennifer came out of the connecting room. Looking at her, it was hard to believe that she was the same woman who could have fit in a cocktail party with the most elite members of high society. She looked like a low class woman. Her hair was in loose curls, her makeup was a little thick, and her clothes revealing. Her hip hugging jeans were low enough to show that she was wearing a thong. Her tube top was just wide enough to cover most of her breasts. She had a tattoo of Tweedy bird with the head of the cartoon character just visible above the tube top. There was a tattoo of a Celtic pattern on her upper arm.

"How do I look?"

"You look great," Carl answered.

"I look like a slut," Jennifer said.

It was obvious by the tone of her voice that Jennifer didn't approve of sluts. That might seem odd for a woman who had engaged in congress of trade for so many years. However, it wasn't the cheap sexuality that bothered her. It was the self-destructive behaviors that went along with being a slut that disgusted her.

"Well ... yeah."

"I hate this disguise," Jennifer said.

Samantha entered the room. She said, "I feel like I've got a strand of dental floss stuck in the crack of my ass. How do women wear these things?"

"You get used to it," Jennifer said with a smile.

"I don't know why any woman in her right mind would want to get used to it."

Jennifer said, "It's because men like it. When you drop your pants, they get excited."

"They get excited even if a woman's wearing granny panties," Samantha said grumpily.

"That's true," Jennifer said with a laugh.

"Let's get to the diner. I'm hungry," Samantha said.

The diner was not the experience that the foursome had anticipated. No one even glanced at them when they entered the place. Everyone's attention was riveted to the two large screen televisions broadcasting the news. The volume was loud enough that it carried to the far corners of the place. People eating their meals were watching the news program with little islands of hushed conversations taking place about the events unfolding on the television.

It was a strange atmosphere. There was an undercurrent of anger present. There was also a touch of satisfaction in seeing so many rich and powerful people taken down. There was a hint of hope that life would be better after everything was said and done. Overriding all of those emotions, was a desire for life to return to normal.

The waitress pointed to a table and told them to seat themselves. She brought over menus and waited by their table, watching the television, while they looked over the menu. After some particularly shocking revelation she would say, 'I can't believe anyone would do something like that.' It was rather depressing to hear her say that.

After she had taken their order, the foursome sat around looking at the people in the diner. The expressions on the faces of the customers were a blend of confusion and outrage. It was obvious that people were having a hard time accepting what they were hearing.

Not everyone in the room looked puzzled. There were a few people, scattered here and there, who didn't look surprised by the revelations on the television. Instead, they looked relieved that a dangerous situation had been avoided. They sat back in their chairs with relaxed smiles while eating their meals or drinking their coffees.

Carl spotted one person who looked familiar seated at a table across the room. He stared at the man for a full minute before remembering where he had met the man.

He leaned over to Hammond and said, "I need to talk to somebody."

"Who?" Hammond asked.

"Just watch my back," Carl said sliding out of the booth.

Hammond watched Carl cross the room and then sit down at a table. The man at the table reacted with a flash of wariness. It was when the man moved his shirt to rest a hand on a pistol that Hammond recognized the man. It was clear that the man hadn't recognized Carl, yet.

In a soft voice, Carl said, "The last time we met, you were leading me out of gunfight."

The man leaned forward and studied Carl. He grinned once he realized the identity of his visitor. He sat back in his seat. He looked around and then spotted Hammond. He nodded his head in the direction of the other man.

"You do manage to get around, son."

"I'm glad to see that you're okay," Carl said.

"Same to you," the man said.

The man said, "I don't know who you're with, but you folks really did a number on those fuckers."

"You helped," Carl said.

"Shit. Our videos got a dozen of those assholes. You got the whole lot of them."

"It helped. Every little bit helped."

The man looked around. He said, "I don't think most folks get just how close they came to extermination. Those assholes wanted to kill off two-thirds of the people on this planet. I know it sounds incredible that anyone would contemplate mass murder on that scale. There are evil men in this world."

Carl said, "I don't really believe in evil."

"You don't?"

Carl said, "I believe in wolves. They aren't evil; it is just in their nature to eat sheep."

"I never thought about it like that," the man said rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"I never did learn your name."

"I'm Marcus Sinclair, although most folks just call me Mark."

"It is nice to meet you Mark."

Mark said, "It's nice to meet you."

"What have you been doing?"

"Like you, I've been living the life of a fugitive. I'm wanted for that little episode where we first met."

"Maybe they'll pardon you."

"I doubt it, I did kill a cop. I feel real bad about that even though it was in self-defense. I knew at the time he was just doing his job, but it was how he was doing it that was the problem," Mark said.

"He didn't know that you and he were on the same side. There are quite a few cops who are a little pissed about how they were used," Carl said.

Mark said, "It's kind of strange when you think about it. I defend my country in a foreign land by fighting people who wanted to destroy our way of life and get sick as a result. I defend my country here at home by fighting people who wanted to destroy our way of life and I become a fugitive. I think I'm going to give up defending my country."

Carl gave a weak smile. He knew that Mark was a sheepdog. At the first sign of trouble he would be stepping in to save the sheep. It was his nature.

"Somehow, I don't believe it. If a guy were to try and rob this place, you'd take him out."

"You'd be there before me," Mark said.

"No. I'd duck."

Mark laughed at the honest appraisal. He didn't view Carl's reaction as cowardice like a lot of men would. He'd seen Carl duck – just in time to stay alive. It was a good survival tactic.

Mark said, "I followed your career since we met. You seem to be quite good at ducking."

"I've had lots of practice," Carl said shrugging his shoulders.

Mark looked over at Hammond. "He'd be there before me."

Carl glanced over at Hammond. "Yes, he would."

Mark said, "Your meal's arrived. You might want to eat it while its hot."

Carl extended a hand. "It's been a pleasure knowing you, Mark."

Mark accepted the handshake. "Same here. Take care of yourself."

"You, too," Carl said before returning to his table.

Upon his return to the table, Jennifer asked, "Who was that?"

"That was a man who helped save my life," Carl said.

"I'd like to thank him," Jennifer said.

Looking at Hammond, Carl said, "I owe him a debt of thanks, too."

Hammond looked thoughtful for a second. He rose from the table and said, "I'll be right back."

"Thanks," Carl said.

"You don't know what I'm doing," Hammond said.

"Yes I do."

"Maybe you do, at that," Hammond said before stepping away from the table.

Carl said, "By the way, Marcus Sinclair needs medical care more than anything else."

"I'll make the arrangements," Hammond said.

Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 21


Agitated, Jeremy Upton paced around his cell. Once the initial shock of being captured and locked up had passed, his fear had turned to anger. How dare they lock him up like a common criminal? Didn't they know that he was their superior in every way? When he got out of there, he was going to make them pay. His fertile imagination was busy thinking up ways that they would pay.

His imprisonment hadn't been that bad except for the isolation and boredom. The food wasn't first class, but it wasn't bad either. He had expected a number on the clothes they had provided him, but they had been straight off the shelf clothes – short pants, tee shirt, and sandals. It wasn't exactly the kind of clothes one expected in prison.

The sound of a door opening, and then closing, echoed down the hallway. It wasn't meal time and the guards didn't come by any other time. He went to his cell door to see what was happening. For now, he welcomed any kind of distraction that would relieve the tedious boredom. He was surprised when two guards stopped in front of his cell door.

"Mr. Upton. Would you please put your arms through the slot in the cell door?"

Jeremy had to admit that the guards here were polite. They might not do what he wanted, but they always called him 'Mr. Upton.' He had to put up minor resistance, just to let them know that he wasn't cowed by them.

"Why should I?"

"Well ... you can put your arms through the slot, or I can hit you with a taser. It's your choice."

The options had been stated in much the same tone of voice that one would use in offering tea or coffee. Jeremy glanced down at the taser attached to the man's belt, before he put his hands through the slot in the door. The guard put a pair of handcuffs on him.

"Would you step back, please?"

Jeremy stepped back. The guard opened the door and gestured for him to step out.

When Jeremy didn't move, he said, "Please step out of the cell, Mr. Upton."

The guards took Jeremy to the end of hall and into a small conference room located there. After having the man sit down, one of the guards chained the cuffs to an eye-bolt located in the center of the table. The two guards left the room without saying anything, once the prisoner was secure.

Jeremy tested the chains that held him to the table. They were solid, and he wasn't going anywhere. He sat back in his chair to wait. He looked around, expecting to find a mirror through which they could record the interview, but there wasn't one. There were two doors, the one that he had come through and a second one to the side of the room. It didn't seem like the normal police interrogation room.

A solid looking man with short hair, blue eyes, and a thin tight mouth entered the room. He exuded confidence in how he held himself. He moved with the grace of a panther, and looked just as dangerous. There was a hardness in his expression that made Jeremy nervous.

The man sat down at the table across from Jeremy. He reached into the pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a small pipe and a bag. He place the pipe and bag on the table. He studied Jeremy for a minute without saying a word.

"Do you know who I am?" Jeremy demanded.

"Yes. You are Jeremy Upton. Until recently, you were a very wealthy man with a portfolio worth over twenty billion dollars."

"That's right. I'm a very wealthy and powerful man. If you know what's good for you, you'll release me right this instant."

"You were a wealthy man. Your portfolio is now worth about ten million dollars; and, unfortunately for you, it has been seized by the government."

Jeremy smiled at the absurd statement that he had lost so much money. He had investments in some of the largest companies in the world. There was no way that his billions could have turned into a paltry ten million even with that minor drop in stock prices he had witnessed. He was sure that he still had a friend or two in the government. He'd have his money back in less than a week.

"You're lying."

"No. The IRS seized your assets. You're effectively broke."

"I demand to see my lawyer," Jeremy said.

"Why?"

"I have a right to a lawyer."

"Not in here."

That answer took Jeremy by surprise. "Where am I? Gitmo? You can't hold me under the Patriot Act."

"You aren't in Gitmo, and you aren't being held under the Patriot Act."

"Who are you?" Jeremy asked trying to figure out what has happening.

He had been pretty sure that the guys who had boarded his yacht and captured him had been Navy SEALS. He was pretty sure that he was being held by some government agency somewhere. As soon he could learn who these people were, he would know who to talk with to get released.

"I'm Adam Knight."

"Who do you work for?" Jeremy asked.

"I can't answer that question. You aren't cleared to know the answer," Adam said.

Shaking the chain holding him to the table, Jeremy said, "I demand to be released."

"That's why I'm here."

Surprised by the answer, Jeremy asked, "What?"

"I'm here to arrange your release," Adam said.

"Just release me."

Adam said, "That's not possible. You see, you have to do something for us, before we release you."

Jeremy sat up a little straighter. He could understand a deal. He was good at making and breaking deals. He wondered who he'd have to 'throw under the bus, ' in order to get released. It didn't really matter to him who it was. His freedom was far more important, to him, than anything else in existence.

Slyly, he asked,"What do you want me to do?"

Adam said, "I've studied you. I've come to the realization that you are a superior man. You were educated in the very best schools. You joined the Skull and Crossbones while in college. A very exclusive group of people are members in it. You've made billions of dollars through investments. You controlled an economic empire that had global reach. You have a capacity for ruthlessness that makes you a totally different class of person than the average Joe Blow. Clearly, you are a superior man."

Feeling that the man had stated obvious facts, Jeremy said, "I know that."

"So what I'm going to suggest should be no problem for you," Adam said with a slight smile.

"What?"

Adam held up the pipe and studied it for a minute. He looked over at Jeremy.

"Three times a day, we'll take you to a small room. Once there, you'll just have to smoke one crystal out of that bag, using this pipe. At the end of two weeks, we'll release you."

"What is in the bag?" Jeremy asked.

Adam said, "It's crystal meth."

"I'm not smoking that," Jeremy said.

Crystal meth was one of the tools that had been used by the New World Order folks to control the weaker members of society. It was one of the ways they were using to cull the herd of unfit people. It had been a success; there were over a million meth users in the country. They didn't live long and productive lives.

Adam said, "Don't tell me that a superior man like yourself is afraid of this? You can handle it. I know you can."

"No."

"Are you saying that I was mistaken about you being superior to everyone else?" Adam asked looking disappointed in Jeremy.

"You're not mistaken," Jeremy said eying the pipe.

Adam said, "A superior man such as yourself couldn't become addicted to a common drug like that. You'll leave here and never touch it again."

Jeremy thought about it. "What if I don't do it?"

"You won't leave here,"Adam said.

"How long do you intend to keep me here?"

"We will keep you here forever, or until you do as we ask."

"Someone will ask questions," Jeremy said.

He was a rich and powerful person. People like him didn't disappear without people asking questions. There would be an investigation and they'd find him. He was pretty sure of it.

Adam said, "Nobody is looking for you. It's been assumed that you fell overboard. Only a dozen people even know you're alive. I can assure you, that we aren't going to talk."

"I'll escape," Jeremy said.

"There's no escape from here. Even if you get out of your cell, there's nowhere for you to go. This facility is located in the middle of nowhere. You'd die before getting any help," Adam said.

Jeremy sat there staring at the pipe. "I won't do it."

Adam said, "You really disappoint me, Mr. Upton. I had really thought you were a much stronger person that than. Clearly, I was mistaken in taking you for a superior man."

"I won't do it."

"You'll never leave here. You'll never rebuild your empire. You'll just be a nobody stuck in a cell in the middle of nowhere. What a waste."

-------

Two weeks later, Adam and Jeremy were riding in the back of a limousine through downtown Los Angeles. Adam, dressed in a suit, was calmly sipping on a glass of apple juice. He was calmness personified.

Jeremy, dressed in shorts, tee shirt, and sandals, was nervously tapping his fingers on his thighs. He was continuously looking around nervously. He kept talking incessantly. There was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead like he had a minor fever.

"Where are we?"

"We're in downtown Los Angeles."

"You're going to let me go?"

"Yes, Mr. Upton. I'm going to let you go."

The car pulled to a stop below an overpass. It was a rough looking area. There was graffiti on the concrete of the overpass. Broken glass littered the ground. A few homeless people were milling around.

"When?"

"In just a minute," Adam said. "I have a little present for you."

"What?" Jeremy asked. He licked his lips nervously.

Holding out a small paper bag, Adam said, "There's a pipe, a lighter, and a small bag of meth inside. It's a going away present from me to you."

Jeremy snatched the bag out of Adam's hand. He opened it up and looked through it. He was reaching for the pipe when the locks on the limousine clicked open.

Adam said, "You may go now."

Without saying a word, Jeremy opened the door and fled taking the bag with him. He wanted to put as much distance between him and those people as possible. He knew they were going to try to hunt him down and hurt him, but he'd show them. He'd escape.

He didn't have any money or identification. That didn't matter. His first concern was to get away. His second was to use a little of what was in the bag.

Watching the man disappear around a corner, Herman, the limo driver, asked, "What do you think are his chances?"

"He's going to binge, tonight. He'll never kick it," Adam said tiredly.

Jeremy was convinced that he could control his drug use. For the first few days, he was euphoric and talked for hours on end about how he would start to rebuild his empire. By the end of the first week it was obvious to everyone except him that the drugs were in control, and he wouldn't be rebuilding anything.

He had lost a lot of weight in two weeks. The effects of the drug burned off fat and then muscle. His face was already shrinking, skin stretched tight over his cheek bones.

"How long do you think he'll live?"

"I don't know. I don't care," Adam said tiredly.

"That's a nasty drug."

"A nasty drug for a nasty person. There's a kind of justice in that."

Herman said, "It was people like him who helped make drug use a problem."

The entire war on drugs had been nothing more than a colossal farce. It was really using drugs to wage war on the general populace. It had created a lot of casualties. Young people had gotten addicted and wasted their lives. Their addiction had turned them into criminals. Crime of all kinds had skyrocketed.

Herman's hobby was reading history. One thing in history had always bothered him. He could never understand how citizens could be turned against their own people in such a way that they could imprison, torture, and kill their neighbors. It ran counter to what he viewed as the social instinct of human beings. Over the past few months, he had started to understand how that could happen.

One of the worst results of the drug war was that police had started down that road to viewing the public as an enemy. Dealing with drug users who had turned violent required a forceful response. Each time an officer had to use force it became easier to use force on the next person. Every traffic stop had the potential to turn into a life threatening situation. Over time, a wall of distrust was being built between the public and the police. It was just a matter of time before the police could be turned into a tool of repression rather than protection.

Widespread drug use was a reality and it wasn't going to go away. The world would be dealing with that problem for decades. At least, with the recent elimination of a large number of corrupt individuals, government support for importing drugs had disappeared. The idea that federal resources had been used to import drugs into the country still angered Herman.

Herman asked, "Why did you do that to him?"

"I discovered that he ordered it done to a man who had once been a neighbor of mine."

"Ah."

Adam said, "Let's go see Carl. It's time to deliver some good news for a change."

Carl had spent the past two weeks stashed in a hotel room on the outskirts of Los Angeles. They had parked him there, while the nation recovered from the elimination of the majority of government leaders. With him being on the FBI's most wanted list, he couldn't move around freely. He couldn't be removed from the list, until there were people in the positions where those kinds of decisions could be made. The previous occupants of those positions were either dead or in jail.

There was more than enough evidence to clear Carl. In fact, he hadn't even been charged with a crime other than terrorism and that charge hadn't been backed up by any kind of investigation. Getting him off the most wanted list had just been a matter of finding someone who could make it happen on the government's side. A Curador lawyer had been hard at work.

"It'll be good to see Hammond. I've missed having my brother around," Herman said.

The two brothers had played a game of rock-scissors-paper to determine which of them would have to babysit Carl while he was going around the country. Figuring that the excitement would center around protecting the factory, the loser was stuck with Carl. Hammond had lost.

Herman had ended up with maintaining security around the pickle factory. Despite his expectations, it had ended up being a dull job. There had been no late night raids to destroy the factory. There had been no bombs planted by work crews. Herman felt cheated.

"I'm sure he'll enjoy seeing you," Adam said. "You two have a lot to talk about."

"He's going to regale me with tales about shootouts and living the dangerous life. I get to tell him about sitting around on my ass watching video cameras that showed deer grazing," Herman said.

Adam laughed. He had tried to tell the brothers that serving as bodyguard for Carl wasn't going to be an easy assignment. They hadn't believed him when he had said that there would be some very exciting times.

Herman drove up to a small motel, and parked in front of the main office. The limousine looked out of place parked next to older SUVs and rented sedans. The two men got out and went into the office.

The man behind the counter pointed towards the back room and said, "They're waiting for you."

"Herman, why don't you wait out here? I'll send Hammond out to talk with you," Adam said.

"That's fine by me," Herman said.

He went over to the coffee machine and poured a cup.

In the secure conference room, the Watchman looked across the table at Carl, Samantha, and Jennifer. It had been an interesting collaboration among three families of the Pfand. In a way, he still had a hard time believing that a Bauer had been the center of the entire affair. Who would have suspected a farmer could ever be in a position to bring down the most powerful people in the world? It was kind of ironic.

"How's my dog?" Carl asked.

Jennifer and Samantha grinned at each other. The closer to the end of the ordeal it had gotten, the more Carl had talked about his dog. They weren't surprised that his first question to the Watchman had been about his dog.

The Watchman answered, "He's fine."

"I hope he remembers me," Carl said.

"He'll remember you."

"I don't know. I've been gone a long time," Carl said.

He had no idea how long a puppy would remember someone. He doubted it was nearly as long as he had been gone.

The Watchman said, "You left a bunch of dirty clothes in your house when you had to flee. I grabbed some and stored them in a plastic container. Every week I've put in a fresh item with your scent on it in his cage where he sleeps."

Carl said, "Really?"

"Yes."

"That's great," Carl said pleased to know that the dog would recognize his scent.

"I thought you'd appreciate that," the Watchman said with a smile.

"I can't wait for all of this to end and I can see him again," Carl said.

He didn't know which was harder ... hiding in a hotel room for a month, or traveling from place to place in the back of a truck. This entire ordeal had not been fun. He didn't feel that he would look back at this with fond memories when he was an old man. There weren't little episodes of releasing tension that would make great stories. There were a number of attacks and gunfights, but his role had been to flee along escape routes that had been planned out in advance.

There were so many little things that he wanted to do. He wanted to walk into a convenience store and buy a soda. He wanted to sit in a movie theater and watch an action film. He wanted to take a walk around the block, with Skippy on a leash. There were times when he just wanted to shout, and know that it couldn't possibly cost him his life.

The Watchman said, "The FBI removed you from their most wanted list. There are no warrants out for your arrest. Outside of being a celebrity, you're free to be your own person again."

"Yes!" Jennifer shouted excitedly.

"That's great news," Carl said obviously excited. "I'll be able to go home, right?"

"You bet."

"It's about time," Carl said with a sigh of relief.

The Watchman looked at Samantha. Although things were normalizing, the situation hadn't come to an end. The primary threats had ended, but there were still people out there who might harbor a grudge. Carl still needed someone to watch over him.

He asked, "Would you be willing to stay with them a little while longer until we're sure that all of the threats are gone?"

"Sure," Samantha said having anticipated the request. "I would like some days off though."

There were a lot of things that she wanted to do. She wanted to stop by a gun range and fire off a hundred rounds or so. She wanted to go jogging and get back into shape. She wanted to go to a dojo and spar with someone. Life in a hotel room had not been easy on her, either.

"You'll get them. I was thinking of having another person stay with you for a bit," the Watchman said.

"Who?"

"Jeff."

"All right!" Samantha shouted raising both arms in the air.

"Jeff? Who's Jeff?" Carl asked out of curiosity.

"Her boyfriend," Jennifer answered.

Floored by that little revelation, Carl said, "I didn't know you had a boyfriend."

Samantha said, "Of course I do."

"Why didn't I know that?" Carl asked.

He glared at the two women. It irritated him that they had been keeping something like that from him. He wondered what other things they had kept from him. He wondered how they had managed to keep something like that from him for so long.

The Watchman listened to the exchange with amusement. There was a major discussion on the horizon. He held up a hand to stop it.

"You can discuss who knew what, and when, later. We have more important business to attend to."

"Sorry," Carl said.

The Watchman said, "Jeff was injured in one of the shootouts, and is still recovering."

Samantha's hand flew up to cover her mouth and to squelch the involuntary squeak she gave on hearing the news. Jennifer reached out and pulled Samantha into a hug.

"I'm sorry to hear he was injured. I hope he's okay," Carl said.

"How bad was his injury?" Samantha asked looking pensive.

"It's really nothing. His vest stopped the bullet, but he fell and broke a leg. It was a rather nasty break in a bad spot, but it's healing fine. He just needs a little time, in order to recover fully," the Watchman answered.

"That's a relief," Samantha said.

"He isn't going to join you for a couple of weeks yet. Once he gets to your place, he won't be able to run around much, as he's on crutches. I expect he'll end up spending most of his time in your house, Carl, monitoring the external security cameras. Samantha will have to continue to go out in public with you," the Watchman said.

"That's okay," Carl said.

"No problem," Samantha said.

Carl asked, "So how do we get home?"

"I have a limousine upstairs. Herman and Hammond will drive you home."

"Herman is here?" Carl asked.

"Yes, he's upstairs talking to his brother."

"It'll be nice to see him again, Carl said.

"I know that you've been living a rather spartan lifestyle. You can take your time going home. I suggest that you stay in some of the nicer hotels owned by the Gruns, and eat in some of their restaurants. You might want to stop and see some of the sights on your way home," the Watchman said.

They could have taken a flight home on a Wagner airplane. He didn't think that would be a good idea despite the fact that they were all ready to get home. He felt that they needed a little transition period to go from their fugitive mindset, to a home-body lifestyle. They needed a chance to be around people again, but in a circumstance where their over reaction to some loud noise wouldn't affect their relations with friends and neighbors.

He felt one of the things that the military did poorly, was getting people back into civilian life, after long periods of time on the battlefield. People couldn't walk off the battlefield and return home without problems showing up. The acute awareness of one's surroundings didn't get turned off like a light switch. There had to be a time period, of and for adjustment.

"It'll be nice to actually see the scenery for a change."

"I can imagine. Anyway, I have to return home, and try to salvage my business. Herman will drop me off at the airport and then come back here for you. I suggest you get a good night's rest, and leave in the morning."

Carl said, "Thank you."

The Watchman said, "I owe you thanks. The whole Pfand owes you a debt of gratitude. You've done everything we've asked of you, without complaint. It's been a pleasure working with you."

"Thanks," Carl said.

Looking at Jennifer, he said, "That goes for you, too."

"All I did was keep him company," Jennifer said modestly.

"You did a lot more than that," the Watchman said.

She had delivered the video that was played at the Sheriff's National Convention in Las Vegas. She had marched through a hotel lobby full of law enforcement people, gone up to the room of the invited speaker, and barged into the room without taking no for an answer. She had shown him the video on the DVD, and convinced him that it made a better opening speech for the conference than what he had planned.

It was one of the riskiest operations of them all. The invited speaker was one of the toughest and strictest law enforcement officers in the country. He was the kind of man who upheld 'THE LAW'. One could even hear the capital letters when he described his job. They expected he would have arrested her, despite the evidence that she was providing, and let the courts decide what to do with her. Instead, he had sat on the edge of his bed, looking sad and disappointed. He had bade her to leave, before he changed his mind.

"I hope you invite me to the wedding," the Watchman said.

Carl said, "We might stop in Vegas and get hitched there."

"No. We're doing the full wedding thing with the church, white dress, and everything," Jennifer said with the kind of intensity that suggested any disagreement with her, would be a very stupid thing.

"That's fine with me," Carl said knowing better than to argue.

Smiling at the Watchman, Jennifer said, "I'll be sure to invite you."

"Well ... that's all I had to say. I guess I should be leaving now. I'll be seeing you," the Watchman said.

It was an awkward parting. There just wasn't much to say, other than goodbye, although everyone felt that there was more that should have been said.

Left alone in the room with Jennifer and Samantha, Carl said, "I can't believe that we're finally going home."

"I'm happy about that," Jennifer said.

"It was getting old," Samantha said.

Carl asked, "What do you want to see on the way home?"

"I'd like to take the northern route. I'd like to drive over the Golden Gate bridge, see the Redwood Forest and maybe drive through a tunnel in a tree, stop at Yosemite and watch the bears, and check out the presidents on Mount Rushmore," Jennifer said.

So much of her life after graduation had been spent in the big cities of the east, that she wanted to see the other side of the country. It was time to take it easy.

"I don't see a problem with that," Carl said although he really just wanted to get home.

"That's fine with me," Samantha said.

Carl said, "I'd really like to go out and eat, without being in disguise. I'd like to walk in looking sharp, with my lady on my arm. I want to eat in some fancy place, where you need to stop and get a burger on the way home, because you're still hungry."

Jennifer laughed. She had been to many places like that as an escort.

Grinning, Samantha said, "We can do that, so long as I don't have to wear a thong."

Carl said, "Darn. I was looking forward to seeing you in your thong."

"I'm never wearing one again."

"You can always go commando," Carl said.

Samantha gave him a rap on the shoulder.

"You're going to pay for that, buster."

The three left the conference room to find that Hammond was waiting for them. He grinned.

"According to the boss, it's basically over. The fat lady is singing."

"We know."

"Herman and I were talking about going out to a nice place to eat. I was thinking steaks," Hammond said.

Jennifer said, "We've got better plans than steak."

{ci]Edited By TeNderLoin



-------

Chapter 22


Carl stopped at the vat, opened the lid, and peered in at the pickles. The aroma of vinegar and spices tickled his nose. Some people didn't like the smell, but to him it conveyed a lot of information. He could tell just how far along in the pickling process a batch was, just by the smell. He could tell if it was a good batch or had gone bad. This batch smelled good.

Using a pair of sampling tongs, he pulled out a medium sized pickle. The texture was firm and there wasn't a hint of sliminess. He cut it in half, length-wise, and examined the interior. It had a good even color and was nearly ready to be put into jars. He flexed one of the halves satisfied with how it felt in his hand. He took a bite and smiled.

"Perfect."

Every afternoon, after finishing his work at the corporate headquarters, he stopped at the pickle plant to check on the progress of the current batches of pickles. He had a line of common pickles that were mass produced and comprised the majority of his sales. They were the typical pickles one purchased at the grocery store and were nothing special.

He also had a line of his gourmet pickles produced in the traditional method. He was very proud of his gourmet pickles. They were the best available on the open market. The demand exceeded his ability to produce them. He was thinking of opening another factory.

Feeling a deep sense of satisfaction, he closed the lid of the vat and headed towards the exit. After tossing the rest of the pickle into a nearby trashcan, he left the building. Stepping outside, he paused to appreciate the evening sky.

The guard at the door nodded at him in greeting. He always expected Carl to just walk past, but Carl made it a point to stop and chat for a bit, before leaving. He knew he wasn't being given special treatment. Carl stopped to talk with every employee.

"Hello, Mark. How's it going?" Carl asked stopping by the little guard house at the gate to the facilities.

The security measures that had been put in place during the initial construction of the plant were probably not necessary any more. The New World Order folks had been destroyed. Still, Carl deemed it proper to continue with it. There were still a lot of wolves in this world. One never knew when the wolf would show up at the doorstep.

"I'm doing fine, thank you," Marcus Sinclair answered.

Seeing that the man had gained a little weight, Carl said, "I take it the new treatment is working?"

"Yes, it is. Ever since they found the records showing its cause, the treatments have improved. Before, it was mostly guesswork."

"I'm glad to hear that," Carl said. "You are looking a lot healthier."

"I feel a lot better," Marcus said.

It was also nice to have a real job. His days as a fugitive had come to an end. He had been caught and released on bond awaiting trial. For too long, he had been living hand to mouth, getting by on his disability payments, which weren't enough to pay the rent and buy food. It had been the blackest time of his life.

No one had been more surprised than he, when Hammond had shown up at this dingy studio apartment one morning. Hammond had given him a slip of paper with two addresses on it, and told him that he had a job and an apartment waiting for him. He could move into the furnished apartment, anytime he wanted. He was to show up to work, Monday morning.

For the past year and a half, Marcus' situation had improved. The new treatment he had been receiving was working, and he felt good. He had saved some money for a house, started dating again, and basically looked forward to waking up in the morning. He was rebuilding a real life.

There were still some legal problems over the gunfight, but he had a good lawyer that Carl had found for him. There was a lot of legal wrangling about his situation being a result of a government overstepping its legal authority. The tape showing orders being given to kill everyone at the meeting, had changed the battle from being an attack, to being an act of self-defense.

There was more to it than just the legal aspects of defending themselves. There were a lot of family members of slain policemen who were angry, but it wasn't clear who was the subject of their anger: the government, or the veterans involved in the gunfight. Mark understood their anger.

Mark felt lucky to be alive. It was almost impossible to get around without being found, if people were truly interested in finding you. A lot of the men involved in the gunfight were dead or missing. It was a shame because all of them had been good men, who had cared about their country. It was wrong that they had been hunted down like rabid dogs.

Carl said, "Good. I guess I better head home. The Missus is waiting for me. I imagine that she has a 'honey do' list that's a mile long."

Marcus laughed. "Give my regards to the Missus."

"Will do. Have a nice evening, Mark," Carl said.

"You too, Carl."

He watched Carl walk to the parking lot thinking that there weren't many people like him left in the world. Despite being relatively wealthy, Carl was an honest man who treated everyone with respect. He was a true humanitarian. He gave people a hand up rather than a hand out. There were a lot of people who worked in the pickle plant who had lives that had been broken by situations outside their control.

Carl didn't believe in reserved spaces and his car was parked in the middle of the parking lot. He went over to it and got inside. Looking through the stack of CDs, he picked out a nice country western collection of songs by different artists. He started the car and listened to the CD.

Singing along, he drove out of the parking lot. Carl had a lot of reasons to be happy. His life, as well as the lives of millions of others, had improved dramatically. It was amazing just how much misery had been created by so few people.

Two years of political turmoil had followed the revelations that had brought down so many public figures. Were the new leaders any more honest than the previous set? It was hard to tell, but they weren't nearly as well organized. People were watching them closely so opportunities for corruption were limited. Lobby laws and election laws had been changed. The crime of accepting bribes was now treated as treason rather than a slap on the wrist by a congressional ethics committee.

Unrolling the legislation and regulations that had so damaged the country hadn't taken all that long. A simple bill that repealed all legislation and regulations passed in the last twenty years had taken care of that. It was now just a matter of going through what had once been law and re-instating what had actually served a real need. It was a shame that so few laws and regulations had actually been needed.

With a new crop of legislators in office and new heads of government agencies in place, there were sweeping changes in how the government was run. The progressive income tax was repealed and replaced by a national sales tax. It was a fair law. Food, clothing, and shelter were exempt from taxation. There were a lot of IRS folks, tax attorneys, and tax preparation people out of work. It was amazing how much money had been spent to collect taxes.

Social security was revamped. For too long, social security had been treated as just another revenue stream for the government to spend. That had changed. It was now protected by a constitutional amendment that prevented any expenditures from any protected fund, as which social security now qualified, to be paid out for any reason other than as intended in the establishment of that fund. Even the costs of managing the programs couldn't come out of the fund.

Carl drove to the highway appreciating the view outside his window. He passed one of the gardeners who was busy trimming a hedge that ran in the berm between the two sides of the highway. It was spring-time and the flowers were in bloom. There were a lot of flowers along the highway as a result of a national beautification program.

The money for the beautification program was acquired using a flat ten percent tax on the net gains in investments. Every stock sold had ten percent of the difference between the purchase price and the sale price taken out as a tax. It didn't matter if it was an individual, a charity, a holding company, a fund, or a corporation, the tax was taken. The days of big investors playing games with taxes were over. Billionaires could not avoid taxes. Unlike the past, where money for a project like this came out of the general fund, this money went into a protected fund that could only be spent on beautification.

Individuals employed under the beautification program were limited in how much they could earn. Wages were limited to no less than three times, and no more than four times, the minimum wage. The person in charge of the program was bound by the same limitations on wage.

It was a day labor job that only required one to show up to get hired. There was no paperwork. Anyone who wanted to work could work, any day of the week. Even teenagers could work a full day on the weekend and have spending money for the week. There was always work that had to be done.

In a way, it was a different kind of welfare program. The goal was to pay as many people as possible a living wage, and to improve the quality of life for everyone. While others had talked about redistribution of wealth in gross general terms that allowed for a lot of the money to disappear, this program took money directly from those making it, and gave it to the poor. However, it was disbursed in the form of wages, rather than handouts.

In the inner cities, people were paid to keep neighborhoods clean. The days of low income areas having streets littered with broken glass and buildings covered with graffiti were over. As a result of this program, unemployment had plummeted. With more people working, more goods were purchased. The more goods purchased, the more people were employed. It was a 'vicious cycle', that worked to everyone's benefit.

Carl suspected that the Landowner had had a hand in designing the program. A lot of folks who tended the gardens along the highway were beginning to take up farming. The large agro-corporations were falling apart. Their destruction wasn't a result of the revelations of the acts of collusion in which they had been engaged. Despite the economies of scale, it was the bloated management structures that were killing them.

Almost all of the regulations that had been strangling family farms had been repealed. Years of laboring under unfair costs had made the family farms much more efficient producers of goods than the giant conglomerates. For the first time since the Great Depression, the number of family farms was increasing. It was a slow trickle at the moment, but Carl was sure that it would gain in momentum.

Only three government organizations now had a say in how he ran his company. There was the EAO, FQA, and the EPA. The Employment Affairs Office dealt solely with matters of employment, including worker safety, equal opportunity, and fair treatment. The Food Quality Administration performed food inspections, to assure that only quality products were sold on the market. The Environmental Protection Agency had survived to assure that individuals and corporations did not negatively impact the environment. All regulations had to be posted on the internet for at least one year before taking effect. Any regulation could be challenged in court, and there was no fee for filing such a challenge.

He could manage three agencies showing up at his doorstep. In a way, it had simplified his life tremendously. His quality programs were more rigorous than anything the government could dream up. He treated his employees far better than the law required, and although a lot of the energy had gone out of the green movement, he put more into the environment than he took out. The area around his pickle company was home to a wide diversity of wildlife.

He pulled into the driveway of his house. Ever vigilant as a watchdog, Skippy was at the window barking at his arrival. The dog disappeared when he recognized Carl getting out of the car. At the door, Carl was greeted by his dog. He took a great deal of pleasure in the fact that Skippy was clearly excited to see him.

Jennifer stuck her head into the room and smiled at the sight of Carl playing with Skippy. The reunion of the pair had been a joyous occasion for Carl. Although the dog was initially reserved, once it caught Carl's scent, it had greeted him with all of the exuberance of a young puppy. All of Carl's concerns were laid to rest when the pair had again bonded.

"Make yourself comfortable in the living room. I'll bring in a drink for you in a minute," Jennifer called over to him.

Carl finished playing with Skippy and went into the living room. Frequent use of his chair had given it the special patina of use that only the best leather accepted; softening the color and adding character to the appearance of the chair. He turned on the lamp that was slightly behind him and picked up a book from the little side table. He had been reading a fictionalized account of the fall from grace of the rich and powerful. He had to laugh a little at how he was portrayed in it.

Jennifer came out with a little tray on which there was a Vodka Martini, complete with olive. There had been a time when she would occasionally tease him that he should have it with a pickle instead of an olive until he pointed out a website about a dirty pickle martini. They had tried it, and didn't like it. She held out the tray for him to take the glass.

"Your drink, Lord and Master."

Carl took the drink with a raised eyebrow. He was getting the 'Lord and Master' routine. She was wearing a sexier outfit than usual. That didn't bode well.

"What?" Carl asked before taking a sip of his drink.

"What what?"

"You're up to something."

"Your sister was here this afternoon," Jennifer said, biting her lower lip.

Carl asked, "How is my sister doing?"

"She's doing well. Swelling out to here with child," Jennifer demonstrated by holding her hands in front of her body.

At eight months pregnant, it was obvious that Donna was expecting a child. It almost looked like she was expecting twins. She had the glow that pregnant women possessed, but it looked better on her than most. At times, she would get this far away look on her face and rub her belly.

"I can't wait to be an uncle," Carl said.

"You won't have much longer to wait," Jennifer said.

"She's going to be a good mother," Carl said.

"I agree," Jennifer said. "I..."

When she didn't finish her thought, Carl said, "I think that Jake will be a good father, considering how much work he's putting into creating the perfect nursery."

It was kind of fun watching two interior decorators putting together a nursery. They had designed and redesigned it a dozen times. It seemed to him that each time his sister had a mood swing the entire layout of the nursery changed. He was amazed with how patient Jake was.

"Well ... it's like this..."

She was being pretty evasive and that worried him. He took another sip of his martini wondering if tonight was going to be a two martini evening. She clearly wanted to discuss something, and he had a feeling that she was afraid he wouldn't like it. He couldn't imagine what it was. Knowing that his sister was an interior decorator, he decided she might have decided to redecorate a part of the house.

Carl asked, "How much did you spend?"

"Only five thousand," Jennifer answered, knowing that he wouldn't care about that paltry amount of money, as she had that much in the cookie jar.

"What did you buy?" Carl asked hoping she didn't answer that she had bought a living room set.

"A new bedroom set."

"What's wrong with our old one?" Carl asked with a frown.

He liked their bedroom as much as the living room. It was made of cherry wood and had a nice substantial feel to it. It was heavy enough that even the most vigorous love making didn't rock the bed. Jennifer had changed the bedding so that it had just enough of a feminine feel to it. The curtains had been changed.

"Nothing. I bought it for the guest room," Jennifer said.

"What was wrong with the bedroom set in the guest room?" Carl asked.

He never really bothered much with the guest room. It was always just there waiting for a guest; not that there had been any since Jennifer had stayed in it.

"Uh ... nothing, really."

"Why did you buy a new bedroom set?"

"Well ... I was talking to your sister and ... We talked about a lot of things. You know..."

Her evasiveness was reaching a new level.

Worried, Carl asked, "What's going on?"

Unsure how he was going to react, Jennifer said, "I want to have a baby."

"I know. I do, too," Carl said still waiting for the real news.

Jennifer had been talking about having a family for more than six months. He wondered if she had quit taking her birth control pills, and was waiting to break the news to him that he was going to be a father. He had hoped that she would talk to him before taking that kind of action.

"You knew? You do?" Jennifer said.

Carl said, "Of course. I was just waiting for you to be ready."

The fact was that he was really ready to start a family. He had a legacy to hand down to his children. It was a legacy of which he was quite proud. He liked the idea of bringing the nineteenth generation into the Pfand. He wondered which family they would ultimately choose.

"Oh," Jennifer said.

Ever since she had learned that Donna was pregnant, the idea of becoming a mother had taken root and had grown into an obsession. Carl hadn't said anything about wanting to be a father, despite the hints she had dropped about how great it would be to have a family. She had prepared a romantic meal in the dining room, thinking that she would have to seduce him into the idea of having a baby.

"I think that is a good idea."

"Great," Jennifer said with relief.

"Why don't you throw away your birth control pills so that we can have a baby?" Carl said.

"Consider them gone," Jennifer said.

"Want to practice making a baby, now?" Carl asked while wiggling his eyebrows.

Jennifer said, "I made a special dinner."

"We can start practicing right after dinner," Carl said.

"I'll set the table," Jennifer said.

"Do you want some help?" Carl asked.

"No. You just sit there and think 'daddy' thoughts."

"Yes, dear," Carl said with a grin.

After she had run off to the kitchen, Carl took another sip of his drink. Life had changed a lot since that day he had met with Tom Farmer to discuss getting a loan for his business. He now had the support of the Pfand, he had a gorgeous wife, a successful business, and soon he would have children. It hadn't been easy getting to this level.

He glanced down at Skippy. The dog was looking at the door in 'that' way. Smiling, Carl got up and headed towards the back door. He opened the door, and Skippy charged out to visit the nearest tree. The dog checked out all of the trees before selecting one.

Watching the dog lift its leg, Carl chuckled.

"That's life! Sometimes you're the dog, and sometimes you're the tree."

Edited By TeNderLoin


-------
The End
-------
Posted:  2011-08-19
Last Modified: 2011-10-10 / 06:50:12 pm
-------
http://storiesonline.net/
-------