Son of Perdition (Chronicles of Brothers)

SON OF PERDITION

WENDY ALEC

Warboys Publishing

Son of Perdition: The Chronicles of Brothers

All rights reserved

Published by Warboys Publishing Limited (Ireland)
70 Sir John Rogerson’s Quay, Dublin 2, Ireland

© Wendy Alec 2009

First published 2009

This paperback edition 2011

The right of Wendy Alec to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978–0–9563330–4–9

Typeset by CRB Associates, Potterhanworth, Lincolnshire

Printed in the United Kingdom

Chronicles of Brothers: Son of Perdition

www.chroniclesofbrothers.com

The fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the courage of this Army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy leaves only the choice of brave resistance or the most abject submission.

We have, therefore resolved to conquer or die.

(GW1, General Order to the Continental Army 2 July 1776)

‘I believe that banking institutions are more dangerous to our liberties than standing armies.’

(
Thomas Jefferson
, 3rd President of the USA, 1743 – 1826)

A Shadow Government is at this moment executing its plans to usher in a new world order. A secret cabal of rulers more powerful than any government that exists today. They control:

The military industrial complex

The Banking Systems of the World

The Black-ops units of the Military

Rogue factions of the Intelligence Communities

The Federal Reserve.

Their plans are as old as time . . . Their intentions treacherous.

As of TODAY – their existence remains for the most part undisclosed.

. . . But still their plan advances.

Prologue

They Cast No Shadows

2001
World Trade Club, 107th floor, World Trade Center, Lower Manhattan, New York

It was the tenth of September 2001, a day almost like any other, Lorcan De Molay reflected. At precisely 8.46 am tomorrow, the entire world would change.

He pondered this fact as he gazed at the breathtaking panorama of Manhattan’s skyline from the private club room that rose a full quarter of a mile above New York City.

He stared silently across the spectacular vista of the Manhattan Harbor, his eyes fixed on the relentless passage of sleek 757 and 747 airliners arriving and departing from La Guardia, JFK and Newark Airports.

Finally the priest drew his gaze away from the skyline and turned.

His face, although strangely scarred, was regal. The wide brow and straight patrician nose framed imperious sapphire eyes that held a mesmerizing beauty.

His thick raven hair was silvering at the edges. On a normal day, he wore it pulled back fastidiously into a braid bound by a simple black band. On a normal day, he wore the flowing black robe of a priest of the Jesuit Order.

But today was not a normal day and this evening De Molay’s gleaming tresses fell loose to the shoulders of an exquisitely tailored Domenico Vacca suit that accentuated the well-honed body beneath it.

The priest caressed the carved silver serpent on the top of his cane, slowly surveying the men seated before him.

The Grand Druid Council of Thirteen, the highest orders of the Committee of Three Hundred, the Black Nobility of Venice, the Supreme Mother Council of the thirty-third degree Masons of the Scottish Rite.

He scanned the faces of the elite who controlled the Federal Reserve, the Bank for International Settlements, the World Bank, the Council of Foreign Relations, the Bilderberg Group and the Club of Rome, his gaze finally coming to rest on the Frater Superior and Grand Tribunal of the Ordo Templi Orienti.

Together they comprised the Grand Masters of the Illuminati.

The secret cabal that controlled the United States government.

That controlled every government of the Eastern and Western world.

Who were in turn controlled by himself – Lorcan De Molay. A smile flickered across his lips. He flipped open a silver cigar case and selected a Corona 1937. Kester von Slagel, his emissary, materialized holding a cigar guillotine and cut deftly into the cap before vanishing back into the shadows.

De Molay put the cigar to his lips, positioning the end just above the top of a flame. He puffed in gratification, then let his gaze linger on the impassive faces of the chairmen of the most powerful banks in the world seated before him. Power hungry despots.

They were simpletons.

But according to the Tenets of Eternal Law, the fallen angelic Dread Councils had no direct jurisdiction over the Race of Men.

He pursed his lips at the memory of the Nazarene.

He had no alternative. After his humiliating defeat at Golgotha, the Fallen’s presence on this mud-spattered orb was illegitimate.

He had only one alternative – to use these inferior beings. To beguile them and engage them in his master plan. Dark Slaves of the Fallen.

At least until the Great Battle.

Until the defeat of the Nazarene.

After that, they would all be expendable. The thought gave him a rush of undiluted pleasure.

And Jerusalem would finally be his.

But now to the business at hand.

De Molay spoke softly, his voice low and cultured. His accent was distinctly British, but it carried a subtle exotic inflection that was indefinable.

‘By precisely 8.46 a.m. tomorrow, our operation to subvert and destabilize the United States of America will have begun.’ He caressed his cigar slowly between slender fingers. Every eye was fixed on him.

‘By noon there will be closings at the United Nations, the Securities and Exchange Commission, the stock markets . . . ’ he murmured. ‘We will have struck at the foundations of the entire Western world.’

He turned to Charles Xavier Chessler, the silver-haired Chairman of Chase Manhattan.

‘As we speak, our insider trading account stands at fifteen billion dollars,’ Chessler said. ‘Untraceable back to the Brotherhood.’

De Molay puffed on the cigar. ‘The towers will collapse like the proverbial house of cards,’ he murmured.

‘Freefall,’ added Jaylin Alexander, former Executive Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. ‘The evidence of controlled implosion buried forever in the debris.’

De Molay gestured to an imposing figure in military dress with a shock of coarse white hair. NORAD Commander General Omar B. Maddox.

‘Vigilant Guardian is in effect, General?’

The general saluted. ‘NORAD is on standby, Your Excellency. At dawn, we execute the largest imaginary air defence exercise in our history, simulating an attack on the United States.’ The general smiled and his hawklike eyes glittered. ‘The simulation will create the necessary distraction while the real attacks succeed. NORAD’s FAA technicians will be half blind.’

De Molay turned to Gonzalez of the United States Secret Service Presidential Protective Detail.

‘The terrorists are in possession of the codes?’

‘Air Force One codes and signals and our top White House codes, Your Excellency.’

‘Access to NSA’s surveillance systems?’

Gonzalez nodded. ‘In place, Your Excellency.’

‘We must cast no shadows.’ De Molay turned to Alexander.

‘The car registered to Nawaf al-Hazmi will be ditched in the parking lot at Dulles Airport the morning of the twelfth,’ Alexander stated. ‘Inside is a copy of Atta’s letter to the hijackers, a cashier’s cheque made out to a flight school in Phoenix, four drawings of the cockpit of a 757 jet, a box cutter-type knife and maps of Washington and New York.

‘The terrorists have accepted the cover story, hook, line and sinker. They take over the planes. Their “bogus” mission – to return to the airports where fuelled planes will be on standby for them and their hostages. Once we activate the primary control channel they will realize they have been deceived. Hijacked from the ground. Too late.’ Alexander smiled thinly. ‘They will die unwilling martyrs of the Brotherhood. Textbook black-ops scapegoats.’

‘Bin Laden?’ queried Julius De Vere, Chairman of De Vere Continuation Holdings.

‘Osama bin Laden flew from Pakistan to Dubai on 4 July,’ Lewis, Deputy Secretary of Defense replied. ‘He was accompanied by his personal physician, four bodyguards and a male Algerian nurse, and was admitted to the urology department of the American Hospital. His family’s evacuation is taken care of.’

‘Two Boeing 777s are on standby as agreed,’ Alexander said. ‘The bin Ladens will be evacuated on September 18 in the no-fly period.’

‘
Then
we invade Iraq,’ interjected Drew Janowski, special assistant to the President for Defense Policy and Strategy. ‘Saddam’s resistance to our oil-for-dollars programme will be permanently eradicated. We create the crisis, then willingly manage it. We introduce Homeland Security, then the Patriot Act.’

‘In the Fall of 2008, we will crash the market,’ Werner Drechsler, president of the World Bank, said very softly. ‘Plunge the dollar. There will be a deliberate contraction of all credit. We will instigate the single greatest economic crisis since1929. Between 40 and 45 per cent of the world’s wealth will be destroyed in less than eighteen months.’

Julius De Vere surveyed the assembly in satisfaction. ‘By 2025 we will have finished the job. During the run on the banks, we will intentionally collapse the Federal Reserve and replace it with our One World Central Bank. They will cry out to us to do anything to stop their pain.’

A bony man in his early fifties wearing horn-rimmed spectacles looked up from his papers.

‘Then, gentlemen, our coup d’état – the United States’ sovereignty will be permanently eliminated.’ Piers Aspinall, chief of British Intelligence Services, removed his spectacles and breathed on the lenses.

‘In the first phase of the North American Union we launch the Amero currency and introduce mandatory gun control.’

He leaned back leisurely in his chair.

‘We divide the world into ten superblocs. Then stage a false-flag incident – nuclear or bioterror, weaponized Avian flu, smallpox – ushering in martial law and mandatory vaccination.’ He removed a perfectly pressed, linen handkerchief and polished the lenses. ‘We eradicate resisters. Patriots. Constitutionalists . . . Christians.’

He and Lorcan De Molay exchanged a fleeting glance.

‘In decades to come our conspiracy will be dismissed by the American people as nothing more than an
urban legend
.’

De Molay smiled faintly in the direction of the Chairmen of North Sea Petroleum and the Dutch Oil Corporation seated to his right. ‘To over four hundred billion barrels of Iraqi oil reserves,’ he declared, holding up a glass of vintage port. A toast to black gold, gentlemen.’

The Brotherhood raised their glasses.

De Molay walked over to the floor-length windows and gazed out towards the Atlantic.

‘To Iraq . . . ’ he murmured.

He turned from the window, his expression strangely distant.

‘
Then
Jersualem.’

The men stood as one and lifted their glasses.

‘Jerusalem.’

‘To our New World Order,’ Lorcan De Molay declared. ‘Novus Ordo Seclorum.’

The voices of every man in the chamber echoed in unison: ‘Novus Ordo Seclorum.’

Lorcan De Molay raised his glass a second time at an unsuspecting Manhattan glimmering in the weak evening sun. His voice was barely a whisper.

‘And to the reign of my only begotten son . . . ’

11 September 2001
Flight 11 – American Airlines Logan International Airport, Boston 7.40 am

The eye-catching brunette wearing enormous Prada sunglasses smiled at the olive-skinned young man in a blue shirt seated next to her. He stared straight ahead. Stony-faced.

She shrugged, ran French manicured fingernails through her long low-lighted hair, then glanced back at the half-empty plane. She yawned.

Since the birth of her son Alex twelve weeks ago, Rachel Lane-Fox had been
obsessed
with sleep.

She stretched out her long shapely legs and sank down into her business class seat in row 8 of the Boeing 767.

Scrabbling in her bag, she removed her mobile phone, then scrolled down until she found Julia De Vere’s number and dialled. It rang twice.

‘Hey, Jules,’ she grinned. ‘Yes – I’m on my way back. We’re on the tarmac at Logan . . . ’ She peered out of the window. ‘We’ve been slightly delayed. Listen, I can’t thank you enough for looking after Alex.’

A flight attendant stood at her elbow. Rachel looked up.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am – your mobile phone and . . . ’ She gestured at the seatbelt.

Rachel fastened her belt awkwardly, tucking the phone under her chin.

The flight attendant frowned. She studied Rachel intently.

‘Aren’t you Rachel Lane-Fox? The supermodel?’

‘You got me,’ Rachel sighed. ‘Guilty.’

She removed her dark glasses and put her free hand on the stewardess’s arm.

‘Look,’ she pleaded, ‘my dad had a heart attack and my baby’s with a friend. I’ve never left him before.’ She pointed to the phone. ‘Please?’ She grinned disarmingly.

The flight attendant looked down at her watch. She sighed.

‘Okay.’ She gestured to the aircraft doors. ‘As soon as the doors close.’

‘Thanks,’ Rachel said softly.

The man in the blue shirt glanced at her, disapprovingly.

‘Jules.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Look, did Alex sleep through the night or did he drive Jason
crazy
?’

She stifled a giggle. The man next to her glared at her openly.

‘Okay. I’ll get a cab straight to the
Cosmo
office when we land in L.A. Pick you both up for lunch.’

The flight attendant was back at her elbow.

‘Mizz Lane-Fox . . . ’

‘Have to go, Jules. Kiss Alex for me.’

Rachel clicked the phone shut, put it in her bag, and stowed it hastily under her seat.

She glanced at her companion. ‘Strange,’ she thought. The olive-skinned man was grasping the armrest as though his life depended on it. He was sweating profusely.

He must hate flying.

‘Hey,’ she said, softly, tapping him on the arm. ‘When you do this regularly it’s not so bad. You get used to it.’ She gave him a gentle smile. ‘I did.’

Mohammed Atta stared right through her.

She shrugged, picked up a fashion magazine and flicked idly through it as the aircraft taxied away from Gate 32 onto runway 4R.