Majestic Read online

  Technology was present as well, in abundance, with capabilities that would rival the Pentagon.

  Which was no coincidence, because this organization reported to one senior official at the Pentagon, and no one else. Not even the president had access to what this shadowy outfit did. Its budget was buried within the billions assigned to the Pentagon, and easily filtered beyond prying eyes.

  Even though a sitting president had ordered this organization to be established back in 1947, the Executive Office involvement had long since ceased. It was just a rumour now, an urban legend. And, it was best kept that way, for the good of America. Sometimes, secrecy was essential, and sometimes things had to happen without hindrance and political meanderings.

  It was a government within a government. It had power beyond belief, and pulled the strings masterfully within its narrow mandate.

  It had power, for sure, even in the name of its current head, Chad Powers.

  He was an imposing figure, standing six and a half feet tall, and weighing 250 pounds, give or take. His heritage was a long line of defense contractors, going all the way back to WWI.

  Chad stood at the head of the granite table in the elegant meeting room. A serious table, with only twelve chairs. It would never ever have more than twelve chairs. Because, for secret societies like this one, tradition was paramount.

  Chad took a headcount, and then sat down in his leather chair with its padded armrests. He glanced around the table, nodding at several of his favorites and deliberately ignoring the ones who always tended to annoy him.

  All of the people around the table served out of entitlement. And, every single one of them could trace their heritage back to the inaugural twelve who were appointed back in 1947. None of them were outsiders. It was like royalty. They served out of entitlement and birth.

  Membership had been passed down over the decades from family member to trusted family member.

  They were all princes and princesses in the true sense of the words, and none of them could ever be fired.

  The bylaws and traditions of the organization forbade that. And, traditions were important. The United Kingdom and the Netherlands were based on tradition. Ruling families still had more power than most people realized. America may have gained its independence from England back in the 1700s, but, if truth be known, it still believed in those cherished traditions that the country had pretended to cast aside.

  The members of the board served until they decided their competency was in question, and then passed their crowns down to the next groomed and designated family member.

  No one could be fired. But, they could be killed. And, that had happened on many an occasion. When it did, tradition took a bit of a hit. New ‘royalty’ had to be introduced, which took a while for everyone to get used to.

  But, being pragmatists, they accepted it. It was just reality. There had to be ‘escape’ clauses, even with royalty. And, each of them around the table knew that ‘escape’ clauses had been used time and time again in England over the centuries, too. America should be no different.

  They all came from crucially patriotic American backgrounds: defense contractors, aircraft manufacturers, chemicals, oil and gas, pharmaceuticals, hotel chains, auto manufacturers, the military elite. The list of backgrounds was extensive, and they were all rich as sin. That was mandatory. It was also mandatory that never, ever, would a politician sit at that table. This was not a political group; the entire purpose of the group was to do what was right without the interference of children playing in sandboxes.

  Chad started the meeting with his usual two-finger salute to the group.

  Tapping his right temple, he announced, “I’ll call this meeting to order. We’ll break for lunch at noon and relax in the lounge after we adjourn, for informal discussions. We do have a busy agenda today, so our lounge discussions will be a good way to unwind.

  “The first order of business is this disturbing episode in Canada.” He directed his stern gaze at a woman named Allison Fisher, the youngish matriarch of one of the world’s largest hotel chains.

  “Allison, you’re our Canadian expert and designate, and you also have some hotels up there. You were supposed to be on top of this loose thread. It’s gone rogue on us. Give us your report, and make it concise.”

  Allison cleared her throat and began to speak, clearly and concisely.

  Chad listened carefully as he glanced around the table at the twelve regal members. He smiled inwardly. Chat didn’t like some of them, but they all had the ‘right stuff,’ and that’s all he really cared about. And, they all had their own private armies that also worked in the shadows, armies that carried out orders without knowing where those orders came from.

  There was nothing they couldn’t do.

  They all had their separate and diverse personalities, their ‘day jobs,’ their occupations. And, they all, of course, had their own individual names which carried unrivalled prestige and influence.

  But, collectively, they were simply known as ‘Majestic 12,’ and had been since 1947.

  Chapter 6

  “So, in closing, keep your wits about you. It’s tourist season, and there’s bound to be trouble here and there. We’re a small community and a small police force, but we’re known for tolerance and peace. And, I think we’ve done a great job of keeping the peace, and keeping this great little city safe. It’s tempting at times to treat trouble-making transients with a heavy hand, but we have to be careful to make sure the punishment fits the crime.”

  A young officer raised his hand from the back of the briefing room.

  “Yes, Mike?”

  “Chief, I think some people passing through here during the summer take our friendly attitudes for granted. They push the envelope with drugs and some of the bar violence. Puts us in a difficult position.”

  Wyatt nodded. “I understand. It’s a fine balance, Mike. Use your best judgement and, if you’re not sure, bring me in on it. I’m on call 24/7, you all know that. We’re not New York City where the police chief is usually inaccessible. I’m just one of you.”

  A female officer, Linda Harkins, jumped in. “Are we still expected to look the other way on drugs?”

  Wyatt shook his head. “We’ve never looked the other way, Linda. We just choose not to sweat the small stuff. We always let the violators know that we know what they’re doing, and we reserve the right to arrest them if they let it get out of hand, give drugs to kids, or blatantly sell drugs on the street or in public places. And, when I say ‘small stuff,’ I mean grass and hash. I don’t really give a shit if someone’s smoking a joint or a pipe, as long as they’re not dealing and as long as they don’t do it right in our faces. But, for any drugs stronger than that, we have zero tolerance. Clear?”

  Linda nodded, but then raised her hand again.

  Wyatt sighed. “Linda, Linda, I haven’t had my eighth cup of coffee yet. I don’t know if I’m up to more interrogation.”

  Linda laughed. “Chief, just one more question and then I’ll pour you a coffee myself. What’s our position on the dog ban in downtown for this summer?”

  Wyatt shook his head. “One of the stupidest laws ever passed in this city. You have my permission to ignore it, and just give polite warnings. No tickets. I’m still working with city council to try to change that draconian piece of legislation.”

  He noticed all the heads in the audience nodding. No one liked that law. He added one more point. “Just make sure dog owners pick up the poop, though. You’re allowed, and encouraged, to ticket them for not doing that.”

  Snickers all around.

  “Okay, folks, hit the streets. And, as they used to say on Hill Street Blues, ‘be careful out there.’”

  One of the officers laughed. “Hill Street Blues? Chief, are you really that old?”

  Wyatt made a face. “No, I only heard about that show through the grapevine. Now, get outta here before I throw you in a cell for insubordination and disrespecting your elders!”

&nbs
p; The group of almost two dozen police officers and dispatchers laughed and headed out to the parking lot. Wyatt loved them all—he had a great group of officers. Dedicated and motivated. He knew his style as police chief probably helped make them the way they were. They all respected him, enjoyed his laid-back approach to policing, but knew also that he could be as tough as nails when he needed to be.

  He became somewhat of a hero around town two years ago during an attempted bank robbery in the downtown area. Violence was rare in Nelson, so when it occurred it was a shock to the city’s nerve center.

  Wyatt happened to be in the bank at the time, just withdrawing money like a regular customer, dressed in civilian clothes like he usually was.

  Two men had rushed in, guns drawn, clearly high on drugs. Wyatt could tell by the craziness in their eyes and the frenetically nervous measure of their movements. He guessed crack cocaine.

  He could also tell by the way one of them whirled around in panic and fired twice into the chest of an old woman who’d simply dropped her plastic coffee mug.

  Wyatt’s pistol was in his hands in an instant, and a second later the gunman was dead. His partner, who’d been standing on the ledge of a teller’s counter, fired wildly at Wyatt just as he was diving to the floor. Wyatt rolled several times as the punk kept firing, ceramic dust kicking up from the bank’s newly tiled floor. After his third roll, Wyatt aimed upwards and fired, sending the thug to bank robber hell.

  That fateful morning, within the span of only one minute, three people were dead. Wyatt knew, as did everyone else on the police force, that shit could happen within an instant. A damn instant. So, no one took his relaxed style for granted—they knew he could kill and they knew he was probably the bravest man in the city. But, he led by example, not by anger or demands.

  Everyone also knew his background. He had been living in Nelson out of choice, for ten full years now. Glad to be back in his hometown. Glad to have left his life in the RCMP behind. He’d achieved the rank of Inspector, and had performed a pivotal role heading up the anti-terrorism task force in Toronto for several years. Foiling more plots than the public ever knew. Canada was a bit different than the U.S. in that way—secrecy was maintained, unless the public was still in danger. In America, every silly little plot uncovered was broadcast to the mass media, and Wyatt figured the only reason they did that was to ensure that budgets were maintained or increased, or because they needed to ramp up the fear level.

  The RCMP always showed more class…and more modesty. The Mounties were usually just content to be the silent, invisible heroes, keeping Canada safe from behind the scenes.

  Wyatt had loved his career with the Mounties, Canada’s equivalent of the FBI. But, it had been time to come home, time to live a different lifestyle, one that was more peaceful and fulfilling.

  And, while he wasn’t one to ever run away from anything, his move back to Nelson was the one exception.

  He’d had his heart broken back in Toronto. His fiancé died of complications from brain cancer. She was five months pregnant when she passed away, and the baby was far too premature to be saved. It was a girl.

  He had no choice but to leave Toronto behind for his own sanity. Too many memories. Too much sadness.

  Ten years now, and no one had re-entered his life. Wyatt wasn’t carrying a torch anymore—he just hadn’t met anyone who’d captured his heart again. He knew that would be a tall order.

  Wyatt wiped away a stubborn tear and headed down the long hallway to his corner office. He seldom cried anymore; he’d done enough of that over the years. But, once in a while one or two tears made their appearance with very little warning.

  He smiled and nodded to his secretary before entering his office. Susan smiled back at him.

  “How did the meeting go?”

  “Good. Typical Monday morning session. Some good questions. Everyone’s ready and willing to take on the hordes.”

  She giggled. “You mean the hordes of shoplifters?”

  “Yes, Susan. We should thank our lucky stars, huh?”

  “For sure. By the way, your dad called.”

  “Oh, good. It’s about time.”

  Susan stood up and walked over to the coffee machine. “Why don’t you get settled in, and I’ll bring you a coffee? You can sip it while talking to your dad.”

  “I think I’ll need a whisky for that conversation.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, he’s been avoiding me for a couple of weeks, that’s all.”

  “Arrest him, then.”

  Wyatt laughed. “Good idea. I should!”

  He walked into his office and sat down behind his massive desk. Piles of files awaited his attention, but Wyatt knew that most of them were crime notices from other police forces across Canada, and some from the FBI. Just alerts, people and things to be on the lookout for. There were also a few files pertaining to budget issues and the usual political stuff that came with being the Chief of Police of a small city. Issues that every police chief had to deal with, but were much more prevalent in a small center where every other municipal official was working only part-time.

  Wyatt was one of the few full-time municipal officers. The mayor was busy most of the time running his hardware store, squeezing in only a few hours a week to bang the gavel. All of the city councillors were either real estate agents or restauranteurs. And, the city manager ran a karate studio, and grew a little hemp on the side.

  Wyatt picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number.

  The stubborn old man answered on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Dad, it’s me. Returning your call.”

  “Well, I guess I was returning your many calls.”

  “Yes, glad you acknowledge that. Why have you been ignoring me?”

  “Because…well, just because.”

  “That’s not much of a reason, Dad. I was shocked about what I saw in your studio, and you owe me an explanation for that…that thing. I’m your son, for God’s sake.”

  “I know, I know…but I warned you not to lift that tarp. You invaded my privacy.”

  “Oh, knock it off, Dad. There’s no privacy when it comes to family. If you can’t trust family, you can’t trust anyone.”

  Susan came in with a steaming hot cup of coffee. Wyatt nodded his thanks, and then asked her to close his door.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, Dad. Just talking to my secretary.”

  “Oh.”

  Wyatt took a long sip and then spoke softly into the phone. “Dad, I wouldn’t have been so shocked if that sculpture, which you built many years ago, didn’t mimic what just happened to you. Surely you understand that.”

  “Just a coincidence.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “No. But, that isn’t why I called you back.”

  “Okay, so why indeed did you call me back?”

  “I have good news. I think city council is going to approve the permanent mounting of my draft-dodger sculpture.”

  “What? That’s fantastic news, Dad! How did this happen? I thought it was a dead issue.”

  “Well, I got a call from the mayor. The city may get a new hotel. One of the biggest luxury resort chains, Diamond Hotels International. They have hotels all over the world, and in Canada they have them in Vancouver, Toronto, and Montreal. But, they’re branching out now into exclusive mountain resort locations, building smaller boutique hotels. They’ve chosen Nelson as one of those locations.”

  “I hadn’t heard about this. That’s incredible news for the city. But, what does this have to do with your sculpture?”

  “Well, this is the best part. My sculpture got written up in a couple of art digest magazines over the last few months, along with photos and stuff like that. This hotel chain got wind of it. They’re based in the U.S. and they think that the sculpture would be a unique addition to their hotel, considering so many years have gone by since the Vietnam war and it’s not as sens
itive an issue now as it was a few decades ago. They think it would be a great marketing gimmick, recognizing the unique heritage of Nelson as it relates to the American draft-dodgers. Might attract a lot of U.S. tourists.”

  Wyatt shook his head in amazement. “Gotta hand it to those yanks, huh? They sure know how to market, and don’t hesitate to pounce on opportunities. So, where do things go from here?”

  “Their CEO is flying up here next week to scout out sites for the hotel. She also wants to meet with the mayor and me. And, wants to see the sculpture in person.”

  “I’m so happy for you, Dad. This is going to make you feel so appreciated, and it’ll be an incredible tribute to all the ex-pat Americans living here. Such a great sense of pride, eh?”

  “It is, it is!”

  Wyatt could hear the excitement in his dad’s voice. It sent nice goosebumps up his back.

  “Maybe you can draw me into the discussions, too, Dad. This is so exciting; I would love to meet her.”

  He heard the phone at the other end clunk onto a table, then the shuffling of some papers. After a few seconds, Willy was back. “I’ll arrange that, Wyatt. I’m sure she’d love to meet the Chief of Police. I found her name in my notes. It’s…Allison Fisher.”

  “Great—let me know a date and time. And…I’m not letting you off the hook on that explanation you owe me, though. So, think about that in the meantime.”

  Chapter 7

  He jerked bolt upright in bed.

  And, just sat there, staring straight ahead at the bedroom door.

  He could hear his wife breathing softly beside him, but he didn’t look down at her. Instead, he was held spellbound by a light—a strangely soothing light. It wasn’t a table lamp, or a headlight from a car shining through the window. More like a glow. A glow that surrounded his body like a halo…or a shield.

  It was a hot night, and Willy was wearing only his underwear. He knew he wasn’t dreaming, because he was fully alert. Or, at least if he was indeed dreaming, he was alert within the dream itself.