F. Paul Wilson: Conspircaies

"Then I'll refresh your memory. The fall of 1997: the bottoms fell out of all the Asian markets. Less than a year later, the same thing in Russia, making rubles good only for toilet paper. People were losing their shirts and their pants, banks and brokerage houses were failing, Asian brokers were hanging themselves or jumping out windows. Do you think that just happened ? No. It was planned, It was orchestrated, and certain people made money that should be measured in cosmological terms."

"What people?"

"The members of the cabal. They're drawn from the old royal families and international banking families of Europe along with descendants of our own robber barons. Most of their influence is concentrated in the West, and they were probably miffed at being left out of all the emerging economies booming in Asia. So they invited themselves in. They manipulated Asian currencies, inflated the markets, then pulled the plug."

Jack had to ask: "How does that help them?"

"Simple: They sell short before the crash. When prices have bottomed out—and they know when that is because they and their buddies are pulling the strings—they cover their short positions. But that's only half of the equation. They don't stop there. They use their stupendous short profits to buy up damaged properties and companies at fire sale prices."

"So now they've got a piece of the action."

"And no small piece. After the crash, enormous amounts of Thai and Indonesian stock and property were bought up at five cents on the dollar by shadow corporations. And since the lion's share of profits from those upstart countries will now be flowing into the cabal's coffers, those economies will be allowed to improve."

"Okay," Jack said. "But who are they? What are their names? Where do they live?"

"Names? You want I should give you names? How about their addresses too? What's Repairman Jack going to do? Pay them a little visit?"

"Well, no. I just—"

"If I knew their names, I'd probably be dead. I don't want to know their names. Someone else should know their names and stop them. They've been pulling the world's economic strings for centuries but no one ever does anything. No one hunts them down and calls them to account. Why is that, Jack? Tell me: Is it ignorance or apathy?"

"I don't know and couldn't care less," Jack said with a shrug.

Abe opened his mouth, then closed it and stared at him.

Jack fought the grin that threatened to break free. Goading Abe was precious fun.

Finally Abe turned to Parabellum. "You see what I put up with from this man? I try to enlighten him as to the true nature of things, and what does he do? Wise he cracks."

"As if you really believe all that," Jack said, grinning.

Abe stared at him, saying nothing.

Jack felt his smile fading. "You don't really believe in an international financial cabal, do you?"

"I should tell you? But one thing you should know is that a good conspiracy theory is a mechaieh . And also great fun. But this group you mentioned, this Bouillabaisse—"

"SESOUP."

"Whatever. I'll bet it's not fun for them. I'll bet it's very serious business for them: UFOs and other stuff far from the mainstream."

"UFOs are mainstream?"

"They've been mainstreamed. That's why sightings are up: believing is seeing, if you should get my drift. But when you start talking with members of Zuppa De Peche—"

"SESOUP."

"Whatever—I bet you'll run into meshuggeners so far from the mainstream they're not even wet."

"I can hardly wait." Jack glanced at his watch. "Look, I've got to be heading out to the Island. Can I borrow your truck?"

"What's the matter with Ralph?"

"Sold him."

"No!" Abe seemed genuinely shocked. "But you loved that car."

"I know." Jack had hated parting with his 1963 white Corvair convertible. "But I didn't have much choice. Ralph's become a real collector's item. Everywhere I took him people stopped and asked me about him, wanted to buy him. Don't need that kind of attention."

"Too bad. All right, since you're in mourning, take the truck, but remember: she only likes high test."

"That old V6?"

Abe shrugged. "I shouldn't spoil my women?" He extracted the truck keys from his pocket and handed them to Jack as the bell on the shop's front jangled. A customer entered: a tanned, muscular guy with short blond hair.

"Looks like a weekend warrior," Jack said.

Abe returned Parabellum to his cage. "I'll get rid of him."

"Don't bother. I've got to go."

With obvious reluctance, Abe slid off the stool and left his sanctum behind the counter. He sounded bored as he approached the customer.

"What overpriced recreational nonsense can I sell you today?"

Jack headed for the door, holding up the truck keys as he passed Abe.

Abe waved, then turned back to his customer. "Water skis? You want to spend your free time sliding on top of water? What on earth for? It's dangerous. And besides, you could hit a fish. Imagine the headache you'd cause the poor thing. A migraine should be half so bad…"

5

The Incorporated Village of Shoreham sits on the north shore of Long Island a bit west of Rocky Point. All Jack knew about Shoreham was that it was the home of a multibillion-dollar nuclear power plant that had never ignited its reactor—one of the greatest boondoggles in the state's long history of boondoggles.

And no doubt the subject of a number of conspiracy theories, Jack figured.

After asking at a 7-Eleven along 25A, he found Lewis Ehler's street. Briarwood Road led north, twisting and turning into the hills bordering the Long Island Sound. Poorly paved and bouncy, but he guessed the residents liked it that way because the houses were big and well kept. All the lots were wooded, and the homes to his right perched on a rise overlooking the water. Between the houses and through the trees, Jack caught glimpses of the Sound. Connecticut was a darker line atop the horizon.

He found the Ehler place and pulled into the gravel drive of an oversized ranch. The dark cedar shake siding and white trim and shutters blended with the budding oaks, maples, and birches surrounding the house. The landscaper had gone for a low-maintenance yard, substituting mulch and wood chips for grass. Perfectly trimmed rhodos and azaleas hugged the foundation; nothing ostentatious, but Jack knew from his teenage days as a landscaper's helper that everything here was first quality. A lot of money had been invested into this yard's "natural" look.

Lew met him at the door and scanned the road running past the house.

"Did you see anyone following you?"

"No." Jack hadn't been looking, but he hadn't noticed anyone. "How about you?"

"I thought I saw a black sedan a few times but…" He shrugged and ushered Jack inside where he gave him an envelope stuffed with cash. Jack didn't count it.

The interior had a lot of nautical touches—hurricane lamps, a big brass compass, fishnets and floats on the walls, all looking very staged.

"I didn't particularly want to live way out here," Lew said as he showed Jack through the house. "It means a longer commute for me, but Mel said this was the place she really wanted to live, so…this is where we live."

The only non-decorator touches about the house were the paintings—dark, brooding abstractions on all the walls.

"Really something, aren't they," Lew said.

Jack nodded. "Who's the artist?"

"Mel. She did them when she was a teenager."

She must have been a real fun date, he thought, but said: "Impressive."

"Aren't they? She's been getting back into it again, when she can steal time from her research."

"And where does she do that?"

"In her study. I'll show you," he said, leading Jack toward a spiral staircase. "She used the second bedroom for a while but all her reference materials pretty quickly outgrew that, so we converted the attic for her."