In a Villa Outside of Rome

Caesar Demas had locked himself inside his sprawling estate off the Villa Salaria. He had spent the day on the phone, frantically trying to connect with the Russian prime minister, but he couldn’t get through. He was allowed only a minute on the phone with the deputy prime minister, Lexes Demitrov, who said simply, “Our losses have been exaggerated by the Western media. We are regrouping our coalition. No need to worry, Caesar. Our plans for global dominance are still on track.”

Despite several attempts, Demas never got through to Gallen Abdulla, the president of Turkey. Demas was beginning to wonder whether the press reports about Abdulla’s committing suicide might be true, or the other reports that hinted that he may have been assassinated.

For Demas, it was never a matter of hitting bottom. He believed in his own almost supernatural ability to keep himself aloft, to manipulate, to conquer. He was already contemplating a new global coalition that he could head up. It was already in discussion. All he had to do was to make sure that some of the international upstarts, like Alexander Coliquin and a few others, didn’t get there first. Demas hadn’t come this far to settle merely for being one of the world’s richest men. He was convinced that his destiny lay far beyond that.

He decided he needed a drink. He walked out of his library and headed toward his paneled bar.

His wife was seated in her wheelchair just outside of the library. Demas was about to brush right past her when she said something. “Caesar …”

He stopped. Momentarily he wondered why she had a blanket on her lap on such a warm day. She pulled her Allfone from beneath it. It had a photo on it. She shoved it in his direction.

Demas snatched it and looked at the photo on the little screen.

It showed Demas in a passionate embrace with Andrea Portleva, the pretty Russian ambassador.

“You take me for a fool,” his wife said.

“No,” he responded unruffled, “I take you for a crippled fool.” Then, offhandedly he added, “Why would you believe this anyway? Anyone can Photoshop this kind of trash. Who gave this to you?”

He didn’t notice that she had slipped her hand back under the blanket and had pulled out a handgun. But as soon as he saw it, she had his full attention. He knew he had to start sweet-talking her, as he had done so often before, so he could get within range, grab the gun, and slap her silly.

But there was no chance for that.

With both hands on the gun, his wife aimed for the upper-left quadrant of his chest and squeezed the trigger. The blast startled her. Caesar Demas was knocked a half step backward as he grabbed aimlessly for his heart, where the blood was now pumping out through his shirt. A half second later he was on the floor. He didn’t move.

In her wheelchair, his wife laid the gun in her lap. With a sneer, she answered the last question Caesar Demas had on his lips before he died.

“I got the photo from your own bodyguard, Caesar. I got it from Tomasso.”

On a private island near Bora Bora, Alexander Coliquin too had been working the phones. The events in the Middle East had spurned wild speculation. The whole balance of geopolitical power seemed to have been knocked off-kilter.

But Coliquin had calmly kept his course straight. He was unflustered. This most recent war and the defeat of the Russian-Islamic coalition only looked like a historic game changer. But Coliquin knew better. While the attention of the world was obsessing on this supposed “miracle” for Israel, he was going for a much longer-term change for the world.

His Allfone rang. It was Henry, the deputy climatologist for his global religious coalition for climate change.

“Mr. Coliquin. This business over in Israel. Still trying to figure this out.”

“What exactly are you trying to figure out?”

“Well, sir, the effect on public perception. The media is all over this business about volcanic activity along Israel’s borders. The earthquakes. A massive anomaly. Sure I admit that … but it distracts from the fact that we are on the tipping point of a global catastrophe because of climate change. People are going to forget …”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, then there’s rumors about Dr. Robert Hamilton’s findings.”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s got cancer. Won’t last long. And he’s been discredited, hasn’t he?”

“Sure. Yes. He’s a crackpot. But the problem is that his theory about climate change being due more to volcanic particles than to carbon emissions — that’s technically correct. I mean it is true that when volcanic aerosols get shot straight up miles and miles they can affect the ozone by altering chlorine and nitrogen chemicals in the stratosphere.”

“So?”

Henry paused. “Well, it seems obvious doesn’t it? If global temperatures are increasing because of natural factors like volcanic eruptions, then it takes the emphasis off of what we are saying about controlling global industry and everything else so we can shut down all carbon emissions.”

“Look, Henry,” Coliquin replied slowly, “roll with this. So volcanic eruptions can cause global temperatures to rise. That’s actually good for us. Talk that up. The point is that we continue telling the world it’s heading for a cosmic environmental crisis. That’s the point we have to sell. Then after a while, the public will get tired of talking about this volcanic episode in Israel, as the public always does. And when that happens, then we return to the original argument that global warming is caused by carbon emissions, and we go back to beating that drum. Don’t fret so much.”

“Well, then there’s this Belltether story …”

“Oh?”

“You know, Belltether, the Internet snooper, the guy who leaks all this stuff on his own website. Word has it he’s interviewed Hamilton, and even worse, he’s about to do some exposé about the federal climate agencies trying to censor him from letting his findings get out to the public, and then trying to cover that up.”

“You forget your history …”

“Like what?”

“Back in 2009. The whole climategate scandal. The leaked emails of climate experts, which exposed some of their scientific biases about the cause of global temperature increase and their total disdain for any alternate theories. But then a couple of well-publicized investigations were mounted in the years after that to exonerate them. And after a while, the thing went away.”

“So, you’re saying don’t worry about it?”

“What I’m saying is that when it comes to Mr. Belltether’s supposed Internet article, I would definitely not worry about it. Leave that to the conspiracy theorists. Let’s keep the ball rolling forward. So how are we coming with my meeting at the Vatican next week, and with the Greek Orthodox leaders after that?”

“I should have the dates locked in by tomorrow.”

“Excellent. And the new Dalai Lama?”

“He’s all over it. Very excited. No problem.”

When Coliquin was done with his phone call he was buzzed that he had a visitor. When his secretary identified who it was, Coliquin said he wanted to see him right away.

In a few minutes, the visitor was standing in front of Coliquin’s bamboo desk. Behind Coliquin was an open lanai leading out to swaying palm trees and the blue ocean beyond that.

“Nice place to work,” the man said with a smile.

“For the time being,” Coliquin remarked. “While the world is expounding on the Israel thing, I’m staying out of the public eye, getting some real work done.” Then Coliquin got to the point of their meeting. “So, what about Caesar Demas?”

“Seems his wife shot him to death, after seeing pictures of his cavorting with another woman.”

“You don’t say,” Coliquin replied with mock surprise. “Well, so much for his plans to run for king of the world. It’s actually better for him this way. Divorce would have been simpler for poor Caesar, but probably more painful.”

They laughed.

“And Belltether?”

“Done.”

Then Tomasso handed the little briefcase to Coliquin and added, “Everything that Belltether was working on should be in there, including his tapes and notes of your interview with him and his stuff on the problems with your orphanages in Romania.”

“Well done.”

Tomasso smiled and said he’d like to hit the beach for a few days before leaving.

After he left, Coliquin made an international call to Baghdad, to his manager for international development. After chatting for a few moments, Coliquin asked how the project in Iraq was going, and the manager replied, “About that one hundred acres owned by the U.S. government … the State Department says it should be able to transfer the parcel to your global foundation. Then we can begin construction on your international headquarters.”

“That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear.”

“Only, we need a name for the project.”

“That’s simple. I’ve always been a student of history,” Coliquin explained.

“So … the name?”

“Why, New Babylon, of course.”