Global Conspiracy Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. With the exception of certain anchors of fact, all of the characters in this book are the author’s creation. As in all novels, much of what occurs in this book originated in the author’s imagination. Any similarity to persons living or dead or to events claimed to have occurred are purely coincidental.

  GLOBAL CONSPIRACY

  DAVID SHOMRON

  Copyright © 2016

  Dekel Publishing House

  www.dekelpublishing.com

  North American rights by

  Samuel Wachtman’s Sons, Inc.

  ISBN 978-1-941905-07-4 Kindle edition

  English translation: Alex Eshed

  Language editing: R. Reinprecht

  Proof reading: Eilath Giladi, Pnina Ophir

  Cover images

  Racing boat © Pixabay / Dreamstime.com

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  Dekel Publishing House

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  PROLOGUE

  Pyongyang, two hours before

  Revolution Day ceremonies.

  The President of North Korea, called the Great Leader by the people, paced up and down his office, mentally going over his annual message to the people. Everything had to be in place, nothing left to chance. He had to be especially rousing and exciting in order to counterbalance his earlier statement of withdrawing his country’s plans for nuclear development. The pressures from the United Nations Security Council—including sanctions—were just too great. But his own people, not to mention the rest of the world, saw this as back-pedaling, caving in, bowing to external influences. His prestige was seriously damaged, and the morale of his supporters was losing ground.

  He had, therefore, decided to make this occasion more spectacular than anything seen before. The speech would stir the faintest heart, the military parade would be on an unprecedented scale. Millions would throng to the central square and overflow into the adjoining streets and alleys. They would hear the Great Leader’s fiery oration and witness the might of the marching military forces, the armored vehicles thundering past them and the fighter jets screaming overhead.

  The Great Leader called his Chief of Ceremonies, General Pak, into his office.

  “I want to hear the latest rundown on the preparations for the speech and the parade,” he announced. “Everything should be in place by now.” The tone was calm, but General Pak knew the power the leader could wield with a single word.

  “Most certainly. With your permission, I’ll mention only the highlights. First, we have Your Excellency’s speech from the grandstand, which will be broadcast over all the radio and television channels, including satellite transmission. Huge monitors have been erected at almost every intersection to allow the public to view Your Excellency during your speech and the following parade. The infantry will march past the grandstand in blocks of 400 soldiers each, preceded by the military band. The armored vehicles will roll past, and they will be followed by the trucks towing the missiles. The parade will wind up with dancers who will also throw flowers into the crowd.”

  The general glanced at his clipboard.

  “At the same time,” he continued, “twenty-five formations of fighter jets will fly overhead streaming the colors of the flag behind them. Right now, patriotic music is being pumped out of over a thousand loudspeakers installed within an area of three kilometers radius from the grandstand.”

  The Great Leader smiled softly and turned to the huge window overlooking the central square. He crossed his hands behind his back and, without turning, inquired:

  “What about security?”

  “Six thousand combat soldiers, hundreds of plain clothes Secret Service agents and nearly half the police force will be spread along the routes. Another eight hundred will mingle amongst the crowds and maintain order. All are equipped with the latest communications devices. Snipers are positioned on every rooftop in the vicinity, and the emergency operations room has been on red alert for the past three hours. I can assure you, Great Leader, that there will be no disturbance of the peace.” The general was beginning to perspire heavily despite the air-conditioned environment.

  “I distinctly requested you to prepare something extraordinary for this occasion. So far, all you have told me relates to size and quantity.” The Great Leader turned from the window and fixed a steely gaze into the general’s eyes. “That, from my point of view, is insufficient.”

  General Pak made a supreme effort to keep his voice and breathing normal.

  “Indeed you did, Great Leader.” He turned a few pages on his clipboard. “There are some items never seen before in any of our parades—in fact, to the best of my knowledge, in any parade worldwide.”

  The Great Leader continued to stare, but a ghost of a smile appeared on his face, and his nod was almost imperceptible.

  “The first block of soldiers will perform extremely intricate exercises involving juggling and interchanging of their weapons. The flag bearers will form outlines of scenes and texts glorifying our nation and its leadership. The jet fighters will perform aerobatics involving thirty-six planes weaving in and out of each other’s courses at almost touching distance. The training for all these maneuvers has taken up over four hundred man-years.”

  There was a moment of silence. General Pak was sure that his heartbeat was audible. If the Great Leader was not satisfied….

  A wave of the hand, and the general was dismissed.

  The Great Leader strode into his dressing room. His butler and his barber were ready. He donned the snow-white tunic, buttoned up to the neck, without a single ribbon, medal, or sash. His custom-made shoes had extra thick soles and heels. He ordered the barber to give him a particular hairdo to lengthen his face, thereby giving the impression of additional height. All his life he had suffered the indignities of a small stature, and his only consolation was that a surprising percent of the world’s most prominent people were of less than average height. When he left the dressing room he felt fit and ready.

  A short knock at the office door preceded General Pak’s entrance.

  “It is time, Your Excellency.”

  Together they left the building and were driven in the limousine to the grandstand on the other side of the square. The military march music blared through the loudspeakers. The huge piazza was packed with myriads of citizens, all cheering wildly while being held in line by uniformed soldiers. At the appearance of the Great Leader, the cheering rose to a frenzy, flags were waved wildly, and several people were in danger of being trampled by others craving to get a glimpse of their leader.

  The Great Leader exited the limousine and walked past the guard of honor, waving and nodding to the dignitaries lining his path to the podium—the highest point on the grandstand. When he finally appeared there, now visible to everyone, a roar erupted from the crowd, threatening to drown out the raucous loudspeakers. The roar was gradually transformed into an ear-splitting chant—a continuous repetition of the Great Leader’s name.

  The Great Leader smiled at the throng for a few seconds, nodding once to the left and to the right. He then extended his hand, and an immediate hush fell on the square. The world awaited the words of North Korea’s Great Leader.

  Eight hours earlier, approximately thirty kilometers west of North Korea in the Yellow Sea, a yacht flying a Panamanian flag sailed on a southbound course. Five of its crew were ex-soldier
s of Her Majesty’s Special Forces—more commonly known as “commandos.” They had all fought in Iraq in 1991, in what was known as the “First Gulf War.” Great Britain had joined the coalition armies to defeat Saddam Hussein, the Iraqi dictator, who had invaded and annexed Kuwait several weeks earlier.

  The five had all been part of the “Desert Scorpion” unit. Captain Martin Cooper had led seven daring and highly motivated fighters in special missions behind enemy lines. They were either parachuted or used stealth to infiltrate the Iraqi forces, where they sabotaged, kidnapped, and photographed in accordance with the orders they received. They never questioned these orders—total obedience was the key to their success. Even when their most carefully planned raids met with a hitch, they always found their way out, either by brute force—of which they had no lack—or, more usually, by their wits and the uncanny guidance of their captain. They had adopted the musketeers slogan of “one for all and all for one,” and their mutual loyalty was absolute. Two Scorpions had not survived the war. The remaining six had been duly decorated for their bravery and accomplishments.

  The crew’s current mission had gone off flawlessly so far. The “main event” was yet ahead of them, the next morning, and following that: sail south, avoid being intercepted, and get out of these waters as soon as possible.

  One of the ex-Scorpions was now at the helm of the yacht. He checked the course once again. So far so good—thank God for computers. His instructions were to keep an eye on the monitor: true, if the line turned red, the siren would go off automatically, but it was his job to alert the admiral immediately just the same.

  Well, that was easy enough, he thought. I wouldn’t know the first thing about running a boat, anyway. Give me solid ground any time. That’s where the real action is. Nothing much since that last mission in Iraq—now that was action! He grinned at the memory. That would have been—well, years ago….

  We are surrounding the house where the Iraqi officers are sleeping. Well, they were supposed to be, but they surprise us and open fire. Captain Cooper orders us to storm the place, so we do. As I aim the bazooka at the doorway, I notice the flashes of automatic fire from a window to its left and see Roger and Edwin fall. Damn. So I turn my weapon to that window and score a bull’s eye.

  The firing stops. I drop the bazooka and we all charge in with our pistols ready. Nine Iraqi officers are splattered all over the place. The other Scorpions spread out in the remains of the house to make sure we haven’t missed anyone. I remain by the shattered door with one eye on the mutilated officers and one eye searching outside in case reinforcements arrive.

  I see one of the Iraqis slowly reaching for his holster and I shoot him in the head. He lies still. There is a gold pendant around his neck in the shape of a hand and I yank it off and put it in my pocket. I look around for anything else to salvage as a memento. There is an open shoulder bag on the floor and it is full of Iraqi money. I grab a handful of notes and hear Coop yell ‘Drop it! Put that back! I’ll have you court-martialed!’ I curse and drop the cash. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t seen me take the ‘hamsa’ pendant off the corpse. We make our way out of the house. An Iraqi hiding outside the door jumps Coop with a dagger. I shoot the Arab without thinking, and he drops like a sack of potatoes. Coop says ‘Thanks, mate. Forget the court martial.’ I grunt something and pick up my bazooka. We collect poor Roger and Edwin and hoof it back to base.

  And a good thing, too, forgetting the court martial. If I were tried, they’d find out all the other stuff I have in my collection of wartime mementos—my gallery, I like to call it. Rings, weapons, coins, wallets, necklaces, bracelets, watches—quite a collection—all gone by now, of course.

  Sure I work for Coop today, too, but our relationship is just this side of cordial. I’ll do everything he asks, of course, I owe him that much, but I sure would like to quit and go it on my own. And you can bet I will.

  He grinned again. Another look at the monitor. All was as it should be. Yes, this would definitely be his last mission.

  EIGHTEEN MONTHS EARLIER

  ONE

  Sir Cedric Norton, English aristocrat and the very model of the perfect gentleman, eagerly anticipated his rendezvous with Anne. It was his habit to visit Paris from time to time and meet with Anne, whom he considered to be his protégée, now that Raoul had died. As usual, he was dressed in the height of fashion, his almost bald head carefully groomed and his Clark Gable mustache trimmed to perfection. He preferred the staid life of an active scientist, owner and director of Norlaser, one of the most advanced research institutes in the UK, specializing in laser technology. Today, approaching seventy, he could enjoy his successes and his well-established reputation throughout the scientific world.

  He had met Colonel Raoul Dupré, a military attaché at the French Embassy in London, several years ago at one of those cocktail events he so thoroughly disliked. The young French officer had hit it off with him right away, displaying a remarkable familiarity with some of the more intricate aspects of lasers and their implementation. And when he introduced his wife, Anne, the old knight was entranced. Not only was she beautiful and vibrant, she was as British as he was.

  Sir Cedric sat impatiently in their usual restaurant awaiting her arrival. His aperitif remained untouched on the tablecloth, and his eyes never left the doorway. He had taken a very special interest in Anne. She was an exciting person, though at times somewhat contradictory. On one hand she possessed a calm outward aura that made everyone in her presence feel comfortable. On the other, she could occasionally resort to alarmingly independent action if she suspected an injustice had been committed. She had told him of at least two “little incidents,” as she called them, one in which she had rescued a student from a rather repugnant altercation with the law, deriving from a jealous roommate, and the other where she had interceded for another student who got mixed up with a drug dealer—and both could have turned out rather nastily for her. And yet he considered her as having sound judgment and, more often than not, as making very accurate decisions.

  Sir Cedric was still musing when Anne finally walked into the restaurant, hardly two minutes late. His face broke into a radiant smile as he rose to greet her.

  “My dear Anne,” he murmured as their cheeks met. “How wonderful to see you again. You look positively ravishing, I do declare.”

  “Thank you kindly, Sir Cedric, m’lord.” She gave a mock curtsey, gave him a mischievous grin, and they both sat down. “How are things back at the shire?”

  He gave her a paternal smile. At forty-two, Anne still looked stunning. She could easily have passed for thirty though she made no effort to do so. True, following Raoul’s death she was a wreck, but an iron-strong will and a ferocious dedication to live life to the utmost brought her back to the world of the living. Indeed, Sir Cedric was of the opinion that his companionship and guidance were more beneficial to her than her own parent’s comforting.

  “Absolutely boring, thank goodness,” he replied without missing a beat. “I had one three-hour board meeting during the past fortnight and that was quite enough. I really can’t be expected to be at their beck and call every other month, now, can I? I won’t have time for my research or my chess matches with the admiral. And that would never do, would it?”

  “You poor thing,” commiserated Anne. “The pressure you must be under. I imagine you had to fight your way through layers of snoring peers at the club in order to get out in time to meet me here.”

  “Ah, you mock me, cruel lass. But it is my sworn duty to put my welfare well below the interests of those who need me. Never let it be said that my elevated position hath turned me into a despot, treading the masses under my heel as I reap the ill-gotten …”

  “Funny you should bring it up,” interrupted Anne. “I had quite an interesting dialogue on despots and tyrants with one of my students just an hour ago. Interested?”

  “To be sure, to be sure,” boomed the old gentleman. “But first, let’s order our meal, shall we?”<
br />
  The waiter came and left. Sir Cedric leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his slightly protruding abdomen. Anne pictured him removing an imaginary monocle from his right eye, which, of course, would never have occurred to him to wear.

  “Well, now,” he commenced, “despots and other dastardly bad guys. What have you to say in their defense?”

  Anne laughed. Every now and then she wished she could spend more and more time with this kind old man. He gave her that sense of true comfort, that warm feeling of “I’m home with daddy.” After losing Raoul, he was a true godsend. Without him, she would have probably sunk into deep depression.

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” she retorted. “As a matter of fact I didn’t voice an opinion at all. It wasn’t the topic we were discussing. A student actually challenged me as to why we need to learn history, claiming that all that study did not teach us how to get rid of those ‘bad guys.’ He said, and I think I’m quoting verbatim: ‘Barbara Tuchman’s March of Folly pales in comparison to the utter stupidity, the total denseness, of the leaders of what we jokingly call the ‘free’ world.’”

  “Well, my dear, those are two separate issues altogether, aren’t they? History, as I understand it, is an academic pursuit. It has nothing to do with the behavior of power-mad lunatics.”

  “I believe I made that point very clear at the lecture, Ced,” Anne said. She was the only person who called him that. I can’t address you as Sir Cedric every time we talk—that’s ridiculous! she had explained. And frankly, I never liked the name Cedric. It’ll have to be Ced or ‘hey, you!’ Take your pick. And he had, and liked it, too. Though he would never have tolerated anyone else to even dare breathe that name within hearing distance, and he even made Anne promise never to call him Ced in public. “I was actually mulling over the points brought up regarding the dictators. And I found myself quite disturbed by them.”