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    The Eugenics Solution: Paul Decker assignments, #6
    The Eugenics Solution: Paul Decker assignments, #6
    The Eugenics Solution: Paul Decker assignments, #6
    Ebook355 pages4 hours

    The Eugenics Solution: Paul Decker assignments, #6

    By Jeffry Weiss

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    About this ebook

    America has been placed on "trial" by the "Friends of the Planet": a powerful, but secret organization, and found guilty of waste and degradation of the planet's resources.  They will use their orbiting satellites to send down a deadly EM frequency, which will go through the Wi-Fi towers, killing the consumers residing in "wired cities", leaving the farmers and ranchers to feed the rest of the planet.

     

    The Antagonist is a diabolical, brilliant Bavarian Prince for whom death of his enemies is not nearly enough.  But is it all madness when the elimination of three hundred million people might save seven billion. 

     

    The plot is as much a war of words and wit as a battle of weapons.

     

    It is a race against time, as Paul Decker - along with is ex-wife, an east European hacker and Chechen fighters – chase Prince Hansel through Europe but remain one step behind to the very end.

     

     

     

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJeffry Weiss
    Release dateJan 28, 2016
    ISBN9781519965431
    The Eugenics Solution: Paul Decker assignments, #6
    Author

    Jeffry Weiss

    BIOGRAPHY Mr. Weiss attended Central High School, at the time recognized as the top High School academically in the U.S.  He then attended Drexel University where he gained a BS in History, Temple University where he earned an MA in Economics and the University of Pennsylvania where he received an MA in International Affairs.  Those studies provided him with unique insights in the realm of foreign policy, military capabilities, détente, and trade. He has been a writer for forty plus years and has penned hundreds of articles on social, political, and economic issues.  He has written position papers for the Carter and Clinton Administrations and his work on social issues has received recognition directly from the office of the President of México.  He speaks regularly with Noam Chomsky on political, economic, cultural, and military issues. Mr. Weiss writes political, military, economic and scientific thrillers.  There are now twelve books in the Paul Decker series.  All his stories come right off the front pages of the major magazines and newspapers but none of his plots has ever found their way into novel before.  His characters are ones readers can relate to: flawed, not superheroes.  His stories do not require a leap of faith or use deus ex machina. Finally, he has written a stage play, “Einstein at the Guten Zeiten (good times) Beer Garden, and an urban horror novel: “The Art of Theft”, a modern day version of “The Picture of Dorian Grey” by Oscar Wilde.

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      Book preview

      The Eugenics Solution - Jeffry Weiss

      CHAPTER ONE

      Zagreb, Yugoslavia.

      The room fell silent as the typing ceased.  An intense, anxious woman folded her laptop and pushed back from the table.  Galina Krajina had become anorexic, having disregarded too many meals in her manic state.  So dedicated was she to her work that personal needs had become secondary to the needs of the world.

      She had just finished editing a report that revealed the actual group behind the Serbian War and the subsequent genocides. 

      It had taken her two decades to gather and confirm the revelations.  There was no longer a scintilla of doubt that it was Friends of the Planet who was responsible for the genocide.  And that news would shake the world.  She would send the report to the prosecutor at The Hague after one more review for typos.  In the interim, she took a break to feed her cats.  All came at her beckoning, save one.

      From the back door came a Meow.

      How did you get out? she asked herself.  It’s chilly out there and you know you don’t like the cold.  If you’re ready to come in, I’ll warm up some milk for you.

      Galina - all five feet, one hundred pounds of her - opened the door to allow the Cheshire back in.  Instead of a cat rushing in, a very large man, who took up the width of the doorway, reached in and cupped a hand over her mouth before she could scream.  The intruder dragged her to the dining room and forced her into a chair. 

      Another man, shorter but more sinister-looking - with narrow, squinted eyes, beneath a hat pulled down low, covering most of his forehead, and lips frozen in a perpetual sneer - entered the house behind the first man. 

      He unzipped a small carrying case, took out a syringe, pushed the needle tip into a vial and took up the liquid contents, smiling at his handiwork and the fear he could instill.  Even if it were a saline solution, he knew that just the sight of the needle was enough to extract information from the most reluctant subject. 

      Galina’s eyes bulged when she saw the needle.  The veins in her temples and neck pulsated.  She tried to scream but the huge hand over her mouth made that impossible.  Only a squeak came out.

      When my friend takes his hand away from your mouth you will answer my questions, the smaller man said reassuringly.  If you try to scream I will kill all your cats in the most horrible, protracted manner imaginable.  Nod your head if you understand.

      Galina nodded vigorously.

      Where are the files? the man asked, watching the woman carefully.

      The monster removed his hand.

      Who are you?  Why are you doing this?

      But you know who we are, the smaller man said.

      No!  You must have me confused for someone else, she lied, grasping for her last straw of freedom.

      The big man placed his hand over her mouth again.  That is not the answer to our question.  Let’s try once more.  Where are the files? he asked, then took his hand away.

      Galina gasped.  It took her several seconds before she could breathe in enough air to talk.  It’s all in my laptop, she said, spewing the words out before the hand returned.  Her eyes looked toward the computer on the coffee table. 

      Anything anywhere else? he asked in a pleasant, off-handed way. 

      For a split second, the woman thought there was a chance she might live through the ordeal.

      No.  Nothing.  I swear! she exclaimed, immediately realizing she had given away her only leverage.  She thrashed and struggled, biting down hard as the hulk cupped his hand over her mouth again.  The man was unfazed.

      Now, since you have answered our questions, we shall answer yours, the diminutive man said.  We were sent by the group you so unwisely chose to write about.

      The smaller man nodded to his friend who removed his hand from Galina’s mouth.

      Friends of the Planet? she gasped.

      Yes, but you must never mention that name again.

      I swear.  I would never—.

      The hulk cupped his hand over Galina’s mouth. 

      Unfortunately, we cannot simply take your word for that, the big man replied.

      His friend with the needle pushed her sleeve up and injected the poison.  She shook violently for a moment, then her body went slack. 

      Cape Town, South Africa.

      The home of Pieter Vorster lay in a remote part of the city, abutting the foothills of the Twelve Apostles.  He valued his privacy and accepted the extra effort to get into town to do his shopping and business.

      Peter was frail, with snow white hair and bushy eyebrows, now in his declining years.  He rolled his wheelchair back from the dining room table where he had earlier in the evening concluded an interview.  It was the first time he had discussed his relationship with Friends of the Planet - of which he had been a member for more than a decade - since leaving that organization three years before.  Pieter had named names; offered times, dates, and places to Le Canard Enchaîné, the weekly French newspaper.  Their reporter, Jan Ebulene, was a very nice young man, professional and respectful of his elders.

      The reporter departed an hour before, leaving Pieter to his tea and biscuit.  He blew on his drink to cool it off, savoring the feeling of satisfaction for having exposed the group.

      There was a knock on the door, shaking Pieter out of his reminiscences.

      Strange at this late hour, he thought. 

      Apartheid had ended decades before but his home was isolated and there was still racial violence taking place.  He figured maybe the young reporter had forgotten something and returned.

      Hunched in his chair, near sighted and hard of hearing, he rolled himself over to the door.  He was a cautious man and so he opened it partially, keeping the chain attached. 

      Who is it? he asked, squinting into the darkness, fumbling for his glasses.

      Collecting for the children, sir, a priest replied, a tin can - showing images of children in wheelchairs and hospital beds - in his extended hand.

      Of course!  Pieter slid the chain off, opened the door a little more and reached into his pocket for change.

      As he looked down, the priest shot Pieter with a taser gun.

      The old man fell out of his wheelchair and onto the floor. 

      The intruder pushed the limp body out of the way and closed the door.

      With his glasses gone, Pieter could barely see.  Dazed, he managed to recover his senses and control of his muscles in just a few moments.  What do you want? he cried.  I have nothing but my work!

      That’s what we want, the invader smiled.  He was tall, thin, young and articulate.

      But it’s all in my head! Pieter responded, confused by the request and unable to make any connection between his work and the break-in.

      We are aware of that, the burglar replied.  But now it is also in someone else’s possession, correct?

      Jan? Pieter asked.

      Jan!  Ah, so that was his name, the home invader laughed.

      Was? the old man asked, squinting up into the overhead light, trying to discern the intruder’s features.

      Misfortune follows misfortune, sir.  I have murdered your friend.  My humblest apologies.

      Murder?  Murder you say! Pieter exclaimed.  But why?

      For the same reason I must now kill you.  You spoke a name that others were never meant to hear.

      There is no need for this, Pieter said.  You have my word.  I will—-.

      The man grabbed Pieter’s jacket, lifted him off the floor, put him in a head lock and twisted it violently.  Pieter’s neck snapped audibly, like a twig off a tree in late fall.

      The killer carried the body over to the steps leading to the basement and threw Pieter down the stairs.  The assassin waited a few moments to see if there was any movement.  Satisfied, he left the house.

      Frankfurt, Germany. 

      Hienrik Mencken sat reading in his study beneath a dim lamp, more than satisfied with the progress he had made with his research.  He had accumulated evidence against Friends of the Planet and would now expose them and the crimes they perpetrated – crimes of such magnitude that even he had a hard time believing the facts he had uncovered.

      He’d been a newspaper reporter in his early days.  He became a top-notch researcher and developed many close ties with important, well-connected people both in and out of government.  And he had used all those connections to gather the evidence against the most sinister group of men and women in recent history.

      The only thing that had slowed his work down was his age and arthritis that made even typing on a computer a hardship that found him only able to peck the keys.  He closed the thick file and shut his eyes.  A half smile on his face as he dozed off.

      Hienrik did not stir as the window at the rear of the house opened.  Nor did he hear the soft footsteps as a man entered stealthily. 

      Once the burglar confirmed that Hienrik was alone in the house, he stepped over to the chair in which the old man had fallen asleep.

      Hienrik, he whispered.  When the German did not respond, the intruder shook his knee.

      Hello? Hienrik asked, regaining his senses.  What?  Who are you?  How did—?

      Ah, Herr Mencken, the man replied, pointing a silenced pistol at the old man.  It is I who will be asking the questions, and you who will give the answers.

      I’ll do no such thing!  Hienrik tried to push the gun aside.  He was hardly afraid, having fought in numerous wars as a mercenary.

      Do you know where your grandchildren are tonight, Hienrik? the man asked.

      Of course, they are with their mother.  But why...?

      The intruder took out a cell phone, punched in numbers and handed the phone to Hienrik.  I am hiding in the garage of your daughter’s house at 413 Jagghammer Road in Innenstadt, a sinister voice informed him.  I will kill your three grandchildren: Marta, Kris and Reinhold, unless you do exactly as the man sitting with you says.  Do you understand?

      Yes, Hienrik said to the man on the line.

      Then hand the phone to my associate.

      The invader spoke briefly to his accomplice, then hung up and said in a cold and calculating manner to Hienrik, Now you will do exactly as I say or your grandchildren will die, one at a time, very slowly.

      What is it you want me to do?

      Where are the files you have been working on?

      Which files? Hienrik stalled.

      The man punched in the number on his phone.  Kill the first child.

      No!  No!  Wait, Hienrik said.  I’ll give you the files.  He reached over to the end table and pulled out an inch-thick dossier in a manila sleeve.  Here.  Now, will you leave me and my family alone?

      Not quite yet, Herr Hienrik.  Please be patient.

      The intruder prowled the room for other copies of the file, keeping a close eye on Hienrik.  When he was satisfied, he walked Hienrik to the dining room table and pushed him into a chair.

      The old man struggled against the pressure.

      Relax, Herr Menken, the intruder said in a kindly fashion.  You must be tired after your ordeal.  So much time spent doing your research, gathering facts, confirming details.  A shame it will never see the light of day.

      The intruder took a page from his jacket and placed it in front of the old man.  Please sign this, he said cordially.

      But I must read it first, Hienrik insisted.

      Oh, no, Herr Menken, there isn’t time for that, the intruder said, pointing the gun to Heinrick’s head.

      The old man acquiesced.

      Very good, Herr Menken, the intruder said, please with the effort.

      The intruder placed the gun firmly in the old man’s grip, with his own hand on top of Hienrik’s.

      What are you—?

      I’ll be gone in a minute and everything in your life will be back to normal, in a manner of speaking, he said, then laughed.  He pointed the gun at the old man’s temple and fired before Hienrik realized what was happening.  The bullet left a finger-sized hole in Hienrik’s temple and blew his brains out the side of his head. 

      The intruder gently placed the old man’s head down on the table, and slipped the note under his left hand.  The assassin took one more look around the house, picked up the file, and left as quietly as he had entered.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Cuates y Cuetes.  Puerto Vallarta, México.  Sunset.

      Paul Decker stayed on past the hospitable winter months and now it was almost into the rainy season.  He looked at the sun through the shot glass he held in front of his eyes, admiring the way the glass acted as a prism diffracting the rays into all the colors of a rainbow. 

      He’d been in Vallarta ever since completing his mission in Europe chasing down Willem Coetzee.  President Hardessy offered him any one of a number of choice assignments, but Paul had turned them all down.  He needed to catch up on his drinking.  An assignment brought with it responsibility for others.  And while Paul didn't mind risking his own life, he couldn’t handle the death of one more person who looked to him as a savior.

      He was in the most beautiful place on earth, and the pace of life soothed his soul.  Sure, he still drank, but that was only instead of breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  All the other expats did the same.  They were people who commiserated with one another without asking how each of them found their way there. 

      Vallarta was paradise....if one didn’t look too closely. The expats reliving lives long past, toasting achievements embellished over the years, blotting out memories of friends and family left behind.

      The bar waiters opened the umbrellas in anticipation of afternoon showers.  Plastic chairs provided by Pacifico, Corona, and Modelo beer manufacturers sat scattered on the beach in a haphazard manner, at least it seemed so as far as the gringos were concerned.  For the Mexicans, it all made perfect sense.

      The sun was almost down to the horizon.  That meant it was 6:30 p.m.  Thirty minutes of Happy Hour left, after that the price of drinks would double and the portions would slowly and stealthily get smaller.  He didn’t want to chug them down, but he didn’t want to run out of time or money and still be sober.   

      Paul had been at the bar for two hours, frequently beckoning the waiter for a refill.  They were kind enough to bring out a bowl of chips and salsa with the last round.  The bar made those things fresh all during the day and some of the ex-pats chose to fill up on the snacks instead of an expensive dinner, which had gotten out of reach for those on a limited budget.

      His mind wandered to a place he would have preferred not to go, not at that moment, with his focus on a sunset.  Paul thought about his ex-wife, Susan, and his children, Carrie and Daniel.  He wasn’t exactly proud of his contributions to the family, unless you could call broken promises and missed opportunities contributions.  He knew that Susan was back working.  She might have mentioned what her current assignment was about, but that was lost in his clouded brain along with a million other pieces of minutiae. 

      He had a clearer vision of his children; as if remembering the details of their lives now atoned for the neglect while they were grown up.  His daughter Carrie had finished her nursing degree and was working in Pittsburgh.  Daniel was promoted to major in the Border Patrol, and now in charge of nine hundred miles of fence and desert from El Paso to Matamoras.  Paul was lucky they were still writing to him. 

      Then the wind took those images away, just as easily as he had set aside his family to satisfy a junkie’s need for military combat.

      He dipped a chip into the bowl of salsa and realized he had finished that.  He looked for a waiter but noticed that they, and most of the patrons, were congregated around the TV set at the bar.

      He gathered himself up, taking tentative steps at first, and walked haltingly to the bar, using the occasional table and chair to steady himself.

      The cause for the interest was a special news program airing from the States. 

      Bloomberg News.  Midtown Manhattan, New York City

      Hank Landers, the evening news anchor, shuffled his papers, then looked straight into the camera.  This is Bloomberg News airing a special report tonight that concerns us all.

      The man was polished, from his silver, styled hair to the tips of his manicured nails.  Hank was the caricature of a news anchor: ruggedly handsome, tanned, erudite, and very well prepared, but a little too much Hollywood. 

      In our follow-up to a story we aired two weeks ago, he said in his deep baritone voice, "new information has come to light that makes this prime time news.  We’ve spoken before about CCD, or Colony Collapse Disorder, where ninety percent of all the bees in America have disappeared. 

      "U.S. scientists have found a number of different pesticides in samples of bees, wax and pollen, lending credence to the notion that pesticides are the issue. 

      To provide more insight into the problem, we have with us tonight Doctor Jeffery Porter from the CDC, the Center for Disease Control.

      Hank shifted in his seat so as to face his guest directly.  Welcome, Doctor Porter.

      The guest was dressed in jeans, a tweed jacket, white shirt and red tie.  His long brown hair covered his collar and ears partially.  He crossed and uncrossed his legs.  His movements were lithe, those of a man in a hurry. 

      Thanks for having me, the doctor said. 

      Can you tell us why we should be concerned about bees?

      We believe that some combination of pesticides, climate change and air pollution are converging to kill the colonies.

      Yes, that much we know.  Hank tapped his pen against the large glass desk like a metronome, trying to move the interview along more quickly and get to the meat of the issue.

      What some don’t know is that bees contribute to global food security, and their extinction would represent a terrible biological disaster.

      I think we are all aware of that, doctor, Hank said.

      Doctor Porter threw a look of frustration at Hank before responding.  Well, what you may not realize, Hank, is that bees are a barometer of what man is doing to the environment, similar to miners relying on canaries in the coal mine.  Just as animals behave weirdly before an earthquake or a hurricane, cowering in a corner or howling in the wind, the silent, empty hives are a harbinger of a looming ecological crisis.

      The anchor was ready to break in when Porter jumped ahead of him.

      European beekeepers accuse scientists and government agencies of being in the pocket of the chemical companies.  It's a similar story in the United States, where scientists maintain there is no correlation between the bees' disappearance and pesticide use. Others say that Big Agriculture has control of the U.S.D.A. from the secretary right down to the lowest man on the totem pole.

      Anxious to wrap up the interview, Hank said, It’s still just about bees, doctor.

      The greater concern is the present direction of the problem, Doctor Potter explained.  Those looking at just the bees are missing the bigger picture.  Other species have begun dying.  Are those deaths the result of the same pesticides?  Or are we looking at the problem through blinders and missing far more serious implications?

      And what do you think, doctor? Hank asked.

      I think that the bees are the tip of the iceberg, and if we don’t marshal all possible resources immediately, we are headed toward a calamity of untold proportions.

      Still the opinion of a small group of scientists, Hank argued.

      And also Albert Einstein.

      Taken aback, Hank asked, What does Einstein have to do with bees?

      In 1953, Albert Einstein said, and I quote, ‘When all the bees are gone, humans will be extinct within four years.’

      Well, that sounds like the basis of another show.  We will definitely have you back another time to reassess the situation.

      If there is a next time.

      Cuates y Cuetes.  Puerto Vallarta, México.  Sunset.

      There were murmurs from those gathered at the bar regarding the importance of the newscast.  Then matters were placed in order of importance and what was most important to Paul was becoming inebriated to the point where dark memories could not rise to the surface.

      He had a few conversations of commiserations with the other expats, which provided the impetus for several more rounds of drinks, well, six actually, but who counts when you’re talking to friends?

      Finally, at 1:00 a.m., Paul left the bar and made his way back to his casita.

      His apartment was at the very edge of town, in the South Beach section of the city.  No traffic, cars or people walked beyond the few homes there.  The road stopped, the walking path ended and a rock jetty stuck out far enough to ward off the curious or the quarrelsome. 

      He lifted his head and looked around his small apartment.  If there were two people, a couple, living there, it might be considered a honeymoon bungalow.  With just Paul in residence, it was a mental ward.

      Paul sat on the edge of his bed, head cupped in his hands.  Unsure as to whether it was the room or his head that was spinning, he squeezed until his eyeballs bulged.  It had gotten so bad recently that he didn’t know if things were actually happening, or if he just imagined them.  He decided it was better to be safe than sorry and assume they were real. 

      There was a buzzing sound coming from somewhere on his body.  It felt like a bee or wasp in his clothes.  He jumped up, smacked his arms, legs and

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