Hostile Intent by Michael Walsh Read Free Book Online Page A

the United States of America, Anno Domini 2009. Excuse me, Common Era, 2009. The Lord is not much in our minds these days.” A flicker of a smile crossed his lips, signaling to the others that they were permitted a brief display of inaudible mirth. “Not the fearsome warrior it once was. Instead, a country ruled by women and eunuchs. Some call what is happening in Illinois a tragedy. We, however, here at Skorzeny International, call it something else. And what is it that we call it, gentlemen?”
    As one: “An opportunity .”
    “Precisely. An opportunity. After the first Gulf War, the first President Bush proclaimed the dawn of a New World Order. Even though he was ahead of his time, how right he was. By dint of careful, selected and… targeted …investments, we have been able to treble our operating capital. For you see, gentlemen, it is not true that the race belongs to the swift, or that the future belongs to the strong. Indeed not. The future belongs to the rich and the rich belong to the future. It is a symbiotic relationship, and one that will serve us all very handsomely in the coming days and weeks.”
    Skorzeny indicated the slender manila folders in front of each board member. On his signal, each man opened his folder, read the contents of the single sheet enclosed therein, then dropped it into the shredder slot next to each seat.
    Skorzeny watched them all intently as they digested his action plan. There was one among them who clearly demurred. “Signor Tignanello has a problem,” said Skorzeny.
    Tignanello was not the man’s real name, of course, but was rather his favorite kind of Italian wine. No one but Skorzeny used his real name here; such was the volume of entreaties for foundation support that the board members would never know a moment’s peace should their true identities be revealed.
    And, of course, Skorzeny’s name was not really “Skorzeny,” either, but no one needed to know that.
    Tignanello looked around the room, trying to avoid Skorzeny’s basilisk glare. All eyes turned to him.
    “Monsieur Skorzeny,” he began, “I have nothing against making money. None of us here does. We are, after all, all rich men.” He emitted a brief chuckle, hoping to bring his fellow board members around to his side via a small dollop of humor. In this he was immediately disappointed. “Still, what you are proposing here…I cannot, in good conscience…”
    Skorzeny let Tignanello’s words trail off, “conscience” hanging in midair and gradually fading away into silence. It was not a word heard often in this boardroom, and it seemed to foul the air.
    “So it’s not unanimous then?” asked Skorzeny, although it wasn’t a question. “I am disappointed. As you all know, we make no decisions here without complete and utter unanimity.”
    A glance from Skorzeny to Pilier, and the secretary took up a position just behind the Italian.
    “Far be it from me to…” Tignanello’s head was wrestling with his heart, and his heart was starting to lose when Pilier put his hands on Tignanello’s upper trapezius shoulder muscles, the one on either side of the neck, and started massaging them.
    “Perhaps you’d like to relax and reconsider,” suggested Skorzeny as Pilier’s hands moved up the sides of Tignanello’s neck. Both his index fingers found the indentation below the Adam’s apple and began to press, softly at first, then with increasing pressure.
    It was like slow-boiling a frog. Unable to breathe, unable to resist, Tignanello turned the color of his favorite wine. As he lost consciousness, Pilier gently rested the man’s head on the table.
    “So it is unanimous after all,” smiled Skorzeny. “Let the record show that Monsieur Tignanello was unable to vote due to ill health. Thank you, gentlemen. Monsieur Pilier, please inform our supplier in France that we are happy to accept his generous offer. I suggest you contact the HARBOR and the BOREALIS programs to obtain the sort of