I – III

[Read Prologue, Ch. One, Ch. Two]

Optimism starts with what maybe the most extraordinary of human talents…

Optimism starts with what maybe the most extraordinary of human talents: mental time travel, the ability to move back and forth through time and space in one’s mind. Although most of us take this ability for granted, our capacity to envision a different time and place is in fact critical to our survival – Tali Sharot, “The Optimism Bias”, 2011.

Belmear poured cream into the fresh-brewed Kona coffee, never-ceasing to be enchanted by the roiling cloudbursts the cream made when it commingled with sugar-laced coffee. It was his “let’s get down to business” ritual to drink coffee with orange slices and a plain, unbuttered English muffin at the start of the morning. Belmear was up at 5:00am; he exercised and was down in the lobby by 6:00am (he hadn’t shaken off the effects of jetlag from the East coast) and he was slightly upset that he was returning to this ritual, considering that he had planned very hard to give it up. Belmear sipped his coffee and thought about the last early morning “appointment” he had.

Island of Nevis

Nevis seemed like a place where he could avoid any accidental bump-into’s. He was unsure how Bill Williams knew exactly where to find him (Nevis was not your everyday Caribbean Island); but when Williams loomed over Belmear’s beach chair, he wasn’t just blocking the sun, he was standing in the way of his “retirement.” After nine months of docile island women, Belmear found himself missing the challenging nature of East coast women (or maybe he was just accustomed to them and didn’t know how to respond to something different?). He hadn’t truly gave it much thought… all he knew was that he had only recently finished instructing the local girl on how to expertly satisfy his sexual appetites, and now it was about to end).

Williams’ interruption was unexpected, yes, but not so unwanted. Belmear, however, was surprised that it was actually Williams standing there in the hot sun. It meant that they were serious about their intent to bring him back.

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised, Horace,” Williams said.

“That’s exactly why you don’t want me back; can’t hide my emotions any more.”

“That’s horseshit and you know it. I know your faux-surprised face when I see it, I’ve seen it a million times.”

“The Party doesn’t need me, Bill. Hell, they want to forget all about me.”

“You’re probably right, and the City doesn’t need you either, but the State… the State does.”

The look on Belmear’s face this time was genuine. He met Williams’ eye for the first time, probing his face for what was unsaid. Then he glanced at his local girl frolicking in the water with some equally dick-stiffening friend; he wouldn’t be enjoying the evening’s activities. Not now.

“Before you make your final decision. Do me a favor, okay?”

“Sure, Bill, for old time’s sake. What do you need?”

“Have you ever heard of Jonas Magnum?”

At 6:15am, Belmear saw a far too hip young man enter the hotel lobby with a tipsy (some would say slutty) redhead. Belmear could tell they had made their mark on the town during the night. Belmear recognized the man from the glossy posters that dominated the décor in his granddaughter’s bedroom, some rock star or pop star (Miles something or other). He couldn’t keep track, nor did he care to keep track of who was who in the ever-changing pop music scene. All Belmear knew was this trickster was no Robert Plant or Prince or even Anthony Keidis, so what did it matter? But it could not be a coincidence that this A-List celebrity was in the same hotel at the same time… he, too, was seeking Jonas’ help.

He wondered why Magnum issued instructions to gather in the hotel lobby and not at the location of the retreat. Who I am to question someone’s methods? As long they produce results, criticism of tactics can be brushed aside in the end… as Belmear knew for too well.

Over the next ninety minutes, Belmear watched nine people trickle down from their hotel rooms and gather in the lobby’s lounge. He only raised an eye when that bum stumbled in and plopped down behind one of the lounge’s sofas. Belmear flirted with his waitress a few times, but he figured she couldn’t picture herself in bed with a Black man in his 60s and didn’t know exactly how to respond.

Belmear didn’t identify anyone from the Delta Understanding; but he had no idea what they were supposed to look like so he couldn’t know if they were already here… watching. At five minutes to eight, a few minutes after the rock star ushered his toy into a cab and strolled over (no doubt fighting off the coming hangover), Belmear stood and crossed to the lounge himself to join the others.

Another twenty minutes later,  the elevator doors opened and Domino and Lennox stepped out. They crossed the lobby. Besides the check-in desk staff, the place was still pretty much vacant. Lennox quickly scanned the ten people… they appeared to have nothing in common, he knew that they would NEVER come together under normal circumstances; among the group was Hadji.  One of the other men, in dark sunglasses and a hoodie, leaned against the wall. Lennox knew exactly who it was – troubled rock star Miles Doherty who was always appearing on The New York Post’s Page 6 or US Weekly with the latest, nubile Hollywood starlet. Lennox also recognized the tall, muscular black guy; Marquis Toussaint, the NBA basketball star who chatted with Hadji, but no one else.

Lennox turned to Domino, “I guess it’s time for us to join the others. Would you excuse me? I see an old friend.”

“Sure.  Mr. Lennox…?” Lennox turned back to look at her – he never told her his last name. How did she know? Did he know her, did she know him? His wife Leighton always told him his memory was above normal, and he had a hard time not picking up and involuntarily committing bits and pieces of information about people to memory. He would have remembered this Domino; she was too striking not to, and her energy was dangerous, yet alluring. He nodded and kept going, and before he could really process the fact that she knew him, Hadji intercepted Lennox.

“Hello, are you here for Delta?”

“Yes, is Jonas meeting us here?”

“That would be more than fantastic, wouldn’t it?” Hadji said, extending his hand. “I’m Hadji, Hadji Gera.” He said it like Lennox was supposed to know it. But the name didn’t resonate with Lennox.

“Hi… Just a second.” Lennox walked off; didn’t even shake Hadji’s hand.  Lennox cut around a sofa and damn near tripped over someone laying in a heap against it. It was Vanvernard “Van” Wayne, although he was in his late 30s, years as a homeless bum withered his skin, his spirit. And he needed a bath; that rancid order of unwashed skin stank to high heaven.

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t see…” What the hell was this fucking bum doing here? He couldn’t possibly afford to attend the Delta Retreat. Van grunted, brusquely waved him away and hoped to get comfortable again on the floor in a ball.

At the hotel check-in desk, Jess Filipovic, one of the on-duty receptionists, kept a wary eye on the people who gathered for The Delta Understanding. She regarded the latecomers (Lennox and Domino)… the last of the thirteen. She wondered why Lennox was so casually rude to Hadji and why he made a beeline to Belmear, who stood imposingly with his arms behind his back. Who did that arrogant prick think he was?

Lennox approached Belmear with a half-smile on his face. “Hello, we’ve met before.  A few years ago at one of your fund-raisers –,” Lennox began.

“Yes.  It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. … Lennox,” Belmear smiled.

“I’m flattered you remembered.”

“You’re with Echo Bridge Consultants, if I remember correctly?”

“Yeah… I’m no longer there.”

Belmear raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t it your company?  That’s not why you’re here, is it?”

Lennox uncomfortably smiled, and was about to say something witty but carefully designed for damage control when:

“Good morning!” thundered over the small talk. Everyone turned to see Cynthia, looking so stunning that the temperature in the room shifted.  Her white Dolce & Gabbana pantsuit was expertly tailored for her delicious dimensions. Two assistants flanked her with what could only be described as amorphous faces, more akin to rubber masks than flesh and blood.

“Welcome to Delta.  My name is Cynthia. I see that everyone is here, and I trust you’re well rested because today begins Day One in your new life.”

At the check-in desk, the receptionists casually watched.  The young, handsome, but stupid guy remarked, “Who is that hottie?” He turned to Jess, but she was gone…

“You are about to embark on, what we at The Understanding know will be, a life-altering experience,” Cynthia continued. One of her assistants deftly slipped away. “To that end, follow me and we will take your first step toward the Delta Understanding.” Cynthia headed toward the main doors, then detoured to the elevators. Cynthia’s assistant had two elevators waiting.  Cynthia led the Thirteen inside.  Lennox got on last. The doors closed and up they went.

I-Prologue

In the deep darkness…

In the deep darkness Sabrina was aware of the breathing of the people next to her. The room’s silence was only interrupted by the soft hum of a P.A. system. The breathing wasn’t anxious, but intense… expectant… they were all waiting for the next moment…

The lights snapped on!

“Do you feel it,” said a seductive, yet powerful voice over the P.A. System. A crowd of at least a hundred people responded, “Yes!”

“People… Do. You. Feel. It?!” Syncopated with the “it”, the house lights to this impressive, post-Modernist auditorium snapped back on. Frank Gehry or I.M. Pei would have sold their souls to have designed this place. Taking it in again, after the extended darkness, Sabrina remarked that the architecture was invigorating, yet soothing. She wondered what the others thought of the meticulously crafted presentation. Yet she knew of the 300 or so people in the auditorium, everyone would have their own individual reactions.

“YES!” the captive audience responded to the Voice’s question. Now with the lights back on Sabrina and the others from all walks of life, ranging from their late teens to the their early 70s and of every race, color and creed refocused their attention to the man who owned that voice.

Jonas Magnum. He imposingly stood in the center of the stage, head to toe in all white. A white so startling and sparkling that Sabrina just then remembered the only other place she had seen the likes of it before; in that old Superman movie from the 70s. She had seen it with her college boyfriend when it was newly released on DVD; everyone on Superman’s doomed home world wore a white fabric that was practically glowing. A curiously interesting feat in the dream factory’s pre-CGI glory days. That was Jonas… practically glowing on stage.

“What you are now feeling is that the world CAN BE yours… that it will be yours… that it is yours!”

Behind Jonas was a giant LED screen. On the screen was the seductive logo for THE DELTA UNDERSTANDING, a graphic artist’s wet dream come to life. The potent symbols incorporated into the logo’s construction subconsciously burned into any viewer’s collective unconscious in such a way that no two viewers would experience exactly the same thing.

Sabrina pulled her eyes off the logo and focused them back on Jonas, as he now began to stride across the stride.

“What you are feeling is LIFE. With all the bombardment of technology and banal message into our daily lives, and how we communicate electronically more than organically you’ve probably forgotten what it truly means to be caressed by life, to embrace life and all it has to offer. To let its essence flow over and through you.”

Sitting in the front rows definitely had its advantages, and Sabrina took special note of Jonas’ every hand gesture, every smile, every stop and turn to an audience member as he looked them directly in the eye. Sabrina was getting wet in anticipation that Jonas would discover her.

“What you have to ask yourself is, ‘why’? Why has that feeling, that primal understanding, escaped you? That’s the real question, isn’t it?”

Jonas stopped and invitingly smiled at Sabrina. It was a brief, but lingering, charged, but easy smile, and Sabrina knew that if the opportunity presented itself (one she would try to make happen), she would fuck Jonas; she would encourage him to ravish her, if it was anal sex that he wanted (to avoid a pregnancy), she was already agreeing to it in her mind. Maybe she would protest, just a cursory protest. She imagined what his co—

Wait, wait, wait! This is exactly why I’m here, cautioned Sabrina’s voice inside her head. Her sometimes-unquenchable desire for reckless sex was an underlying reason why she came to the Delta Understanding in the first place. Reckless sex gave Sabrina a thrill and gave her opportunities to go places in life that she hadn’t expected. Yet she knew that reckless sex along with…

“What we, at Delta, are going to do is help you find when that exact moment of subtle emptiness first came about. Help you discover what I call The Agent of Change… that crippled you and then we will show you a better way.”

A stoic man, Walter, maybe in his mid to late 50s watched Jonas with a bit of skepticism. Walter had been to numerous so-called self-help seminars, panels, read the books, and he was still a miserable cynic, who only sporadically slept with women, even though he was remarkably fit, handsome and affable.

“Do you know what one of the greatest lies EVER told is,” continued Jonas with a deadly serious crackle in his eyes. “That you can change your situation in life just by putting your mind to it.”

This statement — cornerstone in most self-help and self-empowerment philosophy or mumbo-jumbo (as Walter now referred to it) — struck a chord with Walter. This guy knows exactly what I’m thinking, but am afraid to voice, remarked Walter… internally.

“It’s a lie, because you cannot change on your own; no one has. Take anyone who you think is ‘self-made’… they’re not. They had help. Help that is conveniently forgotten or glossed over in any success memoir, but it was there. That help tipped the scales. And you can see why this person is edited out, because he or she removes the ‘prodigy quality’ of successful people. The benefactor, no matter how small or even non-financial, was the catalyst. Catalysts by definition result in a change of state. Which is what we want for you.”

Walter inwardly smiled. He always guessed that his successful friends didn’t share the whole story about how they landed their first big break, and then continued to march up the latter of “I got mine, you get yours” that most people overtly or covertly play. Dr. Eric Berne alerted him to this relationship game among others. Walter wished he had pencil and paper to write down what Jonas was revealing, but that was expressly prohibited as part of the strict rules of the seminar.

“There is nothing mysterious about success or failure for that matter.  What happens in this world can be easily understood, because noth­ing happens without a reason.  All that is necessary is to find the reasons why things happen. That’s what Delta is all about.”

Standing just off-stage, in the wings, as they say, was Cynthia, a woman so beguiling with beauty and magnetic sexuality that men and women had gone out of their way to fuck. No matter what the cost. Cynthia held a RC control unit and intently watched Jonas as he reached the exact center of the stage, paused and indicted his captive audience with a shot across the bow of conventional wisdom.

“The question to ask yourself is: how many hours, minutes, seconds do you have left in your life to change your life?”

The split-second that Jonas finished speaking, Cynthia tapped the control button on the RC control unit, and the curtain began to swing shut, the lights rapidly dimmed to a sharp theatrical spot on Jonas, then completely went to black as the curtains crashed together. Perfect timing. Jonas would be pleased, she thought, exactly the affect he strove for.

Sabrina wanted more, needed more. Hopefully the thundering applause would lure Jonas back to center stage for another minute or two. She was standing now, vigorously clapping, just short of cheering, shouting for more.

Behind the curtain, Jonas walked off the stage and was immediately attacked by his support staff – well-wishes, bravoes, questions, messages, pleads for an encore. One thing was for certain… they (like the audience) were under Jonas’ spell.

He could answer every query with a canned response, but what would be the point? That wouldn’t truly satiate them, and he need to get away from them fast.

“Thank you – thank you – not now – talk to Cynthia,” where was she he thought. Ah, here she comes. “You’re too kind – tell them I’ll call them back immediately – seriously, thank you – if he calls, I’m never available.”

An ebullient PA presented Jonas with a soft towel to blot the sweat from his face. Cynthia now walked lockstep at his side with a 3-inch D-Ring binder clenched in her hand. She steered Jonas toward the Ready Room just down the corridor.

“Okay, people, you’ll have additional access to Mr. Magnum before the next stage,” she brushed them aside with a riveting stare. Cynthia was the drill sergeant not to be questioned, let alone fucked with. Jonas thankfully smiled at her.

“That was one of the best ones this year,” she complimented, as they were now alone and strode to the door.

“I’m slipping if that’s true,” he half-seriously countered. Did she honestly think that? He never questioned her judgment. Never. After all these years, how could he? Maybe he was slipping, and that his ability to self-assess was suspect. He would have to review the performance later; something he loathed.

“Jonas…”

“I know, I know… but if you knew how draining it is,” he explained, and then softly, “They suck everything out of you an still want more… listen!”

The audience… was still clapping, inanely hoping for a re-appearance by Jonas. The faux amazement on Jonas’ face brought a grin to Cynthia’s lips. Cynthia pushed the door open to the Ready Room, and followed Jonas in.

The Ready Room was a luxurious cross between a celebrity’s green room and an office. Jonas had it modeled after something he saw Steve Jobs do, but it had Jonas’ touches: a marble desk from the court of Mehmed III, the Ottoman Sultan, early Picasso sketches on the wall, Pontius Pilates’ rugs from his time in Judea, and several currently-muted LED flat screens that Samsung had yet to release, but somehow Jonas had snookered the head design officer to give him.

Guernica Sketches

“If this was easy, you wouldn’t be doing it,” Cynthia chided. She presented Jonas with the D-Ring and continued. “I’ve made my analysis and narrowed the list down to these eleven.” Devilish glee filled Jonas’ eyes as he took the D-ring, sat down at the desk and opened it.

Inside were eleven dossiers, dossiers that any covert intelligence agency or operation would envy at the thoroughness at the level of quality and presentation of information on these eleven strangers who would soon become more intimate than they could possibly imagine or want. This part was routine for Jonas, he was accustomed to how Cynthia arranged this insider information and knew exactly where she put the sordid secrets – the last sentence in the last paragraph on every page. What Jonas saw in this group promised surprises and challenges; he openly remarked on the fact, and relished the impending confrontations.

“Good choices… but do you think Walter will survive the Four Day retreat?” Cynthia shrugged, that was never her concern anyway. But she did have her own estimates, yet she rarely shared them. Jonas couldn’t remember when the last time was, let alone if she had been right. He assumed she was right in retrospect. He could count the times she was wrong on his left hand.

“I will send out their welcome packets first thing next week.”

“And I’ll follow up a week later… I know, I know, but I need you to remind me.  Now, I need ten, no fifteen minutes to recharge.”

“That’s cutting it close,” she responded as she checked her watch. Jonas had already turned his chair to face the 15^th century Kali mandala on the wall. Cynthia made her exit.

Kali - Goddess of Death Mandala

“Oh – no distractions,” he added. She said “no distractions” at the exact same instance, then locked the door from the inside, stepped out and gently closed the door. Jonas leaned back in his chair, spun around so his back faced the door. He shut his eyes and held them tightly shut, to ward off all possible light. If such a thing were possible, he had only achieved it once or twice. Then he relaxed the muscles that controlled his eyelids… but underneath, if one was to look closely they’d see that his eyeballs were jittering behind his eyelids.

Without warning Jonas stirred. He heard something… a footstep? He spun around.

“Forget something?”

Standing in the Ready Room with highly confrontational postures were two men. Gabe Banister, an African-American with clean, clean skin (no razor bumps, no hair really at all) and investigative eyes. Next to Gabe was Mick Stone, white with sandy blond hair and a 500-yard Iraq War Sniper’s stare. Everything about Banister and Stone was GQ model cool, except for their bad haircuts – straight military issue, and their shoes… combat boots that were so black that seemed to suck in the light. A black that would be considered disturbing in its complete absence of a reflection.

And more remarkable was Jonas’ near-shimmering white suit; it was now a dull white… as if these two interlopers cancelled its specular properties.

“You two,” spat Jonas, an undercurrent of ‘fuck you’ in his tone. Jonas defiantly stared at the two men, who stared even more defiantly back. Their eyes traded vicious daggers of contempt. Stone took a seat on the edge of Jonas’s desk, began fiddling with a stapler.

“Yes, us,” Banister finally responded. Stone flipped open the D-ring. “We know what you’re doing, and we’re here to tell you, ‘no’,” said Stone as he flipped through the dossiers and stopped on Walter’s file. “Not with him and not with her.” His manicured finger tapped Sabrina’s file.

“Oh really now, Agent Stone? You are going to tell me what I can and cannot do? I didn’t know that was… part of it.”

“Come on, Jonas, do you honestly think we’re not aware of your little games?” Banister retorted. Jonas knew they didn’t know anything concrete about his schemes, but there had been betrayers before… and they set him back.

Shattering the building tension was a quick knock at the door. “Jonas, it’s that time,” called out Cynthia from behind the door.

“Get rid of her!” Banister quietly hissed. Jonas held Banister’s gaze for a moment. No one told Jonas what to do. Ever. Not any more; he had seen to that a long time ago. Then anticipating Cynthia’s next knock, he shouted, “In a moment, Cynthia.”

But he wasn’t quick enough. The door unlocked and was starting to open. Stone covered the distance from the desk to the door at a frightening speed. He rammed his shoulder up against the door, slamming it shut and cast a “don’t make me get ugly” glare at Jonas.

“A moment, please, Cynthia,” Jonas calmly stated.

“… Okay… you have two minutes,” she said and walked off, her shoes clicking on the marble floor outside. Stone retook his position on the desk.

“Was that really necessary?”

“You tell us, Jonas?” Banister stated, it sound more like a rhetorical question than anything else. “You made a deal with the Old Man and you WILL abide the terms.”

“Does he even know that you’re here? I’m not one of your limp-dick lackeys – never again! Every thing, and I do mean every THING, is malleable. Different rules apply in this situation! So damn everything else!”

For a tense moment no one moved. Their eyes smoldered at each other. Who was going to blink first?

“It’s like that, huh?” escaped from Stone’s lips, breaking the silence. Jonas’ smile reeked of smugness. Stone lunged across the desk and seized Jonas by the throat! His vise-grip had the life-snuffing power of a noose. “Lemmie tell you how it’s gonna be, asshole! Do you what you want; you’re gonna slip-up an fall on your fat, ugly face. And I’ll be laughin’ the whole time.”

Jonas wasn’t prepared for the physical attack, a sign that Stone had lost control; which delighted Jonas. Control was everything. With remarkable quickness, Jonas wrenched Stone’s hand from his throat. Stone flinched from the sharp, twisting motion. Jonas shoved Stone back.

“Touch me again…” Jonas threatened as he straightened his suit jacket and tie. “Here’s the thing: I don’t lose. My FREE WILL is the only thing that separates me from the you and those like you, sad fucks that you are.”

Banister tried to interrupt him, “That remains t–” But Jonas spoke louder and faster, cutting him off.

“And I won’t give it up. I have too many people to save.” Stone smirked, but that didn’t deter Jonas, “Yes, that’s right – to save!”

“A fool’s errand,” Banister interjected. “Your kind corrupts.”

“That… is no longer true… and you not only know it, but must accept it.” Jonas stood up and concluded, “Now if you’ll kindly get the fuck out.”

“You’ve been warned,” Banister calmly replied, then headed toward the door. Jonas’ calculating eyes watched them leave. Once they stepped out the door, the shimmer in Jonas’ suit returned. He shook his head in disgust.

Continue to Chapter 1