Chapter 2

I Kings 19:19-20
“So Elijah went from there and found Elisha son of Shaphat. He was plowing with twelve yoke of oxen, and he himself was driving the twelfth pair. Elijah went up to him and threw his cloak around him. Elisha then left his oxen and ran after Elijah…”


11:33 am,
14/8/2001
298 Gaipa Street,
Arequipa, Peru

John Smith looked at his Uncle who was eating breakfast across the table and he saw that Uncle had something to say. John had, over the course of time, grown used to sensing people’s emotion. The uncle himself had personally taught him. The Uncle was obviously proud of both his own and John’s ability to read people. Uncle had taken him to the market a couple of times and asked John what arguments from across the street were about, what customers were the favourites of the sellers because of how much they could get out of them and the like.

Uncle was studying John under those sunglasses of his. John had seen a lot of political photos for a man that lived in Peru, and Uncle looked the most like the photo’s of the FBI than like any other man he had ever seen in his life. Finally Uncle broke his silence. “It’s time,” he said. John did not doubt it was time for whatever he meant- it always was. But Uncle was talking some more: “You’ve got an appointment for a meeting in 5 minutes. Pack your bags. You’re going to be there for a while.”

John did what he was told unquestioningly and seemingly uncurious but inwardly John was only slightly puzzled. John at a meeting? This would be the first meeting of his life, despite how well he knew how meetings worked. He knew the ins and outs of meetings better than most executives. 5 minutes and 32 seconds a limousine pulled up. “They’re here!” Uncle called. The fact that they pulled up 32 seconds late left a bad first impression on John, he considered that amateurish.

* * * * *

3:56 pm,
Mansion in the
Eastern outskirts
Of Peru, that is,
Virtually In the
Jungle.

David Thompson looked at John Smith. “Please,” he said, “sit.” John Smith nodded and sat in one of the lounges. “Wine?” asked David, but John replied: “my apologies sir, but I prefer to keep my head perfectly clear in the company of strangers.”
“Of course, said David, “I presume you are wondering how you came to be here?”
“I have a feeling you are going to tell me regardless.”
“Do you want to know?”
“Of course.”
“You came here because you are a patsy, of sorts.”
“Like Lee Harvey Oswald?”
“In a manner of speaking. You however, were designed for a completely different purpose. You were designed to find that out and stop been a patsy. Today that process shall begin.”
“Wonderful.”
“You know about politics?”
“I know enough.”
“Good. Then you should know about the Mafia then and all other sorts of ‘secret’ organisations?”
“Yes.”
“Would you believe it then that there is a secret organisation that controls the world without their knowing it?”
“Would you by any chance have any connections to this organisation?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Convincing me should be no problem then.”
“It won’t be- trust me.”
“Does this organisation by any chance have a name?”
“What is a name? Would a rose by any other name smell so sweet? Would the Mafia by any other name capture the imagination of the world? The Mafia wasn’t even called the Mafia until some outsiders decided they needed a name and the name just stuck. Only outsiders need to know the name. Also, not knowing the name helps us out with the authorities. There is no media attention, no public outcry. Who cares about a nameless organisation? The name Attila the Hun still sends a chill down some people’s spine these days. Besides, the FBI or M16 or ASIO or whatever organisation finds tracks of us cannot come to the public and say: “Be wary of a nameless organisation that is very powerful!” The public will either take it as a sign of weakness that they don’t know the name or become suspicious.”

“The Mafia was known as La Costa Nostra even to insiders though wasn’t it?”
“Italian for: The Thing? True. Similarly, our organisation does have a name for the overall mission: Control.”
“Mission: Control and mission control; two very different things separated by a semi colon that could easily be confused with the other. I like it.”
David nodded. “You have been selected and designed to take on a role of utmost importance in this organisation,” he said, contemplating him keenly, “there are books in your quarters called The Annals of Control that you will need to read to get an understanding of this organisation works. But I will briefly explain it to you now.

This organisation is broken up into divisions: Military, Phycology, Organisation, Communication and, most recently, Media. Every division works in unison to create what we want: control. Organisation makes sure they work in unison; Communication makes sure everybody from boss to patsy gets messages. Military and Phycology are the actual divisions who ‘do’ the work. Military is fairly self-explanatory, the Phycology Division however is our secret weapon, our trump card. They train the Military Division with much more efficiency- mind over matter and things of such. They train unsuspecting ‘patsy’s’, like what you were up till now to be ‘programmed’ to do what they design them to do. But there is too much to explain now, the first few books in The Annals of Control will teach you how they work.”
“And the Media Division?”

“Ah yes, the Media Division, the newest, but by no means the least of the Divisions. We have got agents in most of the major newspapers, news stations etc, but almost never to cover it up. Instead, they change the view. So, for example, instead of adopting the general view of: ‘Oh no, what should we do?!’ they change it to: ‘Oh no, what can we do?!” The difference seems minor but is incredibly useful to us. The butler will take you to your conow. Goodbye.”