Authors: Chris James
“Not a clue.” Pilot was consternated. “Can I ask you a question, Forrest? Why is someone like
you
talking to someone like
me
in the backwaters of Cornwall? I can’t figure out why you’re here.”
“Your isolation at the toe-end of Britain actually works in your,
our
, favour. You’re isolated in the physical sense, yet you’ve been to all the important place
s−
vicariously.” Vaalon’s expression softened. “I’ve spent the last eight years trying to get inside your head. Through my observers I know every book or journal you’ve read or looked at, including our article in
Science
. And when you’d log off the library computer, we’d check your browsing history, too.”
Pilot gulped, trying to remember all the questionable websites he’d visited growing up. Vaalon responded to his protégé’s obvious embarrassment with a shrug. “Don’t sweat it, Lonnie. Curiosity is a highly rated human trait. It was the breadth and depth of your studies that impressed me most. People are formed by what they experience and what they read and are taught. Your reading history over the years gave us a snapshot of what’s up there.” Vaalon pointed to Pilot’s head. “For example, the fifty-plus biographies of world leaders you took out – provided you actually read the
m−
will have imparted some insight as to what makes a good leader and what makes a bad one. Through osmosis, you can’t help but have picked up an understanding of the leader’s mindset.”
“I read them.”
“I’m relieved. The variety and depth of your other readings are a model of self-education. There’s something else I can tell you, Lonnie, about Ruth’s penchant for matchmaking. The children of three of our best friends are still enjoying near perfect marriages arranged by Ruth over thirty years ago. I decided to set her another matchmaking projec
t−
to apply the same process to finding a partner for our island-to-be. We worked hard defining our prerequisites. Independence; intelligence; that rare mix of humble self-confidence; passion; charisma; incorruptibility. The candidate had to have an understanding of politics, but no direct participation in i
t−
an uncut diamond with the potential to be a consummate leader. They had to work well with others, be excellent orators and have an element of ruthlessness about them.”
“Ruthlessness?” Pilot had never considered himself to be a ruthless person.
“You’re a mongoose among cobras. I could give you examples. In the pursuit of something just or right, nothing stops you. Of our six candidates, you scored second overall.”
“Second?”
“I’ll be honest with you, Lonnie. Six months ago, our first choice was killed in a drive-by shooting in Philadelphi
a−
innocent bystander caught in the cross-fire. That you and I are here together right now is a gift of fate. A
must
happen
transition.”
Pilot smiled with his eyes. “I’ll have to take your word for it, Forrest. Your people are very good, by the way. I never noticed anybody watching me, ever.”
“That’s because you saw no reason why anybody would
want
to. We see things when we’re wary – miss them when we’re not. If I put one of my people on you tomorrow, you’d spot them immediately.”
As they approached Penzance, Pilot gazed at the endless parked cars that had taken the place of the trees. “Is Mrs. Vaalon here with you?” he asked.
“No. She’s in Flushing, New York. Mount Hebron Cemetery. She died seven months ago.”
Pilot noted an emptiness in the man’s voice. “I’m sorry, Forrest. I didn’
t
– ”
“It’s okay, Lonnie. She’s cheering us on from the sidelines now.”
Half an hour later they were eating fish pie at the Tolcarne Inn. “So, Forrest, let me get this straight,” Pilot said. “You want to hire me to become governor of a strip of rock in the Bay of Biscay.”
“Correct.” Vaalon rotated his chair forty-five degrees and crossed his long legs in preparation for a monologue. He leaned forward and lowered his voice so as not to be overheard by the adjacent tables. “There’s a simple scale at play in the world today, Lonnie. On one side you have the accepted order of the human presence. Let’s call it the old oak tree. It’s well established, with roots that go deep and a canopy that throws its shade over everything. To many, it’s a beautiful and magnificent tree. Others know it’s dying because it has extracted all but the tiniest remainder of nourishment from the soil. It’s grown too big. On the other side, we have this,” he said, picking up the nearest beer mat, his chosen prop of the day.
“An acorn.”
“Most definitely
not
an acorn, Lonnie. That’s the whole problem. Acorns only grow up to be other oak trees. It’s cyclical.” Vaalon turned the beer mat over. “The world needs to be turned upside down, inside out and back to front just to get it back to where it should be. And to do that, we need a base. Not one within an existing country, but a virgin land free of history, tradition, religious and political dogma and the other barnacles of so-called civilization. But where do we find this place? In Africa somewhere? The South Pole? Lapland? All used up. There’s nowhere on earth that isn’t already in the hands of the opposition, apart from the bottom of the sea.” Vaalon paused to let his words settle across the table. “Lonnie, it’s my job to give you that base and your job to use i
t−
to establish a state which, by its very nature, calls into question the entire validity of the existing order. If all goes to plan, you’ll have it. It’s simply a matter of being in the right place at the right time and then stepping ashore and claiming it. Believe me, your nation will be far more than a strip of cold, wet rock in the Bay of Biscay.”
Vaalon stopped talking and Pilot stopped eating to allow the man time to catch up. “For the first few years you’ll be playing under the world’s rules,” Vaalon continued when their plates were equal, “using its resources and financial institutions, sheltering under its international laws and so on. You’ve got to be clever, though, and not build lines of exchange that can’t be severed if necessary. Her
e−
” Vaalon reached into his briefcase, withdrew a thick hardback book and handed it to Pilot. “This is to supplement your previous studies. Read, digest, memorize and then, from August,
live
the contents of this book.”
Pilot looked at the title and smiled.
The
Psychology
of
Leadership
.
“Back to our island, the first part of the process shouldn’t last more than five or ten years,” Vaalon continued. “By then, your land should be self-sufficient. It’ll occupy a strategic location in the world, yet be free from the world’s grip. At this point you’ll be in a position to develop your model more effectively. But before we carry on this conversation, there’s something else I’d like us to do over a hot cup of something.”
When Pilot’s coffee and Vaalon’s mint tea came, along with two brandies, the old man stood up, lifted his snifter and beckoned his guest to do the same. “To Ruth,” he toasted.
Pilot was watching the scene as if he were a one man audience at a one man play. He did not yet buy the pretense. “To Ruth.”
“We needed to wet our whistles for this next exercise,” Vaalon said. “Word and phrase association. I say something and you pass the thread back to me with whatever comes into your hea
d−
no hesitation allowed from either side. We go back and forth like this, sewing our word garment until one of us falters. Are you ready?”
“Ready…”
V: “The forgotten old.”
P: “The betrayed young.”
V: “The death of the buffalo.”
P: “The death of the American Indian.”
V: “Deforestation.”
P: “Rape.”
V: “The Dodo.”
P: “The Maldives.”
V: “Skylines.”
P: “Bread lines.”
V: “Wine lakes.”
P: “Butter mountains.”
V: “Gross National Product.”
P: “Gross National Paradox.”
V: “Sinking coastlines.”
P: “Sinking morals.”
V: “Organized crime.”
P: “Organized religion.”
They played verbal ping-pong for two minutes – batting back and forth over a hundred different ‘passwords’, each one a door into its own vast debating room beyond. They stopped only because Vaalon had to urinate again.
On his return, Pilot said, “It was like a mantra, that thing we just did.”
“A litany against life’s dark side,” Vaalon replied. “By the way, you’ll be pleased to know that you passed the interview. What I need to know now is whether you’ll accept this position. I’ve already told you too much.”
Pilot pretended to weigh up the offer, but found it hard to keep a straight face. “Your secret’s safe with me, Forrest,” he said through his thawing skepticism. “I accept.” At the same time, he was wondering what the hell he was getting himself into.
Vaalon took out his wallet, withdrew a gold credit card and handed it over. “This is yours. Sign it on the back. You’ll need spending money between now and August.” He slipped Pilot a small piece of paper. “This is the pin number. There’s a £50,000 credit limit. The statements will come to me and I’ll pay them off each month. If you need more than your £50,000 limit for anything, my man in Zurich, Franz Barta, can release any amount for you, but I’d appreciate it if you ran it past me first. One last piece of weaponry,” Vaalon said, reaching into his briefcase and taking out a smart phone and charger. “Press star-one for speed dial direct to me.” He took the napkin off his lap and tossed it on the table. I don’t know about you, Lonnie, but I’m exhausted.”
“Ditto.”
“In that case, let’s call it a day. We’ve made good progress and we can start fresh in the mornin
g−
there’s still a lot of ground to cover. I’m staying at the Abbey Hotel and I suggest we meet somewhere nearby after breakfast. Any suggestions?”
Pilot thought for a minute. “Morrab Library. It opens at ten. You’ll like it.”
New mobile in pocket, and carrying an overstimulated brain, Lonnie Pilot walked his bike the short distance to his net-shed-cum-flat as if on air. He had begun the day like a prospector awaiting a map. Forrest Vaalon had given him the map and Pilot was ending his day within touching distance of the mother lode.
Just before going to bed, he decided to google
Forrest
Vaalon
, borrowing the faint, non-secured broadband signal from the holiday cottage next door. It took a while to crack the navigation on his new phone, but when the search results eventually came up, he clicked the top link to bring up a page from Wikipedia and began skim reading.
‘
Forrest
Arnold
Vaalon
is
an
American
geophysicist
,
environmentalist
,
investor
and
philanthropist
best
known
as
the
founder
of
The
Insitute
of
Geophysical
Projections
,
which
predicted
the
earthquake
responsible
for
the
Oregon
-
California
Tsunami
.
After
years
of
derision
by
the
scientific
community
–’ Pilot skipped to
Early
life
and
career
.
‘
Forrest
Vaalon
was
born
in
Taos
,
New
Mexico
,
to
unmarried
parents
.
His
father
,
Hunter
Vaalon
,
was
the
son
of
wealthy
east
coast
industrialist
,
Bertram
Vaalon
.
His
mother
,
Annemarie
Frey
,
was
a
Swiss
artist
.
Together
they
had
one
child
.
On
inheriting
the
Vaalon
fortune
,
Hunter
took
his
family
back
to
New
York
and
enrolled
his
previously
home
-
schooled
eight
year
old
son
in
The
Taft
School
,
Watertown
,
Connecticut
.
At
the
age
of
fourteen
,
Forrest
Vaalon
was
sent
to
Lake
Forest
Academy
in
Illinois
– ‘