Carl crouched behind the car, trying to be as small as possible. His heart was beating fast. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. However, that sound did take a backseat to the gunshots that were going off all around him.
He had once heard that a car wasn't really all that safe to hide behind. Most of the larger caliber bullets went through them, but were slowed down enough to really cause damage to the person hiding. His choices of cover had been rather limited, though. Namely, it was the car, a pair of newspaper vending machines, a light pole, or a very small planter. The car had seemed the most substantial of the choices.
He flinched when a hole opened up in the side of the car, near his feet. Clearly, the story about bullets being able to go through a car, was true. He heard a tire pop on the other side of the car. He looked at the other end of the car, where Samantha was crouched. It was only now that he noticed that there were a lot of holes along the length of car, between them.
There were more sounds of gunfire. Samantha duck walked over to him making sure that her head was never visible to the folks on the other side of the car.
She said, "Don't look so worried. We've got the engine between us and them."
"That's good, right?"
"So long as they don't bring out a fifty."
There was a sudden increase in gunfire, and then silence.
The quiet hung in the air like an oppressive fog. Carl looked around, wondering what was happening. The longer the silence lasted, the more confident he was that the attack was over.
Samantha hissed, "Don't move."
"What's going on?"
"I don't know," Samantha answered.
Her eyes were watching the windows and doors that were overlooking their position. She was waiting to see if someone was going to take advantage of their lack of cover on that side of the car. If she had set up this ambush, she'd have placed a person in one of the buildings near their current position.
A shadow moved into partial view. Samantha couldn't tell if it was a curious bystander or a threat. She brought up her pistol, but didn't pull the trigger. A hole appeared in the window. She noted that the glass did not fall out towards the street. Someone on the other side of the car had made the shot. She hoped it was someone on the side of the Pfand who had fired.
She continued to search the area for a threat. There was another spat of gunfire from behind them. It didn't seem to be aimed in their direction. There were no new holes in the body of the car.
"I wonder who owns this car," Carl said idly.
"Be quiet," Samantha hissed.
Carl leaned against the car and looked around. He noticed a guy moving across a window. The man hugged the wall, and was holding up what was clearly a pistol.
Pointing at the window, Carl said, "There's a man with a gun over there."
Samantha's head swung around to stare at the window. She brought up her gun and fired. The glass in the window exploded in a cloud of shards that reflected the light in an almost artistic manner. The pistol sounded loud in her ears. It was seldom that she fired a gun without proper hearing protection.
She said, "Thanks. Next time, just shout 'gun', and point. There's no need to say more than that."
She looked around at the remaining windows. When she didn't hear anything from Carl, she glanced over at him. He was slumped to the ground.
"Shit!"
Samantha reached over and rolled him onto his back. There was a hole in his suit coat. She tore his shirt open and checked the vest. There was a slug buried in it, but it had not penetrated through it. From experience, she knew that he'd have a horrible bruise from the impact. She checked for other signs that he had been shot elsewhere without finding any. However, there was a big bump on the back of his head.
Since he wasn't bleeding, she returned to watching the environment around them for additional threats. There were still occasional shots being fired behind her. She watched the windows and almost shot an old woman who was drinking tea and watching the action. She couldn't believe that people would peek out windows trying to see what was happening during a gunfight.
"Where in the fuck are the police?" she growled.
By her estimate, they had been pinned down behind the car for at least a full minute. It was hard to tell though since time ran funny in situations like that.
Quiet descended on the street, once again. In the distance, the sound of sirens could be heard. Unfortunately, it sounded like they were headed in the wrong direction. She pressed back against the car, and searched the windows for another shooter.
"Apples!"
Hearing that, Samantha relaxed, but only a little. It was the code word to let her know that everything was under control. But just because they thought things were under control, didn't make it so. They'd all be tense until they got off the street, and into a safe area.
She shouted back, "Bruised banana!"
"Shit."
"Crate coming. Thirty seconds"
The term crate was code for the brown panel van. They were coming to pick up Carl. After almost thirty seconds on the dot, a heavy van drove up, and parked next to the car. Two men Samantha recognized, Mike Speer and Hammond Steward, climbed out of the van. They were wearing their standard disguises: a Nixon mask, and a Carter mask, respectively. There was a story behind their choices, but no one had ever bothered to fill her in on it.
The side door opened. A third man, wearing a Clinton mask, got out. He was looking about, nervously. It was obvious by his body language, that he didn't like being in the middle of a war zone. Samantha stashed her gun in her purse, and tried to look frightened. The masks meant that they were doing an anonymous extraction.
Hammond and the third man stormed over and roughly picked up Carl. Almost dragging him, the two men carried Carl into the van. Mike pulled her along with them, while she pretended to resist. For all intents and purposes, it looked like the pair of them had been abducted off the street, rather than rescued.
Mike climbed into the driver's seat of the still running machine. Once everyone was inside, the van took off at a high speed, even while Hammond climbed up front to ride shotgun. Hammond nodded at his brother, Harmon, who was standing with a group of Waches as they drove past.
Samantha noticed that the police still hadn't arrived. She wondered how that was possible. Then she realized that the police were in on it, and were staying away. Big money must have been involved if they were willing to suffer the kind of news storm that would follow a slow response to a major shootout.
The three men pulled off their masks, once they were out of the immediate area. The dark tint on the windows would make it hard for anyone to see the people inside. Hammond kept his weapon in hand. Mike was busy driving the van. The third man was examining Carl, and was muttering to himself.
"How many of them were there?" Samantha asked.
It sounded like a hundred people had opened up on them, but she knew that couldn't be true. They had just gotten behind the car when they had let loose with a barrage that would have killed them for sure if they hadn't been warned by the foghorn. She had grabbed Carl and pulled him to the ground. Much to her surprise, he had already been diving to the ground.
"Twenty," Mike, the driver, answered.
"Jesus," Samantha said.
"We were lucky," Hammond said. "Only three of our folks were wounded. No one was killed."
"How many of theirs did we get?" Samantha asked.
"Four or five dead, maybe a dozen or more wounded. We didn't exactly take time to make an accurate count," Mike answered.
For a while it had turned into an outright war. Ten members of the Wache, had attempted to end an ambush by twenty well trained men. The ambushers had shot first, but they were aiming at Carl and Samantha. The Waches had opened fire on the exposed backs of half of the attackers. That had been a short-lived exchange of fire, with the Waches having the upper hand.
There had been a period of maneuvering while the two groups tried to out position the other. The Waches had been mostly victorious in that little exercise. The groups were basically equal in size, and the firefight had been intense.
Samantha said, "I only fired one shot, but I know I got one."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Mike said.
She had performed an act that no reasonable person should ever have to perform. He knew that the majority of soldiers in World War II were unable to kill. Many soldiers shot into the ground in front of the enemy. A lot of lead could fly through the air without anyone getting hit. The mind of a humane person has difficulty dealing the the idea of killing another human being. The first shot aimed with real intent, was the hardest. For some, it got easier. For sane people, it never got easy.
"I don't know if I wounded or killed him," Samantha said.
"Don't think about it. It was self-defense," Hammond said.
He knew that his advice was useless, and that she'd have nightmares about it. Nothing anyone could say would change that. He still had nightmares about his first battlefield kill. He had nightmares about every kill after that, as well.
The man examining Carl said, "He's got a minor concussion. He's got a good sized bruise on his chest. I'd say that he got hit in the chest and the impact slammed the back of his head into the car."
"He'll recover?" Samantha asked.
"Yes. He'll be a little sore and dizzy, but he'll be fine."
"I'm glad to hear that," Samantha said relieved.
The van rocked when they took a corner. They could hear the siren of a police car pass them going towards the site where the fight had taken place. They'd find a few of the attackers, but none of the Wache by this time.
Samantha asked, "Where were the police?"
Mike said, "That's a good question. They were conspicuous by their absence. Next time, I fear that we might be going up against the police."
He expected the police to show up at Carl's home, to question him about the gunfight on the street. They knew he was the target, and they'd want to know how he managed to escape. Odds were good that they'd try to take him down to the police station for questioning. Of course, if they got their hands on him, he would probably disappear forever.
"I didn't want to hear that," Samantha said.
One of the hardest things to defend against was a crooked police department. They could run over the innocent who were too law abiding to resist, yet they could rightfully label resisters as criminals. It was a no win situation for anyone who entered their sights. Unfortunately, Carl was now firmly in their sights.
Hammond said, "They were waiting to hear from your attackers that you were dead before leaving for the scene. I'd say that they waited a bit too long. If they had gotten there a little earlier, they could have detained you. That would have been the end of the game, for Carl."
"We're lucky your attackers partied with some hookers, last night," Mike said.
"Our hookers?" Samantha asked referring to the Damensterns.
"No. They were independents."
Hammond said, "Having a drunken orgy is about the stupidest thing you can do, right before a major mission. It is even dumber when you have your party in a hotel owned by the enemy. They had no idea we knew what they were going to do."
They had the whole debauched evening on tape. There were enough comments to have a pretty good idea why the men were there, but not enough details to know when and where they intended to strike. Apparently, the plan was a lot more flexible than anticipated.
Irritated that her first warning of an attack had been the sound of a foghorn going off, Samantha asked, "So why didn't you warn me?"
"Because you can't act for shit," Mike answered.
"You almost blew it, the last time," Hammond answered.
Unfortunately, that was an accurate description of the last time they had gone out, knowing there was someone waiting to kill Carl. She had been so spooked that she had jumped at every sound. The guy sent there to kill Carl, had almost backed out before Harmon had a chance to catch him.
Mike said, "Your reactions are good, though."
"I'm not happy," Samantha said in a low growl.
"We're nearly to the truck wash," Mike said.
Hammond climbed in the back, to help carry Carl out of the van. It was kind of awkward, considering the way the van was bouncing on the road. They wanted to make the transfer from the van to the truck as quickly as possible.
Hammond said, "We've got a truck in one of the cleaning bays. We'll get in it, and it will deliver us to a safe hotel."
"What about Mike?" Samantha asked.
"He's going to take the van to get crushed. It will never be found," Hammond answered.
The transfer from the van to the large truck went like clockwork. Carl woke by the time they got there. He was feeling sick to his stomach, but otherwise he was unhurt. Well, his chest was a little tender. At least they didn't have to carry him to the truck.
The truck drove out of town with Carl, Samantha, and Hammond riding in a space surrounded by mattress boxes. After half an hour, the truck pulled up to a hotel. The owner came out, and opened the doors to a couple of rooms. The truck backed up to one of the rooms with an open door, and a crew of men started unloading mattresses. The fugitives walked between a pair of mattress boxes, and into a room. No one would have been able to see them leave the truck or enter the room.
They hid in the bathroom while the mattresses were unpacked, and the old mattresses hauled out. After the crew had left, closing the door behind them, they stepped out of the bathroom. It was their first chance to examine their surroundings.
This was a rather unique room, for a hotel, in that it had connecting doors to the rooms on both sides of it. They opened the doors on their side of the connecting rooms and settled down to wait, knowing they would eventually have visitors.
Samantha broke the silence and said, "How long are we going to be here?"
"That's hard to say. It all depends on how the police react to the shooting," Hammond said.
"What if they react the wrong way?" Carl asked.
"You two might have to leave the country," Hammond answered.
The Pfand had the infrastructure in place to effectively move them all over the country without being seen. With trucking companies to provide transport and hotels with special rooms, they could travel and sleep in relative comfort.
Carl said, "All of this over a pickle factory? Those assholes shot me!"
It seemed like each time something happened, Carl became even more incredulous that anyone would go to such lengths to keep him from opening his company. The situation had gone from the worrisome to the preposterous. He just couldn't grasp it.
"At least they didn't draw blood," Hammond said.
Carl looked down at his brand new suit. This was the first time he had ever worn it. Now there was a bullet hole in the suit coat. In addition to a hole in his shirt, it was ripped from when Samantha had checked him for injuries. Outside of a slug still lodged in the vest, his protective vest was still functional.
"I hate ruining new clothes," Carl said in disgust. "It's wasteful."
Hammond laughed. "I'll tell the bad guys not to try anything unless you're wearing old clothes."
"I'd appreciate it," Carl said wryly.
Samantha said, "He's feeling better."
Carl said, "I still don't see why this is happening. I mean, all of this over a pickle factory?"
Hammond sat back and thought about it for a minute.
"There's a Lt. Col. Grossman who writes about people in terms of being sheep, sheepdogs, and wolves. He says that wolves eat sheep, as that's their nature. The bad guys that do mean things to people are the wolves. He says that one percent of the population are wolves.
"On the other hand, sheepdogs protect the sheep from the wolves. They accept that there are wolves, and that it is their role in life to protect the sheep. Sheepdogs look for wolves, and anticipate the fight. Grossman says that one percent of the population are sheepdogs.
"Now sheep are a totally different story. They deny that wolves exist, until the wolf comes knocking on their door. Then they are terrified, and paralyzed with fear. That's when they scream for the sheepdog to come protect them. However, when the wolves are not around, the sheep fear the sheepdogs, because they look too much like wolves. Sheepdogs have scary fangs, and can be quite aggressive, but it is their job to keep the wolves at bay.
"Grossman says that ninety-eight percent of the population are sheep. That's where he's wrong. He missed the stags. Unlike sheep, stags don't deny that wolves exist. They don't rely upon sheepdogs to keep them safe. They are ever vigilant in watching for wolves. At the first hint of a wolf, the stag disappears. For the most part, we are stags.
"When Napoleon marched across Europe, there wasn't a single one of us in his path. When Hitler made his bid for world dominance, we were on a different continent. Was it cowardice on our part? I don't think so. It is just a different survival skill than used by sheep, sheep dogs, and wolves.
"The wolves think stags are sheep because they often share the same field. The sheep think stags are sheep because they don't have fangs. Sheepdogs don't trust stags because they are neither sheep nor wolf.
"When a stag is cornered, it doesn't just stand there and bleat, hoping to be rescued by a sheepdog. It will defend itself. It will lower antlers, and try to gore the wolf. It will used its hooves in an attempt to kill the wolf. A stag does not go down gently. That's what we're doing now. We're fighting.
"Repeatedly in our history, we've surprised the wolves when they discovered that we weren't sheep. It is why, when it comes to fighting them, that we surprise them every time."
Carl said, "You're basically saying that most people are sheep and we're not."
"That's right," Samantha said.
Hammond said, "You've got to stop acting like a sheep, Carl. You need to act more like a stag. You have to accept that wolves exist, anticipate them, watch for them, and be prepared to flee or fight."
"You're saying that I'm a sheep?" Carl asked feeling somewhat insulted.
"That's exactly what I'm saying. You keep asking, just like a sheep, why they are going after you over a pickle factory. The answer to that question is meaningless. It is in their nature, just like it is in the nature of wolves to prey upon sheep."
"I don't like the idea of being a sheep," Carl said.
"So stop being one," Hammond said gently.
"How do I do that?"
"Accept that the wolves want to eliminate you. Don't deny the danger. Don't worry about why they want to eliminate you. Take responsibility for your own safety. Sharpen your antlers," Hammond said.
"Isn't protecting us the responsibility of your family?" Carl asked.
He knew that the Waches were the watchmen of the Pfand. He thought of them as security guards and wondered if that wasn't a little unfair. He feared that Hammond was telling him that he was going to be on his own soon.
Hammond said, "Let me tell you a little story."
"Okay," Carl said.
Hammond said, "A long time ago, there was a young guardsman who married a very beautiful woman. She was one of the loveliest women in the whole area, and he was madly in love with her. Of course, a lot of other men desired her, but because he was a guardsman, and armed, none would dare touch her.
"One day, one of the Baron's friends spotted the wife of the guardsman. He decided that he would have her. He watched her and followed her. When he finally found her isolated and alone, he then brutally raped her.
"It was hours after the rape before the guardsman found her. She was alive but was severely beaten. Weak and injured, she told him what had happened.
"The guardsman was furious and wanted revenge. He went to the Baron and complained, but the Baron told him to know his place. The Baron said that nobles, like his friend, had rights and privileges that didn't extend to peasants, in other words – men like the guardsman. One of those rights was to enjoy the pleasures of peasant women.
"The guardsman realized that he had made a mistake by going to the Baron for justice. If he retaliated now, the Baron would know it was him who did it. That would leave his poor wife a widow. Still, he wasn't going to let the man get away with raping his wife.
"Instead of going after the man, the guardsman went to his friends. He told a farmer, a blacksmith, a carpenter, and a drover about how his wife had been raped. Like all good men, they were outraged that the Baron wouldn't punish the rapist. They knew it could be their wives who might be raped next.
"One day, the Baron had a feast. The guardsman was on duty, standing in plain sight of the Baron. The Baron's friend, feeling the effects of too much wine, went outside to get some fresh air. He was never seen again. There was an investigation into the disappearance, but the Baron never learned what happened to his friend. The one thing that the Baron did know, was that the guardsman couldn't have done it.
"So what did happen? You see, the blacksmith crushed the rapists throat, using his bare hands made strong by years spent at the forge. The drover had transported the body out of the Baron's friend in a wagon with a hidden compartment. The wagon had been built by the carpenter. The body was buried in the field of the farmer, where it would never be found. Each of the guardsman's friends contributed in the best way he could."
Samantha said, "I love that story. I remember when I first read it. Until that time, I feared that the safety of the other families fell on our shoulders alone."
"I know. I felt the same way," Hammond said.
Carl said, "I get it. Our safety and security is a shared responsibility. Just as you do your part, I'm to do mine. I am just as responsible for our overall safety as you are."
"Exactly," Hammond said.
Carl asked, "So what do we do now?"
"We wait."
"Can we watch television?" Carl asked.
"No. This room is supposed to be empty," Samantha said.
Carl asked, "Where's Jennifer?"
Hammond shook his head. He knew that Carl was asking so many questions because he felt uneasy. A lot of people tried to take control of a situation, by learning as much about it as they could. It was a good survival skill, but could often be irritating to those around them.
He answered, "Don't worry. She'll be here."
"Why isn't she here now?" Carl asked.
"She's seeing if anyone bought the cover story that you were abducted," Hammond answered.
Carl said, "I don't see how they could. They know they didn't abduct me."
Samantha said, "That's a problem."
There was a knock on one of the connecting doors, just before it opened. Ted Toporek, the owner of the hotel, stepped in the room. He was a short man with a well trimmed mustache, horn rim glasses, and a head of dark hair in the early stages of male pattern balding. He looked like an everyday kind of guy that few would suspect of owning three national motel chains.
"I was thinking about preparing lunch. Are you interested in eating?"
"Sure," Samantha answered.
"I'm afraid that all I can put together, just now, are sandwiches."
"Sandwiches are great."
Ted asked, "Is ham all right?"
The members of the Pfand did not advertise their religious beliefs, particularly in these secular times. The Pfand demanded that they be moderate in all that they did. Still, there were some who kept more strongly to their roots, and the observance of religious beliefs than others. A number of the Pfand still observed the Jewish roots of Samuel Goldstein.
The three looked at each other. Finally, Hammond answered, "That would be fine."
Ted said, "I've been watching the news. It has been announced that Carl was the instigator of the attack. There's a real smear campaign going on at the moment."
"I'm going to get arrested," Carl said with a groan.
Ted said, "No, you won't. A young man, working part-time in a fabric store, did manage to record the entire thing on his cell phone. In a couple of hours, he'll release the video on the internet. It won't be suppressed that way, and it will go viral."
The mention of the young man as working in a fabric store was a subtle way of identifying him as a member of the Weber family. Their role in this fight was small, but they filled in where needed. Small words dropped here and there helped spread the word of what was happening. Carl wore tailored suits that hid the fact that he was wearing a protective vest. Samantha's clothes allowed her to conceal weapons without it being obvious. Webers served as innocent bystanders and witnesses.
"What about me shooting the guy who shot Carl?" Samantha asked.
"I watched the video and there is no evidence that you were even armed. You aren't visible once you ducked behind the car. The video shows you getting fired upon, hiding behind a car, and then being abducted," Ted said.
"That's good news," Hammond said.
Ted said, "I got a call about what is happening next. A couple of people will be checking into the room next to yours in about two hours. They'll update you on what is happening. They'll be visited by a hooker after they've been here a while."
"The hooker will be Jennifer?"
"Yes."
"Good."
Three hours later, a knock on the door to the other connecting room woke Carl up from his nap. Hammond was seated in a chair facing the closed exterior door with his gun on the table in front of him. Looking up from his book, he put a hand on his gun. Samantha was in the bathroom taking a long hot bubble bath trying to come to grips with her actions earlier.
The door opened and four people entered the room. Jennifer was in the background looking somber. Carl was about to greet her, but one of the men made a gesture with one finger held in front of his mouth to remain silent. After looking around, the man made a couple more gestures as if counting people in the room with an expression at three that someone was missing.
Hammond nodded his head in understanding. He went to the bathroom door and opened it.
"You're going to turn into a prune if you stay there for much longer."
"Sorry."
"You might want to get dressed."
"Okay."
A minute later, Samantha came out of the bathroom ready to complain about her bubble bath being cut short. She was surprised to see the visitors and shut her mouth before she said something she'd regret. Carl noticed that she basically snapped to attention.
Ted came in through the connecting door that led to his place and gestured for everyone to follow him. Moving quietly, they made their way down into a basement below the hotel and then into the safe room. The room looked more like a conference room than a typical safe room. Of course, that fit in with the role of being a hotel and potential meeting site for members of the Pfand. It took a few seconds for Ted to secure the facility.
The small delicate looking woman looked around the room, and seemed satisfied with what she saw.
"Please sit down," she said.
Everyone, except her, took seats.
"I am The Scholar."
Carl whistled, and then felt embarrassed by his action. This was the first head of a family he had knowingly met. She glanced over at him, with a look of amusement on her face.
"I am The Watchman."
Carl decided that now would be a very good time to keep quiet. He had a feeling that he was going to learn a lot, in the next few minutes.
"I'm The Banker."
"As per tradition, we shall only refer to each other by title. You'll be The Cook, you will be The Barman, you will be The Guardian, you will be The Sidekick, and you will be The Girlfriend. Is that understood?"the Scholar said pointing to Carl, Ted, Hammond, Samantha, and Jennifer in turn.
"Yes," everyone said together.
The Scholar said, "It should come as no surprise to anyone in this room, that the Pfand is not unique. We are not the only secret organization in the world. We have been tracking the other organizations throughout our existence. We've watched them come and go. We watched the rise and fall of the Illuminati. There have been dozens of others since 1643. Ours is, arguably, the longest lived of them all ... and, perhaps, the most benign.
"Our goal is, basically, to live and let live. Our charter is based upon survival, not domination or power. We are to live without making waves, or drawing attention to ourselves. Basically, I guess you could say that we're not the good guys, or the bad guys. We're the invisible guys.
"There are a couple of secret organizations that are composed of individuals with a less benign mindset. They have plans for world domination. We've known that, but they'd always had so much infighting that we felt it wasn't possible for them to succeed.
"Well, it appears that a group has actually managed to work together for close to eighty years, and their efforts are nearing completion. To be quite honest, they surprised us. We thought they had always been far too public to succeed in their ambitions. We were wrong, and now we'll have to pay the price for our error.
"The Cook happened to have crossed one of those organizations, in a big way. First, he wanted to open a food processing facility at just the wrong time. You see, they were prepared to take over the majority of that industry through a merger. When we put you out there, we didn't realize that the size of the facility would be viewed as a threat to them. They had to block you.
"Second, the Cook happened to get all of his funding from sources that they didn't control. You see, if you had gotten the money from them, say through a venture capitalist, they would have allowed you to open your factory. Then they would either repossess it, or just take it over. They've done it in the past, and they'll do again in the future.
"Third, the Cook just didn't roll over when they put pressure on him to drop it. They knew that if they couldn't get control of him, early, then they would never be able to get control over him. Their standard answer to any resistance is to destroy the resister as a human being. They would have used drugs, alcohol, or even brain surgery, to eliminate the threat. If they catch the Cook, I can assure you that he'd be an addict in four days, if he lived that long."
Carl said, "Jesus."
"Exactly," the Scholar said with a smile.
The Watchman said, "For now, the Cook, the Guardian, the Sidekick, and the Girlfriend are going on a tour of the country. The Cook will release a set of tapes that we'll prepare for him. We're going to start by naming names, about two hundred of them, in the middle of their organization."
Carl raised a hand a little nervously.
"What?"
"How many people are in this group?"
The Banker answered, "Five to six thousand."
Jennifer asked, "That many?"
"Yes. They are the most powerful people in the world. At least, they think they are," the Banker replied with a smile.
The group included the leaders of two dozen countries, heads of major corporations, union leaders, heads of charities, religious leaders, and influential people in the news services. It wasn't going to be easy taking down an organization with that kind of membership. In fact, it was the kind of task that could destroy the balance of power of the entire world.
"They think they are?" Samantha asked.
"We have over twenty-five thousand members in the Pfand, all of whom are very wealthy," the Banker replied. "Collectively, we have three or four times their assets, although they do control the entire wealth of several countries."
The Watchman said, "In approximately three months, we'll start to bring them all down."
"How?" Carl blurted out.
"That's a secret," the Scholar answered.
"Sorry."
The Watchman said, "You'll be traveling around the country for four months. Hopefully, this mess will be over in six months."
"What about my dog, Skippy?" Carl asked.
The Watchman asked, "Is it a Schnauzer?"
"Yes," Carl asked.
"I'll adopt him until this is over," the Watchman answered.
Carl said, "I'm sorry for asking about him. I know that a little dog isn't the most important thing you have to worry about, but I'm very glad to know you'll take care of him."
The Scholar said, "It is the fact we care about our pets, and people around us, that makes us different from our enemies. Never apologize for caring."
The Banker held out a sheet of paper and said, "You'll need to sign this power of attorney. It will allow us to continue the construction of your pickle factory."
Carl signed the form without comment. It was time for him to start acting like a stag.
Edited By TeNderLoin