A Peacemaker's Reward

Several associates had recently warned Grace Simon that she was treading on dangerous ground. On the last occasion, an hour ago, her response had been calm and confident, reminding her young assistant across the phone connection that she'd faced dangerous threats for more than half her adult life. Now as she stared out at the midnight New Mexico landscape, she felt as though she could be standing inside a house of glass and steel located in one of the new colonies built on the moon.

Her last words during that conversation had been, "Think about the quotation I keep on the wall above my desk in Geneva. 'Sunlight is the most effective disinfectant.' Well, truth is light and delivering that light is why we both draw a decent salary. But my real reward is every pair of eyes we manage to open."

Those sentiments encouraged her to stoically brace herself to accept whatever might come before the new day was done. The house was unlit, outside and inside, and a vast array of stars sparkled brightly in a dark velvet sky. She saw them as present reminders of the hidden truths she'd fought to expose for more than ten years as president of the Global Restoration Society for Peace. Yet she could not deny the fact that at any moment a Special Security transpod could appear on the horizon and land in front of the diplomat's house she often used whenever she was in the States. But as she'd reminded everyone concerned with her safety, she'd been arrested too many times to count.

For as far back as she could recall, across the span of her 42-year-old-life, she'd always been a peacemaker. When she was seven-years-old, unable to stop two friends from squabbling over a minor difference of opinion, that night she'd asked her father, a successful businessman and longstanding member of the NAACP, why some people seemed to enjoy fighting so much.

His response came without hesitation, "Because they resist change."

Years later while studying to get a law degree at the University of Cambridge, much of what she read relating to the turn of the century confirmed exactly what her father had so simplistically conveyed that night. Despite all of the dire warnings that came from noted scientists, and their suggested alternatives, oil had been the number one means of fueling the world's energy needs--long after it became apparent that wide-scale corruption and unbridled greed were the primary reasons that governments allowed the oil companies to continue earning outrageous profits.

Another component of the same equation was the military industrial complexes' role in paying lobbyist and politicians to promote the concept that wars produced economic stability. The premise became so ingrained in the collective sub-conscious that the notion of world peace fell into the category of fanciful thinking; and the concept was never spoken when politician were on the campaign trail. Instead, fear, mistrust and mud-slinging tactics were embellished as commodities to be peddled in an attempt to gain more campaign funds, garner more votes and guarantee election victories. As a consequence, group narcissism--along a multitude of diverse lines--and xenophobia reigned.

By the time the general populace began focusing on problems such as global warming, overpopulation, clean water, the increasing worldwide shortage of food, the exorbitant price of gasoline and home heating cost, millions of real estate foreclosures, crippling Wall Street debacles, the devaluation of the American dollar and hyperinflation--it was too late to alter the inevitable panic that followed. Banks closed their doors and the financial markets crashed.

Then the dog-eat-dog, fittest of the fit mentality reached a peak beyond belief for all the poor and middle class people of the world. Within a thirty year-period it was as though the dark ages were being revisited in living color. Plagues of new drug resistant infections sprouted up like wildflowers in May.

By the year 2075, the world's population at the turn of the millennium had decreased by sixty percent. By then the United States and many other democratic countries had long since converted to socialism. Ironically enough, China was now one of the only major countries still practicing democracy. Nevertheless, many scholars predicted that the present enigma was merely a passing phase, which would soon come to an abrupt and violent end.

"It's all as cyclic and predictable as the changing seasons in Maine," a renowned economist once explained to Grace at a dinner party. "In a free society people begin to count on the government to supply them with too many of their needs. When their increasing demands can no longer be met, naturally, the people blame the government and rebel. Socialism becomes the new order of the day and the cycle continues unabated."

Five years following that conversation, Grace was still reluctant to accept axioms as the final judgment to any critical issue-concluding that kind of thinking limited creative solutions. Furthermore, her unwillingness to buckle under all forms of pressure was why she was now in danger of being arrested again. This time, however, she knew the trumped-up charges would be far more incriminating than civil disobedience.

She was scheduled to speak at a forum to be held later that afternoon in Seattle. Many world leaders would be there to discuss global economic issues. The subject she intended to broach was about the selection of a new president to head the World Economic and Preservation League. According to a majority of pundits Leonard Walsh was a shoe-in for the job. As soon as Grace had gotten word that he was a contender she'd begun making her views about the man known to all. As far she was concerned Walsh was an unscrupulous, bullheaded warmonger bent on causing more strife with China than already existed on a titanic scale.

Once again, as those thoughts crossed her mind, she began going over her closing statement for the hundredth time. Just then, turning away from the outdoor view that had captivated her attention for so long, she heard the room's communication signal sound, alerting her that Prime Minister Philippe Martinez of Spain, a former lover, was attempting to reach her. Her verbal greeting, as she crossed the living room toward the wet bar, completed the connection.

"Grace," the politician spoke in a voice void of its usual charm and warmth. "I've just heard what you're intending to do and..."

"And?" she interrupted as she rejected the notion of turning on the visual support apparatus.

"As a long-time caring friend, I'm warning you not to do it."

"Others have tried to do the same thing, Philippe. So what makes your advice any different?"

"The powers that be are all for Walsh's nomination. You've ruffled their feathers in the past, I know. But trust me when I say this time you'll be going too far. Word has already reached enough people--who you do not want as staunch enemies. And in case you're not already aware, all the communications you've made recently to all your offices have most likely been tapped. So whatever dirt you've dug up on Leonard Walsh is best left buried-if--you are lucky enough to address that forum in Seattle."

"I appreciate your concern, however..."

"Look! The only reason I dared make this call is because I know the house you're staying in was designed to disable bugs and deflect other means of eavesdropping."

"I assumed as much, dear."

"I can only hope that technology's not obsolete."

"For your sake, I, too, hope that's true." There was a note of cynicism in her response.

"I swear you're missing the point. Because you should know that if Walsh is not elected, they'll just find someone else like him for the job. But you've already put yourself in a dangerous no win situation unless you start recanting, immediately."

"I hear you, Philippe," Grace said as she poured herself a straight double shot of Russian vodka. "With your superb communication skills, as always, you've made yourself perfectly clear to me."

"No, I have not! What I'm urging you to do is change your mind about Walsh or leave that house this very instant. Don't take time to pack a bag, either. Just get the hell out of there as fast as you can and go wherever you think they won't look and pray things blow over in time."

Grace chuckled after swallowing a good slug of vodka at room temperature before replying.

"That reminds me of something I read about Socrates. When he was condemned to death for his unpopular views, his friends offered to help him escape from prison. He turned them down, though. He said he'd spent his entire life in the pursuit of truth. So he asked them how it would look if he went into hiding just because his life was on the line. As you know, he was executed. But Socrates knew the ruling party could kill him but not his ideas, which are still alive today."

Grace smiled when she heard Philippe let out a deep sigh of exasperation. She could visualize the expression on his handsome face. It was the same expression he'd worn whenever she broke protocol and mentioned his wife's name-the same expression he'd worn longest the day he broke off their yearlong romance. Her smile faded as he began speaking with less urgency and more warmth.

"You're the epitome of compassionate humanity embodied in bronze-colored flesh, Grace. But now's not the time for philosophical ponderings, talk about standing up for your principles or clever banter. Remember the conversation we had in Warsaw last year?"

"Distinctly," she said, reflecting back on the delicate details of the garden setting--that lush spring day--and what she'd learned from Philippe about new security measures set in place to deal with prominent dissidents who might possess enough credibility to persuade the mainstream press to take them seriously.

Sadly, it was the last time she'd had the pleasure of being with Philippe Martinez in an intimate setting-three years to the day after her husband had succumbed to death from a brain aneurysm.

"They'll arrest you, Grace, and isolate you in a remote nuthouse faster than you can say, 'I've decided to play your game.' Then they'll pump you full of exotic drugs and record you ranting and raving like a psychotic lunatic. And thoroughly discredited, you'll never see the light of day or receive a single visitor. Ever!"

Grace saw the multi-colored flashing lights on the Special Security transpod as it crossed over the horizon. It flew low along the exact flight path she'd envisioned five minutes prior.

"Sorry, Philippe, but I must go," she said casually. "It appears as though I have company."

"For heaven's sake," he pleaded urgently, "don't continue setting yourself up to be a martyr. If necessary, fall to your knees and beg their forgiveness."

Grace sensed that she was hearing her best friend speak for the last time as she drained the final drops of vodka from the fancy glass she was holding.

"Goodbye, Philippe." She set the empty glass down on the wet bar.

Her words, though softly spoken, severed their connection. The transpod hovered in front of the steel and glass house a few seconds with its SS insignia in plain view before landing. Seeing the two high-ranking officers dressed in their tight fitting black uniforms disembark, Grace felt a frosty chill pass through her entire body. Momentarily on the verge of choking up from a dirge-like wealth of raw emotions, from somewhere deep within she marshaled up an inner-strength and forced herself to remain outwardly composed and stood taller.

She knew it was far too late in the game to express a change of heart, entertain vain regrets or shed self-pitying tears. And as the two officers marched toward the front door she also realized in a starling flash of clarity, like most people, she resisted change too much to be anything other than who she was. At her command, the entrance door slid open for the SS men.