Demeter’s Dream

By Tony Thistlewood

Change must happen, and it must happen now if America and the rest of the world are to be saved from self-destruction through insidious corruption, greed, and ever-increasing evil.

In this part mystery, part political/mythological/religious satire, Demeter’s dream is simple: to save the world by replacing the current outdated and abused systems of democracy and capitalism with tulipocracy, a new Christian-based philosophy with the redistribution of wealth at its core – Tulip being an acronym for trust, unity, love, integrity, and peace.

The dream sounds simple enough. Unfortunately, dark forces in both the mortal and immortal worlds are stacked against her.

Dr. Paul Z. Dias is about to cross the street on his way to the White House where he is to address the US Cabinet. It will be the most important speech of his life. All he has to do is convince his learned and influential audience that Demeter’s dream is the right course for the future of America and the rest of the world…

…but Paul’s own world is about to be turned upside down...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Feb 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781925880526

Book preview

I look forward to a great future for America...a future in which our country will match its military strength with our moral restraint, its wealth with our wisdom, its power with our purpose.

President John F. Kennedy:

35th President of the United States of America.

**

No dream is too big. No challenge is too great. Nothing we want for our future is beyond our reach.

Donald J. Trump:

45th President of the United States of America.

Chapter 1

From the very minute they first met, all those years ago, she knew that he would never be out of her mind, nor she his ­– never – it was written.

And now their big day had arrived.

Together they had striven long and hard for this day. And they could not have been more prepared for it. Now, with God’s help, their ideas would begin to change the course of American history, and they could – no, no, must – must also drag the whole world in a new direction – the right direction, their direction. It would be a slow, frustrating process; they knew that. Yet, it had to be done; a renaissance of their beloved America was long overdue.

Ann Dias absentmindedly ran her fingers through her long, luxurious, flaxen hair as she watched her husband, Dr. Paul Z. Dias, climb into the back of the government limo – she had no idea what make of car it was; she wasn’t into cars. Paul turned towards her, smiled, and blew her a kiss. She was about to return the kiss when she realized that she was holding the laser pointer he needed for his presentation. She had picked it up from the hall table but forgotten to give it to him.

‘Wait, Albert!’ she called out to the driver and raced over to the car. She gave the pointer to Paul, and then practically ravished him with a proper, lingering kiss, much to Albert’s amusement.

Ann stood back and watched the car slowly crunch down the curved, gravel driveway. She didn’t stop waving until he was out of sight. She had had a premonition, and it frightened her although she didn't usually have any truck with such rubbish. She hadn't mentioned it to him, of course. Nothing must distract him this day.

**

Dr. Paul Z. Dias was the recently appointed Secretary of the Department of the Environment and Agriculture, a newly created department with a cherished seat in the US Cabinet. Paul sat, deep in thought, behind a large modern desk in a large modern office. The ultra-modern building that housed his new department was already colloquially known as the new EnAg building.

Like Ann, Paul had prayed for this day. He had to get it right; he had to keep focused; nothing must distract him – nothing.

On the desk in front of him lay his Gucci polished-leather briefcase. He checked its contents for the umpteenth time. The briefcase, a present from Ann, was in midnight blue and perfectly complemented the dark-blue suit he was wearing. He fastened the gold locks on the briefcase, glanced at the carriage clock on the desk, checked it with his Rolex, and then marched purposefully out of his office, briefcase firmly clutched in his right hand. He was not going to let anyone carry it for him today. If he heard his secretary’s good luck wishes as he passed her desk, he didn’t acknowledge them. The secretary raised an eyebrow; it was unlike her boss to be so distant. Outside his office suite, two waiting bodyguards fell into step behind him; he didn’t notice them either.

The trio crossed the grand atrium with its fifty-feet high glass pyramid, the centerpiece of the entrance to the modern building that was home to his new department. The shoes of the trio clicked in unison on the marble floor as they headed towards the glass doors and the street beyond. People stood aside to make way for them. They reached the door; it slid silently open for them as if it, too, recognized the importance of the day.

Outside, Foggy Bottom was bathed in brilliant spring sunshine. Dias paused to inhale the fresh air. One of the bodyguards raced forward to open the rear door of the waiting Tesla electric car. Dias stared inside the car, hesitated, and then, as if noticing the guard for the first time, shook his head.

‘No, I’ll walk,’ he said gruffly.

Without waiting for, or expecting, a reply, Dias set off at a brisk pace towards Pennsylvania Avenue.

The senior bodyguard looked annoyed but nevertheless indicated for the driver to follow the Honorable Paul Dias at a respectable distance.

As Dias strode along, every minute detail of his carefully researched presentation churned in his mind. Although he had endlessly rehearsed what he was going to say with Ann, even so, every possible angle, every conceivable objection, still continuously streamed through his highly intelligent brain. He was convinced that he had left nothing to chance; all bases were more than adequately covered — so why the nerves?

Without warning, Paul Dias cut down an ally into G St NW. His exasperated body guards raced up to him.

‘Sir, the Tesla can’t follow us; it’s a one-way street…’

The electric Tesla, although capable of accelerating from zero to 100 mph in six-seconds, had been whispering along some twenty yards behind them.

‘Don’t need it,’ Dias snapped and continued walking.

The guard, talking into his wristwatch, instructed the Tesla driver to go around the block and meet them in 17th St NW outside the Eisenhower Executive Office Building.

On went Dias, not seeing the George Washington University nor the substantial edifice that housed the World Bank as he pressed on towards the White House and his destiny. He was even oblivious of the stares of people who thought they knew, or at least recognized the handsome, well-dressed, blue-eyed man with the dark, wavy, gray-flecked hair. Those who wanted to say, ‘Hi’, wisely changed their minds when they set eyes on the two giant bodyguards walking determinedly either side of him, but one step back – they knew their places.

Dias had not told his bodyguards, or anyone else for that matter, that he intended to call in on the first female vice president of the United States, Peta Hopeit, to make sure that he could still rely on her crucial support. At least, that was the only reason he wanted to see her – until now. The beautiful and intelligent vice president had offices in the nineteenth century, Alfred B. Mullet designed, Eisenhower Executive Office Building that was originally built to house the Departments of State, War and Navy.

Turning into 17th St NW, Dias headed for the lights that allowed pedestrians to cross the four busy lanes of traffic to the Eisenhower Building. The pedestrian lights were red. Paul Dias, oblivious of the lights, was about to step into the traffic when a black hand pulled him back.

The bodyguards waved furiously at the Tesla, which had just turned into the street further down.

The Tesla accelerated towards the trio.

The lights changed, Dias stepped into the street and strode to the middle of the road with the two bodyguards just behind him. The Tesla was now rapidly approaching on his right; unaccountably, the driver didn’t seem to notice the lights, which were still in Dias’s favor.

The Tesla kept accelerating…Dias kept walking…a large, black hand reached out for Dias…

**

In the Cabinet Room in the White House, Attorney General Adam Themison was becoming increasingly nervous. He looked across the table at President Conway Posey and was disturbed to see that he had already adopted his trade-mark aggressive and contemplative posture: elbows on the oval table, chin resting on clenched fists. It made his expression difficult to read as Themison had learned from long, and sometimes bitter, experience. As he watched, a scowl lined the President’s chubby face, while a lock of thick, boyishly curly, yet graying fair hair fell across his deeply furrowed brow. Behind him, Themison noticed the crossed flags of the United States and the president’s own flag and their respective ironic mottos: In God We Trust and e Pluribus Unum (one from many). Even so, the flags were salutary reminders to the twenty Cabinet members present of their collective and individual duty – and some needed reminding more than others, Themison thought.

Directly across the table from the president, and therefore on Themison’s right, sat the vice president of the United States of America, the beautiful Peta Hopeit – she insisted that her name be pronounced Hopyte rather than Hopit to avoid any Peter Rabbit jokes. She appeared to be busily reading a file. In truth, she was too embarrassed to look the President in the eye, and Themison believed he knew why.

On the President’s right sat Secretary of State Chuck Nyckson, while Secretary of Defense Michael Pallaster was on the President’s left. Directly opposite Pallaster and thus on the vice president’s right, sat Secretary of the Treasury Haden Ploutonos. All other members of the Cabinet sat in the order of the date of creation of their department. Paul Dias’s department, Environment and Agriculture, was the last department created and so his chair was at the end of the oval table to the left of the President.

With ever deepening concern, Themison’s eyes wandered to Dias’s vacant chair.

Normally, various department advisers would be seated directly behind the Cabinet member they served. However, this was not a normal day, and the only adviser present was Jake Jefferson, sometimes called Jeff, the president’s chief of staff.

The room was strangely quiet. Some, like Peta Hopeit, studiously read the papers in front of them, or at least appeared to, while others gazed absentmindedly out of the Georgian style windows to the rose garden beyond.

Attorney General Adam Themison, regarded by many as the father figure of the Cabinet, felt rather than saw President Posey turn his dark-blue penetrating eyes on him.

‘What the hell is taking him so long?’ Posey snapped.

A sudden knock on the door saved Themison from having to answer.

A tall, severe looking man was ushered into the Cabinet room. Although he was well over six feet tall and smartly dressed in a dark gray suit, pink shirt and was sporting a Princeton Medallion tie, he still looked as if he would be more comfortable on a horse somewhere in the Midwest. His eyes were very dark rimmed.

‘Mr. President, may I introduce Ari Kratos, Director of the FBI…’ Themison began.

‘For Chris-sakes, I know who he is; I appointed him,’ Posey said.

Themison, and everyone else present for that matter, knew that that wasn’t strictly true. Ari Kratos had been appointed head of the Federal Bureau of Investigation for a traditional 10-year term by Posey’s predecessor. Kratos had been appointed by apresident but not by the current president. The statement said a lot about Posey’s conception of the presidency. He fervently believed that the presidency was the continuation of an institution established for the benefit of the American people and encompassed the Constitution from its foundation to the present time; it was not, therefore, the sole preserve of the present incumbent but a continuous, non-family lineage.

‘It’s not good news, Mr. President,’ Kratos said quietly. ‘Dr. Dias has been badly injured in an accident…’

‘How badly?’ Peta Hopeit asked, trying unsuccessfully to stop her voice from breaking with emotion.

‘They think he might have a broken leg, and he is in a coma…’ Kratos began.

‘Has his wife been informed?’ asked the surprisingly compassionate Secretary of State Chuck Nyckson.

‘I had an agent pick up Mrs. Dias and take her to the hospital,’ Kratos replied.

‘Good,’ Posey said, nodding. ‘And the driver? How is he?’

‘The driver, sir?’ Kratos asked, clearly surprised by the question.

‘Yeah, the driver, if Paul Dias was sitting in the back and is in a coma; what the hell state is the driver in?’ Posey asked, not unreasonably.

‘Dr. Dias was not in the car, sir. He had elected to walk…’

‘Walk! And your agents let him?’ Posey shouted.

‘His guards are not provided by the FBI or the Secret Service, Mr. President. Only you and the vice president have daily Secret Service protection. Most of the secretaries of other departments provide their own protection unless the help of the Secret Service or the FBI is specifically requested,’ Ari Kratos replied quietly in his slow, Midwestern drawl.

‘But the FBI vetted those guards, did they not?’ asked Haden Ploutonos the aggressive secretary of the treasury. Themison knew he would never miss an opportunity to embarrass a colleague, particularly him.

Although Ari Kratos was not a member of the Cabinet, Attorney General Adam Themison was his executive boss, and it was well known that there was no love lost between Ploutonos and the more gentlemanly Themison.

‘We’re looking into it, sir,’ Kratos replied firmly, unconsciously jutting out his jaw as he was speaking.

‘So, what happened to the driver of the vehicle that hit Paul Dias?’ Posey asked.

‘The Secretary of the Department of the Environment and Agriculture was struck by his own vehicle, which then took off with the two bodyguards and hasn’t been seen since,’ Kratos replied.

The Cabinet room was suddenly deathly quiet. Everyone present realized that they were as vulnerable to attack as much as the unfortunate Honorable Paul Z. Dias clearly had been, and they didn’t like the feeling one little bit.

Behind the president, Jake Jefferson, the president’s chief of staff, hastily scribbled a note. Jake was a black American who preferred to be called black and not African-American because his ancestry was Caribbean, not African. His jacket was undone, and so, as he leant forward to place a note on the oval table in front of the president, Jake’s orange tie briefly flapped against the president’s cheek. Posey angrily flicked at the tie, and then grabbed the note, read it, and nodded.

‘Who will be heading the investigation?’ Posey asked.

‘Special Agent-in-Charge Carl Rutter, sir. He is very experienced and will report directly to me,’ Kratos replied. An SAC was the most senior field agent rank within the FBI.

‘Good. It seems you are going to be very busy Mr. Kratos. Don’t let me detain you any further – keep me posted,’ Posey said dismissively, knowing full-well that it would be the attorney general that Kratos would keep well informed.

As soon as the Director of the FBI had left the room, everyone started talking at once. No one voice could be heard above the babble. President Posey decided he had to take back control. Annoyed, he first drummed his fingers on the oval table, a gift to the nation from Richard Nixon in the nineteen-seventies. The drumming had no effect, and so he violently slammed the table with the palm of his hand. Silence was instantly restored, and everyone looked expectantly at the President.

Posey surveyed the room; his dark-blue, penetrating eyes individually eyeballing in turn everyone sitting around the table.

‘Is there anyone in this room who thinks for one goddamned nanosecond that Paul Dias’s so-called accident was nothing less than an attempt to kill him because someone didn’t want him to talk to us about Operation Olympus?’ Posey asked quietly.

No one spoke; a few shook their heads.

‘Outside the people in this room,’ Posey continued in the same aggressive tone, ‘nobody in the whole wide-world knew what this meeting was to be about – how we are going to radically change America and the world – nobody. Let me assure you all,’ he continued, his voice now low and menacing, ‘that Paul Dias’s accident only delays matters; it is by no means the end of Operation Olympus. However, it clearly indicates that someone in this room has, at the very least, been guilty of loose talk or, at the worst…’ Posey paused and let his dark-blue eyes roam around the room again, watching his words sink in. ‘…Or at the worst, is guilty of orchestrating the accident in the hope of completely destroying our efforts.’

There were murmurings of objection among the Cabinet members, which were quickly squashed by a reprimanding glare from Posey.

‘Until further notice, nobody in this room, nor any member of their immediate family, is to leave Washington without my written approval. This meeting is adjourned to a date to be confirmed. I repeat and very, very strongly emphasize that it is adjourned, not cancelled,’ Posey added, much to Themison’s relief.

**

Back in his office in the FBI building less than a mile down Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House, Ari Kratos was receiving an update on the attempt on Secretary Paul Dias’s life.

‘There is some doubt as to what happened, sir. But the limited CCTV footage we have, suggests that the Tesla might, and I stress might, have deliberately swerved into Dr. Dias. We are trying to find any bystanders who filmed the incident. When the Tesla pulled up, the two so-called bodyguards jumped in the car, which then sped off. We haven’t managed to trace it…’ SAC Carl Rutter began, but he was interrupted.

‘Couldn’t you follow it on the CCTV network?’ Kratos drawled.

‘Only until it reached Pennsylvania Avenue, sir; all cameras in the avenue have been compromised. We don’t know where it went,’ Rutter said.

‘Goddammit! I thought all those cameras were made secure from cyber-attack after that fiasco at an inauguration a few years back,’ Kratos snapped.

‘Apparently not, sir,’ Rutter replied. ‘We are reviewing the Department of the Environment and Agriculture’s internal security footage to find out more about the bodyguards. Nobody in the building seems to know anything about them. And we have every available ghetto-bird in the air scouring the whole city for the Tesla.’

‘And have your helicopters seen anything?’ Kratos asked sarcastically. He hated slang synonyms like ghetto-birds.

‘No, sir, not yet.’

‘Which suggests it’s already undercover, and that is going to make life damned difficult unless we get lucky with an eyewitness.’

‘I think we need to go public with this one, sir, and as soon as possible. Someone, somewhere must have seen something?’

‘I agree. Leave that one with me, Carl. You get back to the building and take control. I don’t know what the hell Dias was going to talk about, but he sure as hell has got the White House in a spin.’

**

Meanwhile, President Posey had retired to the Oval Office accompanied by Vice President Peta Hopeit, Attorney General Adam Themison, and the president’s chief of staff, Jake Jefferson.

Themison knew that Posey considered the little group now sitting nervously in front of the president’s desk, to be his inner Cabinet, his highly trusted friends, at least, to the extent that a politician can have highly trusted friends. The group usually included Paul Dias. Sometimes Adam Themison wondered just how trustworthy even this little group was.

‘Right, so who do you think it is?’ Posey asked, spreading his hands wide as if opening the floor for discussion.

‘Are you for real, sir?’ Peta Hopeit asked. ‘You seriously think someone in the Cabinet is attempting to de-rail this whole project?’

‘Oh, come-on girlie,’ Posey said.

Themison knew the ploy well; he had seen the President use it many times. Posey wanted to stir up his vice president with unseemly familiarity because he knew that, when mad, Peta Hopeit would say exactly what she felt.

‘We’re all politicians, girlie; we do what we think is necessary to achieve our ends…whatever the cost,’ Posey continued.

‘I think that is highly cynical and offensive, sir…’ Peta began.

‘Yeah? So, who do you think it is?’ Posey asked again, ignoring her objection.

‘Haden Ploutonos,’ she replied without hesitation.

‘Why?’ Posey asked.

Themison smiled inwardly at the president’s intuitive success; he knew Posey loved being right.

‘Because he hates any suggestion of change that is not instigated by him. It’s either him or Eve Até…’ Peta said, but she was interrupted again.

‘Eve! She’s not even in the Cabinet…’ Jake Jefferson was about to defend his principal secretary when he too was interrupted.

‘Don’t be so goddamned naive, Jake. Ploutonos has being screwing her for years; why do you think she is on your staff? And we all know that she loves making mischief,’ Posey said with a knowing glance at the Attorney General.

‘This is far more than making mischief, Mr. President,’ Adam Themison said quietly, yet he couldn’t hide his embarrassment. He didn’t think anybody knew about his one brief indiscretion with Eve Até at a Party conference many, many years ago. If Posey knew, then who else now had that potentially fatal piece of intelligence about him?

‘Indeed, it is, Adam. Indeed, it is,’ Posey said, rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers. Themison realized that the president was very tired from all the stress that his office entailed, despite his bluster.

‘This could completely destroy our grand plan; or should I say Paul Dias’s grand plan that we in this room have wholeheartedly endorsed,’ the attorney general said quietly. ‘And Paul is the only one who stands the remotest chance of convincing the rest of the Cabinet that we need to dramatically change America’s course and take the rest of the world with us,’ Themison added.

‘Then what do we do? Sit back and hope Paul Dias recovers?’ Posey asked.

‘Hope? Pray, more like,’ Peta said with feeling.

‘Do you want me to fire Eve Até, sir?’ Jake Jefferson suddenly asked.

‘Hell no! We can use her to spread misinformation if we need to. Watch her carefully though, Jake, and be very careful what you say in front of her. And let us continue the way we have been thus far – no sending anything to do with Operation Olympus in any electronic form including email, Twitter, Instagram and phones, cell or otherwise,’ Posey said. ‘In the meantime, we just sit tight and let the FBI do its job.’

‘They might turn up more than we want them to, Mr. President,’ Themison said.

‘That is your bailiwick, Adam. It’s up to you to keep a lid on their investigation. Take a direct interest. Make Kratos report to you daily and keep us posted,’ Posey added unnecessarily.

**

In a private room in one of Washington’s largest hospitals, Ann Dias held her husband’s hand and wept silently. In the following weeks, she would spend many hours in that room hoping, praying, listening, and becoming increasingly distraught by her husband’s seemingly neurotic mutterings.

But she was not alone. Her old friend Mary Themison, wife of the attorney general, was with her literally holding her hand.

‘He’s in a deep coma, Mary, and they have no idea how long...or...or even if my Zeus will come out of it,’ she whispered illogically fearing that she might wake him.

‘Oh, so that is what the initial Z stands for in Paul's name, is it? I have often wondered,’ Mary said hoping that talking about it would somehow help her friend.

Ann smiled a sad yet engaging smile. ‘Oh, that goes back to our early childhood together. Now Paul’s passport just has Z period as his middle name. But back then, when we were very young, I said he would always be my god, my Zeus. And so, years later, just before we married, he changed his name to include the Zee.’

‘How romantic!’ Mary exclaimed.

‘Yeah, wasn't it though? And I, of course, reciprocated by putting D period after Ann in my name.’

‘Why D?’ Mary asked.

‘I am Demeter.’

Chapter 2

     Love: n. the strongest possible feeling of affection for, or attraction to, another person or thing; God.

    The author

You may think that what I am about to tell you is grossly exaggerated. I knew Demeter would always be the one for me as soon as I set eyes on her. I was only five at the time, and she, a gorgeous four-year-old. I know, I know, it is far too corny and ridiculous to talk about love at first sight at that age. And yet there was an aura, a spirit, about her that completely and utterly enthralled me, even at that tender age. Back then, she stole my soul as well as my heart and, thankfully, has never given it back. From that very first moment, we have been inseparable; one being incomplete without the other; brother and sister, teenage lovers, husband and wife. Clearly, the inevitability and steadfastness of our union was written.

I am not just talking about looks here. It is undeniable that Demeter's flowing flaxen hair, her bluest of blue eyes, her cute upturned nose, her glorious figure, and her long elegant legs, are all intensely desirable; yet even more so to me is her sharp, penetrating wit, and her insightful intelligence. I could never be without her. I had even followed her to Princeton after graduating from Harvard in the mortal world because that male dominated university wouldn’t take her. I have followed her everywhere since, and I always will; that is also written.

Now I have followed her to Mount Olympus where she has gone to prepare the way. Rising nearly 3000 meters, about 9500 feet, high between Macedonia and Thessalonica, and over 400 kilometers north of Athens, the magnificent Olympus mountain range is home to the gods of a different age, the immortal age, my age.

I was standing in the lobby of a hotel in a small town in the foothills of Olympus. Behind the concierge's desk sat a rather officious, plump little man of distinctly Greek appearance: large nose; dark eyes; thick, arched eyebrows; and dark, heavily greased hair parted in the middle. For some reason, he looked nervous as I approached.

'Would you call a taxi for me, please,' I asked.

'Of course, sir. May I enquire as to your destination?'

'The Pantheon,' I replied, knowing full well that it would completely discombobulate him. It always did with his sort. Unkind of me but fun, and I needed to relax.

'But...but...you can't...I mean...it's dangerous...no one goes there. Ah! You mean the one in Athens?' he asked hopefully.

'No, I mean the one at Mytikas,' I replied.

'You can't, sir, you really can't...no taxi will go there...it’s the Anemoi...they blow them off the mountain,' he said, waving his arms about in protest like a neurotic tarantula.

'Then you had better call for an MHP,' I said, and waited for his reaction.

'An MHP! You must be joking, sir. An MHP?'

'Yes, a Mobile Hermes Pod...'

'Indeed, I do know what an MHP is! I wasn't born yesterday.'

'Then try calling one. Can you do that?' I asked.

'Well, I can try, but they get very angry, if I waste their time. Very angry indeed. They are not available to the general public.'

'Try,' I demanded.

'Very well, sir, if you insist. Dr. Dias, isn't it?'

'You may have more success, if you use the other version of my name.'

'Which is?'

'Zeus.'

His jaw dropped, but he waddled across to a computer without saying another word. I have to hand it to him, he was very cool and quick on the uptake.

When he returned from the computer, he announced rather grandly: 'Your MHP is waiting outside, sir,' as if it were an everyday occurrence.

He didn't seem unduly impressed or surprised but began to lead me towards the heavy oak front door. I put my hand on his shoulder.

'I suggest it might be better if you stay inside,' I said.

He nodded obediently and watched open mouthed as I walked through the oak door without opening it.

Unlike me, the fat little concierge, of course, was not yet ready to leave the mortal world.

**

The MHP delivered me safely and swiftly to the Pantheon, Πάνθειονin Greek, the temple to all twelve Olympian gods. I stared down in awe at the scene that the great Homer once described as the mysterious folds of Olympus. It was such a long time since I had been here on the peak of the mountain with the world spread out beneath me. Everything I could see, and more, could all be mine. I knew that, yet I didn't want it, at least, not that way.

About a third of the way down the mountain part of the view was obscured by swirling clouds that were being threshed about by the Anemoi: the combined north, south, east, and west winds that had so worried the fat little concierge. The Anemoi were a force that I needed