The Hidden Reality: An Alex Pella Novel

By Stephen Martino

With The New Reality now in control of the world's nations, the brilliant doctor and inventor Alex Pella finds himself caught in a deadly power struggle between the tyrant who rules and the one who would. As he sets out on a mission to unravel the New World Order, he must also face the hidden truths about his own genetic heritage, truths that are slowly destroying him. When he receives an ambiguous message sent from a man long since dead, Alex learns that the only way to win his battle against The New Reality is to defeat a long-forgotten enemy nearly 2,500 years old.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Independent Publishers Group
• Release date: Mar 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781611531626

Stephen Martino

Stephen Martino is an Amazon bestselling author and physician who has written the fast-paced Alex Pella novel series, which include The New Reality, The Hidden Reality, and The Final Reality. The New Reality became an Amazon bestseller and a winner of the 2020 New York City Big Book Distinguished Favorite, while The Final Reality went on to win a Gold medal for Thrillers at the FAPA awards and was a winner of the CYGNUS Book Awards for Science Fiction. A member of the International Thriller Writers, Martino’s action-political thrillers are often compared to such substantive novels as the Sigma Series by James Rollins, novels by Isaac Asimov, the Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown, and The Andromeda Strain by fellow physician, Michael Crichton. His books have been featured on numerous blogs across the United States and Europe including Indigo Quill, Writer’s Life, Confessions of a Reader, As the Page Turns, I Heart Reading, and Mary’s Cup of Tea among others.

Book preview

Introduction

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, Fiction reveals the truth that reality hides. Though fictional, The Hidden Reality is founded on political truths and serves as both a warning and prediction to where our country and her people will find itself if unfettered big government and banking continue their unlawful seizure of our Constitutional freedoms.

Acknowledgments

I would first like to thank my publisher, Light Messages Torchflame Books, for the continuing opportunity to be a part of their wonderful publishing family. Many thanks also to Elizabeth Turnbull for her exceptional editing skills and ability to produce the most from my work. Most importantly, I greatly appreciate all those who enjoyed reading my debut novel, The New Reality. It is from your kind words and encouragement that I draw much inspiration and continue to do my best to make each novel better than its predecessor.

Prologue

"Those who vote decide nothing.

Those who count the vote decide everything."

—Joseph Stalin

October 11, 1786

Landsbut, Bavaria

The hypnotic melody of the whistling wind and the patter of raindrops hitting the roof ordinarily proved more comforting to Xavier von Zweck than the most angelic lullaby.

On this night, the grandfather clock had just chimed 2:00 a.m., and Xavier could barely close his eyes, let alone fall asleep. Insomnia was no friend of his but had become an accustomed bedtime partner over the past year.

Though the night was unusually warm and muggy for a Bavarian October, Xavier pulled another quilted blanket over his body, covering himself as if he were trying to make a cocoon.

Xavier? his wife mumbled, half asleep. You’d rest better with the lamp off.

Mind your own business, he quipped.

Not wanting to start another argument, his wife simply turned away and drifted slowly back to sleep as if nothing had occurred. She had become accustomed to her husband’s quick fits of temper and erratic behavior. The man she married in her late teens was certainly not the man she had grown to know over the past year. His gentle, caring demeanor had been transformed into one of paranoia and fear. Though she cared for him dearly, their relationship dwindled as quickly as Xavier’s sanity.

If she only knew, Xavier thought. She would not be sleeping so soundly.

He double-checked his bedside table drawer for the tenth time that night to ensure that his gun was in the proper place. He had loaded the flintlock pistol and stowed it there in case of any emergency. Assured the gun was where he stored it, Xavier rolled on his back and looked blankly up at the ceiling.

It was such a noble and just cause, he lamented. The enlightenment we would have brought to Bavaria, if not the world, would have made the Renaissance pale in comparison.

Now they hunt us down like a pack of dogs, wanting to rid their country of any contrary thoughts or points of view. The government and church are nothing more than instruments of suppression that hinder man’s true nature to achieve enlightenment and pursue humanitarianism.

Xavier startled as the front door rattled.

Was it just the wind?

He lifted his head, trying not to make a sound. His breathing became shallow while his pulse raced. He could feel his heart pound and temples throb. He listened intently, hoping it was just the storm.

Seconds passed like hours.

Every raindrop sounded like raging bulls charging through his home.

In his heightened awareness, the wind seemed to grow to hurricane proportions. His head darted to the bedroom window as a windblown tree branch only gently scraped across it.

They found me, he trembled. Just as they did all of the other brothers of the order! Baron Kruigge-Philo, Baron Bassus, Ferdinand Brunswick. All taken. Never seen or heard of again.

He looked at the window, expecting soldiers to come barging through it.

Nothing.

Xavier slowly began to ease himself back down to bed after a few terrifying moments. False alarm.

Just as he was about to breathe relief, the door rattled once again. This time the sound was unmistakable. This was not the storm or some wayward tree branch. Someone was out outside trying to get in.

Wearing only his white-laced nightshirt, Xavier sprang to his feet. Grabbing the fluted lantern from the night table by the base with his right hand and the pistol with the left, he dashed over to the top of the stairs. From that vantage point he had a clear view of the front door. Illuminated by ornate lanterns on both sides and burning candles in the hallway, the door was clearly visible in this moonless night.

Xavier pointed the pistol down the stairs, waiting for any unwanted visitors to enter his home. Though the ivory and gold festooned weapon was an inaccurate shot, at close quarters it should prove accurate enough to stop an intruder.

The door rattled once again, and the person outside accompanied the rattling with seven distinct knocks. There were two doublets and one triplet all separated by a short interval.

Could it be?

Xavier hesitantly descended the steps, keeping his pistol pointing at the door. The knock was unmistakable. It was the secret cadence required to gain access to the order’s clandestine meetings.

Was it one of his brothers or was this just some sort of rouse the police were using for him to open the door?

Cato, a muffled voice said from behind the door.

Stunned, Xavier stood motionless after he descended the last step on the stairs.

Cato. Open up, the muffled voice beckoned once again.

This was no rouse or trick. Only a high-ranking brother in the order would know his code name. After a brief moment of disbelief, Xavier placed the pistol in his nightshirt pocket and scurried over to unlatch the lock on the door.

Which of my brothers could it be? There are so few of us left.

He slowly opened the door, peering around the corner just in case this visitor was accompanied by other unwelcome guests. The man was alone and drenched from head to toe. His large brimmed top hat concealed his face, making him unrecognizable.

Cato, the man asked in a raspy voice, May I come in?

Yes. Yes, Xavier finally answered, still not able to recognize the man’s identity or even his voice. Where are my manners, good sir? Please come in brother.

As the man walked into the house, Xavier immediately shut the door and fastened the lock behind him. Though the man was a brother, he needed to secure the house in case he had been followed.

Let me take your hat, Xavier quickly offered.

Obliging his request, the man handed the soggy hat to his host. Water trickled down from it onto the hardwood floor as Xavier placed it on a coat hook standing next to the door.

Spartacus!

Though the man before him was about twenty pounds lighter, and drenched from his balding head down to his long blue-buttoned overcoat. Xavier immediately recognized the man’s identity—Adam Weishaupt. With a slight double chin, cherub-like cheeks and a dubious smile, he was thought to have been put to death after Duke Karl Theodor outlawed their order.

But the former leader of their order was obviously still alive and now standing here in his hallway.

Cato, Spartacus immediately responded in a rushed and rasped tone. There is little time. Do you still have everything?

Yes, Xavier responded, still in disbelief that his brother from the order was still alive. I kept everything hidden just like you requested. Before he could say anything else, he grabbed Spartacus’s wet shoulders and asked, How are you old friend? I was certain Duke Theodor had your head after he disbanded the order.

Spartacus had little time for pleasantries. Please, Cato. You must quickly bring me everything from the order. A new wave of reasoning is about to ignite in Europe starting in France, and I must be there to foster the initial spark.

Xavier patted him on the shoulders and smiled in delight. There’s no rush. Come and change into something dry. Have a cup of tea. The storm should break soon, and I will ready you fresh supplies for your journey ahead.

I may have been followed, Spartacus quickly responded.

Xavier’s delight quickly soured at the revelation, though he knew the good of the order and its message meant more than his anonymity or even his own life.

Yes. Follow me, Xavier responded, quickly escorting his friend over to a wooden chest in an adjacent room. Though he had so many questions to ask, he understood he would have to wait for answers.

The room was dark and lit only by two candles almost completely melted to their base. With his lantern held in front of him, Xavier scurried over to the wooden chest and grabbed one of the brass handles along its side. Spartacus grabbed the other, and with little effort the two moved the chest to the side, revealing a small trap door underneath.

Xavier lifted the door by a small latch attached to it and brought his lantern closer so they could both get a better look. In the dim light provided by the lantern, Spartacus could just make out its contents.

Two large books, each with the order’s distinctive symbol imprinted on their cover, lay atop a beautifully ornate silver shield. Though the details of the shield’s artwork were lost in the darkness, the symbols certainly were not: an all-seeing eye surrounded by a pyramid. The symbol was none other than that of the Order of the Illuminati.

A loud hammering on the front door caught them both by surprise. Xavier almost dropped his lantern as he jumped back, nearly stumbling in response.

Clamoring from the back door in the rear of the house now accompanied the noise echoing from the front.

Adam Weishaupt, a voice bellowed from outside as the incessant banging on the doors continued. Open up!

Xavier quickly put down the lantern and wrapped the shield and two books in the linen on which they were lying. I must get you out of here.

Taking the linen package, he opened up the chest and grabbed a large leather satchel especially made for these items.

Xavier looked at Spartacus while placing the linen package in the pouch. You must leave now.

Before he could say anything further, Spartacus interrupted. Is this everything?

What do you mean?

Is this everything? he reiterated over the clamoring noise.

With each new bang, the doors sounded as if they were going to collapse under the intense battering.

Adam Weishaupt, another voice from the rear of the house began to yell.

Time was dwindling. It would only be a few moments now before one of the doors would succumb to the beating.

Complicating the commotion, Xavier’s wife came running down the stairs. Carrying a lantern and wearing her nightshirt and cap, she asked, horrified by the commotion, Who are these people, Xavier? And what do they want?

Go back up upstairs, Xavier responded pointing back towards their bedroom.

Another strong pound came from the front door as its hinges began to give way.

Xavier’s wife stood in the hallway, motionless, looking at her husband and then the door, not knowing what to do.

Go upstairs, Xavier insisted with more emphasis.

Is this everything? Spartacus emphatically interrupted, taking the leather pouch.

The hinges on the front door continued to loosen and with each new thump the door opened just a small fraction more.

Xavier’s wife began to cry and shiver under the stress. Though her husband cared for her dearly, he understood that the order’s cause meant more than even her safety. He turned to Spartacus, I have some other papers hidden in the kitchen. Come with me.

Who are these people? Xavier’s wife cried out.

We are here under the direct orders of Duke Theodor, a voice from behind the front door insisted, the clamoring momentarily stopped. Adam Weishaupt, come out.

Xavier’s wife quickly went over to the door and began to fumble with the lock. She respected the authorities and certainly wanted no trouble with the Duke. Whoever her husband was harboring at this moment needed to leave.

No! shouted Xavier as he turned in disbelief to see his wife begin to unlatch the door. He attempted to stop her but Spartacus grabbed him by the shoulder.

The other papers, Spartacus shouted. I must have the other papers!

But— Xavier was cut off as Spartacus shoved him towards the kitchen.

The door to the rear of the house smashed open, leaving pieces of wooden shards all over the floor. Soldiers in long blue overcoats carrying bayonet rifles in their hands came barging through and into the storage room. The room was cluttered, wet from the storm, and blanketed in total darkness, which proved to be Xavier’s best defense.

One of the soldiers began to shout in agony as his companion accidentally bayoneted his leg upon tripping.

Move it, a boisterous voice from the rear urged, grabbing the fallen soldiers and attempting to bring them to their feet on the slippery floor.

Take this, Xavier insisted, removing the pistol out from his nightshirt pocket. It will provide only one shot. Make it count.

Spartacus took the weapon but again insisted, What about the other papers?

There is no time, Xavier responded, Go down…

Where is he? a voice echoed from the hallway. Where are you hiding Adam Weishaupt?

A weak voice responded, Some man just took my husband into the kitchen.

I have a horse ready just outside the wine cellar, in a stall I placed there in case of an emergency. Xavier continued as he began to perspire under the stress. There are two days’ worth of supplies and some money strapped to the saddle.

But the papers, Spartacus insisted. They must not fall into anyone else’s hands.

Two soldiers suddenly appeared next to the kitchen. We found him! one of them yelled.

Xavier quickly handed his friend the lantern and rushed over to the soldiers, hoping to use his body as a shield and give his friend an extra second to escape. Go now! he insisted.

Spartacus took the lantern and immediately smashed it against the kitchen table covered in fine linen as Xavier ran over to the soldiers with his arms spread, hoping to block their pursuit. Flaming oil from the lamp spewed out upon the table and onto the walls upon impact, catching them on fire.

Xavier looked back in horror as his house was consumed by flames, while his friend, still holding the base of the lantern, slowly backed away towards the wine cellar.

What’s he doing?

Spartacus knew there was no other option. If the remaining Illuminati papers in the house somehow became public, it could compromise the entire movement. France would remain under its tyrannical rule from the king; all of Europe would remain masked in darkness.

The soldiers began to push past Xavier as he stood motionless. He had grown up in this home, and was the fourth generation of Zwecks to live there. All his belongings and generations worth of memories were turning to ash.

The soldiers stopped their pursuit as Spartacus pulled out the pistol Xavier had given him from his pocket. Taking close aim, he fired. A puff of black smoke momentarily obscured his vision. The bullet directly hit its mark, piercing the man’s heart and sending him tumbling backwards.

Mortally wounded, Xavier fell towards the soldiers who did nothing to stop him from falling on the hard wooden floors. Xavier struck the ground as blood poured from his chest. Letting out a single grunt, he lost consciousness before he could understand what had just transpired.

Spartacus ran down into the wine cellar. The reflection from the burning fire in the kitchen gave him just enough light for him to see his way back towards a set of steps in the back of the room. Though he had just murdered a close friend and brother of the order, he had no time to lament or second-guess his actions. The importance of the Illuminati movement far outweighed the significance of one man’s life or worldly possessions—Xavier’s death was for the greater good of all mankind.

The soldiers followed Spartacus in quick pursuit. With their bayonets pointed forward, they ran through the fire-lit kitchen and towards the stairs.

Spartacus heard the soldiers in pursuit; they were closing in on him. Pushing up on a door at the top of the steps, he ascended into a covered barn with an already saddled horse seemingly awaiting his arrival. A few already burning lanterns in the stall provided just enough illumination for him to see.

He then quickly unlatched the barn’s only door and mounted the horse. A bluster of wind blew the door open just as Spartacus began to ride towards it.

Seeing their target attempting to ride away, one of the soldier’s took aim with his rifle before he ascended the final step of the wine cellar. With only one shot and his fellow companion still behind him, he knew the bullet needed to count. His orders were to bring back Adam Weishaupt dead or alive. Dead would work just fine.

The rifle went off with a black puff of smoke.

The bullet passed through Spartacus’s dark overcoat, inflicting only a minor flesh wound to his thigh. Barely noticing the pain, Spartacus put his head down and rode out into the night. With the shield and two books safely secured, he knew the course of mankind would be irrevocably changed from this moment forward.

Chapter 1

September 4, 2084

London, England

A young man in his late twenties stood confidently behind a large, circular table made of clear glass. With his well-tanned, stubbled face and wavy, beelined honey-colored hair that reached his shoulders, he appeared more ready to catch the next wave than to speak at this meeting. His tan suit with a large butterfly-like collar and unbuttoned white shirt completed the look.

Most of the other 20 executives at the meeting also appeared less than adequately dressed for such an occasion.

In the center of the table a crisp image was meticulously engraved on the glass. It represented not only the symbol for their company but also that of the New World Order it created—a vibrant triangular diamond with a perfect, golden circle at its center.

Above the symbol, a holographic image of a globe with countries coded in different colors rotated slowly.

As you can see by the green color on about half of the countries, the speaker from the public relations team went on to say with little enthusiasm, The New Reality virtual services is actively utilized by at least 50 percent of the population. Though this percentage has increased by almost two-fold since the first quarter in 2083, we are still about 10 percent shy of reaching this year’s expectation.

He pointed to one of the large canvas painted portraits at the front of the room.

As our former president and CEO of The New Reality, Albert Rosenberg, once said, he continued in a monotone voice, failure to meet expectation, no matter how grandiose these expectations may be, is still a failure.

He attempted to rouse his fellow colleagues around the table with this famous quote, but none seemed interested with the words from the deceased old man or with the presenter’s lack of enthusiasm. Although the painting depicted Albert as a younger gentleman with large blue eyes, curly, gray hair, high cheekbones and an intense demeanor, most remembered how he looked before his death three years ago—decrepit and skeletal. Some incorrectly assumed he was a casualty of The Disease, which once ravaged the planet and led to the untimely deaths of millions of her inhabitants. The real reason for his demise proved much more dubious in nature.

Sit down! a man by the name of Jules Windsor bellowed from across the table in an English accent. Just sit down. Your total lack of understanding and ignorance of the subject is making me go completely out of my mind.

Jules stood up from behind the table and pointed at the door behind him. No, better yet, why don’t you just take yourself and that God-awful ensemble you call a suit and get the hell out of here. Go. Now. Be quick about it.

The man giving the lackluster presentation then slowly backed away in disbelief. Because of Jules’ worldwide reputation as a great philanthropist and highly esteemed member of The New Reality board, he was taken aback by such a negative reaction.

But… he attempted.

Jules once again pointed at the door, curtailing all further discussion. Unlike most others around the table, he was exquisitely dressed in a designer black pinstripe suit with a red tie and similarly colored handkerchief protruding from his right breast pocket. Just above six feet tall with wavy blond hair and an athletic physique, his physical prowess overpowered all those at the table. His large, black, penetrating eyes only proved to accentuate his ominous presence.

The man whimpered away from the table like a beaten dog. The door dematerialized upon his exit. Not many noticed his departure as all eyes now squarely focused on Jules Windsor.

Once a man of Albert Rosenberg’s inner circle, Jules was now relegated to the London office to oversee advertisement and distribution of The New Reality virtual products across the globe. Still riling in the fact that Albert did not allow him to run in the general election for the leader of The New Reality, he begrudgingly took the position with plans of greater success in the future.

After The Disease had ravaged the planet for over a year, the world was subsequently left financially bankrupt. Though the illness did not precipitate this financial ruin, it was the final act that led to its collapse. Years of deficit spending, mounting debt, growing unfunded liabilities, poor central financial planning, and complete waste of taxpayer money produced the problem. The inception of The Disease proved to be its tipping point.

Led by Albert Rosenberg, The New Reality was there to reap the benefits of the world’s financial ruin. Fueling the economic crisis by providing loans to countries around the globe that had no means to repay them, he took control of the governments when they universally defaulted on their payments. Thus marking the end of all local, territorial sovereignties and the rise of a central, economically controlled New World Order run by The New Reality.

Look at you all around this table, Jules admonished, as if scolding wayward children. You all come here, to my office, dressed like shaggy vagabonds.

He pointed to a gentleman who wore running pants made from synthetic rayon woven fabric with long slits along the sides to maximize air flow and a baggy black-striped shirt that looked similar to a poncho and said, Or worse yet, some… He was at a loss of words.

God knows what even to call that terribly unfortunate outfit.

The man began to chuckle, somehow thinking that Jules’ reaction was funny.

You think it’s amusing? Jules asked as he closed in to where the man was sitting. The closer he approached, the less the man found it humorous. Jules’ broad shoulders, chiseled jaw, and focused expression made further laughter next to impossible.

Those few in the room who actually knew Jules on a personal level, shuddered at what was to happen next. Despite his popular reputation, Jules was actually an intense businessman with relentless determination and an abundance of self-confidence.

Jules placed his rather large and muscular hand around the back of the man’s neck. The pain was so intense that he felt paralyzed and could do nothing in response but wince helplessly in pain. He tried to speak, but only tears came out.

The other people around the table were in shock. Instead of helping the man, they sat motionless in fear.

Jules finally released his grip. The man slumped to the floor and began to gasp for breath as if he had choked.

Crawl on out of here hooligan, Jules reprimanded. You will disgrace my board room with your insolence no longer.

The man quickly obliged. Mustering what little energy he had left, he crawled to the doorway and rolled out of the room once the door dematerialized.

He turned to the woman and the rest of the men at the table. Many began tucking in their shirts, adjusting their jackets, or simply attempting to sit up a little straighter.

So, Jules went on to ask as if nothing had occurred, do any of you want to finish this dreadful presentation you traveled from far and wide to present to me today?

No one dared to answer.

Though he understood the fear he instilled upon his guests, Jules was certainly disappointed that not a single person was willing to speak. Always looking for a mental challenge or good intellectual argument, he quickly realized by the blank stares from the woman and men around this table that he would receive neither at the moment.

He pointed at the painting of Albert Rosenberg. Your esteemed colleague left off by mentioning expectation. Would anyone like to further explain what Mr. Rosenberg meant by expectation?

Though Albert was Jules’ uncle, he seldom acknowledged this familial bond any longer. The people who were chosen to run the enterprise shared little of Jules’ political or even moral beliefs, and he was appalled by Albert’s nominees and even more appalled by the political policies that The New