CHAPTER 33: Dead To Rights

Sheriff Russo sat behind his desk in his home office across from Jackson and Tom Armstrong sitting on his old leather couch.

“Thanks for meeting here instead of the office,” said the Sheriff.

“No, problem, Dave,” said Jackson. “What’ve you got?”

“Well,” said the Sheriff, opening a file, “we’ve confirmed that Mark Reading, aka Robert Patton, is actually Seamus Boyle. Photos match. Born in Philly. Tough town. Tough guy. A Marine.”

He handed a document with a military photo to Jackson and Tom. Seamus Boyle was 6 feet tall with red hair and a boxer’s nose, flattened across the bridge.

“Grace said his hair is faded, not so red,” said Jackson.

“Yeah, Ginnie too. Faded, short on the side,” said the Sheriff. “Except for a couple of speeding tickets, he has a remarkably clean civilian record. So, since Nate thought he was military, I checked with a source,” said the Sheriff.

“Hmmm,” said Jackson, thinking about the retired Sergeant Major living ten miles outside Silvercreek, the one who loved elk hunting with the Sheriff.

“Boyle’s trained in handling ordinances,” said the Sheriff. “Competent boxer. Got high marks in marksmanship. His record states he’s ‘detail oriented, always highly prepared, extremely patient’. Two tours overseas. Helicopters, moved on to airplanes from there, knows his way around drones.”

“Interesting combination of skills,” said Tom.

“Boyle was implicated, along with one Skye Westwood, in opioid trafficking to the troops,” said the Sheriff. “Fentanyl too. Charges didn’t stick. Boyle swore off drugs, says his files. Stays fit. Not so sure about Westwood. He’s living in Montana, near Libby.”

“Dad shipped logs to Libby when their supply dried up over injunctions tied to grizzly bears,” said Tom, adding, “Friggin’ ESA.”

“They might remember,” said Jackson.

“They do,” said the Sheriff. “The Lincoln County Sheriff out there says Westwood’s a bit shady, still into drugs. Says he’ll do a drive by Westwood’s place, a ranch, he called it, if we so desire.”

“Glad we gave ’em a good price,” said Jackson. “What about the armory in the garage? That rifle’s been on my mind—never seen one like that.”

The Sheriff pulled up the pictures Grace took. “This one?” he said as Tom and Jackson leaned in.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” said Jackson.

“Dragunov SVD, dates back to the 1950s and 60s, Soviet Union. US banned the importation long ago. Uses a 7.6254 Rimmed cartridge. Grace got a picture of the box—he’s using Sellier & Bellot hollow points.”

“Shit,” said Tom.

“Deadly,” said the Sheriff as he flipped through papers. “Back to Boyle’s military file—couple of drunk and disorderlies, one domestic violence charge. All handled internally. Hands slapped, some push-ups issued.” He handed the papers to Jackson.

“Any fingerprints in those files?” asked Jackson.

“Yep, full set. DNA too.”

“Great!” said Tom.

“Nope,” said the Sheriff. “When the database was upgraded, that data cross referenced to another guy, deceased.”

“Bogus prints. Bogus DNA. Shit,” said Jackson.

“Hacked,” said Tom, shaking his head.

“Yep,” said the Sheriff, opening a file on his tablet. “We checked with the FAA. Boyle holds commercial pilot’s licenses under all three names, maybe others we haven’t found yet. Under those three names, he’s been filing flight plans in and out of L.A., Portland and Seattle going back at least seven years, maybe more. We’re checking dates against fires.”

“Lining up?” asked Tom.

“Appears so,” said the Sheriff.

Jackson was reading the domestic violence complaint. “This is more than just a fight with a girlfriend that got loud,” he said. “She says he stalked her, forced her to do things. Beat the crap out of her.”

“Let me see that,” said Tom, scanning it quickly. “Seamus has a creepy side.”

“A mean streak,” said Jackson. “You showed this to Grace and Ginnie?”

“Can’t. Privacy rights,” said the Sheriff. “Fourth Amendment and all. You two are still officially deputized from the last time I enlisted you so—” 

“Yeah, keep it confidential,” said Jackson, “but I’m real worried about the ladies.”

“Yep,” said the Sheriff. “The guy’s gone, but he might return. We should all beef up security, add an alarm, another bolt or two, put in some time at the gun range. Ask the ladies to stay with family or friends? Maybe you can suggest it, just to be safe?”

“Ginnie’s a damn good shot,” said Tom.

“Believe it or not, Grace also knows her way around a gun,” said Jackson.

The Sheriff raised an eyebrow. “Surprising,” he said.

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Jackson and Tom Armstrong drove directly to Ginnie’s house and parked. As the men walked up the front stairs to the open front door, Rickie Lee Jones’ voice floated out, singing “Running From Mercy”.

Oh sacred patience with my soul abide / There's a rainbow above me that the storm clouds hide / And kind words will never die 'cause the magic in kindness / Springs from the love, love, love

Cheryl was focused on the antics of the inhabitants of a dollhouse set in the middle of the living room floor. The adults kissed her head and moved to the kitchen.

Ginnie put on coffee and served up slices of apple crumble. Tom took a bite. “This is really good, Ginnie,” he said. Jackson nodded.

“Thanks,” she said, pouring coffee as Rickie Lee sang.

Little acts of kindness and little words of love / Make our earthly home heaven above / And there is no sorrow heaven cannot heal / Abide within, no cross, no crown

The men ignored the Sheriff’s warning and shared everything they knew, cautioning her about privacy laws.

“The law,” huffed Ginnie. “We know how well that works!” She thought for a moment, then said, “I’ll definitely add another lock, head to the range—got way too many apples,  can shoot the heck out of ‘em.” They all laughed.

Jackson reached across the table and took her hand, “Ginnie,” he said. “Promise us you’ll take this seriously.” Tom nodded.

“Absolutely,” she said. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” 

They sipped their coffee. No one spoke as they listened to Rickie Lee.

Running from mercy, hidden and coy / Swimming upstream down oceans of joy /
Die in the arms of a natural life / Waking our happiness drowning in light / Waking our happiness drowning in light

“Did I tell you this is really good, Ginnie?” asked Tom.

Ginnie beamed. “Another piece or one to go?”

Tom grinned. “Can I have a bit of both?” he laughed.

“Jackson?” she asked.

“Please,” he said, quietly with a nod.

You, you wake up!, come on boy, come on boy / Don't you stop her, don't you stop her / There's that door / I've got that door / I know where that door is / Just follow me and you wake up, wake up / Come on with me girl / Tomorrow

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Trying to understand sovereign debt, Grace recognized she was in over her head so she set up a video call with Ian MacAllister, the UK researcher, to learn more. He brought in a colleague to the conversation, a young woman named Jax Chadha. “I sent you a link to Jax’s bio, Grace. I asked her to join us because she knows her way around sovereign debt, environmental and climate finance, and carbon trading,” said Ian.

“Thanks, you two, for helping me,” said Grace, smiling.

“Happy to,” said Jax.

“It’s takes a village, right?” laughed Ian.

“The Trinité family,” said Jax, “has been involved in sovereign debt deals—financing countries—for hundreds of years, maybe longer. The terms of these loans require collateral to secure the royal or sovereign debt—gold, jewels, forests, agricultural land, access to fishing and hunting grounds, to ports, the spoils of wars yet to be waged, whatever the King had to offer. Way back when, if His or Her Majesty didn’t want to pay, they’d chop off your head, so it was unwise for those without a military to loan to sovereigns. Over time, this arrangement evolved from Kings and Queens loaning to each other, to countries loaning out your tax dollars or piling up debt for we peons to pay later. We now see this outsourced to the World Bank and the UN, to sovereign debt specialists, the financiers. Over here in the UK and Europe, this is known as The Club.”

“The Club?” asked Grace.

“It’s always existed, The Club,” said Jax, “on both sides of the Channel, but during the Argentinian melt down in 1956, countries lending to each other incorporated into Club de Paris, The Paris Club. Financiers loaning to countries, known as The London Club, chose to remain informal.”

Ian opened The Paris Club’s website. “About 500 sovereign debt agreements for over $600 billion to 100 countries. The Paris Club’s collateral terms include traditional debt for equity, and debt for currency terms. They expanded to debt for development and, in the last few decades, they added debt for nature, climate and recently added debt for health.”

“They’re following the UN treaties,” said Grace.

“Correct,” said Jax. “These debt agreements come with fealty requirements. In the debt for nature, climate and health versions, these include allegiance to the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals, SDGs, and the relevant treaties—biodiversity, climate, health, etc.”

Ian said, “The US is listed as a lender in about 75% of The Paris Club’s loans—let’s call it $450 billion owed to the US by other countries. Grace, do you recall Macron saying, ‘I think it’s great to have a US President part of the club and very willing to cooperate’ when Biden made his first visit to the EU as the US President?”

Grace nodded. “I thought at the time it was a little too familiar and wondered if there was an issue with the translation. It was always printed in lower case, but you’re saying ‘the club’ should be initial caps as in The Club?”

“Exactly!” laughed Ian. “Biden has committed to set aside 30% of US land and sea by 2030, abiding by the UN’s 30x30 plan, proving he’s willing to cooperate, a bonafide member of The Club. You’re familiar with Executive Order 14008 which established John Kerry as the climate czar? That EO also outlined financing terms for US loans to sovereign states, aligning them to the UN climate goals. Along these same lines, the terms of debt for nature conversions, refinancing, require debtor nations to commit full allegiance to the UN’s climate and sustainable development goals, the SDGs. This way the UN directs government resources in support of the SDG goals, setting the local agenda for decades to come.”

“Sovereign debt conversions,” said Jax, “are just refinancing deals, designed to deliver financial relief to the borrower, the country, usually by extending the length of the loan. This doesn’t reduce the principle—the balance due—but it does reduce cash flow requirements for debt servicing. Fees for refinancing are added to the principle and interest is charged on top of that. As anyone knows who’s refinanced a mortgage, debt conversions lower your payments, but they usually reset the amortization schedule back to zero so more interest is actually paid over an extended time period.”

“Got it,” said Grace.

Jax explained, “Some sovereign debt conversion terms require the cash difference between the old and new annual payment schedules be used for ‘approved’ activities such as grants to NGOs working on SDG projects—so the deals don’t actually free up cash that could be used to pay down principle. Governments accepting debt for nature conversions often have to agree to terms that might include creating management plans and surveys—data.”

“Sovereign debt conversion as a global policy driver and data aggregator for metadata and mapping? Is this why they’re building out the satellite grid?” asked Grace.

“Well, it will be intensely useful for global governance, surveillance, propaganda and military use,” said Ian.

Jax nodded. “The US did, after all, create a new military branch, Space Force.”

Ian said, “OK, so now we have wrapped our brains around the basics, right?”

Grace nodded. “Am still with you,” she said.

“Good,” said Ian. “Let’s look at a case study—a small sovereign debt conversion for the Republic of the Seychelles in the Indian Ocean. In 2015, the World Bank discounted $22 million in sovereign debt owed by the Seychelles in a conversion agreement that included a debt for nature loan from The Nature Conservancy. Yes, TNC is so big now it's loaning money to countries, along with some of the other big NGOs. Taxpayers took the hit for the discount since they fund the World Bank—let’s guess 50 cents on the dollar?—leaving $11 million in debt, taxpayers to taxpayers because sovereign debt is a country’s debt, owed by the citizens.”

Jax said, “The Paris Club and TNC’s NatureVest—administered by JP Morgan—were involved. The Seychelles deal’s terms require allegiance to the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals, SDGs. The money freed up by extending the term of the loan—over $400,000 a year—has to go to a trust fund for SDG-aligned grants. There is a requirement for development of a Marine Spatial Plan, MSP—data—for the Exclusive Economic Zone of the Seychelles, half a million square miles of the Indian Ocean, a militarily important location.”

“Along with military needs, I believe,” said Ian, “that MSPs are a tool for zoning the oceans for what they call the Blue Economy—commercial ship building, windmills, carbon sequestration and storage, offshore drilling for oil, gas and minerals, a bit of everything industrial.”

“Pre-industrialization surveys pushed forward by loan terms tied to the UN’s SDGs?” asked Grace.

“Appears to be,” said Jax. “It’s a smart way to slip it in. Either way, it’s data that the Powers That Be want. Lots of meetings with stakeholders. The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization, UNESCO, is in charge of drafting the Seychelles MSP—supposed to be completed in 2020—still waiting.”

Ian said, “The locals—not their first rodeo—distrust the process immensely, but government agencies are all in.”

“To further complicate it,” said Jax, “the World Bank negotiated a $15 million bond to cover $3 million in grants for aligned NGOs and the balance, $12 million, for a Seychelles bank to issue loans tied to the UN’s SDG agenda. The World Bank provided a $5 million guarantee on this ‘blue bond’. The UN’s Global Environment Facility, the GEF, committed $5 million—via Project 10535—to cover interest payments.”

“What’s the interest rate?” asked Grace.

“No idea,” said Jax. “Try and ask them, right?”

“Let’s do the math,” said Ian. “We’re guessing $11 million for the original debt conversion, plus another $15 million for the ‘blue bond’—$26 mil in debt replacing the original $22 million, plus the $11 that got written off, a loss absorbed by the taxpayers of the world. $33 million in debt. With the new $26 million pledged by the citizens of the Republic of the Seychelles, they wound up carrying more debt than when this debt conversion/reduction project began, plus they’re locked in, by loan terms, to the UN’s agenda.”

Grace shook her head. “This is truly shocking,” she said.

Jax continued, “Promotional materials for the Seychelles’ sovereign debt for nature swap prominently feature the Aldabra Atoll, the second largest coral atoll in the world. Aldabra has been studied as early as 1910 and, while it is located close to shipping lanes, it’s a long way from shore so had very little human activity. There were remnants of a limestone-walled garden, a small cemetery.”

“In the 1960s,” said Ian, “a UK military official made an off-hand remark that the Aldabra Atoll might be suitable for an air base, triggering frantic fundraising appeals to save it. UNESCO declared it a World Heritage Site; Seychelles legislation confirmed it as a UN IUCN highly-protected area. The British Royal Society gained control in 1970 and somehow—with no environmental impact report or permits—marred it forever with its first permanent structure, a ‘research station’ with lodgings for ten, plus staff.”

Jax shook her head. “Bit of a disgrace that,” she said. “Beyond the structure, they must have been living well because hundreds of feral goats were reportedly eradicated in the 1990s.”

“So,” said Ian, “in 1979, the UK transferred the Aldabra Atoll to the Seychelles Islands Foundation, a government-controlled organization which financially benefits from tourism. Taxpayers funds at the World Bank and the UN were converted to construction loans used to expand the Royal Society’s lodgings—Aldabra Atoll is now a sprawling shantytown. A steady churn of young people cycle through its dormitories, kitchens and latrines. They count and measure the local flora and fauna—data, much of which is never published—and pick up trash from turtle nesting grounds.”

“Private yachts and cruise ships deliver a thousand tourists a year, in groups as large as 120 at a time,” said Jax. “This traffic carries in invasive plants, insects, snails, snakes, rodents, cats, and more. The Aldabra Atoll shantytown,” said Jax, “is littered with solar panels and ramshackle buildings filled with diving equipment and air tanks, engines and boats, fishing gear and kayaks, water collection and desalination rigs. Decaying structures are filled with drums of diesel, propane tanks, batteries, generators—everything in constant need of repair.”

“For heaven’s sake, they’re running a boat repair facility on Aldabra Atoll,” said Ian shaking his head and sharing his screen with a page from a promotional brochure.

“Aldabra Atoll is far from pristine or protected. It’s a money-machine,” said Ian angrily.

“I have yet to see negative comments,” said Jax, “about how this sovereign debt conversion is tied to the UN SDG agenda. No one notices the increased burden on taxpayers who carry the increased debt at both ends, in the Seychelles and in the countries that fund the World Bank and the UN.”

Ian added, “I have yet to read about the threat of an MSP being used as a vehicle for zoning for further industrialization of the Indian Ocean. No one’s noticed the pile of UN grants, $252 million, scheduled for the Seychelles, population 107,000. The Seychelles’ gross domestic product is $16 billion, 115% of the world average—the highest GDP in Africa—but 34% of the Seychelles citizens live in poverty while carrying a sovereign debt load of 70% of GDP. The Seychelles has earned a spot among the top 40 debtor nations.”

Grace shook her head. Clearly there are issues, she thought, with environmental reporting. “I recall,” she said, “reading the results of an Aldabra Atoll clean up project. Tons of plastic trash washing up, primarily swept out of Indonesia by monsoons, right?”

“Indonesia—with its inadequate waste handling facilities—is awash in plastic waste,” said Jax, “a byproduct of Big Oil that never gets addressed.”

“Boats cart stuff to the Aldabra Atoll and tote out trash,” said Ian. “I believe the garbage collected during that research project—overwhelmingly non-biodegradable plastic out of Indonesia—moved from Aldabra to Mahé Island where the capitol, Victoria, is located. There the trash was inventoried—data—before being sent to Indonesia for disposal. Probably swept right back out to sea during the next monsoon season.”

Grace shook her head. “We seem to be losing the battles that really matter,” she said.

“The battles that matter to most people,” said Ian. “Let me tell you a story. During WWII, some Italians made a living buying and selling cans of sardines. They’d buy them for 5 cents, sell them for 10. Those would be sold for 50 cents, then a dollar, and on it went. One day, a buyer complained to a seller that the sardines were absolutely terrible, inedible. The seller looked at him in disgust and said, ‘These sardines are not for eating. These sardines are for selling.’”

“Your point being,” said Grace, “that the Powers That Be are not about anything utilitarian. It’s about a select few making a fine living via exploitation of the planet and its people?”

Ian and Jax nodded.

“Taken further,” said Grace, “the sardine scheme was a waste of good fish and good aluminum. The cans and the fish ended up in the dump. Aluminum and fish—they’ll decompose.” Grace studied a poster on the wall and the two men studied her as she took her thinking to the next level.

“But what if,” Grace asked, “the capture and canning of these inedible sardines was financed by unsustainable subsidies created by government decree and sovereign debt? What if this results in overfishing, putting real fishermen producing real food out of business? What if the locals starve, the town collapses, and villagers have to move someplace else? What if these inedible sardines are sold in plastic pouches that never decompose? What if we collect and transport this waste to inadequate waste handling sites in Indonesia and monsoons sweep the debris back out to sea where it winds up in turtle nesting grounds on the Aldabra Atoll? What if young people pick up this waste from the Atoll and deliver it back to Indonesia repeating the cycle in perpetuity?”

The three paused for a moment to consider the ramifications.

“I would really love to continue this conversation, Grace, but we need to run,” said Ian. “Let me just close with a a few thoughts. The Seychelles debt conversion resulted in more debt for the citizens forced to supply the funds for the loan and the ones who are burdened with paying it off. These blue and green facades are just devices for wealth and data accumulation benefitting a select few. The Seychelles adventure reduced local autonomy by forcing allegiance to UN goals. The cost of an industrial survey and zoning plan for the Indian Ocean—data to feed the Parasitic Powers That Be—has been transferred to taxpayers.”

“In our opinion,” said Jax, “The Seychelles Case Study is right up there with subsidized industrial windmill and solar panel installations and carbon trading schemes—great examples of a waste of resources with little to no benefit.”

“We’re fools,” said Grace. “Fools buying far too many cans of inedible sardines.”

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After the conference call, Grace got a cup of coffee and considered the ramifications of what Ian and Jax had shared. Her thoughts were interrupted by a call from Jackson who updated her on his plans to get a meeting with Frédéric Trinité.

“That will never happen,” said Grace.

“God will deliver,” said Jackson.

“You really think so?”

“I do.”

“OK,” she said, “I’ll trust you on that one, but you’re not going to meet Frédéric Trinité without me.”

“Yes, yes, I am,” he said. “There’s no need for you to go.”

“No, Jackson,” said Grace. “You need me. I have sources in Europe I can access.”

“No,” he said. “But you should get out of L.A. Go someplace you’ve never been before, use cash—no trail. You’ll be safer.”

“I’ll be safest with you,” she said. He didn’t argue. “Plus I can make a threat of fame real,” said Grace. “With Trinité, you’re charging a dragon with a toothpick, but I can put strychnine on the tip. I need you and you need me, Jackson. Admit it.”

Jackson sighed. She had him dead to rights and he knew it.