History is written in small moments that accumulate down a gradual slope, gaining speed as the force of decision and realization give it weight: picking up the people, actions, and consequences along its path of seeming inevitability; shaping the fabric of reality that is human civilization - military regimes gain power through a coup d'etat, thereby freeing the citizenry of a type of oppression only to be substituted with another, but what if this momentum was supplanted by the conscious decisions of a chosen few rather than the democratically elected - men that lived in the shadows, contriving a shape and path for this juggernaut; thereby, dictating a reality that encompassed decades of strategy to encircle the globe under a warm blanket of ignorance that affected all manner of civilization regardless of race, religion, or socioeconomic status? This was what he thought, taking a long drag on a cigarette; the red embers at the tip lit up his face, momentarily defining the creases that rippled out from his puckered lips and into the sagging bags under his eyes, radiating up over his forehead and disappearing into a sparse hairline.
Another man was in the room. Instead of sitting leisurely in the leather armchair opposite, he stood in the darkest corner. His gloved hands clasped together in a forced manner of practiced patience. There was no shadow of fear on the face of the cigarette smoking man. He knew this nondescript man, this Mr. X, better than he would like to admit. The Cigarette Smoking Man's gaze traveled up to Mr. X's shining black eyes. He puffed out a thin line of smoke and, with a grimace, said, "so what news do you bring?"
"It's Newbold, sir." There was little hesitation in Mr. X usually, but this time he waited for a response. It had been a while since this name was uttered. There was no reaction. "He's resurfaced." He said it like driving a nail flush with one final, aggressive swing.
The Cigarette Smoking Man rolled the Marlboro between his thumb and pointer fingers. He thought it odd that a man of Newbold's savvy would ever 'resurface' unless… "In what manner?"
"He was arrested in New Haven." Mr. X's hands stayed clasped as he studied the face. It remained stolid. "The local P.D. picked him up after he broke into the Yale special collections."
"A cry for help, you suppose?" A jagged smile cracked across his face and a thick blanket of smoke tumbled over his chin.
Mr. X's brow curled over his eyes. "He's taken the Voynich Manuscript. The police have yet to locate it, nor have I."
"It's a hoax. That is inconsequential, I think. No. Newbold is looking for a public forum; his idea of protection." The Cigarette Smoking Man uncrossed his legs and leaned forward to tamp the ash into a stale glass of whiskey.
"This is an opportunity to put an end to the Covenant. Newbold-"
The Cigarette Smoking Man froze while withdrawing back in the chair. His expression sour with disappointment, anger, agreement? Mr. X could not read the mask. This was always a defining moment in their meetings, so he waited for the truth.
"No. Give him what he wants. The dog must have his bone, so we know where he buries it." He fell back into a relaxed position and inhaled from the newly lit cigarette with confidence. "Suppose," he puffed out a small cloud, "hmm, Newbold is…" He held the cigarette tip an inch from his eye and watched the smoldering ash as it traveled down the shaft. "This is an interesting opportunity."
Mr. X nodded. He could not keep the resignation from curving his shoulders forward ever so slightly. He had the misfortune of hunting the Covenant. He ran through the details of the mission in his mind as they were clear: all the files scrolled through his memory like microfiche. They are a consortium, of sorts, purporting to predict the future. Their leader was Billy Newbold. They drew the interest of the inner circle, the shadow government, through several counterintuitive acts that placed them at the center of some of the world's greatest events. They either bore witness to or were purported to be connected with such turning points in history like the fall of the Berlin wall or the collapse of the Soviet Union. Hell, a Covenant member was filmed in the Zapruder footage. The Covenant's uncanny timing to bear witness to such markers in human existence put them on the map as a threat to national security. How could they have such impeccable foresight? They had no funding, no assets, no land. They seemed to just know. Their links to history had traced them as far back as the Bolshevik revolution.
"There is power in knowing." The Cigarette Smoking Man's word cut through Mr. X's memories. His vision was focused, again, on the cigarette as it burned closer to the filter. "I want you to leak this arrest. Follow every detail. I want the Voynich Manuscript returned immediately."
"I thought you said it was a hoax and 'inconsequential'."
The Cigarette Smoking Man's eyes narrowed. How dare he think. "The manuscript will be returned. Is that clear?"
Mr. X nodded. "Who should I leak it to?"
The smoke in the room had accumulated around the two men like a low hanging stratospheric anomaly. "We need a believer, wouldn't you agree?"
