More Spirit Than Animal

THE GODS GO TO WAR

'Is he willing to prevent evil but not able, then he is impotent. Is he able but not willing then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing whence then is evil?' David Hume

Excitement for the wolf and the jackal is catching the scent of the dead and the dying on the wind. But that is at the end of the cycle. Nature's true ravenous, brutal glory is in the heady scent of the living, the succulent, the young and vibrant, ripe for slaughter, feeding the carnal spirit. The primal urge to kill will order the pack to work together, the collective lust for blood, overwhelming the individual claim on his portion. They will chase, hunt, manoeuvre, entrap and run to ground until utterly exhausted the object of their slavering intent will turn to face its fate. This is the law of all jungles, the plains of Africa and the tundras of temperate lands and the deep misty streets of Thames side Oxford.

Pantheon was a restless wind and its perfumed charm was not lost on me. Colorado Smith was a man closer to more half truths than anyone I ever knew. He was always somewhere else when he wasn't with you. His entire life was a mosaic of interlocking images that fitted together into a picture only he could see. And so he would on occasion feed me what he knew and a picture of the Zander beast became a disturbing Greek chorus to my own enterprise. A sequence of chats, insights and outpourings from Smith to me were for what purpose? To educate me, scare me, intimidate me or was he a just a Man who knew things. And how much of what he said was even the truth? Whatever, the picture was consistent and I do not doubt the veracity of its broad truth.

By a pool somewhere in Riyadh, Montague Rivers signed an arms deal on behalf of the King, committing a host of UK arms firms to provide a not too small arsenal of automatic and semi automatic weapons along with several hundred hand held rocket launchers and new fighter planes so new that even the UK military were unaware of their existence. As the Saudi military consultant he had brokered the deal of a generation ensuring the King was able to extend his 'influence' and protect his own borders. There were in his world view no losers. Chief manipulator of other men's motives, the smooth charming likeable weaver of half truths and broker of all that was reasonable agreed it was in everyone's interest that the Saudis remained 'friends' with the UK and the deal had the blessings of Whitehall.

Rivers was the most visible member of the Pantheon board having the personal and political skills to cut the most sensitive deals supported by big business and the City. The key to a Pantheon negotiation is not unlike the rules of Fight Club....there is no Pantheon!! And by the poolside of a palace overlooking the Gulf, Rivers headed an international consortium of arms dealers who had brokered the deal for an eye watering profit. A cross discipline enterprise involving some of Grace de Marais influences securing the chain where ethics and personal squeamishness threatened to get in the way. Questioning voices were muted one way or another. It was a British deal but for the scales to be tipped in the right direction, the US had their foot on the right side of the scales. It was a multi national deal in the end, a deal without borders. Just men beside a pool.

If guns made their way across the Saudi border and along a new silk road north and then east through the Afghan hills to certain parties deep within the Tora Bora caves; and who aimed them at who and whose finger was on the trigger well...what business was that of a man like Rivers. And if those same guns made their nefarious ways back through Europe or on slow boats from China and into the hold of midnight planes on midnight clearings in forests in the state of Montana and onto the streets of New York. And if more of those same guns are toted across the Alps into the Trento Valley and then by truck down the spine of Italy and onto the mean streets of Naples where men like Hector Di Lauro then what price capitalism.

Meanwhile back in Oxford and London men move through the shadows loosening chains and waking dogs best left sleeping, giving easy access to the nefarious wealth of the underclasses. And rumours were rife like received wisdoms and urban myths lost in Gormanghastian labyrinths where Truth in her diaphanous gown and fluttering hair trips her way further and further down flights of worn stairs, disappearing into the deepest gloom until her echoes float up into the royal halls like a siren's song mistaken for allure.