Thriller *DC Undercover *by Oscar Bartoli (New Academia Publishing/Scarith Books-Chapter 1
14th street, crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, passed City Hall in the
Wilson Building and then paused in the middle of the street with its
left blinker flashing to signal a turn towards the Reagan Building’s
entrance gate. “Just imagine if I were trying to do this in Rome.
There would be curses, gestures, and honking in protest. Instead,
in Washington DC, the capital of the nation and for a little longer of
the entire world, everyone just lines up and waits.” This was going
through Michael Bardi’s mind as he waited for the oncoming traffic
to let up. A woman driving a Mercedes SUV motioned and let him
turn left.
“Here comes the prescribed ritual,” he said to himself. A gigantic
security guard indicated where he must stop, before the barrier.
The guard holding a mirror mounted on a pole approached the car
and began inspecting its undercarriage. Then he made a gesture
indicating that the trunk should be popped open. Michael did as
required. This was followed by a check of his driver’s license. Once
the inspection was over, the guard returned to his booth, pushed
the button that lowered the barrier and pointed towards where
Michael should park. There was a long winding descent. “There’s
no place to park today,” Michael thought. “They’ve abolished the
valet service and now I have to hunt for a space. There’s one.” He
parked near the elevator, paid at the meter machine, and made a
note of his parking spot on the receipt.
Michael took the elevator to the lobby. Now he had to figure
out where the meeting was being held. He followed the signs for
the pavilion. It was 5 p.m., the time of day when civil servants start
leaving for home. Rush hour traffic over the bridges to Virginia and
Maryland would be at a crawl for a few hours. Then Washington
would go back to being a sleepy town. There was no comparison
with New York, but Michael Bardi liked it, at least he did for the
few days he spent there when not traveling around the world.
“I’ve got to ask someone, I’m getting lost.” Finally he got some
help from a young security officer who led him down a hall and
pointed at a door. On the other side was a middle aged secretary,
apparently annoyed at having to work overtime and at the thought
of her long commute home. She gave him a once over, checked for
his name on a list, and asked for identification. Michael showed his
driver’s license and that seemed to pacify her. “Michael Bardi has
arrived,“ she announced over the intercom. “Send him in” a raspy
voice replied.
A heavy mahogany door opened electronically. The woman
led Michael down a short hallway with dimmed lighting. Michael
watched as she scampered along in her stiletto heels.“ A few years
ago she must have been something. Nice legs,” he thought. As if she
had read his thoughts and obviously sensing his gaze, the woman
accentuated the swaying of her hips. They came to another heavy
door. It opened and in the entrance stood a six-feet tall, blond, athletic
young man dressed in a dark suit and stripped tie.
“How are you, Mr. Bardi? I am Mark Friedman, assistant to
the President. Please follow me.” The two men went down another
short hallway that led them to the meeting room: the office of main
partner of a law firm with 500 attorneys. The room had solid wood
furniture, leather chairs, and olive green wallpaper echoing that
of George Washington’s home in Mount Vernon, Virginia. Table
lamps cast rays of soft lighting. Four people were seated around a
small table on which was a silver tray with a crystal pitcher of water
and glasses.
The most authoritative looking of the four was Paul Kidman,
the executive partner of a large and very prestigious law firm. He
smiled coldly at Michael and motioned for him to sit at the table.
“Finally, he has arrived. Let’s make room for him,” he said in an
acid tone of voice.
At first Bardi felt like saying that the appointment had been set
for 5 and if he had been delayed it had only for a few moments
while trying to find the meeting. Then he thought better of it. Michael
knew it was just a case of someone in power who couldn’t
resist throwing around his weight. Michael’s role was to be the sacrificial
lamb.
Everyone stood and followed Kidman into a small elevator
hidden behind a bookcase. A few second later the elevator door
opened and Michael realized they were on the building’s subterranean
level. Kidman pulled out a key and opened a metal door next
to the elevator. They entered an almost completely bare room. All
it had was a table and a dozen wooden chairs. The walls were an
anodized dark gray color.
“Well,” said Kidman, “let’s begin by reviewing where we stand.
I will start by telling our guest that we are in a Faraday Cage. A
copper mesh surrounds us and no one can hear what we say. As
for what is about to happen, I must admit that I am very worried
because we risk losing everything. Sherman, you go first.”
Sherman was a skinny and the type of guy who tries to hide
his baldness with an intricate comb over. He had the high-pitched
voice typical of people who panic when they have to speak in front
of their boss.
“If the tabloids print that when the President’s marriage was
going through a rough patch he turned to the well-known Madam,
Jeane Pallettieri, and she provided him with her prettiest escort, it’s
all over. To date we’ve been able to block the story, but it’s becoming
increasingly difficult.”
“We all know the scandal sheets will have a field day,” added
Mark Schwartz, who was seated next to Kidman. “All projects
will stop. The President will be forced to resign to avoid being impeached
like Clinton.”
Kidman, with a degree of irritation, interrupted him, and turning
towards Michael said, “We asked you to meet with us today
and for the time being drop all your other assignments. Why? Because
you have more than one passport. But what also interests
us this evening is – let me phrase this correctly – your experience
with similar situations in Italy. I fully realize that moral standards
in Europe, and particularly in Italy, do not correspond to the ones
in America. Here public opinion does not accept extra-marital affairs
on the part of politicians and consequently any transgression
is pounced upon by the opposition.”
Michael Bardi tried to get comfortable on his hard chair. He
cleared his throat and replied, “We can count on the tabloids running
with the story. In Italy or France no one would pay any attention.
Sure people are interested in the sex lives of celebrities or
politicians, but they don’t provoke condemnation. Perhaps because
most Italian or French men can’t help thinking, ‘wish it were me!’
They admire someone who is surrounded by beautiful women. It
doesn’t matter if they were paid for – in fact that makes it even better
because it is a demonstration of superior wealth.”
Paul Kidman took a long drag on the electronic cigarette he
hoped would allow him to cut down on his two packs a day habit.
“Listen Bardi, you’re not telling us anything new. We read the papers
and we know about the sex parties in Italy and all the rest.
What we are asking for tonight is your opinion as both a European
and an American on this whole mess concerning the President.”
Michael Bardi hated him and the other characters in the room.
But they paid him well for his services, so it would not have been
a good idea to betray any irritation. “In my opinion” he said, “the
best thing to do would be to have the President go on national TV
and address the American public by saying: ‘My marriage went
through a rocky period. I found out that my wife had become infatuated
with someone on her security detail. But I did not want to
end our marriage, especially because of our children. In a moment
of weakness I turned to a woman. I later discovered that she is an
escort and had been paid by the political opposition to cause me
harm. They are experts at that kind of thing, even if they deny it.
My behavior did not in any way influence my work or my political
decisions. This is my second term in office and together with my
Cabinet I have succeeded in restoring faith in America and with it
millions of jobs. I am now asking you to demonstrate your faith in
me. We Americans are an understanding and forgiving people, and
I ask you for forgiveness.’ That, is what I think the President should
say.”
“You are saying that,” interrupted Kidman “because you are
half Italian and a Freemason as well.”
“Excuse me,” replied Michael, “what does my supposed or true
membership in that organization…..”
Paul Kidman turned towards him with a self-congratulatory
sneer on his face. He was pleased at having ruffled Michael Bardi’s
composure. He enjoyed, and was good at, putting people on the
defensive. It was as if he was saying, “Look I know lots about you.”
It almost always gave him an advantage in the exchange and threw
his opponent off guard. “Let me explain,” he added. “Tolerance is
a fundamental virtue for you Freemasons. But politics in America
takes no prisoners and woe to the defeated. Your hypothesis does
not convince me. That’s why we must take immediate action.”
He poured himself a bit of water while his nervous assistants
looked at him worriedly.
“The only solution” he concluded, “is to neutralize the people
involved: the escort and the Madam. Someone has to go to Boston
and try and find that bitch. Same goes for the escort who apparently
lives somewhere in Virginia.”
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento