Chapter 8
1150 15th Street NW, just a few blocks from the White House, headquarters of the Washington Post, with a Linotype exhibited in the lobby. The Washington Post, founded in 1877, is one of the oldest newspapers in the U.S., with over 700 journalists, it has won 47 Pulitzer prizes. The paper has had its share of missteps: the main one when in 1981 Janet Cook, one of its reporters, won a Pulitzer for a series of articles on a heroin addict child under the title “Jimmy’s World.” It turned out she had invented the whole thing. She was fired and the award was returned. The Washington Post is also the legendary newspaper of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, the two reporters who in 1972 broke open the Watergate scandal that led to President Nixon’s resignation.
It was 8:30 p.m. The next day’s paper was set – barring any important last minute breaking news. Norman O’Brien and Cynthia Bradley, two young editors, were pitching a story to the Editor in Chief. “Look Boss,” said Norman. “We have triple checked this. You know we’ve been working on this for months. We’ve been to Boston to talk with Pallettieri and taped everything. Plus you know what happened to the Madam – even though it’s not clear if it was done by some crazy person or if it was done for hire.” The Editor in Chief was, as always, impeccable with his double-breasted suit ‒ so unlike the traditional image of the shabbily dressed and sweaty journalist – and his carefully coiffed hair that was religiously tended to by Melo, the famous Watergate barber. He listened impassively. Norman all excited pressed on.
“Some of Pallettieri’s clients are real high-level royal Saudi princes, and Al Qaeda has established new bases and training camps in Yemen and Somalia to launch attacks in Saudi Arabia to threaten their power. Fundamentalist Arabs have been accusing the Saudis for decades of being in cahoots with the infidel Americans their allies. I don’t think I have to remind you what a blow it would be to the image of Saudi Arabia if it becomes common knowledge that some members, when on official state visits to the U.S., spend their time frolicking with high-price escorts and drinking and taking drugs.”
Still no reaction from the Editor in Chief. The only sign of life was the steady breathing typical of a person who spends a lot of time at the gym and goes jogging at dawn before showing up at the office at 10 AM for editors meetings.
Norman glanced at Cynthia Bradley who was chewing her nails. She looked back at him with a sigh of resignation. Norman had no choice but to keep going, even though he felt he was not getting through to his boss. “Publishing these stories would give a boost to the ecologists who support using alternative energy sources instead of the mass quantities fossil fuels that we have to import – especially from Saudi Arabia. “
The Editor in Chief came to life. He cleared his throat and said, “I see that you’ve done a lot of work and I’ve read what you gave me very carefully. Let me talk to the legal department to see if we’re taking any risks and I’ll let you know. Good job.” He ended the conversation with a lukewarm smile and a weak handshake.
Norman and Cynthia left his office and tried to ignore the stares of their colleagues pretending to work in their cubicles. The Editor in Chief dialed an internal number. “Sam, you’ve got to post those two on the city desk,” he said with a first sign of emotion. “And please, I don’t need any grief from you. Do as I ask. I have my reasons.” And Sam, the editor in charge, wrote down that he had to call in Norman and Cynthia and tell them that the boss had decided to expand their professional experience and put them on the city desk because it needed a breath of fresh air. He would add that they were just the right people for the task and for that reason they were also going to get a salary bump.
One hundred yards from the Washington Post is the Post Pub – a reporter hangout. Its cheeseburgers and fries washed down with copious amounts of beer are legendary. Norman was seated at the bar, holding his head in his hands and staring at his reflection in the bar mirror. Mary, the middle aged and motherly bartender, while pouring his third vodka Stolichnaya asked him, “What’s the matter Norman? What happened?”
Norman smiled, “The usual when you have a job like mine, meaning the worst on the planet.” He felt a hand rub his neck and caress his head.
“Come on, Norman,“ said Cynthia, who had just arrived. “Let’s go celebrate getting shot down. You’re drunk and can’t drive, so I will. The last thing you need is a DWI.” As Cynthia paid the tab, Mary commented, “Good for you. I’ve never seen him so depressed.” Norman, who could barely walk, and Cynthia left the bar. They headed to the parking garage and got into Cynthia’s Ford Focus. Cynthia started driving towards Georgetown.
The forecast was for a strong storm and as they were driving it began to pour so heavily that the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the rain. Traffic stalled to a crawl. “The perfect ending for a day like this!” said Cynthia. Norman didn’t say a word. He had dozed off. They finally made it to 31st Street where Cynthia found a spot almost in front of her house. As they approached a small courtyard with five small townhouses the rain drenched them.
“Pour yourself a whiskey – one more won’t hurt. I’m going to the bathroom. Here, take this towel and dry off – you are soaking wet.” Norman went to the liquor bar and poured a stiff shot of 12year old single malt whiskey. No ice because he didn’t want to spoil the flavor. He heard the water running in the shower and realized how the evening was going to end. It wasn’t the first time. Cynthia was a good old girl: a hard worker on the job and, when she felt like having sex with no commitments, great in bed. She wasn’t a novice. It was obvious that for her having sex meant not only satisfying her own desires, but also those of her partner.
A few minutes later Cynthia came out of the bathroom. All she had on was a red robe that matched the color of her hair. She took off the robe, while Norman started undressing. Cynthia knelt and pulled down his pants. They lay down on the floor and Cynthia mounted Norman with great excitement ‒ the booze had not affected his performance. She rode him slowly, moving with deliberation, to maximize the deep penetration.
Then she felt a cold pressure being applied to back of her neck. One second later a bullet from a Beretta 9 equipped with a silencer shattered her head. The gun was then pointed at Norman’s face and a shot was fired into his left eye.
Habib Fareh used the towel to wipe off the gun, which he then slid back into his shoulder holster. He left the house and walked to his nearby car. Before starting the engine he made a call from his cell phone. As soon as the call was picked up, he said, “Done.” Then he started the car and maintaining the legal speed limit of 25 miles per hour he headed towards Maryland. He obeyed every stop sign to avoid being pulled over by any of the numerous hidden, ticket-hungry traffic cops the nation’s capital used to balance the books.
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Chapter 9
Several years ago American airline companies had eliminated direct Washington Dc–Acapulco flights. Now you had to make a stop in Miami, Houston or Dallas. Michael had been told that most tourists flocked to Mexico’s Atlantic coast. And so Acapulco, which for many years had been Hollywood’s playground beginning with John Weissmuller of Tarzan fame, John Wayne and Sylvester Stallone, had fallen into decline. People also said that the city and its suburbs, with its one million inhabitants, had become unlivable due to the increasing crime rate and daily homicides.
“No need to worry, señor,” said the taxi driver to Michael Bardi on their way from General Juan N. Alvarez International Airport to the Ayam Resort. “They only kill each other.” He was commenting on the local news about another finding of decapitated corpses. The “they” were the increasingly powerful and armed drug traffickers fighting over control of the extremely lucrative American market.
They arrived at the resort’s main entrance. Michael paid for the ride, got his luggage and went to the front desk. As soon as the receptionist heard his name, she picked up the phone and announced that Mr. Bardi had arrived. A minute or two later a young man in an elegant blue suit – despite the intense heat ‒ pulled up in an electric cart. “El Niño, señor, and La Niña are killing us,” had said the driver of the taxi, a cab whose air conditioning must have long ago stopped working.
“Mr. Bardi, welcome. I’ll will take you to your cottage.” A short ride, during which bunches of lively children and seniors in wheelchairs were narrowly avoided, ensued. The young man opened the door to Michael’s unit. It was obviously one reserved for special guests (the equivalent of a super suite in Las Vegas) and Michael found himself surrounded by luxury and good taste. In a nod to the requirements of wealthy, romantically inclined American tourists there was a Jacuzzi in the master bedroom, ringed with Champagne flutes and scented candles.
“I will return in a few hours. At 9 o’clock if that is Ok with you. This way you will have enough time to rest and go swimming in one of our pools,” said the young man with a lingering, velvety look.
Michael unpacked a linen suit bought in Rome; a custom made shirt from Florence, a few ties from Marinella’s in Naples, and his Gucci loafer, to be worn – of course ‒ without socks. He cranked up the air conditioning, took a shower, and lay down on the bed.
As he rested, he went over the details of meeting a few days earlier in Olgiata with the former Freemason. He still had not received a contract – but then would he ever? After all, the meeting supposedly had never happened. There was no doubt, however, about the veiled threat in what Cardoni had said. Michael had been working as a high level consultant for several years and word must have gotten around. It pleased him, up to a point. In his profession, the golden rule was to stay under the radar. The invitation to the Ayam Resort was a matter of business public relations. Michael had received a series of emails ‒ the first one just a few minutes after the Olgiata meeting. Upon his return from Italy he had managed to free up a little time for Mexico.
Edmundo Gutierrez was the owner of the Resort and of much more. A leading local Guerrero politician of the Institutional revolutionary Party (PRI) that for most of the past 100 years has governed the country, he had been the region’s governor for several years. As such he had been forced to commute between Acapulco and Chilpancingo, the small capital city of the tormented region. When the PRI had lost power in 1997 to the leftist Party of the Democratic Revolution, Gutierrez had decided that politics were a waste of his time and devote himself to his business affairs. Gossipmongers said his business was involved with large-scale drug trafficking ‒ a common accusation in Mexico where politics, corruption and organized crime are a pervasive part of the culture. All of these thoughts went through Michael’s mind as he tried and finally succeeded to fall asleep. He dreamt of driving along the verdant roads of Virginia and then of a pool in the countryside and a blond mermaid who smiled at him. All along an insistent noise was in the background. The phone was ringing. Michael, still dazed, answered.
“Mr. Bardi, it’s 9 o’clock and your appointment is in 20 minutes in the main hall,” said the young man in a slightly excited tone of voice.
“Alright. I had fallen asleep. I’ll be ready in 15 minutes.”
“I will be waiting for you with the cart in front of your cottage.”
Another long cold shower, a quick shave, then on with the linen suit, a shirt – no tie due to the heat – and loafers. Michael opened the door. The young man in the blue suit was waiting for Michael and gave him an intense smile. The cart began its quiet ride along narrow passageways towards the resort’s main building. Everything was Maya inspired: the fountains, the pyramids, the Mayan calendar, and the lively colors.
The cart stopped in front of a short staircase the led to one of the resort’s restaurants. There was a bar and three guitar-playing musicians who were singing one of Michael’s favorite Mexican songs, “Sabor a mi.” The musicians were performing for an elderly, but still vigorous man dressed all in black. He listened, smiling, while sipping a whiskey on the rocks. Behind him were three men also all dressed in black. Two of them were built like American football players. The third one was skinny and sported a Mephistophelean goatee that gave him a ghostly air. He was obviously a local.
When he saw Michael, Edmundo Gutierrez, perhaps afflicted with gout, struggled to stand. His smile reflected the splendor of his 32 dental implants. His dark complexion revealed traces of a long ago encounter between one of his ancestors and a local indigenous girl.
“I am having some fabulous whiskey. Want to join me?” asked Gutierrez. Michael smiled back and nodded yes. The three bodyguards moved back. The cart driver had disappeared. Gutierrez called over the barman who rushed over a glass, a bottle and ice bucket. Gutierrez shook Michael’s hand, but not in the Freemason way he had expected. Obviously Gutierrez was not a Brother. Better that way.
“Cardoni told you about our club and our concerns. What he didn’t tell you is that we have invested a lot of money in one of Washington’s biggest K Street lobbying firms. We aren’t happy with the results. You know how they operate. They use very highly paid consultants, meaning high-level politicians who lost re-election. These guys have, however, built up close contact with high-ranking people in the President’s Administration, former colleagues on both sides of the aisle. After all, money talks, regardless of political affiliation.”
Edmundo Gutierrez paused so the barman could give him a refill. “Who knows how many he’s had already,” thought Michael in awe of his host’s capacity for liquor.
“We have been calling on you for a while. We have studied your background and professional activities. We do not like to strongarm anyone. How should I put it? We prefer to agree on a trial run for which you will be very well paid. Your first task, assuming you accept, is to check out what is being done on our behalf on K Street. We suspect that some of the new managers at the lobbying firm are playing fast and loose with us. There really is no other explanation for the confidential information leaked to supporters of alternative energy. In this envelope I have put a check I think will cover expenses for your preliminary report. Take it. Think it over tonight. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Gutierrez raised a hand. A goddess seated at a nearby table scampered over on very high heels and kissed him lightly on the check. “It’s time to get something to eat. This is my niece.”
The green eyes under a halo of black hair flashed at Michael and struck him to the core. “This is Michael and this is Olivia,” said Gutierrez as they all headed to their reserved table in the restaurant.
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Copyright © 2012 by Oscar Bartoli
New Academia Publishing/SCARITH Books, 2013
Translated from W.D.C. Sotto traccia, © 2012, Betti Editrice Translator, Maria Enrico
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013930329 ISBN 978-0-9860216-8-8 paperback (alk. paper)
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
An imprint of New Academia Publishing P.O. Box 27420, Washington, DC 20038-7420
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