Michael Bardi double locked the door to his studio apartment on
Hoban Street, right at the entrance to long-winding Rock Creek
Park. He got into his BMW and headed off towards Canal Road.
It was 10 AM, so he had already missed the bottlenecks caused by
heavy commuter traffic from Virginia over Key Bridge and other
access roads into America’s political and administrative capital.
There was nothing he could do about all the cars on the Whitehurst
Freeway that cut through the chic neighborhood of Georgetown.
As he drove, Michael Bardi reviewed the images passing before
his eyes. Georgetown: it existed before there was a nation’s capital.
The Chesapeake and Ohio Canal: a massive 185-mile long project
first envisioned by George Washington that became obsolete with
the advent of the railroads. The Key Bridge: named after the author
of the national anthem. He crossed the bridge and continued onto
I 66, the bane of existence for the thousands of Northern Virginia
commuters who work for the federal government, the World Bank,
the Monetary Fund, and all the foreign embassies.
Michael thought about how convenient it was for people to live
in Virginia, where the houses were bigger, and nicer, and cheaper
than in DC, and let the residents of the capital cough up the taxes to
pay for all the services commuters enjoyed while in the city. Well,
then the price paid was being stuck in traffic for hours on I 66.
Once on the highway, Bardi made sure not to go over the speed
limit, as Virginia was notorious for its heavy fines. You had to look
out not only for state troopers and their radar guns, but traffic con8
DC Undercover trol surveillance by air and reports of aggressive driving sent by
other people on the road as well. He set his cruise control at 60
miles an hour. His BMW was the type of car that led its drivers to
go fast without even realizing it. After all, it had been built in Germany,
a country where there were no speed limits at all on many
highways. He passed the turn off for Dulles International Airport
and continued down I66 until exit 49 for Gainesville, Warrenton
and the forests of Culpepper. It was early May and Virginia’s natural
beauty was at its height.
Michael Bardi engaged in the typical thoughts, memories and
experiences that pass through the mind of anyone on a long, solitary
drive who wants to avoid nodding off, particularly when sleep
deprived or, as in his case, when jet lagged.
The area was full of farms and enormous multi-million dollar
estates with their own landing strips. The owners were usually part
of a close circle of equally wealthy friends, with their own private
planes and horse stables.
“She must be a bitch to be a millionaire,”
mused Bardi. He remembered the case of an heiress who had fallen
in love with an Argentine polo player. In the best of Latin traditions,
he was very macho and constantly cheated on her. He also
conned her out of millions of dollars. One day, in a fury, the heiress
grabbed a rifle and shot him dead. She was given a slap-on-thewrist
sentence, consisting in sixty-one days to be served in a local
jail. She was locked up in a cell/bedroom/apartment, and every day
her butler brought in her favorite food that she generously shared
with her fellow detainees. After only fifty-one days the heiress was
released and returned to her mansion. “Just goes to show how true
it is that there is no such thing as equal justice,” Michael thought,
with a smile.
He continued driving through the woods, enjoying the beauty
of the landscape, and his BMW’s ability to smoothly handle the
curving road. When he reached Jeffersonton, he saw the sign for
the Tuscan View Farm. The reference to Tuscany was due to the fact
that an Italian couple from Arezzo had owned the estate for several
decades and then sold it to a local attorney who cared more about
land than the legal code. Despite having been sold several times
over, the estate maintained its original name.
Michael Bardi drove through the estate’s gate and followed the
drive up to the villa. He decided to park near the swimming pool,
as he had glimpsed someone sitting near it.
“Hello and welcome. Come join me…”
Michael pushed open the gate and moved towards the pool
area. Then he stopped. A beautiful blond wearing – for lack of a
better term – a tiny string bikini was climbing out of the pool. She
had blood red lips and very white teeth. She said: “You made it.
Let’s sit under the umbrella.”
“Don’t act like a jerk and put a leash on your hormones,” was
the message sent by the rational part of Michael’s body to the part
below his belt.
“Jeane Pallettieri called me from Boston to tell me she had given
you my address. But she didn’t say why you wanted to see me. All
she said was that it’s very important. She also said to expect a handsome
young man. She was right,” said the Blond with a malicious
smile as she crossed her long, wet legs.
Michael Bardi took a deep breath, smiled back, but in a friendly
way, and replied, “Perfect. So you know more or less everything.
Just like I know everything, or almost everything.”
“Can I get you some lemonade?” asked the Blond.
Bardi nodded yes. The Blond poured two glasses and added,
“Tell me why you are here and why it is so urgent.”
Michael began speaking. He told her there were troubles ahead
for the nation and for someone who had been close to the President.
That he and only a few others knew of her involvement, a purely
professional involvement… etc.
The young woman listened carefully. She had a perfectly oval
face crowned by wet golden hair from which drops of water fell on
her barely covered breasts.
“Michael,” she said, “I still do not understand why you are
here. Yes I am an escort. Do you want to hear my story? Relax, it
won’t be a sob story.”
Michael was enthralled – and not only by the young woman’s
beauty. The warmth of her personality attracted him, which he felt
certain was not solely based on her professional talent. He brought
the glass of lemonade to his lips and smiled while motioning that
she should continue.
“There’s not a lot. A magna cum laude degree in economics
from Harvard, then a MBA from Georgetown University. Should
I go on?”
“Yes, please do.”
“I started out like many career women. I was full of enthusiasm
and was ready to compete with both men and women, and above
all with myself, to show my true value. Then I was thrown into
the meat grinder. Every company where I worked, the men, often
backed up by jealous women, showered me with breathless admiration,
but only because they wanted to go to bed with me. And
then when I didn’t they would conspire to set me up for a fall.
I made it to being CEO of a mid-size company in California.
But even my secretaries had been turned against me. They wanted
to make me sign shady documents. Luckily I found out in the nick
of time. The movies? That’s not me, plus in Hollywood you have
to start giving it away from day one, as a young girl, to the right
people and at the right time. I was too old and, above all, too smart.
And, as you must know, that is a serious handicap for a woman,
especially if she is good looking. So, I picked my current career. I
chose the right clients – ones I like and ones with lots of money.”
Michael Bardi listened in total fascination, captured by her story
and her provoking – but in no way vulgar – body language.
“Continue?” asked the Blond, while pouring him more lemonade.
Michael nodded yes as he fought off a tidal wave of hormones.
“After all, there isn’t much difference with a date. You go to
the appointment knowing that if you like each other you will end
up in bed either at your place or his. I accept invitations for dinner
at elegant restaurants where I make a great impression. Look, it’s
not just physical beauty. I can carry an intelligent conversation. I’m
not a dummy. I’ve met a lot of powerful men who turned out to be
impotent. I’ve never engaged in any kind of Sadomasochism. If I
don’t turn on a man, he should find someone else. I am offering my
mind as well as my body. That’s it. Satisfied? Are you personally
interested? I cost a lot, but I’m willing to give you a discount.”
Michael replied with a wide smile that was warmly reciprocated.
The phone rang and the Blond answered. Michael heard the
sound of a woman crying, but couldn’t make out what she was
saying. The Blond’s expression darkened as she listened. “Oh My
God!” she exclaimed. Then she hung up.
“That was a friend in Boston,” she said. “A few hours ago Jeane
Palletieri went jogging in a park. Two men assaulted and stabbed
her numerous times before running away. She just died at a hospital
from loss of blood. It was early morning and no one had heard
her screams. This is horrible.”
Michael noticed that while the lovely woman facing him was
very upset, she had not shed a tear. The Blond as if on remote control
raised the carafe of lemonade and refilled his glass. Then she
said, “Excuse me. I feel cold. I’m going to change.”
Michael settled into his pool chair. He began sipping his lemonade.
It really hit the spot as it was warm despite being early May.
The chair began to rock. The earth began to move. He became aware
of a ticking sound. “Was it a gigantic woodpecker…?” No, it was
the chattering of his teeth.
The water in the swimming pool started churning around him,
as if he was drowning in a vortex. He couldn’t move. He was paralyzed
and frightened. The sun umbrella closed and pointed straight
at his face, like a spear. He was about to be impaled. He tried to
scream, but his voice sounded like the squawking from the intercom
of the Boss’s secretary. Then a gray veil was pulled over his
eyes and he fell into a deep sleep.
When he woke up and looked at his watch, he realized that two
long hours had gone by from when the escort had drugged him. A
note was paper clipped to his shirt.
“Dear Michael – I apologize for this unorthodox farewell. I just
met you and I don’t know if I can trust you. But it is clear that I have
to disappear. I am in danger. Just as Jeane was. But now she can’t
harm anyone. Until we meet again somewhere. Olivia.”
When Michael made it home a few hours later, he saw that someone
had smashed a window and broken in. His studio had been
burglarized. His laptop and PC were gone. Drawers had been emptied
onto the floor. He also found what looked like a cigarette butt.
He sniffed it, it was prima grade marijuana
Nessun commento:
Posta un commento