Chapter 5
Michael Bardi collected his shoes, jacket and belt from the tray on
the metal detector’s conveyor belt. He waited for the second tray
with his computer, wallet and cell phone. He had already undergone
full body scanning. With all the terrorists wanting to blow up
airplanes and willing to shove explosives into body cavities scanning
was the only way to try and stop them.
He had to wait for the woman ahead of him to pass through
with an enormous cat. She was asked to remove the cat from his
traveling cage. The cat did not want to stay put in her arms, so
by the time the two of them had gone through scanning the woman
was dripping blood from cat scratches. “That’s what you get
for wanting a pet to love and make you feel less lonely,” Michael
thought.
He started walking towards the train for the terminals. Dulles
Airport had finally completed its multi-year project to get rid of
the variable height bus shuttles that used to transport passengers
to their airlines. The train stopped and Bardi and dozens of others
dragging carry-on luggage got on. At the gate for United flight 966
for Rome, he got on line to join the other red carpet first and business
class passengers.
Once on board he located his aisle seat, Michael devoted all his
attention to reading some documents he took from a compartment
in his computer’s carrying case. His Bose headphones blocked 90
percent of the engine take off noise. He selected the classical music
channel from the ones provided by the airline. In little more than
eight hours he would be landing in Rome at Leonardo da Vinci
airport.
The Boeing 777 reached cruising height and headed North East
to begin its transatlantic flight. While checking to see if it would
bother the person behind him, Michael Bardi pushed back his seat’s
shoulder rest. In so doing, he exchanged appreciative glances with
an attractive brunette with very long legs and a very mini skirt.
Michael smiled and repressed a sigh. He no longer felt like reading.
He started reminiscing salient events from his life. His father
had died in a car accident while driving through the Stelvio Pass.
He might have been speeding. Dad liked to go fast and had some
training in high speed driving. Michael had been told of his father’s
death while he was in his last year of high school and about to graduate
from a boarding school in Saint Morritz. His mother, in tears,
had called him with the news. Michael, however, had always felt a
twinge of doubt regarding the depth of her despair.
His parents’ marriage had been in trouble for some time. One
reason was his father’s work that involved frequent travel around
the world installing equipment in developing nations. Another reason
was the fact that his mother, an American from Los Angeles
who had moved to Italy, was a beautiful woman desperate to keep
up the youthful looks that provoked waves of desire in the male
members of the Milan tennis clubs where she spent most of her
time. Less than one year after his father’s death, she had remarried
an old flame. Her new husband was the heir of a large fortune that
was being dissipated at a fast rate.
Mom… no, that was not the right word. Mother, yes, as in biological
mother. He had spent nine months in her belly. But his
childhood had been a succession of nannies who reared him, wiped
his tantrum tears, and tried to fill the void left by a mother consumed
with going to parties, art shows, concerts, ski trips, tennis
competitions and so forth.
After graduating from high school with straight A grades, it was off
to college at the London School of Economics, a brilliant academic
record, and multiple love stories with this or that girl in constant adoration
of him. Brilliant results also in various sports, especially in
individual sports such as tennis and the martial arts: a judo black belt
and a third Dan in full contact karate.
He was six foot tall and had wavy blond hair. While studying
music in Switzerland he had fallen in love with classical guitar. But
when asked to perform at parties he would insist, with false humility,
“I don’t have the right repertoire.” So his friends would turn to
someone else with lesser skills.
After London he was offered an interesting job in Montreal with
a defense sector company. He had meanwhile, to pass the time,
learned Arabic as another language to add to those he had used
in Switzerland: Italian, English, French, German and a bit of Spanish.
He felt fortunate that his musical talent was of great assistance
in his learning of foreign languages. In addition to his Italian and
Swiss passports, thanks to his job he now also had a Canadian one.
One evening, while at a pub with a girlfriend, a man in a dark
suite had approached him. Asking him to pass along the peanut
bowl, he had slipped him his business card. Then he left, after taking
a sip of his beer.
Michael told his girlfriend that the beer was beginning to have
an effect and he had to go take a leak. Her shameless reply was,
“Make sure you treat it well.” In the men’s room, to the chorus of
men peeing and farting, Michael took care of business and had a
peak at the business card. There was only an address, a date and a
time.
The airplane had encountered heavy turbulence and everyone had
to remain seated and belted in. Food service was suspended and
the flight attendants had taken their seats while trying to mask their
apprehension. Michael wondered why the pilot had chosen not to
deviate. Twenty minutes later the plane stopped bouncing and everything
went back to normal to the passengers’ great relief.
The very effeminate steward assigned to his section came up
to Michael and asked him for his choice from the menu. Michael
wasn’t very hungry and picked the baked grouper. When it was
the turn of the very mini-skirted girl behind him, she picked the
fillet. “How would you like your meat?” asked the steward. “Deep
inside!” she replied in a high-pitched tone to ensure Michael would
hear. “I’d better pretend not to notice or she might decide to come
sit next to me,” thought Michael. When the steward returned to
take back the meal tray he somehow managed to rub against Michael.
“This really is my day,” Michael said to himself.
He said the same thing in Montreal when he went to 305 Rue
de la Commune. After he rang the doorbell, the front door creaked
open. Michael Bardi found himself in the courtyard of an old grain
warehouse turned into condominium.
“Welcome, Mr. Bardi. Please come in,” said the giant young
blond man. His hair was shaved like a GI’s. His powerful shoulders
were encased in a dark suit. He wore the same shiny black
shoes as the soldiers guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Solder at
Arlington National Cemetery. His dazzling white smile showed all
thirty-two teeth.
Michael was in an apartment converted into an office. Behind
an Ikea desk was another 40- or-so-year-old giant. His face had the
deep wrinkles and dark tan of someone who has spent most of his
life in the desert, the tropics or the Caribbean.
“Thank you, Mr. Bardi, for accepting our slightly irregular invitation.
I am Col. Bradford of the US Navy Seals. We have been
following you up for a few years and have taken note of your academic,
professional and athletic prowess.”
And so Michael had become part of the prestigious corps founded
in 1962 and tasked with special operations such as reconnaissance
and non-conventional anti-terrorism and anti-guerilla fighting
by land and by sea. The Seals could do whatever they wanted
wherever they wanted to further the secret interests of the U.S.
After intense training in Coronado, CA and then in Little Creek,
VA, Michael began participating in foreign operations. Had he taken
part in the discovery of Osama Bin Laden’s hideout and his killing?
It was a secret.
At 8:00 a.m. of the next day United flight 966 was preparing to
land, all flaps extended, in Rome. It was raining and the tarmac was
full of puddles when it touched ground. Michael Bardi was traveling
only with his carry on and computer. If he needed anything he
could buy it wherever he was, as nowadays everything was available
worldwide.
The business class passengers prepared to disembark. As he
was exiting the plane, Michael felt a hand caress his ass and hips
and then slip a card with a phone number into the pocket of his
jacket. The brunette was truly relentless.
Chapter 6
Michael Bardi decided to use his Italian passport to avoid the long
line of Non-European Union citizens going through passport control.
The policewoman gave it a bored glance over and handed it
back with great effort.
Michael didn’t have to collect any luggage as he had everything
with him, so he headed for the elevators. He got off at the second
floor and proceeded down the hallway covered with a worn-out
rubber flooring pockmarked with water puddles. Rome’s airport
was disgusting compared to other major ones – the new New Delhi,
for example, and even Singapore.
Michael finally reached the tunnel leading to the car rental
agencies. He waited in line at Hertz and then went to the 4th floor
parking lot. He had been assigned a new Ford Fiesta, a popular car
in Europe. He got in the car and adjusted the mirrors and the seat to
accommodate his height, which was not that of a typical Italian. He
then drove down the ramp and out of the parking garage.
On his way to the highway for Rome, some officers from Italy’s
Finance Guard pulled him over and demanded to see his driver’s
license and registration. Michael showed his international license
and found the registration in the car’s glove compartment. The
guards wanted to see what was in the car’s trunk. Michael got out
of the car and retrieved and opened his carry on. His Navy Seal
insignia badge was on top. “But these are the Seals! Do you belong
to them?” asked one of the guards with great interest. “I did until
a little while ago,” answered Michael. The guard was visibly impressed
and called over a colleague to look. Then they straightened
up and saluted.
Michael continued on towards Rome. He merged into the Rome
Beltway where the speed limit was 90 kilometers per hour. But no
one followed the rules. Michael decided to drive Italian style according
to the old saying that, “When in Rome, do as the Romans
do.”
He took the Cassia Veientana-Viterbo exit onto the so-called
Cassia Bis. When he saw the sign for Formello-Olgiata, Michael
turned off. After 3 kilometers he came to the Olgiata northern gate.
“Reason for your visit?” asked one of the security men. “Ribot Restaurant”
he replied. The guard handed him a card with directions
and said, “Follow road B. You can’t go wrong.”
The Olgiata district extended for almost 1,500 acres to the North
East of Rome. It was part of the territory that in ancient times belonged
to the Etruscan city of Veio. The Orsini family castle was
nearby. In the 1960s Olgiata had been in the headlines with stories
about the Dormello Olgiata racehorse farm. The most famous steed
was named Ribot and he had won many international prizes. After
he was put out to stud, the stables were converted into luxury
apartments.
Michael followed the directions on the card and slowed down
at every speed bump. Behind him the impatient blond driver of a
Mercedes SUV kept flashing its lights and honking. When she finally
passed him, she gave him the finger as a welcome to Olgiata.
Michael arrived at the Ribot Restaurant, which in a previous life
had been one of the stables of the horseracing farm. But it was 11
a.m. and so the restaurant was still closed.
His 4G-cell phone rang. A nasal, almost falsetto voice instructed
him to go through the green gate next to the restaurant’s bar. Michael
found himself in a large garden with a stone drinking trough
in the center. Apartments belonging to the lucky few able to afford
them when the owners of the Dormello Olgiata property had put
them up for sale surrounded the garden.
A window in a building on his right opened and a hand gestured
to indicate he should take the stairs to a first floor apartment.
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