Chapter 21
Abu Dhabi, Emirates Palace Hotel, Royal Khaleej Suite. The suite is furnished with 61-inch flat screen TVs in every room, marble and gold finishing and luxury appointments throughout, as well as 24/7 concierge service.
Seated on the plush sofas are two westerners and an Arab prince. All three of them are sipping vintage malt whiskey.
“Nice hotel,” said Cardoni, who was dressed in a midnight blue suit, linen shirt and polka dot silk tie.
“Here I am 30 minutes after arriving at the airport and I didn’t have to deal with the usual crowd of actors, tennis players, formula one pilots and high-priced call girls.”
“Perhaps,” said Edmundo Gutierrez, dressed in a multi-colored shirt, kaki pants and loafers without socks. “But personally I like to be surrounded by pretty women, even if they are not for free. You only live once.”
The prince smiled and sipped his whiskey. Cardoni ignored the Mexican’s comments and continued:
“The attacks in Rome will change the course of history to a greater extent than the ones on 9/11 to the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. The goal was to hit at the heart of Christianity and cause a worldwide clash of religions and cultures. Based on what is happening in the Western world, the people behind the attacks in Rome knew exactly what they wanted to achieve. Every day dozens and hundreds of Muslims are killed in punitive actions that are bringing matters to a boiling point. And it is happening spontaneously, despite all the appeals for tolerance. Even the Pope has repeatedly spoken out against generalizations that end up harming innocent people.”
The Arab prince sighed and he poured himself another drink.
“But who is to say things are really what they seem?” interjected Edmundo Gutierrez. “Let’s be practical. We know from all our informants that Al Qaeda initially wanted to deny responsibility for the Rome attacks. Then they decided to claim it even though it’s obvious the attacks were not the work of a doped up suicide bomber. This is the work of real professionals who can count on local networks. Placing explosives on subway tracks and in the Bernini colonnade takes teamwork. I say with all due respect for young Muslim martyrs, dear prince.”
“So what is your conclusion?” asked Cardoni, irritated at having been interrupted.
“The most likely hypothesis is that it’s the work of the Russian Mafia with the help of some splinter Italian organized crime gang that wants to operate independently of the Sicilian Mafia, the Camorra, the ‘Ndrangheta or the United Sacred Crown. After all, we have seen their level of technical professionalism – just think of the guys who murdered Judge Falcone and Judge Borsellino in Sicily.”
It was obvious that Edmundo Gutierrez was well informed on the matter.
Cardoni replied: “It’s an issue of who stands to benefit, ‘cui prodest’ in old latin.”
“We are dealing with a situation in which the diverging interests of Russia and the U.S. actually coincide in terms of objectives. The U.S. needs to achieve a drastic reduction in oil imports from Saudi Arabia. And so there is an incentive to rev up the thousand year old fight between Shiites and Sunnis, reach into the Arab world and take on Iran, which – now that Saddam Hussein is gone – is trying to extend its influence over Iraq which has gone Shiite. To cut down on crude oil consumption you have to invest in renewable technology. It’s just like when Kennedy decided to challenge the Soviet Union in space technology.”
Edmundo Gutierrez lit a Havana cigar, even though he knew his smoking bothered Cardoni. “The Russian Mafia’s goal is to undermine the unity of the crude oil producers, eliminate the Arabs and then Venezuela. Russia today dominates Europe in terms of energy. Just imagine what would happen in Italy if Russia cut off the oil flow.”
The prince nodded in agreement and poured his third whiskey.
Edmundo Gutierrez was an experienced politician and he could tell that what he said was having an effect.
“Dear prince, the attacks in Rome have unified the hatred for Islam. It’s a hatred that crosses the borders and the cultural differences of all the countries threatened by years of foreign terrorism. Hatred of Arabs and their oil stimulates the environmentalists. And an increasing number of countries are turning to renewable energy sources.”
The prince put down his drink and added: “It’s true. The one most adversely affected by all this chaos is Saudi Arabia. As for our problems with Iraq and Tehran, there should be no doubt that we know how to deal with them. I don’t need to go into further details. And as for the U.S., there has to be a new big shock that will divert attention from the Arab world. Eliminating America’s President – who is a fervent promoter of renewable energy – is what must be done and soon. And it should be laid at the feet of American domestic terrorism. It won’t be the first time for the U.S. and it will change the direction of world affairs for at least fifty years.”
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Chapter 22
The Mustang headed over Chain Bridge and turned on to Route 123, one of Virginia’s main roads. After several miles the car stopped at a light. The entrance to the CIA headquarters is on the right. On January 25, 1993 a Pakistani named Mir Aimal Kasi, who had entered the U.S. illegally using a fake Green Card, had stopped his van right there. He then got out and with an AK-47 machine gun started shooting at the male passengers of cars stopped at the red light. The females were spared because Islam prohibits hurting women. Two CIA officers on their way to work were killed and three persons were seriously injured.
Mir Aimal Kasi then got back into the van and drove to a McDonald’s where he ate a hamburger and fries. He then went to his motel room and the next day left for Pakistan. No one had identified the shooter and there were no cameras at the stoplight.
CIA and FBI agents scoured the world searching for information that would lead to the capture of the criminal. FBI agents, in another blow for the CIA, identified and captured Mir Aimal Kasi four years later in Pakistan. He was brought back to the U.S. and sentenced to death. He was executed in 2002.
This day, as he did every time he pulled up at the light, agent X12 thought of that sad day. He then turned into the CIA’s entrance driveway. At the entrance, Marines checked underneath his car with mirrors, opened the trunk, and scanned his badge to make sure it was authentic.
“Have a nice day!” said the sergeant on duty. “Why not?” murmured agent X12. “The best is yet to come…” The next security officer aimed a laser pen at the agent’s right eye and scanned his retina.
Having verified his identify, she told him the meeting was being held on the second floor in conference room number 5. The room wasn’t very big and most of the space was taken up by the large conference table and surrounding twelve chairs. Large screens indicating real time in the parts of the world where the CIA was operating were on the walls. Agents and officers had already taken many of the seats.
Agent X12 smiled and nodded at the ones he knew. At exactly 10:00 the door opened and the intelligence director entered. His deputy and a couple of young agents accompanied him. The young guys must be very good at their jobs to have risen so quickly, agent X12 thought to himself.
The director was a thin man. His age was hard to pin down, but he was probably close to sixty. His voice was monotone and cutting.
“Al Qaeda’s claiming responsibility for the bomb attacks in Rome is a fabrication dreamt up by the Russian Mafia in collaboration with the Italian Mafia. The goal is to damage the image of the Arab countries and Saudi Arabia in particular. Unfortunately these events have had a domino effect that impacts our security. One thing is certain: they are aiming at taking out the President. Why? Because the crude oil OPEC nations share common interests and because the President’s commitment to renewable and alternative energy technologies is a threat. Now, more than ever, the Agency must safeguard the President and the nation. This is our mission and I am asking each one of you to operate at your maximum physical and mental capacity and to coordinate and motivate our collaborators and informants wherever they may be. You will report only to me. You are to begin preparing reports immediately.”
Those present started leaving, except for the director who remained seated as he reviewed some files. The last to get up was agent X12.
“Stay for a moment” said the director. “I see you managed to get nicked,” he added gesturing at the cast on the agent’s left shoulder. It is a long story that caused everybody a lot of trouble even though, luckily, your ties to the Agency never surfaced. Less said about us, the better. We took care of the media and nothing was mentioned anywhere. Now, however, we don’t know what to do with you.”
Agent X12, Michael Bardi, withstood his director’s frontal attack. Behind him the two young assistants were smiling at the thought of his being cut down to size.
“May I speak, sir?” asked Michael.
“You have a mouth,” the director replied sharply.
“With all due respect, I am asking you to have faith in me and in my covert ops. The person who shot me is almost certainly responsible for other recent murders in the greater Washington area. He’s not a loose cannon ‒ he’s a trained killer acting on behalf of transnational entities whose goal, among others, is as you mentioned to assassinate the President. As for my private life… well I don’t have one. All of my relationships, and I mean all of them, are tied to my mission.”
“You are authorized to continue, at least for now. You must give me a weekly report sent in the usual secure way. But try to be more careful in terms of your private life. I am referring to a recent trip to Acapulco. You may go now.”
Michael Bardi left the CIA headquarters. He was extremely angry, but managed to calm down. Before getting back into his rented Mustang he stopped at the CIA memorial of the victims of the Route 123 shooting.
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Chapter 23
“Every time I see it I am amazed by its beauty.” Mauro Ciaparro and his friend Luigi Ferrario were admiring the church of Saint Basil in Red Square.
“Just think,” continued Ciaparro, “the first time I came here was in 1968. I was a student and the Party sent me to take a course at Lomonosov University.”
“It was a completely different Russia from now,” said Ferrario.
“Yes, but it was fascinating. We Italians had been enjoying an economic boom. When we got to the Soviet Union it was as if we had gone 40 years back in time, even though as Party members we didn’t want to admit it.”
“Life must have been hard then.”
“Everyone walked around with an expandable shopping bag called avoska where you put whatever you managed to find, often after standing in line for hours. Once I traded a brand new guitar for a couple of pounds of potatoes. But in Italy our propaganda boasted of Moscow’s subway that was and still is a marvel, of the big Stalinesque buildings that imitated American skyscrapers and were beginning to delineate the city’s skyline, and of the beauty of the Kremlin. I have a story for you. The first time I went to the Kremlin Museum together with a few other tourists they made us put cloth covers over our shoes so we wouldn’t scratch the parquet floors. There were signs saying smoking was forbidden and guess what language they were in? Italian.”
Ciaparro and Ferrario had arrived that morning on an Aeroflot flight from Rome to Sheremetyevo International Airport – one of the three airports, the other two being Domodedovo and Vnukovo, which served Russia’s capital city. Mauro Ciaparro was about sixty-five years old, but didn’t look it. He was in good shape thanks to genetics, his regular workouts at the gym and the fact that he trained for marathons. Luigi Ferrario was about forty-five and was no looker. His belly was clear evidence of how much he enjoyed a good meal and a good bottle.
Mauro Ciaparro felt nostalgic. They strolled around Red Square surrounded by tourists from all over the world, all enjoying the rare mild autumn weather.
“Those were strange times, Luigi. We were watched day and night. If you went out with a girl you could rest assured she had to make a daily report on you to some official. You had to be careful not to utter any non-orthodox comments. The French who, as usual, thought they could be critical of the USSR ended up experiencing what it feels like to be interrogated by the special police. And then they were shipped back home. Plus there was the problem of shared living quarters…”
“Well, that was still going on in parts of Italy…”
Ciaparro looked at Ferrario and smiled. “Sure. But you have to know that outside each apartment there was a sign that listed the number of rings for each family, as there was one family in each room. When a girl invited me to “home,” meaning the room she shared with friends, the pots on the stove in the shared kitchen had locks. I can’t even describe the bathroom. Privacy consisted of roommates putting their heads under the blanket and laughing at any sounds of intimacy coming from the other bed.”
“How do you feel being here now, with everything so different?” asked Ferrario. By now they had drawn near the Lenin’s Mausoleum.
“It’s a whole different world. Then the misery affected everyone at the lower levels of society: workers, doctors, and artists. The privileged class consisted of Party members and they were a minority. They could afford to go to the Berioska stores where you could buy goods from the west as long as you paid with dollars and not rubles. Now look around: chaotic traffic, limousines like in America, high fashion boutiques… Look: this is Lenin’s mausoleum containing the embalmed body of the father of the Soviet Union. Then there used to be an endless line of visitors, almost all Soviets. They waited hours and hours to get in. The Italians who were here on business instead could march right up to the entrance guards and say, ‘Italianskaia Delegatsia’ and jump ahead of all those people waiting in the cold.”
They walked towards Lubyanka Square. Luigi Ferrario asked his friend, “You still haven’t told me how they contacted you…”
“Through the mail. Phones and text messages are checked. They sent us the tickets and set up the restaurant where we are to meet tonight. They will find us a place to sleep. I don’t think it will be a hotel because it’s better not to leave any traces. Tomorrow, when we leave with the last flight for Rome there will be a stopover in Vienna – I don’t know why – and they will pay us the rest of what they owe us for the job.”
“Mauro, let me remind you that they promised us repeatedly we would be paid for the job. But except for a small advance we haven’t received anything. Are you sure your friends aren’t tricking us? I have no interest in being a tourist…”
“Relax, Luigi. It will all work out. These are serious people and at the highest levels…”
mercoledì 26 agosto 2015
venerdì 21 agosto 2015
Chapters 18, 19 and 20 of the thriller "D.C Undercover" Oscar Bartoli (Scarith Books/New Academia Publishing)
Chapter 18
Gaetano Olderisi, Venerable Master of the Garibaldi Lodge, was standing in front of the main entrance to the George Washington Masonic Memorial. From the top of the long staircase he observed the traffic that went from King Street towards the Amtrak railroad station. The Memorial was on top of a small hill overlooking the city of Alexandria, Virginia. If it had not been for the large garden bed in the shape of a compass and square it could have been taken for a Christian basilica.
The Memorial was built in the 1920s with contributions from over two million American Freemasons. Michael Bardi ran up the staircase, skipping steps to move faster. By the time he got to the top he was out of breath.
“Worshipful Master Olderisi, forgive me. I couldn’t find a parking spot.”
Gaetano Oldersisi smiled, kissed him three times on the cheek and said, “I finally have the honor and pleasure to see you, Brother Michael… Let us enter the temple. We are part of a guided tour and I asked them to wait for us.”
Inside the Memorial they joined a small group of people consisting of a young couple, the man tanned, of medium height, the woman blond and very pretty resting her head on his shoulder and a cheerful, overweight family of three. They introduced themselves: John, Mary and Peter. They were Texans and John belonged to a Houston Lodge. The guide, in his mid-twenties and in a dark suit, said he was not a Freemason but worked at the temple to make some extra money.
“Hello. My name is Tyron and I will be your guide during your visit to the Memorial. The first thing I want to talk about is why it was built.”
He then read the inscription carved on a lintel that said the Memorial had been built to inspire humanity through an education that would allow it to emulate and promote the virtue, character and vision of George Washington as Man, Freemason and Father of the Nation.
Speaking in Italian, Gaetano Olderisi whispered to Michael, “You see, Michael, all this could be taken as personality cult, but Americans love their Founding Father. This feeling transcends class, race and religion. In a country such as the U.S., George Washington represents everything: defender of the nation and on a seemingly impossible mission at the head of an army of badly armed and untrained farmers. He is the hero who defeated the strongest empire in the world. He is a Renaissance-type figure of great strategic skill and tremendous will power.”
The guide proceeded with a description of the two large frescoes on the entrance walls. The one of the north wall showed George Washington at a religious service at the Christ Church in Philadelphia in 1778 to aide the poor after the retreat of the English troops from the city. The second fresco depicted George Washington, wearing the Masonic apron, laying the corner stone of the Capitol Building in 1793. His officers also in Masonic garb surround him.
The young couple was only interested in smooching. John from Texas, however, was listening attentively. As he gazed at the large bronze statue of the nation’s Father, John’s face clearly indicated his great joy at being in Freemasonry’s most sacred site.
“It is like when tourists enter Saint Peter’s in Rome,” thought Michael. “You can’t help wanting to criticize the pomp of the temple and the Papacy. You feel overwhelmed.”
“Now,” said Tyron, “we will take one of the two sideways elevators that go to the top of the tower. That’s right. They do not go straight up but have a 7 ½ degree slant. They started building them in 1947 but it took 20 years to finish the job.”
When the doors opened the group entered the elevator. Michael noticed the sign with the maximum allowed weight and shot a worried look at the family from Texas. The tour continued over the Memorial’s various floors. The third floor is dedicated to the Social Order of the Grotto. The fourth floor has the George Washington Museum. The fifth, seventh and eight floors are dedicated to the three main bodies of the Rite of York: Royal Arch, Royal and Select Masters and Knights Templar.
“The Chapel of the Knights Templar is very important. It was inaugurated by then Vice President Richard Nixon, who was not a Freemason. Look at the lovely stained glass windows with the images of Christ healing the blind, the Sermon on the Mount, the Crucifixion and the Resurrection,” said Gaetano Olderisi. “Just think about what Pope Clement V and Philip the Fair, King of France, did to the Jacques De Molay and so many Templars in 1312. There was no heresy; they wanted to get their hands on the treasures the Templars had captures from the Muslims,“ replied Michael while admiring one of the armored suits on display. “When religious and political power combine, the end result is very dangerous,” commented Gaetano Olderisi thoughtfully.
Finally the elevator reached the nineth floor and the top of the Memorial’s tower. “You have ten minutes to go out on the observatory,” said the guide. Michael Bardi and Gaetano Olderisi circled the tower and admired the panorama of historic Alexandria, the Potomac River, the monuments of Washington DC including Capitol Hill, the Washington Cathedral and Georgetown University, founded in 1789.
While the rest of their group spent their time admiring the sights and taking photographs on one side of the observatory, Michael and Gaetano moved to other.
“What is going on Michael? Why don’t you come to Lodge meetings? You know I think highly of you. We need young members, full of energy like you.”
“Worshipful Master, my work makes it difficult for me to participate actively. But to tell you the truth, if I happen to have a few free hours while in Washington I prefer to spend them with a female friend… I hope you understand.”
Gaetano Olderisi sighed. “The Freemason’s path is long and arduous, dear Michael. The purpose is to work to improve, to move from raw to cut stone.” He went on illustrating the moral obligations that go with belonging to an institution whose origins are lost in the mist of time. Olderisi talked and talked and Michael did not dare interrupt him. He felt he could not tell the elderly Brother that unfortunately many Lodges had little appeal. People do not want to spend hours discussing the gender of angels when in the outside world life is moving at a frantic pace. Also, he might have been tempted to say that if Freemasons want to be a model worth imitating they should interact more with the rest of society and try to initiate change by example. Preaching is fine, but what about the need to act morally and ethically, especially when it comes to politics?
Michael suddenly realized that someone was headed in their direction. It was the young, dark-complexioned man. He was all alone and smiling. Michael instinctively reached for his gun, but he wasn’t quick enough. Two muffled shots rang out from a Beretta equipped with a silencer and Michael fell to the ground, bleeding from a shoulder wound.
The phone rang. A hand lifted the receiver. “Done!” a voice said and then the call was terminated.
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A gorgeous redhead enveloped in expensive perfume and armedwith a Prada purse headed towards the hospital’s information desk.
“Could you please tell me Mr. Bardi’s room number?”
“He is not allowed any visits, unless it is on urgent matters.” The old lady answered in a very sharp tongue.
“Well I am on a very urgent matter – I’m his lawyer.”
“Fine. Sign in here and take the elevator on the right. Room 24/d.”
The door opened slowly. Michael felt for the P38 gun under his pillow. A whiff of Boucheron perfume preceded Rachel’s entrance.
“Michael, sweetheart, what happened?” she asked while tossing her mass of fiery red hair and bending down to give him a chaste kiss on the forehead. Rachel then sat down on Michael’s bedside.
“Obviously there are people who want me dead,” Michael answered in a whisper due to his great loss of blood. “Luckily I was with a friend who called for an ambulance. I was brought here and operated on. My shoulder was badly hurt.”
“But I read in the Post that two shots were fired. Did one shot miss you?”
“No. When you’re the target of a hired gun there really is no margin of error. The first shot hit me in the chest, but I was – as always – wearing my bulletproof vest. You know, having undressed me more than once that I wear one. It did however break a few ribs.”
Rachel smiled. “How is it feeling?” she said while caressing Michael’s penis. Despite his weakness, Michael’s body responded immediately. “Doing well, I see,” Rachel commented. She lifted his sheet and began an expert blow job.
The door flung open and a large African American nurse marched into the room. “Visit over. Please leave now.” Rachel picked up her purse, took out a handkerchief and wiped her mouth all the while staring with hatred at the nurse who smiled back ironically in reply. “Bitch,” murmured the nurse as Rachel left. “We have cameras in every room and we were watching you in the act. It was a big hit with the doctors and nurses.” As Rachel O’Hara exited she passed through a gauntlet of applauding hospital staff.
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Chapter 19
It was the end of October and it was snowing in Washington DC. The Fall season in the city is stupendous thanks to the changing colors of the foliage, from green to red and yellow. And now it was snowing. Unbelievable. At least it wasn’t a blizzard, just a little more than a dusting. Nothing like what was happening further north where thousands of people were without power and stuck on the roads as always happens when Mother Nature strikes in the U.S. Washington was surviving this first snowfall and the usual chaos caused by people who don’t know how to drive in the snow.
The Washington Hilton on Connecticut Avenue is the city’s first choice for large conventions. It is also infamous for being the place where President Reagan was shot by John Hinckley, Jr. on March 30, 1981.
Despite the weather, the taxis kept pulling up full of women in evening gowns and men in tuxedos. The arriving guests headed towards the metal detectors at the entrance to the ceremony hall. Secret service agents, dressed in dark suits and striped ties and wearing earphones checked purses, cameras, camcorders and cell phones. A few guests were pulled aside for pat downs.
All the precautions were taken because that evening the President of the United States of America would be attending a Gala held by the National Italian American Foundation, an organization that represents the nation’s almost 25 million Americans of Italian descent. The President would deliver a short speech to rally the support of an important electoral constituency. Italian Americans had come a long way from their humble origins and were now CEOs of high tech companies and large industries, famous doctors and scientists and even members of the Supreme Court.
The President’s security team had demanded the removal of eight of the tables closest from the dais where he would be sitting. A velvet rope set off the empty space. It also meant a financial loss for the Gala organizers as each eliminated table went for $75,000. The loudspeakers were broadcasting calls urging the guests to find their tables. The guests were doing their best to find their seats. Once seated they looked at the evening’s program and peeked into their goodie bags.
Paul Kidman, the head of the law firm of Smith & Smith, followed his assistants to his expensive reserved table. His habitual glum expression, typical of alpha males who wish to put lesser mortals in their place, was darker than usual. He was pissed off because the secret service requirements had increased the distance between him and the President.
Kidman occasionally deigned to smile at someone paying him respect but he did not acknowledge in any way the other guests’ admiration for the beautiful woman on his arm. She was a natural fiery redhead with a statuesque body dressed in a low cut black gown. A gorgeous long thigh flashed through the dress’s long slit with every step she took.
Paul Kidman, despite his haughtiness, knew how to behave in public when accompanied by a trophy woman. His assistant finally located his table. Kidman greeted his invited guests, among them a Democratic Senator and a Republican Congressman of distant Italian origin, and helped his companion to her seat.
She was the only woman at the table for eight, but she was not a stranger to the other guests. Rachel O’Hara was well known as an important lobbyist, especially on Capitol Hill. The event began as events always do in America, with the national anthems. This time two attractive girls sang it. Unfortunately this time the Italian one, which musically leaves a bit to be desired in the opinion of many, despite its patriotic fervor, proved to be too much for its singer. The tempo of the pre-recorded music didn’t help. It was a disaster. The Star Spangled Banner instead was performed well and was rewarded with prolonged applause.
Then came the benediction in Italian and English led by a monsignor. The Speaker of the House who elaborated on her Italian American roots and introduced the President followed him. The Commander in Chief displayed his ability to give the impression of being able to give a speech without using a teleprompter.
He asked the audience, “What would America be without Italy?” and went on to list names such as Columbus, Vespucci, Leonardo da Vinci, Galileo, Enrico Fermi and the Italian American sports legend, Joe di Maggio. He concluded the list with the great actress Sofia Loren. Every sentence was met with increased applause that became thunderous when he mentioned the names of Italian Americans on the Supreme Court and at the head of the CIA and the FBI and other Federal agencies and leading industries. At the end of his seven minute speech the President turned to the other people seated at the dais and shook hands with the Italian Ambassador to the U.S. and America’s to Italy. Then, surrounded by Secret Service agents, he left the room and headed to Andrews Air Force Airport where he boarded Air Force One.
The room’s large screens went from streaming the event to showing biographical shorts on the evening’s honorees.
“What did you think of the President’s speech?” Kidman asked Rachel O’Hara whispering into her left hear to avoid being overheard. He need not have worried. The ambient noise was overwhelming and the other people at the table were intent on watching the images on the screens.
“Well written and well delivered,” answered Rachel. “It will be carried by all of the Italian American media and will help with a part of the electorate that tends to favor the Republicans.”
“I agree with you. You must admit he is a great communicator. Plus right now he needs to establish a solid base if he wants to push forward with alternative energy. If you don’t mind my asking, what is your point of view?”
“Professionally or personally?”
“Both,” he replied with a smile. One of Kidman’s assistants, who had turned to look at him, was surprised at his boss’s almost human facial expression.
“Well,” said Rachel, “Personally I don’t like the President very much. I think he is empty and superficial. The supposed successes of his administration are not many despite all the propaganda directed towards the people’s bellies rather than their brains.” Kidman’s reaction was a mixture of surprise and amusement. Rachel continued. “The alternative energy project is basically very interesting, I must admit. However, wanting to free the western world, mainly the U.S., from the stranglehold of foreign oil producing nations – especially the Arabs – is nothing new. Other American Presidents have said this in the past. The difference is that this President had somewhat succeeded in curtailing the use of imported oil and in promoting alternatives.”
She paused and took a few sips of wine. The food and the Chianti had brought a flush to her cheeks and her red hair highlighted it. She turned towards Kidman who could not resist gazing at her cleavage.
“As for my professional opinion, what can I say? Right now some of my clients are in the oil sector. But when I am working I keep personal feelings out of the mix. I only deal with what is doable. As a lobbyist I do not take political sides. I am on the side of whomever pays me and I prefer those who pay the most.”
Rachel closed with a teasing smile for Paul Kidman. The Gala was coming to an end. The elegantly dressed women in leaving made sure to take the floral arrangements from the tables, to the astonishment of the Italian guests.
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Chapter 20
Giacomo Delli Carri, an employee of the Ministry of Economy and Finance, finally managed to find a seat on the extremely crowded subway A line from Anagnina to Termini Station. He had already stood for over 20 minutes and made sure nobody pressed too close as the subways in Rome were full of pickpockets, especially at rush hours.
With a sigh of relief he gathered up his fake leather briefcase and shut his eyes soothed by the train’s rocking. But it wasn’t easy to nap, even if he had felt the need. There was a constant coming and going of people squawking and cursing about the folks blocking the door. Then there was the smell of the great unwashed.
All kinds of people – an ethnic spectacle at 7 a.m. Now that he was seated he could calmly observe everyone around him. A middle-aged man who, taking advantage of the crush, was feeling up a mature lady with dyed blond hair attracted his gaze. Based on the smile on her face, the man’s behavior was not at all unwelcome.
The sight of such physicality right under his nose stirred up long dormant feelings in his lower parts. It also brought back memories of when he and Amelia were still together. One of his many mistakes, he thought. But at least for a while it had been worth it. Amelia was a good-looking, plump woman of the kind found in the local countryside – just his type.
They had met at the supermarket near his home where she worked as a cashier. Giacomo went there several times a day when she was at the register just to see her. One hot, sticky summer day he had been the only one on line. Amelia had given him a big smile and said, “You sure spend a lot of money just to go through this line.”
Giacomo, encouraged, had asked for her phone number and she had quickly scribbled it on the receipt before any of her gossipy co-workers could notice.
While dozing off on the subway Giacomo remembered the evening they had met in the outdoor garden of a local restaurant. After the first bottle of wine they were in total agreement. He sighed when the subway molester and his victim got off at the Re di Roma stop.
The next stops were San Giovanni, Manzoni, Via Vittorio Emanuele and then his stop: Termini Station. From there he had a 10-minute walk to his office on Via XX Settembre. Giacomo always enjoyed the walk after the unpleasant subway ride.
Amelia, Amelia. The first years of their marriage had been happy ones, despite their difference in age – he was 50 and she was 30. Being married to a woman full of energy had rejuvenated him. They often went on little adventures in Rome, discovering unknown areas, going to shows and even short day trips. No children. She said she didn’t want any. She wanted to dedicate herself to him. At least that’s what she would whisper when they were intimate.
Amelia, Amelia. Then she had become grumpy and distant. Forget having sex. And one morning she left to go shopping and never returned. When Giacomo came home from work he found a note stuck to the computer: “Dear Giacomo, I know this will make you very sad, but it’s better this way. I can’t go on like this. I can’t keep lying to you because you are so good. This will hurt you, but you are strong and wise. I’m sure you can take it. I’m leaving you. Why? I’ve found my true love. You might not believe it, but it’s my high school boyfriend. We found each other over the Internet and we fell in love again. I can’t live a lie. You have been very kind to me and I will never forget you. Don’t be angry with me. Amelia”
What a blow. Now he had to get used to be alone again. All he had to look forward to was having to pay for sex and to spend the day sitting on a bench in the park with other old men risking to be taken for a child predator. A life of penny pinching and no company because he had no family.
Giacomo sighed. It wasn’t a sorrowful sigh, but one expressing a feeling of liberation from everyday worries.
Giacomo felt there was more to life than Amelia, his job and gossipy colleagues, the arrogance he encountered in his daily routines and the decay of his overweight body. He needed to find a way out, to escape. One more stop and he would be at his destination: Termini Station.
The head locomotive car rolled over the electronic trigger that set off a series of explosives on the tracks. Giacomo and his fellow passengers were thrown forward as the tunnel’s roof collapsed, burying the dead and leaving the dying under tons of rubble.
TV News Flash. A visibly shaken announcer: “There has been a very tragic incident in the nation’s capital. A series of explosions in the arrival tunnel of Rome’s A subway line hit a rush hour train full of passengers. The explosions caused the tunnel’s roof to collapse. Further information is not yet available. Emergency rescue teams are on the scene.”
At that moment the announcer has handed an update.
“Oh God!” he exclaimed and then he read: “Unfortunately I have news of another serious incident in San Peter’s Square. There has been a bomb attack on the Bernini colonnade where hundreds of tourists were lined up to visit the Vatican. No further details are available at the moment. As soon as we get further updates from Termini Station and Saint Peter’s we will bring them to you.”
ANSA ‒ Italian News Agency headquarters. A call comes into the switchboard, which is on alert. A man speaking in English, but with a strong Middle Eastern accent says: “Today we have avenged the victims of past and current crusades. Allah is Great. This is Al Qaeda.”
Gaetano Olderisi, Venerable Master of the Garibaldi Lodge, was standing in front of the main entrance to the George Washington Masonic Memorial. From the top of the long staircase he observed the traffic that went from King Street towards the Amtrak railroad station. The Memorial was on top of a small hill overlooking the city of Alexandria, Virginia. If it had not been for the large garden bed in the shape of a compass and square it could have been taken for a Christian basilica.
The Memorial was built in the 1920s with contributions from over two million American Freemasons. Michael Bardi ran up the staircase, skipping steps to move faster. By the time he got to the top he was out of breath.
“Worshipful Master Olderisi, forgive me. I couldn’t find a parking spot.”
Gaetano Oldersisi smiled, kissed him three times on the cheek and said, “I finally have the honor and pleasure to see you, Brother Michael… Let us enter the temple. We are part of a guided tour and I asked them to wait for us.”
Inside the Memorial they joined a small group of people consisting of a young couple, the man tanned, of medium height, the woman blond and very pretty resting her head on his shoulder and a cheerful, overweight family of three. They introduced themselves: John, Mary and Peter. They were Texans and John belonged to a Houston Lodge. The guide, in his mid-twenties and in a dark suit, said he was not a Freemason but worked at the temple to make some extra money.
“Hello. My name is Tyron and I will be your guide during your visit to the Memorial. The first thing I want to talk about is why it was built.”
He then read the inscription carved on a lintel that said the Memorial had been built to inspire humanity through an education that would allow it to emulate and promote the virtue, character and vision of George Washington as Man, Freemason and Father of the Nation.
Speaking in Italian, Gaetano Olderisi whispered to Michael, “You see, Michael, all this could be taken as personality cult, but Americans love their Founding Father. This feeling transcends class, race and religion. In a country such as the U.S., George Washington represents everything: defender of the nation and on a seemingly impossible mission at the head of an army of badly armed and untrained farmers. He is the hero who defeated the strongest empire in the world. He is a Renaissance-type figure of great strategic skill and tremendous will power.”
The guide proceeded with a description of the two large frescoes on the entrance walls. The one of the north wall showed George Washington at a religious service at the Christ Church in Philadelphia in 1778 to aide the poor after the retreat of the English troops from the city. The second fresco depicted George Washington, wearing the Masonic apron, laying the corner stone of the Capitol Building in 1793. His officers also in Masonic garb surround him.
The young couple was only interested in smooching. John from Texas, however, was listening attentively. As he gazed at the large bronze statue of the nation’s Father, John’s face clearly indicated his great joy at being in Freemasonry’s most sacred site.
“It is like when tourists enter Saint Peter’s in Rome,” thought Michael. “You can’t help wanting to criticize the pomp of the temple and the Papacy. You feel overwhelmed.”
“Now,” said Tyron, “we will take one of the two sideways elevators that go to the top of the tower. That’s right. They do not go straight up but have a 7 ½ degree slant. They started building them in 1947 but it took 20 years to finish the job.”
When the doors opened the group entered the elevator. Michael noticed the sign with the maximum allowed weight and shot a worried look at the family from Texas. The tour continued over the Memorial’s various floors. The third floor is dedicated to the Social Order of the Grotto. The fourth floor has the George Washington Museum. The fifth, seventh and eight floors are dedicated to the three main bodies of the Rite of York: Royal Arch, Royal and Select Masters and Knights Templar.
“The Chapel of the Knights Templar is very important. It was inaugurated by then Vice President Richard Nixon, who was not a Freemason. Look at the lovely stained glass windows with the images of Christ healing the blind, the Sermon on the Mount, the Crucifixion and the Resurrection,” said Gaetano Olderisi. “Just think about what Pope Clement V and Philip the Fair, King of France, did to the Jacques De Molay and so many Templars in 1312. There was no heresy; they wanted to get their hands on the treasures the Templars had captures from the Muslims,“ replied Michael while admiring one of the armored suits on display. “When religious and political power combine, the end result is very dangerous,” commented Gaetano Olderisi thoughtfully.
Finally the elevator reached the nineth floor and the top of the Memorial’s tower. “You have ten minutes to go out on the observatory,” said the guide. Michael Bardi and Gaetano Olderisi circled the tower and admired the panorama of historic Alexandria, the Potomac River, the monuments of Washington DC including Capitol Hill, the Washington Cathedral and Georgetown University, founded in 1789.
While the rest of their group spent their time admiring the sights and taking photographs on one side of the observatory, Michael and Gaetano moved to other.
“What is going on Michael? Why don’t you come to Lodge meetings? You know I think highly of you. We need young members, full of energy like you.”
“Worshipful Master, my work makes it difficult for me to participate actively. But to tell you the truth, if I happen to have a few free hours while in Washington I prefer to spend them with a female friend… I hope you understand.”
Gaetano Olderisi sighed. “The Freemason’s path is long and arduous, dear Michael. The purpose is to work to improve, to move from raw to cut stone.” He went on illustrating the moral obligations that go with belonging to an institution whose origins are lost in the mist of time. Olderisi talked and talked and Michael did not dare interrupt him. He felt he could not tell the elderly Brother that unfortunately many Lodges had little appeal. People do not want to spend hours discussing the gender of angels when in the outside world life is moving at a frantic pace. Also, he might have been tempted to say that if Freemasons want to be a model worth imitating they should interact more with the rest of society and try to initiate change by example. Preaching is fine, but what about the need to act morally and ethically, especially when it comes to politics?
Michael suddenly realized that someone was headed in their direction. It was the young, dark-complexioned man. He was all alone and smiling. Michael instinctively reached for his gun, but he wasn’t quick enough. Two muffled shots rang out from a Beretta equipped with a silencer and Michael fell to the ground, bleeding from a shoulder wound.
The phone rang. A hand lifted the receiver. “Done!” a voice said and then the call was terminated.
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A gorgeous redhead enveloped in expensive perfume and armedwith a Prada purse headed towards the hospital’s information desk.
“Could you please tell me Mr. Bardi’s room number?”
“He is not allowed any visits, unless it is on urgent matters.” The old lady answered in a very sharp tongue.
“Well I am on a very urgent matter – I’m his lawyer.”
“Fine. Sign in here and take the elevator on the right. Room 24/d.”
The door opened slowly. Michael felt for the P38 gun under his pillow. A whiff of Boucheron perfume preceded Rachel’s entrance.
“Michael, sweetheart, what happened?” she asked while tossing her mass of fiery red hair and bending down to give him a chaste kiss on the forehead. Rachel then sat down on Michael’s bedside.
“Obviously there are people who want me dead,” Michael answered in a whisper due to his great loss of blood. “Luckily I was with a friend who called for an ambulance. I was brought here and operated on. My shoulder was badly hurt.”
“But I read in the Post that two shots were fired. Did one shot miss you?”
“No. When you’re the target of a hired gun there really is no margin of error. The first shot hit me in the chest, but I was – as always – wearing my bulletproof vest. You know, having undressed me more than once that I wear one. It did however break a few ribs.”
Rachel smiled. “How is it feeling?” she said while caressing Michael’s penis. Despite his weakness, Michael’s body responded immediately. “Doing well, I see,” Rachel commented. She lifted his sheet and began an expert blow job.
The door flung open and a large African American nurse marched into the room. “Visit over. Please leave now.” Rachel picked up her purse, took out a handkerchief and wiped her mouth all the while staring with hatred at the nurse who smiled back ironically in reply. “Bitch,” murmured the nurse as Rachel left. “We have cameras in every room and we were watching you in the act. It was a big hit with the doctors and nurses.” As Rachel O’Hara exited she passed through a gauntlet of applauding hospital staff.
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Chapter 19
It was the end of October and it was snowing in Washington DC. The Fall season in the city is stupendous thanks to the changing colors of the foliage, from green to red and yellow. And now it was snowing. Unbelievable. At least it wasn’t a blizzard, just a little more than a dusting. Nothing like what was happening further north where thousands of people were without power and stuck on the roads as always happens when Mother Nature strikes in the U.S. Washington was surviving this first snowfall and the usual chaos caused by people who don’t know how to drive in the snow.
The Washington Hilton on Connecticut Avenue is the city’s first choice for large conventions. It is also infamous for being the place where President Reagan was shot by John Hinckley, Jr. on March 30, 1981.
Despite the weather, the taxis kept pulling up full of women in evening gowns and men in tuxedos. The arriving guests headed towards the metal detectors at the entrance to the ceremony hall. Secret service agents, dressed in dark suits and striped ties and wearing earphones checked purses, cameras, camcorders and cell phones. A few guests were pulled aside for pat downs.
All the precautions were taken because that evening the President of the United States of America would be attending a Gala held by the National Italian American Foundation, an organization that represents the nation’s almost 25 million Americans of Italian descent. The President would deliver a short speech to rally the support of an important electoral constituency. Italian Americans had come a long way from their humble origins and were now CEOs of high tech companies and large industries, famous doctors and scientists and even members of the Supreme Court.
The President’s security team had demanded the removal of eight of the tables closest from the dais where he would be sitting. A velvet rope set off the empty space. It also meant a financial loss for the Gala organizers as each eliminated table went for $75,000. The loudspeakers were broadcasting calls urging the guests to find their tables. The guests were doing their best to find their seats. Once seated they looked at the evening’s program and peeked into their goodie bags.
Paul Kidman, the head of the law firm of Smith & Smith, followed his assistants to his expensive reserved table. His habitual glum expression, typical of alpha males who wish to put lesser mortals in their place, was darker than usual. He was pissed off because the secret service requirements had increased the distance between him and the President.
Kidman occasionally deigned to smile at someone paying him respect but he did not acknowledge in any way the other guests’ admiration for the beautiful woman on his arm. She was a natural fiery redhead with a statuesque body dressed in a low cut black gown. A gorgeous long thigh flashed through the dress’s long slit with every step she took.
Paul Kidman, despite his haughtiness, knew how to behave in public when accompanied by a trophy woman. His assistant finally located his table. Kidman greeted his invited guests, among them a Democratic Senator and a Republican Congressman of distant Italian origin, and helped his companion to her seat.
She was the only woman at the table for eight, but she was not a stranger to the other guests. Rachel O’Hara was well known as an important lobbyist, especially on Capitol Hill. The event began as events always do in America, with the national anthems. This time two attractive girls sang it. Unfortunately this time the Italian one, which musically leaves a bit to be desired in the opinion of many, despite its patriotic fervor, proved to be too much for its singer. The tempo of the pre-recorded music didn’t help. It was a disaster. The Star Spangled Banner instead was performed well and was rewarded with prolonged applause.
Then came the benediction in Italian and English led by a monsignor. The Speaker of the House who elaborated on her Italian American roots and introduced the President followed him. The Commander in Chief displayed his ability to give the impression of being able to give a speech without using a teleprompter.
He asked the audience, “What would America be without Italy?” and went on to list names such as Columbus, Vespucci, Leonardo da Vinci, Galileo, Enrico Fermi and the Italian American sports legend, Joe di Maggio. He concluded the list with the great actress Sofia Loren. Every sentence was met with increased applause that became thunderous when he mentioned the names of Italian Americans on the Supreme Court and at the head of the CIA and the FBI and other Federal agencies and leading industries. At the end of his seven minute speech the President turned to the other people seated at the dais and shook hands with the Italian Ambassador to the U.S. and America’s to Italy. Then, surrounded by Secret Service agents, he left the room and headed to Andrews Air Force Airport where he boarded Air Force One.
The room’s large screens went from streaming the event to showing biographical shorts on the evening’s honorees.
“What did you think of the President’s speech?” Kidman asked Rachel O’Hara whispering into her left hear to avoid being overheard. He need not have worried. The ambient noise was overwhelming and the other people at the table were intent on watching the images on the screens.
“Well written and well delivered,” answered Rachel. “It will be carried by all of the Italian American media and will help with a part of the electorate that tends to favor the Republicans.”
“I agree with you. You must admit he is a great communicator. Plus right now he needs to establish a solid base if he wants to push forward with alternative energy. If you don’t mind my asking, what is your point of view?”
“Professionally or personally?”
“Both,” he replied with a smile. One of Kidman’s assistants, who had turned to look at him, was surprised at his boss’s almost human facial expression.
“Well,” said Rachel, “Personally I don’t like the President very much. I think he is empty and superficial. The supposed successes of his administration are not many despite all the propaganda directed towards the people’s bellies rather than their brains.” Kidman’s reaction was a mixture of surprise and amusement. Rachel continued. “The alternative energy project is basically very interesting, I must admit. However, wanting to free the western world, mainly the U.S., from the stranglehold of foreign oil producing nations – especially the Arabs – is nothing new. Other American Presidents have said this in the past. The difference is that this President had somewhat succeeded in curtailing the use of imported oil and in promoting alternatives.”
She paused and took a few sips of wine. The food and the Chianti had brought a flush to her cheeks and her red hair highlighted it. She turned towards Kidman who could not resist gazing at her cleavage.
“As for my professional opinion, what can I say? Right now some of my clients are in the oil sector. But when I am working I keep personal feelings out of the mix. I only deal with what is doable. As a lobbyist I do not take political sides. I am on the side of whomever pays me and I prefer those who pay the most.”
Rachel closed with a teasing smile for Paul Kidman. The Gala was coming to an end. The elegantly dressed women in leaving made sure to take the floral arrangements from the tables, to the astonishment of the Italian guests.
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Chapter 20
Giacomo Delli Carri, an employee of the Ministry of Economy and Finance, finally managed to find a seat on the extremely crowded subway A line from Anagnina to Termini Station. He had already stood for over 20 minutes and made sure nobody pressed too close as the subways in Rome were full of pickpockets, especially at rush hours.
With a sigh of relief he gathered up his fake leather briefcase and shut his eyes soothed by the train’s rocking. But it wasn’t easy to nap, even if he had felt the need. There was a constant coming and going of people squawking and cursing about the folks blocking the door. Then there was the smell of the great unwashed.
All kinds of people – an ethnic spectacle at 7 a.m. Now that he was seated he could calmly observe everyone around him. A middle-aged man who, taking advantage of the crush, was feeling up a mature lady with dyed blond hair attracted his gaze. Based on the smile on her face, the man’s behavior was not at all unwelcome.
The sight of such physicality right under his nose stirred up long dormant feelings in his lower parts. It also brought back memories of when he and Amelia were still together. One of his many mistakes, he thought. But at least for a while it had been worth it. Amelia was a good-looking, plump woman of the kind found in the local countryside – just his type.
They had met at the supermarket near his home where she worked as a cashier. Giacomo went there several times a day when she was at the register just to see her. One hot, sticky summer day he had been the only one on line. Amelia had given him a big smile and said, “You sure spend a lot of money just to go through this line.”
Giacomo, encouraged, had asked for her phone number and she had quickly scribbled it on the receipt before any of her gossipy co-workers could notice.
While dozing off on the subway Giacomo remembered the evening they had met in the outdoor garden of a local restaurant. After the first bottle of wine they were in total agreement. He sighed when the subway molester and his victim got off at the Re di Roma stop.
The next stops were San Giovanni, Manzoni, Via Vittorio Emanuele and then his stop: Termini Station. From there he had a 10-minute walk to his office on Via XX Settembre. Giacomo always enjoyed the walk after the unpleasant subway ride.
Amelia, Amelia. The first years of their marriage had been happy ones, despite their difference in age – he was 50 and she was 30. Being married to a woman full of energy had rejuvenated him. They often went on little adventures in Rome, discovering unknown areas, going to shows and even short day trips. No children. She said she didn’t want any. She wanted to dedicate herself to him. At least that’s what she would whisper when they were intimate.
Amelia, Amelia. Then she had become grumpy and distant. Forget having sex. And one morning she left to go shopping and never returned. When Giacomo came home from work he found a note stuck to the computer: “Dear Giacomo, I know this will make you very sad, but it’s better this way. I can’t go on like this. I can’t keep lying to you because you are so good. This will hurt you, but you are strong and wise. I’m sure you can take it. I’m leaving you. Why? I’ve found my true love. You might not believe it, but it’s my high school boyfriend. We found each other over the Internet and we fell in love again. I can’t live a lie. You have been very kind to me and I will never forget you. Don’t be angry with me. Amelia”
What a blow. Now he had to get used to be alone again. All he had to look forward to was having to pay for sex and to spend the day sitting on a bench in the park with other old men risking to be taken for a child predator. A life of penny pinching and no company because he had no family.
Giacomo sighed. It wasn’t a sorrowful sigh, but one expressing a feeling of liberation from everyday worries.
Giacomo felt there was more to life than Amelia, his job and gossipy colleagues, the arrogance he encountered in his daily routines and the decay of his overweight body. He needed to find a way out, to escape. One more stop and he would be at his destination: Termini Station.
The head locomotive car rolled over the electronic trigger that set off a series of explosives on the tracks. Giacomo and his fellow passengers were thrown forward as the tunnel’s roof collapsed, burying the dead and leaving the dying under tons of rubble.
TV News Flash. A visibly shaken announcer: “There has been a very tragic incident in the nation’s capital. A series of explosions in the arrival tunnel of Rome’s A subway line hit a rush hour train full of passengers. The explosions caused the tunnel’s roof to collapse. Further information is not yet available. Emergency rescue teams are on the scene.”
At that moment the announcer has handed an update.
“Oh God!” he exclaimed and then he read: “Unfortunately I have news of another serious incident in San Peter’s Square. There has been a bomb attack on the Bernini colonnade where hundreds of tourists were lined up to visit the Vatican. No further details are available at the moment. As soon as we get further updates from Termini Station and Saint Peter’s we will bring them to you.”
ANSA ‒ Italian News Agency headquarters. A call comes into the switchboard, which is on alert. A man speaking in English, but with a strong Middle Eastern accent says: “Today we have avenged the victims of past and current crusades. Allah is Great. This is Al Qaeda.”
venerdì 7 agosto 2015
Chapters 15, 16 and 17 of the thriller "D.C Undercover" Oscar Bartoli (Scarith Books/New Academia Publishing)
Chapter 15
Michael Bardi had not slept well. Several weeks had gone by since his lightening trip to Mexico. The memory of Olivia and their passionate evening often came to his mind. It even happened while he was being intimate with Rachel O’Hara, who was a sexual dynamo.
Before his return to Washington, Olivia had promised to call him on his cell phone. But he had not heard from her. Olivia had given him her cell number, but had asked him not to use it because she feared it was tapped. He turned on his alarm system even though it had not worked when his home had been broken into and someone had gone through his papers.
Michael got into his BMW. The tank was almost empty. He decided to stop at the Exxon station off McArthur Blvd., despite the fact that the gas there was perhaps the highest priced in the city. “It’s incredible,” he thought while inserting his credit card in the pump. “Right across the bridge in Virginia, gas costs 30 to 40 cents less per gallon.”
While his tank was filling, Michael went to a pay phone, inserted a few coins, and dialed Olivia’s number in Mexico. After a few seconds, the phone rang and then a male voice announced, “News in El Sol de Acapulco” and gave a date.
Michael didn’t feel like going to work with Rachel. He went back home. Once there he turned on his laptop and went to the Mexican newspaper’s web site. He read the article and turned pale. For a moment he stared into the void, paralyzed. He got up, grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a shot. Then he lowered the blinds, settled into his leather armchair and sipped his drink while listening to Beethoven’s Concerto number 5 for piano and orchestra.
He thumbed through his smart phone until he found a photo. It was of a sleepy Olivia after their night of lovemaking. Olivia had sacrificed herself for him despite knowing she was running a terrible risk. He felt tears come to his eyes at the thought of her death at the hands of Gutierrez. A terrible death exacted in vengeance by a Mexican gangster who must have been informed by one of his underlings. Either that or, most probably, there had been a hidden camera in his suite.
His cell phone began vibrating. It was Rachel.
“What are you doing? Aren’t you coming to the office?”
“Forgive me, but I had a few urgent matters to take care of… taxes and other stuff my accountant wanted me to do. I was just about to call you.”
“You sound strange. Don’t you feel well?”
“I’m a bit sad because I got a call from Switzerland. An old school mate died.”
“I’m so sorry, Michael. By the way I got a call from Gutierrez. He asked me if you had read the Sol de Acapulco. When I asked him why, he said it was between the two of you. What happened?”
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Chapter 16
“Brother Bardi,” a scratchy voice on the phone said, “How are you? It’s Cardoni. I’m calling from Rome where I just found out about a small set back you had in Mexico. You had a case of Montezuma’s revenge. It’s a typical stomach problem that afflicts tourists who don’t take precautions. It forces you to spend a lot of time in the bathroom. In any event, I hope you are better now. Next time take some antibiotics before going. Everything is proceeding well, except for the Montezuma. Just don’t get too emotional. By the way, I got a call from the law firm of Smith & Smith in Washington asking me to thank our dear Edmundo. It’s really true that opposites attract. Talk to you again soon.”
Michael put down the phone. Across the desk, Rachel lowered her glasses and looked at him inquisitively.
“Everything OK. Just a friend from Rome,” said Michael putting and end to the matter.____
Oreste Balducci, the Garibaldi Lodge’s secretary, reread the email. “Dear Secretary: As you well know, I have to travel abroad a lot for professional reasons. These trips keep me away from Washington for long periods of time. As I wish to maintain my standing I would greatly appreciate it if you could grant me a certificate of good standing so as to allow me admission to Lodges in whatever country I may find myself. I thank you in advance and offer you my triple fraternal embrace. Michael Bardi, Master Mason.”
__________________________________________________________________________
Oreste Balducci dialed the phone number for Gaetano Olderisi, Worshipful Master of the Lodge. He read him the email.
“This is one of those guys who don’t show up at the Lodge and then expects to get a Masonic passport. Over so many months he never found the time to show up for a few hours,” was the annoyed reply.
“Tell him that this has to be referred to the Grand Secretary of the Grand Lodge. You should meet him. He’s a fine young man and very well prepared. He could be a great resource for us if only he devoted a bit of his time to our Lodge.”
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5 p.m. in Piazza Signoria in Florence, Italy. Seated at an outside table at the Café Rivoire is a man in his thirties. He has a typical Middle Eastern complexion. The man is deep in thought and sipping a granita with a side shot of vodka. His appearance, on the surface, was completely normal. He was admiring the artistic beauties surrounding him. A tour guide of Florence was on his table. Facing him, in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, was the life size copy of Michelangelo’s David.
“The original is in Saint Mark’s,” he thought. Through his pocket binoculars he began observing the Neptune fountain sculpted by Ammannati, heavily criticized by Michelangelo and nicknamed “Il Biancone” (“The White Giant”) by the locals.
Then he turned his gaze to the Loggia dei Lanzi on his right and in particular at the statue of Perseus holding Medusa’s head. He took another sip of his granita. He remembered what Cellini wrote about it in his autobiography. About how he had run out of tin while casting the statue and had sent all his apprentices to gather tin forks and spoons from neighbors to throw into the melting pot, thus salvaging the lost wax procedure. It was the first all in one piece cast of that size. He marveled at the artistic mastery.
The man’s cell phone began to vibrate. He answered. On the other end a mechanically distorted voice asked him where he was. “In Florence, in Piazza della Signoria,” he whispered in reply.
“Good. You will be given an envelope with the details of your next mission. Stay under the radar as much as possible. Avoid anything that might make someone remember you. While in Florence you are one of the tens of thousands of tourists who every day visit the city. Behave like one. This vacation In Florence must be utilized to calm down the situation and bring everything to a head. Don’t make me say any more. Understood?”
The man looked at his watch and compared the time with that of the clock on the Palazzo Vecchio’s tower. He left 20 euros on the table and walked towards the main entrance where a middle-aged man carrying a sign marked X was waiting for him.
“Welcome, I am pleased to meet you. My name is Giovanni and I am an official tour guide. You must be a very important person to get us to open up the Study at this time of day.”
The guide spoke English well. The visitor gave him a forced smile and indicated he should continue.
“From what you wrote me, I assume there is no need to stop in the Hall of the 500 and Uffizi Museum – as you have visited them numerous times before.”
But then, having entered the immense hall that had functioned as the seat of Italy’s first Parliament when Florence had briefly been the nation’s capital, he turned towards the north wall, which was covered by a gigantic Vasari fresco. Noting that the beauty of the fresco visibly impressed the visitor, Giovanni started up again.
“You might know that a famous Florentine scholar, Prof. Maurizio Seracini, has been claiming for the past 20 years that under this fresco is one by Leonardo called ‘The Battle of Anghiari.’ It’s been reported on TV worldwide.”
“I did not know that,” replied the tourist as he continued to gaze at the wall.
“It’s a fascinating story. Leonardo was always trying something new. He wanted to paint the enormous wall using the process of encaustic painting. It’s a technique based on adding colors to linseed oil and it is supposed to give the fresco greater luminosity than traditional fresco painting. Unfortunately, as documented at the time, the paste didn’t hold the colors. Leonardo set up enormous braziers to try and make the paint dry faster. Useless. And so he gave up. The wall was white washed and Vasari painted his fresco over Leonardo’s work.”
“And how do we know all this?” asked the man in an annoyed tone of voice, trying to get to the end of the story.
“Well, using special technology Seracini seems to have found fragments of Leonardo’s work. But in the past the city’s administration has always been against taking a core samples. The usual bureaucracy. Now things have changed. Approval has been given for some probing. But then certain factions led by intellectuals and art critics appealed the courts for a stop order. Basically, the classical Italian way of doing things.”
The guide thus concluded his story. The two men headed towards the door that opened into the study. A municipal employee who was clearly irritated at having to work overtime opened it. The visitor passed him a 50-euro bill and the employee’s attitude immediately changed.
“Please go ahead and take your time,” he said in his Florentine dialect. “Since you are no usual tourist,” said the guide Giovanni,
“I feel it is my duty to tell you that I will give you two presentations. One is the official one and one is the, so-called, popular one. I’ll begin by saying that this small study was the room where Francesco I of the Medici family did his research and experiments. This Francesco, who succeeded his father Cosimo as Duke of Florence, was a very peculiar guy. He was also detested by the locals because of the heavy taxes he imposed on them to pay his contribution to his brother-in-law the Emperor Ferdinand I of Austria. Francesco had married his sister, who apparently was lame. She gave him seven children before she died at the age of 31. Some say she was poisoned by Bianca Cappello, Francesco’s lover. In any event, he married her right after his wife’s death – after also dispatching her husband. Francesco was interested in alchemy and collecting. So this study is a kind of chamber of wonders. Giorgio Vasari and Giovan Battista Andriani designed it. After the death of the Duke in 1587 it was abandoned. Then in 1920 it was decided to restore it based on Vasari’s very accurate documentation. According to Vasari it was designed to hold rare and precious objects, art and valuables such as jewels, medals, cut stones, carved crystal containers and devices, all of small size. Do you see that small Giovanni Stradano painting called ‘The Alchemist’s laboratory?’ The man portrayed on the lower right is Francesco I de’ Medici. Francesco did not want anything religious in the paintings he kept in his study and the adjoining room. This turned the Church authorities against him – despite that fact that he was a Guelph.”
The guide went on describing the paintings on the walls and cabinet doors.
“These personify the Four Elements: Air, Water, Earth and Fire. Also in the four corners we see alchemy elements: Phlegm, cold and damp like earth and water; Blood, hot and damp like fire and water; Sadness, dry and cold like earth and water and Rage, hot and dry like fire and air. These are Alessandro Allori’s portraits of Francesco’s parents: Cosmo I and Eleonor of Toledo. They are copies of Bronzino’s original ones. In total there are eight niches for the statues and 36 paintings. Behind every panel there are closets, with the exception of an air intake (this is important) and doors that led to Francesco’s bedroom and two other secret rooms (Cosimo’s study and one for the presumed treasure).
So, that’s the official description. Now comes the so-called popular one. Because Francesco was a strange man and very despotic. As happens to all inventors and above all alchemists looking for the philosopher’s stone and a way to turn lead into gold, he had a bad reputation. Add to this that the death of his first wife was believed to have been due to Bianca Capello’s having poisoned her, the people would say that ‘Francesco is in his palace’ whenever body parts, especially female ones, were found floating in the Arno river. Those who worked on the restoration of the room in 1920 said there was a ramp used to dispose of the remains of Francesco’s experiments. These experiments were supposedly used to lure in maidens and gentlemen on the pretense of admiring miraculous things. But no one apparently ever resurfaced to tell of them. It is possible that the origin of this rumor lay with the Church’s hatred of Francesco. As for the bodies, lots of people were killed in those times. Not for nothing, the Medicis had ordered Vasari to build a corridor between the Palazzo Vecchio, through the Old Bridge, all the way to Palazzo Pitti. It was a way to avoid attacks by rival families. Francesco and Bianca died on the same day – supposedly of malaria. Many claimed the brother of Grand Duke Ferdinand who wanted to take his place poisoned them. Basically, the craziness of the aristocracy.”
The olive complexioned, Arab looking visitor stopped to observe what was officially called Francesco’s bedroom, which in reality may have been his abattoir. While slightly smiling, he caressed the stones sticking out of the walls. He then leaned on the marble
Undercover block where Francesco had cut up his victims to satisfy his perversions. Minutes ticked by, marked only by the visitor’s heavy breathing. Giovanni, the guide, observed him carefully but did not interrupt his strange meditations. He thought to himself, “What a strange guy he is. It almost seems he is having an orgasm thinking about how Francesco I butchered his victims in this room.”
When he opened the door to let them out, the municipal employee approached the visitor and in perfect English said, “They left this envelope for you.”
Once back in Piazza della Signoria, Habib Fareh mixed in with a crowd of Japanese tourists intent on photographing the genitals of the marble statues, beginning with those of the copy of Michelangelo’s David.
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Chapter 17
The Embraer ERJ 170 LR of Egypt Air Express from Cairo began its approach to Hurghada International Airport. Among the forty passengers there were four who spoke Russian. One hour earlier they had disembarked from an Aeroflot Moscow-Cairo direct flight.
“Hurghada has become a Russian sea colony,” whispered one of the four to his traveling companion, a man in his sixties. “I remember when I came here the first time twenty years ago,” he replied after tossing down a mini bottle of vodka he had paid for in dollars. He added, “This airport, we built it along with some other military infrastructure. We also did the Aswan Dam, which provides a never ending supply of electricity.”
“Yes, but ruined the environment. For millennia the Nile’s flooding was the best fertilizer. Now they have to import thousands of tons of chemical fertilizer and the Delta now lets in miles of salt water that burns the crops.”
The older Russian looked at his younger companion in amusement as he complained about the damages caused by the Aswan Dam.
“I can see that you have bought into capitalist propaganda,” he said.
The young Russian shook his head. “Not at all. It is a fact. Over decades the Soviet Union gave Egypt and other African countries billions and billions of rubles and now the country is under American control. Some success.”
His stocky companion took another puff off his electronic cigarette.
“I was telling you about Hurghada,” the younger Russian continued. “Today it’s a big city with hundreds of hotels, even though competition from Sharm El Sheik on the other side of the Red Sea has had a bit of an effect. But after the attacks in Sharm El Sheik plus the increase in criminality, Hurghada is looking up. And to think it used to be a scuba diver’s paradise. Many people are starting to go to Mar Sa La. Hurghada’s attraction is sex, like at Rimini in Italy, but at cheap prices the Russian middle class can afford.”
The Embraer made a perfect landing. As they had already gone through customs in Cairo, the four Russian speakers got into a black rental car waiting for them just outside the terminal. The sign on the windshield read Lilyland.
Lilyland Beach Club was one of the first resorts Italian architects had built in Hurghada. Despite the fact that several decades had gone by, Lilyland held its own against the gigantic complexes built by international hotel chains with substantial, legally mandated, Egyptian capital resources. Where that money actually came from, better not to ask. Lots of different size cottages, big swimming pools, and a manmade bay with a long pier over the clear waters of the Red Sea. For years Lilyland had been a favorite destination of upper middle class Italian and German tourists. Then came the massive influx of Russians who with $1,000 could spend 15 days with meals and airfare included. The result was a lowering of ratings. Hurghada was now so Russian that the signage was written in Cyrillic and management had been forced to set aside the main restaurant solely for Russians. Italian and Germans were asked to eat elsewhere.
After checking in, the four Russians got their key. They took one of the electric shuttles and the driver stopped in front of their cottage. They had two rooms with twin beds, two bathrooms, a sitting room with a kitchen and big sofa beds. By then it was 8 p.m. and after putting on their casual suits, they headed towards the restaurant for Russians. A waiter showed them to their reserved table. The place was full of Russians. There were large families with lots of little kids, some of them howling, as well as mature single women in search of an Egyptian adventure.
As the four walked to their table, a group of people who were dining watched them go by. The appointment was set for 11:30 by the pool, after the evening performance provided by a group of Italian entertainers.
“Is this bottle all right?” asked Valery with a smile. He was one of those who had watched them enter the restaurant. While laughing he put a bottle of frozen vodka straight from the freezer on a plastic table. The group consisted of eight people seated around a table.
“Just what we need,” said Andrei, the man in his sixties who had just arrived from Cairo, as he lit his umpteenth real cigarette. Everyone poured out some liquor.
“Cheers, prost, skoll, na zdorovie, good health, salute,” said Valery. The others answered with a hearty “na zdorovie!” “Tovarisch,” began Andrei in a low voice.
“We are here for a number of reasons. Some can wait, and some require immediate action. We are dealing not only with a war among those of us who have and control oil and the environmentalists who want to replace fossil fuel with alternative energy. There is no doubt that the decision taken by Japan’s Prime Minister, after the Fukushima disaster, to stop construction of new nuclear power plants and concentrate on renewal energy is a big problem, not only for the people who build nuclear power plants but also for everyone who extracts, sells and refines fossil fuels. Even if I am certain that the nuclear Japanese plants will be reopened after some months.”
There was general agreement as the vodka was passed around again. Andrei continued, “But there isn’t consensus among oil people. The Arabs are acting in a confusing way. The Royal family of Saudi Arabia continues to lobby the U.S. and both sides of Congress. I have been told they have hired a very ruthless killer to eliminate anyone who stands in their way. I wouldn’t be surprised if their ultimate target turns out to be the President of the USA. He is so enthusiastic about alternative energy that he is giving a lot of support to industries focusing on solar, wind, sea, and biomass energy.” His seven tablemates exchanged worried glances.
“Iraq follows orders from Tehran. But things there are changing due to the Israelis who want to deal a big blow to Iran. As for Libya, after Khadafy’s death, the rebels want to follow a line of prudent collaboration with the U.S., France and Italy. Moving on to Latin America, Venezuela continues to be an unknown especially due to Chavez’s illness. Russia cannot afford to break ties with the U.S. Plus, the U.S. needs our Soyuz to resupply the Space Station and we are paid well for the service: $63 million per seat. Plus, the U.S. leaves us alone in Latin America because every so often we sell it confidential information about the Colombians and the cocaine brought into the States – now they are even using home-made submarines.”
“But it’s not only the USA, comrade Andrei,” interrupted Valery who seemed to be the spokesman for the rest of the group. “World consumption of fuel is increasing exponentially and we can’t afford to lose our share of the pie.”
“You are absolutely right, tovarisch. This global scenario also encompasses our immediate need to maintain control of the situation. Arab competition is a big problem. For years, the U.S. has been using the CIA to foment rebellions in North Africa. It has had some success with the removal of long-time dictators in North Africa and Yemen. But look at Egypt. The Tahrir Square protests got rid of Mubarak and then the generals who were fed up with him replaced him. But the situation has not improved. In fact, the Muslim Brotherhood that used to operate semi-clandestinely has become a political mainstay after the general election and the victory of President Morsi.”
Andrei paid for one more bottle of vodka before the bar shut down. The rest of the resort’s guest had gone to bed. Some were getting up at 5 a.m. to go to Luxor. Their van would join the hundreds of other vehicles on the highway that moved along under police protection against terrorist attacks. The trip would take hours and would be a frightening one due to the manic driving of the locals. Other guests were exhausted from their wind surf lessons, scuba diving, beach volley games, and horseback rides. Their aching muscles cried out for the soothing massages of the resort’s spa.
The remaining eight guests were now able to talk more freely. But there was little desire for conversation. What they wanted to do was continue listening to Andrei, a former high level KGB officer.
There was another round of vodka and na zdorovie.
“Islamic fundamentalism is worrisome, and not only for the West but for us too. Just think of the toll Chechnya is taking. That is why I think the old American idea to use their religious divisions (Shiites and Sunnis) to make them implode is worth considering and implementing whenever possible. Each one of you has an important rank in the Family. Be ready to intervene with your lieutenants when asked. We must operate under the radar, as always. But, once the target has been set, we must succeed. Among our targets will be attacks on the downtowns of major cities in the West and ensuring that the blame is cast on Islamic fundamentalists. They will deny it, but to no avail. The result will be an increase of hatred of Arabs and all they represent in the West. Here is the problem of domestic terrorism in democratic nations. Oslo is a perfect example: an idiot neo-Nazi, Christian fundamentalist killed 77 people. Al Qaeda had initially claimed it, only to quickly backpedal. It’s a danger that persists – let’s not forget the 168 victims of the Oklahoma City bombing in 2005.”
Andrei paused and asked his comrades for comments. There were many requests for details. There was special interest in the status of the relationship with Cosa Nostra. Andrei replied.
“How can we trust the Italians? There is a reason they are known as the people who never end a war on the same side they started. It’s, their nature, it is in their DNA. They’ve served many masters only to betray them at an opportune moment. They respect us and we respect them as long as they stick to what agreed. But remember, when faced with ambiguous behavior you must inform us immediately. We will make a decision and let you know. We leave tomorrow. Each one of us is to go where designated. Later we will regroup elsewhere to review matters. Do svidaniya until then.”
Valery, “And what about the Rock?”
Andrei, “Who set it up?”
“Cardoni, I think,” replied Valery. “An Italian …”
“Well, there’s your answer.”
Chapters 13 and 14 of the thriller "D.C Undercover" Oscar Bartoli (Scarith Books/New Academia Publishing)
Chapter 13
Venerable Master Gaetano Olderisi of the Garibaldi Lodge rapped his gavel to call for the attention of the Brothers crowded into the small temple of the Scottish Rite Center. “Brothers, help me in opening the Lodge,” he said as he began reciting the Emulation ritual in Italian. The ritual consisted of a memorized exchange of dialogue with the Senior and Junior Wardens and with the Inner Guard and Tyler.
Once the Lodge was opened at the Entered Apprentice level, Worshipful Master Olderisi asked the secretary, who was seated to his left, if there was anything he wanted to share. Secretary Oreste Balducci stood up, made the sign of penalty and said, “Worshipful Master, we have two candidate applications accompanied by their inquiry commission reports. Of greater importance, however, is the need for the Lodge to examine and discuss the issue of a lack of insufficient Brotherhood participation in our labors.”
The Worshipful Master signed and replied, “Dearest Brothers. This is a very delicate matter. The moment has come to take a decision in the best interests of our Body now that we have been in existence for over ten years. The main concern of the Grand Masters who have governed our Grand Lodge has been, and still is, to stop spurious infiltrations into the bilingual lodges established over the past twenty years in Washington DC. Together with the Council of Lights, which includes the Senior and Junior Wardens and the secretary, we have decided to undertake a close screening of our membership. We have a number of Brothers, many residing in Italy, who after rising through the degrees of Entered Apprentice, Fellow Craft and Master Mason have completely disappeared from sight. Let’s speak frankly, dear Brothers. Many of these members have shown by their behavior that their sole interest in Freemasonry was the desire to be able to claim membership in our Lodge. They do not reply to our solicitations, they do not confirm their addresses, and they do not participate in the work of other Lodges. I open the discussion on the matter.”
The Brothers took turns in raising their hands. At first they spoke hesitantly, but then they participated vigorously in the discussion. Worshipful Master Olderisi cautioned the speakers to be tolerant of each other’s opinions, listened carefully and acted as moderator. The meeting then passed on to consideration of various administrative matters presented by the secretary after which the Worshipful Master brought it to a close with a ritual tap of his gavel and sent everyone home. He alone would make any final decision. After all, while it is good and fine to listen to other opinions, the last word belonged to the head of the Lodge as the ultimate authority.
The Venerable Master had to admit that many of the comments presented made a lot of sense. They were the same issues impacting other organizations, such as the Rotary – despite the fact that they were not in any way affiliated.
“Basically,” Olderisi concluded, “if we do not offer some kind of benefit the end result will be a constant loss of members. We lack appeal and are paying for it. In Lodges throughout the world talking about politics and religion is forbidden. But life is based on politics and religious conflict. Everything is political, from atmospheric pollution to global warming, water and energy scarcity, cultural clashes, worldwide economic crises, drugs, and education. Everything is political. And we expect to keep the profane world at bay to safeguard the tranquility and survival of our Lodges. It’s a worthy principle, but we cannot ignore what is happening around us. George Washington and the Founding Fathers were Freemasons and they knew where they wanted to go. They were visionaries and their vision of the future might have seemed an impossible dream. They were fighting against the most powerful empire in the world. And yet they succeeded. And the men who led and those who fought for the Risorgimento in Italy were Brothers but they were also political. Their goal was to unify Italy and liberate it from foreign oppression. Many died, but in the end they too succeeded. So, we must not partake in partisan politics at the Lodge. But we can deal with everyday political issues. We must do this to capture the interest of the youth and give an incentive to act appropriately in the profane world. We must do more to attract Brothers, especially the talented ones, who do not come to our meetings because they consider them a waste of time.”
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Chapter 14
The Falcon landed at the General Juan N. Alvarez International Airport and taxied towards the private aviation section. A black SUV was waiting on the tarmac. It was a VIP special edition car: armored, bulletproof windows, extra strength tire, custom breaks and super turbo engine. Once completely outfitted it cost as much as a Ferrari. The American company that retrofitted the SUV also provided special driving courses for chauffeurs. Among other things, the drivers learned how to get through roadblocks and ambushes by folks armed with machine guns – not an easy feat when at the wheel of a very heavy car. Who bought these cars? Politicians, CEOs and drug traffickers. Often all rolled into one.
The Hon. Edmundo Gutierrez quickly descended the plane ramp and got into his SUV, all the while holding a black leather briefcase close to his chest.
“Sweetheart, how are you?” he whispered into his cell phone.
“Oh, Edmundo you are back. I feel much better. It was a case of, you know, female trouble. I am happy you are here.”
“Do you feel up to dinner? I don’t want to impose on you if you are still under the weather, honey.”
Olivia reassured him all was fine. Once he had showered and relaxed they would meet in the private Quetzalcoal room at 9 p.m. Olivia was wearing a Balenciaga long gown that showcased her voluptuous figure. Its low cut barely covered the nipples of her full cleavage. The gown’s bare back extended below her waistline.
She approached Gutierrez who was seated at his reserved table in the famous restaurant. She kissed him on the cheek and sat down in front of him. He gazed at her in ecstasy.
“I ordered shrimp cocktail for you too. I hope that’s all right. Then we will have fresh bass.”
Olivia replied with a smile that emphasized her dimples.
“If you don’t mind my asking, how did your trip to Mexico City go?” she asked while sipping on a flute of vintage Veuve Cliquot Brut champagne.
Edmundo Gutierrez raised his champagne glass to Olivia’s.
“We have no secrets, my love. I think my private meeting with the President went very well. He needs someone like me by his side after all the negative experience he’s had with other party members. The President needs a small circle of trusted allies. He said this with great sincerity. We also discussed what has to be done during the remaining years of his mandate because, as you well know, presidents cannot be re-elected in Mexico – unlike in other countries such as the U.S.”
They sipped their champagne and started in on the shrimp cocktail.
“I am happy to hear this. The President has finally realized how important it is to have someone with your experience at his side.”
Edmundo Gutierrez gazed upon Olivia’s face, with her green eyes that seemed to change color depending on her mood.
“God, you are so lovely!” he said. “Tell me about your day. What did you do?”
“Nothing special. I spent a few hours at the pool. Then I took a long walk along the beach. The waves were strong – you had to be careful not to get swept into the water. Then I came back, took a shower, and started reading.”
“What were you reading, sweetheart?”
“Don’t laugh. I’m reading the Koran. I want to try and understand why almost two billion people are Muslims even though the Prophet Mohammed preached five centuries after Christ.”
“I’m pleased you are trying to learn more about this religion that seems so antithetical to Christianity. You can be my adviser on matters of faith. Listen, Olivia. How about stopping at Quebrada after dinner to see that last diving show? Feel like it?”
Olivia replied that it had been years since she had seen the divers.
The attentive waiter served the bass with a side of string beans and roast potatoes.
The SUV zoomed across Acapulco thanks in part to the yellow flashing light the driver had placed on the dash. The American tourists who dared set foot on the pedestrian crossings had to leap backwards to avoid being mowed down. In Mexico no one respected traffic rules. It was a case of survival of the fittest and the black armored SUV and its cross-country escort vehicle were prime examples.
Gutierrez’s three bodyguards pushed their way through the hundreds of spectators on the terrace. They were all there to watch the high cliff divers.
Olivia and her elderly lover moved to a spot reserved for them. The tourists were held at bay. The Spanish word Quebrada means ravine. In Acapulco it is a cleft in the coastline. La Quebrada cliff divers calculate the exact moment to catch an incoming wave and launch themselves from heights of up to of 125 feet into the sea in exchange for the proceeds from the sale of tickets and tips.
Before diving they make the Sign of the Cross. The youngest divers had already taken their turn under the bright lights. Their tan bodies in skimpy bathing suits were a cause for much admiration on the part of the female audience.
The last dive was from 125 feet and that evening the chosen one was the famous Balboa. The spotlights focused on this small, compact body. Every evening, together with his colleagues, he risked his life for a few dollars. Since its founding in 1934 to stop the exploitation of young divers, there had been several dozen fatalities among the Quebrada Cliff divers.
Balboa adjusted his red bathing suit as he positioned himself on the rocky cliff. He waved at the spectators to elicit the thunderous applause that erupted. After making the Sign of the Cross, he paused for a few seconds and then took an angel dive off the cliff.
The tourists’ video cameras followed him all the way down into the water. Balboa then re-emerged to another round of applause from the tourists as they began leaving. He climbed up the rocks to where the spot where Olivia and Edmundo had been watching. Olivia clapped her hands and exclaimed, “Bravo!” “Thank you, señorita” he replied.
“Let’s go see where they dive,” said Edmundo and they walked towards the steps that led to the diving platform.
The tourists and divers by now had all left La Quebrada. The next day the divers would be back and would have to deal with rough seas, but the Madonna of Guadalupe would protect them.
Edmundo Gutierrez took Olivia by the hand and led her to the edge of the cliff from where Balboa had taken his dive.
“Edmundo, please. You know I am afraid of heights. Let’s go back.”
They turned, sat on some plastic chairs and gazed at the lovely moonlight and its reflection on the water.
“What a fantastic night!” said Edmundo.
A bottle of Moët Chandon in an ice bucket had been placed on a nearby table.
“Let’s drink to our love.”
He poured champagne into two flutes and handed one to Olivia who was watching the waves enter and retreat from the ravine. Then he poured a second glass. Olivia politely tried to beg off.
“Edmundo, do you want to make me tipsy? You know I can’t handle alcohol.”
“Listen, Olivia. This is a special evening for us. No ifs or buts. Please do as I ask, my love.”
Then Edmundo took a silver case from an inside jacket pocket and placed it on the table. He opened it, tapped out two lines of cocaine and using his own personal silver straw snorted one up.
“Now it’s your turn, Olivia,” he said handing her the silver straw.
“Edmundo, you know I detoxed at that clinic in New Mexico. I can’t. Believe me.”
“Tonight you must. I am ordering you.” Gutierrez’s voice had taken on a sudden threatening tone. His fierce expression convinced Olivia to take the straw and snort up the line of cocaine. Then she relaxed back in her chair and drank a third glass of champagne Edmundo had poured for her. During the next few minutes of silence the alcohol and drug took effect. The only sound was that of the rising waves on the rocks. Gutierrez signaled to his assistant who brought over a DVD player.
“Olivia, put on these headphones. I want to show you something interesting.”
The young woman looked at him in surprise, while rubbing her nose. On the small screen were images of Olivia and Michael engaged in passionate sex.
The next morning the El Sol de Acapulco newspaper front page had a story on the decapitation of seven drug dealers committed by a rival gang.
An inside page had a piece on a young American tourist who had fallen into La Quebrada after the diving show had ended. The police account, based on the medical examiner’s report, was that she must have lost her balance due to over consumption of alcohol and drugs.
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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
info@newacademia.com www.newacademia.com
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