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.”
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