by Peter Parkin
Vito rapped his knuckles on the counter. “So, no harm done.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Three people lost their lives!”
“I don’t appreciate your language, Sandy. Keep it clean, please. Anyway, they had to die. I had to swing the vote—and even you wanted them dead.”
Sandy raised his voice again. “There’s no guarantee those murders will sway the vote in my direction.”
“Not that vote. The vote at the Aufsteigen Group. You lost thirteen to twelve. I needed two deaths of members who’d voted for Linc. I figured his two top campaign officials were the best choices.”
“How the hell do you know about those votes? It’s a secret society; the proceedings of their meetings are never made public. And what kind of vote was that, anyway?”
Vito sighed. “I told you a bit about Aufsteigen during one of our last meetings. I told you they were supporting Berwick’s campaign. Because, at that time, he was the only chosen one in the race. Then you entered the race, and voila, we had two chosen ones. A vote was needed to decide which one we’d support during the duration of the election cycle.”
“What do you mean by ‘we’?”
Vito rested his elbows on the bar and turned his head to face Sandy.
“I’m a member of the Aufsteigen Group, Sandy. Have been for fifteen years. In fact, I represent all of the Cosa Nostra families in the country. I’m fairly influential, representing about $3 trillion in assets from all of the families combined, but I wasn’t influential enough to have the vote go in your favor at our last meeting.” Vito shrugged.
“Linc won that vote, which meant that certain trouble would have been coming your way if I hadn’t acted. Those people don’t fool around—your life might have been in danger if they decided upon some drastic sanction to take you out of the race. It could have been as simple as an invented scandal to ruin your life and your career—or, they could have just assassinated you. But my elimination of Whitfield and Stone changed the vote—twelve to eleven in your favor. You’re safe now, and pretty much guaranteed to win the White House. See, I saved your life again, and made you president, too. Are you ready to toast yet?”
Sandy just stared at him. He knew his mouth was hanging wide open in shock, but try as he might, he couldn’t close it.
Vito raised his glass again, a sinister grin painted across his face. “Toast?”
53
Sandy had spent the last ten minutes in the gold-adorned bathroom adjoining the opulent dining room. Not fitting behavior at all for such a bathroom, but most of his time had been spent with his face in the toilet bowl, throwing up. Sandy splashed water on his face, rinsed out his mouth, and then just stared at himself in the mirror. Staring back was someone he no longer recognized.
He hissed, “You fool! How could you have been so stupid?”
Doing his best to compose himself, he ran his fingers through his blondish hair, pulled a bottle of eye refresher out of his suit pocket, and popped a couple of drops in each of his baby blue eyes.
He knew what he had to do.
Sandy opened the door and strode confidently back into the dining room.
Noticing that Vito was now sitting in the lounge area, he joined him. Sat down in a leather seat facing him. He knew he needed to somehow get some control back. Right now, he felt like he was in a straitjacket.
“So, this whole relationship between you and me has been nothing but a charade. You’ve played me all the way.”
Vito nodded. “You asked me to be honest with you, and that’s how I’m going to be. Some of it was a charade, but not all. We had no idea you and your family were going to be at the Quincy Market the day of the attacks.”
Sandy leaned forward and interrupted. “You were in on the planning of that attack?”
“Of course. It was an Aufsteigen operation. Designed to give Berwick a platform that he could preach on. But your presence there was not anticipated. Neither was your hero moment. And when you were presented with that medal, and you threw it back at the general, that’s when we decided you were to be the second Ascendant.”
“Ascendant?”
Vito nodded. “The chosen ones for positions of power we refer to as Ascendants. After your rebellious act during the medal ceremony, you were the perfect choice to be the contrarian to Linc. Our most desired position was to have two Ascendants, one representing each political party. That way, we’d be guaranteed to have one of our people from the Triple-L sperm bank in the highest office in the land, indeed, the world. Both of you are offspring from the finest genetic stock on the planet.”
“What the hell is my heritage? The least you can do is tell me who my father is. Surely, you have that information.”
“All I’ll tell you is that you’re both from the same father. You and Linc are half-brothers. The Cain and Abel analogy. Isn’t that special? The Triple-L stock consists of sperm from fifty elite donors, but you two happen to be from the same donor.”
Sandy rubbed his forehead. “This is so fucking twisted, it feels like I’m in the middle of a nightmare. So, you were part of the planning of the Quincy slaughter. All those people killed, including kids, for God’s sake. Whatever happened to your professed compassion for families? You were one of the assholes who killed my family—as well as a couple of hundred others, half of them children.”
“Please, I’ll ask again—watch your language. And, let’s be clear—your family was collateral damage. Not intended.”
“That time you saved my ass at Triple-L, was that staged too?”
Vito shook his head. “No. I helped you gain access to that lab so that you’d have an appreciation of the heritage you came from. Dr. Schmidt took it too far. We were watching you, and listening, as you know, and we were concerned that he was going to destroy our precious package. My men burst in and saved you, and those men they shot really did die.”
Sandy stood up and started pacing the room.
“Now I can finally let myself believe my own eyes. That little prick, Christopher Clark, didn’t really die, did he? You and he just acted things out, right? I was certain that I saw him at one of my speaking events. My eyes weren’t playing tricks on me, were they? He’s alive.”
Vito shook his head. “He’s not alive. He didn’t die back then; we paid him off and whisked him out of the country. But he is dead now. He got greedy.”
“’I see. And, the cathedral? All fake?”
“You were meant to go there and stop it. We made sure that everything was on hold until you showed up. There was never any sarin gas in those canisters. It was just a ruse, and the sarin gas rumor was planted by us.”
“Why?”
“We needed to give you a purpose, Sandy. We’re well familiar with what motivates both you and Linc. He was used and played as well. Both of you had to endure some theater.
“With Linc, it’s all about power and ego. With you, it’s all about integrity, justice, rightful vengeance, and honesty. Again, like Cain and Abel. You’re at opposite extremes of the pendulum.
“That was the beauty of our strategy, to manipulate both of you into candidacy. Because the stupid voters out there tend to mark their ballots on emotion—a good portion of them anyway. We needed two opposite extremes for them. Dr. Evil versus Dr. Good. And voters tend to vote against someone, as opposed to for someone. Simple, but true. In our view, we couldn’t lose.” Again, that shrug.
“But, what worried me, personally, was when I found out from you about that fourteen-year-old girl that Linc brutalized and killed back in your West Point days. We didn’t know about that—or, at least I didn’t know. And, I have no idea whether Whitfield and Stone knew about it and just covered it up. Didn’t matter, I couldn’t live with him being the winning candidate. Up until then, we were all perfectly content to have either of you in the Oval Office. But, that story about the girl did it for me. Wh
en I couldn’t convince enough of my colleagues at Aufsteigen to vote in your favor, I had to take matters into my own hands against the Group.”
Sandy pitched his voice almost at a whisper. “You released that tape recording. It’s all over the news. The man’s ruined. Not that I care, but that recording seems to have shifted the election totally in my favor now.”
Vito nodded. “Yes. He is ruined. He’ll never recover from this. The presidency is yours.”
“When it is, what will you want from me?”
Vito laughed. “Oh, who knows? It will be nice to have a friend in the White House. Aufsteigen will have their little requests from time to time, pertaining mainly to banking issues, oil and gas, mining, trade, yada, yada, yada. As for the Cosa Nostra, we’ll have a few requests of our own, on some of the same issues, but a few others as well—criminal justice, pardons, money-laundering, drug laws, prostitution, immigration. It’s a long list, but we’ll try not to overwhelm you.”
Sandy shook his head and lowered his eyes. “I trusted you, Vito. Even though we came from different sides of the street, I considered you a friend.”
Vito got up and walked over to the bar. He punched the same button that he’d punched before, and, again, the white-coated servant appeared within seconds.
“Tony, give us some music. Play that favorite song of mine—you know the one, the snake thing.”
Vito walked back to the lounge area with two fresh glasses of Bruno. He handed one to Sandy, and sat down. “Let’s sip our wine and listen to some music, shall we? I think you’ll find this song enlightening.”
The speakers in the ceiling crackled to life, and a song that Sandy remembered from the oldies stations began to play. ‘The Snake’ had been a popular song back in its heyday, and what struck most who’d listened to it were the lyrics themselves. Those lyrics had real meaning back when Sandy had first heard the song, but more just out of amusement then. Now, there was no amusement. Because, clearly, the song was being used by Vito to tell Sandy in no uncertain terms who he really was, and how Sandy had been used. The song was now a weapon of shame rather than just an amusing little tune.
Sandy listened to the song intently, even though he knew the lyrics off by heart. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as the song came to an end. A feeling that turned into an acid burn once he looked up into Vito’s eyes, and perhaps for the first time ever, into his soul. Vito’s smile betrayed the evil that lurked within, a smile worn by a man who knew he no longer needed to pretend.
“Did you enjoy that song, Sandy? It does say a lot, doesn’t it? Kind of a connection to reality. Your biggest strength, Sandy, is that you’re one of the good guys. And, your biggest weakness is that—you’re one of the good guys. You’ll have to be aware of that advice once you’re in office.”
Vito raised his glass. “Well, since you won’t toast me, I’ll do a solo toast. To you, Mr. President.”
Sandy stood.
“Get your fancy helicopter to take me back. I’m done listening to your bullshit. Sorry about the language—but, kindly, fuck off. As soon as I get back I’m announcing that I’ll be withdrawing from the election. Find yourself another Ascendant.”
Vito Romano, second in command of one of the most powerful crime families in America, laughed mockingly, and then just pulled his phone out of his pocket.
“No, dear sir. You won’t be withdrawing.”
Sandy watched as he slid his big fingers gently across the screen of his phone.
Sandy heard a recording of his own voice talking about how he wanted to kill Meagan Whitfield and Bob Stone as revenge for the deaths of his wife and children.
Then a new recording.
Just Sandy’s voice again, describing the intricacies of the Pulsed Energy Projectile weapon. And his voice naively continuing, instructing how to operate the deadly machine and explaining what it was capable of.
Sandy stood frozen in the middle of the opulent lounge of a gangster’s luxury yacht. Feeling like he was in the throes of one of those rare nightmares, one of those scary realistic storylines when you kept begging yourself to wake up. But you couldn’t. And the story continued, and you usually ended up running for your life.
At that moment, staring up at a surreal crystal chandelier in a yacht probably purchased with laundered money, Dr. Sandford Beech, the next President of the United States, felt an invisible straitjacket squeezing the life out of him.
54
The old man muttered a curse and waved his wife away with one frail hand, while struggling with the other on the push rim of his wheelchair. Angela usually manoeuvered the stupid contraption around for him using the handles attached to the rear, but once in a while he just needed that feeling of independence again.
Angela sighed in exasperation. “You’re still a stubborn old man, Herman.”
He laughed and coughed at the same time. “Yes, and that’s what you love about me.”
They both enjoyed speaking English to each other around the cavernous home. Somehow, English seemed to fill the rooms with tones easier on the ears than German. Or, perhaps it was because English just sounded much friendlier than the harsh German that he’d spoken for a lifetime—a lifetime that had now reached 130 years.
Herman Braxmeier spoke excellent English, although only a handful of people knew that he could. He liked it that way. He was also fluent in Spanish, and that fact was also known to only a select few. When he was in town with his guards, he could listen in on side conversations without anyone knowing he could understand. That sneaky little tactic had allowed him to dispense with four disloyal soldiers already.
Herman had always believed in, and practised, the leadership style known in Germany as Fuhrerprinzip, the “leader principle.” Such a style, when executed properly, demanded and succeeded in obtaining absolute obedience of all subordinates to their superiors.
He spun his chair to the side once he reached the door in his foyer; squeezed the handle and turned it. Then, before Angela had the chance to nag him once again, he spun both hands on the push rim and headed out into the courtyard.
He looked up at the sky. It was another warm November day in Salta, Argentina. Herman was glad to be here, rather than down in Buenos Aires. Salta was in the foothills of the Andes, 4,000 feet above sea level. The air was fresh, thin, and a lot cooler than the cities at lower altitudes. Even though the air was thin, he’d never had any breathing problems, despite his advanced age.
It was true, of course, that he was luckier than most. Good health and longevity was easy to achieve when you had gold, jewels, artwork, and raw hard cash to throw around. And Herman had been throwing it around for decades. He made sure that everyone he paid off knew that if he died, the riches would stop. Angela would get it all, and she was a lot younger than he was. As well, she had no need for secrecy the way Herman did. Angela was a native Argentinian; nothing to hide, no one to hide from.
He felt at home in Argentina. It had a modest population of forty-four million, but a full two million of its citizens were fluent in German. A few of his old friends had lived and died here over the years. Some were still around, and he saw them once in a while. They reminisced about the good old days, the days of power and glory, the days of wine and roses.
In fact, they’d all assembled here in this very courtyard for his birthday back in April. Even a few of his old friends who were living in Brazil made the trek to celebrate with him. They all paid homage, just the way they used to back in the Fatherland. They were all much younger than him, of course, so they were really more like subordinates than friends. But, Herman never really had any friends anyway, as he’d risen so fast in the power structures of Germany that everyone he met became an underling before they could blink.
Herman had rewarded all of the attendees at his party with autographed copies of Mein Kampf. The signature he used was the name they were all more familiar with.
He would never truly be Herman to them.
He wheeled his chair around the gardens in the courtyard, and wondered why he’d never taken the time in his early life to appreciate such beautiful things as flowers. He could have given himself a break once in a while, but the obsession and drive within him never allowed him to relax. Not even to smell the roses.
He appreciated those things now, and had for the last few decades.
He enjoyed television, particularly American shows. And he loved playing chess in the Salta town square, with anyone who would dare. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost at chess.
Everyone took him for granted because he looked so frail, but they underestimated the power and fire within him that mere competition always brought out. He still loved to win, and couldn’t accept anything as common as failure.
Even back in the waning days of the war they’d underestimated him. Did they really believe that a man as superior as he, would just accept defeat? Take his own life? Capitulate? Did they really not think that a Plan B would have been set in motion long before the final collapse of Berlin?
Herman shook his head slowly from side to side as he thought back. Then he just laughed out loud at their stupidity.
His fleet of stealth submarines, laden with riches, had departed long before the fall of Berlin. Maybe they even knew that, but the arrogant Americans could never admit to the world that their inferiority had been overshadowed once again by the brilliance of a select few.
Submarines that had specific destinations—Brazil, Argentina, Venezuela, Peru, Chile. A few of his underlings eventually made their way to the United States and Canada, hoping to live out the rest of their lives in peace and tranquility. But, predictably, they were caught. Stupid fools.
Herman chuckled as he remembered all of the Hollywood war movies he’d watched over the last few decades. Some he’d even watched several times, just because they were so humorous. Angela never found them all that funny—she’d make strange faces at Herman as he doubled over in laughter. But he couldn’t expect her to understand.