by Tom Grace
Vezzali offered the storage cylinder to Molfetta. He then picked up a thin stack of signed and notarized documents.
“These describe in detail the container and its contents. Both are legal to transport across international borders, and this paperwork will suffice for customs and airport security. Does that meet your requirements?”
Molfetta nodded. Vezzali folded the pages and slipped them into an envelope embossed with his laboratory’s logo.
“And my debt?” Vezzali asked as he handed over the travel documents.
“Paid in full,” Molfetta replied. “But remember, it would be very bad for you and your family if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone.”
NINTEEN
IN FLIGHT
“Do you want to talk about it?” Roxanne asked softly.
Their return flight to Rome crossed the terminator into night over the mid-Atlantic, and the darkness that Nolan stared at through the window matched his mood. The in-flight movie, Sandra Bullock’s latest offering, ended over an hour ago. Everyone else in the darkened aircraft was sound asleep.
“There’s not much to talk about,” Nolan replied, his gaze still locked on the darkness.
“So it would seem—you’ve barely said two words since we left Gainesville—and yet here you sit, stewing away over this, this revelation for lack of a better word. I can see what it’s doing to you. Talk to me.”
“How could my father have done this? How could this possibly have happened? I just can’t wrap my head around it.”
“From what I know of your father,” Roxanne said, “I would agree that his conceiving a child out of wedlock seems very uncharacteristic, but people sometimes do things that surprise us.”
“This is well beyond the realm of surprise. My dad is an old school, Irish Roman Catholic—on his knees to pray every night before bed, Sunday mass and a healthy fear of eternal damnation. Any woman who meant enough to him to share his bed would have met the family long before that happened.”
“So a one-night stand would be out of the realm of possibility?”
“Yesterday, I would have said yes. But today, I don’t know what to think. My dad has dated a little since my mother passed away, but always women in his age bracket. He wasn’t going after twenty-somethings or women looking for a sugar daddy.”
“Women in their late forties can still conceive children,” Roxanne said, “though it becomes more difficult.”
“What bothers me the most about this is my father loves children—always has. He was good to me and my siblings, despite our occasional challenges to his benevolent dictatorship, and he is a wonderful grandfather. He often jokes that grandchildren are his reward for not having killed his children and if he’d known his grandchildren would be so much fun, he would have had them first. As a son, I got the talk from him about girls and my responsibility. Do you know what he told me would happen if I got a girl pregnant?”
“That he’d unman you with a dull knife?”
“That was mom. Dad told me that at worst he would be disappointed in me, but that he would get over it and welcome any child of mine regardless of my marital status. He always thought it odd that the children of unwed parents are branded illegitimate or bastard when they had nothing to do with the timing of their conception. We all make our own mistakes in life, but coming into this world isn’t one of them.”
“Interesting. Would your father be embarrassed if he did something uncharacteristic that resulted in a child?”
“No doubt—my dad is a proud man.”
“Pride and shame often go hand in hand.”
“My dad tries to live his life by the rule that you never do anything you would be embarrassed to read about on the front page of a newspaper. And if you do something stupid, be man enough to take your lumps.”
“Hmm.”
“What?” Nolan asked.
“A conundrum—one you cannot resolve on your own. On one hand, we have a man you’ve known all your life to be a devoted husband and loving father, and on the other . . . ”
“ . . . a child the evidence proves beyond a reasonable doubt is my half-brother.”
“The evidence only tells us that he fathered Zeke,” Roxanne said, “not that he had anything to do with his adoption. If your father had a one-night stand, it’s possible he is completely unaware that his indiscretion resulted in a child. Regardless, I think the reaction he promised you in the event of an extramarital pregnancy is what you owe him.”
“I’ll approach my dad with an open mind,” Nolan promised, “but he has some serious explaining to do.”
TWENTY
ROME, ITALY
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 18; 9:20 AM
Ambassador Sean Kilkenny sat at his desk in the residence reviewing the morning briefing from the State Department. The packet came in a leather folio with the embossed seal of the United States on the cover and provided snippets of information regarding official policy on domestic and international situations as well as commentary from the secretary of state. Also included in his packet was an updated copy of the day’s schedule, which was thankfully light.
Sean held the Founding Fathers of the United States in high regard and subscribed to their belief that the citizenry of the country should seek to employ their talents and industry in productive endeavors. Only in their later years, when the family farm or business had passed into the care of the next generation, would these individuals then apply their accumulated wisdom to the governance of the nation. Public service was viewed as a debt one repaid to the nation for providing the cradle of their prosperity. That one would seek to make a career of elected office was unthinkable to the great minds that conceived the United States, and that belief was frequently proven true by politicians who had never worked a job that created value or met a payroll.
The multiline phone on the desk purred, and Sean picked up the handset.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Ambassador, your son Nolan is here to see you.”
“Nolan?” Sean said, puzzled by the information.
“Yes. Shall I show him in?”
“Absolutely.”
Sean closed the briefing folder and was halfway across his office when the ornate wooden door opened and his son stepped inside. Nolan was dressed for travel in jeans and an Irish wool sweater with an overnight bag hanging from his shoulder.
“Aren’t you supposed to be recovering in Florida?”
“Things didn’t go as planned.” Nolan replied. “The boy died just before I was to go into surgery.”
Sean felt his throat tighten with the news. He had been at the hospital when Nolan lost his wife Kelsey and their unborn son. He couldn’t imagine what Nolan must be feeling now that he was confronted with the death of another child he had been powerless to help save. At a loss for words, Sean simply put his arms around his son in a fatherly embrace.
Nolan remained rigid and could not find it in himself to return the gesture. “Dad, we need to talk.”
Struck by Nolan’s cold demeanor, Sean withdrew and looked his son in the eye. Beneath a calm exterior roiled anger. He motioned to the sitting area and selected an upholstered chair with a carved wood frame while Nolan deposited himself and his bag on a leather couch.
“Well?” Sean asked as Nolan collected his thoughts.
“Hypocrite.”
“What?”
“You’re a hypocrite. That’s the only way I can rationalize this situation. I know you’re a man, and I know mom has been gone for a few years, but I just can’t wrap my head around this.”
“Around what? What are you talking about?”
“How many siblings, or to be precise,” Nolan said sarcastically, “half-siblings of mine are running around in the world?”
“Excuse me?”
“Dad, I would be thrilled if you found someone to love, and I know mom didn’t want you to be alone, but this—it goes against everything you taught me about being a man.”
“Just what are you accusing m
e of?”
“Paternity. The boy I went to help—there’s a reason why I was a match for him. He and I have the same father. Zeke Oakley was your son.”
The irritation in Sean’s expression melted into shock then puzzlement. His posture softened, and he seemed to cling to the chair’s wooden arms for support. Nolan pulled the photograph he had received from Zeke’s parents out of his bag and handed it to his father.
“No. It can’t be,” Sean said.
“It is. I have the DNA analysis. The odds of Zeke and me being unrelated and having this close a match are something beyond being struck by lightning while holding a winning lottery ticket. That boy was my half-brother, and your son.”
Nolan waited silently as his father processed the news.
“I thought it was just a coincidence,” Sean said softly, “that a boy this age would crop up like he did.”
“Then you admit he is your son?” Nolan pressed.
“No.”
“Dad, DNA doesn’t lie.”
Sean shook his head with a disappointed shrug. “That’s why I didn’t tell anyone about this. Even you wouldn’t believe me.”
“I admit having trouble wrapping my head around the thought of you knocking up a woman who, at best, is old enough to be your daughter.”
“Nolan, I swear with God as my witness, the only woman I have ever had sex with was your mother.”
“Then how did your DNA get into Zeke?”
“I don’t know what was inside this poor little boy, but I didn’t give it to him.”
“But you know about Zeke?” Nolan asked.
“If this is the same child, then yes. He wasn’t called Zeke when I met him.”
“When did you meet him?”
“A little over a year and a half ago, while you were dealing with that killer satellite mess,” Sean replied. “An attorney contacted me discretely regarding a matter of paternity. I wanted to tell him to take a hike. My lawyer advised me to agree to a meeting where the matter could be discussed privately. That initial meeting was just with the two lawyers and me in a so-called friendly discussion. According to the opposing counsel, the mother claimed she and I had a liaison at a conference I spoke at that resulted in a pregnancy. I don’t drink enough to engage in and subsequently forget impulsive trysts, so I told this lawyer in not so many words that he had the wrong guy. He understood the situation was a he-said-she-said until we discovered some hard evidence one way or the other. That’s why he contacted me privately rather than just filing a suit with the courts.”
“Paternity suits against prominent men like you would generate some press.”
“Bad press. And even if the suit was bogus, people always seem to remember the allegation and not the exoneration. The two lawyers talked, and the only way to prove I wasn’t the father was a paternity test. I’m all for it and we set a date. The next week, we reconvened at my lawyer’s office. That’s the one and only time I saw the boy. Cute kid, but I love babies.”
“Did you see any family resemblance?” Nolan asked.
“At that age, they all just look like babies. But, yes, he could’ve passed for a Kilkenny. The baby was there with a nanny and his lawyer. I go first and two samples are taken—one test tube for each side. Then it’s the boy’s turn, and does he let out a howl. Your mother always felt bad when she had to take you kids in for your shots, and the looks you all would give her.”
“Did you and your attorney watch the whole time, make sure nothing funny happened with the blood samples?”
“Yes, and it all appeared to be on the up and up. My lawyer hired the medic who did the blood draws, and he had the entire procedure videotaped. It all went pretty quick, and both sides had identical samples with which to run independent paternity tests. I know I’m not the father, and I’m sure the science is going to back me up. So I go back to work and figure my lawyer will call me as soon as he has the good news and this whole thing will just go away.”
“But the results came back positive.”
Sean nodded. “I have never been so surprised in all my life. I’m thinking that it must be a lab error, but my lawyer went through the results and the lab procedures with his expert and found nothing amiss. The other side came back with the same results, and I can see the cash register signs in this lawyer’s eyes as he presents his offer. I’m furious because I am not the boy’s father, and I’m determined to fight to clear my name. I know something funny is going on, and I am so ticked that my lawyer has to pull me out of the conference room to calm me down. Bottom line, he tells me, if we go to court, I will lose not just money but my reputation. The paternity test trumps anything I have to say.”
“Sounds like good advice.”
“Once I settled down, my lawyer and I returned to the conference room to discuss the offer. In exchange for a one-time payoff of five million dollars, I would be cleared of any and all parental obligations and my name would be left off the birth certificate.”
“So as far as the boy is concerned, his father is unknown?” Nolan asked.
Sean nodded. “According to the mother’s lawyer, she accepted equal responsibility for what happened and would raise our child, but she had no desire for me play any role. The payoff would be placed in trust for the boy with the mother as the trustee. Agreeing to that settlement was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It was like admitting I’d fathered that boy. My lawyer and I go back a lot of years, and I can see the disappointment in his face. I just knew he didn’t believe me. That’s what hurt the most. So I bit the bullet and settled, putting the whole mess behind me. And I didn’t tell you or anyone else because I couldn’t bear to see that look of disappointment again.”
“Does the mother have a name?” Nolan asked.
“I’m sure she does, but I don’t know what it is.”
“It never came up?”
“Oh, it came up. I’m a firm believer in the Sixth Amendment right to face one’s accuser, but the opposing counsel wouldn’t budge as we weren’t at trial,” Sean explained. “The positive paternity test and subsequent settlement eliminated the need to have the mother present. In order to preserve her anonymity, the boy was always referred to as J. D.—John Doe.”
Nolan carefully considered everything his father had told him, then leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees.
“If Zeke Oakley and J. D. are one in the same, then we have a very curious situation.”
“How so?” Sean asked.
“Zeke was a very sick little boy, and the reason they pulled me out of the donor list was because he had no known blood relatives. The Oakleys adopted Zeke shortly after you settled. Which begs the question . . . ”
“What happened to the five million?”
“Exactly. Now, I have to admit I came here today loaded for bear. I was angry and disappointed because the simplest explanation was that you fathered Zeke Oakley,” Nolan said. “But from what you’ve told me, the simplest explanation may not be the correct one. Given the settlement and timing of the adoption, I’d say you were conned.”
“So you believe me?” Sean asked expectantly.
“I believe that you did not father Zeke Oakley, at least not in the conventional way. The real trick will be proving it, and for that I will need some help in your official capacity, Mr. Ambassador.”
TWENTY-ONE
VAL-DE-MARNE, FRANCE
12:30 PM
Nolan and Roxanne’s Air France flight touched down at Orly shortly after noon. After clearing customs, they found a tall, thin man with dark brown hair dressed in a navy suit awaiting them—the CIA’s Paris station chief.
“To what do we owe the honor of such a high-level welcome?” Roxanne asked warmly.
“Let’s just say that your last visit to Paris was quite memorable,” the station chief replied. “There’s an entire file cabinet in the bowels of the embassy filled with paperwork generated by that misadventure.”
“I promise this visit will hardly cause a ripple. This is m
y associate, Nolan Kilkenny.”
“A pleasure.”
“Likewise,” Nolan replied, accepting the man’s offered hand.
The chief guided them toward the exit and an embassy car and driver.
“Well, it’s only a few kilometers to Fresnes, so barring traffic we should be there pretty quick. We’ve managed to schedule your interview with Dr. Martineau, though it took a bit of wrangling with the Ministry of Justice. The French are rather reluctant to grant foreigners access to their prisoners, so your visit is something of an exception.”
“We do have a certain history with the good doctor,” Nolan said.
“That’s a nice way of putting it. Frankly, I’m surprised Martineau agreed to meet with you. I guess she must be starved for company.”
“Perhaps,” Roxanne said.
“Might I inquire as to the purpose of your visit?”
Nolan mulled over the question for a moment, constructing a diplomatic response.
“While we’re not at liberty to discuss specifics,” Nolan replied, “a scientific matter has come up that Dr. Martineau might be able to shed some light on.”
“I see. Well, we’re just about there.”
The driver guided the car off the ring road that encircled Paris and onto the Avenue de la Liberté. There, Nolan glimpsed the looming brick walls that surrounded the Centre Pénitentaire de Fresnes—Fresnes Prison. As the driver turned quickly onto Allée des Thuyas, which fronted the prison, Nolan considered the ironic placement of a prison so close to a street named in honor of freedom.
The red, tiled roofs of the prison loomed beyond its outer walls. Nolan recalled the fortified compound of Zhongnanhai in Beijing, though those walls were erected to keep the undesirables out, not in. There was a regular rhythm to the gabled roofs that reflected an organizational scheme considered revolutionary when the prison was constructed in the late 1800s. Architect Henri Poussin likened his parti to a telephone pole, with a long central corridor crossed at ninety-degree angles by the dormitory cellblocks. The innovative concept was employed throughout the world, including the infamous Rikers Island Prison in New York City.