Redemption

by Sally Fernandez

  Natalie was thrilled. Noble’s promise to make all the arrangements while they were in Italy had thus far exceeded her expectations.

  “Avete piacere di vedere il menu di dolci?”

  “Mama, Alessandro wants to know if we would like to see the dessert menu,” he informed with an impish grin.

  “No, Mario,” she chided softly. And then, with the help of her son, she thanked Alessandro for a fantastic lunch and his generosity. At last, she asked for the check.

  “No, Signora, it was my pleasure.”

  Natalie attempted to make the request a few more times and then graciously accepted. After heartwarming goodbyes and agreeing to return the following day, they headed out once again to venture through the streets of the magnificent Renaissance city, a veritable walking museum.

  “Are you enjoying Florence, my darling?”

  “Yes, Mama. It makes me feel closer to Babbo.”

  “Yes, it makes me feel closer to your father, too.”

  Natalie had learned that the endearing term babbo was the only Italian term for “papa.” Paolo was especially proud that it came from the original Florentine language.

  “Let’s try to call Babbo tonight.”

  Mario’s face glowed.

  8

  A MYSTERY TOUR

  Seymour Lynx sat in a booth at Café Americano on Melrose Avenue in Beverly Hills, consuming his cappuccino with effortlessly timed sips. Moments later, he eyed the stretch limo pulling up outside the café. He reacted by drawing a deep breath, while bringing to mind a quotation from the renowned inspirational speaker, Tony Robbins: “It is in your moments of decision that your destiny is shaped.”

  He still had time to renege on the deal, but either way, he knew it would change his life forever. At that point, he was riding high in the film industry, with more awards and accolades heading his way. His personal life was in perfect order. I don’t have to do this, he had repeated to himself boundless times ever since he received the call. After one last deep breath, he paid the check and headed for the car.

  “Sir, would you like me to take your bag?”

  “Thank you,” he uttered, and then, with a tad of apprehension, he handed his carry-on luggage to the driver, save the briefcase.

  The ride to LAX would take about thirty-eight minutes if the traffic flowed. He estimated that he had plenty of time to catch the flight and meet his connection on the other end.

  Over the years, Seymour had made many attempts to flush the memories of his previous life from his memory bank. However, during the ride he could no longer repress his thoughts. Most specifically, he mused upon his role as the communications director, and then the documentarian, for the former president, Abner Baari. He openly admitted that it was an amazing gig, but he also acknowledged that it had ended badly. Rumors had surfaced regarding his creative, negative campaign ads and the fabrications of his original campaign sound bites. It sealed his fate in and around the Capitol. When he returned to L.A. he was all the worse for the wear, but without missing a beat, he began to revive his film-production career. After fighting the blowback, he was finally welcomed into the inner circle when his film The Framework was nominated by the Academy for an Oscar.

  “What am I doing?” he questioned aloud.

  The driver looked into the rearview mirror. “Sir, did you say something?”

  “No!” he answered, in a dismissive manner to thwart off further intrusions.

  By chance it was not long before the car pulled up to the curb. Seymour hurriedly retrieved his belongings and headed to the departure gate.

  The flight arrived at his destination as scheduled. Within minutes, Seymour made his way to the arrival lounge. Soon after, he spotted a group of men standing next to each other, all holding up tablets of various sizes. The name “Lynx” was scrawled on one of them.

  So far, so good, he assumed, still unable to shake off his uneasiness. He shot his hand up into the air to signal the driver. As the driver approached, Seymour noted something different about his appearance. Granted, his mannerisms seemed appropriate, but strangely, the driver was dressed in a manner similar to the Secret Service agents Seymour had seen many times roaming the White House. But as expected, the driver offered to carry his luggage and then ushered him to the stretch limo waiting outside.

  On impulse, Seymour checked his wristwatch as he entered the limo and noted the time. But it was not until he had shifted comfortably into his seat that he took the opportunity to peruse his surroundings. “Hey, what’s going on?” he called out to the driver.

  “This is for your protection, sir,” came the voice over the intercom. “Please let me know if there is anything you need.”

  Seymour’s eyes darted around, but there was nothing of interest except the wet bar stationed in front of him—all the windows had been blacked out. “Where are we going?” he asked, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

  “Sir, please relax. We’ll be there before long.”

  “Where?” he demanded.

  “Sir, you’ll be given further instructions when we arrive. Please, it won’t be much longer.”

  “It’s obvious I have no choice,” he grunted.

  There were no more responses from the intercom.

  Seymour sat back and waited to arrive at their destination—wherever it was to be. No less relaxed, he spent the time focusing on a prior conversation, one that had led him to this juncture. Then he began to second-guess his decision. He must have been deep in thought, because it was not until the limo’s engine came to an abrupt halt before he was jolted back to the moment. He took note. Again, he cast a quick glance at his watch; they had been driving for less than an hour. Right away he realized the engine was silent, but, strangely, the car was still in motion. It was not moving forward or backward, but he sensed the car was descending at a slow speed—then he felt another jolt. The car came to a complete stop.

  Seconds later, the right passenger door flung open as the driver reached inside and handed him a cloth object. “Sir, please put this on. In a few minutes we will enter the facility.”

  “Is this necessary?”

  “Sir.”

  Seymour let out an audible breath. I’ve come this far. I might as well play along—on this mystery tour, he thought. Relenting, he placed the blindfold across his eyes and tightened the cord behind his head. Then, sharpening all his senses, he began to pay particular attention to his surroundings. First, he could feel himself being led down several narrow hallways, each one ending as he passed through a metal doorway. At last count, he had entered four different passageways. Throughout he detected a metallic smell circulating in the air. The echo from his footsteps as they hit the cement flooring resonated. The lack of sight only increased his anxiety. Most odd was the sense that there was not another soul around. What the hell is going on? he questioned himself as fear began to take hold.

  “Sir, you may remove your blindfold.”

  Seymour ripped off the mask and took several deep breaths as though he had also been gagged. His eyes slowly adjusted to the lighting, until he found himself facing two large steel doors. The driver was standing to his left. There was no one else in sight. Without warning, the doors opened. In front of them was another hallway, just as Seymour had envisioned. Up to that point, he had been somewhat tractable, but then his doubts rose to the surface. He was urged to enter.

  “Where am I?” he demanded.

  “Sir, you are in a secure underground installation. Please follow me.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Seymour countered, losing his patience. This was not what he had signed up for, but then again the real purpose was not entirely clear to him from the start. All he recalled was hearing the two most dreaded words—trust me. He knew they always came with a price.

  “All your questions will be answered soon. Please follow me.”

  Another steel door opened.

  Seymour’s jaw dropped.

  9

  MAXIMUM RESTRAINT />
  Noble sauntered into the conference room, not realizing he had naively walked into the lioness den.

  “If we have to do this, let’s get it over with,” she scowled.

  Noble sat down next to her and reassured, “As I said before, Max, you’ll be fine. You’re a real pro.” The gentle pat on her shoulder was for extra measure.

  The scowl softened somewhat.

  “Okay, where do you want to start?” he asked, mindful of her level of angst.

  Max, showing signs of relenting, obliged for the moment and proceeded to open one of the case file folders on her xPhad. While scrolling through the pages, she described in brief terms the latest case. “Remember a few years ago when the Chinese attempted to hack into the Office of Personnel Management database? When they tried to retrieve information on people who had applied for security clearances?”

  “Yes, and it’s fortunate that when the case was brought to our attention, we were able to quickly thwart the incursion.”

  “Well, no surprise, they tried again. There’s been another series of hack attacks—this time to infiltrate the CIA. Again, they were disrupted. But each time they managed to break through more layers of security. They’re inching along, and it’s getting a little too close for comfort.”

  “Agreed. Who was it this time—the People’s Liberation Army Unit 61398?” Noble asked.

  “You’ve got it. They keep hacking; we keep changing the security. But it’s an endless loop and a tiresome game.”

  “I’ve had to dodge their attempts to infiltrate many times over the years, but nothing appears to deter them from their cyber-attacks. What I find frustrating,” Noble admitted, “is these attacks occur daily, but for some strange reason our government agencies are required to report an incident only in cases of personal identification being obtained. What were they sniffing around for at the CIA?”

  “Same thing—personnel records. I surmise it’s to locate agents operating in the field. I have a new team working on increasing the security levels.” As Max spent the good part of the hour to describe some of the implemented programs, she appeared to have gotten back in her groove. Her disgruntled mood seemed to have almost disappeared.

  It did not go unnoticed. “Has Max returned?” Noble jested, hoping she had finally come around.

  She flashed the smile of old but offered no retort.

  Noble moved the conversation forward and speculated, “Snowden didn’t help the situation when he divulged that our government made similar attempts. The Chinese and the Russians think it’s fair game. Even the Koreans joined the fray. It’s in their DNA.”

  “Thus far, it’s been a game. Stealing state secrets is part of the massive intelligence gathering that plagues the world, but the number of destructive hack attacks is accelerating at an alarming rate. We’ve had over four hundred critical attacks this year alone on our core infrastructure. We can’t relax for a moment,” Max cautioned.

  “That gives me the creeps, especially after knowing how Simon attempted to bring down the national power grid. I shudder to think what the consequences would have been if he had succeeded.”

  “Yes, but the threats are also happening in our transportation and banking sectors.”

  “It may merely be a matter of time before some catastrophic event occurs dwarfing 9/11.”

  Max reacted as she looked up from her xPhad and made eye contact with Noble. “Now that’s a chilling thought.” Then with a half-grin she warned, “But it better not happen on my watch.”

  “Let’s just pray we’ll be prepared if it does. But one major problem that exacerbates the situation is the Internet infrastructure. It rests in the hands of the private sector and there is no uniformity in controlling the malware that allows these predators to access our most vulnerable databases. Hackers are aware of this lapse in security and treat it as an open invitation to wreak havoc.”

  “You’re not suggesting it should be left in the hands of the government, are you?”

  “Not totally, but there needs to be better coordination between the two entities.”

  “There are various congressional subcommittees working with the private-sector vendors.” Max stated, and then lamented, “In the meantime, all we can do is to try to curtail the hackers.”

  “What else is on the docket?”

  “You’re aware that the number of transnational crimes has tripled over the past two years?” she asked, in an attempt to elicit his confirmation.

  “Yes, it’s been on an upward trend since the squabbling on immigration reform heightened during 2014.”

  “Well, the alliances between the South American and Mexican cartels have expedited the level of illicit activities, including arms smuggling, human trafficking and of course, their specialty, the drug trade.”

  “I know. But what is even more astonishing is that even with the increased border security and Coast Guard surveillance, over sixty percent of the two thousand metric tons of illegal drugs the cartels claim to produce a year, still makes its way into the U.S. That damn border has to be closed.” Noble, no sooner than having lodged his complaint, felt his xPhad vibrate. “Hold on. I have to take this.” He noticed the name on the display. It was Stanton.

  “Yes?”

  “Director, all the packages have been delivered.”

  “Thank you. That’s all for now. I’ll let you know if I need anything further.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What was that all about?” she questioned.

  “Not to worry. Proceed,” he urged, avoiding her probing.

  Max got the message and continued. “We’re also following up on an intelligence report from the U.S. Border Patrol of the possibility that Muhammad Nabi and Khirullah Said Wali Khairkhwa have entered the U.S.”

  Noble shook his head in disgust. “It still blows my mind that we traded five Guantanamo detainees—who were high-ranking Taliban officials—for Army Sergeant Bergdahl, an obvious deserter. A fact the government was well aware of at the time. Wasn’t Nabi considered a high-risk threat and Khairkhwa a major narcotics trafficker?”

  “Yes, and both are still heavily embedded in the al-Qaeda regime leadership. Don’t forget—the deal was predicated on the Qataris monitoring their activities for just one year—the same government that supports Hamas. I never bet the ranch on that one.”

  “What a joke. Baari even admitted that there was a possibility that some prisoners released from Guantanamo would return to activities that could threaten us. But he continued to release other detainees, even though it was obvious the earlier attempts to put these bad guys out of business failed miserably. I can’t imagine what the six detainees sent to Uruguay are planning.”

  “So I guess he was determined from the Gitmo—so to speak.” Max managed a faint smile and then reverted to form as she fumed, “What burns my toast is he also opened the door for them by not closing the border sooner…What?” she asked, catching Noble’s snicker.

  “The expression is fries my bacon.”

  ‘Whatever,” she huffed. “He pissed me off. His delays were contrary to the clear public sentiment, but Baari wasn’t known for his open mind. In fact, he was more myopic and just focused on the event of the day.”

  “So now we manage the result of indecision and miscalculation. I suspect Khairkhwa is working with the South American cartels in drug trafficking?”

  “It’s probable, but more likely it was a ruse—a way to enter the U.S. illegally,” Max speculated.

  “Our vulnerability, both at the border and in our Internet structure, is also a gift to ISIS.”

  “There’s evidence that ISIS is purposely stirring up trouble between the police and the local Islamic communities across the country. The Islamic State remembered the debacle that took place in Ferguson, Missouri and how a simple shooting between a white police officer and a black teenager turned into a national crisis. The tension was further inflamed by the Chokehold Case and the assassination of two police officers in New York City.
They’re playing on the fears of the minority communities and creating similar crises.”

  “It’s clear they never got Baari’s degrade and defeat memo. Worse yet, the victim’s sympathizers fell into the trap and moved into the fracas.”

  “When is Sharpton going away?” Max snarled.

  “I suspect with the White House no longer providing him cover, he’ll become ineffective on his own accord very soon. In point of fact, he should be behind bars.”

  “He’s the least of our problems. Trying to track the ever-increasing number of homegrown terrorists surfacing within our borders and attempting to identify those entering the country, many with British passports, is bordering on the impossible.”

  As much as Noble enjoyed the ideological conversations with Max, he needed to move it along. “Keep me posted. Anything else?” He knew that no matter the answer, all terrorist threats would become secondary concerns if President Post’s analysis is correct.

  “Noble, we don’t need anything else. We’re having a difficult time as it is keeping up with our current caseload. The national security challenges alone keep our inboxes full.”

  He nodded in agreement and then asked, “Max, would you mind closing the door for a moment? I need to speak with you in complete confidence.”

  Max was all of a sudden overcome with an unpleasant feeling that she wasn’t going to like what Noble had to say, but she played along. When she returned to the table, she asked with uneasiness, “Okay Boss, what’s up?”

  “I’ve finished formalizing my travel arrangement, so I’ll be leaving this evening,” he announced in a calm manner. She sat in silence and listened while he relayed his fabricated plan in loose terms.

  “So you really are just going to up and leave?”

  “Max, we’ve gone over this. It’s obvious that you have control of the cases and I know you have complete cooperation from the entire team. I don’t see any challenges you can’t handle.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence. But I’ll state again, this is a vulnerable time. The country’s in crisis mode and there are continuous outbreaks of civil unrest spreading from coast to coast.”