Redemption

by Sally Fernandez

  “How about a few attractive young ladies to help us lap dance into the night?” Hank wisecracked.

  As usual, Chase found his humor distasteful and was already beginning to dread his roommate. These are not the days of old, he reflected. “Seriously, what the hell is this—a conclave? You’re going to lock us in here until we arrive at a decision!” Chase’s own use of the word lock caused a momentary relapse, as he felt the tightening in his chest.

  Noble responded. “Your task mirrors the process of electing a new pope. As I stated, all your personal needs will be accommodated.” He stood up and walked over to a keypad on the wall near the secure phone. Blocking their view, he tapped in a series of numbers.

  The others heard a distinct noise from the opposite end of the room. As their heads spun around they watched as the two large, unidentified, steel panels parted open in opposite directions.

  “Far out,” Seymour broadcasted, as a fairly sizeable room appeared.

  Contained in the mysterious room were a series of monitors plastered along the walls and hordes of computer equipment. Positioned in a semi-circle were five tables that appeared to be set up as makeshift workstations. Each table provided ample workspace, in addition to housing an oversized all-in-one touch-screen tablet resting in its docking station, with a printer attached. Nearby was a large industrial-sized shredder.

  “Looks like we have our own little communications center.” Hank joked.

  “Consider it more of a Situation Room. And what happens in the Situation Room stays in the Situation Room.” Noble teased, recognizing they would not be allowed any outside communication.

  “Perhaps we should call this place ‘Sitcom,’” Seymour kidded.

  “There is nothing funny about the miracles we are being asked to accomplish in that room,” Chase admonished, in a professorial manner.

  Noble sat back and let the banter continue for a few minutes longer, hoping to set them more at ease. Then he continued. “Work among yourselves to divide the responsibilities and determine what documentation you’ll need. I’ve been authorized by the president to provide you with classified materials as they become necessary to the task. I will assist in performing any research analysis you require. Consider me your analyst-in-residence.”

  Paolo, with a puzzled look, pointed toward the Situation Room. “We can retrieve everything we would need from the Internet ourselves, right?”

  “You’ll have full access to the Internet, with certain restrictions. All email and social networking connections have been disabled for fear of messages being traced back to the facility. You’ll only need to use a propriety search engine we refer to as the DataSmasher. Think of it in terms of the atom smasher and its ability to produce infinite results. The clever master indexer optimizes the search over all engines, scanning the results before downloading them into the highly classified DataSmasher.”

  “Sounds simple enough,” Seymour boasted.

  “The tablets on each of the workstations have been loaded with all the possible software you would need. Once your mission is complete, all hard drives will be scrubbed and all documents will be shredded.”

  “You mean the old ‘Lois Lerner’ Maneuver?” Seymour joked.

  “Noble, I’m getting the feeling you don’t trust us. Not a good start to a beautiful relationship,” Hank challenged, adding to the levity.

  Noble let them have their fun and then reminded them, “Our mutual trust is well established, harking back to the days of the immunity agreements each of you signed admitting to felony crimes; need I say more? We must all keep our eye on the ball.”

  Chase asked, this time in earnest, “Why all the secrecy?”

  “If the country were to become aware of the existence of La Fratellanza and your immunity agreements, it could place you and your families at risk.” Act Three has yet to begin—watch out, rang in Noble’s ears, as he recalled Simon’s last statement.

  The group seemed to have caught the hesitant look on Noble’s face, but he ignored them and continued.

  “There’s also the potential for immense political fallout. It could signal a weakness in the new president before he has a chance to carry out the plan. We can’t resort to the usual Washington shuffle with endless hearings, free-flowing words, and no results. There needs to be some element of a workable solution to capture the imagination and support of the people. But it can’t be accomplished in small increments—we must seize the bull by the horns and flip it over. If we succeed, the economy will turn around and confidence will be restored. That of course, will be up to our plan.”

  “So POTUS wants us to make him look good?” Seymour asked, with a hint of sarcasm.

  “No, he wants solutions—let the facts fall where they may. You’d be surprised. President Post is a new breed of political leadership. But forget the president. Your job is to devise a plan for your country to stave off an economic disaster that could have global repercussions.” Noble sensed they were beginning to understand the enormity of their task, but he was not convinced they had committed fully.

  He pushed a little harder.

  “If we can’t stave off a disaster, the consequences will be unbearable. Life as we know it will change forever.” He remained silent for a moment to let his words sink in, and then chose the personal appeal. “I’ve given a lot of thought to how my life and the lives of loved ones would be affected. There’s no choice. We must change the course!”

  “Noble, we’ve never seen you so pensive,” Chase reacted, offering a sympathetic ear.

  I had hoped to cause them to think about their own lives, not mine, he thought, but appreciated Chase’s concern. “Let’s move on—the clock is ticking.”

  Noble had held off with one final challenge. Now it was time to play out his hand.

  Paolo was his ace in the hole.

  He didn’t like using his brother-in-law to promote their cause, but knowing where Paolo’s sentiments lay, he needed him to convince the others. Facing Paolo directly, he said, “You, my friend, will be tasked with writing the speech—the one the president will deliver to the nation on July Fifth. It will be the opening salvo!”

  “I’m humbled. I would consider it a privilege.”

  His brethren appeared surprised at Paolo’s obvious acceptance and that it came so fast.

  “Don’t worry brother,” Hank quipped, “you’ve defended both sides before. You’re the spinmeister, capable of pivoting sentiments on a moment’s notice.”

  Noble looked askance at Hank, but spoke to all of them. “I’ll say this one more time. The president wants the facts. Political ideology has no place in the final solutions. We must first face the raw truth to fashion those solutions. The president will have it no other way.”

  “I’m not convinced we can do this. Maybe I should reconsider,” Chase balked.

  Seymour waved his arms in the air, displaying the seeming hopelessness of it all. “Chase is right. This is impractical. Why should we give up a couple months of our lives and lie to our families. For what? To fail the president of the United States. Tell him it’s impossible!”

  “He can’t keep us here against our own will,” Hank interjected, solely to provide solace to Chase and Seymour. He had no family responsibilities and no one to lie to, except perhaps to himself. Hank was ready for a new adventure, but he was not completely sold on the fact that this was the trip he wanted to take.

  Over the next two hours, Noble continued to answer their questions and fend off their concerns. Finally, his effort to persuade was over. It was now up to Paolo to step up to the plate and convince his brothers. But Noble sensed some hesitancy in the room. It was difficult to read the expressions on their faces to determine whether they were all on the team. Conjecture told him Paolo, yes. Hank, most likely. Chase and Seymour, doubtful. Now he had to pass the baton to Paolo to state the case and influence the outcome.

  To the others, Noble’s plea was reminiscent of the year 2000. It was the time when Simon summoned all o
f them to Chicago and then devoted hours trying to convince them to bring their master thesis to life. Simon also laid out the ground rules, as Noble had just done. In silence, they each wondered whether they were heading down another wrong road with painful consequences.

  “Forgive the pace of our deliberations, but time is of the essence,” Noble apologized, and then pounded his fist on the table. It worked—he had their full attention. “This time it’s not a game. It’s reality all the way.”

  It was as if he had read their minds.

  Right on cue, a red light above the steel entrance doors began to flash.

  “Dinner’s arrived,” Noble announced.

  With the word “dinner” came a series of stomach pangs among the group. The source being either anxiety or hunger. In either case, they were pleased to see a large metal cart being pushed through the door, but confused by the force behind the cart. Suddenly, a tall, slim, muscular man dressed in khakis and a black sweater appeared.

  “Good evening fellas. Anyone hungry?”

  “This is Jax,” Noble noted. “He will bring in our meals each day—and cater to other requests.” He looked over at Jax. It was hard to miss the smile on his face. He surmised an outstanding debt was about to be paid.

  “That’s me, Jax, a jack of all trades,” he quipped and then, making light of the situation, he said, “Welcome to our humble cave-like abode. It’s as homey as we can make it.” Hurriedly, he opened the doors to the metal cart. “Okay, fellas, we have grilled chicken with mashed potatoes, ravioli filled with spinach, and steak with fries. All expertly prepared by our version of an executive chef. Now, what say you mister with the bowtie?”

  “The chicken will be fine,” Chase replied.

  Jax continued to pass out the rest of the meals according to their requests, while attempting to invoke some humor along the way. He finished off by placing a set of wine glasses on the table, followed by the welcome bottle of red wine.

  “Will that be all guys?”

  With mouthfuls of food, they all managed to mumble, “Thanks Jax,” and then proceeded to devour their meal. There was no doubt their hunger had taken priority, as they ignored the polite table manners for the evening.

  “Hey Jax, here is a list of their food preferences. See what you can do to accommodate,” Noble requested.

  Jax scanned the list. “Hmm, you must be Mr. C. You look like a gluten-free sort of guy. And you with the ravioli must be Mr. P. Bet your name ends in a vowel. Okay, which one of you two doesn’t like fish?

  “That would be me, Jax. I guess I’m Mr. S,” Seymour responded, noting the obvious naming conventions.

  “Then that would make you Mr. H?” Jax asked, looking over toward Hank’s meal.

  Hank offered a smile as he continued to gobble up his steak and fries.

  “Low-fat, low-carb, good choice,” Jax snickered.

  “I thought it would be a great time to shed a few pounds—starting tomorrow,” Hank retorted.

  “All right, gentlemen, you enjoy yourselves,” Jax hailed, as he executed a military salute. Then, with an about-face, he wheeled the cart out the entrance doors. Once again, he heard them utter, “Thanks Jax,” as he departed.

  After several more bites and sips of wine, their hunger slowly abated.

  Nodding toward the door, Seymour asked Noble, “What’s his story?”

  “Jax. He’s ex-CIA. We used to work together. And from time to time, he does me favors. This is just one of those times.”

  “What was he, one of those undercover spies—a man who came in from the cold?” Hank prodded.

  Chase interrupted. “I thought this was supposed to be a big secret.”

  “All anyone at the facility knows is that a group of men are working on a special project that is classified—and Jax doesn’t talk. He can be trusted; you have my word. He also conducts training sessions in the facility and he knows his way around, so it doesn’t raise any red flags. Now, eat up; it’s getting late,” Noble instructed.

  It was obvious that no other information about their surprise guest would be forthcoming. They were willing to wait for the rest to unfold. Content for the moment, they calmly finished off the last of their wine.

  It was an opportune time for Noble to leave the others alone to share their thoughts on more complex issues. He stood up and made his final plea. “The president will not force you to accept, but he appeals to your sense of duty to your country. Talk among yourselves and give me your decision in the morning. This will be your last chance to opt out. Remember, while you’re deliberating, your country needs you—but it has to be all of you or none. Good night, gentlemen.” He left and walked to his room.

  The group watched without a sound.

  14

  THE NIGHT OWLS

  The members of the now-defunct La Fratellanza remained immobile and silent for a few passive moments longer, while waiting for Noble to retire to his suite. Each spent the time contemplating his next move.

  When safely out of earshot, Seymour, true to form, was the first to voice his opinion. “Need I remind any of you that the last time we sat around this table it didn’t turn out so well?”

  “Except when Baari won the presidency,” Hank harked back, chuckling.

  Finding no humor in his remark, Seymour griped further, “You can’t paint a happy face on that fiasco! It was a colossal lapse in judgment on our part.”

  “Hey guys,” Paolo interrupted. “We all have to admit that when we sat around this table at Harvard—and planned the impossible, albeit thinking it was just a game—it was one of the most exhilarating times in our lives. That’s what turned us on and kept us going.”

  “That was then, before we had to spend years rebuilding our lives because of it,” Seymour retorted. “Noble has no idea what he is asking from us, the sacrifices we’d have to make. He can’t possibly comprehend the impact our misdeeds had on our families. Do we want to go through this again?” he queried, that time with more emphasis.

  “Let’s not forget; Noble also suffered immeasurably because of Simon,” Paolo chimed in. “But putting all that aside, this is a chance for all of us to find some redemption for the damage we inflicted. We all bear the emotional scars of our actions. Why not seize this opportunity?”

  Seymour attempted one more passionate plea. “What if we get it wrong? What if the president stands at the podium, delivers a plan to the nation, and it ends up creating more panic and devastation? We will not only fail the president, but the country once again. Can we live with the consequences? How much scar tissue can we carry?”

  Chase and Hank had remained silent while listening to the discourse, and pondering their own stances. Then, to the surprise of the others, Chase entered the dialogue and was the first to take a softer line.

  “It would be our job to make sure it doesn’t happen by providing unbiased, logical solutions. We aren’t charged with producing a miracle, but only a course that will right the ship.”

  All eyes shifted in his direction, each wondering if they had incorrectly concluded that he would have been the hard sell.

  “Hey my friend, are you sure? We’re all aware of how you’ve suffered. If this takes a bad turn, you could have the most to lose,” Hank cautioned, in a surprisingly avuncular tone.

  “I listened to Noble. And Paolo is correct. It’s a chance to redeem ourselves. For me—it may be my last opportunity. I never dreamed I’d ever have a chance to clear my name fully!”

  The others listened with admiration as Chase continued to make his pitch.

  “If we were to do this, then we’d have to work together to come up with concrete solutions to present to the president. We know each other’s strengths and weaknesses and have played off them successfully in the past. I’m confident we have the collective right stuff.”

  Paolo grinned, delighted with Chase’s demeanor. “I’ve never seen you in such an effusive role. May I add it’s to your credit? I like the new, new, all-new Chase.”

&nb
sp; Appreciating the comment, he softened his expression, and asked, “If we decide to move forward then we must first define the priorities and then fashion a strategy that will serve as a road map for POTUS, with both short-term and long-term strategies.”

  “Wait a minute—before we commit,” Seymour said, somewhat softened by Chase’s stance. “I suggest we first lay out a tentative plan to see if it’s even possible given the timeframe. We’ll need to challenge our premises before drafting a blueprint.”

  After a brief pause, they all agreed to prepare the agenda outlining their mission. But first they would review the interrelated issues they believed might be responsible for the failing job market and then determine the threat level of an impending market collapse. They would also take into account other areas that perhaps would require further scrutiny.

  Chase continued to elaborate, “There are statistics cited by various sources that show that the healthcare bill, in particular, has had a deleterious effect on the economy, especially on jobs. But we’ll need to dissect the numbers to determine their impact on the economy.”

  Hank stepped into the breach. “The verdict is still out on the healthcare bill!” he disputed. “It has just been a few years and more people enroll each day. There are no statistics that condemn the plan outright or lead to the conclusion it should be scrapped.”