“Awesome,” Enzo responded, just as the monitor beeped, signaling the sorting process had finished. He eyed with delight the flashing words displayed across the Hot Spot box.
12 Records Match
SAVIOR had identified twelve profiles of suspects who had committed terrorist crimes on U.S. soil who had connections to Anwar al-Awlaki.
“SAVIOR can save thousands of hours of work, but it can’t replace cognitive thinking. While SAVIOR is excellent at logical thinking, it can’t replace reasoning. So now we investigate the old-fashioned way, manually.” Noble, with his right hand, either dragged the displayed profiles to the left-to-center box into the Pending File or to the right-to-center box marked Interrogation File.
The profiles of three people whom Noble moved to the Interrogation File were U.S. Army Major Nidal Malik Hasan, who was responsible for the Fort Hood Massacre; Nigerian-born Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, known as the Christmas Day Bomber; and the Pakistani-American Faisal Shahzad, who left a bomb in a car near Times Square in New York City. Each corresponded to the dates he had entered previously.
“Brilliant, Noble, truly brilliant.” Enzo was in awe.
“Thanks.” Noble smiled in appreciation as he took a slight bow. “Tomorrow, it will be your turn at the keyboard. And, when you start to respond to the questions, remember, the first question is crucial, and sets the stage that will lead you to follow-up questions.” He reiterated, “SAVIOR will need to know who or what you are seeking, either a person or a profile.”
“So I’ll enter C for connection to a suspect and then enter the name Mohammed al-Fadl. I expect none other than Simon’s photo will appear in the center box on the bottom row, reserved for SAVIOR’s response,” Enzo stated knowingly, showing he had mastered his lesson.
“Remember, SAVIOR will also consolidate all the information the four agencies have amassed on him in their databases,” Noble reiterated.
Enzo was comfortable with the process and felt he had a good grasp, but felt it necessary to reaffirm. “I’ll need to enter all forensic evidence. For example, in the case of the French assassination attempt, I’ll assume I will have the opportunity to enter the type of bomb, the fingerprint on the fragment, and the information about the white truck?”
“Yes, and don’t forget the embassy staff and the other people who may have had the opportunity to place the bomb on the decoy limo. We can’t be a hundred percent sure that it was the person in the truck who detonated the bomb,” Noble reminded him.
“Can I also enter the caliber of the bullets aimed toward the chancellor and the partial fingerprint found on one of those bullets?” Enzo added astutely, “I know, I must check out the staff as well.”
“Yes. Then, of course, you’ll have similar information to input regarding London, including the caterers and the waiters, etcetera.” Noble continued, “Remember, I can’t emphasize enough, SAVIOR searches precisely, using a variety of processes based on how you respond to the first question and all of the subsequent questions. As you are aware, SAVIOR had been upgraded to search beyond vetting senators and congresspersons, and it has become an all-encompassing investigative tool. It has the capacity beyond anything seen in the past.”
“I’ll enter all the pertinent data and hopefully we can not only identify the perpetrators, but also link them to Simon,” Enzo affirmed.
“I have one more request.” Noble paused briefly, and then proceeded with caution. “When you enter the names of the staff and other suspects who may have come in contact with the heads of government in question—even remotely—use SAVIOR to vet those people in line of succession. I would even suggest going down two levels.”
Enzo, taken aback by the implications, blurted out, “So you think someone higher up in the chain of command is responsible? I thought Simon was our prime suspect, or at least the one orchestrating the assassination attempts. Isn’t that our operating premise?”
Noble prepared himself to stick his neck out—but only a little. He assumed Hamilton had not divulged all aspects of the Simon case, so he chose his words carefully. “When you and Hamilton were chasing down Simon in Florence all those years ago, it was not just to recover stolen funds.” Noble determined it was time to inform him of a fact known only to a few. It would be essential to concluding the case. “Enzo, what I am about to disclose is strictly confidential, and should be used only as part of your probing the motives behind the bombings.” It was obvious he had Enzo’s full attention. He took a deep breath and said, “Simon was also the one ultimately responsible for placing Abner Baari in the White House.”
Enzo was dumbfounded. “You think Simon is actually planning to replace a head of government with someone of his own choosing? That these were dry runs and he already has someone ready and waiting in the wings? Is that his plan? Is that what you think is his motive?”
Noble took a deep breath and rejoined, matter-of-factly, “Yes to all questions. For now, you work on who, and I’ll work on why.” It was clear Noble had concluded his primer for the day.
Enzo, still aghast, took his cue. “I understand. Let’s call it a night. We are going to have a long day tomorrow.”
That night, Noble accepted Enzo’s invitation to dinner, but with one caveat—they wouldn’t speak about the case.
Enzo agreed.
Over their dinner conversation, though, it did predictably lead to Hamilton.
Noble opened the conversation. “I’m glad you and Hamilton became good friends.”
Enzo reminisced sadly. “As I mentioned, we spent a lot of time together whenever I’d visit my family. Moreover, I continued to learn about intelligence gathering from Hamilton, right up until his death. He was an amazing man.”
“Yes, he was. Do you remember anything about his life when he made Florence his home?”
“You mean before he moved into his villa on Viale della Torre del Gallo?”
“Yes, starting when he first arrived.”
“Back then, he lived in a small, but charming, apartment in the Piazza Santo Spirito. Did you know he had a passion for art?”
“Yes, I saw his incredible collection when I visited his villa.”
“No, I mean before he arrived in Florence.”
Noble was shocked. Hamilton was like a father to him, but he never inquired about his art collection. Partially, because their conversations always seemed to be heavily entwined in a case, or, perhaps, it was simply out of respect for Hamilton’s extreme privacy. Noble’s apparent upset, however, was borne out by the fact that he had misconstrued Hamilton’s ability to amass such a collection in Florence. He was clearly shaken by the revelation.
Enzo noticed. “Are you okay? You seem surprised.”
“I just realized I never really knew Hamilton as well as I’d wished. To me, he was my mentor, my leader, whom I always placed on a pedestal. How sad that our personal relationship never developed fully, especially with the affection we had for each other.”
Noble bowed his head and took a moment to compose himself. The realization that most of their relationship encompassed work struck him. While many dinners had taken place in his home, or his sister’s home, most dinners of sorts took place in the office while discussing a case. It wasn’t until Hamilton retired and moved to Florence that their conversations took on a more personal note. And still, they were long distance conversations and lost some of the intimacy of personal contact.
Having fully regained his poise, he looked directly at Enzo and introduced a rather lingering question. “How could he afford to amass such a collection over the years?”
Enzo, not finding the inquiry invasive, and happy to see Noble in his former state, answered, “He was incredibly lucky. Actually, I was fortunate to be with him when he ventured over to the Piazza dei Ciompi after he first settled in Florence. The piazza is primarily a market that sells antiques and paintings, and it was where Hamilton fell in love with a particular painting. It was quite a large canvas painted with several figures entering into what
looked like Hell. He was captivated. I recall he paid two hundred and fifty euros for it. He was so proud of his purchase.
“Evidently, he started out small,” Noble quipped. “I do recall him relating enthusiastically that he uncovered a painting in some flea market.”
“Wait! There’s more. Hamilton, always the investigator, was convinced he had discovered a real gem. Therefore, he started to do some research and learned he owned a fifteenth century masterpiece painted by a Venetian named Andrea Mantegna. Incredible, no?” Enzo continued to explain that Mantegna, known for his stony sculpture-like figures and metallic backgrounds, was what enthralled Hamilton the most. “Enough of my own art history. Are you ready for this? He sold the painting at a Sotheby’s auction for close to twenty-nine million dollars. Nice profit, eh!”
Noble, at a loss for words, stated blandly, “So, that was it.” He vaguely recalled, that in a later conversation, Hamilton mentioned he had scored an art coup, but provided no details, knowing art was not Noble’s forte. Somewhat uncomfortable, he offered, “I guess Hamilton had a real eye for art.”
“Not just an eye, a quest. Actually, it became an obsession. He continued to buy and sell until he amassed not only an impressive collection, but also made a bloody fortune in the process. That was how he was able to buy the villa and live a pleasant life to the end.”
Noble felt he was on an emotional rollercoaster. Discernibly upset, he sat back as his face turned somewhat ashen.
“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be pleased to hear how Hamilton thrived.”
“I’m sorry. I’m ashamed, and at the same time relieved.”
“Excuse me, but you’re not making any sense,” Enzo indicated in a worried tone.
“When I visited Hamilton in Florence, I saw how well he was living. I’m embarrassed to say, out of ignorance, I asked him a rather impertinent question—how was he able to provide for himself so lavishly.
“And what did he say in response?”
“Hamilton, as usual, answered a question with a question. So, when he inquired as to whether the U.S. Treasury was ever able to determine the total amount Simon had stolen before we managed to retrieve the funds, I was unresponsive.” Noble paused and then spoke more slowly. “I knew he didn’t expect me to answer his question, but by the look on his face and the angle of his mouth, I incorrectly assumed he had shared in the illicit pie. I agonized over it for years, but could not come up with a rational explanation.”
“But, now you know he didn’t. That should make you happy.” Enzo tried to offer some solace.
“I’m mortified. Now I know his facial expression meant to convey, if you don’t trust me, go back and count the money. Worse yet, I’ll never be able to apologize.”
Before Enzo could respond, Noble’s smartphone vibrated on the table. Thankful for the interruption, he apologized, “I have to take this call. Excuse me.” He stepped away from the table and headed to the corner in the room away from Enzo and the other patrons.
“Max, what’s up?” Noble bellowed, still fixated on his emotional conversation with Enzo.
“Agent Darrow was murdered.”
“Oh my God, what happened?” Putting Hamilton out of his mind, he gingerly refocused.
“Darrow was discovered in his vehicle parked off the side of the road, thirty-five miles east of the Brush and Weis highway junction, on the Jericho Callao Road. He was shot one time through the head.”
“Irrefutably murder—perhaps a warning shot—literally for the rest of us.” Noble cautioned. “What was he doing out there?”
“I don’t know. But last night, during the air search, the pilot of the Apache helicopter picked up something strange on the screen from the infrared detectors. Four figures were pictured moving rapidly toward the Bell Hill Mine, and then they disappeared.”
“Do the other federal agents think it was the cyclists?”
“They weren’t sure. But this morning, Darrow personally went to the mine to check it out. At ten o’clock, he called in his location and reported something about an unknown tunnel leading away from the mine.”
“Another tunnel?”
Max, anxious to update him on the rest of the pertinent activities, picked up her pace. “After walking approximately a mile into the mineshaft tunnel, Darrow said he entered a new modern tunnel that headed east. He followed the tunnel for miles and, finally, at the end of the tunnel, he found a standard 25-ton steel blast door. To the right of the door was a security fingerprint access pad.”
“What?” Noble gasped. He could hear Max sigh from the other end of the line. “Continue.”
This time, with measured speech, Max explained, “According to Darrow’s report, everything about the tunnel and the door had military issue written all over them. He indicated he was going to head to Dugway and check out his findings with the base commander.”
“What did he find out?” Noble waited edgily for the conclusion.
“Nothing,” Max stated with dismay. “He never made it to Dugway. The Army conducted an aerial search this afternoon. That’s when they discovered his body.”
“If he was on his way to Dugway, how did he end up on the Jericho-Callao Road?”
“It doesn’t make sense. The fastest way would have been to take the Simpson Springs-Callao Road on the Pony Express Route.”
“What about the tunnel?”
“I spoke directly with the base commander, a Colonel Evans. He has no knowledge of the tunnel outside the Dugway base.”
“If it’s not part of the military complex, where does the tunnel lead?” Noble pondered, dreading an unsatisfactory conclusion.
For several seconds, silence prevailed.
“I’ll leave on the next flight.” Noble sounded drained. “I believe there is a 7:25 a.m. that will get me into Washington around 1:00 p.m. In the meantime, who stepped in for Darrow?”
“The Colonel said his name is Agent Burke.”
“Have him post his agents at the three mine sites where we suspect foul play. I want them there around the clock. Also, in the morning, have the Colonel send in a few troops with Burke to check out the tunnel at the Bell Hill Mine, then check out the mineshafts at Joy and Silver City. Warn them to use extreme caution. I want a report when I arrive,” he requested, asserting his authority.
“Noble, it’s freezing out there.”
“Get them a tent!” he yelled. “I want you also to make arrangements to fly to the site the day after tomorrow. You will be heading up this investigation until I arrive. If the killers are out there, I don’t want them escaping,” he demanded, and then, in a remarkably calmer tone, he added, “I have a few things to take care of first.”
Max recoiled as Noble passed on to her a potentially career-ending responsibility, but quickly refocused on his agitation. He seemed more impatient than usual. “How’s the case going there?” she asked, in an attempt to distract him from the Dead Zone.
“We’ll talk when I return.”
“Boss, what’s happening?”
“Max, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She conceded. “I’ll send a car to pick you up at the airport. Until then, have a safe trip.”
Noble walked back toward the table. Enzo, seeing him approach, sensed he was more distracted than he was before he took the call, but assumed it was nothing related to Hamilton. Unmistakably, their very personal conversation was preempted by another devastating event.
“I have to return to Washington immediately. I’ll need to leave on the first flight in the morning. Can you work your way through SAVIOR on your own?” Noble tried to appear composed.
“Is everything all right?”
“A federal agent was killed while working on an investigation headed up by my agency. It may also have led us to our first lead on the missing persons cases.” Noble spoke with surprising poise as he added, “Please keep me up-to-date with any links you trace back to the lists of suspects SAVIOR provides and, of course, any news on Simon. I’m almost certai
n he’s the mastermind behind the bombings. Confirm that, and I’ll continue to work on the motive.”
Enzo flagged down the waiter and insisted they call it a night. “You’ll need to be up early to catch your flight.”
11
A DOUBLE SHOCK
Although it was an exciting and productive day, Noble returned to his hotel exhausted. Unfortunately, when he opened the door to his room, the predictable ominous red light was flashing on the phone. It was hard to ignore. He assumed Max was trying to call him at the hotel. For the moment, he would disregard the message. First, he needed to make another call.
“Aldo, this is Noble Bishop, Director Scott’s friend.”
“Yes, of course, Noble. How are you?” sounded the eloquent voice with a marked Italian accent. Aldo Tancredi was initially the valet and then became the dedicated caretaker of Director Hamilton Scott. He was also the executor of Hamilton’s estate.
“I’m very well, thank you. I hope I’m not calling too late, but I have a rather personal question to pose.” Noble hesitated with some trepidation. “I am in France working with Enzo Borgini on a case.”
“How is dear Enzo?” Aldo interrupted. “I’ve missed his visits since the death of the direttore.” Inadvertently, he had redirected the conversation.
Noble obliged.
“He’s fine. Actually, this is my first acquaintance with him. But I discovered that he’d been a close friend to the director over the years.”
“Yes, he and the direttore spent time together whenever he visited Florence. Did you know they shared a passion for renaissance art?”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m calling,” Noble confessed. Abruptly, his mood changed as he recalled his conversation with Enzo. “I recently learned about the director’s obsession, something I had not known before.”
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