by Phil Swann
“I promise, I won't even tell your father. But Ben, you need to understand, sometimes just because everybody is doing something they think is right, it might not be. If you think it's wrong, you need to trust yourself.”
“Even if everybody else says it’s okay?”
“Even if everybody says it’s okay but you know it's not, you need to have the courage to stand up and say ‘I'm not going to do that because I know it's wrong…or dangerous.’”
Ben didn't say anything.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. Now let's get to some scales.”
Ben turned around on the piano bench and faced the keyboard. His mother took a seat beside him and opened the Hanon book of scales. She couldn't see it, but as Ben's fingers moved up and down the keyboard, his mind was somewhere else. He knew what he had to do.
»»•««
“Mr. Hollister, sir, it was me who took your pop machine. I'm sorry.”
“You?”
“Yes, sir. I thought it would be funny. It wasn't, I'm very sorry.”
“Boy, you're about the size of my Aunt Margaret’s big toe. You expect me to believe you were able to steal that pop machine all by yourself?”
“It was me, sir.”
“Uh huh,” Hollister replied. “Just you all by your lonesome?”
“I'm stronger than I look, sir. Also, I used a wagon.”
“Oh, well, that explains it. I suppose you tilted it onto the wagon and pulled it away?”
“Yes, sir. That's exactly what I did.”
“And you brought it back on the wagon too and lifted it back in its spot?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because you're stronger than you look?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You gonna stick with that story, son?”
Ben paused a moment, wondering if it was a trick question. “Yes, sir.”
Red Hollister looked down at the boy. Ben was unable to hold the man's stare. “Okay, then. If that's the way you want it. I have some old tires out back ready to be hauled away. The truck comes tomorrow. You're going to throw all of them into the dumpster. After all, you're stronger than you look. After that, the floors in my three bays are due for a good scrubbing. The mop and bucket are in the corner. After that, well, we'll see.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, what are you standing around for? Get movin’.”
Chapter Five
“I met D.J., I mean Mr. Jackson, about ten years ago.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“He was writing about the music business—piracy, illegal downloads, stuff like that.”
“And you became friends?”
“Yes, we became friends. He was just a normal guy. I can't believe I just said that.”
“When did Mr. Jackson ask you to get him a meeting with the president?”
“Last night, at the party.”
“Was he in the habit of asking for favors?”
“No. This was the first time he ever asked me for anything. But I owed him.”
“Go on.”
“A few years ago there was a party. There were lots of people there, powerful people. It was crazy…alcohol, drugs, sex. Some of the girls turned out to be underage. One of them OD’ed. She was sixteen. The shit hit the fan. Everyone was brought in for questioning. It was all over the news. People lost their jobs, or their deals, a few even went to jail. It was a mess. I was at the party, but D.J. had friends and was able to keep my name out of it. I wasn't even questioned.”
“So Jackson threatened to expose you if you didn't get him a meeting?”
“No, it wasn't like that. D.J. never would have threatened me. Jesus, this doesn't make any sense. He wouldn't hurt anybody.”
“Relax, Mr. Lambros. Would you like some water?”
“The man I've known for ten years would never have done this. I don't understand.”
“Let's talk about something else. You and the president didn't get along, did you?”
“For God’s sake, he was my brother. I loved him, and now he’s dead. I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”
“I am asking that, Mr. Lambros, and I’ll ask you again. You and the president didn’t get along, did you?”
“It was…just a brother thing.”
“A brother thing?”
“We were different, that's all. Stupid family stuff.”
“Go on.”
“Tom was like our father, stubborn, serious, gung-ho, my-way-or-the-highway.”
“Would Tom say that was true?”
“Of course not. Tom is always…was always…”
“Go on.”
“I wish you'd stop saying that. It's irritating the shit out of me.”
“Continue.”
“We were brothers. We were different. I didn't hate him, I just sometimes didn't like him. Jesus, this can't be happening.”
“It's happening, Mr. Lambros. Tell me about your mother.”
“Why?”
“Just tell me about her.”
“She was my mother, I don't know what else you want me to say.”
“Were you two close?”
“What the hell do you think?”
“Calm down.”
“Yes, we were close. She was artistic, creative, gentle…she was a musician.”
“Professional?”
“No. But she could've been. She also didn't care about politics, which drove Dad crazy. He could never understand why she wasn't more incensed about the erosion of civilization. I could never understand how he could stay so incensed about everything. I don’t know how they stayed married. They were so different. She died a few years ago.”
“Before today, when was the last time you spoke to your brother?”
“Election night. I called him.”
“What did you talk about?”
“We didn't. I was drunk. I just said, 'Congratulations, I didn't vote for you.' I wish I…yeah, that was the last time I talked to him before today.”
“Who set up the meeting with the president for you and Mr. Jackson?”
“Steve Donnellson.”
“You know Mr. Donnellson?”
“Yeah, since we were kids.”
“So, Mr. Donnellson was happy to set up the meeting?”
“No, he wasn't. I'm not one of Stevie's favorite people. I'm sure he felt like he had to because Tom would have been pissed if he hadn't.”
“Because you're the president's brother?”
“Yeah.”
“I want to talk about yesterday. You played golf in the morning, then you went to the party in the evening. That's when Mr. Jackson made his request. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“When did you call Mr. Donnellson?”
“After the party.”
“And you were able to get through?”
“I have Stevie's cell phone number.”
“After you talked to Mr. Donnellson, what did you do?”
“I think I called my girlfriend.”
“You don't remember?”
“I was pretty drunk.”
“Your girlfriend, that would be Ms. Mapplethorpe?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I don't remember. I think I was pretending to be pissed she was still out.”
“But you weren't really pissed?”
“I couldn't have cared less.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Then I must have passed out, I guess.”
“When did you call Jackson to tell him you had secured the meeting with the president?”
“Oh, yeah, I called him before calling Marci.”
“You can't hold anything back, Mr. Lambros. When I ask what you did, I want to know everything you did, when you did it.”
“I'm not holding anything back, I just forgot, okay? Stop trying to fuck with me. I called D.J. before calling Marci, okay?”
“Before you passed out?”
“After…no wait…yes…it was before I called Marci. I called him right after I got off the phone with Stevie.”
“You're sure.”
“I hung up with Stevie and called D.J. to tell him it was done. That's what happened.”
The man stood and put on the dark suit jacket that had been draped over a small wooden chair across the table from Ben. He methodically placed papers into a thick manila file folder.
“Can I leave now?” Ben asked.
“Mr. Lambros,” the man said, tightening his necktie, “let me remind you, you have a right to legal counsel.”
“I told you, I don't need a lawyer.” Ben paused. “Do I need a lawyer?”
The man put both hands on the table, bent over, and looked Ben in the eye. “The president of the United States was assassinated today. You put the assassin in the room. By your own admission, you didn't like your brother. And, if all that weren't enough, Mr. Jackson had potentially damaging information about you. No, Mr. Lambros, you most certainly cannot leave. I suspect you will not be leaving for quite some time.” The agent picked up the folder, opened the door, and walked out of the room.
Ben closed his eyes. What was going on? None of it made sense. He looked at the clock on the white concrete wall. He'd been in this same small room for over nine hours. His shirt was still stained with blood. This can’t be happening. Tommy, you can’t be dead. Christ, what have I done? D.J., why?
The door reopened and a different man entered. He too wore a dark suit and carried a file folder. He sat in the chair across from Ben, opened the folder, and pulled out several pieces of paper. He said nothing as he prepared the table. Finally, he looked up. He did not smile. He did not say hello. “Mr. Lambros, my name is Agent Brian. I need to ask you a few questions. How and when did you first meet Dwayne Jackson?”
Ben released a breath. “I met Mr. Jackson about ten years ago. He was writing a piece about the music business.”
»»•««
The command center was setup in the basement of the Nashville Police Department just below the room where Ben was being questioned. A team of two dozen men and women from every sphere of law enforcement dissected the interrogation via a large flat screen television hanging on the wall. Ben’s every word, every mannerism, every tilt of the head, and every blink of the eye was copiously noted.
FBI Special Agent Grey Pryce entered the room and tossed the file folder on a desk. In his early fifties, Pryce was tall and embodied a manner that argued with his physique. While his body was lean, strong, and spoke of someone who could handle himself against men half his age, his eyes showed the mileage of a veteran field agent and profiler. There wasn't much Grey Pryce hadn't seen in his many years with the Bureau, and every wrinkle in his chiseled face seemed to reflect as much. But even after decades of seeing humanity at its worst, this was different. This was the case no agent ever wanted to catch. A president had been assassinated, and now it was his job to find out why, how, and by whom?
“Nice work,” an older man in a dark brown suit said.
“Thanks,” Pryce replied, stretching his arms above his head.
“What do you think?”
“I think Ben Lambros can be a real prick when he wants to be.”
“But?”
“I don't know yet. We tossed his house, nothing. A back trace on his cell activity confirms all his calls pinged off the same cell tower three miles from his house at the time he said he made the calls. Also, everyone we've interviewed said in essence the same thing: Ben Lambros is a pain in the ass but otherwise harmless.”
Assistant Director Bob Greenfield looked up at the screen. “And Jackson?”
“Thus far, nothing. No affiliation with extremist groups, nothing in his Internet history or financial history that points to anything suspicious. We’ve been to his church, talked to his friends, colleagues. By all accounts this was completely unforeseen. Like he just snapped.”
“A lone wolf?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Greenfield said back to Pryce.
“Jackson not only doesn't fit any profile for a lone wolf, but it doesn't add up.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one thing, he was a very social guy who everyone reports as being outgoing and very well liked. Also, we checked with Jackson's editor at the Herald. He confirms the story Lambros told us—his ass was on the line because he fabricated a source for a story. And, he did tell his editor he could get a one-on-one with the president.”
“So?”
“Why was he worried about losing his job if he was planning to kill the president? He had to know he wouldn't survive. Also, how did he know for sure he would actually get a one-on-one with the man? He couldn't be sure Ben Lambros could get him a meeting with his brother. Where was the plan? Killing a president is not a crime of opportunity. Booth, Oswald, even Hinckley, all painstakingly planned their attacks for months, in some cases years in advance. Jackson didn't know until late last night he was even going to meet the man. So, we're to believe that between last night and this afternoon Jackson decided he was going to assassinate the leader of the free world? Which required rigging a digital recorder with a lethal weapon. It was a SwissMini revolver, by the way, and we have no idea how he got it, they’re illegal in this country. No, Bob, too many things don’t add up. There's something we're not seeing.”
“Now you’re talking conspiracy. So, you do suspect a terrorist plot?”
“I don't know what I suspect. But it sure smells like something else is going on.”
Chapter Six
The ancient man stood on the balcony of his penthouse sipping cognac and looking out over the city. The early evening sky was a dull smoky gray. From town's edge to town's edge, all that could be seen was industry: steel factories, cement factories, munitions factories, oil refineries, and shipyards. If it was built, blasted, refined, smelted, shipped, mixed, or manufactured in Greece, it was probably done so here, in this town, this once sacred town. It was all just too much. Who needs all these things? What was the point? Why so much excess? The irony of his questions elicited a smirk from the corners of his tiny wrinkled mouth. For few, the man surmised, had benefited more from people's excesses than himself. The Financial Times had recently named him the seventh richest person in the world. Could that be true? No, they were always wrong, he remembered. They only calculate known holdings and investments. Oh, if only they knew.
He sipped the last of the cognac and then turned to go inside. Though his tired body ached and every step was a labor, tonight, for the first time in years, he embraced an overwhelming feeling of hope, as if he could finally see the point to everything, the reason for his entire life. He had purpose again, and it felt good. My God, he thought as he slowly shuffled across the floor, if only I could feel this way every day.
When he reached the enormous mahogany desk in the center of the room, he fell into a high-backed leather chair. He shivered and buttoned his navy blue cardigan to his neck. The unseasonably warm climate his city was famous for was nowhere to be seen tonight. Instead, it was uncommonly brisk. Maybe it was a sign? Or perhaps even a blessing? Yes, it’s a blessing. For tonight he needed to be sharp and showing no signs of his advancing years. He must convey the magnificence of what he had done. They must understand its beautiful scope and brilliance.
If he was to do nothing else in his life, he had done this. And because of this one great thing, his legacy was written, his power beyond question, his omnipotence singular. He must make them see that from tonight on nothing would be the same. And it was all because of him.
He picked up a small ceramic vase from the desk and held it close to his eyes. He began softly humming a melody as he turned the delicate piece in his small boney hand. The melody was strange, atonal, and without discernable structure.
“Archon,” a man said, appearing in the doorway carrying a silver tea service.
“Yes, Timon, are my guests
arriving?”
“Of course, my archon.”
“How—”
“Mostly by yacht, some by private jet, a few by car.”
“No, you imbecile,” he spat, setting down the vase. “How many have come?”
“Not as many as before, but still a respectable amount,” the servant answered.
The old man sat back and nodded. “Good. Let me know when they're ready.”
“Of course, archon. In the meanwhile, would my lord care for a cup of tea?”
“Yes, Timon, make yourself useful, serve me tea.”
The silver-haired valet named Timon was only slightly younger than his master, but his stride was decades sharper. Graceful and deliberate, the elderly Greek wore a black morning suit replete with white gloves. His unflappable manner remained elegant and stubbornly proper as he approached his master and set the tea service on the desk.
“Tonight is an exquisite night, Timon.”
“Indeed, my lord,” Timon replied, pouring the hot tea into a small porcelain cup.
“Tonight they shall revel in my glory, Timon.”
“Yes, my lord,” he replied, placing the cup on a matching saucer.
“It's not like it used to be, Timon.”
“No, archon,” Timon said, handing the old man the cup and saucer.
“But someday soon it will be,” the old man added, cradling the cup and saucer in his small trembling hands. “And when that happens, it will be because of me. Do you understand that completely, Timon?”
“Yes, archon.”
The old man sipped the beverage, made a sour face, and leaned back in his chair. “They will hear the song again, Timon. They will hear it from me. Then, they will heed my words. They chose super nationalism, humanism, technology, and phrases like ‘a new world order.’ Look at the world they’ve built. Do you see any order, Timon? No. There is none. Their commissions and associations are nothing but cabals; institutionalized plutocracies benefiting no one. And they have the nerve to call us pigs! But I’ll remedy that, Timon. They will hear the song, and then they will learn what true super nationalism really means.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The old man continued, “They didn’t have the ears for the song those many years ago. But they do now. I will save them. I will save the world. It is my destiny. It is my birthright.”