Brotherhood Beyond the Yard (The Simon Trilogy)

by Sally Fernandez

  Even though Paolo had filled him in on the outlines of each thesis, and about how Simon’s suggestions became the basis for the “shadow” thesis, Noble decided first to skip to each title page to get the gist of their topics. His head was spinning and he needed to refresh his memory.

  The first one read, “Effects of Political Campaigning on the Web” by Seymour Lynx. Then “Political Speech: Creator or Interpreter of Ideology” by Paolo Salvatore. Next to follow was “Internet Activism: Campaigning for Social Justice” by Hank Kramer. After Hank’s was “U.S. Banking Deregulation: The Catalyst for a Housing Crisis” by Chase Worthington. Lastly was “Internet Security: Pandora’s Box of the New Millennium” by Noble Bishop.

  Noble did a double take, and in sheer disbelief, he reread the title and name of the author of the last thesis. There was no time to understand Simon’s sick joke. He knew that once he found his own thesis, with his name inscribed, the idea that he was a suspect—or even more remotely, that he was Simon Hall—would be laughable on its own merits. Now, there was something even more disturbing: the insignia placed under each of the author’s names.

  Noble spent the next several hours combing intently through the information that was on the microchip looking for the “shadow” thesis, trying to find a common thread, anything that would connect the dots of a plot that potentially could do more harm. There had to be a purpose, an even more diabolical reason for spending years, money, and the devotion of a few, just to have Baari elected.

  It didn’t make sense, not to Noble’s logical mind.

  He trusted Paolo had told him all he knew, but something was definitely missing.

  The puzzle was incomplete.

  —

  The next morning, Noble arrived at the director’s office in the West Wing. Seated in his office on the ground floor, only a stairway from the president, Noble briefed Hamilton on his conversation with Paolo and on the contents of the theses. Then he mentioned the insignia next to each author’s name and said he found that fact most troubling of all.

  The director had never mentioned the calling card from the hacker case he investigated in the early nineties, because he felt it had no significance. He only briefed him on the general details of the case that eventually led him to Hal Simmons.

  “Odd, this is the same insignia my hacker left after each crime!”

  Noble, as always, still looking for more clues, asked, “Would you review the details of that case with me again? Please don’t leave anything out.”

  At the time, Hamilton didn’t fully comprehend the importance of a case fifteen years old, or how it could possibly involve Simon Hall, but he felt Noble was onto something. He repeated the story about the computer hacker who had transferred eleven dollars from twenty banks on the eighth day of every month, and each month he would attack a different set of banks. He never understood why eleven dollars, an odd amount, or why on the eighth day. “I admit, at the time, my focus was more on tracing the movements of the elusive hacker than his motive.”

  As Hamilton continued to elaborate on the other details of the case, he noticed Noble, while appearing to listen, kept staring at the floor as he repeated, “eleven-twenty-eight,” several times under his breath. When he finally looked up, his expression conveying a eureka! moment.

  “I previously checked, and according to the calendar cycles in the years the transfers occurred, there were over one hundred days where the eighth day was on a Sunday, the day banks are closed.”

  Hamilton could see a shift in Noble’s mind-set as he went into overdrive.

  Noble’s brilliance came to the fore as he multi-processed at an astounding rate. He was still tossing it around in his mind. “Why did the transfer always have to be on the eighth day? The hacker had either predated or postdated the transfers to make them look like they happened on the eighth day,” he rightly concluded. Then downshifting, with a slower-paced voice, Noble simply stated, “There were always twenty banks at a time: twenty represents the twentieth century. And when you enter the number eight for the day on a computer, it is entered as zero-eight, and the eleven dollars represent the eleventh month. November 2008, the presidential election!” he erupted with gusto.

  The director was stunned.

  Then the ultimate jolt hit.

  “As you rightly recalled the hacker’s calling card, at the end of each bank balance, was the same symbol Simon Hall placed at the end of each thesis.”

  “You mean Simon Hall is Hal Simmons!” Hamilton roared in disbelief.

  “The location of the apartment, the study group, the bank where Chase Worthington was a bank manager, it all seems to fit together. Now, are you ready for an aftershock?”

  Hamilton, still in a state of wonderment, urged Noble to continue.

  “The symbol did not represent the Goddess Diana, as relayed by one of your analysts during the Hal Simmons investigation, but is the symbol for the Islamic faith.”

  The common symbol, the plot to elect the president, and the missing Simon paralyzed them momentarily, as the severity of the situation sank in.

  “I feel as though I just received a right jab to the solar plexus, compliments of Mohammed Ali in his heyday,” Hamilton said. “Are you implying that the money my hacker had stolen, so many years ago, contributed to the growing slush fund affectionately named Uncle Rob, and was used in preparation for the 2008 presidential election?”

  “In a word, yes!”

  Simon Hall had been plotting his master plan long before he arrived at Harvard. He had planned everything that occurred at Harvard, including his selection of students to become part of his choice study group, far in advance, through an ingenious computer selection process.

  Noble remembered with relief, “I was supposed to be part of La Fratellanza.”

  “There is still something amiss,” heeded Hamilton. “The puzzle is not complete.”

  Noble agreed.

  “We must interview all members of the La Fratellanza,” Hamilton insisted. “And we need to find Simon Hall.”

  They both agreed it was imperative to conduct the investigation covertly, including the interrogations.

  “We must keep the information top secret, especially from the president, until we have all the pieces of the puzzle,” Hamilton cautioned. With the thought of the president eerily in proximity, Hamilton shared a revelation of his own, one he had almost forgotten.

  “When I started working for the Foreign Service, I was posted to the U.S. Diplomatic Security Service in Rome.” He explained that his duties were to manage the security detail for the U.S. embassy, particularly for the ambassador, but while he was in Rome, he received an assignment to go to Florence to oversee the investigation of the murder of an American tourist. It was in 1995.

  “As I recall the victim was a fifty-eight-year-old man, from Asheville, North Carolina, who had been stabbed to death with a knife. It took place on Via Terme near the Mercato Nuovo, the new market. There was never any real evidence, other than the ten stab wounds and the missing wallet—no murder weapon—no witnesses to the attack.”

  Hamilton explained it was also a time the Carabinieri were at odds with the African street vendors, blaming them for an increase in crime. This happened to be one such crime, and in the end, it led to the arrest of a nineteen-year-old Senegalese.

  “What does that have to do with this case?”

  “I’m getting to that, and you’ll be quite surprised at the conclusion. What made this crime so interesting was the trial itself.” He continued to explain that there were no witnesses for the prosecution and virtually no forensic evidence, but there was one witness for the defense. “At this time, I don’t recall the name of the defendant, but the witness’s name was Hussein. He was a young Libyan, similar in age to the defendant. It was his testimony I found most fascinating, as did the jury.”

  Hamilton explained that Hussein described his role as the organizer of a group of African street vendors, teaching them Italian and English, how to hawk
the tourist, and how to work as a harmonious unit. He boasted their take was quite lucrative and, as a group, did not tolerate any crime. He vouched for the defendant and said he was with him at the time, so it was impossible for him to have killed the tourist.

  “The jury bought his persuasive argument, and they released the defendant. The prosecutor seemed quite relieved as well, having no countervailing evidence and additionally averting any further friction between the street vendors and the local government. I know I am rambling, but the point I want to make is that I believe I know the young Libyan. Even more disturbing, I was in Florence at the same time as Simon and Hussein.” Shaking his head he continued, “I’ve always harbored this feeling that I had met Baari in the past, but was never able to make the connection until now—now I believe Hussein is our President Baari.”

  While it was a shocking conclusion to the director’s story, there was no reaction from Noble. He had been listening, but multiprocessing as usual. He was also shuffling through the papers in his briefcase, until suddenly he pulled out a photo of a young man sitting on the low branch of a tree, and handed the photo to Hamilton. In the background was a small wooden frame ranch-style house with a front porch, surrounded by wheat fields.

  The lad on the tree limb was the president.

  “I do remember the photo was used in some of the political ads promoting his presumed small-town, Midwestern values,” Hamilton said, shaking his head in utter amazement.

  Then Noble explained that on closer inspection, he discovered someone had superimposed another photo of Baari sitting in the tree onto the backdrop. He patiently explained, “The tree was a baobab tree, which contains a highly nutritious fruit. It is a tree that is indigenous to Africa.”

  “Clearly, Baari must have supplied some old photos of himself as a child, which Seymour then was able to crop, cut, and paste,” concluded Hamilton.

  Noble then showed him a photo of the same house, but without the tree.

  “I combed through hundreds of film clips of houses, clips Seymour would also be able to access with his connections at MGM, until I came across the one I’ve just shown you. It is the photo of a house in Liberal, Kansas, which was the house used in the making of the 1939 MGM film The Wizard of Oz.”

  Noble smiled. “I guess we now know who is behind the curtain.”

  “We have to move fast!” shouted Hamilton, still shaking his head in disbelief.

  —

  Within hours, the director sent four agents to deliver a summons to each member of La Fratellanza, requesting he report to the director of the SIA for confidential questioning, along with a word of caution that it might require more than one day, so he should plan accordingly. Actually, it wasn’t an ordinary request, but a summons compelling their attendance.

  It was Monday, so Hamilton scheduled the appearance for Friday at 9:00 a.m., providing enough travel time. He gave orders to the agents not to leave their sides as they personally escorted them to Washington on Thursday. He then arranged to have three of them sequestered in different hotels overnight and transported to CIA’s headquarters the next morning.

  Paolo received his summons within the hour, followed by a call from Noble, ensuring him that his role would remain as a “confidential informant”; the others would not know the source of the additional information. He told him an agent would accompany him as well.

  22

  THE INTERROGATION

  Over the past several days, Hamilton and Noble reviewed all the evidence they had collected thus far. They needed to be fully prepared to conduct one of the most vital interrogations the agency had ever performed—it had to be perfect.

  It was Friday, a day they hoped all the pieces would fall into place.

  Hamilton’s office was in the West Wing of the White House, but he housed most of his departments in secure locations around Washington, for national security reasons. Often, when it was necessary to interrogate a suspect or an informant, he would use the facilities at the CIA in Langley, a fifteen-minute drive across the Potomac.

  This is where he decided to conduct the interrogations.

  Following September 11, the CIA fingerprinted all persons, after passing through the metal detector—La Fratellanza was no exception.

  Shortly after following the entry procedures, the agents escorted the members of this band of intellectuals to the reception area outside the interrogation room. The receptionist on duty observed that none of the members of this illustrious group seemed surprised to see each other, and they limited their conversations to small talk about their kids, family, and sports. They were correct in assuming she was a trained listener who would report what they had said, and she did.

  Three quarters of an hour later, the gang of four was ushered into the interrogation room.

  Director Hamilton Scott stood up from behind the desk in the corner and greeted the group of men, who were visibly tense. “Thank you for your patience. I’m sorry you had to wait,” he said apologetically. “We’ll get started momentarily.”

  He first introduced himself to Chase Worthington, with the traditional handshake, as he reached across the desk. He sent a nod of acknowledgment, with the hint of a smile, to the other three, with whom he was acquainted. Obviously, both Paolo and Hank were on familiar terms with the director, from having attended many briefings with him and the president. Naturally, he knew Paolo from the many dinners they shared at Noble’s home, unbeknownst to the others. He recognized Seymour because his office was located near the White House Photo Office, on the ground floor, across from the Secret Service, the legendary protectors of the president. Seymour was in and out of this office many times, as he worked on various assignments for President Baari.

  The director invited them to sit at the conference table in the center of the room, placing each of them in a particular seating order. Still standing at the desk in the corner, the director began to shuffle papers, appearing to look busy, but all the while watching them from the top rim of his glasses. He did glance directly at them, long enough to offer the coffee and pastries on the credenza at the back of the room.

  They declined—hunger was not on their minds.

  As the director continued to observe their expressions, they attempted to feign indifference. All the while, their eyes were fixated on the crude etching, in the center of the table, the carved initials LF.

  They were dumbfounded to see it was their special table from their Harvard days.

  Director Scott always believed that table held some significance; he referred to it as a “gut instinct.” Therefore, after the police had removed the yellow tape from the apartment in Cambridge, an apartment thought to be a crime scene, the director returned and bought the table from the landlord. It had remained in his conference room ever since that time, and for the past twelve years, the director considered that table a reminder of the missing Hal Simmons.

  The forensic team, in 1998, was able to uncover several partial fingerprints from the table. They ran them through IAFIS, the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System. The system, maintained by the FBI, contains fingerprint identification and criminal history for more than sixty million subjects. But there was never a match.

  That was then.

  Now, Noble was able to match those earlier prints against the fingerprints obtained from La Fratellanza that morning when they entered the complex. While they detained the group in the reception area, the director awaited the call from Noble. When the call came, he used the information to place each of them at the precise location around the table where they had sat before.

  It was a surreal moment, as the members of La Fratellanza were able to examine the initials signifying their brotherhood from the same vantage point they had so many times in the past.

  I admit, it serves no real purpose other than personal satisfaction, but for that moment, the look on their faces made it well worth it, the director mused.

  Six chairs fit comfortably around the table, and now he was abl
e to conclude exactly where Simon sat. The director walked over to the table and took Simon’s seat.

  On cue, Noble entered the room and walked to the empty chair. “I assume this one was meant for me?” he inquired with a touch of despair. Before he sat down, he reached behind and turned on the video camera aimed directly at this close-knit group sitting around the round table that held so many memories.

  The director chose to let their stunned silence take hold while gazing at them, with what Noble called his “death stare.” Then he proceeded to tell La Fratellanza the evidence he had already uncovered. He enlightened the group, informing them that Noble had discovered the real identity of the president, along with the details of the plot. He also uncovered their involvement in the hoax.

  “I don’t need you to tell me about Simon’s specific role. Nor do I need you to tell me about the plot itself, outlined in your theses—I obtained that information from the microchip,” the director divulged.

  The gang of four spontaneously checked their wrists; then the others glanced over to Paolo’s left wrist, and noticed that his Rolex was missing. Paolo also reacted, forgetting for a split second that he had given it to Noble.

  Noble was expressionless.

  A slight blunder on the director’s part, but now La Fratellanza understood the SIA had the table and the microchip, and the director had skillfully led them to assume that he had much more.

  Now he had their full attention.

  He went on to expound that he had been able to trace back to the inception of Simon’s plot, long before he arrived at Harvard, and he made it painfully clear that Simon deviously selected them and used them for his own personal gain. It was an official confirmation of what the group had long suspected to varying degrees.

  “We know Simon is missing, and believe the game has not ended as far as he is concerned,” Noble declared. “What is vital for us to understand is the exact role each of you played, as the game was converted to reality.”