While Noble spoke harshly, he was also hiding the feelings of compassion he felt toward those in the room, the men for whom he had ample affection and respect. However, in a split second of reflection, he had a flashback of his parents, an occurrence he couldn’t explain. Nevertheless, it prompted him to join in the betrayal they felt from Simon, who at one time, he had also considered a special friend.
Having no other recourse, the gang of four agreed to comply with all the conditions. Each assured Noble what he wanted most was to restore his life, and to be free of Simon at any cost.
“You are free to leave. I’ll be in touch.”
—
As the director sat in the Oval Office across the desk from the president, he thanked him for his time. Then he offered, “Mr. President, if there are any recording devices turned on, may I suggest you turn them off during this meeting.”
The president looked at the director inquisitively and then said, “There are none.”
I know it isn’t true, but I gave him the opportunity, he mused.
The director informed him how he had uncovered a plot orchestrated by a well-known terrorist, Mohammed al-Fadl, who also used the assumed name Simon Hall. He purposely didn’t attempt to make the connection between Simon and the Treasury secretary, who he assumed was another unsuspecting pawn.
“This terrorist infiltrated TSAR and siphoned over five hundred billion dollars, specifically from an account authorized by you to house appropriations to be allocated to special projects.”
The president looked directly at the director with total indifference, or so it seemed. In the past, the president proved adept at masking his emotions.
The director assured the president he had pulled all stops to locate the TSAR funds. He cautioned this was only the first step to uncover an array of bank accounts, dummy corporations, phony foundations, and other entities, to house such incredible sums of money.
“We also uncovered several hawalas where we believe some of the money had been laundered and then transferred into several bank accounts overseas. I’m sure you are familiar with hawalas, rumored to be widely used by terrorist organizations,” he said, in an attempt to get a rise out of the president. He added, “They are also referred to as hundi.”
“Of course!” the president snapped.
Staying on script, the director explained he had received information that led him to a home in Menlo Park, California, where Simon Hall had resided. When the agents arrived, the home was empty, although they did find a lone overlooked credit card receipt. This document led them to a bank account, which revealed a wire transfer and deposit to a bank in Florence, Italy.
“In the meantime, I placed Mohammed al-Fadl and Simon Hall on the Terrorist Watch List.” Guarding his words closely, he continued. “In the last hour, I received a text message from an airline agent reporting a man fitting the description, using the name Simon Hall. He booked a one-way ticket to Florence, Italy, leaving tomorrow.”
Obviously, the director did not reveal the entire conspiracy and rearranged the sequence of events. Now there was enough plausibility for the president to send him to Florence to stop the unraveling before there was a complete exposé.
“I instructed the Italian authorities to freeze the bank account, but the bureaucracy is a nightmare, which is why I am requesting that you send me to Florence to hasten the process,” he said, dodging further revelations. “I believe it is essential I oversee any attempt to capture Mohammed al-Fadl and recover the funds,” he appealed. “Of course, I will have to work closely with Interpol.”
The director paused for a moment to provide an opportunity for the president to respond, but none was forthcoming.
“Mr. President, how ironic, this case should take me back to Florence, a place where I believe the entire plot has its roots. I am sure you are aware that earlier in my career, I worked for the DSS,” he affirmed. “What you may not know is while I was posted in Rome, I was also assigned to a case in Florence.”
The director proceeded to tell the president about the stabbing and brutal murder of an American tourist. “At the end of the trial, the jury acquitted an African street vendor of the crime,” he explained, “a crime that has remained unsolved.”
He watched the president’s face carefully as he continued.
“It took place in 1995,” he enunciated clearly. “At the trial, a young Libyan, a witness for the defense, provided a cogent alibi for the defendant. It was his powerful testimony that convinced the jury to acquit.”
As the president continued to maintain his renowned detached stare, the director persisted.
“The Libyan’s name is Hussein Tarishi, and I have irrefutable evidence you are that person.”
Even at the mention of the name, the president’s expression changed ever so slightly, “Why should I believe you?”
“Mr. President, I know your family was killed in a bombing in 1986, and you survived.”
Then Hamilton unfolded a litany of facts that proved he had all the damaging information in his hands.
“Where are you going with this?”
The director’s muscles tensed, but his face mirrored the same lack of emotion, as he laid out his case.
“The country isn’t ready for another crisis, and for the sake of its citizens, I will not disclose the deception, or the missing funds, at this time.” Hamilton leaned forward, looked the president in the eye, and said coldly, “You may remain in office and govern as you see fit without my interference, under certain conditions. In the meantime, you will have the full support of my agency at your disposal, to help protect your identity. However, the time will arrive when I will inform the American people, but I don’t know when that day will come.”
The director’s muscles began to ease as he moved into the catbird seat. He took the opportunity to suggest the president would be wise to slow down the spending and unwind some of the elements in his social agenda. “Your downfall is more likely to come from the electorate than from me,” he reasoned.
The president continued to appear disinterested in his homily, but the director was positive he understood the gravity of the situation.
“I am submitting my resignation to be effective the end of this month, and I request you appoint my assistant Noble Bishop as interim director while I am in Florence. Once I capture Mohammed al-Fadl and recover the funds, I will not be returning to the U.S.,” he informed the president. The director then requested he ensure Noble receive a smooth confirmation as the new director of the SIA.
Saving the best for last, he said, “There is a flash drive containing all the evidence to prove how an illegal immigrant became the president of the United States. The flash drive is in safekeeping with a third party, who is not privy to the information, but should anything suspicious happen to me or Noble, the third party has instructions to send the evidence to the media. Mr. President, out of respect for the presidency, and if it is still in my control, I will give you sufficient warning as to when the information will be released.”
Still smarting at the mention of the media, the president shifted in his chair for the first time, and stated sharply, “I need to discuss this with my people. I will get back to you.”
“No, Mr. President, you are not to speak to anyone about this, including the First Lady!” the director spoke firmly. Toning down his rhetoric, he calmly stated, “I am willing to shoulder this heavy burden to protect my country and its citizens and I expect you’d want to do the same. Sit back and enjoy your presidency, Mr. President—and I will get back to you.”
The director had expected Baari to display his typical arrogance and narcissism. He knew he had ambitions to remain in office, and possibly for a second term. Moreover, he was confident Baari knew he had no other choice but to comply.
In his usual fashion, the president cocked his head, stared down at the director with his steely black eyes, and stated dispassionately, “I get it.”
Director Scott understood this was his
cue to leave.
And he did leave, for Florence, Italy.
PART TWO
26
THE DIRECTOR’S SWAN SONG
Hamilton had vivid memories of being in Florence, recalling the times when he wasn’t working on the investigation, or sitting in on the trial. His thoughts often drifted to those days when he would wander the streets aimlessly, enveloped by the city’s magnificence.
Every corner—every turn—offered a piece of history.
“It truly is a wonderful, beautiful, walking museum,” he would gush to his friends at home.
Always a history buff, he called to mind, Florence dates back to 59 BC, when Julius Caesar established the city as a settlement for his soldiers, a fact he still found amazing. He recollected the city was a direct route to Rome to the south, and along with the Arno River, it quickly spread out and became a thriving commercial center. Today, it’s best known for the flourishing art and cultural achievements spawned by the Renaissance, starting in the thirteenth century, and continuing until around 1600.
April is the time of year when the city air smells fresh and the Tuscan countryside radiates green, so when Hamilton disembarked from the plane in Florence and took his first breath of fresh air, the floodgate of memories opened. But he understood this trip was for a more crucial investigation than the one that brought him to Florence in the first instance.
—
An agent from Interpol, assigned to lead the investigation, met Hamilton at the airport.
“Benvenuto, welcome Director Scott, my name is Enzo Borgini.”
Egad! Another Italian investigator, thought Hamilton, and then shook his hand and responded, “Mio piacere. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Forgive me. My Italian is a little rusty.”
“So is my English.” Enzo smiled.
Enzo was of average height with a friendly face and a pleasing personality. Although he was young and new on the job, Hamilton sensed they would be compatible. Moreover, he was hopeful this lad would defer to his age, knowledge, and seniority. The fact that the Carabinieri and the Polizia di Stato had to report to Enzo made the relationship even more workable. Now feeling confident that he’d actually be running the show, he felt this time around justice would be swift and sure.
As Enzo drove Hamilton to his hotel, they discussed his plan for the stakeout at the Banca Nazionale. Enzo confirmed that everything was good to go, starting later that day. Florence continues the age-old version of the siesta, so the bank was closed for lunch and would not reopen until three; it was currently 11:45 a.m. Therefore, Enzo agreed to return to pick up Hamilton from his hotel in two hours, giving him time to shower and grab a bite to eat.
—
As they sat across the street from the bank, Hamilton asked Enzo to review the instructions he had given the bank manager.
“I told him that when a person approaches him with a bank card for account #Z829164, he is to release all the money in the account, placing it in the black satchel.”
“The satchel I gave you at the airport.”
“Yes, the same one. I then instructed the manager to call my cell phone and give me a description of the person making the withdrawal.”
“And now we wait.” Hamilton smiled.
The plan was not to apprehend, but to follow the money. While Hamilton hoped Simon would withdraw the cash, his intuition told him Simon probably would not enter the bank himself, but would send someone in his place. They needed the description, so they could follow their suspect when he left the bank.
They waited for days with no sign of Simon or his mule.
—
Stakeouts are tedious at best. However, Enzo devised a rather pleasant routine to break up the boredom. For the next few days, between the hours of one and three o’clock, they would wander a few blocks to the Mercato Centrale, the central market in the Piazza San Lorenzo. This was where Enzo introduced Hamilton to a gourmet’s delight, Perini’s Gastronomia, or delicatessen, inside the market.
“You like?” Enzo grinned.
“I’ve never seen a more wonderful display of prosciutto; there must be hundreds hanging from the ceilings and off the walls. And look at that marvelous display of cheeses, olives, and sauces. It’s a foodies’ paradise.”
“They spread their treats on rounds of bread known as crostini,” Enzo explained.
“Yes, I remember them well.”
“I’m sorry. I had forgotten you had lived in Florence before.”
“I don’t know how I missed this place; I had no idea it even existed. It’s amazing.”
“Wait until you taste their panini,” Enzo said, tempting Hamilton.
Standing behind the glass cases that displayed a sumptuous feast of goodies were four busy but good-natured souls, ready to sate their customers’ hunger in a very pleasurable way.
Hamilton ordered a panino with prosciutto, provolone, and sun-dried tomatoes. On his first bite, he agreed it was incredible. On the second day, he learned not to request the panini ingredients but to leave it up to the maestros behind the counter. By the third day, they were all old friends and on a first-name basis.
Two of the talented foursome were the owners, Andrea and Moreno, along with their adept associates, Simone and Flavio. Like so many Italians, the “Perini Foursome” treasured loyalty, and if a customer returned often, it would establish a warm relationship in no time.
It was also during these lunch breaks that Hamilton’s Italian started to regenerate, as he became more proficient while conversing with his new friends. They also turned the tedious stakeout into tutoring sessions, much to the delight of Enzo, who was proud of his language.
—
On the fourth day, they finally received the long-awaited call from the bank manager.
He described the carrier as a tall, slender woman in her late forties, attractive, with black hair pulled back in a bun. She was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a white shirt, with a red scarf loosely tied around her neck.
“She presented the bank card and explained that she couldn’t access her account online,” the bank manager reported to Enzo.
“Tell her you will allow her to withdraw the money in the account. Then place the cash in the black satchel as we agreed,” he directed the manager.
Hamilton and Enzo sat on the park bench across the street and waited for her to leave the bank.
“How much money has she withdrawn?” asked Enzo.
“One hundred thousand euros, all that remained in the account. I wanted her to walk away with something, hoping she would lead us to Simon.”
“You suspected all along he wouldn’t show?”
“He is too smart to take that kind of risk.”
Enzo provided the Carabinieri with her description and instructed them to follow on motorcycles at a safe distance. He stressed again that they were not to apprehend her. Hamilton and Enzo would follow on foot.
“I forgot to tell you; I placed a tracking device inside the zippered pocket of the satchel she is carrying. This GPS device will ensure we won’t lose her and—more important—Simon.”
“Do you know the streets of Florence well enough to operate that thing?” Enzo asked. Knowing the answer, Enzo graciously offered to manage the GPS device as they trailed behind her. Moments later, he pointed. “There she is, walking out of the bank now.”
The woman crossed the street and weaved in and out of buildings, through the Mercato Centrale, past the Duomo, and then entered the Piazza della Signoria, where she disappeared in the crowd.
Almost instantly, Enzo spotted the woman again standing among the crowd at the entrance to the Uffizi Gallery. She appeared to be holding something in her hand, which they assumed was an admissions ticket because the attendant allowed her to enter.
Minutes later, Enzo flashed something in his hand, but it wasn’t a ticket; it was a badge.
The attendant permitted access to both Enzo and Hamilton.
“There she is, up ahead,” whispered Hamilton.
“Wouldn’t that be an odd choice for her to meet Simon?”
“Yes, considering the Vasari Corridor is not that easily accessible. It is open to the public, only by appointment on specific days, within posted hours. You need to book in advance, and if the attendants manning the ticket desk at the gallery don’t have a sufficient number of people, they cancel,” explained Enzo.
“I read the only way out was at the other end, in the Boboli Gardens behind the gates of the Pitti Palace,” assumed Hamilton, looking for confirmation.
Enzo, on the same wavelength, immediately called the Carabinieri who had followed them on motorcycles. He instructed them to stand guard outside the Corridor exit in the Gardens, with orders to apprehend the woman if she left the Corridor without the satchel. Otherwise, they should permit her to leave and then the Carabinieri should continue to follow her.
They refocused on the woman standing in the hallway, apparently waiting for someone. At that time, there were only a few other people roaming about in that section of the gallery. Hamilton and Enzo maintained a safe distance, attempting to look like tourists.
“Do you know about the Vasari Corridor?” Enzo whispered. Then, answering his own question in an attempt to show off his knowledge, continued in a hushed voice. “It is a historic landmark. You know it is considered one of the most astounding architectural masterpieces of the Renaissance. Incredibly, it was built in 1565. Only the Grand Duke Cosimo Medici and his family, the de facto rulers of Florence, accessed the corridor.”
“Yes, I recall,” Hamilton interrupted in a quiet tone. “Cosimo Medici commissioned Giorgio Vasari, the brilliant architect of the time, to construct a covered passageway. It leads from the Uffizi, which was his place of work, across the Lungarno dei Archbusieri, continuing along the north bank of the Arno River. Then it crosses over the top of the Ponte Vecchio, and meanders across the peaks of houses. Finally, it ends at the Palazzo Pitti, the final home of the Medici family.”
Brotherhood Beyond the Yard (The Simon Trilogy) Page 23