“The director would have liked that.”
At the mention of the director, Noble tried to resist the thought, unsuccessfully, of Hamilton and Simon in the Vasari Corridor, the famous structure above the goldsmith shops, on the east side of the pedestrian walk on the Ponte Vecchio. They apparently had been standing only several feet apart from each other. Hamilton had come within a hair of capturing a world terrorist, once considered Noble’s friend.
They entered the busy, narrow streets of Florence, and spent the next hour winding in and out of those pathways in the historic center of town.
“Many times the director would describe the city to me as ‘a walking museum.’ It truly is as we pass the statues, tabernacles, palaces, and palazzos, which appear in abundance.”
“Yes, he was correct,” Aldo said, then added with regret, “I’m sorry, but at this point, I must leave you and return to the villa to manage a few affairs. Will you be comfortable roaming on your own?”
“Yes, and thank you. I appreciate your time and the tour. I’m sure I can find my way back easily.”
Aldo headed up the hill to La Piazzola degli Uganelli and Noble wandered toward the Duomo.
Only a short time had passed when Noble, feeling a lull coming on, headed toward a café for one of those energy-producing espressos. However, as he passed the beautiful church, Orsanmichele, he noticed the small street Via Tavolini. He remembered that earlier, Aldo had recommended a restaurant at the end of the street in the small piazza, a favorite of Hamilton’s. So, Noble decided to look for the Ristorante Birreria Centrale, in the Piazza Cimatori. Within a five-minute walk, he stumbled into the small restaurant, described by some as an old Tyrolean tavern. Evidently, its Austrian neighbor influenced the cuisine of the northern region of Italy.
A tall, balding man with a very gentle face and with smiling eyes greeted him at the entrance.
Noble asked for a table, mentioning the restaurant was a recommendation by an acquaintance, Aldo Tancredi.
Oddly, this gentle giant asked, “Are you a friend of the director?”
Stunned he replied, “Yes, he was my dearest friend.”
The restaurateur quickly ushered Noble to the inside table directly behind the entrance door, where Noble sat down, and so did the restaurateur.
“My name is Alessandro.” He explained they were sitting at the director’s table, the place where he sat most Friday nights.
Noble could sense he was not fluent in English, but was doing quite well.
“I am deeply sorry to hear about the death of the director. He was also my dear friend,” he offered, clearly with a heavy heart.
Noble heard Florence was truly a small town, despite its size, and that the Florentines communicate the old-fashioned way, by speaking to one another. Without the use of the Internet or texting, they were still able to convey rumors and news to one another at warp speed. Within less than twenty-four hours, anyone who knew Hamilton received notice of his death.
Noble, going from a slight lull to being famished, asked if he could see a menu.
Alessandro insisted he leave the ordering to him, and for the next two hours, he lavished Noble with some of the best Italian food he had ever tasted.
Noble also discovered that if you are a friend of someone the Italians respect, then you are likely to become their friend, as well. During the lunch, and for another hour after, Alessandro introduced many of the restaurant’s regulars to him, who were also friends of Hamilton.
Noble met Alessandro’s brother, Massimiliano, who was operating their other restaurant near the Duomo, called Antico Ristorante il Sasso di Dante. Amazed by the coincidence, he thought, I believe this is the very same restaurant where Hank and Hussein had shared many dinners.
Then Alessandro introduced Noble to an art instructor from the Florence Academy of Art. Again, with a sense of déjà vu, he thought, That is the same school where Professoressa Ducale was an instructor. Fortunately, for Noble, the art instructor spoke English, so he asked him if he knew the professoressa.
“I vaguely remember she resigned shortly after an incident with the police, but I wasn’t familiar with the details,” was all he had to say.
Of course, Noble had total recall.
More introductions followed, and he met Eugenio Bresciani, the curator at the Uffizi, the same guide Hamilton had detained after Simon’s escape, and then later befriended.
“My sincerest condolences, he was a kind man,” Eugenio offered.
As touched as Noble was with all the outpouring of affection for Hamilton, it was close to four o’clock, long past the restaurant’s closing time for lunch. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome, so he politely disengaged from the conversation and asked for the check.
Alessandro immediately waved his hand, signaling no check, and in his best English said, “It is my pleasure.”
Another attempt to pay was futile, so he thanked Alessandro for his hospitality and generosity before departing. As he was about to bid his final adieus, he noticed Alessandro had poured him a grappa. Moreover, not just for him, but for all those present, including the wait and kitchen staff.
With everybody standing, Alessandro proposed a toast. “To the Direttore.”
With tears flowing freely, and sorrow in their hearts, they downed the grappa, at the same table where the director had also enjoyed many a grappa.
Hamilton must be smiling at the sight of us all together. Noble smiled along at the thought.
After more hugs, and kisses cheek to cheek, Noble departed en route to the villa.
He was sure that after the long lunch, hearty wine, a hint of jet lag, and of course, the grappa, it would be impossible for him to maneuver back up the two torturous hills he had previously walked. However, he resisted the temptation to hail a taxi and ventured toward the Arno.
During the trek, a sudden insight gave him one of the reasons Hamilton never returned to the States, an answer that had eluded him. Pausing in observation, he realized something. It was about the small restaurant in the corner of a small piazza, where I just met Hamilton’s family. His life was not as empty as I had imagined. Now I understand one reason why Hamilton loved Florence so much and remained here until his death, he concluded, with a consoling smile.
Actually, he was so lost in his thoughts that he did not recall the hills he climbed. He was surprised to find himself standing at the front door of Hamilton’s home so soon.
—
As Noble opened the door to the villa and inhaled the aroma, his heart sank as he deduced Aldo was in the process of preparing dinner. He was still full from lunch, and had hoped that in the next few hours he’d feel less sated. At eight, dinner was announced and Noble, without an appetite and embarrassed, nibbled enough so he wouldn’t offend.
After dinner, Aldo presented him with his second grappa of the day. This time it first burned his throat, then transformed into a pleasantly warm and soothing sensation. On the second sip, it worked its way effortlessly into the digestive system, making peace with all the foods he had consumed. Surprisingly, he felt as though he had not overeaten, but was just pleasantly sated. Now he understood why Italians love their digestivo, a lesson he would not forget.
Noble had invited Aldo to join him for a nightcap, which he did. Their conversation started with pleasantries, and then Aldo opened up with more information about the director’s life in Florence, in affectionate terms. Noble could easily see what a devoted servant and friend he had been.
“The director has made provisions for me to return to Veneto, northeast of Florence, where my sister and her family live. He was a very generous man and made it possible for me to retire. However, I must close the villa and dispose of the director’s possessions according to his wishes,” he reported with immense sadness.
They continued their chat until Noble surrendered to his persistently closing eyelids. He thanked Aldo for his service to Hamilton, thanked him for his hospitality, and bade him a good night.
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Noble returned to his room thoroughly spent, but his mind kept drifting to Hamilton, which kept him awake. I know Hamilton loved his country. He was a true patriot and devoted his life fighting to keep the U.S. safe. Despite his passion, he never returned. “Something I don’t understand,” he said, speaking to the air. He met his Florentine family, which explained only part of the quandary, but not all. It only suggested that he had deep roots in the community.
I believed initially he had compunctions about not exposing the president sooner, which he considered part of his sacred duty to his country. With great trepidation, Noble squirmed a bit, as he took into account that he now wore the mantle.
Or perhaps it was the retirement benefits that came his way, compliments of Simon. I was thunderstruck when he indirectly confirmed that he had helped himself to a share of the illicit pie.
Questions kept invading his sleep. Perhaps Hamilton preferred isolation to the constant reminders he would have encountered from the newscasts, newspaper headlines, and gossip at the water cooler.
“Hamilton knew he had the power to change it all, to stop everything, and at the same time, he knew he couldn’t bring himself to do it,” he mumbled, half awake.
Finally, unable to continue the fight against the sleep that was enveloping him, he gave in with the words, “It really isn’t important to know his rationale—anymore.” He hoped to take solace in believing Hamilton wanted to live out the rest of his life with his compromises, but wondered if he’d truly been at peace.
However, Noble’s eyes were wide open to the tremendous burdens he was undertaking. Despite the weight of many obstacles, he felt ready to take on the challenges. Fate brought him to this juncture, but he conceded it would take fortitude and dedication to achieve success.
—
The next morning, while seated in a taxi, he asked the driver to make one quick stop before he headed to the airport. He couldn’t resist the desire to visit Hamilton’s favorite spot in the piazza of the church of San Miniato al Monte.
Noble had abandoned his religious beliefs shortly after the loss of his parents. He had refused to accept their sudden deaths, as it would require an act of faith. However, at San Miniato, while spending those few precious hours with Hamilton, a sense of spirituality that he thought he had lost forever, overcame him. It was unexpected, but all consuming.
I suppose I want to confirm the validity of my earlier experience before leaving Florence, he conceded.
The driver stopped the taxi at the arch entering the piazza, and Noble proceeded to the wall under the cypress. As he sat there looking out over the beautiful city spread before him, a hand touched his shoulder. Startled, he turned around to find a monk, with a glowing smile, in a long flowing white robe. The sunlight encircled his face almost like an aura.
“My name is Angelo,” he said, introducing himself in a soft, pleasing voice. “May I sit down beside you?” Before Noble could respond, he took Noble’s hand in his and, with his halting English and melodious accent, proceeded to stun Noble. “I saw you sitting with the director yesterday and I know he considered you a son.” Noble sighed as the monk continued, “The director had many conversations with me over the years and shared many of the decisions he made that tormented him.”
Angelo did not expose the details of those conversations with Noble, but he was comfortable that they were secret and safe. It struck Noble as the moral equivalent of a Roman Catholic confession.
“Before the director died, God visited him, and he was forgiven for all his sins,” Angelo assured him. “When Hamilton walked through the Gate to Heaven, he was at peace.” Still clasping Noble’s hand between his, he continued. “I suspect there are terrible burdens placed on you with the director’s death, but he died having complete faith that you will always do the noble thing.”
Angelo may not have expected Noble to smile, but Noble was remembering the times Hamilton said those exact words to him, whenever he faced a dilemma. I wasn’t sure if Angelo knew my name or its relevance, but it was of no significance except to me, he later reflected.
As Angelo spoke of the burdens, Noble faced a strange sensation that came over him, much like his experience during his first visit to San Miniato. I feel as though this kind monk, with the glowing face, is absorbing my pain, and in return transmitting an enormous sense of peace, one of clarity and enlightenment— an awesome sensation Noble never forgot.
Then as quickly as Father Angelo arrived, he was gone.
Noble turned to see this spiritual man walk away, with his long white robe flowing in the breeze, against the stunning facade of San Miniato as a backdrop.
He took one last look at the beautiful city that lay below, as he thought, If there truly is a heaven on earth, this must be the place—a place where I’m beginning to feel a divine intervention has just occurred.
Noble walked back through the arch, this time with a lighter step, and returned to the taxi to begin his long journey home.
—
Sitting in the Peretola Airport, waiting to board his flight, reality set in regarding the path of life-changing decisions he could not escape. He returned to the time the president appointed him interim director, and then his confirmation as director of the SIA, remembering it was not a welcome moment. He was well suited for his position as a research analyst and recognized he was relatively inexperienced to manage the agency. Besides, he always preferred to work alone. However, in April 2009, he had had no choice but to accept. At that time, Noble was deeply entrenched in the Simon case and was certain the president was aware of his role as the assistant to Director Scott. So unwillingly, he had become the caretaker of the SIA, expected to carry out all of its responsibilities—except exposing the president.
He blithely assumed Hamilton would always take the lead when that day arrived.
Unfortunately, his death changed the metrics radically.
Hours before he passed away, Hamilton decided the time had arrived to expose the president and take steps to prevent a repetition. To have the desired effect, he concluded, the American people were entitled to the disclosure of the elaborate plot before they voted in the upcoming election—now the onus was on Noble to end the entire conspiracy.
It is strange how dramatically circumstances can change, he reminded himself.
As he started to deliberate on a number of issues, he heard his flight called and headed for his gate. Once settled into his seat, his mind began to race for answers. During the seven-hour flight back to Washington, he was compelled to review the plan he would then have to execute, all the while feeling the enormous weight on his shoulders.
As visions of Hamilton passed before him, so did those of Father Angelo. Those images renewed his confidence and resolve as he prepared to take the final vital steps. He decided to run through the pros and cons, knowing all the while the pros would win. Ultimately, the means by which he would execute the plan would become critical.
As he reached into his briefcase for his iPad, he latched on to the envelope Aldo presented him before he left Hamilton’s home. He held the packet for some time, staring at his name written in scrawled handwriting by Hamilton’s shaky hand. Sensing he was now prepared for his words of wisdom, he proceeded to open the envelope, and removed the single white sheet of paper. However, to his surprise, there were no words of wisdom, only another mystery to unravel.
Written on the paper was simply “National Depositors Trust Bank, Wisconsin Avenue, Georgetown. Use it wisely.” In the envelope, there was also a key—obviously a safe-deposit-box key.
30
A NOBLE THING
Noble sat back in his office chair with his feet on the desk and his hands clasped behind his head. He was reflecting on his Florence trip and the events that unfolded.
He was sitting just a stairway from the president.
During the flight home, he repeatedly reviewed the steps he needed to take to finalize Hamilton’s plan, which was now his to execute. All the while, th
e knot in his stomach was unyielding; he was not able to shake off the tension that had been building up. Although, after a night of sound sleep he was more at ease, confident, and ready to face the enormous challenges that confronted him.
Noble knew he was about to jeopardize his position as director, and more important, his personal life, for the actions he and Hamilton had taken, which would be put into question. To start, there was the fact that he had provided immunity to the members of La Fratellanza further complicated by the means they undertook to track down Simon. Both actions could be a legal nightmare, and not having shared this vital information with other national security agencies exacerbated that complication.
Then, of course, there was SAVIOR.
Most significant, he and Hamilton had knowledge of an ongoing crime that continued for years—now the time had arrived to begin unraveling the complex plot.
Noble’s first order of business, when he arrived at his office, was to consult the in-house attorney. He created a hypothetical case involving the rules and restrictions to grant immunity. He was able to confirm his own belief that their course of action would stand up in court.
Next, Noble sorted through the cast of characters, as he reviewed the roles of the key players.
He knew Hank’s involvement had been questionable for years. He and his foundation were already under investigation, and while not directly related to his activities with the president, it appeared it would keep him embroiled in legal entanglements for years.
Chase’s efforts, considered by some to be tantamount to shouting, “Fire!” in a theater, would be complicated to prove. The distribution of his white paper showed no direct correlation to the crisis, even though his prediction had been accurate. Chase did allow Simon access to his banking system, and if revealed, it most probably would cost him his job, but it did not rise to a federal crime. As of the moment, he still faced legal battles with the Securities and Exchange Commission.
Paolo and Seymour had always worked on behalf of the senator and then the president, and while their methods were dubious, they did not commit a crime per se.
Brotherhood Beyond the Yard (The Simon Trilogy) Page 27