The Phoenix

by Jillian Dodd

  They all nod.

  “And what about a coup?” I ask.

  “We don’t believe that to be a reliable threat. I’ve been through both sides of our military,” Admiral Lamonte states. “The top leaders are all loyal to your father and the crown. Most were his very close friends.”

  “Not as close as King Giovanni was to his brother, Alessandro, I bet,” I contradict.

  The admiral lets out a long sigh. “You’re right. For all you know, I could be telling you everything is fine and planning my own rebellion.”

  “Exactly. Same goes for the general or someone else popular within the upper ranks. Have you looked at their finances?”

  “We have indeed,” Gabriel says. “We haven’t found anything of significance.”

  “Maybe the payoff doesn’t come until after the monarchy is overthrown,” I suggest.

  “Which would make it difficult to determine,” Lorenzo adds diplomatically.

  “What if it’s not money? What if there’s someone like Alessandro who feels wronged by the monarchy? Alessandro didn’t like being the spare. Ophelia was mad because her father had cheated on her mother, which caused them to move away and live where her being a princess didn’t matter as much as she’d thought it should. If they were recruited, it would be someone like that.”

  “Like love,” Lorenzo says in a melancholy tone. “Men often do crazy things for those they love.”

  “Yes,” Gabriel agrees. “Someone open to blackmail or threats to their family.”

  “Someone with a secret,” I confirm.

  After a forty-minute drive outside of the capital city, we see a modern structure rising toward the sky. It is very different in appearance in comparison to the TerraSphere in Iraq. Rather than being a hut of a sand color similar to the desert, this is a sleek, glittering creamy white with two fifteen-story buildings marking its entrance.

  “What’s it made out of?” I ask, knowing that the whole idea of the Sphere is to use locally available materials.

  “Crema Marfil limestone. Locally quarried,” Lorenzo states.

  “It’s beautiful. And those tall buildings look like a ship’s mast.”

  “It is in tribute to our seafaring culture,” the admiral says proudly.

  We go through a security check and then pull into the center of the Sphere.

  I get out of the car, looking around in awe. “The world is going to love this place,” I mutter.

  “They really will,” Lorenzo agrees, equally impressed.

  “Wait until you see the inside,” the admiral says.

  We go toward the center structure first. It has a domed roof like the desert Sphere but is five stories tall with windows encircling the top three.

  “Your Highness,” a man says, greeting our group. He’s around fifty, six foot tall, and graying at the temples. If I had to cast him in a movie, he’d be playing a cowboy, not a Montrovian businessman. “I’m Renaldo Marchend.”

  “It’s good to meet you, sir,” Lorenzo says, shaking his hand. “My father spoke highly of you. I’d like to introduce Huntley Von Allister.”

  “Miss Von Allister, it’s a pleasure,” Renaldo says. “What do you think of your father’s creation at first sight?”

  “I think it’s gorgeous. I got to visit the TerraSphere he built in the desert. This is so different. So contemporary.”

  “What you saw was the design for a dry suburban setting,” Renaldo says. “What you’re looking at here is a CitySphere, the city of the future—one that will house close to twenty-five thousand people. All of your father’s designs feature a central gathering place. This Sphere’s town center will be open twenty-four hours a day and consists of a food hall capable of catering to six thousand athletes at a time, a movie theater with eight screens, an entertainment center with video games, billiards tables, bowling alley, non-alcoholic bar, and reception spaces for lounging and relaxing.”

  We walk into the building that features an atrium flooded with light. I’m drawn to the center, and looking up, I find the same style painting as in the TerraSphere—one of Arcadia.

  “Not only is our CitySphere architecturally pleasing, but the interior is also filled with artistic expression. In the city center here, the art has been created by local Montrovian artists. As we move into the dwelling spaces, we will view installations by artists from around the world. If you have ever seen photos of past Olympic Villages, they have been spartan, much like a university dormitory.”

  “While the Spartans were warriors in Ancient Greece, which is fitting of the Olympics, I can’t imagine Montrovia doing anything in that manner,” I say with a laugh.

  “You’re right,” Renaldo says, winking at Lorenzo. “It’s not our style.”

  He leads us through the city center; it is designed with a modern, sleek aesthetic, but because of the art and furnishings, it feels very warm and luxurious. The limestone floor gleams, the wood-beamed ceiling adds coziness and separation of spaces, and the lounge areas feature plush seating. It’s like being in a fine home.

  When we get to the food hall, we find a smorgasbord laid out for us to sample and a man wearing a chef’s jacket.

  “This is Pierre Dassi, owner and head chef of Dassi, a Michelin-starred restaurant in Cap,” Renaldo says. “He was given the mammoth task of coordinating the food for this event. He’s brought in chefs from around the world in order to offer a wide variety of choices to the athletes.”

  After everyone shakes hands and I rave about his restaurant, we sample some of the delicious food while he tells us about the process.

  “While at my restaurant, food is a culinary experience. For athletes, it is all about calorie intake and healthy eating. I wanted to combine the two. Our meals will take the gold medal.”

  “What about safety for the food?” I ask. “Like, it’d be horrible if you got some bad fish that made everyone sick or some lettuce tainted with salmonella.”

  “At most Olympics, a sample is taken from each food type so that, if there is a food-borne illness, it can be identified and traced back to the source. In Montrovia, we are taking it a step further by running analysis on the food before serving it. Our fruits and vegetables are all organic and triple-washed. We have a state-of-the-art kitchen with expansive cold food storage systems. Our grains are certified non-GMO.”

  “What about corporate sponsors?” I ask, noting a plaque on the wall listing their names, one of which is owned by Harrison McClellan.

  “The sponsors donated money for the facility. They do not have any control over the food itself,” he says with a laugh, squashing that theory. “If they did, these world-class athletes would be living on fast food. In fact, many past Villages offered such, but we choose to have quick bites that feel indulgent. Here, we have kiosks that function similarly but with healthy offerings, like grass-fed burgers, hand-cut Yukon gold potato fries, vegan tacos, and gourmet pizzas.”

  “Our athletes will be eating very well,” Lorenzo says, picking up another sample and popping it into his mouth. We’re going to pray none of this food is poisoned because they are all chowing down. “I think I would like to come share a meal with them.”

  “That would be incredible,” the chef says.

  And, although the other men in the room raise an eyebrow at Lorenzo’s comment, I think it’s wonderfully sweet.

  “Let’s move on to see the housing,” Renaldo says, glancing at his watch.

  We go outside and to one of the taller structures. I look up at the glistening stone and notice the hilled landscape in the distance reflecting from the windows, creating an ever-changing form of art. Once inside, we’re met with a comfortable entry space that is set up in a similar fashion to a fine hotel.

  “Much like a luxury apartment, each building has its own concierge staff to assist with any need. The first two floors of each building will be open twenty-four/seven. The main floor is simply a place to gather and relax away from the crowds.”

  He leads us to an elevator and u
p to the second floor.

  “It smells like a spa,” I say the second the doors open.

  “That’s because it is. This is our health and fitness floor. We offer sauna, whirlpools, and steam rooms as well as workout equipment and rehabilitation facilities.”

  As we see the beautiful guest rooms, I’m thinking of all the people who will be attending the Olympics—all the athletes and staff, the media, and the ticket holders—and wondering how in the world anyone could possibly say for sure that it’s completely safe.

  “What will you do with all this after the Olympics?” I ask.

  “Our plan is to offer tax benefits to those who would like to live here,” Lorenzo says.

  “It sounds like you’ve thought of everything,” I reply.

  “Actually, Huntley, your father thought of everything,” Admiral Lamonte says with a chuckle. “Lorenzo, are you going to tour the event locations now?”

  “Yes,” Lorenzo says. “I’m told they are equally impressive.”

  But, when we return to the limousine, we find news crews have gathered.

  “They must have heard we were here,” Lorenzo says. “I suppose I should go say something to them.”

  Our group makes our way over, and Lorenzo greets the reporters. Of course, their first question isn’t what he thought of the facility; it is about me. And him. And our relationship. And why Lizzie isn’t here.

  “For those of you who aren’t aware, Miss Von Allister’s father designed the Olympic Village. That is why she is touring it with me today,” he states.

  It doesn’t seem to appease them though, and they start calling out my name. Asking if I’m still engaged to Daniel. If I’m in love with Lorenzo.

  I don’t bother to reply. I just walk up to Lorenzo, thank him for the tour, make some vague remark about having dinner with him and Lizzie in the future, and then turn around and make my way back toward the safety of my father’s buildings.

  Intrepid follows me. “What was that all about?”

  “I don’t understand the question,” I say.

  “You’re still in love with Lorenzo, Huntley.”

  “And he’s engaged to Lizzie. The last thing Lorenzo needs is a scandal in his life.”

  “You’re right. He does seem to have a lot on his plate.” He gives me a grin. “Since we don’t have a ride, maybe we should go back and eat some more of that wonderful food.”

  “That sounds fun,” I tell him as I call Ellis and give him instructions on where to pick us up.

  When we arrive back in the kitchen, Dassi is sampling some of his own creations. He gives us a warm smile.

  “You are back for more culinary delights?” he asks.

  “Yes, our driver is on his way, so we have a little time to kill.”

  “Well then, we must do this the right way,” he says, rushing into the kitchen. He returns with five bottles of wine and a sommelier. “The right wine brings out the flavors in each and every dish, and one should never let such incredible food go to waste.”

  Glasses are set in front of us, a sparkling wine is poured, and after a toast to the Olympics, Dassi presents caviar topped with truffle-butter popcorn.

  “I need a vat of this popcorn,” I tell Dassi. “Are you selling it at the sporting event locations?”

  “We are not,” he says, “but maybe we should.”

  Movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention. I turn toward the window and look out, seeing General Agueda shaking hands with a man.

  “I thought he wasn’t supposed to be here today,” I say out loud.

  “The general?” Dassi replies, looking out the window. “He’s here nearly every single day.”

  “Who is that man he’s talking to?” Intrepid asks, but as soon as they turn in our direction, I know the answer.

  Harrison McClellan.

  “Thank you for the wine,” I say, setting it down and rushing toward an exit. I reach into my handbag, thankful that I have some of the teeny tracker dots, and carefully place one on the tip of my finger. Once outside, I pretend to have just noticed the men.

  “Mr. McClellan,” I say, making a beeline toward him. “How wonderful to see you. And, General Agueda, it’s been a while since you interrogated me.”

  The general lets out a hearty laugh. “Well, thankfully, it wasn’t you who was trying to kill the prince.”

  “Miss Von Allister,” McClellan says politely, but he doesn’t look happy to see me.

  “What are you guys doing here?” I ask.

  “Well, obviously, I thought it would be good form to see the finished product since the Sphere is pretty important to Von Allister Industries,” McClellan replies in an irritated tone.

  I twirl around and smile. “It turned out really pretty, didn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure pretty is how I would describe a state-of-the-art, technologically advanced space,” McClellan snarls.

  “Maybe not, but it’s why the athletes are going to love it. Do you have any idea of the combined social media influence of the Olympic athletes? They are going to be taking a lot of pictures with the CitySphere as the backdrop, and the world is going to be drooling.” I give him a grin. “And that’s good for VA Industries. As a matter of fact, I’m going to snap a bunch of photos to share. I have a fair amount of followers myself.”

  “I bet you do,” General Agueda says, allowing his eyes to slide down my body. “We’ll let you get to it then.”

  “I’d rather go on a tour with you. Actually, General, why didn’t you come with Lorenzo and Admiral Lamonte today? They mentioned you’d already vetted and signed off on the location.”

  “I have.”

  “Do you think it’s safe? Like, really? I mean, the number of people staying here is one thing, but then you have the suppliers, contractors, and staff. I don’t see how you could possibly say with certainty that it’s one hundred percent secure. And I’m worried about Lorenzo.”

  “Why are you worried about him?”

  “There have been numerous attempts on his life already. Now, an even bigger stage is set.” I lower my voice. “And I’m concerned about something else. Something I overheard that I probably shouldn’t have, something scary.”

  “What’s that?” the general asks, leaning in closer—falling hook, line, and sinker.

  “I overheard Daniel’s dad—you know, President Spear—mention rumors of a possible military coup happening in Montrovia during the Olympics.”

  The men share a glance.

  This is not the first time they have heard this.

  “A military coup?” the general scoffs. “That’s a ridiculous notion.”

  “You don’t think we have to worry? It would be really bad for my father’s business if the Sphere were mixed up in something like that.” McClellan is studying me, so I say to him, “Is that really why you’re here?”

  “No,” McClellan replies, putting his arm around my shoulder, pretending to be my friend. “I’m very impressed with you, Huntley. Have you considered joining VA Industries?”

  “Like, a job?” I ask.

  “Yes. A management training program, so you could learn all aspects of the business.”

  “The Sphere is what interests me the most. This one is so different than the one in Iraq. Like, my father’s room there is so different than the athletes’ rooms here.”

  “You were in your father’s room at the Sphere?” McClellan questions.

  “Yes, we visited every single space at the sphere when I was there, including the lab where your company does its crop research—the head scientist there was such a sweet man—as well as Ares’s private living quarters.”

  “You shouldn’t have been allowed access to the labs.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I knew the code.”

  “What code?”

  “The code that gets you into everything. It was fun. I never got to know my father, but I felt close to him when I was there. Especially in his quarters. He had some plans for the Sphere that h
e hand-drew, specs and a notebook full of ideas and sketches. Notations regarding poetry and art. And I so wish Princesses Ophelia and Clarice were still alive to see this. They would have been very proud of their country. They had such a love for this place. I’ve only been here a short time, and I fear that I have fallen in love, too. I would hate to see anyone try to ruin it.”

  “Which is why we are here today,” McClellan says bluntly. “Good day, Miss Von Allister. We have business to conduct.”

  I throw my arms around him in a hug, planting the tracking device in his suit coat pocket. “It was so wonderful to see you today, too, Harrison. I’m sure we’ll talk again soon.”

  As he and the general retreat, I yell out, “And be sure to check out my social media pics of the Sphere. I’ll try to get some good selfies!”

  As soon as they are out of earshot, I call Terrance. “All right, tech guru, I just placed a tracker on Harrison McClellan, but I don’t want to know where he is. I want to hear what he’s saying. Is that possible?”

  “Not through the tracker.”

  “How about through his phone?”

  “It’s secure. A Von Allister phone with its own satellite.”

  “Find out where he’s staying in Montrovia and figure out a way to bug it. I want someone listening to what he is saying twenty-four/seven.”

  “Aye, aye, boss,” he teases.

  I hang up and call Ares. “Can you or can you not hack into The Society phones? Do you not have some kind of back door?”

  “I do not. I made them very secure.”

  “I am at the CitySphere in Montrovia today. It’s beautiful, by the way. Harrison McClellan is here with General Agueda. Something fishy is going on between those two.”

  “In what way?”

  “Come on, you had me trained to study nonverbal cues. To know when someone is lying. They were lying to me. And, when I mentioned that the US had heard rumblings about a coup, they shared a glance.”