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  Noble’s Quest

  Noble’s Quest

  A Novel

  Sequel to

  Brotherhood Beyond the Yard

  Sally Fernandez

  Noble’s Quest

  Copyright © 2013 by Sally Fernandez

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, whatsoever, without written permission except in the case of brief quotations clearly cited. For information on sales, licensing or permissions, contact the publisher:

  Dunham Books

  63 Music Square East

  Nashville, Tennessee 37203

  www.dunhamgroupinc.com

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-939447-05-0

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-939447-06-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  In loving memory of my maternal grandparents,

  Orris Irving and Ruth Ellen Ames,

  and my great-grandmother Ellen Agatha Jordan.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This story is pure fiction, although the locations are authentic and play an integral part in the plot. The principal characters are fictitious as well. On the other hand, there are numerous facts for readers to sort out for themselves. The story may also seem to have a tinge of a conspiracy theory, which it is not. It gestated solely in my vivid imagination—a story concocted in my own mind that needed to be expressed.

  Several people were intricately involved in helping to improve the structure of this story. Naturally, they will be recognized appropriately in the Acknowledgements. However, there is one person I must acknowledge from the start. Much love and gratitude goes to Joe Fernandez, my editor-in-residence, business manager, and loving husband, for his patience during my seemingly endless writing, the multitude of hours he devoted to repeated editing, and for other sacrifices of life’s events, to help refine my story to make it the best it can be.

  THE TURTLE AND THE SCORPION

  A turtle was happily swimming along a river when a scorpion hailed it from the shore. A scorpion, being a very poor swimmer, asked a turtle to carry him on his back across a river.

  “Are you mad?” exclaimed the turtle. “You’ll sting me while I’m swimming and I’ll drown.”

  “My dear turtle,” laughed the scorpion, “if I were to sting you, you would drown, and I would go down with you, and drown as well. Now where is the logic in that?”

  The turtle thought this over, and saw the logic of the scorpion’s statement.

  “You’re right!” cried the turtle. “Hop on!”

  The scorpion climbed aboard and halfway across the river the scorpion gave the turtle a mighty sting. As they both sank to the bottom, the turtle resignedly said, “Do you mind if I ask you something? You said there’d be no logic in your stinging me. Why did you do it?”

  “It has nothing to do with logic,” the drowning scorpion sadly replied.

  “It’s just my character.”

  Attributed to poet Nur ad-Din Abdar-Rahman Jami, known as Jami, the last great Persian poet from the 15th century. The Prophets of Islam influenced his writing. The translation is by William Braude, 1965.

  1

  USHERING IN A NEW YEAR

  As the crowds huddled together trying to fight off December’s frigid dampness, they waited eagerly for the French president’s arrival. Thousands of Parisians, along with visitors from around the world, had gathered in the Place de la Concorde—Paris’s largest public square—offering “Bonne année” to all they encountered. Within minutes, President Grimaud would be saying, “Bonne année,” wishing the masses a Happy New Year, ushering in 2017.

  At the south end of the square closest to the Seine River, was a simply constructed stage with a center podium. There was nothing simple, however, about the extraordinary view of the magnificent Eiffel Tower in the background, the site of the impending fireworks display, and the elaborately decorated fountains that dominated each end of the square. The setting provided a clear vantage point to eye one of the most famous fountains situated directly behind the modest stage.

  The fountain, designed by Jacques-Ignace Hittorff—a German-born French architect and student of neoclassical design—represents the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea. Surrounding this ornate structure are figures depicting daily life of harvesting coral, fish, and collecting pearls, along with statues of geniuses in astronomy, navigation and commerce. Hittorff’s other fountain symbolizing the Rhone and Rhine Rivers with baroque statues harvesting flowers, fruits, and grapes, adorns the north end of the square. Unlike the statues surrounding the south fountain, these are in river navigation, agriculture, and industry. Hittorff’s themes of rivers and seas only enhanced the ambiance of the Place de la Concorde on this wintry night.

  The hour was near and the partygoers in the crowd were becoming anxious, not only to hear their president speak, but also for the celebrations to begin. Preparations were also in play for the president’s private celebration a few blocks away at the Elysée Palace.

  Several hours earlier, there was a flurry of activity at the palace with vanloads of food from caterers and flowers from florists, all making their deliveries through the service entrance. Security was unusually tight that evening and it took hours to check all those who entered. Finally, everything was in place, and President Grimaud began to receive his guests. They would also have a spectacular view of the fireworks display from the palace gardens.

  As scheduled, precisely at 11:50 p.m. central European time, the French president’s motorcade pulled away from his residence at the palace and headed to the public square. President Grimaud, having had to leave his own fete, departed through the front gate. He planned to arrive only minutes before he was to speak at the opening ceremony. Then, after performing his presidential duty, he would discreetly return to his guests. The drive to Place de la Concorde would take only three minutes.

  On cue, the limo swiftly pulled out of the palace gates and turned right onto Rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré. A few short blocks later, as the limo driver was about to turn right again—this time onto Rue Royale—he spotted a large white truck stalled at the intersection. Traffic was backing up. Nervously, he glanced down at his watch and noted it was 11:52. Midnight was only minutes away. After waiting a few more minutes, he caught a glimpse of the president in the rearview mirror and noticed that he was also becoming agitated. Refocusing on the cars ahead, the limo driver observed that, fortuitously, the man in the stalled truck had just started its engine and was speeding away. Without hesitation, the limo driver stepped on the gas pedal, much to the president’s delight. Finally, he was able to make a right turn onto Rue Royale to continue straight onto Place de la Concorde. The limo pulled up to the staging area at exactly midnight—later than planned.

  Suddenly, a loud explosion burst forth and blue and red sparkles filled the sky. Another explosion simultaneously erupted. The president’s limo had just pulled up behind a ball of fire.

  President Grimaud looked on in horror.

  Earlier that day, the prime minister had urged the president to take extra precautions. All the president agreed to—was to send the first limo as a decoy.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! The sounds of explosions were followed by crackling noises echoing through the air. At one minute past midnight, across the French border, the German citizens heard more explosions follow, one after the other, as they gazed at the smoked-filled sky. The onlookers watched excitedly as the red and gold lights streamed down from the black sky, mimicking their nation’s flag, and ushering in the New Year. Over a million people witnessed the incredible display above the famed Brandenburg Gate, a gate erected in the 1730s. It is the only remaining gate in Berlin, which had been part of the fortified city. And it has beco
me a national symbol for the Berliners and for the Germans as a whole.

  Seconds earlier, the spectators had finished listening to Chancellor Mauer offer hope to the German people, and to the rest of the world for peace and prosperity in the coming year. The chancellor ended by saying, “Einen guten Rutsch ins neue Jahr!” And, on cue, those words—meaning “a good slide into the New Year”—set off a series of explosions. But the fireworks in the sky were not the only source of the sounds ringing out. Sounds of gunshots were also heard coming from somewhere in the midst of the crowd. And the festive noise muted the wailing sounds of the sirens speeding toward the viewing stand.

  Unknowingly, the partygoers continued to revel in the lights that persisted to burst into the air. They paid no attention to the pictures on the large video screens flanking both sides of the stage. All at once, a volley of voices began to shout, “Der Kanzler hat gedreht wurde.” The words, “The chancellor has been shot” resonated over the bedlam in the square. It was unmistakable. The view on the large displays clearly showed the German chancellor lying on the platform, behind the podium, with security officers lying protectively over her. Moments later, the chancellor and her two bodyguards were ushered into the nearby ambulances, which hurriedly sped away from the crowd.

  All the while, behind the famed Brandenburg Gate, a 1.2 mile-long party was about to begin as the multitude of stages, dance floors, and bars lined the boulevard at Straße des 17 Juni that stretched across the Tiergarten, Berlin’s public park. The vendors, unaware of the tragic event, patiently waited for their party-loving clients.

  Within minutes, however, rumors of the presumed assassination of Chancellor Mauer began to fill the air. And what was a scene of jubilance had become one of dread. Nonetheless, some partygoers with visibly dampened spirits, slowly left the scene and headed for Straße des 17 Juni.

  In Florence, Italy, Enzo Borgini, the executive director of police services for Interpol—the International Criminal Police Organization—was attending the New Year’s Eve festivities at the Societá Canottieri. The Canottieri is the prominent rowing club nestled on the right bank of the Arno River, next to the famed Uffizi Gallery. And while the night air was brisk, the gaiety kept everyone feeling warm. The onlookers gazed in awe as they watched the Italian array of national colors stream down from the Piazzale Michelangelo, high up on the hill on the other side of the Arno. The glorious fireworks continued to exhilarate the crowd as they illuminated the dark sky with a rain of green, white, and red lights. Nevertheless, Enzo had turned away from the fireworks as his mind drifted to another time.

  Enzo could not help but stare in the opposite direction toward the renowned Ponte Vecchio. His eyes fixated on the bridge, famously lined with goldsmith shops, and the legendary Vasari Corridor stretched across its rooftops. He recalled the time so many years ago when he was a junior police officer at Interpol. It was a time when his supervisor had dispatched him to Florence, his hometown, to work with the American director of the SIA, the States Intelligence Agency. Director Hamilton Scott had requested that Interpol assist him in a sting operation he had organized to capture the notorious terrorist, Mohammed al-Fadl. Enzo remembered al-Fadl very well—but as Simon Hall, the man who got away.

  It was a devastating turn of events as he and the director followed a messenger—suspected of carrying stolen funds—through the winding Vasari Corridor, hoping she would lead them to Simon. As he now stared at the corridor from a distance, he recollected all too well how he and Hamilton had to double-back through the Renaissance hallways, only to discover an empty satchel.

  Simon and one hundred thousand euros had vanished!

  Enzo’s first assignment as a fledgling officer was not a career-building experience on its surface. But the lessons he had learned from the brusque intelligence expert from the U.S. served him well. Over the years, he gained valuable insight into the intelligence community’s techniques, much of it from Hamilton. Officially, the knowledge he gained had spurred his career, promoting him up the chain of command at Interpol. Unofficially, the case spawned a friendship that endured until Hamilton’s death five months earlier in August of 2016.

  “Cosa?” Enzo snapped, startled by the abrupt intrusion. He spun around hastily and glared at the hand placed on his shoulder. “Cosa? What?” he shouted again over the sound of explosions in the sky. Having been lost in deep thought, Enzo had not seen nor heard his official driver yelling as he ran toward the wall where he was leaning.

  The driver, not able to slow down his breathing, began to sputter rapidly. “You’ve been summoned to headquarters immediately! There have been bombings in Paris and Berlin! A plane is waiting at Peretola Airport to fly you to Lyon!” The driver finally took a deep breath and, more calmly, added, “I’ll fill you in on the details in the car.”

  “Oh mio dio,” was all Enzo could muster.

  In London, British subjects had been partying for hours in the finest English tradition. The time was 11:00 p.m. Greenwich mean time. They had only one more hour before the fireworks display was to begin.

  The 10 Downing Street party, a bit more refined than others, was also in full gear. Inside the gates, the entire length of Downing Street had been converted to an elaborate outdoor dining room. The round tables huddled under heat lamps, and the perfectly placed chairs stretched down the center of the road. The tables had been elegantly set with the finest china for a select group of guests who had been invited to share in the New Year’s Eve celebration with the British Prime Minister.

  From the street, the guests had an unobstructed view of the London Eye. This iconic landmark of modern Britain, the third largest Ferris wheel in the world, had a capacity of eight hundred passengers per revolution. More important was the view of the clock tower at the north end of the Palace of Westminster, home of the British Parliament. The clock, affectionately named Big Ben, would count down the minutes to a new year.

  All agreed it had been a glorious meal, literally fit for the queen. Now the guests were in the midst of savoring their desserts in preparation for the fireworks display. Meanwhile, Prime Minister Teragram was engaged in conversation with the American ambassador seated next to him. All of a sudden, the prime minister caught a glimpse of his head butler walking out of 10 Downing, briskly heading his way.

  Seconds later, the butler interrupted and, in his finest Liverpudlian accent, said, “Excuse me sir, this was just delivered from Scotland Yard.”

  With a nod of thanks, the prime minister opened the envelope. A slight chill, not related to the outdoor temperature, fell upon him as he unfolded the letter. It read:

  At 12:00 a.m. central European time, there was an assassination attempt on President Grimaud at the Place de la Concorde. The president was out of harm’s way. However, a bomb explosion killed the driver of the limo sent as a decoy. Simultaneously, shots rang out toward Chancellor Mauer while commencing the festivities at the Brandenburg Gate. The chancellor is unharmed, although one member of her security force was shot and later died in the hospital. Thus far, no one has claimed responsibility. Proceed with caution.

  It was signed by Chief Inspector Dary.

  With only twenty minutes before Big Ben was to begin the countdown, the prime minister calmly moved through the crowd and requested, “Please move quickly into the residence. I will explain once we are all gathered inside.”

  Five minutes before 2017 was to arrive, forty guests, and a variety of house servants, clustered in the Pillared State Drawing Room, the largest of the three state drawing rooms at the residence.

  “I have just received information that assassination attempts were made against President Grimaud and Chancellor Mauer.” The guests gasped as Prime Minister Teragram continued, “Both are unharmed, but each head of government lost a member of the security team.”

  Without warning, a deafening noise shook 10 Downing and everyone fell to the floor. A short time later, which seemed like an eternity, silence prevailed.

  2

  THE
REBIRTH

  Celebrations were in high gear across the United States, especially in the nation’s capital. It was Friday, January 20, Inauguration Day. People of all sizes, shapes, colors, and nationalities filled the streets and the restaurants. The bars were packed as well, especially those decked out with high definition screens plastered on a variety of walls. And although the party spirit reigned among those looking forward to this historic event, beneath the surface there was a slight wave of apprehension filling the air, coming on the heels of the devastating events in Europe.

  The bombing in Paris took the life of a career police officer masquerading as President Grimaud’s chauffer, and the gunfire pierced the heart of another brave officer as he protected Chancellor Mauer in Berlin. Fortunately, with the advance warning, Prime Minister Teragram was able to save the lives of all in attendance at his New Year’s Eve celebration. The exploding tables and chairs outside the residence had blown out many windows of the Downing Street buildings, sending shards of splintered wood and glass in all directions. Miraculously, no one was injured. And with only five hours to go before dropping the storied glittering ball in Times Square, the United States was in lockdown mode, heeding the events a continent away.

  Official celebrations were canceled.

  No more attacks followed.

  Although the reports of those abortive assaults were demoralizing and pervasive, all those participating in the day’s activities set aside their feelings of those tragic events for a moment in history. They were in the midst of celebrating an entirely different sort of event—one the entire world would be watching. On this day, it was evident a ray of hope was sweeping through the swarms.

  SIA Director Noble Bishop felt proud to be sitting only a few rows from President-elect Randall Post as he waited to witness the swearing-in of the forty-sixth president of the United States. From his chair on the platform, erected on the west side of the Capitol—officially referred to as the West Front—he had a perfect view of the National Mall.