Noble's Quest Page 5

  “It was an easy call on Hank’s part. We know now that he manipulated Baari to hire the treasury secretary. That, of course, later created the opportunity for Simon to be retained as a consultant by the treasury secretary to design and program TSAR, the Treasury Sorting Accounting and Reporting system. It was the entrée he needed to carry out his plan to raid the Treasury. Simon then had access to billions of dollars as they flowed in and out of the Treasury during the financial crisis, including the TAP funds designed to sustain the too-big-to-fail banks,” Noble recounted.

  “And it worked beautifully. Simon was in the position to wield power, with billions of dollars at his disposal, creating havoc around the world. To this day, the members of La Fratellanza live in fear someone will spill the beans,” Paolo underscored.

  At Paolo’s mention of the billions of dollars, Noble glanced down at his wine glass to avert eye contact. He reflected on the fact that, while the former director was unsuccessful in capturing Simon during his sting operation in Florence, Italy, Noble was able to recover the money and hold it in safekeeping. Seizing those funds was the game-changer that crippled Simon’s operation. The rechanneling of Simon’s diverted funds to a safely guarded location, of course, would remain Noble’s secret. Meanwhile, the Treasury enjoyed an unexpected windfall from the recovered stolen funds, handing the new president a surplus.

  “Do you ever hear from Hank? Noble quizzed, and then summarily injected, “Needless to say, I keep a safe distance from the former president’s chief of staff.”

  “I ran into him a couple of weeks ago, and he looked awful. Evidently, he has been going through the five stages of grief ever since Baari disappeared. According to Hank, it was as though he had lost a son,” Paolo related with little empathy.

  “After all, he was the person who groomed and played the key role in educating Baari. And, it was clear from his testimony that his ego prompted him to believe he was solely responsible for creating the entire plot. Sorry, but my sympathies lie with the first lady and their daughter. It must have been devastating for them to have been abandoned by Baari.” Noble asserted compassionately.

  “The former first lady seems to have bounced back. Now, Senator Maryann Townsend, having dropped her married name, was just appointed to sit on the Senate Intelligence Committee. Unbelievable!” Paolo picked up his wine glass and made a toast to the air.

  “So I understand. But how in the hell did she walk out of the White House and in one week get an interim appointment to the Illinois State Senate? And three months later, she’s elected to the U.S. Senate? She must be following in her husband’s path.”

  “According to Hank, the State Senate appointment was Baari’s goodbye present to his wife.”

  “What a sweetheart,” Noble said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Hank has learned a few tricks from Simon.”

  “Actually, it was Baari. He simply called the State Senator and told him to step down, which coincidently, happened to be the same seat Baari occupied before he moved on to the U.S. Senate.”

  “Chicago politics lived up to its reputation. What did he have on him? Surely it must have been something!” Noble probed, muting his voice.

  “Who’s to know? He then called the Illinois governor—and voila—Maryann Townsend Baari was appointed to fill the vacancy in the State Senate. Rumor has it there was a plum appointment in the offing for the senator who resigned. The press did their usual commendable job of covering the whole affair with vagueness and distortions. Soon after, she was elected to the U.S. Senate post. Plainly, they were sympathy votes with some push by the Chicago machine.”

  “Or, Hank’s still in the game hitting the right buttons. Otherwise, Baari must have promised both the senator and the governor that the vice president would use the Office of the President to continue to dispense favors after he was sworn in. What a joke.” Noble chuckled. “You should have seen the face on our accidental president today while President Post was being sworn in. He looked like he was sitting on a bed of nails.”

  “It’s unfortunate that President Post had to bide his time for four more years before moving into the Oval Office. I’m sure it was in part due to Hank’s shenanigans.” Paolo postured.

  “Clearly, the releasing of a purported sex scandal two months before the voters went to the polls dashed Post’s aspirations for another four years.”

  “I knew it didn’t pass the smell test, but fortunately he was exonerated,” Paolo admitted.

  “But he wasn’t absolved until after the election, when it was too late. Hank was always my prime suspect for that ploy, even then. But that was in the past.”

  Noble raised his glass.

  Paolo followed.

  “Cheers to the end of the Baari Administration and to the rebirth of America,” Noble toasted.

  “Salute!” They mouthed in unison.

  Just as their glasses clinked, Noble heard his smartphone vibrate.

  “Excuse me, Paolo, I have to take this call.” Noble headed toward the hallway near the men’s room away from the noise.

  Before leaving his office, Noble had set up call-forwarding from his private line to his smartphone, hoping to hear good news from the air search and rescue team scouring the Dead Zone. This was not the call.

  “Director Bishop,” he answered.

  “This is Executive Director Borgini of Police Services for Interpol.”

  “Excuse me,” Noble stated, not having a clue as to who was on the other end of the line.

  “This is Enzo Borgini. I worked with Hamilton on the sting operation in Florence.”

  “Ah, yes, Director Borgini. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize your voice at first. What can I do for you?”

  “Director Bishop, I have been working on the New Year’s Eve bombings that took place in Europe, and I just received a message claiming responsibility.”

  Noble was puzzled as to why the director would find it necessary to inform him. “And who’s claiming responsibility?”

  “I think you should see the message for yourself. Wait one moment, I’ll forward it to you.”

  Noble promptly felt the vibration notifying him of the incoming message. As he glanced down at his smartphone, he was stunned to the point that he had to steady himself against the wall. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves before placing the phone back to his ear. Almost breathlessly, he asked, “What do you need from me?”

  “I need your expertise and access to what we now know as SAVIOR.” Enzo’s voice echoed with the slight touch of irritation, having only recently learned of its existence. “Can you be at Interpol Headquarters in Lyon on Monday?”

  The timing could not have been worse, but Noble couldn’t resist the call to duty and an opportunity for a mea culpa. He trusted Max to continue with the investigation at hand while he broached a new angle. “I’ll make the arrangements immediately,” he submitted, knowing his hand had been caught in the proverbial cookie jar. Downloading data from the Interpol database—without their knowledge—was an act with potentially serious consequences.

  “I’ll look forward to meeting you, after hearing Hamilton sing your praises over the years.” Enzo replied with a note of admiration. Then he hurriedly announced, “Goodbye,” followed by a click.

  Paolo waited patiently in the booth enjoying his wine, until he glanced up from his wine glass and watched Noble, apparently deep in thought, return to the booth. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve received some bad news.”

  “I’m sorry I have to cut this short. I have to fly to Lyon tomorrow.”

  “It must be pretty serious from the look on your face.”

  “Interpol is asking for my help on a case they’re investigating.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?” Paolo wasn’t probing that time. He was truly concerned.

  “Yes, I was just caught by surprise. Give Natalie and Mario my love. I’ll give you guys a call when I get back.”

  Paolo stood up and gave Noble an Italian hug with a cheek
-to-cheek kiss.

  Noble grabbed his scarf and briefcase and dashed out the front door. He could hear Paolo behind him calling out, “ciao.”

  Once outside he dared to look again at the message on his phone. It read, HEADS UP!

  7

  THE FRENCH CONNECTION

  I understand sweetheart,” Amanda replied. “But how about getting together tomorrow tonight?”

  Noble felt blessed that she understood the demands placed on him by his position. He was also starting to question those demands as they infringed on their time together. It was an odd feeling for him. “I can’t. Right now, I’m sitting in the airport terminal at Dulles International waiting for my flight to Lyon,” he answered dejectedly.

  “Lyon, as in France?”

  “I’m afraid so. Last night I received a call from Interpol asking me to assist them on a case. I should only be gone a few days, but I’ll call you tomorrow.” Noble paused, and then whispered, “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” her soft voice cooed.

  Just as Noble heard those words leave her sensual mouth, he heard a vibration causing him to glance hurriedly at his smartphone.

  “I’ve got to go, Max is calling.”

  “Travel safely,” was all he heard before taking the call.

  “Max, I tried calling you last night, but your phone was turned off,” Noble scolded.

  “I had a hot date, and I didn’t want to be disturbed. What’s the problem?” Max snapped, signaling that she was equally annoyed.

  “We are in the midst of a major investigation. I want you always to be available.”

  As he continued to sermonize, Max was recalling the many times Noble would say to her, if the agency wanted you to have a personal life, it would issue you one. She easily conceded. “Okay, boss. What’s happening?”

  Noble proceeded to tell her about his call from Enzo and instructed her to continue with the Dead Zone investigation.

  “What makes you think Mohammed al-Fadl—your Simon Hall—is the one behind the bombings in Europe?” Max inquired in an even tone, having forgotten the tenor of their earlier repartee.

  “The crescent moon and star are his calling card. No other member of al-Qaeda—or any offspring of that organization—has laid claim to using the Islamic symbol of faith, especially in that blasphemous fashion.” Noble shuddered at the notion of Simon being out there somewhere. “In fact, my very last contact from him was back in August when Baari was forced to step down.” He continued with an incredulous tone. “I remember vividly how Simon congratulated me for doing the noble thing and ending the message with that symbol.”

  “Bizarre. He must know the risk he’s taking in offending the Islamic community.” Noble sensed Max was talking to herself until she volunteered, “Let me know if I can assist you in any way from here.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow for an update—and keep your phone turned on,” Noble remonstrated, this time less belligerently.

  “Bon voyage!” Max was the one to end the call.

  “Mr. Lord, you’re free to board. Have a safe trip.” The agent smiled as she handed Noble his boarding pass and passport.

  He headed for the gangway.

  Several years earlier, as part of his austerity measures, Noble grounded the agency’s jet and opted for less expensive means of travel, much to his subordinates’ chagrin. Since then, whenever Noble boarded a commercial plane he used a different identity. Today, he traveled as Air Marshall Nathan Lord. Mad Dog, the wizard in the CIA, was famous for producing all false documentations for agents working undercover. He unfailingly ensured its perfection.

  Naturally, when airport security switched from using x-ray screening machines to retina scans, it was a simple task for Noble to transfer that information from the Noble Lord Bishop file to the Nathan Lord file in the appropriate databases. He was as much an expert as Simon, especially when it involved hacking into computer systems. The only difference was that Noble did it legally, as defined within the intelligence community—and never with ulterior motives.

  After the death of Hamilton, Noble resolved that Simon was destined to become his nemesis—and that Simon would play a dramatically dissimilar role from the Harvard classmate who had helped him through a difficult time after the death of his parents. It was in 2009 when Noble faced the cruel reality that Simon had actually fabricated his presumed rapport with him. It was his attempt to co-opt Noble to join La Fratellanza—Simon needed his talents—not his friendship. And with Simon on the loose, Noble was on his guard, taking all precautions.

  Once settled into his seat on the plane, he checked his e-mails. As he thumbed through them quickly, he also reflected on those three little words he had been using quite often, and with uncharacteristic ease. Noble rationalized he had successfully convinced Amanda that, while he loved her, he was not in love with her. She seemed to accept his distinction. Although, he suspected she was also confident their feelings would grow, bringing them closer to the next undefined phase of their relationship. What unnerved Noble was that he was getting dangerously close to that juncture. As visions of Amanda warmed his heart, he inadvertently hit the Text Messaging App. Instantly, his heart went cold as he stared again at the message Enzo had forwarded from Simon. Then the tedious announcements started to blare throughout the cabin.

  Noble’s only option had been to book an overnight flight, so he felt it best to lay back and get some shuteye during the seven-hour flight to Paris—despite thoughts of Simon on his mind. After a short layover, and within a couple of hours, he would be in Lyon.

  “Will you be joining us for dinner Mr. Lord?”

  “No, thank you. Just wake me for breakfast,” Noble responded, as he was about to unfold his blanket. The night before, he had been restless and slept fitfully, thanks to Enzo’s call. Now exhausted, he knew he would have no problem drifting off to sleep on the flight over, even if it was only five-thirty in the evening. The last thing he remembered, as his head rested on the pillow, was how he was already missing Amanda.

  “Mr. Lord, we’ll be landing in an hour. May I serve you breakfast?”

  “Yes please,” Noble grunted as he moved his seat in an upright position. Within the next hour, he sated his appetite, freshened up, and felt a renewed energy he had not experienced in recent days.

  Noble was back in the game. Interpol needed him, presumably.

  Upon landing, Noble found his way to Air France’s first class lounge at the Charles de Gaulle Airport. He had a two-hour layover in Paris. The flight to Lyon would not depart until 7:30 a.m. He decided to spend the next hour reviewing the information he had about the New Year’s Eve bombings. After unfolding his xPhad, he first examined the reports Enzo had forwarded to him. Then he began to search on the tablet for news articles describing each individual New Year’s event. There appeared to be no new developments beyond what he already knew.

  In Paris, the bomb intended for French President Grimaud’s car, mistakenly exploded under the decoy limo. In Berlin, shots were fired at the stage set up at the Brandenburg Gate, missing German Chancellor Mauer, the intended target. In London, the bomb that exploded under the table on Downing Street failed to assassinate the British Prime Minister Teragram. All the news media reported the same facts, yet no group or person had claimed responsibility.

  That was the one piece of information they didn’t have. But I do, Noble believed, and then wondered whether in fact it was true. Did Simon actually orchestrate those events?

  “Mr. Lord, your flight is ready to board,” said the lounge attendant standing to his left.

  Startled, Noble snapped his head upward. “Oh, yes, yes; thank you.” Hurriedly, he folded his tablet and returned it to his pocket, collected his papers, grabbed his carryon luggage, and dashed to his gate.

  “Place your seat in an upright position, return your table trays, and fasten your seatbelts. We will be landing at Saint Exupery Airport in Lyon, in twenty minutes. The local time is 8:40 a.m. if you’d lik
e to set your watch,” intoned the accented voice on the intercom.

  Noble had no more time to contemplate the case. He folded his tablet and prepared to disembark.

  For what, he was unsure.

  8

  THE VERIFICATION

  Egad! Another Italian investigator. Noble chuckled quietly. He recalled Hamilton’s description of his first encounter with Enzo Borgini in Florence, nearly a decade earlier. Now, as he viewed the man standing next to the black sedan, it was clear he was no longer a young rookie police officer, but the executive director of police services for Interpol. Few physical changes were apparent. He only seemed more mature than Noble recalled from the photos Hamilton had shared with him during his own visit to Florence. He appeared to be around five foot nine. His black hair was slicked straight back topping a pleasant face with dark brown eyes. Noble surmised they were similar in age.

  “Ciao,” greeted the director, as he walked in Noble’s direction. Evidently, Enzo had seen a photo of him as well. “Benvenuto to Lyon Director Bishop,” he enthused, extending his hand.

  “Thank you, Director Borgini. It’s nice finally to meet you, especially after hearing Hamilton speak of you with such admiration.”

  “Grazie, we have much to discuss. Please step in.” He motioned Noble to join him in the rear seat of the car.

  Oddly, it seemed natural to have Enzo mix his Italian with English. Paolo often employed the same endearing technique. But when Enzo began to speak French with his driver, Noble realized he had arrived.

  “I’ve taken the liberty to arrange a room for you at the Mercure Grand Hotel Lyon Perrache, only a ten-minute drive from headquarters. Would you like my driver to take you to the hotel first? It will give you an opportunity to rest and freshen up. We can meet in my office later this afternoon.” Enzo suggested.

  “That won’t be necessary. I’d prefer to get started immediately. Actually, I’m quite rested, having been able to sleep on the plane.”