The Loyal Nine

by Bobby Akart

  “May I offer you anything to drink?” asked the young man.

  Donald smiled and nodded. With the delivery of the Evian, the young man closed the door and left him alone. He took a quick inventory of the tools at his disposal. Telephones. Old school, but no doubt filtered by the securest encryption technology available. He pulled a chair in front of the phones and thought about Susan and the girls for a moment. They were extremely happy together as a family. Did their happiness come with a heavy price tag? Currency trading was practiced every day, right? Not $1.2 billion at once, followed by another $400 million in stock manipulations. What did it matter? Forget the dollar amounts, make the trades and go home to your family.

  He pulled off his jacket and flung it into an empty chair. Unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves, Donald executed the first in a series of steps that would make front-page news tomorrow morning.

  Chapter 6

  December 15, 2015

  Newbury Street

  Boston, Massachusetts

  After turning right on Clarendon Street, Sarge crossed Commonwealth Avenue and started looking for a parking space. He considered parking at home and walking—Newbury Street would no doubt bustle with Christmas shoppers. He passed the First Baptist Church and admired its architecture. The congregation’s history dated back to the mid-1600s and was commonly considered one of the oldest Baptist Churches in America. The current church, built in the late 1800s, was on the National Register of Historic Places. The Sargent families had been prominent members of this church since the Boston Baptists congregated in the North End. His grandfather, former Governor Francis Sargent—of “Put Sarge in Charge” fame—attended services regularly. The current-day “Sarge in Charge” had not attended since he was a boy.

  Easing his Mercedes SUV onto Newbury Street reminded him of the maze of one-way streets created in Back Bay. Tourists must think the street layout was designed as a sadistic game to keep them out. Clearly, the city’s nineteenth-century planners didn’t anticipate the population boom. The Newbury Street shopping district had an interesting history. Until the mid-nineteenth century, this area of Boston was under water—part of the Boston Harbor.

  A massive public works project was undertaken in 1857 to remove dirt fill from neighboring communities and their once substantially higher hilltops. Boston Harbor was slowly landfilled to create the affluent Back Bay section of the city. Completed in 1882, a majority of the original European-designed buildings were still standing today. By 1900, the prestige and exclusivity of Back Bay surpassed the renowned Beacon Hill. Today, Newbury Street was commonly known as the “Rodeo Drive of the East” and was home to a unique mix of shops, high-end fashion stores and stylish restaurants.

  Sarge, like most men, was not a shopper. He was a buyer. He ventured onto Newbury Street with a singular mission—buy a Christmas gift for a Harvard colleague who loved Tommy Bahama products. Sarge noticed the sidewalks were not bustling with happy shoppers. In fact, the bulk of the inhabitants were not carrying any packages. Is December 15th too early for Christmas shopping?

  Sarge spotted a parking space in front of Steve Madden shoes. He wondered if the customers of Steve Madden would care that Madden was a former bunkmate of my friend Donald Quinn at Fort Devens. Probably not, he surmised. What’s a little income tax evasion among friends, right? He maneuvered the G63 into the space, hitting the pavement with a mission as he strode towards Tommy Bahama. Hello, ladies, he thought as a group of female boutique shoppers marched up the sidewalk toward him. Give them plenty of room; you’re on their turf now. They looked expensive in a “how much would it cost to keep them satisfied” sort of way. Plenty of casual smiles were exchanged except for the one toting the most bags. I need to introduce her to my brother.

  His smartphone buzzed, stopping him long enough to avoid a speeding SUV in the Dartmouth Street crosswalk. Looking at the display, he grimaced.

  “Well, if it isn’t Julia of the Jungle,” answered Sarge.

  “Fuck you, Sarge!” was the caller’s retort.

  “You don’t scare me, lady,” he replied.

  “Well, you should be scared. Is your phone broken? Did you not pay the bill? Lose my number, perhaps?” interrogated the caller. He was doomed.

  “No, no, no and no. I’ve been winding up the semester,” replied Sarge, knowing the lame-ass excuse would not be a sufficient justification for his lack of a call.

  He really didn’t know why he hadn’t called her.

  “Fine. I’m hungry and you should feed me proper. What’s your status?” she asked.

  “Lucky for you, I’m down by Tommy Bahama’s on Newbury Street, picking up a Christmas present. When can you meet me at Stephanie’s?” asked Sarge.

  “Are you buying something for your sailor-boy brother?” she asked as her innate seventh sense of shopping kicked in.

  “No, are you kidding? He’d tie me to a line and drop anchor if I bought him something from there. Besides, he’s working this month. This is for a Harvard buddy. So, are you on your way yet?” asked Sarge, trying to deflect attention from the previous interrogatory.

  “Yes, sir,” she stretched out her response. “Private Julia Hawthorne will report to Stephanie’s at eighteen hundred hours!”

  “Well done, Private—first class, out!” added Sarge with emphasis.

  This worked out well, thought Sarge. He had been meaning to call Julia and, in fact, missed her company. Sarge—the buyer—hopped up the stairs through the cast-iron rails with a new sense of purpose—besides the acquisition of a Tommy Bahama XXL Jungle Jingle camp shirt.

  Chapter 7

  December 15, 2015

  Newbury Street

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Stepping out of Tommy Bahama’s, Sarge caught a last glimpse of the setting sun, watching as the gas lanterns took over the responsibility of illuminating Newbury Street. Ambling down the wide sidewalk, under a canopy of leafless trees, he safely stored Jungle Jingle and its signature marlin-emblazoned Tommy Bahama bag into the car.

  Briskly walking to Stephanie’s, his thoughts returned to Julia. Their relationship was complicated. Convoluted may be more descriptive. The two were close—in a “friends with benefits” sort of way—yet there had never been the slightest hint of taking it to the level of dating, much less marriage. In a sense, their side work cast a cloud of doubt over the possibility of a long-term relationship. The Quinns do it, Julia had whispered into his ear on more than one intimate occasion. That was true, but their roles were different, insulating their family from certain risks.

  It pained Sarge to keep her at a distance. Julia was an incredible woman. She’d attended the prestigious Boston University School of Journalism, which would have made their ancestors proud. The families of George Peabody and Nathaniel Hawthorne shared an ancestral background dating back to the Founding Fathers—a particular badge of honor in Boston. They also shared a sense that their destinies were predetermined. This unease didn’t prevent them from being intimate or working together, but it did give them reason to hold back from a more permanent union.

  Approaching Stephanie’s, he saw Julia’s town car pull up to the valet stand in front of the restaurant. Not waiting for the driver, Julia emerged from the car—one long leg after another. Julia was incredibly beautiful and impeccably appointed. Christian Louboutin shoes, Hermes Birkin JPG bag designed by Jean Paul Gaultier, Stella McCartney trench coat, and a variety of glistening baubles. She drew the instant attention of men and women alike wherever she appeared.

  “Yo, Adrian,” bellowed Sarge, in his best Rocky Balboa voice.

  “You are so full of it, Rocky, or Bullwinkle, whichever you choose,” said Julia laughingly, presenting her cheek to Sarge for a proper kiss.

  Sarge observed the driver, who seemed to enjoy the playful banter between the couple, smiling at them as he dutifully shut the back door. Maybe they should give it—the couple thing—a try.

  “C’mon, I’m powerful hungry,” said Sarge, befitting
Stephanie’s reputation for offering sophisticated comfort food.

  During milder weather, the wrought-iron enclosed outdoor dining café was packed with locals and tourists alike. Located at the corner of Exeter and Newbury, Stephanie’s outdoor dining provided an idyllic setting to watch the hustle and bustle of the world go by. Once inside, you were surrounded by dark walnut, a fireplace in the bar, soft golden lighting and casual conversation over what Chef Stephanie Sidell called “love food.”

  “I have big news,” started Julia as they waited to be seated. “We earned a Marconi.”

  The Boston Herald was one of the oldest daily newspapers in the United States. Founded in 1846, it had been the proud recipient of eight Pulitzer Prizes. Julia’s rise at the Herald was meteoric. Following her graduation from Boston University, she was immediately assigned to cover Senator John Kerry’s 2004 campaign. Through some remarkable investigative reporting, she uncovered voting irregularities in Florida and Ohio, which stemmed from dual state registrations. Julia earned a Payne Award for ethics in journalism.

  Later, Julia was named the first political editor in the paper’s history, consistently delivering a libertarian viewpoint. The journalist community panned the move as risky, warning the shift would reduce the Herald to “tabloid status.” Their analysis couldn’t have been further off the mark. The Herald was rewarded with a tremendous surge in its circulation. By 2012, its circulation increased at a time when most print media outlets had declined. Even the “Old Gray Lady,” the New York Times, had reduced its staff. Once again, the Herald was rewarded for its efforts by being named one of the “10 Newspapers That ‘Do It Right’” by the newspaper industry magazine—Editor & Publisher.

  Unfortunately, Julia’s stewardship of the Herald’s editorial content was not given the proper credit by her counterparts, since the Herald often contradicted the mainstream media’s left-leaning bias. Scorned by the establishment, she dug deeper into the numbers, motivated to prove them wrong. When the marketing department reported a surge in online readership of the Herald’s political content, she found what she needed. In 2013, Julia launched the Boston Herald Radio network, which broadcast locally on the AM band, but more importantly reached an audience of millions worldwide via their website. The overnight success of the venture sent the media pundits scurrying. Eighteen months later, Julia was ready to share more big news about her career.

  “Sargent, party of two?” asked the perky hostess.

  Sarge smiled and nodded affirmative.

  “Right this way,” she added.

  The wait staff at Stephanie’s was crisply attired with starched white button-down shirts, burgundy ties and waist-high aprons. Sarge always admired a well-run restaurant operation, especially one with well-trained staff. A restauranteur may have found the best location, perfectly designed, with a fabulous chef, but if a guest was not greeted by a smiling face and the proper level of attentiveness, the restaurant was doomed to failure. Sarge and Julia were seated at a cozy table next to the window.

  “Angie and John will be your servers this evening. Enjoy,” said their hostess, handing a menu to each of them and a wine list to Sarge.

  Sarge settled in and admired Julia. He could get used to this.

  “Tell me more about your Macaroni,” said Sarge, knowing he was about to be abused for this.

  The swift kick in the shin from her red-soled heels was his answer.

  “Ouch,” exclaimed Sarge.

  “Shut up or I’ll do it again,” said Julia. Sarge knew she meant it.

  “Good evening, I’m John,” said John the server.

  “And I’m Angie,” said Angie the server.

  “We’ll be happy to serve you this evening,” said John-Angie in unison. Shtick, I like it.

  “This evening we are featuring two of Stephanie’s favorite comfort foods—a pumpkin cider-brined pork chop served with a maple bourbon squash and a stuffed twice-baked potato, or you might prefer our fabulous Irish beef stew, served with mixed root vegetables,” said Angie.

  Sarge and Julia were noncommittal as they examined the menu. Sensing their need for additional time, John suggested an appetizer.

  “Perhaps we could start you out with the pan-sautéed crab cakes, or everyone’s favorite—baked macaroni and cheese balls.”

  “I think we’ve had enough talk about macaroni tonight,” said Sarge, trying to keep his composure.

  He made eye contact with Julia, and they both started laughing at the Marconi reference.

  “Sorry, guys, inside joke. We’ll both have a couple of single malts, make it Glengoyne, with a splash,” said Sarge, putting on his best “I’m sober, really I am” demeanor.

  “Yes, sir,” said John. “I take it no appetizers this evening?”

  “No, thank you. We’ll take a moment to look at the menu,” said Sarge, still avoiding eye contact with Julia.

  As John-Angie tucked tail and hustled off, Sarge thought it safe to look at Julia and found this to be in error. She had both cheeks puffed out like she just swallowed a mouthful of baked macaroni and cheese balls. Damn, it was on again, he thought as the both of them burst out in simultaneous laughter.

  “Now listen,” said Sarge, leaning back in his chair. “You are causing a disruption in this establishment, and we may get kicked out.”

  “Me,” defended Julia. “You started this whole macaroni thing. Are you going to let me tell you about the Marconi or not?”

  Angie delivered the fifteen-year-old Scotch whisky to the table.

  “Give us a little time before we order, Angie,” said Sarge, sharing a clink of the tumblers with Julia.

  His first sip of full-bodied Scotch went down smoothly, not that he expected any different from the Glengoyne distillery.

  “This is a big deal, Sarge,” began Julia.

  “I know, Julia. I’m well aware of the prestige associated with a Marconi. Congratulations.”

  The National Association of Broadcasters established this award in honor of Nobel Prize winner Guglielmo Marconi over twenty-five years ago. The Marconi Award recognized radio stations and broadcasters for their excellence in a variety of categories. The award had never been given to a predominantly Internet broadcasting medium, until now. In yet another first for Julia, and the Herald, the Marconi Award for News/Talk Station was granted to the Boston Herald Radio. It was a big deal.

  “We received the call today from the NAB announcing the decision. When we were included in the call for entries back in May, I didn’t think we had a chance,” said Julia, lifting her glass for a toast. “They’ve never granted a Marconi to an Internet broadcast. We’re the first.”

  “I am so proud of you,” said Sarge, clinking her glass and taking a sip.

  He could see his words warmed Julia, further recognizing the deep-seated effect on her. Her talents and accomplishments amazed him.

  “As you know, the concept of taking Internet radio to this level had less to do with winning awards and more to do with the dissemination of information worldwide. Our friends,” said Julia, with a nod of her head toward downtown Boston, “were very supportive of the project when we approached them in 2012.”

  There it was, the reminder—the aide-memoire. Their lives were dependent upon an association, known only to a few, that prevented a normal relationship. Sarge leaned forward to speak.

  “You and I have discussed this many times. I am proud of what we have accomplished with our side work,” said Sarge with a hushed voice. “But I get the sense our participation is going to escalate in a big way.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Julia, her inquisition interrupted by their servers.

  “So, what may we serve you for dinner tonight?” asked John.

  They both scrambled to take a last minute look at the menu.

  “I will have the Asian yellowfin tuna salad, please, and another cocktail,” said Julia, noticing Sarge’s smirk.

  Sarge ordered the Irish stew.

  “What?” asked Julia, after
the servers disappeared.

  “Asian, imagine that. I could have taken you to Panda Express,” said Sarge, spreading his legs apart to avoid the expected kick—which he did.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Sarge proudly.

  “You’re adapting,” said Julia, bringing her heel down on his toes.

  “Hey!” squalled Sarge.

  “Do you think I only have one cannon to fire, Monsieur? Do you want a war? I will give you a war!” said Julia, switching to a French accent.

  “Je me rends,” said Sarge in French, raising his white cloth napkin in surrender.

  The two had a good heartfelt laugh. He really missed her and vowed to do something about that.

  “Speaking of the French,” said Julia, changing the subject slightly. “They seem to have brokered a peace in Ukraine.”

  “Maybe,” said Sarge. “It seems to me they gave the Russians everything Putin wanted, including the two French-built Mistral-class warships bought and paid for by Moscow. The price tag on those two battleships was one point six billion, but closing the deal was more symbolic than anything. The administration used words like ill-advised when criticizing the sale, but it came down to economics for the French. They need the euro.

  “The Eurozone’s finances are in shambles,” continued Sarge. “Spain, Italy and Greece are technically bankrupt. Their national debt to GDP ratio is approaching two hundred percent. It’s unsustainable, yet these three countries refuse to implement any form of austerity measures. Germany and France have coddled them for too long. They no longer fear any repercussions for their fiscal mismanagement.”

  “So the sale of the ships to the Russians was about economics?” asked Julia.

  “I think so,” replied Sarge. “Also, appeasement. The French are tired of fighting our battles, not that they do much anyway. As for the brokered peace you referenced, it’s a farce just like all of the other cease-fire accords reached the last few years. Every time a peace agreement is reached, Putin reloads and advances. This time is no different. Apparently, a deal has been reached allowing the Russians to bring ‘aid supplies’ along the northern coast of the Sea of Azov, effectively creating a much sought-after land bridge from Russia to the Crimean Peninsula.