The day before, shortly after leaving his meeting with Noble, Hank had received a text message from Maryann asking him to meet her. At the time, he considered it an odd request but, being extremely curious, he texted her back—8:00 a.m. Solar Café.
During their days together in the White House and on the campaign trail, they were usually at odds with each other, both believing they knew what was best for Abner. But, for the sake of the presidency, they managed to coexist, despite their strained relationship. Nevertheless, their communications ended the day Abner Baari resigned from the Office of the President.
Hank eagerly waited, wanting to know the compelling reason Senator Townsend called the meeting.
“You look like hell,” Maryann commented as she walked toward his table.
“I could probably say the same for you if it weren’t for the masquerade,” Hank razzed.
She knew he was right. Abner’s disappearance had devastated both of them. It showed particularly on her face. As she sat down across the table from Hank, without removing her scarf or sunglasses, she unbuttoned her coat and let it flow to her side.
They chatted for a few minutes about trivial subjects while waving off the server as she attempted to pour a cup of coffee, unknowingly for the former first lady.
“How’s the foundation?”
“Fine. How’s the Senate?”
“Out of control,” she retorted. Then warily, with a subtle movement of her facial expression, she glanced suspiciously toward the left side of his chest. “Hank, you seemed to have put on some weight,” she observed.
Hank instinctively reached to his side as she chastised him furtively, “Have you lost your senses?”
“I,” was all he was able to utter before he found himself following her instructions.
“Drop your napkin on the floor, and as you reach down to pick it up, calmly hand the gun over to me.”
“Are you crazy?” Hank whispered, and then cowered like a scolded child.
The senator carefully slipped the gun into her handbag and then ordered, “Let’s take a walk in the park.”
“It’s freezing out there,” he protested.
Ignoring his whining, Maryann stood up and walked toward the entrance of the café.
Hank relented. He left a five-dollar bill on the table and followed her out the door.
“Aren’t you taking a huge risk?” He discreetly glimpsed over at her shoulder bag.
Maryann placed her right index finger across her lips to silence him. Then, with the same finger, she pushed a tiny button on the side of her watch that was strapped around her left wrist.
They slowly crossed the street and strolled through Franklin Park.
“Now, what were you saying?”
“What was that all about?” he queried as he glanced at her watch, forgetting his last question.
“The Secret Service loves to listen in on my conversations. This handy device,” she indicated, while shaking her wrist in the air, “blocks the frequency on their ear pieces.”
“Don’t they know what you’re doing?”
“Of course, but I have forbidden them to intrude on personal conversations. They keep changing the frequency and I keep jamming it,” she replied, all the while looking straight ahead.
“Where did you get such a device?” Hank asked with great interest.
“It’s not important. Now, what’s with the gun? You, of all people, Mr. Anti-Second-Amendment. In fact, I recall you were instrumental in helping Abner push through legislation making it more burdensome to purchase guns and ammunition.”
Hank shook his head and sputtered, “Times have changed.” As they continued to stroll through the park, he explained, “Ever since Abner left the country, I’ve been receiving death threats. Many people wrongly concluded I knew Abner Baari was an illegal immigrant and that I had aided and abetted in the deception.”
“Did you know Abner was Hussein Tarishi?” she demanded pointedly.
“No!” He quickly diverted the discussion. “I believe we were talking about my life,” he sniveled. “As much as I disagree with the arbitrary right to own a gun, I care more about my own personal safety at the moment. Be dammed with the critics. I don’t know where the threats are coming from, and I’m not taking any chances.” Simon’s playing with me, trying to keep me on my toes for some future purpose. A repeatedly passing thought he did not share with the senator.
“Let’s sit over there.” She pointed to a park bench positioned away from the passers-by.
As Hank sat down next to her, he could eye several of the agents shuffling between the trees looking annoyed but on full alert.
Maryann stared out into the park. “Have you heard from Abner?”
From the tone of her voice, Hank could tell she was clearly distraught. “Not since he left the U.S.”
They were both aware of the rumors that had been swirling about the beltway. Purportedly, the former U.S. President, Abner Baari, had fled to Libya to work on the National Transitional Council. After the ousting of Qaddafi, the council had failed miserably in their attempts to restore the government. In fact, several dictatorial leaders who stepped in following Qaddafi met the same fate. Apparently, with Abner’s arrival in 2016, the council was able to institute a quasi-democratic regime. Recent reports confirmed that Abner reverted to his birth name, Hussein Tarishi, and was appointed President of the Senate in the Libyan parliament.
“I never understood why he was so hell-bent on throwing money at the Libyan rebels to help oust Qaddafi. Now it all makes sense. All along he was planning for his own homecoming,” she carped.
Playing the perfect insider, Hank passed along information he felt Maryann should know. “You may not be aware, but Abner knew his days were numbered and that he would eventually have to step down from the presidency. He told me before he resigned how Qaddafi destroyed his father’s business and forced his family into poverty. In hindsight, Abner believed it was a directive orchestrated by Qaddafi that forced him to go to the university and ultimately to work for his government. Obviously, the set of circumstances provided the perfect opportunity to get back at Qaddafi,” Hank opined.
It was plain to Maryann that Hank was sympathetic to Abner’s plight. Attempting to feign indifference she replied, “I guess he finally received his hero’s welcome. His revenge must have been sweet.”
Hank glanced toward Maryann. Even though he was only able to observe a sliver of her profile behind the headscarf and the left temple of her sunglasses, he couldn’t help but stare.
In a surprise move, Maryann began a personal confession. “I’m not sure whether I feel betrayed because Abner left me and his precious little girl Tasha, or because he never trusted me enough to tell me the truth about his identity. Whatever the motive, it’s devastating.”
Surprisingly, and highly unusual for Hank, he felt a need to console her, and admitted, “I believe, over time, Abner forgot he was Hussein Tarishi. I know, because I tried repeatedly to trick him as a way of testing him. One thing I am sure of is that he truly loved you.”
Maryann turned sharply and looked squarely at Hank. “You lied! You did know Abner was Hussein—you were part of the plot.”
Hank sensed that behind the pair of dark sunglasses were piercing, steely eyes boring down on him. He had seen them many times before. He attempted to dodge the answer to the question. “That’s no longer important. His behavior underlies my belief that he has forgotten he was Abner Baari and, once again, he has become Hussein Tarishi.”
In her heart, she knew that was true, but was still unable to bring herself to file for divorce. But, for the moment, she directed her anger solely toward Hank. Maryann continued to stare imperiously.
Hank stared back and she didn’t retreat.
Glowering through her glasses, she announced, “Simon wants you to keep your pager turned on—at all times.”
Hank’s jaw dropped as he remembered he had turned it off the day before when he went to see Noble. Yea
rs before, Simon had reconfigured the antiquated pager to receive text messages directly and solely from him. Hank was only able to respond yes or no. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he had been reluctant to turn the pager back on.
“So, how do you know Simon?” he tested with unexpected composure, hiding his shock.
“I met him while he was attending Harvard. We maintained our friendship throughout the years.” Maryann confessed as though it were common knowledge. “In fact, he encouraged me to attend DePaul. After I graduated from law school, he contacted me again and referred me to a friend who was looking for a civil rights attorney. Evidently, you were that friend.”
“Certainly, you must know Simon’s true identity?” Hank was incredulous.
“Sadly, I only learned that Simon was a notorious terrorist when Abner told me about the stolen TSAR funds. When Mohammed al-Fadl, the suspected perpetrator, and Simon disappeared at the same time, I drew my own conclusions.”
Hank wasn’t buying into what he considered her act.
Although it happened in 2003, during Baari’s run for the U.S. Senate, Hank vividly recalled the circumstances as if it were yesterday. He could envision the expression on Simon’s face when he announced to the members of La Fratellanza that Abner Baari needed a wife. Hank always mistrusted Simon’s selection for a first lady. It was much too easy and there had to be more behind his choice. Harboring some suspicions Hank, on his own time, vetted Maryann Townsend and discovered she had attended Radcliff at the same time the members of La Fratellanza attended Harvard, including Simon. But, at the time, he never made the connection. Now, he was having flashbacks of Simon’s apartment and remembered the bedroom that was off limits. He smiled inwardly. Simon knew all of our schedules and could have easily arranged for her to meet him at his apartment without us knowing, he thought. Oftentimes, Simon left Jake’s Pub early using numerous, seemingly legitimate, reasons to leave. Not knowing how much Maryann actually knew, he decided to play it safe and avoid further questioning.
Evidently, Maryann noticed his reverie and observed, “Is there anything else you want to ask me?”
Hank had learned a few tricks from Simon, borne of his psych classes—you show your weaknesses, they’ll show you theirs.
“I was just reminiscing about the power I once had and then lost. I didn’t realize how much it had affected me until now. Working in the White House, side-by-side with Abner, was my greatest achievement. And, when he stepped down, it destroyed me and some of my most treasured friendships,” Hank related, with tongue in cheek.
Then, he paused, hoping she’d take the bait and relay her feelings as openly.
It worked.
“I understand how you feel. Abner is an incredible man. He’s mesmerizing, and I truly love him. At first, he was like a hypnotic drug, but later it became deadly. I watched it destroy the Abner I knew. The more power he amassed, the more his soul shrank until it shriveled to nothing, leaving only the shell of the man I once knew. Perhaps it’s best my daughter will never fully grasp what he had become.”
“Be careful of Simon as well,” Hank cautioned.
Maryann sat erect. Straightaway, her demeanor changed and she spoke as though she were speaking to a servant. “He’s just a friend who asked me to pass along a message. I don’t know what is going on between the two of you, and I don’t want to know.”
Much to his disappointment, she hadn’t taken the bait. But Hank knew there was something more profound going on between them than she revealed.
Maryann caught him glancing at her watch, the one she used to jam the agents’ hearing devices and, in an effort to avert the subject, she apologized, “I forgot to thank you again for manipulating the state senate seat for me. It was the kick start I needed to launch my political career.”
Her sudden uneasiness did not escape Hank, but he felt it best to leave the inquiries for another day. He simply responded, “That gift was from Abner.”
The State Senate seat may have been a gift from Abner, she couldn’t help but ponder, but perhaps Simon manipulated the U.S. Senate race. After all, at the last minute, the fraud accusations hurled at my opponent dramatically changed the outcome. Has Simon been manipulating me the same way he was Hank?
Hank assumed she was lost in thought until the senator stood up abruptly and started to walk away, startling not only Hank but the Secret Service agents as well. They prepared to move into action.
Without turning around, Maryann could hear Hank say, “Can I have my package?” Ignoring his plea, she continued to walk out of the park.
Hank stood frozen in his stance. What was that all about?
Coincidently, only a few blocks away, Noble was about to meet with Paolo at the White House to share a very similar discussion.
23
NEW REVELATIONS
For a Saturday morning, it was eerily quiet at the White House. The dark, stormy January skies added to the dissonant atmosphere. It was evident that many staffers had chosen to escape the frenzy of the prior week as the new administration settled into their unfamiliar roles. The president also joined in and spent the weekend with the first lady and his sons at Camp David, their first visit together as the First Family. Unfortunately for Noble, he was in his office as usual, scouring through the evidence from the Dead Zone victims. And, within minutes, he would disrupt someone else’s weekend, having no choice.
Engrossed in the autopsy reports, he ignored the sound of the phone ringing until it was too late. It stopped. Seconds later, it rang again, finally grabbing his attention. He glanced at his watch. It was exactly nine o’clock. Without hesitating, he snatched the receiver out of its cradle. “Yes.”
“Director Bishop, Mr. Salvatore is here to see you,” the Secret Service duty guard announced.
“Please bring him to my office.”
Moments later, he heard a knock at the door and shouted, “Come in.”
The guard swiftly opened the door and ushered Paolo into the office. Noble stood up to greet him as the guard respectfully turned and left, closing the door behind him.
“Ciao, fratello.” Paolo called out, then quipped, “Remember the good-old days when I’d walk through the White House unescorted,” exaggerating the prefix un. Pleasantly surprised, Paolo walked over to greet Noble with the traditional Italian style cheek-to-cheek peck and a warm hug.
Noble was delighted. Evidently, Paolo had recovered from his earlier annoyance.
Then, intentionally ragging, Paolo needled, “Now, what’s with the damn summons?”
“Why don’t we sit over there where we can talk more easily?” Noble invited him to be seated in the overstuffed chairs on the opposite side of the room.
Paolo trailed behind and plunked himself down into the comfortable seat.
Noble had determined it was vital to have a serious discussion with Paolo before leaving for Utah. Paolo was the key informant in the investigation leading to President Baari’s downfall. Noble wanted to know for certain what he knew or didn’t know during his tenure in the administration—and after Simon vanished. The primary focus during the interrogation of the other members of La Fratellanza in 2009 was to capture Simon and to return the stolen funds from the Treasury. Now, Noble needed to expand the scope of questioning, leaving no stone unturned. However, he thought it best to ease into the conversation and start with the family.
“Tell me how Natalie and Mario are doing? I miss them terribly, but lately I’ve had no time to call my own.” He spoke dolefully.
“They’re both fine, and miss you as well. Did you know that Natalie has decided to go back to teaching at the University? She feels the time is right, now that Mario is doing so well.” Paolo beamed, and then added proudly, “He’s only in the third grade, but he’s amazingly self-sufficient.”
“Obviously, he takes after his mama,” Noble teased. “I knew Natalie had been contemplating going back to work for some time. She has a great legal mind and should keep it sharp.”
“I agree.
It’s a perfect arrangement. She’ll be able to coordinate her schedule around Mario’s.”
“Speaking of Mario, isn’t his birthday in a few weeks?”
“Noble, I’m shocked you remember. In fact, Natalie will be throwing him a party. It’s more a party for adults, but it’s a good excuse. Will you and Amanda be able to attend?” Paolo already knew in advance that the answer would be tentative.
“You know I’ll be there if I can,” Noble responded a bit forlornly.
Ignoring Noble’s lament, Paolo cocked his head and elicited impatiently, “I know you’re not prone to chitchat, so why did you really ask me to come here?” Then he scolded, “Fratello, I’d like to return home before the weekend is over.”
Noble was equally anxious to move the conversation forward and, having thoroughly exhausted the family discussion, he knew the time had approached. On impulse, he changed the focus.
“Have you heard from any of your brethren?”
“La Fratellanza? Why?” He was unmistakably surprised by the question. The prior week when they met at the Blackfinn, they had already discussed extensively those painful past events and the dramatic mass trauma that ensued. “We already went over that,” Paolo protested, then pondered, why does he want to rehash it?
“Last time we spoke you mentioned that you ran into Hank, but what about the others?”
Paolo conceded with a slight huff. “I haven’t spoken with Chase but, according to Hank, he’s having a really difficult time.”
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