Brotherhood Beyond the Yard (The Simon Trilogy)

by Sally Fernandez

  The president’s breathing sounded heavier from the other end of the line, but there was still no verbal response.

  At that moment, not having to face the president’s gaze, he reminded the president of the conversation they had before he left for Florence. “The basis for releasing the evidence early also applies to Director Bishop, should anything happen to him,” he cautioned, with the most authoritative voice he could muster.

  Then Director Scott officially tendered his resignation to be effective immediately, and the president accepted.

  The director ended the call by wishing the president good luck—said Arrivederci—and hung up the phone.

  28

  THE REUNION

  It was the dog days of summer in 2016. The Republicans had control of the Congress and the Democrats reigned in the White House. In essence, the American people had maintained a balance of power by reelecting Abner Baari to a second term. The line-up of wannabes for the 2012 presidential race had been dreadful, so Baari had been a shoo-in. And although his veto pen was still in overdrive, the wheels of government were stuck in neutral.

  Progress inside the Beltway was minimal, but conversely, the economy was on a steady upturn, spending was on the downturn, the deficit clock was ticking in reverse, and the socialist agenda was slowly unwinding. Jobs were still in short supply, but that problem was finally starting to sort itself out. There were visible signs of hope in the minds of the American people, that democracy was not threatened and capitalism had regained its vitality.

  Then, as President Baari’s second term was coming into the home stretch, the wannabes resurfaced—and thus far—the former SIA director, Hamilton Scott, who had retired seven years earlier, had not divulged the conspiracy that had been unleashed on the country and its citizens.

  —

  The current SIA director was fully engrossed in his work when his secretary entered the office with a priority envelope. As he glanced at the label in the center and spotted his name in all caps, DIRECTOR NOBLE BISHOP, SIA, his eyes turned upward to the return address.

  What a pleasant surprise to see the words Florence, Italy, he reflected, knowing exactly from whom it came. It brought to mind the frequency with which Hamilton spoke of his beloved Florence, as they chatted often following his retirement. Noble was never certain whether it was a coincidence or providence that led Hamilton back to Florence. Certainly, it seemed like a quirk of fate that he went back to wrap up the most notable case of his career, and then remained to make it his home.

  Curious, Noble opened the envelope. Enclosed he found an airline ticket and a letter, requesting him to fly to Florence. Interestingly, the request was not from Hamilton, but from an Aldo Tancredi. The only other information contained in the message was an address that he recognized as Hamilton’s: Piazza degli Unganelli, Viale della Torre del Gallo, 5. The airline ticket had an open date, but Noble felt a sense of urgency. Perhaps it was the lack of information which led him to that conclusion.

  Conveniently, it was August, although it wouldn’t have made a difference in any event. Much of Washington was in shutdown mode, most issues tabled, and there were no compelling national security issues to address, at least not that morning.

  Noble cleared his calendar and arranged to leave the next day, for a place he had romanticized but had never actually visited.

  —

  During much of the flight, he filled his head with reminders of the infamous “sting,” Simon’s escape, and the Zurich accounts. In spite of the churning thoughts, and the excitement of seeing Hamilton again, Noble managed to get a few hours of sleep before the plane landed.

  Much to his surprise, his flight was on time, arriving at exactly 10:55 a.m. at the Peretola Airport in Florence, Italy. “I can’t believe I’m actually here,” he muttered under his breath impulsively, being only twenty minutes from the historic center of the birthplace of the Renaissance, a place he always cherished. Over the years, he had read many Florence guidebooks, as he planned trips that never happened. Though he had received many invitations from Hamilton, work always seemed to trump his desire to travel.

  This unplanned trip, however, would be different. Noble had discerned that it was not going to be a sightseeing tour; what he hadn’t discerned was that it would be a life-changing event.

  It was Sunday, hot and sticky, not much different from the city he had just left. As he exited the airport with relative ease, he became concerned that his inability to speak Italian would hamper him. Fortunately, taxi is an international word, he thought as he glanced up at the signs spelling out the word, and then followed them to the inevitable line forming to his right. Settling in to the back seat of the taxi, he presented to the driver the address that he had written on a separate piece of paper, not trusting his pronunciation. Finally, he was on his way to see his dear friend and as excited as he was to see Hamilton again, he felt a tinge of trepidation. Perhaps it was the unorthodox delivery of the invitation.

  During the entire drive into central Florence, Noble’s eyes darted as he tried to take in the wealth of sights. Listening to the melodic church bells in the distance added to the emotional experience. What seemed to be only minutes later, the taxi pulled up to a modest villa in a small piazza, with a spectacular view of the historic center of the city. When Noble stepped out of the taxi, he marveled as he turned and looked below at the picturesque scene. He could see the amazing red dome on the Santa Maria del Fiore, referred to as the Duomo, the Italian version of a cathedral.

  “Astonishingly, the cathedral was started in 1296 and completed by the famous architect Filippo Brunelleschi, who constructed the dome over one hundred years later in 1436,” he blurted out to the driver, instantly feeling embarrassed, realizing this probably was not news to him. “Excuse me, but I had read certain facts repeatedly in the various guidebooks I’d collected, and I feel as though the Duomo and I are old friends.”

  “She is a friend of mine as well.” The driver smiled.

  The amiable driver helped Noble with his luggage and directed him to the entrance of the director’s home.

  —

  Noble rang the doorbell and anxiously waited to see Hamilton open the door. He was taken aback when a rather distinguished looking man greeted him. He was tall, with graying temples and a pleasant face.

  “Buongiorno, I am Aldo Tancredi. You must be Director Bishop.”

  “Yes, and thank you for the invitation, although I am curious to know why,” he replied, as he shook the extended hand. He was stunned to discover the person who mailed the package was the valet, and later learned he was also Hamilton’s caregiver. Noble was pleasantly surprised and thoroughly grateful to find Aldo not only spoke flawless English, but pleasingly, with melodic undertones of his mother tongue.

  Taking his luggage, Aldo ushered Noble to a large living room and announced, “Please wait here. I will let the director know you have arrived.”

  The director. It seems strange to hear him say that; he was my director too, Noble reflected.

  Approximately a half hour later, time enough for Noble to take in the opulence of the room, Aldo returned. “The director is ready to receive you now.”

  As they entered the bedroom, Noble felt tears welling in his eyes, partly for the delight in seeing his mentor after so many years, and partly for the sadness in seeing the frail, elderly man before him. Hamilton was a shadow of the man he had once known. The only recognizable features were the shock of white hair, which he always had sported, even as a young agent, and the piercing dark blue eyes that seemed to peer into one’s very soul. Without those characteristic features, Noble would not have recognized him. He approached the side of the bed and took the hand before him. He held it firmly, but gently, in his own.

  “Welcome, my dear friend.” As Hamilton spoke, Noble was startled to hear a voice from the past, a strong, husky voice, not to be mistaken for anyone else.

  They both smiled at the sight of each other, embraced in the Italian fashion, and
then chatted over an hour catching up, primarily on what was happening in Noble’s life. Much to his surprise, Hamilton didn’t ask a lot about the Washington scene, and he never mentioned the president, or Simon.

  I assume that will come later, pondered Noble.

  Aside from their numerous encounters over the years, Simon’s escape and its ramifications sealed their destiny. Still there were questions that only Hamilton could demystify. The revelation would have to come later as he was beginning to tire, noticeably.

  “Perhaps you might want to rest for a while?”

  “Yes, but when I wake up, would you like to go for a walk? Although you’ll have to do the pushing,” he grinned, glancing at the wheelchair stationed in the corner.

  “I serve at the pleasure of the director,” Noble said, returning the smile.

  Noble left the room and went to look for Aldo.

  —

  Finding Aldo was more difficult than Noble had expected. What he discovered was that what appeared to be a modest villa was actually quite sprawling. As he wandered from room to room, taking in the extensive and expensive art collection, he wondered aloud, “How could Hamilton possibly afford all this on his modest retirement salary?” He based his assumption on his own salary as the current director.

  The sight of Aldo at the end of the corridor interrupted his thoughts.

  Noble, starting to feel the need for a nap himself, wanted to know where his bedroom was located, but first he wanted to know about Hamilton’s health, a subject that he had steered away from initially.

  As Aldo walked Noble toward his room, he said with a tremble in his voice, “The director is only going to live for a short while longer.” He explained that, just a month earlier, the director received a diagnosis of an inoperable brain tumor that was growing rapidly.

  “Will he suffer any pain?” Noble asked hesitatingly.

  “Although there is some intracranial pressure, the director is not suffering,” he assured him. “Eventually he will go into an altered state of consciousness and then drift off to sleep. The doctors assured me the director would die peacefully.”

  When they approached Noble’s room, after winding through several corridors, Noble asked, “Please wake me when the director is ready for his stroll.”

  Aldo retreated, leaving Noble with his luggage and his sinking feelings of the impending loss he confronted. As Noble turned to face the open door, he gulped as he viewed a large Under the Tuscan Sun type of room, inclusive of Florentine furniture and a fresco painted on the ceiling. For that moment, he felt he had drifted back into another century, let alone another country, and then the sorrow of Hamilton’s condition returned.

  Several hours later, he heard a rap on the door, and heard Aldo’s melodic voice say, “Signore, il Direttore is ready.”

  As Noble dressed in preparation for his walk with Hamilton, he found he also had to prime himself mentally as well, for whatever this visit would hold.

  He joined Hamilton in the lavish living room he had entered upon his arrival. He was sitting in his wheelchair, dressed in khaki slacks and a white shirt with tails out, and appeared to be more the person Noble remembered, for which he was deeply grateful. If now is to be the last time I will see him, this is how I want to remember my mentor and the man who considered me his son, he thought, consoling himself.

  —

  Leaving the villa the air seemed less heavy, and there was a slight breeze, almost cooling, compared to that morning when Noble disembarked from the plane, only a few hours earlier. Following Hamilton’s instructions, Noble pushed the wheelchair along a small alley, actually a street, named Via Giramonte. “What is that marvelous smell of smoke wafting in the air?”

  “It is the last of the burning from the pruning of the olive trees, a few months before. It always makes the air smell like late autumn.” Hamilton smiled as he took a whiff of the scent.

  Along the winding road, Hamilton chatted about his life in Florence, how fortunate he was to live in such a wondrous city, and of the exceptional care Aldo tendered. “When I was sent to Florence to oversee the murder investigation, I vowed I would one day return to this beautiful city and make it my home.”

  “Ironically, you couldn’t have known at the time that the most important case of your career would bring you back,” Noble replied, as sadness set in by the thought, It was a case that demanded all of his energy, and consumed much of his life, and it removed him from any hope of rearing a family.

  The director, married several times, divorced, and estranged from his two children, made the agency his life, leaving no room for romance or anything resembling a traditional existence.

  Thankfully, he made time for me, within and outside the agency, for which I am everlastingly indebted. Unknowingly, he gave me a family, or at least stepped in for the father I lost as a young adult. He continued to reflect as Hamilton described the view of the countryside.

  As they sauntered along exchanging pleasantries, Noble was guided by Hamilton’s pointing finger, instructing, “Go this way” or “No, that way.” When they turned left up a long, gradual curving hill, he described the Basilica of San Miniato al Monte situated at the top. “The monastery, complete with a bishop’s palace, was built in the eleventh century. The Florentines often refer to it as the ‘Gate to Heaven.’” As Noble pushed the wheelchair up the hill, Hamilton continued, “The church with its bell tower, I believe, was one of the towers where Michelangelo hid from the pope’s army as they invaded Florence.”

  “Didn’t it have something to do with Michelangelo being enlisted against his will to reinforce the city walls to defend Florence against the pope’s army? The fact that the Pope was a Medici and the Medici Family had befriended Michelangelo must have created quite a problem for him?” Noble queried.

  “Yes, that’s close.” He chuckled. “Even the most competent scholar would require a Gantt chart to sort out the players involved in the multitude of invasions of Florence, not to mention their own forays.”

  “Certainly it was a complicated but interesting era of history,” Noble acknowledged.

  Finally, they reached the top of the hill. Noble was breathless, not solely from the exhausting push up, but also by the sheer beauty that lay before his eyes. As he steered the wheelchair through the piazza at San Miniato to the wall, he found a panoramic view of the entire city.

  Hamilton pointed to a specific section of the wall next to a stately cypress tree on the right. “Leave me here while you walk across the piazza and look inside the Basilica,” he encouraged.

  Noble obliged and inside the church, he discovered a fifteenth-century tabernacle and apse, all in mosaic. His immediate reaction was to say, “Unbelievably beautiful.” He took a few more moments to walk around the inside of the church and then returned to join Hamilton, and sat next to him under the cypress.

  “From the vantage point where you are sitting,” Hamilton said, “look to the right of the tree, and you can see the bustling historic center of Florence, with its towering Duomo dominating the palaces and piazzas surrounding it. Actually, slightly to its left is the Piazza della Repubblica, technically the geographic center of the city. Now look to the left of the tree, and you can see the rolling countryside with its gently sloping hills, cypress trees, and villas dotting the landscape. It looks like the picturesque Tuscany you’d see on the covers of coffee table books.”

  “Truly, it is a view of the best of two worlds. It’s breathtaking.” Noble granted.

  While Noble sat on the wall catching his breath, Hamilton told him about his daily treks up the hill to San Miniato. “I vowed when the time was near for me to walk through the ‘Gate to Heaven,’ this would be the last view I’d want to see.” Then softly, Noble heard him say, “It is also the view I have always wanted to share with you.” With tears in his eyes, unlike the seemingly unemotional director, he spoke about how important Noble had become in his life and said he loved him like a son. Suddenly, his voice shifted as he regained his
composure, sounding more like his former self.

  “Have you ever received any signs of activity from Simon?”

  Stunned at the abrupt transition in thought, Noble paused momentarily, then answered, “For the last six years, I have tried doggedly to trace the money, looking for clues, but the trail has gone cold and it appears Simon has vanished.”

  Hamilton then began to speak about the president. “I never felt there had been a right time to expose him, until now.”

  Noble was flabbergasted by the words “until now,” and the color drained from his face.

  Ignoring Noble’s sudden reaction, Hamilton continued to explain that he had been following the politics—or rather, the histrionics—in the States, and felt the American people and the United States had both regained sufficient stature in the world, as the economic crisis subsided. “Now that the president is in his final year of office, it is time to ensure the American people don’t repeat history. Noble, you must insure that the proper vetting takes place in the next presidential election cycle. It is vital to our national security!” he warned.

  Hamilton always managed to be current on national and international affairs. He was well aware of the problems of homegrown terrorists and was alarmed at the breaches in security. Excitedly, he said, “You recall Army Major Nidal Malik ‘AbduWali’ Hasan who was responsible for the Fort Hood massacre in 2009, and then Colleen LaRose, nicknamed Jihad Jane, who became a radical Islamist arrested in 2010 for an assassination attempt, and Faisal Shahzad who attempted to blow up Times Square, also arrested in 2010. Just to name a few!” he enumerated forcefully. Then, looking directly at Noble and in a calmer voice, he said, “I am officially passing the mantle to you. You must determine when and how to expose the plot. You’ll have to be the one to go to the president.”