The Rosecross, page 16
Ash paused as he pursed his lips.
“A day or two later,” he continued, frowning, “we received a call from an Under Secretary of Defense who suggested we drop the charges against Rosen because the content of the second disc was too sensitive.”
“Too sensitive?” Mendici quipped. “Not classified?” he added.
“Sensitive—that’s the word they used,” Ward said, nodding. “The prosecutor never got a chance to review the second disc. The Under Secretary of Defense General Ash spoke with refused to surrender it.”
Whether the information stored on the second disc was classified or sensitive was meaningless. Whatever its content, the disc has caused the murders of Rosalina Micco, Saul Rosen, and Grazia’s kidnapping.
“So, you had no option but to eventually ask the trial court for permission to withdraw your prosecution of Rosen?” Mendici concluded.
“That’s right, Leonardo,” Ash said. “We asked the trial judge to dismiss the case because the information stored on the second disc was too sensitive for even a judge to review.”
“You must have been in a quandary,” Mendici remarked sympathetically. “Trying to end Rosen’s prosecution, but rebuked by a federal judge,” he added, summarizing Ash’s conundrum.
“Exactly, Leonardo. We argued strongly that its disclosure would be a threat to national security,” Ash said, nodding. “But the trial judge denied our motion. She threatened to hold the Secretary of Defense and everyone under him in contempt of court unless the government produced the second disc for Judge Micco’s review.”
“And the legal wrangling became meaningless after Rosen was murdered?” I interjected, a veiled accusation that wasn’t lost on Ash.
“Can’t prosecute a dead man,” Ash said again, turning to Mendici, anxiously moving on to another subject.
“You ask, Leonardo, why I wanted to meet with Francesco,” Ash said after laying the groundwork which led to his request to meet with me. I leaned forward. Ash stared at me, the fuddled look of a recruiter trying to sway the star quarterback to attend his school.
“As you may know,” Ash continued, shifting his stare to Mendici. “Judge Micco had asked one of his friends, Giuseppe Sabino, to accompany Mrs. Micco to the NEF seminar because he was in the Virgin Islands. During the reception, I saw Sabino standing at the bar next to the mole and Richard Stone.”
“You attended the seminar?” I asked curiously, his appearance there seemingly contrived.
Ash nodded before Mendici interrupted.
“Stone? The director of the Office of Strategic Plans?” he asked.
“Yes. That’s the guy. Do you know him, Leonardo?”
“Not personally. But I do know that Stone advises the President on Middle Eastern affairs,” Mendici answered.
It was becoming increasingly apparent to me. There was a connection between the NEF seminar, the two murders, Grazia’s kidnapping, and the plot my father discovered—Stone, Sabino, and the mole perhaps being antagonists in the story the Judge was writing.
“Stone appeared tipsy,” Ash said. “When he drinks too much, he talks too much.”
“Was Stone talking to Sabino?” I asked.
“No, he was talking to the mole,” Ash answered. “During their conversation, Sabino appeared to be leaning into their conversation as if he was eavesdropping,” he continued haltingly. “When the bartender gave him the drink he had ordered, Sabino took it to Mrs. Micco. And then something strange happened.”
Ash was doing his best to recruit me as his ally, teasing my curiosity, edging me closer and closer to his side, connecting the murders of Rosalina Micco and Saul Rosen—and, unbeknownst to him, tying their killings to Grazia’s kidnapping.
“Sabino laid the drink on the table and sat,” Ash said, continuing to spew out his theory. “He was whispering to Mrs. Micco. They talked for a long while—or I should say, Professor Sabino was talking while she listened, occasionally nodding her head. He then pulled her chair back, and together they left the reception.”
“Did you ever question Professor Sabino?” Mendici asked.
“Roosevelt did,” Ash answered. “Sabino claims that Mrs. Micco wasn’t feeling well, and he took her home.”
Ash turned to Ward and then focused his attention on me. I glanced at Mendici, a subtle request for counsel. He nodded. Ash continued.
“As you know, we confiscated your father’s laptop computer during the search of his Watergate Apartment,” Ash said—an event I could hardly forget. “Roosevelt gave it to our technicians. They were able to retrieve a series of emails authored by Judge Micco that he recently deleted. One was most revealing.”
“An email to whom?” Mendici asked Ward.
“To Guido Borgese, Claudio Armondi’s business associate,” Ash answered.
“What did my father say in the email?” I asked curiously as Ash moved closer to the reason for our meeting.
Ward reached for his laptop and opened it. I read the message and then showed it to Mendici:
Guido,
Thank you for speaking with me today. As I told you, I did not connect the Rosen case to Rosalina’s murder until recently. An assassin killed her because of my selfish ambitions. Under our conversation, I am forwarding a disc to you via a private courier. The disc’s information will help expose the plot that caused the death of my dear soul mate. Remember, share the information with Francesco only if Claudio and I cannot continue searching for the assassins who killed Rosalina.
Mendici glanced quizzically at Ash.
“What do you want Francesco to do, Luther?”
Ash turned toward me— somehow knowing that Borgese hadn’t shared the information stored on the disc with me.
“I know you don’t trust the government, Francesco, and you have a good reason,” he said, sighing. “After your mother was killed, the FBI did little to nothing to resolve her murder.”
Impatient, Mendici repeated his question.
“What do you want Francesco to do?” Mendici insisted starkly.
“We contacted Borgese,” Ash said, glancing at me. “He denied receiving the disc. Frankly, we don’t believe him. Perhaps you could convince him to cooperate with us.”
Ash was either naive or disingenuous. Or perhaps I was his only option. I suspected the latter. As he spoke, his secretary walked into the room and patiently waited until he finished his sentence.
“You have an urgent call on your secure line, General Ash,” she said quietly.
Ash excused himself and followed his secretary out of the room.
“Must be a national security issue,” Mendici surmised quietly.
Within five minutes, Ash returned.
“Well, gentlemen, we’ve found Carlton Frisk. His body is cooling in the D.C. Morgue. Frisk was murdered.”
“Have you gathered any background information about him?” Mendici asked.
“Yes, we have, Leonardo.”
“What did he do?”
“You mean—what was his line of work?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a hitman. He kills people for a living.”
CHAPTER 48
A SECRET BROTHERHOOD
Later in the day, I returned to the Four Seasons. Nino’s eyes were focused on a computer screen. A book entitled The Rosicrucians, along with stacks of papers with scribbled notes, lay scattered over his desk.
“Where did you get the computer, Nino?”
“Mendici Melrose. I called your friend Elisha. A courier delivered it.”
I walked toward Nino and peeked over his shoulder.
“What’s so fascinating?” I asked.
He turned and glanced up at me. I pulled a chair next to him and sat.
“When we first went to Dr. VonBronstrup’s apartment on K Street, the cross with a red rose etched into the intersecting bars aroused my interest,” he said, pondering for a moment. “And when I went into the room behind Hudson D’Priest’s apartment, my curiosity exploded.”
According to the Judge, Nino’s intellectual curiosities extended well beyond the law and centered mostly on history disciplines and Catholic theology. He spent a year in the seminary before opting out and attending law school instead. Perhaps I was mired too deeply in the sparse collection of clues left by my father. But I could conceive of no connection between the Judge’s manuscript, the second disc, my mother’s murder, Grazia’s kidnapping— and an ancient sect known as The Rosicrucians. Nino disagreed.
“Just a hunch, Francesco,” he acknowledged. “But I think we need to learn everything we can about your father’s friend, H. Victor VonBronstrup.”
Glancing at the Rosicrucian book sitting next to the computer, I asked a question, already knowing the answer.
“Where did you get the book?” I asked, giving Nino an accusing stare.
“Elisha. I called her again, and within two hours, I had it,” he answered, returning my look, forcing a wry smile.
“By courier?”
For a moment he looked at me with squinted eyes, turned away, and glanced blankly at the computer before answering my question.
“No. Elisha bought it at Barnes & Noble and delivered it. She said she’d call you later,” he said curtly.
When we met at Mendici Melrose, I knew I could not isolate myself from Elisha. She offered to assign my father’s estate to another associate in the firm. I refused her offer but vowed our dealings would remain on a professional level. My relationship with Elisha Forde Scott was one part of my life I was able to control. It was the maniacal part—my father’s request—that was spinning wildly out of control.
“So how do the Rosicrucians factor into our search, Nino?” I asked reluctantly, appeasing Nino. Purposely, he avoided my question and focused his attention on my father’s law school friend.
“First, Francesco, you should know something about H. Victor VonBronstrup,” he said briskly. “He’s the author of many articles I’ve read on the internet. Most of them deal with occult societies.”
“Did you learn anything?” I asked, feigning interest.
Nino thought for a second, a retrospective moment while he stroked his chin.
“I did. From one article,” he answered, pondering. “It was entitled Confession Secretium Fraternitatis RC.”
While I mused over the Latin title of a book I couldn’t pronounce, let alone read, Nino flipped through the pile of papers scattered on his desk but found little, saying that he found only a few stray comments on the article.
“What was it about?” I asked, just to be polite, recognizing that the article had generated little or no interest among readers.
“It was mostly about a select few Rosicrucians who could foresee the future,” Nino explained.
“A visionary who anticipates the state of the world for centuries to come?” I asked, somewhat cynically, offending Nino. He only shrugged. Since we met at his apartment on K Street, I was intrigued by the eccentric Dr. VonBronstrup. Nino shared my feelings. But judging by the papers stacked high on his desk, his interest went well beyond fascination.
“First, Francesco, Dr. VonBronstrup believes in reincarnation.”
“Who was he in his prior life?” I asked just to keep a flow in our conversation.
“Johann Valentin Andreae,” Nino answered.
“I’m not familiar with the man,” I said brashly.
“Nor should you be,” he said, brushing aside my cynicism, “unless you’re a sixteenth-century scholar. Johann Valentin Andreae was a devout Lutheran pastor who was born in 1586.”
Nino, a history major at Yale and an Oxford Scholar, searched for words that best described a forgotten period in European thought dominated by spiritual enlightenment and intellectual knowledge. He called it ‘The Rosicrucian Era.’
“The Rosicrucians first surfaced in a manifesto written anonymously in 1616 in Germany,” he explained, continuing his lecture. “It was entitled The Chemical Wedding of Christian Rosencreutz, an allegorical romance tale that spans seven days. Its symbol is a Calvary cross with a rose in its center.”
“Who wrote the manifesto?” I asked, Nino’s mention of a Rose Cross arousing my interest.
“Johann Valentin Andreae later claimed to be its author, known four centuries later as your father’s law school buddy, H. Victor VonBronstrup.”
“The protagonist was Christian Rosencreutz?” I questioned, amused by H. Victor VonBronstrup’s persona in his prior life.
“Yes. He was a legendary German doctor and mystic philosopher known as Brother C.R.C. or Brother Rose-Cross.”
Mysticism bored me, but I was beginning to follow Nino’s logic. Andreae, one of the few Rosicrucians who could foretell the future, gazed into the twenty-first century and wrote a manifesto sending a message through Brother C.R.C. that traveled through centuries.
“What’s the cliff notes version of Andreae’s story?” I asked, showing some interest in a manifesto written 500 years ago that somehow affected the life of Giovanni Micco centuries later—at least according to Nino.
“Through Brother C.R.C., Andreae explained Rosicrucianism in his Manifesto as a spiritual and cultural movement built on truths hidden from the average man.”
“What truths?” I asked, musing, my thoughts centering on the words stored on the second disc—the one the Government refused to surrender to Rosen’s lawyers.
“Andreae used ‘truth’ as an allegory,” Nino explained, drawing on his expertise as a history scholar. “He was referring to the secret truths of alchemists who were preparing to transform the political and intellectual landscapes of Europe.”
“Why were the truths concealed?” I inquired.
“Because the political power mongers of the day wanted it that way,” Nino explained.
Nino’s attempt to draw similarities between Andreae’s story and our mission began to fascinate me. I recalled General Ash’s words when asked to reveal the information stored on the first disc. “All I’m at liberty to say is that it involved the purchase of pure uranium by a country in the Middle East that could result in a military strike by the United States.” And then there was Grazia’s ransom demand, the information stored on the second disc, the truth concealed, Ash’s words again revealing. “We received a call from an Under Secretary of Defense who suggested we drop the charges against Rosen because the content of the second disc was too sensitive.”
Searching for hidden clues in a story written centuries ago offered me little insight into Grazia’s kidnapping, two murders, and the plot my father had discovered. Yet, I felt an urge to hear Nino out, mostly after he had devoted much time and effort into his Rosicrucian research—but also because he might be on to something.
“How does the story end?” I asked, wanting to move on to a more earthly subject—the eccentric H. Victor VonBronstrup.
“It was a time of great turmoil,” Nino explained. “In the story, Brother C.R.C. traveled to the Middle East because he could not garner any interest from European scientists and philosophers.”
The excursion of Brother C.R.C. to the Middle East also intrigued me, but I remained confused by Nino’s foray into the past. Clearing the fog somewhat, I again revisited my meeting with General Ash—and Leonardo Mendici’s mention of Richard Stone.
“Stone? The Director of the Office of Strategic Plans?” Mendici asked.
“Yes. That’s the guy. Do you know him Leonardo?”
“Not personally. But I do know that Stone advises the President on Middle Eastern affairs.”
“What did Brother C.R.C do in the Middle East?” I asked.
“He formed a small circle of intellectuals—a secret brotherhood— and founded the Rosicrucian Order. It had no more than twelve members, and their mission was to reveal the hidden truth.”
“Why twelve?”
“Probably in deference to Christ’s twelve apostles. They then paired off in teams of two.”
“They traveled together?”
“Yes. The couple’s mission was to spread the truth. To quote Andreae, ‘if any household refuses to listen to your message, shake its dust from your feet as you leave.’”
Like any competent lawyer, Nino was laying a foundation, connecting the past with the future. I played along, knowing it best that I follow the path he was mapping and ask questions that followed Brother C.R.C.’s life and death.
“I assume Brother C.R.C. died when the story ended.”
“He did, at age 106. And when his disciples visited the mausoleum where Brother C.R.C. was buried, they found inside a seven-sided cylindrical vault,” Nino said, pondering. “It had the same configuration as the tabernacle I saw in the room behind Hudson D’Priest’s apartment—a vault with seven sides.”
“What was inside the tabernacle?”
“Andreae described it as a ‘fireball carved into the vault’s ceiling,’ something akin to the sun. In his words, it was ‘a beacon casting light into eternity.’”
“Did Brother C.R.C. leave any messages for his disciples?”
“Just an inscription carved into the wall sealing his crypt.”
“What did it say?”
“‘Thou Shall Find the Hidden Treasure.’”
The similarity of the two tabernacles intrigued me, but I was growing impatient.
“That was then, Nino. This is now. What connects the past with the future?”
“Think about it. Andreae’s novel was a roman a clef—a story about real events within a facade of fiction—and it was built on truths hidden from the average man.”
“And my father’s novel is a roman a clef—a story about thinly disguised real people acting within a fictional tale?” I surmised.
“Exactly. And Judge Micco probably centered his story around ‘truths hidden from the average man.’”
I remained baffled by Nino’s comparison—two novels written centuries apart with little in common— only the author’s design to fuse reality with fiction.
“So, what’s the significance of all this?” I asked, my impatience exhausted.
A chuckle crossed Nino’s face as he spun around in his chair, his amusement apparent, the calculating detective about to unravel a mystery.
“Use your imagination, Francesco. Andreae’s manifesto centers around a hidden truth, a secret brotherhood, and disciples who set out in pairs of two ‘to spread the truth.’”
