The Rosecross, page 20
At the Jefferson Street stop, the other passengers remained on board. I got off. Alexandria Arnold lived in the first block of houses. Four dim lights, two on either side of the street, hung from telephone poles. One was flickering on and then off, and the other three did little to illuminate the area. Row houses that set back evenly from the sidewalk lined the narrow street. Because of the darkness, it was challenging to locate Alexandria Arnold’s home. Hoping not to be seen, I walked up a brick walk and approached the corner house’s porch. I’d find the number and get a bead on my destination.
Tacked onto a porch pillar was the house’s street number—101. Alexandria Arnold lived at 107 Jefferson Street. I retraced my steps and made my way toward Arnold’s home. There was a pole lamp shedding a glimmer of light on the walkway that led to her house. I looked at my watch. It was two minutes past eleven. I proceeded up the walkway and onto the porch. I knocked four times. The door opened—but only an inch or two. The safety latch remained fastened.
“Hand me your driver’s license.”
It was a female’s voice. I reached into my wallet, removed the license, and passed it on to Alexandria Arnold. Satisfied I was her guest, she opened the door, and I entered a narrow hallway.
“Thanks for seeing me, Alexandria.”
“Call me Alex,” she said, handing me back my license.
She closed the door and attached the safety latch.
“Come into the kitchen. We can talk there.”
I followed her through a hallway that led into a small galley kitchen. A rectangular table was shoved against a wall; two chairs were placed at opposite ends. A small lamp sat on the table. A fixture above the sink provided the only light. A window claimed most of the back wall.
“Sit here, Francesco.”
She pulled out a chair and walked to the opposite side of the table. Alexandria Arnold was a middle-aged woman of medium height and slight build. She wore jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and white ankle socks. Her brown hair was pulled straight back and tied in a long ponytail secured by a black bow. She sat on the edge of her chair, crossed her legs, leaned forward, and clasped her hands, resting them on her legs. Our eyes met. The meeting began.
“Let me say this first, Francesco,” she said stoically. “I recently learned that your sister had been kidnapped, and I also know you’re searching for a disc. Perhaps I can help you.”
“You know Grazia’s been kidnapped?” I asked surprisingly, wide-eyed as my jaw dropped, jolted by her revelation, but more perplexed by the source of her information. A questing stare punctuated my curiosity.
“How do you know?” I asked, astounded.
“Claudio Armondi told me,” she answered calmly.
“You knew him?” I asked curiously.
She sat back, arms folded, her stare resolute.
“Yes. Through your father. Let’s leave it at that.”
I nodded, her firm stare telling me that Alexandria Arnold wouldn’t budge.
“How did you meet my father?” I asked, testing the boundaries of our conversation.
“We met at a cocktail party sponsored by the National Enterprise Federation a short time after your mother was murdered,” she explained. “We talked for a while. I told him I was a senior military officer at the Pentagon and worked for the Near East South Asia Office. For some reason, he was intrigued.”
Because of the ransom demanded by Grazia’s kidnappers, I was mostly interested in the disc the Judge referred to in the message he sent to Guido Borgese. But Alex was connected to the Administration’s new policy in the Middle East, a valuable source, a possible ally that could help me piece together Grazia’s kidnapping, the murders, and the ‘draconian plot’ my father had discovered.
“What aroused my father’s curiosity?” I asked, comfortable asking questions if she was open to answering them.
“My position.”
“As an officer dealing with Middle Eastern affairs?”
“Yes,” she answered, leaning forward, her eyes fixed on mine. “Your father began to quiz me about the Administration’s new policy in the Middle East. I told him I was upset about certain events that were occurring at the Pentagon. I specifically worked on the Iran desk, and we were now operating under a new rubric: ‘The Office of Strategic Plans.’”
According to my father, Alexandria Arnold was an antidote, a contact who could somehow counteract whatever ruse he had discovered. But I was more intrigued by Alex’s relationship with Claudio Armondi and his possible connection to the Iran desk.
“Who runs the Office of Strategic Plans?” I asked.
“Richard Stone. He’s the Director. Stone has worked on intelligence and foreign policy matters for years.”
The puzzle’s loose pieces were falling in place. It was Stone’s conversation with a mole at another NEF seminar that spiked the curiosity of Professor Sabino, causing him to eavesdrop on their conversation while they enjoyed their favorite inebriant. I recalled General Ash’s comment: ‘When Stone drinks too much, he talks too much.’
“Any other principals in the Office of Strategic Plans?” I asked, prying for details.
“Two others,” Alex related. “One is Lester LaRouche. He’s the adjunct foreign policy expert. He’s also a senior policy advisor at the National Enterprise Federation. The other is Luca Botti.”
“What does Botti do?” I asked, recalling his name and the number I had dialed on Anna Angilisanti’s iPhone after she had left my father’s Watergate condominium.
“Nobody knows,” she answered, shrugging. “But sometime after Stone expanded the Iran desk, he was named the Deputy Under Secretary of Defense for Policy.”
“Why the rubric change?”
“We were now responsible for implementing the Administration’s new foreign policy for Iran.”
“Which was?” I asked, testing the bounds of our conversation.
“A much more aggressive approach,” she answered, smirking. “Like an ‘in your face’ policy. Threaten us, and we’ll blow you to smithereens and take over your country.”
I wasn’t a student of politics, nor did I follow the machinations of government closely. But I sensed that I was about to become acquainted with the yields of deception—manufactured truths fed by demagogues to an unsuspecting public.
“Stone intended to start releasing the Administration’s new Middle East policy on a well-plotted schedule,” Alex revealed. “There was, however, one glitch—the new policy was leaked to Saul Rosen, but he didn’t follow directions. He released the information to AIPAC prematurely.”
“And that resulted in his indictment?”
“It did,” she answered as a forlorn stare crossed her face. “Unfortunately for Rosen, our Attorney General—Luther Ash—was unaware that Stone purposely leaked the Administration’s new Middle East policy to Rosen.”
“The AG’s office thought Rosen was intentionally passing on classified information to Israel,” I surmised.
“Yes,” Alex answered sadly, nodding, fingers clasped as her eyes dropped to the table.
It was nothing more than the ‘back channeling’ practice that Roosevelt Ward explained to me when we met at Ash’s office—the leak of classified information to either the media or unidentified sources, in this case, Saul Rosen. As Ward said then, it’s nothing more than a ‘preview of coming attractions.’
“Rosen was murdered, and that ended the government’s case?” I asked rhetorically.
“Yes. And all because of a disc,” she said, her words drawled, pausing as a grin slowly crossed her face.
“And, it was the second disc your father ordered the government to surrender to Saul Rosen’s lawyers in their discovery request,” she revealed slyly, tying Grazia’s ransom to our discussion.
“How do you know it was the same disc that the government withheld in the Rosen case?” I asked eagerly.
“Because I read and listen—and I know what intel is stored on the disc,” she bragged.
As a senior military officer, it wasn’t surprising that Alex had access to classified information, her clearance level high, secret or top-secret, nothing less. The government had classified the data stored on the Rosen disc as sensitive, and Alex wouldn’t expose herself to an indictment by sharing it with me, unless she was a zealot with a fanatical agenda. I decided to tread softly, listening while she talked.
“All high-level personnel meetings are recorded, reduced to a transcript, and then stored on a disc,” she explained. “It’s the same system that got Nixon in trouble in the Watergate scandal.”
Alex leaned back, smirking as our eyes met.
“In much the same way,” she continued, “by refusing to comply with your father’s order, Stone and his gang of renegades were playing with fire.”
Her pause left me an opening to ask a question.
“If the information was so incriminating, they could have easily destroyed the disc,” I suggested.
Alex chuckled as she stared at me, my eyes squinted, lips pursed, my brow creased.
“Easier said than done,” she chuckled.
A mischievous smile lit her face.
“I secretly recorded their meeting,” she announced casually.
Once again, I was stunned, astonished by her grit, a blow that would have buckled my knees had I been standing. Alexandria Arnold was indeed a zealot, and in all likelihood, she had a plan—and I was part of it. Why else would she be passing classified information on to me?
“How were you able to do that?” I asked suspiciously.
“Let’s just say I have friends at the Pentagon who shared my concerns. It was a black-bag job.”
“A black-bag job?”
“Yeah,” she answered smugly. “We covertly planted surveillance equipment in the Office of Strategic Plans meeting room.”
“You bugged the room?”
“It was the right thing to do,” she said smartly.
I applauded her daring game but questioned her judgment, even her sanity. Alex’s gamble was an invitation to a treason indictment. But then again, the cabal who planned the scheme wouldn’t want a revealing prosecution to stop the plot’s clock from ticking.
“We bugged the room,” she added. “But we also scrubbed it clean.”
“So, there are two discs of the same conversation—one in possession of Stone and friends and one in your possession?” I asked.
“Exactly.”
“Whose voices appear on the disc?” I asked.
“Stone, Botti, and LaRouche.”
“What were they discussing?”
“A burglary that would produce bogus intelligence.”
“What’s the bogus intelligence?”
“That’s all I can tell you.”
Her words cut deep.
“Why?”
“Because my father wants it that way.”
“Who’s your father?” I asked, puzzled.
“Victor VonBronstrup. He and his wife adopted me when I was ten.”
I wasn’t shocked. The strange twists in this strange story had already immunized me. Thankfully, Nino had dug deep into the background of Dr. VonBronstrup. His request that Alex keep secret the bogus intelligence inched me closer to Nino’s suspicion that H. Victor VonBronstrup and Judge Giovanni Micco had indeed formed a ‘secret brotherhood.’ And somewhere entangled in the mess was Claudio Armondi.
“You gave the disc to Dr. VonBronstrup?” I surmised.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To use his words, he needed it to ‘fulfill a prophecy.’”
I let her biblical response drop. Alex’s answer was an apparent reference to The Rosecross and Dr.VonBronstrup’s paranormal powers as a Rosicrucian. I didn’t want to get mired down in a mystical conversation. That’s Nino’s bailiwick.
“Did Dr. VonBronstrup tell my father that he had the disc?”
“He did. But not until after your mother was murdered.”
“Why did he wait until then?”
“Because he didn’t know the Rosen case was pending before him.”
“How did he find out?”
“His neighbor told him two days after your mother was murdered.”
“His neighbor?”
“Yes. Giuseppe Sabino. He lives at 2115 K Street, next door to my father, and close to GW’s campus where he teaches at the law school. They’re close friends.”
Once again, Sabino entered my father’s story. It was clear to me that the elusive Professor was hiding a clue that connected Rosalina Micco’s murder with the ruse discovered by Giovanni Micco.
“Sabino was out of sort,” Alex explained. “As you know, two nights earlier, he had attended a NEF seminar with your mother.”
“Why was he upset?”
“Earlier that day, two Virginia homicide detectives interviewed him,” she said. “Other than the assassin, he was the last person to see her alive.”
She paused, pondering for a moment.
“My father said that he reeled on and on about a written statement he had just given the police,” Alex said haltingly, giving more thought to her father’s disclosure. “That’s when he mentioned the Rosen case.”
“What did he say?”
“That he was in a ‘fix’ because he had helped your father decide the discovery issue in Rosen.”
“Did your father ask Sabino why he was troubled by the written statement?”
“He tried, but Sabino kept mumbling gibberish my father could hardly understand. He finally returned to his apartment. My father hasn’t seen him since then.”
Alex shoved her chair back and stood.
“It’s getting late,” she said.
I thanked her and walked through the hallway to the door. One question remained unanswered.
“Why didn’t Dr. VonBronstrup give the disc to my father?” I asked.
“Let’s say they were in negotiations.”
“They were bartering?”
“You could say that.”
“Will he give it to me?”
Alex shrugged.
“Ask him.”
CHAPTER 55
COMPETING INTERESTS
Following my visit with Alexandria Arnold, I returned to New Castle for a week to breathe life into my ailing law practice and, more importantly, to spend some much-needed quality time with Gianna and Michele. It was an uneventful seven days that stretched into an additional three after Michele came down with a case of early summer flu. The ER doctor hospitalized Michele overnight because he was dehydrated. I remained with him, watching throughout the night as bags hanging from an IV pole delivered him fluids. At about eight o’clock the following morning, he was examined by an attending doctor who said the lab tests were normal and that Michele “was good to go.” After signing the release papers, I walked behind an aide as she wheeled Michele to the hospital entrance. Gianna was waiting at the curb. I strapped Michele into his car seat, opened the front door, and sat beside Gianna. She gave me a quick stare.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said sternly, staring through the car’s windshield.
“About what?”
“About driving to Washington today. You need to pal around with Michele—and then get eight hours sleep.”
Gianna was right. It was a good suggestion, or should I say order, her voice resolute, leaving me with no option. A day together, just father and son. It was the kind of time I yearned for as a child, alone with my father, just us two, but he was too busy, always hurrying off to his jealous mistress—the law. As Gianna appropriately recognized, I was headed down the same road. She parked the car in the driveway, smiling as she walked through the garage and into the house.
Michele and I stayed outside, playing in the yard, his chubby legs churning as I chased him, his voice screeching as he slid down the sliding board at the school playground, his eyes skyward, watching breathlessly as a kite took flight. Chili dogs and french fries at Coney Island for lunch, ice cream at Forbush’s before the merry-go-round, and Ferris wheel at Cascade Park. Six hours later, we returned home, exhausted and just in time for dinner.
“Did you guys have a good time?” Gianna asked. Michele ran toward her and wrapped his arms around his mother’s legs as her hands mussed his sweaty hair.
“Thanks,” I said to Gianna as we all hugged.
After dinner, I bathed Michele, helped him into his pajamas, and then tucked him in bed. His eyes were closed before I left the room. I turned, doused the light, leaving only the dim glare of the night lamp. I eased the door shut before giving him one last peek. At eight in the morning, I was headed east on the Pennsylvania Turnpike—on my way back to Washington.
When I returned to the Four Seasons, I found Nino still poring over the Rosicrucian materials. As I dropped my luggage to the floor and threw my coat over a chair, he turned his attention to me.
“FedEx delivered an envelope for you today.”
“When?”
“A few hours ago.”
Nino slid his chair back and nodded to the edge of his desk. I placed my hand on his back as I reached for the envelope and held it in my hands. My name and address were written in script:
Francesco Micco, Esq.
Four Seasons Hotel
2701 Pennsylvania Ave.
Washington, D.C. 66702
I removed a note from the envelope. Nino stood and peeked over my shoulder. Anxiously, I opened the folded stationery. The message was handwritten on white parchment paper—a heavy stock. It was monogrammed with a gold cross. A red rose was etched in the center of the cross where the bars intersected. The message was penned with broad strokes in bold, red ink. Together we read the letter:
