The Rosecross, page 25
“But didn’t,” I offered, the Judge’s sudden passing thwarting his final induction ceremony. “Instead, the negotiations ended with my induction as a Knight of the Rose Croix on the Seventh Day,” I added.
Nino chuckled.
“Appears that way.”
Nino turned to the second disc.
“To keep his part of the agreement, Dr. VonBronstrup used the Freemason’s Magic Square—it’s called a Pythagorean Chart named after the Greek philosopher, Pythagoras.”
“Why do the numbers 2, 3, 9, 1, and 5 appear below his square?” I asked.
“Because the Freemasons used the numbers to spell a word. Allow me to explain.”
Nino asked Alex for a pencil and paper.
“First, as you can see, the Freemason’s Magic Square has nine squares.”
“What’s the significance?” I asked.
“It’s a clue. Dr. VonBronstrup is telling me that to decipher his code, I must write the numbers 1 to 9 in a row.”
He scribbled them on a sheet of paper:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
“Now, to create The Pythagorean Chart, below each number I will write the English Alphabet in rows of three, beginning with the letter A and ending with the letter Z.”
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
a b c d e f g h i
j k l m n o p q r
s t u v w x y z
2-3-9-1-5
Alex and I hovered over Nino’s shoulder.
“Observe closely,” he said. “The letters a, j, and s are associated with the number one,” he began. “And the same scheme is true for the other letters appearing under the numbers two through nine.”
After glancing at both Alex and me, he continued.
“Now, let’s take the numbers Dr. VonBronstrup placed below the chart and associate them with the corresponding letters.”
I studied the five numbers—2 3 9 1 5.
“But I caution you,” Nino warned, “it’s necessary to play with different combinations because more than one letter is associated with each number. Let’s start.”
Alex began decoding the message.
“The first number, two, is associated with the letters b, k, and t—which letter do we choose?” she asked.
“I have a hunch. Let’s start with b,” Nino suggested.
I took a turn.
“The second number, three,” Nino said, “is associated with c, l, and u.”
I hesitated.
“Choose a letter, Francesco,” Nino urged.
I thought for a moment.
“How about an l?”
Alex lined up the two letters.
“Now we have b and l,” Alex said.
Nino kept the procedure moving.
“The third number is nine,” he said.
“We only have two letters to choose from,” Alex observed, “i and r.”
“Seems either will work. Let’s try r,” I suggested.
Again, Alex lined up the letters.
“Now we have b, l, and r.”
“We’re headed in the wrong direction,” Nino observed after a few moments of reflection. “The fourth number is one.”
“And neither of the associated letters—a, j, or s—will serve as the fourth letter of a word, will they?” Alex questioned.
“None that I can think of,” Nino said after pondering.
The process was stalled while the Oxford scholar gathered his thoughts.
“Let’s go back to Dr. VonBronstrup’s second number—three—and make a different choice,” he suggested. “Instead of l, let’s choose u.”
“Now we have b plus u.”
“For the third letter, let’s use Francesco’s suggestion—an r,” Nino said. He tallied the letters.
“We now have b, u, and r.”
“The fourth number?” Nino asked.
I glanced at the Magical Square.
“It’s one,” I said. “Our choices are a, j and s.”
Nino was on a roll.
“Let’s use s,” he said.
Alex joined the letters.
“Now we have b, u, r, and s.”
Nino’s ponderous expression brightened to a wide smile.
“Go no further. I’ve decoded Dr. VonBronstrup’s message.”
He jotted it on a sheet of paper:
2- B
3- U
9- R
1- S
5- E
I approached the altar. I took the burse in my hand—the folding case used to store a second purificator. I opened the burse. There it was, the second disc—the fruits of Alexandria Arnold’s black bag job.
CHAPTER 64
THE BLACK BAG JOB
After untangling Pythagorean’s Chart, Alex, Nino, and I boarded a Metrobus at Pennsylvania Avenue and 21st Street and transferred to Georgia Avenue. It was full, so we stood and steadied ourselves by holding onto a pole as the bus chugged up the hill toward Alex’s house on Jefferson Street. Alex and I exchanged glances along the way, saying little, my disdain readily apparent. Once there, we huddled around her kitchen table. Alex inserted the disc—an audio CD—into her computer’s loading tray. As the tray closed, she revealed one of the perks of her black-bag job.
“We used equipment that will allow us to both listen to the conversation and read the words as they’re spoken,” Alex said.
She pushed the power button and the belly of the computer spit out a cadence of syncopated clicking sounds as it booted up. Nino, saying nothing, sat to my left, his eyes fixed on the screen. Alex sat to my right, arms folded, leaning back, her stare apologetic, I’m sure, for involving the Micco family in her caper. Empathy required me to give her a quick smile, which she returned, the first sign of a reconciliation that would take some time. I scrolled down through the pleasantries exchanged by the three principles—Richard Stone, the Director of the Office of Strategic Plans; Lester LaRouche, the adjunct foreign policy advisor to the Administration; and Luca Botti, a Deputy Undersecretary of Defense for Policy. We riveted our eyes to the computer screen as we began listening to and reading the fruits of Alexandria Arnold’s black-bag job:
Stone: Let’s get down to business, gentlemen. Tell me, Luca, what’s the status of the burglary?
A burglary? I mused curiously. Why would a sophisticated cabal take on a dangerous risk that could spell their demise? Judging from Nino’s staid expression, he shared my sentiment.
Botti: We made the arrangements. It will be a simple break-in of the Nigerian embassy in Rome. Our agents will take nothing valuable: just stationery and a seal. The Italian police will conduct a meaningless investigation. There will be little, if any, media attention.
A relatively simple caper, I thought. But why not just forge the stationary, and duplicate the seal?
Stone: No screw-ups, Luca. I don’t want to deal with another Watergate.
Botti: Trust me, Richard. Our agents are professionals. Plus, they’re joined at the hip with the Italian police.
Stone: What tribe did we hire?
A joint venture with the Mafia?
Botti: La Camorra—the Calabrian family.
Thankfully, Luca Botti avoided Uncle Claudio. According to Guerino, he was a member of the Sicilian family—La Cosa Nostra.
LaRouche: One question for you, Richard. Will the document be sufficient for the Administration to justify a preemptive strike?
Stone: Of course. It will state that Niger will sell Iran 500 tons of uranium.
LaRouche: Could a geek identify the document as a forgery?
Botti: None. Our source in Italy is the best. That’s the reason we’re using their stationery and an official seal.
I assumed their ‘source’ was the Italian agent charged with the task of preparing a forged document that would fool the scrutiny of any eyes given the job of passing on the contract’s authenticity.
LaRouche: Is the Vice-President still on board?
Botti: Of course. We couldn’t pull this off without him. He’s our direct line to the President.
LaRouche: I’m satisfied. Hopefully, we can turn the Middle East into a cauldron—the faster, the better. If we wage war effectively, we’ll bring down the terror regime in Iran.
Stone: Does Citgo have their deal with the government in Iran in place?
Citgo Petroleum—one of the world’s largest oil producers. What is its interest in the heist? Another player in the plot my father discovered?
LaRouche: I spoke with their contact at Blackwell & Juliano yesterday.
Stone: Citgo’s lobbyist?
LaRouche: Yes.
Stone: And?
LaRouche: Citgo has finalized its deal with Iran. It will be worth billions.
Stone: I’m hearing rumblings about the President signing a regulation voiding all deals with Iran.
LaRouche: Don’t worry. We have Sacco in our back pocket.
Dr. VonBronstrup’s clue was telling—a friendship severed. Somehow, Supreme Court Salvatore Sacco was connected to the Office of Strategic Plans.
Stone: I’m still concerned about the Mafia being in charge of the break-in. Frankly, I don’t trust Claudio Armondi.
Nino and I exchanged startled glances. It was a Mafioso joint venture. The union of La Cosa Nostra and La Camorra tied Claudio Armondi to a plot that eventually led to my mother’s murder?
Botti: Why don’t you trust Armondi?
Stone: Because he’s a close friend of Giovanni Micco.
Botti: You’re paranoid, Lester. I’m sure that Armondi doesn’t talk to his good friend about his Mafia dealings. And, as Armondi himself told me. ‘What happens in the Family stays in the Family.’ The burglary will be very discreet.
My suspicion broadened. Claudio Armondi had direct communication with Luca Botti about the burglary of the Niger Embassy in Rome—a fact that deepened his involvement with the conspirators who planned to dupe Congress.
Stone: What’s your opinion, Lester? Do you trust Armondi?
LaRouche: I’m comfortable with him. But if Armondi strays and Judge Micco learns about our plan, I’ll ask our man to hire the broker.
Perhaps it’s the same broker who hired Carlton Fisk, the assassin who murdered my mother. But the ‘our man’ reference is more intriguing—the missing link between the broker and Lester LaRouche.
Stone: Murder’s a dangerous game, Lester. I have no desire to spend the remainder of my life in a rat-infested jail.
Botti: Don’t worry, Richard. There’s a wall between the broker and us.
CHAPTER 65
ANOTHER MURDER
“We received the report from the pathologist yesterday, Francesco. Officially, the cause of your father’s death was an aneurysm brought on by a lack of potassium. Simply put, someone fed him placebos in place of his potassium pills. He was murdered.”
Those were the words of Roosevelt Ward. At the request of Luther Ash, Ward had arranged a meeting with me at the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building on E Street ostensibly to review the pathologist’s findings.
“My father’s murder is no surprise, Roosevelt,” I remarked calmly. “Will the case be assigned to the D.C. police?”
“No,” he answered, pausing, his thoughts apparently elsewhere. “The U.S. Attorney in Washington prosecutes all murders that occur in the District,” he added. “His office will use the FBI to do the investigation.”
There was another lull in our conversation. Roosevelt propped his elbows on his desk and fidgeted with a pencil cradled in both hands. He had a message for me but seemed reluctant to deliver it.
“There’s something else, Francesco,” he said grimly, hesitating yet again. “The U.S. Attorney has decided to terminate its investigation into the murders of Saul Rosen and your mother.”
Although the government’s vacillating interests in the two murders infuriated me, it wasn’t a surprise. Its goal in preempting my mother’s case was nothing more than a plot to bury the investigation. Saul Rosen? His murder was apparently collateral damage. The broker was still in business and the assassins he employed were free to kill again.
“Why did the investigations die on the vine?” I asked.
“An Administration oligarch made the decision.”
“Ash himself?”
“No. Beyond Ash. The official reason will be a lack of evidence.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“No. That’s politics.”
“What about my sister’s kidnapping?”
“So far, the two men who held her in the shanty are tight-lipped,” Ward said. “The U.S. Attorney is preparing a criminal complaint charging them with kidnapping. I expect they’ll be indicted by a federal grand jury soon.”
There was another pause in our conversation; this lull was eerily uncomfortable. Pushing against his desk, Roosevelt rolled his chair back and stood. I followed his lead. He then pressed his index finger against his lips, signaling that I should remain quiet. Roosevelt opened the middle desk drawer, removed an envelope, and handed it to me. Remaining silent, he moved from around his desk and pointed to a message scribbled on the face of the envelope:
Francesco,
Put this envelope in your inside coat pocket. Do not read the contents until you are far away from the Hoover Building. BE CAREFUL.
A cold rain was falling as I left the FBI Building. I walked down E street and turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue. I took a cab to the Starbucks Coffee Shop a couple blocks up from the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown. I ordered a tall cappuccino from the barista and sat in the rear of the shop. Except for an older gentleman sitting at a window table reading The Washington Post, the coffee shop was empty. The drizzling mist that followed me from the Hoover Building had intensified into a blinding rainstorm. It was time to read the note. Slowly, I removed the envelope from my inside coat pocket. I broke the seal and removed a small piece of folded paper. The message was concise but revealing:
Francesco,
Luther Ash will resign tomorrow as the Attorney General of the United States. He has been forced out. The U.S. Attorney for the District of Columbia will be his temporary replacement. After Ash leaves, the government will conduct no further investigation into your sister’s kidnapping. The decision was made at the highest level. That said, the U.S. Attorney will indict Grazia’s two abductors. He will offer them a plea bargain they can’t refuse. Read this carefully.
A thunderbolt startled me. I looked up from the note and gazed outside through the frosted window. The rain had intensified. It was now darker, and a swirling wind kicked up debris scattered on the street. Water splashed against the glass before dribbling down the front window of the coffee shop. Blasts of thunder rolled across the skies. Except for the occasional bright flashes provided by lightning bolts, nothing outside was discernible. A scary, dark pall shrouded Pennsylvania Avenue. I read the rest of Ward’s message:
While in the shanty, Grazia’s kidnappers made one telephone call. Through the ‘trap and trace’ and ‘pen register,’ the subscriber has been identified. The government knows the identity of the person who received the call. That information will die on the vine. The name of the subscriber is—
Pellets of rain pounded hard on the windowpane as bolts of lightning, complemented by sporadic blasts of thunder and swirling wind gusts, continued to illuminate the black afternoon. I read the name of the subscriber. It was another Armageddon. Grazia’s kidnappers had placed a telephone call to the Judge’s friend—Leonardo Mendici.
CHAPTER 66
A FEDERAL TARGET
The wind and rain continued to thrash against the window as I tore Ward’s note into bits and pieces and threw it in the trash can, the weather still too nasty to venture outside. While I waited at the counter for my second cappuccino, I felt my cell phone vibrate. I looked at the screen. It was Elisha.
“Where are you?” she asked excitedly. “I’ve been trying to call you for twenty minutes.”
“I’m at a Starbucks on Pennsylvania Avenue in Georgetown.”
“Stay away from the Four Seasons, Francesco,” she shouted frantically. “Take a cab to my apartment. Do it now.”
“Why?”
“Because U.S. Marshals are crawling around the hotel looking for you.”
“How do you know?”
“Nino called me and said he had to talk with you immediately,” she explained. “When he was coming back from his apartment in Georgetown, he saw three men with U.S. Marshall stamped on their shirts gathered in the lobby of the hotel.”
Roosevelt Ward’s note was a precursor, cautioning me to heed Alex’s advice and turn the disc over to Luca Botti and end the ordeal, just as she had suggested. The campaign against me was just beginning, the U.S. Marshal’s occupation of the Four Seasons a warning shot across the bow. I was battling against an enemy that had much more firepower than Francesco Micco.
“How did Nino know they were looking for me?” I asked nervously.
“A bellman told him.”
“Why didn’t he call me?”
“Unfortunately, Francesco, you never gave him your cell phone number. Luckily, I had it.”
“Do you know why the Marshals are looking for me?” I asked, suspecting that the Italian carabinieri wanted to whisk me back to Sicily.
“I do,” she said. “The United States Attorney has filed a Complaint asking the district court here in Washington to extradite you to Italy.”
As I suspected, the wheels of justice were now churning. The U.S. Attorney had issued a warrant for my arrest, the first step in a procedural maze that would eventually land me in a jail somewhere in Sicily.
“How did you learn about the extradition hearing?” I asked suspiciously.
“A friend here at the firm called Justice while I’ve been trying to reach you.”
Once again, I applauded the calculating mind of Elisha Ford—gathering facts, working contacts, warning me.
“Extradited for what?” I asked, curious about whatever information her friend was able to drag out of Justice.
“For the murder of a Lucia Lazzerini,” she said, obviously startled by my implication in a homicide. “What’s this all about?” she asked excitedly.
