The Rosecross, page 32
Once again, remorse set in, a distaste I couldn’t swallow. My father, a respected federal appeals court judge, forced to deal with a thug who was using him as a lure.
“I assume my father pressed you for more information?” I surmised.
“Yeah, but I didn’t budge,” Munson bragged, smirking. “I told him if my employer didn’t honor my request, I would contact him.”
“Did you tell my father that you had demanded five million dollars from your employer?”
“I did.”
“What did my father say?”
“He gave me another option.”
“Another option?”
“Yes. He offered me six million dollars.”
It was a calculated move by my father—the implications ignored. He was playing in a game, the chips well beyond his means, banking on Uncle Claudio to finance his offer to Munson.
“So, you were now the beneficiary of a bidding war—my father versus your employer?”
“Precisely.”
“What did you do?”
“What do you think?” he said, shrugging. “I called my employer and upped my demand to eight million dollars.”
“His response?”
“He was outraged.”
“Did he meet your demand?”
“No. He eliminated it.”
It was a direct reference to my father’s murder.
“My extortion plan died with Giovanni Micco,” Munson added smugly.
Leaning back, my stare drilled through Munson. The reason he had agreed to see me was becoming starkly clear. I was a pawn in his plan.
“You strike me as a man of determination, Mr. Munson. I assume you had another option.”
“Yes,” he said, sneering. “It was a simple change. Your mother was murdered. I figured you would have the same uncompromising taste for mosaic justice as your father. You know, ‘An eye for an eye.’”
The chess game continued. Munson had just moved his second rook.
“So, you contacted your employer and substituted me in place of my father?” I surmised.
“Exactly. But the bidding war died with your father.”
“Is that when your employer tried to kill me?” I asked.
“That’s a reasonable assumption, Mr. Micco—but somehow, you were able to survive.”
“And when that didn’t work, they tried to extradite me to Italy?”
“Right again,” he said. “Just think about it. I couldn’t contact you if you were rotting away in a jail somewhere in Italy.”
“So, I’m here now—in place of my father?”
His bulging eyes became fixed on the uninvited guest sitting across the table.
“Thanks for your visit, Francesco,” he said, feigning gratitude. “It will give my employer more incentive to expedite the delivery of my money.”
“Why do you need money?” I asked curiously. “You’re serving two life sentences.”
“The money isn’t for me, Mr. Micco. I have five grandchildren. I see them only three times a year. The money is for them. One million dollars each.”
Next came advice from a man in the pernicious business of killing people.
“So that you know. Be extremely careful,” he advised. “Your father’s death should be a sufficient warning to you.”
As I pushed my chair back, its legs scratched the floor. The sound of wood sliding on wood woke the security guard. When we stood, Floyd Munson extended his right hand. I refused to acknowledge his gesture, my hatred for the man festering like an unbreakable fever. For Munson, it was an awkward moment. For me, it was a cleansing. If I’d had access to a knife, I would have satisfied my thirst for Mosaic justice by slashing a two-inch cut across his neck with exacting precision.
“I understand, Mr. Micco,” he said, shaking his head. Before leaving The Big Top, I asked one last question.
“Tell me, Mr. Munson, why do you want to implicate yourself in another murder-for-hire scheme? This time you might be facing a death sentence.”
“I’m seventy-five years old, Mr. Micco. By the time the government convicts me, I’ll be a dead man.”
I walked toward the door.
“One parting piece of information, Mr. Micco,” he said, my back to him. “I do owe you something.”
I faced the door; my hand was fixed on the knob.
“Remember this, Mr. Micco…”
He paused.
“… The hitman who killed your mother suffered a similar fate. That should tell you something.”
“What’s that?”
“If you’re offered money in return for your silence—take it. You can’t fight the power mongers.”
CHAPTER 78
AN INVITATION
It was a mild October morning. Gianna and I sat on the front porch, chatting about Michele as we sipped our cappuccinos. A week had passed since I returned from Leavenworth. I’d been in New Castle tending to my law practice by day and writing by night. Sleep was a luxury. Parsing my words carefully as I spoke with Gianna, I segued into my meeting with Floyd Munson, making her aware of the dangers we faced as a family. Guido Borgese had purchased a house across the street for a sum that far exceeded its market value, and three Mafiosi were living there, providing surveillance around the clock. Gianna felt secure; at least that’s what she told me—realizing that Dr. VonBronstrup and my father had immersed me in a ruse that would call me away again.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” Gianna asked.
“Just a couple of hours.”
“Still writing?”
“Of course.”
“Is Grazia editing for you.”
“She is.”
Gianna’s questions relaxed me, but I assumed she was prodding. My wife was anxious for the story to end, for some normalcy to return in our lives. Unfortunately, I wasn’t creating the chapters, using my imagination—just recounting events, waiting for the inevitable contact I knew was coming before I could write another chapter.
“Has Roosevelt called you?” she asked.
“Late last night.”
“Did Mendici visit Munson yet?”
“Yesterday. I assume it’s a done deal.”
“Mendici arranged for the transfer of one million dollars for each of Munson’s five grandchildren?” Gianna asked, amused, her eyes wide.
“That’s my guess.”
Gianna waved to a man sitting on the porch across the street, his feet propped on the railing. He waved back, giving me some comfort.
“One of your guardian angels?” I asked, grinning.
Gianna smiled, nodded, and then moved to the edge of her chair, facing me.
“Do you think it’s time?” she asked, her eyes boring into mine.
“For what?”
“For you to finish the novel.”
We sat, saying nothing, the silence chilling as Gianna and I surrendered to the inevitable.
As my car wound through the mountains of central Pennsylvania, a kaleidoscope of exploding colors dazzled me. A soft, cool breeze signaled an early turn from a chilly autumn into a cold winter. Alone in the car, I reminisced. My thoughts drifted back to the Micco Candy Company and the time I spent with Grandpa Tony in the candy shop kitchen. I sat on a high stool, my feet dangling, watching as he filled the cavities of chocolate molds. And I listened as he encouraged me to follow my dream and become a writer. For a moment, my teary eyes drifted from the highway and onto the empty passenger seat. I glanced at a pile of papers lying there, secured by a rubber band—Chapters One through Seventy-Seven of my novel. A soft drizzle began to fall as I exited the Turnpike at the Breezewood Exchange. After a fuel stop at a Citgo station and a coffee at Starbucks, I headed south, back to Washington. I arrived in the early evening.
Struggling with my suitcase and a bag of food that Gianna had sent back with me, I climbed up three flights of stairs, turned the doorknob, and kicked open Nino’s apartment door. He was sprawled out on the couch watching C-Span on his Daewoo television.
“Did your Citgo Petroleum research turn up anything?” I asked.
Nino eased himself off the couch, went to his desk, reached for his bifocals, opened the middle drawer, and slid out a stack of papers secured by a rubber band, and handed them to me.
“It’s all here, Francesco,” he said.
Nino had written ‘Memorandum’ atop the first page. The document resembled a research paper Nino prepared for my father. I was far too exhausted to suffer through the legal jargon.
“Just tell me what you found,” I asked curtly.
Irritated by my shifting mood, Nino sat and swiveled his chair toward me.
“Citgo’s problems began about a month ago when the President signed an executive order banning all U.S. investment and trade with Iran,” he answered sharply.
“Tough new sanctions placed on Iran by the President?” I asked, mellowing, my quiet tone a veiled apology.
“They were more than tough. Essentially, the sanctions would halt any trading by American companies in Iran’s oil,” he answered, smiling, my contrition duly noted.
“A financial hit to domestic petroleum companies?” I asked.
“Citgo, especially.”
“Why?”
Nino pointed to the memorandum, a nod to the details he had accumulated through his research, a silent suggestion that I should have taken the time to read it.
“Three months ago, Citgo signed a joint venture with the National Iranian Oil Company,” he explained. “It was a deal that would dump billions into Citgo’s coffers.”
“The President’s executive order essentially voided Citgo’s deal with Iran?” I assumed.
“It did.”
“And Citgo responded by filing a complaint in the federal district court in Washington?” I asked, my train of thought following the money.
“Yes—claiming an abuse of the Emergency Powers Act and a violation of the Foreign Commerce Clause of the Constitution.”
“The district court denied Citgo’s claim?”
“Correct. As did the D.C. Circuit.”
“And the Supreme Court granted certiorari?”
“It did.”
“So, Justice Sacco has the job of convincing the conservative wing of the court to reverse the district court’s decision?” I asked rhetorically, my thoughts drifting back to Lester LaRouche’s comment captured on the second disc by Alexandria Arnold during her black-bag job: “We have Sacco in our back pocket.”
“That’s an accurate assumption considering what we know,” Nino answered, chuckling.
As I pondered about the President’s executive order, it struck me that something had gone awry. His ban on doing business with Iran seemed to derail Lester LaRouche’s plans, as well as his two co-conspirators, Luca Botti and Richard Stone. They had carefully mapped a chronology of events consisting of the burglary, manipulated intelligence, and a preemptive strike. The President’s sanctions dismantled their ruse.
“What went wrong?” I asked Nino.
“I’d venture to say that the President relied on advice from the Secretary of State and didn’t communicate with his foreign policy adviser.”
“The President left LaRouche out of the loop?”
“Looks that way.”
The sanctions were a blessing. Time was a commodity I didn’t have. I planned to solve the murder mysteries, expose the ruse, write, and then deliver the disc and manuscript to someone I could trust. The President’s action delayed their ploy—but the stay was only temporary.
“What will happen next?” I asked.
Nino smirked.
“Sacco will convince four other justices to reverse the district court,” he surmised, “and LaRouche will give the President flawed intelligence showing that Iran is about to purchase 500 tons of uranium each year from Niger.”
“And then the bombs will fall on Iran?”
“I’d say so.”
“Do any other petroleum companies have deals with Iran.”
“Not now or in the future.” Nino answered. “That’s what makes the deal worth billions. Citgo will have a monopoly on the oil market in Iran.”
We sat in chairs facing each other, staring into space, contemplating our next move when my cell phone vibrated. I looked at the screen. It read: Caller Unknown. I answered it anyway.
“Hello.”
“Is this Francesco Micco?”
“Yes, it is.”
There was a pause.
“I will speak slowly. Meet me at 1400 Quincey Street tomorrow at 2 p.m. It’s the Franciscan monastery. There will be a garden tour in progress. Join the tour, and I’ll contact you.”
It was the call I was waiting to receive.
CHAPTER 79
THE CATACOMBS
It was late the following morning. The apartment was stuffy, and I decided to walk down Pennsylvania Avenue and mingle with Georgetown’s crowd. College students wearing their school’s sweatshirts strolled the sidewalks, couples held hands, and leashed dogs were out for their morning walk. Diners sat at tables crammed on the sidewalks, munching sandwiches and sipping hot chocolates. Others, hoods slung over their heads, sat with fancy coffee drinks, their eyes glued to laptop computers as their fingers glided across the keyboards.
I walked closely behind a couple—probably tourists. Between them was a young child clinging tightly to the hands of his mother and father. For a moment, I lived vicariously. It was Gianna and me playfully walking along with Michele. On the count of three, we lifted him off the ground and high into the air, swinging him back and forth as his little legs kicked wildly in midair until he landed on his feet. The ritual repeated itself as we walked along the sidewalk. Michele’s smile, along with his hearty laughter, begged us not to stop. We happily complied.
Exhausted, we finally reached an ice cream shop. It was now time to rest. The red and white candy-striped parlor pole and matching awning invited us in. Michele ordered his favorite treat—a vanilla milkshake crammed with Oreo bits and pieces. Gianna and I, less adventurous, settled for double scoops of chocolate ice cream that fell over the sides of our sugar cones. With our treats in hand, we walked outside, sat at a small table, and watched the symmetry of life unfolding around us. Like waking from a dream, my frolic into fantasy suddenly ended and I returned to reality.
“Am I on a fool’s errand?” I asked myself.
Before my father had become consumed with political ambition, he would gather us weekly for a Bible study. When the lesson began, we recited the rosary. It was an experience that molded our family. For some reason, he focused on the Old Testament, especially the Book of Ecclesiastes. He said it taught a lesson “that controls our scramble for power and draws us closer to God.” Reaching far back in time, I recalled the night he asked us to memorize Verse Three:
There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be borne and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal.
But the last of Solomon’s sage admonitions also counseled me—advice I chose to ignore:
There is a time to search,
and a time to give up.
It was one o’clock, and the time had come for me to visit 1400 Quincy Street, the Franciscan Monastery. It was about a fifteen-minute cab ride from Georgetown to the Brookland neighborhood in Washington. The Catholic University of America was on Michigan Avenue, close to the monastery. I was a half-hour early for my meeting with the anonymous caller so I decided to take a walk around the campus. As I strode along the same fieldstone pathways my parents walked when my mother was a student there, I recalled the passage Giovanni had written in his unfinished novella the night he met Rosalina:
The room was crowded and I could only see the silhouette of a girl standing on the the fringe of a dimly lit room. I began to work my way to her. What was a mirage became real. I wanted to ask her to dance and I wanted the dance to last the rest of my life.
Not too many years later, they both lay peacefully together, side by side, in their final resting place—each the victim of a sinister murder plot. With the reality of their fate haunting me, I turned once again to the Book of Ecclesiastes, focusing this time on only one of Solomon’s admonitions—there is a time to uproot. Now, more than ever, I was determined to weed out the culprits who murdered my parents. I vowed that retribution would be mine—no matter the means and no matter the cost.
Following the instructions given to me, I arrived at the Franciscan monastery promptly at two o’clock. Just as the anonymous caller promised, a monk was conducting a tour in the garden. I casually blended in with the crowd of people gathered before the replica of the grotto at Lourdes. After a few explanatory comments, we moved along. The young Franciscan monk conducting the tour, dressed in the traditional brown robe, secured by a white rope belt, pointed out that the Hail Mary etched into the entrance that covered the walkway “is translated into one hundred, eighty different languages.” Other stops in the garden tour included the Manger at Bethlehem, the Garden of Gethsemane, and the Holy Sepulcher. Next, we moved into the chapel. As the monk entered the church, he explained that it was patterned after the Hagias Sophia, “Istanbul’s renowned Byzantine Cathedral and its most famous landmark.”
Once inside, we moved toward the replica of Christ’s tomb. I lagged behind the group. Just as our guide began his comments, someone whispering over my shoulder asked that I walk toward the church’s back row of pews, through the vestibule doors, and down a flight of stairs. I waited for the right opportunity. Separating myself from the tourists, I casually moved toward the church’s rear and then into the vestibule. As promised, there was a circular staircase. I began the long walk down the steep flight of squeaky stairs when it dawned on me that I was entering the replica of the catacombs of ancient Rome—a fact I recollected because of an earlier visit to the Franciscan monastery when I was a law student at Georgetown.
I heard footsteps behind me as I walked down the stairs and descended onto the tunneled catacombs dirt floor. The same voice, now more demanding, ordered that I keep walking and not turn around. Having little choice, I complied with his demand. Adding to the ambiance was a maze of twisting tunnels dimly lit by kerosene lamps hanging from the sidewalls; empty subterranean vaults like those used by the early Christians lined the catacomb passageways. Once again, my faceless escort spoke.
