Maison Blanche Revisited

Chapter 9: Alphabet Soup

WITH THE MUFFLED CHOP of helicopter blades beating in his ears, Roman shook the last vestiges of sleep from his brain and glanced across the aircraft's cabin at its other passenger, Bo, who glanced back and gave him a thumbs up sign. Only fifteen minutes earlier, his little brother had roused him from a ten-hour sleep (why he had been allowed to sleep that long they would discuss at another time), thrust clean clothes at him (where they had come from he didn't know and didn't intend to ask), along with a steaming cup of coffee and a warm bagel, and said Victor's helicopter would be there in ten minutes to take them to Maison Blanche. Miraculously, it seemed their hunch had paid off--the architect had pin-pointed the possible location of a secret room, and young trooper Franklin had risked possible demotion by insisting to his superiors and the FBI and ISA that it not be opened until the Brady brothers arrived. They'd been given one hour; thirty minutes of which had already gone by.

The next few minutes were a blur. While Bo gave him updated reports on Shawn and John (their father was all right and being released, and John seemed to have stabilized a little but was still unconscious), he had drained the coffee in three gulps (scalding his mouth), dashed to the bathroom for a hasty shower, and five minutes later was eating the bagel on the run as he and Bo raced for the hospital's helipad. They had reached their goal just as the chopper was touching down, and moments later were in the air. Hopefully, they should make it to the plantation with about five minutes to spare. He saw Bo tap his headset and reached for the switch to activate his own.

"I forgot to tell you, bro," the words came through the headphones loud and clear, overlaying the sound of the blades; "I was talking to Victor last night, and he said he'll pay for anything we need to find Marlena and Stefano. He's already offered a reward...put out the word all around the world."

"A reward?" Bo nodded.

"How much?"

Bo hesitated, and Roman felt a knot form in his stomach. "How much?" he repeated, his voice growing louder.

He saw the reluctance on Bo's face, then his brother sighed, and his lips finally moved. "Ten million."

Ten million. The astonishing figure numbed his brain momentarily, and he prayed something was wrong with his headphones. "Bo," he implored, "you've got to be joking. Right? Ten million dollars!? Please, tell me he didn't."

"I'm sorry," Bo muttered.

The knot in Roman's stomach turned into a fiery ball of rage. "Does that idiot have any idea what he's done!?" he shouted furiously. "He's probably just made it impossible to get any reliable information! We're going to have so many crazies and fortune hunters coming out of the woodwork it'll take years to get through them all! Why didn't you stop him!?"

"I couldn't!" Bo shouted back defensively. "He'd already done it before he told me! And if you'll just listen a minute, you might find it's not such a bad idea after all!"

Roman tried to damp down his anger. Victor had done a lot for them so far; he deserved a hearing, at least. "All right," he acquiesced, "I'll listen."

"Victor's trying to get to Stefano's employees," Bo explained. "They'll be the only people with access once he goes to ground. They're gonna need a powerful incentive to betray him, but according to Victor, a lot of them would like to do just that. People like that guard, Henri, who was kind to John, or somebody who hates Stefano, or somebody who just wants the money. Whoever turns Stefano in knows he's gonna have a death sentence hanging over him forever. Victor's offering enough money so that person and his or her family can completely disappear. As for the 'crazies and fortune hunters', Victor told me this morning he's gonna set up a special communications center to field all the calls, faxes and e-mail, as well as hire enough investigators to run down all the leads."

"You're right," Roman conceded sheepishly after a moment's reflection, "it isn't such a bad idea, and it sounds like Victor has all the bases covered. Sorry I snapped at you. Guess I'm a little tense."

Bo shrugged it off. "No problem. We're all a little tense right now. You know," he mused, "when we had to call Victor, I thought it was a terrible idea, but he's really surprised me. Isabella and John both tried to convince me he'd changed, but I never really believed them. But now, I think it might actually be true."

"If you mean the reward, I don't think you should read too much into that," Roman warned. "Ten million dollars is just a drop in the bucket to someone as rich as Victor."

"It's not just the money," Bo argued, "it's his whole attitude. I haven't seen him this concerned about anyone since Isabella died. And he isn't just concerned about John, but also about Marlena, and Belle and Brady, and Mom and Pop, and even about you. He sat up most of the night with John because he knew how tired you were, even though he was exhausted himself. And this morning, when Franklin called and we needed a fast way to get to Maison Blanche, he volunteered this helicopter without even being asked. The old Victor never would have done something like that; he was too self-centered to ever think about anyone's problems but his own. The Victor I've seen the last twenty hours really seems to be a different person."

"I've seen it too," Roman admitted reluctantly, "but I think you should be careful, little brother. It could all be just a sham to gain your trust. Don't let yourself get sucked in, only to find you've made a terrible mistake."

"I won't," Bo assured him. "I've got my eyes wide open where Victor's concerned...believe me." He suddenly pointed to the window. "I think we're here," and Roman looked out his own window to spy a white plantation house surrounded by a veritable sea of helicopters and law enforcement vehicles of all descriptions.

The helicopter set down at the edge of the lawn, well back of the house, and took off again as soon as they disembarked. They trudged up the slope, peering curiously at the five other helicopters scattered around the immense lawn, and finally made their way to the back door. A huge African-American state trooper, who looked like he ought to be playing linebacker for the New Orleans Saints, was planted squarely in front of the entrance. "Who are you?" he rumbled suspiciously, his enormous left hand engulfing the butt of his holstered gun.

"Captain Roman Brady and Detective Bo Brady, Salem, Illinois PD," Roman answered calmly. "We're expected."

"I need some I.D."

The giant hand never left the gun as Roman and Bo, moving slowly and carefully, reached into their jackets and pulled out their badges and I.D. The trooper checked them against a paper he pulled from his own pocket, and only then did he take his hand from his gun. "Go on in, gentlemen," he said in a somewhat softer rumble, moving away from the door. "They're waiting for you in the fourth bedroom on the left upstairs." But as Roman started past him to follow Bo into the kitchen, he whispered almost inaudibly, "My name's Jenkins, Captain. I hope you find your wife. Several of us--" he indicated a number of other uniformed officers in the kitchen, "--are praying for her. Franklin told us what happened and we'll support you in any way we can. If you need help in there," he nodded toward the house, "you just tell Franklin, and we'll back you up."

"Are they fighting over jurisdiction?" Roman murmured with a sinking feeling. Jurisdictional disputes could easily screw up a case beyond repair.

"Yeah. We've got the ISA, FBI, ATF, DEA, state police, and the damned New Orleans police all saying they're in charge. Even the IRS is here, for Pete's sake. They all wanna grab the glory of catching the Phoenix. They seem to have forgotten all about your wife and that poor guy who was tortured. It's got a lot of us uniforms really steamed."

"Thanks for the warning," Roman whispered grimly. "The only one who's going to be in charge of this investigation is me. And if I have to knock some heads together first, so be it."

"I hope it doesn't come to that, sir, but like I said, we're here if you need us. "

"I'll remember," Roman said gratefully, then he went on into the kitchen. It was crowded with people--four uniformed troopers, and five forensics experts in white coats with latex gloves and small brushes, busily dusting and bagging everything in sight, it seemed.

Bo was waiting for him a few feet from the door. "What was that about?" he asked quietly.

"I'll tell you as we go. Cm'on...I want to get up there ASAP." As they exited the kitchen and hurriedly made for the stairs, dodging other forensics personnel hard at work, he spoke to his brother in low angry tones, imparting the infuriating information given to him by Jenkins.

"Dammit," Bo growled as they mounted the stairs, "what's wrong with these people? Don't they understand what's at stake here?"

"They will in a minute," Roman grated furiously. "I'll be damned if I'm going to let some petty bickering stop me from finding Marlena!"

Starting down the hall at the top of the stairs, they heard raised voices... Voices which grew louder and louder as they neared the bedroom Jenkins had directed them to. Finally reaching the open doorway, they saw about a dozen men and women (wearing an alphabet soup of law enforcement jackets) all talking at once, each claiming rights to the coveted treasure somewhere behind the walls. It was enough to turn Roman's stomach. "Quiet!!" he roared.

It worked. There was a sudden eerie silence as everyone looked toward the doorway, all of them probably stunned at the sheer novelty of being shouted at. Most of them were so high-ranking (Roman recognized at least four of them: Deputy Chief Flores of the ISA, Assistant Director Cole of the FBI, Assistant Director Carlson of the DEA andU.S. Attorney Susan Belchek... and he was sure the rest were similarly exalted) that he assumed they were the ones who always did the shouting, and expected instant compliance when they did.

What goes around, comes around. Roman told himself with a flash of grim amusement. Then he stepped into the room and continued speaking before the others could recover from their brief disorientation. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For those of you who don't know me, my name is Roman Brady. I just came from the hospital, where the doctors are trying to save my brother, who was brutally tortured in this mausoleum for over two months, and what do I find? A bunch of children playing 'King of the Hill!' What I just saw in this room is inexcusable!" he berated them icily. "This is not a game of one-upsmanship. Not only was my brother tortured nearly to death, but another life is at stake here... my wife's. Her name is Dr. Marlena Evans Brady. Remember it. She's a real person. She has five children, who want her back just as much as I do. I intend to get her back, ladies and gentlemen, and I'm not going to let your petty inter-agency squabbles get in the way. You can either work together and help me, or stay the hell out of my way! Which is it going to be?"

The faces before him all showed signs of embarrassment, something else he was sure this group was unfamiliar with. They looked at each other sheepishly, then nodded, as if coming to a mutual decision, and Luis Flores of the ISA stepped hesitantly toward him. "Our apologies, Roman. We'll do whatever we can to help you find your wife."

"Thank you, Luis." He looked around the room and spotted Franklin standing resolutely by a large empty wardrobe, as if guarding it. The young trooper appeared to be unintimidated by the presence of so much brass, but he definitely looked relieved when Roman and Bo walked over to join him. "Is this it?" Roman asked, pointing to the immense piece of furniture set flush against the wall.

"Yes, sir. It's bolted to the wall. The architect thinks the entrance to the hidden room is inside, but we haven't been able to find any knobs or controls to open it."

"Then we'll cut it open." He turned to the group behind him. "We need an ax or a saw."

"Coming up," a woman's voice called from the back of the room, and he saw a short blonde figure in a New Orleans PD jacket go to the door and speak briefly to a uniformed officer, who hurried down the hall.

"I'm afraid you're not going to like what I have to say next," he told the group bluntly.

"Oh, don't let that stop you," Susan Belchek told him saucily. "You already read us the riot act...with good cause, I must admit. What could be worse than that?"

"How about accusing you of being in league with Stefano DiMera, Susan?" As she gaped at him, he turned to Flores. "Or maybe it's you, Luis. Or maybe you, Director Cole. Or you, Director Carlson. Or any you others." He swept his gaze around the group, clinically noting reddening faces and clenched fists, realizing with an inward sigh he had probably just lost all the goodwill he had generated only moments earlier.

"How dare you!" Belchek snarled at him.

"Oh, it's nothing personal, Susan," he said quietly. "It's just that from this moment on, until I get my wife back, I'm going to suspect everyone except my own immediate family of possibly working for DiMera. And the sad truth of the matter is, I'm sure that at least one or two, or maybe even three of you in this room right now are doing just that--working for Stefano DiMera: The man who tortured my brother and kidnapped my wife. That's why we're going establish some safeguards right now, before anyone even sets foot in that room."

"What kind of safeguards?" Cole asked flatly.

"First of all, there will two uniformed guards in this room at all times. They must be from different agencies, and will be chosen at random from someone outside their direct chain of command. The guards must not know each other. Once the secret room is opened, there will be two more guards posted inside, with the same criteria applying.

"Next: no one, including myself, will be permitted in that room alone. Anyone entering will always be accompanied by a partner, as a team. The first teams will come from the people in this room right now. As with the guards, each team member will be from a different agency. My brother, Bo, here, will select the teams. Once inside, each team member will monitor his or her partner as the evidence is examined. Nothing is to leave that room until it has been fully documented, tested for fingerprints and six copies made. The originals will go the FBI. The copies will go to the ISA, ATF, DEA, Louisiana State Police, New Orleans PD, and the Salem PD. You can then examine them at your leisure and make your own cases against DiMera. Is that satisfactory with everyone?"

There were reluctant nods and murmurs of assent. Then a voice at the back of the room said, "You need to make that seven copies."

Roman peered over the crowd to see a tall, red-headed man with his hand raised. "And you are, sir?"

"Steve Wallace, IRS."

"Seven copies it is, Mr. Wallace. God knows I don't want to get the IRS mad at me. I don't need an audit on top of everything else."

"That isn't my area, Mr. Brady, but I'll try to put in a good word for you. I can't make any promises though, so I hope you're all paid up."

There were a few snickers, then the room erupted in laughter, which helped considerably to break the tension. Wallace accepted the laughter good-naturedly and smiled gently. Roman decided he liked the man. But he'd better get back to business. He turned his attention back to the group. "There's one more safeguard," he stated. "Everyone going in or out of that room gets searched. If you try to come out with more than you brought in, you will be instantly suspect and thrown off the investigation. Another investigation will then be started on you. I hope you all get my drift."

There were more nods and murmurs, interrupted by an officer wearing plastic safety goggles who entered the room carrying a circular saw. He spoke briefly to his superior, who directed him to the wardrobe. The man made his way through the crowd and advanced on the massive piece of furniture, activating the saw just before he stepped inside. For several minutes, the scream of the whirling blade was the only noise in the room, then silence reigned once more and the officer handed the saw to Franklin and backed out of the wardrobe hauling a large sheet of plywood with him. But instead of the expected doorway into what they all hoped was Stefano DiMera's inner sanctum, they were presented instead with a slab of cold, hard steel...with no handle.

Roman sighed. "I think we need a welder."

"I'm on it," said the same woman who sent for the saw.

"I guess we wait now," Bo murmured in Roman's ear as the crowd broke up and huddled into little groups. "It'll give us a chance to select our first pairs of guards though, and match up the investigation teams so we'll be all ready to go when they do get it opened. That was quick thinking, bro, on the security measures."

"Not really," Roman whispered. "I worked it out a long time ago, just in case a situation like this ever came along. This way we protect the information by disseminating it so much that there should always be a copy somewhere, in case others happen to mysteriously disappear. And we force anyone working for Stefano to play honest, or they'll be exposed."

"Well, it's a great plan. I just hope it isn't for nothing. I'm afraid you'll be a laughingstock if this turns out to be another Al Capone's vault."

"Hhm?" Roman stared at him quizzically.

"Al Capone's vault. You know. Empty. Nada. Nothing."

"Bo, I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Al Capone's vault," Bo repeated. "You know. The one Geraldo Rivera opened, that didn't have anything in it." He stopped suddenly, looking slightly embarrassed. "Oops. Sorry, bro. I guess that happened while you were gone. It was this big TV special. Geraldo made this enormous production out of opening some underground storage areas in Chicago supposedly used by Al Capone. Anyway, it turned out they were empty. The whole thing was a complete fiasco. John and I watched it together," he concluded miserably. "We both got a big laugh out of it. Damn." He stared down at his shoes, avoiding Roman's eyes.

"It's okay, little brother," Roman murmured softly. "I don't expect you to forget all the good times you had with John, when you thought he was me. I used to want that, but not anymore. Let's just call it water under the bridge. Okay?"

Bo nodded and raised his head. "Well, you see what I mean now, though. You're going to have egg all over your face just like Geraldo did if that thing--" he jerked his head toward the wardrobe, "--turns out to be empty."

"I'll survive it. I'd rather be safe than sorry." He shrugged his shoulders. "If it's empty, it's empty. We'll go on and try to find something else, some other clue. But if there's even one scrap of paper in there that could lead me to Marlena, that scrap is going to be protected up, down and sideways. There's nothing more important to me right now, Bo. Nothing."

to be continued...

© 1998 by Ruth Stout - All Rights Reserved

Background Image Courtesy of Proof New Media Inc. at freeimages.com

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