The Blackfire Protocol by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 34

After graduation, Frank began looking for another apartment, and it didn’t take long for him to find something he could only describe as classic. From the outside, it presented itself with a clean brick façade, reflecting a style common to the Victorian era. Walking through the front door, one was immediately struck by a staircase edged by an unblemished oak rail—curled at the bottom. As the house was nestled in an historic district of DC, its interior was well-kept to a fault. When the owner of the property opened the door leading inside, his only reaction was an open mouth and silence. The first thing he noticed was the floor. Over time, most floors become pitted and stained from use, but this apartment displayed flawless hardwood with a shining finish. Frank had already decided on two things: he wanted the apartment, and no one would walk on those floors unless they removed their shoes first.

Standing in the living room, he also decided there was no reason to see anymore, and writing a check, he paid the landowner first and last month’s rent plus a security deposit. He signed the lease and began planning on how he would furnish it. There would be nothing contemporary here, and he immediately

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began looking for furniture with a strong Victorian flare. Within only a couple of weeks, the apartment took on a look that could only be described as grand. The furniture of the living room was upholstered in red crushed velvet, while the bedroom was arranged in a more modern fashion. Comfort was just as important as style, but finding a Victorian bed proved impossible. The only one Frank could find was far too short and very uncomfortable. He decided that while the rest of the apartment would be an historic masterpiece, he would have to compromise and sleep on something far more modern, finding this dichotomy necessary in order to maintain the health of his back. There were certainly no health issues, but he wanted to avoid such things, knowing that pain can impede one's study habits.

When furnishing his new apartment was complete, he invited Betsy over for dinner. One glance at Frank’s new surroundings was all it took, and Betsy stood hypnotized by the beauty that lie around her. “How did you do this?” she said. “These apartments aren’t cheap.”

He would never be able to tell her where the money had come from, but he needed an answer. “Well,” he began. “Turns out there’s a grant program just for law students, so I applied and I got the grant. Pretty cool, huh?”

His lie worked, and Betsy continued to stand in amazement of what Frank had accomplished. But there was another question.

“Are they going to give you this grant every semester?” she asked.

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There was only one answer, and Frank was quick to offer her another lie.

“Of course,” he said. “Didn’t we get federal grants every semester as undergrads?”

The question snapped her back to the reality of academic life when almost every student received a federal and state grant every semester, and if one needed more funding, there were always student loans. But he needed none of those programs, as long as the men in suits were willing to provide him with the surreal amount of money they had initially given him.

Finally, Betsy took a deep breath and, recovering her senses, asked if such a program was available for journalism students.

“I have no idea,” he replied. “I think that’s something you’ll have to look into yourself. Try searching online.”

Given what Frank had been provided with, Betsy wanted to find out as soon as possible and asked him for the use of his computer. Of course, he said yes, and showing her to his desk turned on his computer. Betsy noticed something else; the computed was new.

“Holy shit!” she said. “A new computer, too? You must be rolling in it.”

The machine started up quickly, and within seconds the login prompt appeared.

“Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed. “This is fast as shit.” Frank looked on at her response with a slight smile as she brought up the browser and began her search. He honestly didn’t know if she would find anything, but watching her reaction to the new life he was

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living brought a pleasant sense of calm to his cluttered mind. The intrusion of these men was causing him stress, and he worried that this might interfere with his studies. Now that he was about to begin graduate school, he needed to commit himself much more to success if he was to move on to earning his PhD. If this meant spending less time with Betsy, then so be it. But he would not reveal this either unless he had to.

Deciding to pursue her search another time, Betsy got up and insisted on a more thorough tour of Frank’s new apartment, and he was happy to show it off. The bedroom, of course, would be shown last for reasons both were familiar with. He started with the living room, directing her attention to the finished hardwood floor.

“The property is in an historic district of the city, so the house has to be kept up to the standards of the period it was built in. He had gone to the expense of purchasing a Victorian writing table and getting a better look at it, she noticed a book lying at the bottom of a short stack and removing it, discovered it to be a copy of Mein Kampf. Being familiar with its subject, Betsy turned to him while holding it and inquired as to why he would possess such a book. Frank’s first thought were the words ‘oh, shit’. But he had to say something, and the longer he hesitated, the more concerned Betsy became. Finally, after only a few tense moments, he formulated another well-designed lie.

“I know this is going to seem difficult to believe given what the book talks about,” he began. “But I took a class in political science, and I felt that in order to make a fair examination of all political

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systems, I should probably make a comparison with the Nazi movement as well. I mean, yeah, they did a lot of terrible things, but I thought that in order to make a fair assessment, I should include the writings of Hitler too. Kind of weird, isn’t it?” Betsy turned the book over and, looking at its cover, nodded her head.

“Yeah,” she said. “I can see that. It isn’t my kind of reading, but I get it. I would get rid of it, though. Someone might get the wrong idea and peg you for a Nazi.”

He felt his muscles relax as he took comfort in how gullible Betsy seemed to be. She would definitely not make a good lawyer, as she lacked the ability to see through the simplest of lies. A good lawyer can lie to a jury and win his case, or twist the principles of logic around so that his argument is sound yet makes utterly no sense. This was not Betsy. Perhaps journalism was where she belonged, digging for the truth and bringing it to the surface for all to see. But there are other things more important than the written ramblings of a fanatic, and soon Frank and Betsy were disrobing each other while making their way to his bedroom. It seemed that all they did was have sex, rarely engaging in any meaningful conversation. But this was not an issue for either of them. It was the only thing they wanted—for the time being.