Chapter 2 - Stumbling into History (follows entry to S&S Challenge)

A Few Months Earlier

How could I know I was about to change the history of the twentieth century? How could so many people keep such a huge secret for decades, even into the twenty-first century?

I’ve always believed the crazier a story is, the more likely it is to be true. But this? Let me explain how I stumbled, and I mean stumbled, into history.

I’m Mark Stern. I started writing for The Philadelphia Inquirer right after college and was the golden boy at the Inky within a few years. Hell, I was mentioned as one of the Thirty Under Thirty to watch in Philadelphia. The general feeling was I was a buttoned-down, serious reporter who looked for the story behind the story. Most people, especially women, found me boring. This, no doubt, prompted Charlie, my boss, to pick me for the biggest interview of my life.

I was on my way to interview UN Secretary General-Elect Mbangu, which would put me into the big leagues of political reporting. I could develop contacts worldwide rather than just in Philly and Harrisburg. I had no idea how big a deal it would be or how little in my life would remain buttoned down. Like one of my favorite singers, Jackson Browne, once said, “I’m just a happy idiot, struggling for the legal tender.”

My newspaper’s office was a two-block walk to the 30th Street Station in Philadelphia. In a city of parks, rivers and beautiful historical sites, my path to the classic station included an old office building, tacky parking lots and an overhead train trestle. The juxtaposition of the route with the magnificence of the building was not lost on me. People gave me strange looks as I passed, and I had to admit I looked a bit like a hobo juggling an overnight bag, laptop, digital recorder, and a news camera. In bygone years, I’d have an entire crew accompanying me, but with the way newspapers were cutting back, it was now normal to be a one-man production crew. In some ways, I’m grateful. I never would have been chosen to tell this story if I had other people with me.

After fumbling my way through the terminal, I boarded my train and flopped into my seat, grateful my circus act was over. I always found traveling on Amtrak trains relaxing, especially the over-sized seats. Even when all the seats were filled there wasn’t much noise. It was almost peaceful. I used the time to go over my questions. I must have changed them and the themes a dozen times in the first sixty minutes. It wasn’t until we passed Princeton Station that I had settled on which line of inquiry I would use. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t sure I’d get any of my questions out in an intelligent manner, since Mbangu was the rock star of political rock stars, and I was just a scrub reporter from Philly. I couldn’t believe I’d scored half-an-hour with Secretary General Mbangu. Fifteen minutes was the norm, and then, his time was reserved for reporters with household names. It never occurred to me that there could be an ulterior motive for this bounty of access.

The reality of meeting the Secretary General of the United Nations hit me after I disembarked, doing a reprise of my juggling act and riding the escalator up to street level at Penn Station. Time felt like it had slowed down, and I became acutely aware of everything and everyone. It was almost as if I knew on an instinctual level something life-changing was about to happen.

I wove my way up the staircase from the platform into the main terminal. Knowing that I had a schedule to keep, I plowed through the throngs of people to the escalator to the street and strode to the curb to hail a cab, puffing my chest out and standing straighter than normal. As usual, lots of cabs passed before one stopped, but there was no way I going to take the subway that day. I wanted to get there in one piece with all my equipment intact and not having been peed on.

“Where to, sir?” the cabbie said with a thick African accent when I piled into the back seat of the car.

“UN Millennium Hotel, please.”

“Security is incredibly tight over there today. Might be better to wait.” He gave me a politely concerned look in the rear-view mirror.

“I don’t have a choice. I have an interview there.”

“For a job?”

“No, with the new Secretary General of the UN,” I said. I couldn’t contain my pride, and my chest puffed out like one of those birds of paradise on National Geographic.

The cabbie kept driving but turned his head to look at me. He managed not to kill us, but I swallowed the lump in my throat, wondering if he had cabbie ESP that somehow kept him in our lane. “You are mighty young to be speaking with The Great Man.”

I fished my notepad out of a pocket along with a pen. “I’m older than I look. What do you know about Secretary Mbangu?”

“My home country is very near his. When they had great success, he shared it with our people.”

“Why did you leave?”

“The war. It was many years before his marvelous success, but because of Mbangu, my wife and children could join me in America. I owe him everything. I will get you as close as possible.” His expression took on the resolution of a soldier, and he looked back at the road. I jotted down what he’d said, thinking it would make a good addition to my article.

My new friend was true to his word. I wasn’t entirely sure a couple of the alleys we took were wide enough for the cab – or legal – but he found a way to get me near the building. Definitely ESP.

The cabbie refused payment. When I put the money out again, he pushed it back towards me and looked hurt. I sighed. “I don’t want you to have to pay for my fare.”

“Please thank His Excellency for me. This is a great honor for me to pass him a message. It’s a day I will never forget. Thank you, sir.” A tear rolled down his cheek, though he was smiling so wide I was convinced his face might crack apart.

His reaction threw me off. Maybe Mbangu truly was a saint. The cabbie certainly thought so. My thoughts wandered to how I’d bring this encounter up to the Secretary General-Elect. I didn’t want to embarrass him, but I felt obliged to deliver the message. I told the cabbie I’d relay his gratitude and stepped out of the cab and onto the street chuckling to myself that I had to be careful or I’d become the part of the story.

I used my foot to open the cab’s door as I fumbled to collect all my gear and suitcase. I pushed much of it onto the curb. As I kicked the door to close it, I put the laptop case over my shoulder, strapped the camera around my neck, pulled the suitcase. and started walking.

As I turned the corner, I saw police barricades blocking off the street in front of the hotel in a veritable sea of blue. Cops nearly stood on top of each other. An angry-faced, middle-aged officer approached me as I pushed the barricade to the side. My ebullience faded, tempered with a healthy amount of concern. Was I going to make to my appointment in one piece?

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the portly, balding cop barked.

I plastered a smile on my face, not sure how he’d react. “I’ve got an appointment to interview Secretary General Mbangu. Here’s my ID,” I said, handing him my press credentials.

“Let me call it in.” He gave me a suspicious look, his eyes narrow. He lifted his radio and spoke into it, turning away from me, though he watched me out of the corner of his eye.

It took forever for whoever was at the station to answer him. He glared at me and put a hand on his holstered gun as he waited. I thought he might be fucking with me, but better safe than shot.

When the answer finally came, he nodded and pointed toward the doors. “Go on around front. You will be searched when you enter.”

“Thanks.” A huge weight lifted off me, and I took a deep breath.

“Next time, ask before you try to go through a police barricade. The next cop you run into may shoot first and ask questions later. I just don’t want to have to fill out the damn paperwork.”

We both chuckled, and he patted me on the back as I walked into the hotel. Two more cops and two UN guards waited inside the door. They waved a metal-detector wand over me. Then, they searched my overnight bag, turned my computer on and checked everything I had on me. Finally, they put it all through a metal detector.

After I retrieved my stuff, one of the UN guards took me by the arm, led me to a private elevator, and pressed the only button. We rose and were totally silent. The door opened. I got out.

An elegantly-dressed black man met me at the elevator. “Mr. Stern, I am Jinare. His Excellency President Mbangu is looking forward to meeting you. Please follow me.”

“I’m very grateful that he’s willing to talk to me.” My heart pounded in my ribs as nervous energy washed over me.

We walked down the hallway until we came to a set of twelve-foot-high mahogany doors. Jinare opened one, and we entered a magnificent suite. White marble floors shone with recent polish, and dark wood paneling, matching the mahogany doors, covered the walls. Elegant furniture, artfully arranged into several seating areas, filled the room. Each area was a little different. One had overstuffed leather sofas, chairs and inlaid tables. The next had tasteful, antique cloth-covered furniture. It was elegant and understated. This is where President Mbangu sat on a large sofa. A peaceful aura surrounded him, and I’d never met anyone with a presence like his. He gave me an easy smile, full of confidence and gentle strength. His peace washed over me, and some of the knots in my stomach released. Despite the size of his presence, Mbangu himself was not a large man, maybe 5’10” and one hundred-sixty pounds. In the prime of middle age, he had a smile lines around his mouth and eyes that were soft but strong. A smattering of white touched his dark hair.

“Your Excellency, may I present Mr. Mark Stern,” Jinare said, bowing to President Mbangu.

Mbangu rose and walked towards me, offering me a hand. “Thank you, Jinare. Mr. Stern, it’s a great honor to meet you. I read your series about improving education in Philadelphia. They were excellent. I implemented some of your ideas in our country and I am pleased to say that they worked.”

I almost fainted and shook his hand. The soon-to-be Secretary General of the UN had read my work. I understood the cabbie’s reverence. Some people are just powerful, but Mbangu fit his moniker, The Great Man. “Thank you, Mr. Secretary General.”

“I am not yet Secretary General, but you are most welcome.” His eyes glittered with laughter.

Jinare turned to leave the room, and they shared a grin. Mbangu winked. I had the feeling they knew something I didn’t, but I wasn’t afraid. For some reason, I was more excited than terrified. “Come, let us sit.” President Mbangu gestured to one of the clusters of seats.

“Mr. President, the cabbie who drove me here asked me to thank you for helping create peace in his nation, which led to his wife and children being able to come to America.”

As we sat down, President Mbangu smiled, his expression almost shy. I could have sworn a tear came to his eyes as he listened. “Mr. Stern, that was very kind of you. I will always remember your kindness. How shall we start?”

I pulled out my notepad, turned on my recorder and took a breath, diving right in. “When did you first decide to get into politics?”

His smile widened and took on a nostalgic note. “My father left our family when I was a young boy. I watched how my mother took care of my brothers and me with so very little. She was a teacher and mother to all in our village. I saw our country and realized that they were all my brothers and sisters, and they had no one to care for them. I decided someone needed to take care of them, so I have.”

As I wrote notes, the door swung open. Before I could turn to look, I saw a huge, almost childlike smile on Mbangu’s face. He stood and walked over to the man who had entered. They were about the same age, though that’s where the similarity ended. The other man was bit taller, white, and had a regal air. He looked a bit like Cary Grant and the twinkle in his eyes lit up the room. They hugged.

“Mr. Stern, this is one of my oldest and dearest friends, Prince Claude of Luxenstein.” 

Mbangu faced me and gestured to Prince Claude, his grin matching his friend’s.

“Any friend of Mbangu is a friend of mine,” Prince Claude said, grinning.

“Mr. Stern is here to interview me for the Philadelphia Inquirer.”

“May I stay?” the prince asked, looking in my direction with his brows arched and a hopeful expression on his face.

I shrugged. “That is up to President Mbangu.”

“Of course, you may stay, Claude. Join us.” Mbangu gestured to the seats and returned to the couch.

“This should be fun,” Claude strode over to where we sat and flopped carelessly into a chair, slouching a little.

I looked between the two men, struck by how different they were but at the same time, how very much alike. “May I ask Prince Claude a question, sir?”

“Absolutely. We are more than friends. We are brothers.”

“Why is that, Your Highness?”

“Mbangu and I met at Harvard,” Claude explained. “He took his studies far too seriously. I was way more interested in the local women. My father’s influence got me in, not my grades. We couldn’t be more different.”

“That may be why we got along so famously,” Mbangu said with a smile.

I scrawled notes across the page. “Have you stayed close throughout all these years?”

This caught them off guard. They looked puzzled and exchanged uncomfortable looks. Mbangu frowned at me. “That’s an interesting question. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’m still young, but I’ve already lost contact with many of the college friends I thought would be in my life forever.”

“Ah. That makes sense.” Prince Claude’s shoulders relaxed a little, and a smile covered his face again.

The thirty-minute appointment turned into nearly a sixty-minute marathon, covering a range of topics from politics and the state of the world to Mbangu’s plans as Secretary General of the UN. Mbangu was completely open, and he spoke easily and passionately about his country and his plans.

Conversely, Prince Claude was a player, but he looked out for his friend. At times, they finished each other’s sentences. They laughed often and shared jokes and memories. It felt more like a family dinner than an interview. Looking back on it, I was lucky to have met them in the time and manner I did. It gave me an insight into two of the most powerful men in the world in ways I never would have received otherwise.

Mbangu was as generous as he was graceful. But I could sense that he and Prince Claude were holding back and not telling me everything. My reporter’s sixth sense, a less exotic version of the Spidey Sense, was tingling, but none of the prodding questions I asked breached that gap.

After an hour or so, Jinare opened the door, his expression polite and apologetic. “Your Excellency, it is time for your next meeting...”

“I am sorry Mr. Stern, but my schedule is so tight. I have very much enjoyed speaking with you. It has been a pleasure.”

“Mr. President, thank you so much for your openness and wonderful details. Prince Claude, thank you for all your help. You have both given me great insight.”

Prince Claude smiled. “Thank you for putting up with this old man.”

We all laughed, and I left. I still felt a strong sense something was going on, but had no clue what it was.

I was in heaven. This interview was the most exciting experience of my life. World leaders had treated me like an old friend and given me perfect material for my article. I just about floated home from the hotel and spent the afternoon and evening working on my article over takeout Chinese.

There’s no way I slept more than two hours that night. I had already begun writing the column in my head. Hopefully, I could finish it in the morning. Maybe I could convince Charlie into making this a three- or even a five-part story? There was so much more than either of us expected.

Mbangu’s swearing-in and inauguration speech was to happen at 6 p.m. the day after the interview, in front of the General Assembly. I wasn’t sure if I had enough time to polish my first draft by then. I could feel the words exploding inside me.

My alarm went off at 8 a.m., and I got out of bed and headed into the shower. The hotel had a continental breakfast downstairs with my name on it.

Within seconds of getting out of the shower, the phone in my hotel room rang. A voice on the other end said, “Prince Claude respectfully requests your presence. Can you kindly meet his car in front of the hotel?”

Taken aback, it took me a second to answer. “Certainly, I’ll be down in just a few minutes.” I hung up the phone and stared at it like it might bite me. Was he afraid of what I might write? Regardless, I had to go. I dressed quickly, grabbed my gear and left my room, heading into the elevator and mashing the down arrow.

I discovered a large man wearing an expensive suit waiting for me in the lobby. “Mr. Stern, please come with me to His Highness’s car.”

I followed him to a stretch Rolls Royce. Boy, did this ride stand out! The car glided away from the curb, heading uptown to stop in front of a magnificent brownstone. The home looked like the others around it. Nothing marked it as different or unusual, yet there was a perimeter of security that encompassed more than an entire square block. This didn’t smell like it belonged to a playboy prince from a second-tier country.

One of the security people opened the limo door and gestured to me. I picked up my computer, pads and camera and prepared to step out.

“Please leave everything in the car. It will be safe,” he said, shaking his head.

“But, how will I do my interview?”

“Everything you need will be provided for you by His Highness. Please go inside.”

I was dumbfounded. Why the cloak-and-dagger routine? They’d been so open with me yesterday. What had changed? Had I somehow offended them?

I took a deep breath, climbed out of the limo, and went inside. A sleekly-dressed butler ushered me into a classic European-style library. The prince sat behind his desk. The fun-loving, amused attitude had shifted into a cool, serious expression. I almost didn’t recognize him. “Please sit down, Mr. Stern.”

I swallowed hard and took my place across from him. “Your Highness, is everything okay? Did I do something wrong?”

The silence in the air between us deafened me. I was about ready to speak again when Prince Claude spoke, his eyes assessing as he watched my face. “Can we trust you?”

“Of course,” I hesitated. “But who is we?” Despite my worry, my mind started preparing to write an addendum to the column I’d been working on since yesterday.

“If we tell you a story –” the Prince started to say.

At that moment, President Mbangu entered the room through a hidden door, disguised in the wood paneling and bookcases. “If we tell you this, we must control all your notes until we are ready for you to make it public. Is that agreeable to you?” Mbangu asked.

“Uh, I guess so. But I confess, I’m more than a little confused. What story?” I asked.

“Mbangu and I have about sixty percent of the greatest story of the past fifty years. However, we don’t know everything. That’s where you come in.”

I didn’t know if I should run for my life or listen. Damn my reporter’s heart. I stayed. “Alright. Well… what’s the story?”

“Can we trust you?” Claude asked again.

Mbangu walked over to my chair and put his arm around my shoulders in a companionable manner. “Mr. Stern can be trusted.”

Bolstered by Mbangu’s faith in me, I nodded. “You have my word.”

“Do you trust us?” The Prince said, the mischievous sparkle he’d worn when we first met returning to his eyes.

“Of course, Your Highness,” I said.

“If I hadn’t lived the story we are about to tell, I wouldn’t believe it. It is how my old friend Prince Claude and I ended the Cold War without realizing it until the war was almost over,” Mbangu interjected.

“What?” My jaw dropped.

Mbangu looked me in the eyes. “For nearly three decades, we couldn’t tell anyone. But now that I am in the public eye, we are afraid it will come out on its own. We need to know the entire story before that happens; we must control how that information makes its way into the world. In the wrong hands, the information could ruin us.”

“We just want you to find and tell the truth, wherever it happens to take you,” Prince Claude said with a chuckle.

“I wouldn’t do anything less.” I couldn’t say no. Journalism was in my DNA, and there was no way I could let a story like this prance on by without leaping on it.

“We will give you the pieces we have and protect you as best we can,” Mbangu said, patting my back.

“First, you must quit your job. We’ll set you up an account in one of my country’s private banks,” Claude said, his tone businesslike. He poured three glasses of an amber-colored liquor. It smelled strong, and strong was just what I needed.

I reached for my glass, taking a sip of the scotch within. My head spun. Was I about to become an unholy melding of Bob Woodward, Inspector Clouseau and James Bond?

“Second, you must believe whatever we tell you, no matter how outrageous it may sound. I promise, you will find proof of our tale, but when we begin, you must simply trust us,” Mbangu repeated. His voice struck me as being worried and reassuring at the same time.

Prince Claude smiled. “By the way, before you go, it wasn’t seven super models naked in my plane two months before my wedding. It was nine. It was an off night.”

I nearly choked on the drink Prince Claude had just poured for me. The grin on Claude’s face told me he enjoyed my reaction.

Mbangu smiled as well. “I think he’s ready to know the truth.”

Jinare entered the room. Horror crossed his face when he saw me, and he stopped dead in his tracks. Claude smiled broadly. Mbangu walked over and stood with his trusted aide.

“He knows,” Jinare said, his voice flat.

Claude’s amusement showed in his huge smile and twinkling eye. “He was told. I’m not sure he believes us.”

Mbangu put a fatherly arm around my shoulder. “We’ve given him more than enough to think about. Now, it’s up to him.”