He heard the guard yell at the entrance to the secured area, “Cliff. Cliff, your guy is here, Mr. Alexander. Seems he can’t pay for the cab fare.” At this point, Dan was casting about for a weapon, but thought the better of it.
A moment later, a reprieve was at hand. Cliff came through the secured zone. “Problem Mr. Alexander, sir?”
“Yes, Cliff. I’ve lost my wallet and can’t pay the cab fare. Can you handle it?”
“Sure, Mr. Alexander. No problem at all.”
“Oh, and Cliff, my overcoat and computer bag are still in the cab. If you could retrieve those for me also?”
“Yes, Mr. Alexander. No problem, sir.”
“And don’t tip the asshole. Give him nineteen bucks.”
The pilot did as he was told and handed the cabbie a different American Express card, under the name Alexander Connecticut Property Holdings, one of the many vehicles through which Dan managed his inherited wealth. “Here you go, sir, this should do the trick,” Cliff said.
The cabbie ran the card through his card reader, but again a shrill buzz.
The error message this time was aCCount not reCognized. The cabbie’s disposition once again soured, and he was about to ask for the coat and computer bag. Cliff, however, was able to dig up nineteen dollars in small bills and change. With that, the cabbie peeled out of the traffic circle and headed back into the city, bent and determined to tell this particular Dan Alexander story to everyone he met in Washington, in his cab, and elsewhere for the next hundred years. Perhaps he would sell it to the gossip mags.
Cliff hurried back inside the terminal, wondering what his boss had been up to. However, another more disturbing scene was unfolding on the other side of the security area. Dan had already walked past the metal detector and other security equipment. Security personnel had stopped him and were scrutinizing him and his passport, which he kept with him wherever he went.
“What’s going on?” he snapped impatiently.
The two security guards looked again at him, his passport, and the small laptop in front of them. One of them reached for a phone as Cliff came back through security to join his boss.
“Problem, Mr. Alexander?” he asked.
“Now they’re fucking with my passport,” Dan snorted. “As though I haven’t been inconvenienced enough already.”
Two more security guards appeared from the tarmac side of the terminal. They joined the original two guards and surrounded Dan. One of them, in a smooth, easy motion, slipped a pair of handcuffs around Dan’s wrists.
“NOW what the fuck are you guys doing?” he said, voice elevated with impatience and anger. “Get these things off me now and let me get on my plane. What the fuck is going on?”
“Well, it would appear that two things are, sir,” said the head guard. “The less severe of the problems is that your name is on a no-fly list.”
“What the hell? No way! Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to you? Remove these things now or there will be hell to pay!”
The well-heeled passengers sitting in the small terminal were now watching the process with interest. Most of them knew who Dan was, more from his appearance as a political commentator than anything else. This was becoming entertaining. A few started to take out cell phones and snap photos and videos of the scene. CNN would run with it.
“Well, that leads directly to the second problem,” said the lead guard. “We can’t remove the cuffs because you are under arrest. It would appear you are a dangerous and wanted terrorist.”
“A what? WHAT? What the fuck are you saying?”
“Terrorist, Mr. Alexander. A terrorist. You will very shortly be getting on a plane. But it will be taking you to Guantanamo. Says so right here,” he said, lightly tapping the laptop in front of him. “Guantanamo Bay. The boys here will be taking you to a more secure detention area while you wait.”
“I am an advisor to the president,” raged Dan. “The president. Of the United States!”
“That would make you all the more dangerous, wouldn’t it? A terrorist having direct access to our president? No, Mr. Alexander, or whoever you are. We have you now.”
It was at that point that Daniel Alexander III, silver-spooned since birth, relying on armies of cabbies, pilots, guards, and servants to do his bidding, having the ear of the president and the secretary of defense, could not come to terms with this new gestalt, and delaminated.
“Screw this bullshit,” he snarled, kicking the security guards’ laptop. “Cliff, I’m done with this. Take me out of here.” Shaking off his surprised persecutors, he attempted to run toward the tarmac exit, beyond which his splendid $85 million plane was idling. If he could only make it onto the plane, his ultimate bastion of power and privacy, this mess could be sorted out. However, it was not to happen, and a few feet before he reached the doorway, he was gang tackled by all four security guards. One of them punched him in the jaw, another pepper-sprayed him, another tasered him, and the fourth slapped leg cuffs on him. That was the last that Washington would see of Daniel Alexander III for a while.
17
April 5, 1979
The five-year-old with bouncy blond tresses and a dirty pink smock tugged repeatedly at the creased dark trousers of the Wells Fargo security guard. “Come. Come with me.”
His coworker snorted. “Yo, Freddie. You’re picking ’em kind of young these days, aren’t you?”
“Come on. Get lost, kid. I’ve got a job to do.”
“No. My mommy needs you. Come with me. Please come with me,” repeated the little girl.
“Maybe there’s some kind of an issue. Maybe we should get the cops? After all, this is downtown St. Louis and the kid seems to
