Crown's Vengeance, The (14 page)

Harrison Knox walked on stage, his lanky frame instantly recognizable. The former naval officer was a veteran of three tours in Vietnam. Knox’s salt and pepper hair was longer than in his days at the Academy, but he hadn’t gained a pound. A jaw chiseled from stone was his defining feature, the blaring pronouncement that preceded him through every doorway. Movie stars dreamed of jaws like that. You could crack rocks on it.

The president carried himself like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, an easy self-confidence born of experience and success. On the screen, his other distinctive feature demanded your attention. Icy gray eyes grabbed you in a chokehold, demanding to be heard.

“Good morning. As you are likely aware, Treasury Secretary Gordon Daniels passed away yesterday. The cause of death is still unknown, though at this time foul play is not suspected.”

Drake grinned. Whoever he’d hired had been damn good.

“Secretary Daniel’s unfortunate passing necessitates the need for a new Cabinet appointment. After careful consideration, it is my pleasure to announce that Deputy Secretary Gerard Webster has been chosen to fill the position, effective immediately.”

Before his words finished reverberating through the air, a dozen hands shot up. The president’s chief of staff pointed to one. “Go ahead.”

“Mr. President, considering how Gerard Webster has been critical of your financial reform programs, will you and Mr. Webster be able to jointly address the issues America faces as we rebound from the recession?”

President Knox didn’t flinch. “Mr. Webster is committed to doing what’s best for America, not what’s best for one man. He and I share many core beliefs regarding our nation’s economy, and I will value his advice as we tackle these tough issues.”

A second hand clamoring for attention was rewarded.

“Mr. President, would you care to address the inevitable accusation that Gerard Webster’s appointment is merely a ploy to appease certain voting blocks in this country?”

Shards of anger flew from his polar eyes.

“I don’t care what accusations you make, sir, but know that Gerard and I are working together to ensure America remains as strong as ever.”

As the president continued to take questions, Drake wondered for the life of him why anyone would want that job. Sure, the power was enticing, but to have your every move scrutinized, your every decision questioned? No thanks. He’d take the private sector and the freedom to do as he pleased any day.

Gerard Webster was known in political circles as a quiet critic of the recent financial bailout. He had not been in favor of keeping the struggling financial institutions afloat via a government lifeline, but not many people knew it had nothing to do with his political beliefs. No, his reasoning was far more personal than that.

On screen, Secretary of the Treasury Gerard Webster took the stage.

“First of all, let me say how honored I am by the president’s appointment. I look forward to working with him to better this great nation.”

A shouted question cut him off. “Do you still believe that the bailout was a mistake, Treasurer Webster?”

Two upraised hands deflected the query. “Now is not the time to address such issues. Again, I thank the president for believing in me, and look forward to serving my country in the wake of Gordon Daniels tragic passing.”

Webster walked offstage amidst the reporters’ continued shouting, waving politely as he disappeared behind a curtain. Drake killed the screen, waiting. Five minutes later, his phone rang.

“Not bad, Mr. Secretary. Those vultures were out for blood.”

“I hope the press bus crashes into a minefield. They’re all bastards.”

Webster’s tone was much harsher than the pleasant man Drake had watched on screen minutes ago.

“That was nicely done, ignoring the bailout. Should give them plenty to worry about.”

A woman’s muffled voice came through the phone. “Yes, yes, in a minute,” Webster shouted. “I’ll be out in ten. Shut the door.” His voice returned to normal. “Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem. You are the Secretary of the Treasury, after all.”

“More importantly, I’m finally in a position to bring this country to its knees. As long as the sheik follows through, America is in for a surprise.” Webster changed gears. “Have you had a talk with your traders yet?”

A single piece of paper was on Spencer’s desk; he studied it as he spoke. “The meeting is scheduled for today. I’ve invited them to have lunch with me in our conference room. No one knows what the agenda is, but I can tell you they’ll be falling all over themselves to do whatever I request, as long as there aren’t any layoffs.”

“Will they follow through on your orders?”

“If they like the fat paychecks I sign they will. Each of them will be assigned to purchase the oil futures for one of the shell corporations we established. The money to purchase these futures is coming from our reserves, and I’ll make it clear this has my full backing.”

Voices once again sounded in the background. Apparently, Webster was in demand. “I said five more minutes. Thank you. As I was saying, I believe that should you hint at a personal relationship with Sheik bin Khan, no one will worry when the supply of oil remains at normal levels despite the uptick in futures purchases.”

“I had considered floating word of our association.”

A woman now shouted for Webster. “I’m coming. Sorry, Spencer, but I  have to run. Give those traders a good show.”

Webster clicked off, leaving Drake to consider the upcoming presentation to his in-house traders. His gaze drifted to an oil painting on the wall adjacent to his desk. An eighteenth-century original, the man bore a passing resemblance to Spencer. It was fitting, as the man was Drake’s cousin, albeit seven generations removed. Drake enjoyed delivering his practiced monologue about the piece, inevitably astonishing his guests when he mentioned the blood relationship and the fact his ancestor had worked at the first government bank on American soil.

Liz poked her head through his door. “Mr. Drake, the traders are waiting in your conference room.”

Spencer stood, ready to implement the next phase of their plan for America’s destruction. He was most interested in seeing one trader in particular: Benjamin Flood, the young man whose phone calls he had been listening to for the past day.

It may be the last time he would see Mr. Flood alive.

Chapter 23

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

The sky was every shade of gray imaginable, some clouds colored by a pencil, light and airy. Others threatened rain at a moment’s notice, so black they sucked every bit of light from the air.

Inside Erika Carr’s office, the room’s sole occupant was hunched over a desk on which an oversized viewing lamp shone brightly. Erika was studying one of Paul Revere’s reports, searching for any further clues written between the lines. Or anywhere else on the page, for that matter.

A harsh sigh escaped her lips.

“There’s nothing else here.”

Erika had been studying the documents for five solid days since she and Parker had returned from Boston. Her first goal had been to ascertain the documents were in fact legitimate. Each of the three letters had been subjected to a battery of tests which compared them to extant examples of verified eighteenth-century documents. Each had passed with flying colors.

Erika had also put on her graphologist’s hat and compared the three documents with known examples of Revere’s handwriting. They had been perfect matches in every case. After the paper was positively dated from Revere’s lifetime, there was no question of authenticity. With those issues settled, Erika was left with a much more daunting question.

What was the scheme Revere spoke of?

Erika had decided to take what little she knew and work from there. Revere had known the plot involved America’s budding financial system, specifically mentioning a man named George Simpson.

A quick search revealed that one George Simpson had been the cashier at the First Bank of the United States, which had been the central tenet of US fiscal and monetary policy created by Alexander Hamilton. Despite intense resistance from Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson, the bank’s charter had been signed into law by George Washington for a twenty-year term. Unsurprisingly, the bank had been located only several miles away, on South Third Street right here in Philadelphia.

Erika couldn’t find exactly when George Simpson was first employed by the bank, but upon the expiration of the charter in 1811, Simpson was working as the head cashier, apparently playing an important role in the bank’s development. In that era, the head cashier was a powerful figure inside a bank, one step below the owner or director. Unlike modern banks, which were normally top-heavy, burdened by the crushing weight of legions of executives with hollow titles, a head cashier in this era carried considerable clout.

“That’s not good,” Erika murmured to herself as she read. “If he really was a traitor, he could have done some damage.”

However, she had been unable to locate any reference to a collapse or crisis involving Simpson at the First Bank. After the expiration of its charter, which was supported by the federal government, the First Bank had been purchased by legendary financier Stephen Girard. Quite the contrary, Girard Bank had, over time, morphed into Citizen’s Bank, the institution whose name was plastered all over the Philadelphia Phillies baseball park. They had been anything but unsuccessful.

As she searched for any disasters that were even remotely associated with Simpson, an interesting tidbit flashed across her screen.

“Girard Bank was the principal source of government credit during the War of 1812? That doesn’t sound like a group that’s trying to undermine the economy.”

Her cell phone buzzed, interrupting the research.

“Hello?”

“How’s my favorite professor in Philadelphia?”

Her cheeks warmed at his voice.

“Lonely and frustrated, Mr. Chase. Are you here?”

“Just landed. I’m headed to the taxi line now. Should be at your office in thirty.”

Parker had taken the forty-minute flight from Pittsburgh early this morning to spend the next week in Philadelphia, partly to relax and partly  to help her investigate these letters.

“See you soon.”

What felt like an hour later, she heard a soft knock on her office door. The sight of his boyish grin never failed to send her heart racing.

“I’m interested in some one on one tutoring.”

“Maybe later. Get over here.”

His muscular arms wrapped around her, drawing her close to his chest. She breathed in deeply, enjoying the soft hints of the cologne she’d bought him for Christmas.

“So what’s the word on our buddy Paul? Any idea what he was talking about?”

“Well, you already know that as best I can tell the letters are authentic.” She pushed him into a chair across from her and sat down. “The handwriting, the paper, everything checks out. The more important aspect of these letters, though, is a bit murkier.”

“As in what Revere is talking about?”

“Exactly. Now, I’ve done some research on George Simpson, the man mentioned in the last letter, but didn’t find much.”

Parker lounged back in her visitor’s chair and kicked his feet on her desk.

“So what’s the deal with this Simpson guy? I’ve never heard of him.”

“You might find this interesting. George Simpson was head cashier at the First Bank of the United States. He later worked for Stephen Girard, who started Girard Bank, which today we know as Citizen’s Bank.”

When she glanced up to gauge his reaction, Parker’s eyes were burning a hole through her skull.

“You’re kidding.”

She was thoroughly confused. “About what? I’m dead serious.”

He didn’t respond, too busy grabbing for his phone.

“Parker, what are you talking about?”

“Hold on. I have to call Ben.”

What did Ben Flood have to do with this? Parker had spoken to him in Boston, said he and Erika had found some amazing artifacts, but other than that he wasn’t involved.

“Ben. What’s up? Nothing. Listen, remember that story you told me the other day? About your boss and that painting he was bragging about? Tell it again, to Erika.”

Parker laid the phone on her desk.

“Erika?” Ben Flood’s distinct Boston accent came through the speaker.

“Hi Ben. What’s Parker talking about?”

“Yesterday we had an interesting meeting with our CEO, Spencer Drake. He’s a character, blue blood, educated at Eton, the whole nine yards. Anyway, during the meeting he made it a point to show us an oil portrait hanging in his office. To me it’s just some old geezer, but apparently not only was the portrait an original, painted by some semi-famous artist, it was also Drake’s relative.”

“That’s interesting. What was the guy’s name?”

“You know, I don’t remember. That’s not important, though. The whole point of the story is that this guy was supposedly the first cashier in the United States. You should have seen Drake’s face. He thought he was the coolest cat in town.”

Her back went rigid. “And you say that your boss is related to the man in the painting?”

“Yeah, claims he’s a cousin or something like that. I’d never heard of his supposed cousin, but Drake was all about it.”

“Ben, if I told you the man’s name, would you remember it?”

“Maybe. You’ve actually heard of this guy?”

Her nose almost touched Parker’s as they leaned over the phone.

“Was it George Simpson?”

Silence for a few beats, then, “You know what, I think that was it. Damn, Erika, you should be on
Jeopardy
. You’re right, it was George Simpson.”

“Ben, thanks for the call. I really appreciate it.”

She could hear the confusion in his voice. “Sure, glad to help. Hey Parker, you have a minute?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

Parker picked up the phone and held it to his ear. Erika didn’t notice him anymore, her mind whirring at fantastic speeds. Within seconds a myriad of information about Ben’s boss filled her monitor.

Spencer Drake was the CEO of Aldrich Securities, the largest investment bank and securities firm in Boston, and on par with the larger New York firms. Educated at Eton independent school in England, he’d completed his collegiate studies in the States at Yale, a classmate of future president George W. Bush.