Crown's Vengeance, The (6 page)

“Maybe, but if that’s the case, what do they know?”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Parker teased. “Liquidate all your assets and get as many futures contracts on your balance sheet as possible. You can invite me to your new ski house in Vail after you make a few hundred million for the advice.”

“I’ll buy an island and invite everyone but you, smart ass.”

Parker chuckled and glanced at his watch.

“On that note,” he said, finishing his beer, “I have to get going. Erika won’t be happy if I stay out too late. Let me know if you hear anything else about this conspiracy of yours. I’ll keep my ears open for you up north.”

Rich narrowed his eyes, alternating between Parker and his empty glass.

“I’m serious,” Rich told him. “If I’m right, we could make a killing if we get in early.”

“The only oil speculating I’d do is filling my tank before gas gets more expensive, because right now all these new companies are doing is driving up the price of oil. As if the sheiks needed any more money.”

“I’ll drink to that. Have a safe trip and stay in touch.”

Parker shook Rich’s outstretched hand before weaving his way through the crowded bar, carefully avoiding the more intoxicated revelers. Outside, the sun had fallen considerably, leaving the air pleasantly warm. Parker slid into a cab, all thoughts of oil and half-cocked conspiracy theories melting away as he considered the three day vacation he and Erika had in store.

Chapter 9

Boston, Massachusetts

A colorful stream of expletives filled the air inside Spencer Drake’s office. At her desk outside his door, his secretary nearly smeared bright red lipstick all over her face.

In the office behind her, Drake sat glued to his massive television, damning the Liverpool soccer club with every fiber in his being.

“You no good sons of whores. That was a bloody pile of shit.”

On the screen, several men in black jerseys celebrated the goal they’d just scored to put them ahead of Everton two to nil.

Spencer was a lifelong Everton fan, and the only thing he hated more than losing money was when his beloved Blues lost to Liverpool. The two clubs were intense rivals, each passionate in their hatred for the other.

“The hell with this.”

He flicked the game off. Nigel was supposed to contact him shortly about a personnel issue of some kind, whatever the hell that meant.

On cue, a soft tone came from his desk. With the push of a button, his desktop slid open to reveal a hidden compartment underneath. A single monitor rose from the interior, Spencer Drake’s private connection to a select few others located across the Atlantic. Custom-installed SSL/TLS video connections powered by on-site servers ensured that no uninvited parties would ever eavesdrop on a conversation.

The system was more secure than standard Aldrich Securities office connections, though Drake would never admit it to his employees, some of whom swept this specific line for bugs daily as part of the CEO’s security plan. What he discussed on here was far more volatile than any mere financial transaction. These conversations were the product of a plan set in motion hundreds of years ago, when the seeds of Aldrich Securities were planted.

As far as the investing public was concerned, Spencer Drake was the chairman of a respected financial institution, one of the largest investment banking and securities firms in the world. Though the current incarnation of his organization had only been established within the last thirty years, the company had been founded over two centuries ago.

Less than a half dozen living men knew the true story of the financial giant’s birth.

On the monitor, Nigel Stirling’s gaunt visage materialized.

“Good afternoon, Spencer.”

“Sir. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

Nigel had been reticent about the purpose of this conversation. Typical of the wily old codger.

“What is the status of your purchase program?”

Several days ago Stirling had instructed Drake to establish a set of shell corporations in the Bahamas, none of which could be traced back to Aldrich Securities. The sole purpose of these entities was to purchase oil futures in massive quantities.

This was not the first time he had established offshore corporations. Normally these companies were used as fronts through which to funnel illicit earnings from the stock market, monies that stemmed from a mutually beneficial and highly improper relationship he had cultivated with a member of the Food and Drug Administration.

In exchange for a monthly bribe, the FDA official informed Drake when any new drugs would be approved for use by the general public. All he had to do was purchase said company’s stock, and a few days later, when the price inevitably rose, he was that much richer.

“Seven new entities were incorporated in the Bahamas on Monday, as per your instructions. Each company purchased one hundred fifty million barrels of futures contracts with the expectation that the price of crude will soon rise and continue to do so indefinitely.”

Stirling’s icy gray eyes betrayed no reaction.

“Has your activity garnered attention?”

Both Drake and Stirling were so far removed from the day-to-day financial world that most of the normal market chatter never reached their ears.

“One of my associates reported the uptick in oil speculation has been noted, though no one seems to know what it means.”

“Which is to be expected, given the lack of a clear reason for such activity. Excellent work, Spencer. Continue purchasing the commodity through this week.”

Stirling’s digital face glanced down as he opened a folder on his desk, though he remained silent for several beats.

“Spencer, I need you to transfer one million dollars to this account number.”

Drake hurriedly copied down the numbers written on a piece of paper that Nigel held to the camera.

“May I ask what this money is for?”

“Once the deposit is completed,” he continued, ignoring Drake’s question, “you will be contacted by a man with whom we have contracted a service. He will provide you with a time frame and instructions for where to deposit an additional million dollars after our agreement is consummated.”

Spencer was lost. “Forgive my asking, sir, but time frame for what?”

Stirling leaned toward the camera, tiny red veins on his eyes visible on-screen. “We have contracted to have the next impediment to our operation removed.”

“That is excellent news, sir. I’ll initiate the transfer immediately.”

Nigel leaned back in his chair, one hand manipulating a keyboard rapidly. “As to the next phase of this operation, President bin Khan is waiting for our call.”

Seconds later the monitor went to split screen, and a snowy white beard flashed into view, a drastic contrast to bin Khan’s deeply tanned face. A few mumbled words in Arabic came from off-screen, and the president eye’s filled with recognition.

“Hello, my friends. It is good to see you again.”

“It’s our pleasure, President bin Khan. Thank you for taking the time to speak with us today.”

The soft-spoken Arab dismissed Nigel’s comments with a wave of his hand. “I believe that we are men with similar interests. So please, what is it you wish to discuss?”

Drake’s heart sped up. Their entire operation rode on this call.

“Spencer, would you kindly bring President bin Khan up to date regarding our recent acquisitions?”

Drake briefly summarized his activities over the past few days, relating the incorporations and oil futures purchases he’d coordinated.

“I appreciate your activity, Mr. Drake. A rise in the price of crude bodes well for my pocketbook.”

President bin Khan may have been an old man, but beneath the wizened exterior was a ruthless businessman, dispassionate as a shark. Spencer appreciated such qualities in a man.

“However, as you gentleman can likely surmise, my finances are quite healthy at the moment. Why have you orchestrated these transactions?”

Drake and Stirling locked eyes, aware that everything hinged on bin Khan’s reaction.

“President bin Khan, what are your thoughts on America?”

The president seemed to freeze for an instant. Just as quickly, his eyes softened, though the anger that flashed across his features had been unmistakable.

“The answer is complicated.”

Even if Stirling and Drake didn’t already know about bin Khan’s past, there was no mistaking his tone. The man hated America with a passion, and Drake didn’t blame him. In 1948, bin Khan had been a child living in Iraq. His mother and father, both members of the Iraqi military, were deployed to fight the newly formed state of Israel. Their only son Khalifa had stayed at home while his parents went to war.

They never came back.

Five-year-old Khalifa bin Khan would later learn of the United States involvement in the creation of a Zionist state in Palestine, a precursor to the 1948 war that killed his parents and sent eight hundred thousand Palestinians into exile, forever altering the dynamic of the Middle East.

As he grew, bin Khan laid blame for his parents’ death at the feet of the United States, his hatred for their western culture and meddlesome politics growing with each passing year. Time and again, America prevented the heathen Israelites from being overrun by the righteous Muslims whose land had been stolen from underneath their feet.

After his adoption by an influential cleric, bin Khan had quickly risen to prominence in his new home country of Dubai, aided by his adoptive father’s paternal relationship to the ruling family. Within a decade, bin Khan was so beloved within Dubai that he was appointed to the Federal National Council, the supreme federal legislative body for the United Arab Emirates.

Ten years later, he was elevated to the presidency.

Now in control of one hundred billion barrels of crude oil reserves, Khalifa bin Khan was the perfect man to bring Stirling and Drake’s plan to fruition.

“I understand that the loss of your family can be directly attributed to the American government’s support of Israel.”

President bin Khan remained still.

“You have done your homework, Mr. Stirling.”

Spencer Drake cut to the chase.

“President bin Khan, we have a proposal for you. First of all, I must admit my near total ignorance as to how your country’s oil production facilities operate. Your secrecy is legendary. That being said, if you, as the president, decided it was in the best interests of your nation to reduce the supply of oil coming onto the market each day, would it be within your authority to make that a reality?”

For several seconds, bin Khan was frozen, not so much as twitching a muscle. Finally, he responded. “Gentlemen, as president of my country, my authority is without question. In my capacity as leader of the UAE, it is the same. If I decide that our crude output should be reduced, it will be done.”

“That is excellent news. Here is what we propose.”

As Drake spoke, bin Khan’s features became chilling in their ferocity. Thirty minutes later, it was settled.

“Gentlemen, thank you for including me in your plans. I cannot express the joy you have delivered to my soul.”

Drake leaned back in his chair, his thoughts already beyond the aged president on screen.

“President bin Khan, it is we who owe you a debt of gratitude,” Nigel Stirling replied. “Rest assured you will not be disappointed.”

“I look forward to speaking with you soon.”

The president’s face faded from view, Stirling’s parchment-like skin once again filling the monitor.

“I think that went fairly well, old boy.”

A dry laugh escaped Stirling’s throat at his own joke. “Once you are contacted by our asset, apprise me of his proposed timeline.”

Spencer nodded once, and then the monitor faded to black. Drake did not move for some time, contemplating what was to happen. Soon, a second tragedy would rock the financial world, further solidifying their hold on certain markets. As gratifying as this would be, it was but a prelude to the true purpose of this operation, the reason their group had toiled in anonymity for two centuries.

Finally, the colonists would be put in their place, left to flounder as England reclaimed her rightful position as a world power.

A sharp ringing filled the air. An unknown phone number flashed across his personal phone line. With the care one would expect while handling a live grenade, Spencer lifted the phone from his desk. His throat was unnaturally dry.

Chapter 10

Boston, Massachusetts

A jet engine had fired to life inside the hotel room.

Parker lay still, the overpowering roar assaulting his senses. After a moment, it all came clear. The noise wasn’t an engine-it was Erika’s hair dryer, blowing incessantly several feet from his head. For some reason she had chosen to use the infernal device while sitting on the bed.

One eye cracked open and was immediately attacked by sunlight streaming through a window.

“Wake up, sleepyhead. You’re missing half the day.”

“What time is it?” Parker’s voice was muffled, head buried under the covers.

“Nearly nine. We have to get moving.”

What was wrong with her? They’d been out last night, had a few bottles of wine with dinner, then a few more. His head ached and all he wanted to do was sleep. Erika, on the other hand, was full of energy.

“Go away.”

His wish was not granted, and Erika ripped the covers from the bed.

“Not today, party animal. Get up and take a shower. We only have two days here, and I’m not wasting them sitting in this room waiting for you to wake up.”

Parker had finished his meetings, a long three days spent in the company of his old classmate Ben, who now worked for a securities firm in Boston. In the financial world, as in life, it was often who you knew as opposed to what you knew. Through his personal relationship with Ben, Parker had delivered consistent profits on a regular basis, one perk of which was the expense account with which he’d booked this lavish hotel room.