Текст книги "Hidden Order: A Thriller"

Автор книги: Brad Thor

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

CHAPTER 20

Wise studied Harvath for a moment before speaking. “It was a cold, windy evening in November of 1910, when a group of the most powerful bankers in the United States snuck out of New York City on a top-secret mission. In Hoboken, New Jersey, posing as a duck-hunting party, they boarded an opulent private railcar bound for an even more opulent, private resort off the Georgia coast called Jekyll Island.”

“Which is where Claire Marcourt’s body was found.”

Wise nodded and continued. “Among the group was Abraham Piatt Andrew, who was assistant secretary of the U.S. Treasury; Frank Vanderlip, who was president of the most powerful bank in the country, the National City Bank of New York, which represented the oil interests of the Rockefellers; as well as the aforementioned investment banker who had been publicly calling for the U.S. to adopt a central bank, Paul Warburg.

“An interesting tidbit about Warburg, in addition to drawing an eye-popping salary even by today’s standards of five hundred thousand dollars a year: back in Germany, his family represented the interests of one of the greatest European banking families, the Rothschilds.”

“Nice work and even nicer clients if you can get them,” said Harvath.

“Nothing happens by accident with these people,” said Wise. “Also on board were Benjamin Strong and Henry Davison of J. P. Morgan Company, as well as Charles Norton, the president of J. P. Morgan’s First National Bank of New York. There to greet them all as they boarded was the owner of the mahogany-lined railcar, our pal, Senator Nelson Aldrich. In total, there were six men who were conservatively rumored to represent one-fourth of the world’s wealth.

“With the shades drawn and white-gloved staff seeing to cigars and cocktails for the men of the lustrous private car, the train steamed out of Hoboken south toward Brunswick, Georgia, where they would complete the final leg of their eight-hundred-mile journey by boat to Jekyll Island.

“Lest any of the staff figure out who their passengers were or what they were up to, the powerful men had all agreed to address each other by first names only. Vanderlip and Davison were so cocky, though, they insisted on being called not Frank and Henry, but Orville and Wilbur.”

“Like the Wright brothers? Why?”

“Because,” said Wise, “according to Vanderlip, he and Davison were always ‘right’ about everything.”

Harvath shook his head.

“The last thing any of them wanted was for word to get out that they had all come together for one very sinister purpose.”

“Which was?”

“To create a banking monopoly that would tilt the playing field exclusively to their advantage and crush any competition by yoking the brute force of the U.S. government completely under their control. In short, they were headed to Jekyll Island to assemble the blueprint for the Federal Reserve.”

Harvath remembered being told by Jacobson, the Federal Reserve’s director of security, that this was the meeting so many conspiracy theorists like to point to. He wondered what it said about Bill Wise that he was drawing attention to it as well. “I hear their visit had everything but a devil worship mass and animal sacrifice.”

The man laughed heartily and caused Harvath to be even more reminded of Santa Claus. “If only that was the extent of what they were up to,” he said. “They stayed on Jekyll Island for nine days, crafting a master plan for an American central bank. Warburg was the sharpest and most knowledgeable about banking so he was given the task of writing the bill that would go before Congress. Aldrich rode herd to make sure the bill was crafted in such a way that it would be passed. The others at the meeting were there to make sure their respective interests were seen to and to help remediate any problems that might pop up.

“Because of the money panics that had so devastated the country, the men at Jekyll Island knew Congress was anxious to be seen doing something bold. They also knew that the public saw bankers as the reason for the panics and hated them with a passion. That meant that they had to put a lot more than just lipstick on their pig of a central bank. They had to dress it up so it looked like a racehorse.

“Warburg was a very smart man and suggested they avoid the words ‘central bank’ altogether. When his cohorts asked him what it should be called, he said the ‘Federal Reserve System.’

“To disguise it even more, Warburg suggested they put branches across the country, which could be helmed by prominent, and well-known locals in each region. Anything to minimize the appearance of the Federal Reserve being an operation of eastern bankers, who were a particularly detested class of bankers at that time.”

It was still a lot for Harvath to take in. “By all accounts, these men were already financial successes; big-time, even by today’s standards. Why go to all this trouble?” he asked.

“Simple. Self-defense. By 1910, banks in general were booming. They had more than doubled over the prior ten years and most of the new ones were out west and in the South.”

“Which meant that the New York bankers were seeing an ever-shrinking market share.”

Wise nodded. “The most alarming thing for the bankers, though, was that businesses at the time were doing very well and funding their own expansions out of their profits. Only thirty percent of businesses were coming to banks for loans. It was as if businesses didn’t even need banks anymore. You want to talk about panic? The bankers thought their world was coming to an end.”

“So what?” said Harvath. “Why shouldn’t people be able to make up their own minds about how they want to finance the growth of their own businesses?”

Wise put up his hands. “I agree with you. Then again, I’m not a banker. I actually believe in free markets.”

“So what happened?”

“The banks needed to change the way people thought. In particular, they needed people to adopt a ‘buy now, pay later’ mentality and encourage them to borrow rather than save. For that to happen, they were going to have to make it as cheap as possible to borrow money. That became one of four key items on their agenda at Jekyll Island.

“How to crush competition, how to control interest rates, how to be able to make as many loans as they wanted regardless of how much money they had in their vaults, and finally the big one.

“Everyone at that meeting knew that at some point, maybe not in twenty years, maybe not even in fifty years, but at some point all of it would come crashing down and the system would eventually collapse. When that happened, they needed a safeguard so that the bankers themselves wouldn’t be held financially accountable, but rather the taxpayers would be left footing the bill.”

The more Harvath learned about these people, the more they disgusted him. “Talk about morally bankrupt.”

“They not only invented too big to fail, they invented too big to jail. They were brilliant propagandists. J. P. Morgan was famous for handing out shiny dimes to street urchins. Paul Warburg was the basis for the character of Daddy Warbucks in Little Orphan Annie. Very few realized what all of these men were up to. In fact, you’re familiar with the massive hyperinflation of the Weimar Republic after World War I in Germany?”

“I am. I remember the images of people going to stores with wheelbarrows full of worthless currency just to buy a loaf of bread.”

“Exactly. What most people aren’t aware of is that the massive hyperinflation that crushed the German middle class, collapsed its economy, and laid the groundwork for the rise of Hitler was created by Germany’s central bank, the Reichsbank, which was one of the central banks our Federal Reserve was modeled after. But even better than that,” Wise added, “was that the director of the Reichsbank was Paul Warburg’s brother, Max.”

Harvath stared at him. “Are you serious?”

Wise nodded.

Although Wise had given him a crash course on the Federal Reserve, Harvath didn’t feel any closer to figuring out who was behind the kidnapping of the five chairmanship candidates. “So there are a lot of reasons not to like the Fed. I could say the same thing about Congress, yet we don’t have people out abducting and killing their members, ostensibly trying to blackmail them into dissolution.”

“Sometimes I wonder if that might not be a good thing.”

Harvath looked at him. “You’re joking, right?”

“Of course I am,” Wise replied. “I’m just not a fan. Listen. If you did have people going after members of Congress, you’d handle it the same way, right? You’d ask yourself who would benefit from any of the attacks and then look for clues.”

“True, but as far as who might benefit from shutting Congress down,” Harvath said, “that’s not going to narrow it down much. The entire country could benefit.”

Wise smiled. “I see you’re not much of a fan, either.”

“Not really.”

“Well, a lot of people could benefit from the Federal Reserve being shut down.”

“Sounds like the entire country could, which means I’m left with just over three hundred million suspects.”

“Actually, there’s more if you consider the fact that the dollar is the world’s reserve currency and any inflation created by the Fed is felt around the globe. Then there’s the fact that the U.S. government also spends much more than it brings in, so we have to make up the difference by selling Treasury bonds. If the Fed increases the money supply, then the dollars bondholders are being paid back with are worth less.”

Harvath shook his head and took another sip of his drink. Wise could tell he was frustrated. “Listen,” the man said. “I know this may feel like it’s not very helpful to what you are doing, but Peaches wanted to make sure you had a grasp of what the Fed was and how it operated. Are there a good number of pretty smart people out there who think the world would be better off without it? Absolutely. Are there a lot who’d be willing to murder to try to get it to go away? I don’t think so.”

“So how do we identify and narrow down who those people are?”

“That part’s simple.”

“It is?” said Harvath.

Wise nodded. “But you have to start with the actual crime itself.”

CHAPTER 21

Wise stepped out from behind the bar and took the stool next to Harvath’s. He offered to freshen his drink, but Harvath politely waved him off. His mind was spinning with all the information being crammed into it; he didn’t need to add to the effect with additional alcohol.

Refilling his own glass and setting the bottle down, Wise said, “We’ve got five kidnappings and a murder, which are filled with a lot of information. What do they tell you?”

Harvath had been poring over the files ever since his meeting at the Federal Reserve that afternoon. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t much there. “I have to be honest with you, there isn’t a lot of information. We’ve got next to no evidence.”

“Which is evidence in itself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“As far as physical clues at the crime scenes themselves, there aren’t any, right?”

“So?”

“So that tells us these guys weren’t just good, they were professional,” stated Wise. “And to pull off five kidnappings in different cities all on the same night, there had to be—”

“Multiple teams,” Harvath replied, finishing the man’s sentence for him. “I already know that. That’s not what I’m struggling with here.”

“Just stay with me. Now, whoever orchestrated the kidnappings had to have had access to information, to the actual five names from inside the Fed itself. That’s no easy feat. Couple that with professionals having been hired to actually carry out the kidnappings and now we’re talking serious money. But, it gets better, or more specifically, more expensive because murder doesn’t come cheap.”

“You’re convinced the kidnappings and the murder were all done for hire?”

Wise nodded. “And I’ll tell you why. Per the file and the pictures, Claire Marcourt was beaten to death. Outside of self-defense or a fit of jealous rage, very few human beings are capable of taking another life like that. Then, there are her ears.”

“What about them?”

“They weren’t just hacked off with a pair of shears or a dull pocketknife. The lines were clean and pretty well matched. Someone used a sharp blade, took their time, and knew what they were doing.”

“But if you’re going to beat someone to death, who cares if the lines are clean?” asked Harvath.

“Exactly,” Wise replied. “And while we’re at it, and I think your theory about the Pine Tree Riot is right on the money, why prop up the ears in the photo? Why take the time to display them like that?”

“Because whoever this guy is, he didn’t want us to miss them.”

“They’re ears, for crying out loud. Who’s not going to notice them? Why not just drop them next to that economist’s quote and take the picture? Why go through all the trouble to set it up like it was some sort of an exhibit?”

“I don’t know,” said Harvath. “Maybe this guy’s a sadist and proud of his work.”

Wise tapped the tip of his nose with his index finger and then pointed it at Harvath. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Harvath waited for him to extrapolate, but Wise was suddenly lost in his own thoughts. Harvath rapped his knuckles on the bar top to get the man’s attention. “Knock. Knock.”

Wise shook himself out of his reverie. “Sorry, I was thinking about a Russian diplomat kidnapped in Iraq.”

“What about him?”

“The FSB operatives flown in from Moscow were able to get him back within seventy-two hours.”

“That’s impressive. How’d they do it? I’m guessing it didn’t involve pretty please with sugar on top.”

“No, it didn’t,” Wise replied. “Actually, it was pretty vicious. The Russians focused on the most likely neighborhood, swept in, and started breaking hands, fingers, arms, and legs until they found somebody who knew something. From there, they were able to identify a cousin of one of the kidnappers. Once they had him, they began slicing off his body parts and had a courier drop them off one at a time at the family’s house. After the man’s nose and both ears had been delivered, the diplomat was returned to the embassy unharmed and the FSB agents returned to Moscow.”

“That’s one way of handling things. Especially in that part of the world, but do you really think we’re dealing with the Russians?”

Wise shook his head. “An organization with enough expertise to penetrate the Federal Reserve? Experienced enough to pull off five simultaneous kidnappings without leaving a trace? This is something different.”

“Well, if not the Russians, maybe this is some sort of a currency war. Or maybe the Fed screwed up and ran afoul of the Cosa Nostra. With the kind of money they move, anything is possible.”

“But what’s probable? What kind of group would openly invite the full ire of the United States government?”

“Who knows? Maybe they’re exactly who they claim to be,” Harvath stated. “Why can’t this simply be a group of patriots trying to intimidate the Federal Reserve into shutting down?”

“Because that doesn’t make any sense.”

“None of this makes any sense.”

“What I mean,” Wise clarified, “is that it’s nuts to think that the Fed could be bullied into doing anything, much less closing its doors.”

“Then why do this?” Harvath asked. “What’s the purpose?”

“Maybe the purpose isn’t to get them to close their doors but to generate enough media attention to force a discussion of the Fed center stage, right into the national spotlight.”

“Which is exactly what the Fed doesn’t want.”

“Of course not,” said Wise. “The less people take an interest in them, the better. That’s why you were given this assignment.”

“Then let’s suppose for a moment you’re right. Why would someone want to force a national discussion of the Federal Reserve?”

“Maybe these patriots see the Fed as something so dangerous to the nation that it has to be dealt with. Even if that means using violence.”

It was a provocative possibility, but there was something about it that just didn’t feel right to Harvath. There was nothing “patriotic” about murdering other Americans in cold blood. There had to be something else.

And that something else was the pressure weighing on Harvath’s shoulders, even after he had left Wise’s home that night. Would he be able to figure out what that something else was before someone else was murdered?

CHAPTER 22

FAIRFAX

VIRGINIA

Ryan rode with McGee back to the Farm to pick up her car. She thought about stopping by the grocery store on the way home, but she was wiped out from her jet lag. All she wanted to do was throw on her robe, pour a glass of wine, and stretch out on the couch with a good book until she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore.

Of course, she hadn’t told McGee any of this. He never slept, and in fact liked to joke that it was a sign of weakness. So instead, she had told him that she was going right home to start assembling a plan for how they should proceed. Hit the ground running, McGee had liked that.

She pulled into her complex and parked in the assigned space near her building. Any mail in her box could keep until tomorrow. Climbing the exterior steps to her second-floor apartment, she walked down the open-air hallway to her door. Opening it, she stepped inside and tossed her keys in a bowl on the kitchen counter. It had been a long day and it felt good to be home.

Her small, two-bedroom unit was tastefully decorated, particularly so for a government employee who was home so seldom she didn’t even have a landline.

Ryan had painted the entire place and had installed the crown molding and baseboards herself. The walls were hung with matted prints she had razor-bladed out of old botany books picked up at a flea market. Everything had been done cleverly and on the cheap. Her only substantial investment was her stereo system. It was built around an expensive Tritium Super Analog turntable, upon which she indulged her greatest passion, a museum-quality collection of jazz and blues records she had been collecting since college.

Powering up the system, she selected a Nina Simone LP, removed it from its sleeve, placed it on the turntable, and activated the tone arm.

The chicken-and-egg battle over what would come first, the bathrobe or the wine, was over before it started. Wine first. Ryan walked into her kitchen and took down a bottle of OneHope petite syrah.

As Nina Simone began singing “Blue Prelude,” she opened the drawer where she kept her favorite souvenir from France, a waiter’s-style Laguiole snakewood-handled corkscrew. Its box was there, but the corkscrew was missing.

She opened the other drawers in the kitchen thinking maybe, after a few too many glasses of wine last time, she might have put it back in the wrong place. That wasn’t like her, though. She always put it back where it belonged, but having been out of town for so long, it was hard to remember what she had done last time.

After a cursory glance through all the drawers, she gave up, and grabbed a Leatherman multi-tool from her bug-out bag.

Once the wine was opened, she fished out some cheese and crackers, and then carried everything to the coffee table. After pouring a large glass of wine, she took it with her as she went to get changed.

She came back with Nelson DeMille’s latest thriller, turned off her cell phone, and made herself comfortable on the couch.

Two glasses and nine chapters later, her eyelids started getting heavy. She laid the book on the table and intended to close her eyes for just a second, but before the final notes of “Solitaire” had been played she was asleep.

 • • •

Bang, bang, bang! It sounded like gunshots; close gunshots. The earsplitting cracks nearly caused her to leap off the couch. What the hell was going on?

Ryan tried to shake the cobwebs from her head as the banging came again. Someone was pounding on the door. “I’m coming,” she said loudly, hoping to quiet down whoever was outside before they woke her entire complex. Who the hell could this be?

Tightening the belt of her robe, she approached the door and looked out the peephole. A young blond girl in her early twenties stood glassy-eyed and swaying. She raised her fist to pound again, but Ryan unlocked the door and pulled it open before she could make contact.

“I don’t know who you’re looking for,” Ryan stated, “but you’ve got the wrong apartment.”

The girl stood dazed for a moment, as if unsure what to say, but then collected herself and asked, “Do you drive a black Nissan Altima?”

“Oh crap. What happened?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” the girl said, quickly adding, “And it wasn’t my boyfriend’s fault. Someone cut us off.”

“Cut you off? What are you talking about? Better yet, who the hell are you and what happened to my car?”

“I’m Chrissie,” she replied with an inebriated smile and a look of misplaced expectation as if the mere mention of her name should be cause for fireworks or a parade. “I live in the building next door.”

She extended her hand, but Ryan ignored it. Clutching the lapels of her robe, she looked out into the hall and then said to Chrissie, “What happened to my car?”

“Like I said. It wasn’t our fault.”

“I got that part, Chrissie. Did you and your boyfriend hit my car? Is it damaged?”

Chrissie tried to raise her thumb and forefinger to indicate that there might be a little damage, but suddenly had trouble raising her arm while keeping her balance. The woman was smashed, and so too, Ryan worried, was her car.

She grabbed her keys from the bowl on the kitchen counter, slipped on a pair of flip-flops kept near the door, and said, “Why don’t you and I go take a look.”

“Sure,” slurred Chrissie as if she had just been invited shopping. “Do you want me to show you where it is?”

“No,” replied Ryan. “I think I can remember where I parked my car.”

As they started toward the stairs, Chrissie said, “Remember, you promised you wouldn’t be mad.”

She had promised no such thing, but there was no reason to argue. The girl was so wasted it probably wouldn’t even get through.

They walked down to the parking lot and over to Ryan’s Nissan. The right rear quarter panel was crushed. Idling perpendicular was a piece-of-shit white panel van with a dinged up push-bumper that must have belonged to Chrissie’s boyfriend. Ryan needed this kind of trouble like she needed a hole in the head.

As she walked over to inspect the damage, the boyfriend got out of the van. “Is that your car?” he asked. He sounded a lot more sober than his girlfriend. Ryan should have taken that as a warning, but her concern over what had happened to her car, coupled with her anger over the repeated problems with so many of the young residents in the complex, caused her to let her guard down.

His headlights perfectly illuminated the damage. This was going to cost at least a thousand dollars to repair, and judging by the looks of these two, they didn’t even have a hundred dollars between them. They probably didn’t have insurance, either. Ryan was growing angrier by the second.

“How did this happen?” she asked, vaguely aware of the young man’s approach on her left side as she bent down to examine the damage. “Do you have any idea how much it’s going to cost to fix this? I want to see your license and insurance card right now.”

The man’s right hand was in his jacket pocket and it didn’t come out until he had reached Ryan’s car and he was close enough to touch her.

It wasn’t until that moment that she processed the unmistakable shape of the Taser in his hand. The cartridge had been removed, which meant he didn’t want to leave a shower of micro-stamped aphids behind as evidence. It also meant he wasn’t afraid to get up close, press the device against her, and deliver its jolt of electricity via a technique known as a “stun drive.”

Either this guy was really good when it came to hand-to-hand, or he had no idea whom he was dealing with. Ryan didn’t wait to find out.

Pivoting on the ball of her left foot, she bladed herself to her attacker and snapped her left arm out in a wide arc. She crashed her forearm into the man’s wrist, knocking the Taser from his hand. She followed with a blow to his sternum, which knocked him backward two steps.

Before he could regain his balance, she charged, throwing a rapid combination of punches and elbows. It was happening so fast that all the man could do was cover up as Ryan rained down the pain.

The jabs, the crosses, all of it had been drilled into her through years of training. All of it came naturally. There was only one thing she neglected to do—sweep the area around her with her eyes.

Had she done that, she might have seen Chrissie coming up from behind. She might have been able to whip her head back and catch Chrissie on the bridge of her nose. Maybe she could have knocked her unconscious. Maybe she could have connected hard enough to render her temporarily dazed. At the very least, she might have been able to buy herself a couple of extra seconds to prevent Chrissie from getting close enough to her, placing another Taser against the side of her neck, and activating the trigger.