The color rose in the President’s face. “So, it is blackmail.”
Mullins shrugged. “Blackmail. Politics. I’m not going to argue semantics, Mr. President. You know how the game is played. But I’m not letting this shadow network win and derail what Paul Luguire stood for. Chairman Radcliffe will testify at the hearings and you will publicly reiterate your confidence in him and any proposals for monetary reform he puts forth. You won’t exploit the public’s outrage over the bombing here or the failed one in Richmond in an attempt to continue cloaking the Fed in secrecy.”
Brighton stared at Mullins. He fought to control his anger as he weighed his choice between the devil in front of him and the devil lurking behind him. “All right. You have my word.”
“And you have mine.”
Brighton sighed and his eyes moistened. “I would never condone or be a party to the bombing of our own people.”
“I know that you’d never knowingly be a party. Otherwise, I would have posted the recording on the Internet.” Mullins stood, forcing the president to look up at him. “Until tomorrow, sir.”
He walked out of the Oval Office without looking back.
“Paw Paw.” Josh squealed his grandfather’s name and jammed a banana-coated finger into the newspaper photo.
“Yes. That’s me. The handsome devil whose good looks overshadowed the President of the United States.”
Kayli slid a bowl of dry Cheerios in front of her son, immediately pulling his attention away from the picture. “Sorry, Dad. You come in second compared to breakfast.” She lifted the paper clear. “And I’m going to have to buy at least ten more of these.”
“Why? I don’t know ten people.” Mullins took a sip of coffee and glanced at the photo again.
President Brighton stood behind a podium adorned with the Presidential Seal, wearing a sharp blue suit, white shirt, red tie, and U.S. flag lapel pin. The official uniform every president and candidate had to wear.
Mullins stood behind Brighton’s right shoulder, also in a blue suit that probably cost nine hundred dollars less and a white shirt with a dark blue tie. Mullins had worn a red one, but a media consultant had whisked it off of him. Did she think people wouldn’t be able to tell him and the president apart?
Detective Sullivan wore police dress blues. He held his cap by his side and the white gauze of his head bandage looked like a halo.
Both Mullins and Sullivan had asked not to speak, and Sidney Levine’s mother was too ill to travel from New York. The president was all too happy to occupy the spotlight. All Mullins and Sullivan said was “Thank you, Mr. President,” as Brighton shook their hands for the sea of photographers.
“I wasn’t expecting you to give copies away,” Kayli said. “I thought you’d plaster them up on each wall of your apartment.”
“Hey, young lady, at my age, I avoid mirrors. All the newspapers can go in the landfill for all I care.”
“Liar.”
“Well, maybe keep one or two for Josh.”
Kayli laughed and freshened his coffee. She brought her own cup to the table and sat across from him.
“You’re something, Dad. What you did for the Khoury girl and her mom.”
He shrugged. “What else could I do? You or Allen would have done the same.” He stared into his cup a few seconds. “I spoke to Danny DeMarco last night after the telecast.”
“Oh, so it’s Danny now.”
“Yeah. It pisses him off every time I say it. I gave him the suggestion to see what they could do to get Zaina and Jamila Khoury back in their home. The media has emphasized Fares was forced into his actions, and Zaina’s bravery in leaving those notes is what really broke the case open.”
“Did he agree?”
“Not at first. Then I said it would show the Muslim community we weren’t holding them responsible. That struck a political chord. For people like Danny, it’s the only music they hear.”
“How many more arrests are likely?” Kayli asked.
“I’d say approximately none.”
Kayli set down her cup with a clatter. “Really?”
“There’s not much to go on. Chuchi got picked up a few blocks from Constitution Gardens, but he knows nothing. Asu was his only contact. I think Chuchi was hired for the convenience of the apartment. People wouldn’t ask questions when they saw him coming and going. And Chuchi was supposed to die in the blast.”
“More people had to be involved,” Kayli argued.
“Definitely. They were probably day players brought in as needed. Somebody placed and armed the bomb in Richmond. Unlike Chuchi, they’d be well paid professionals who did what they were told without asking questions and without knowing the big picture.”
Kayli shook her head. “I can’t believe Curtis Jordan had all this mapped out. So many things could have gone wrong.”
“I don’t believe he did. He steered events more than created them.” Mullins slid his cup to the side and leaned over the table. “After Luguire’s murder, he had three goals. Get the bombs to Richmond and to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, kill Radcliffe, and discredit anyone opposed to the Federal Reserve. Why Luguire was killed, we may never know for sure. Maybe he was always a threat, which is why Amanda pushed for me to be on his protection detail. She counted on me for access.” Mullins thought a second. “The night he died Luguire told me he’d heard my nickname Nails that afternoon from a little bird. Amanda was the only one who could have told him that. Yet she said she hadn’t spoken with him for a few days.” Mullins slapped himself on the side of his head. “Hindsight’s great, isn’t it?”
Josh laughed and hit his own head with a handful of Cheerios.
“Monkey see, monkey do,” Kayli said.
“I think Curtis Jordan turned whatever he could to their advantage. Snare me in as many webs as possible.”
“And Luguire’s “tough-ass” note?”
“Genuine. The shaky handwriting showed the effects of the ketamine. He slipped that by them. I think Amanda was shocked I’d already decided Luguire had been murdered. She was coming to plant that seed and start me on a trail that would be my undoing.”
“But why even plant the seed? They would have gotten away with it.”
“I think Amanda Church was afraid of me. She knew me too well to think I’d let Luguire’s death be rubber-stamped as a suicide. Better for her to be a party to my investigation rather than be in the dark about what I was doing. Remember the real target was Chairman Radcliffe. He wasn’t the thirteenth, he was always number one. Amanda’s plan was to isolate me by making herself the sole contact with the federal law enforcement agencies. She knew I’d go for that because it kept me unfettered and free to pursue my leads. I did such a good job on the investigation, I moved from Khoury’s backup fall guy to number one. I could be tied to Luguire, Archer, Khoury, and finally the bombings in D.C. and Richmond.”
Kayli toasted him with her cup. “You can’t hide talent.”
“And I think Jordan also played a more hands-on role in addition to killing Luguire. He was probably Nathaniel Brown, the mystery man who contacted Archer and got him to document our meeting. Asu didn’t have the skill to pull off the phone deception. And Fares Khoury told me he’d gotten some instructions from a man with a British accent. Jordan could have easily done that, as well as assembled all the technical resources for the hijacking of your phone and monitoring of Sidney’s computer. I bet he also got the incriminating materials from Asu that he planted in my apartment.”
“A busy man,” Kayli said.
“Yes, but the timeline fits based on when we know he returned.”
Beeps sounded from the microwave.
“What are you cooking?” Mullins asked.
“Nothing. That’s a reminder I’m supposed to log onto Skype and talk to Allen. Would you entertain Josh? I’ll call for him when his dad and I are finished.”
“Certainly.”
Mullins watched his grandson finish his Cheerios and then lifted him out of his booster chair.
“Ball,” Josh said.
“Not inside.” He set the toddler down on the kitchen floor. “Follow Paw Paw and we’ll play on the rug.”
Mullins sat on the carpet in front of the TV and played trucks and cars for a few minutes until Josh got bored.
“Mommy?”
Mullins didn’t want to say Mommy was talking to Daddy or Josh would have bolted back to the bedroom.
“Here, I’ve got a new game to show you.” Mullins reached into his pocket and palmed several quarters. “What’s in your ears?”
Josh grabbed his ears. “Nothing, Paw Paw.”
“Oh, no. I think you’re wrong.” He reached up, touched Josh’s right ear, and brought back a quarter. “See, money?”
Josh’s eyes widened and he burst out laughing. “More, Paw Paw, more money.”
Mullins pulled a second quarter out of his grandson’s ear.
Josh squealed even louder. “More, Paw Paw, more.”
Mullins pulled a third, but when Josh grabbed for it, Mullins kept it out of reach. “No, no. Not yet. Can you repeat after Paw Paw?”
“Yes.”
“Then here are the magic words that make the money appear. Say Federal Reserve.”
Rain beat against the windows. The droning nearly drowned out the sound of Big Ben striking the hour of three.
An elderly man and woman sat in leather chairs in the center of the oak-paneled room. A third chair was empty, pushed back in a corner beside a cart holding a television and DVD player. It would stay there. Neither the man nor the woman knew how to work it.
They sat in silence, not because they didn’t know each other but because they knew each other too well. They had nothing to say.
The squeal of dry hinges broke them from their thoughts. The single door to the room opened and the whir of a power wheelchair heralded the entrance of a man even older than his guests.
“Sorry to be late,” he said in a voice surprisingly energetic for one so frail. “Americans do not know how to get off the phone.”
“And which Americans would that be,” the other man asked.
“The number one American. He needed a little hand-holding. Reassurance that we knew nothing about what happened in Washington this weekend.”
“We didn’t,” the woman said. “At least I didn’t.”
The man in the wheelchair nodded. “We didn’t need the details, just the results.”
“A unmitigated disaster,” the other man said. He looked back at the empty chair. “A gross miscalculation.”
The man in the wheelchair maneuvered closer till he was facing the other two, a tight triangle of intrigue. “All wasn’t lost. Yes, Brighton will cave to Radcliffe’s recommendations and we will have to work harder with our congressional allies to preserve what protection we can. But the bomb attempt in D.C. and Richmond tempered the more extreme critics. The Federal Reserve itself is secure and Brighton is favored to win re-election.”
“But this Mullins,” the woman said. “What does he know?”
The man in the wheelchair shrugged. “More than he’ll ever tell because at some level he understands. When you realize we’re living in a financial house of cards, you’re careful about what you disturb. Yes, this Mullins has potential leverage over Brighton, but that’s all it is. Potential. Brighton will make sure Mullins never needs to use it, and once Brighton’s out of office, we have nothing to fear. Besides, Mullins has his own ghosts now.”
“How can you be so sure?” the woman asked.
“Jordan never committed suicide. He was too arrogant. He believed he could talk or think his way out of any predicament. That overconfidence always bothered me. As it turned out, he was wrong. We’re fortunate that flaw manifested itself before Jordan was given more power. In a way, we owe Russell Mullins a debt of gratitude.”
“Mullins?” the man and woman exclaimed in unison.
“Well, who else could have killed Jordan? And that’s why he won’t want a re-opened investigation.” The old man gave a rare smile. “I have to admire him. It was nicely done.”
The man in the wheelchair looked at his bewildered colleagues. “Come now. Let’s put this behind us and move forward. We have an opportunity for some new blood in our little family.” He rubbed his withered, ancient hand across his chin. “I was thinking it was about time we approached the Chinese.”
A number of people provided information and suggestions for the background of this novel. I’d like to thank Rose Pianalto Cameron of the Public Information Office of the Federal Reserve Board of Governors in Washington, D.C., and former Secret Service agent Robert Alberi for their assistance. Any errors of fact or procedure are my responsibility. I’d also like to thank Hugh Johnston for providing a perspective of those citizens in opposition to the role and power of the Federal Reserve. Thanks to Patty and Bill Stone for coordinating the logistics of my D.C. Research, Lieutenant Liz Clarke, U.S. Navy for non-classified information on operations, Craig de Castrique for insights into banking procedures, and Reverend Bill Bigham for sharing his experience with insulin pens.
As always, the support from Poisoned Pen Press made the writing process enjoyable. Thanks to Jessica Tribble, Robert Rosenwald, Annette Rogers, and my editor, Barbara Peters, for their guidance as I ventured into new territory.
Manuscript revisions also benefitted from suggestions from my agent, Linda Allen, my wife Linda, daughters Lindsay and Melissa, and son-in-law Pete Thomson. My writing assistant, Gracie the spoiled Schnauzer, slept through everything.
The Federal Reserve System has been the subject of debate since its creation in 1913, a debate that has grown more intense in the current economic crisis. The premise of this novel, that a shadowy, international cabal benefits from the independent existence of the U.S. Federal Reserve System, is an invention for the story. However, recent court orders for disclosure of the distribution of Federal Reserve bailout funds have revealed a significant proportion of those funds went to foreign institutions.
The novel takes no side in the pro-Fed, anti-Fed debate, but I encourage readers interested in the topic of U.S. monetary policy to visit the Federal Reserve’s website www.federalreserve.gov/aboutthefed and its linked sites to the twelve regional Federal Reserve Banks. Arguments against the Federal Reserve System can be found in
End the Fed
by Ron Paul (Grand Central Publishing 2009) and
The Case Against the Fed
by Murray N. Rothbard, Ph.D. (Ludwig von Mises Institute 2007).
Finally, I’d like to thank the librarians and booksellers who introduce my stories to their patrons, and you, the reader, for sharing the adventures with me.
Mark de Castrique
January 2011
Charlotte, N.C.