The T-ball game quickly became a Keystone Cops comedy. A kid would take a swing at the ball set on a waist-high tee, sometimes miss everything, sometimes hit the tee, sometimes actually connect with the ball. When that happened, everybody moved, no matter where the ball went, and it was a race to see whether any baseman could catch a throw before the batter ran past him. Both teams must have been nearing the total in
The Guinness Book of Records
for most in-field home runs.
Mullins sat with Josh on his knee, giving a dramatic play-by-play interspersed with tickles. Luke played with a toy truck in the dirt at the foot of the bleachers despite Don’s encouragement for him to watch the game.
At the end of the third inning, Sidney Levine walked from his car where he’d been watching the stands. Rusty Mullins had told him he’d be there with his grandson, and he’d be wearing a Washington Nationals cap. He didn’t tell him he’d be sitting with a friend. Sidney waited, expecting Mullins to take a walk or find some other way to distance himself from the other spectators. Finally, he figured Mullins wasn’t planning on giving him enough time to warrant leaving his seat.
Don Beecham caught the man’s movement out of the corner of his eye and reflexively grabbed Luke as he stepped near the boy.
“Mr. Mullins?” Sidney asked.
“Hi, Sidney,” Mullins said warmly. “How have you been?”
For a second, Sidney was surprised by the greeting that made him and Mullins buddies. He quickly determined Mullins wanted this to play out as a chance meeting. “Good.” He nodded to Josh. “Somebody got a big brother in the game?”
“Nah, we’re just out on a lark. You got a boy playing?”
“My nephew,” Sidney improvised. “I can’t stay for the whole game, but I wanted to make sure he saw me.”
“Good for you.”
“Listen, I hate to bother you. I know it’s been a tough week, but I’ve got a question about something that’s come up with my job. That is, if you’ve got a moment.”
Mullins lifted Josh and set him beside Don. “Do you mind watching him? I don’t want to bore people with shop talk during such an exciting game.” Then he gestured toward Sidney. “Excuse me. This is Sidney. Sidney, Don.” Without giving them time to engage in more than a nod, he leaned over to Josh. “You stay with Mr. Beecham. Paw Paw’s got to talk to the nice man.” He stood and turned to Don. “We’ll be in the parking lot if you need me.”
Mullins took command, walking briskly toward his car.
Sidney hurried to catch him. “Why the charade?”
“Don works for the Federal Reserve.”
“Oh.” He took the fact as ample reason for Mullins’ actions.
Mullins leaned against the door of his Prius. “So, why are we here? Why couldn’t we do this over the phone?”
Sidney reached in his hip pocket and pulled out a paperback. “For one thing I wanted to give you this. More importantly, there’s no substitute for sizing up each other face to face.”
Mullins took the book and glanced at the title.
The Secret Revolution of 1913—How Bankers Stole America!
The author was Joseph Sidney Levine. Mullins thought of the book Amanda Church had purchased for him at Barnes and Noble. “Is this your version of
Betrayal at Jekyll
? Are you claiming the Federal Reserve is quote, ‘one of the most corrupt institutions this world has ever known.’”
Sidney gave an appreciative nod. “You’re already doing your homework.”
“Not really. Somebody gave it to me yesterday. Is your book like it?”
“Tamer. Less on the conspiratorial approach and more on the economic consequences of a central bank basically running with little oversight. But I had
The Washington Times
byline to my credit which got me a mainstream publisher, not a POD.”
“POD?”
“Print-on-demand. Those are books that are printed only when a copy is ordered. It’s used by self-publishers or when the print run has gotten so small that printing one at a time is more practical.”
“Detective Sullivan called me last night.”
Sidney smiled. “I thought he might. Did he tell you I was trouble?”
“You could be. But he also considers you a potential resource. He told me about your disciples.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to call them disciples. Most of them simply look for validation of their beliefs and don’t want to hear anything to the contrary.”
“Sullivan said one thing that caught my interest and frankly it’s why I agreed to meet with you.”
Mullins paused, but Sidney didn’t jump in with the obvious question. Too many reporters, especially the fringe ones, wanted to pepper interviewees with what they thought were provocative questions with little interest in the answers.
Mullins continued, assured that Sidney was a good listener. “You spoke to Sullivan about international involvement, both anti-Fed and pro-Fed.”
“Yes. The anti-Fed is obvious. Extremists and terrorists see capitalism and the banking system as a great evil. The pro-Fed is more subtle. There are companies and financial institutions who have benefited from the Fed’s ability to infuse money into them under the protection of the Fed’s secrecy and independent authority.”
Mullins looked skeptical. “Are you talking about international financiers? The so-called Jewish banking cartel set on ruling the world?”
“Most definitely not. I’m Jewish, and yet I was branded antisemitic by the critics of my book who use that as a knee-jerk response. J. P. Morgan was Episcopalian. John D. Rockefeller, a Baptist. This is about money and power, not Zionism or some mythical cabal conspiracy.”
Mullins took another look at Sidney’s book. “Rockefeller and Morgan are the bankers?”
Sidney shook his head. “You haven’t read as much history as I thought.”
“I’ve been busy protecting presidents and arresting counterfeiters.”
“Some claim that’s all the Fed is—legalized counterfeiters.” Sidney walked to the Prius and leaned beside Mullins. “Representatives of Rockefeller, Morgan, and the Rothschilds bankers of Europe held a secret meeting in 1910 at Jekyll Island off the coast of Georgia. This is fact. They traveled in secret, used alias names, and created a scheme for a privately held central bank. Then they got the right people elected, secured the votes, and persuaded Woodrow Wilson to sign the legislation in late December of 1913, a highly unusual time when no one was in Washington. Even the name Federal Reserve was calculated to obscure because the banks weren’t federal entities and they had no reserves.”
Sidney pointed to the book in Mullins’ hands. “Read the preface. It’s what Woodrow Wilson supposedly said three years later.”
Mullins flipped through the first few pages till he found the quote.
“I am a most unhappy man. I have unwittingly ruined my country. A great industrial nation is controlled by its system of credit. Our system of credit is concentrated. The growth of the nation, therefore, and all our activities are in the hands of a few men. We have come to be one of the worst ruled, one of the most completely controlled and dominated Governments in the civilized world, no longer a Government by free opinion, no longer a Government by conviction and the vote of the majority, but a Government by the opinion and duress of a small group of dominant men.”—Woodrow Wilson, 1916
“He doesn’t call for them to be killed,” Mullins said.
“And neither do I. Also, there’s evidence the quote was cobbled out of two statements Wilson made before the Fed was even founded. I talk about the discrepancy in the book, but the publisher excerpted it for the front and the proper context doesn’t appear till page eighty-nine. A hook, they called it.”
“So, the anti-Feds ignore that possibility.”
“The Internet’s not known for fostering calm rhetoric, and Woodrow Wilson never saw national debt at nearly fifteen trillion dollars. I told Sullivan I have access to the fringes, and if Luguire was killed because of his work at the Fed, something will arise out of that fringe.”
Mullins closed the book. “I’m not investigating Paul Luguire’s death.”
“Not officially.”
“I’m not investigating Paul Luguire’s death period.”
Sidney held up his hands. “Okay. Then why are you interested in the possible international connection?”
“Curious. The possibility expands the scope of the case beyond our shores. As a former Secret Service agent, I find that interesting.”
Sidney smiled. “And I find it interesting that you would have me believe you think his death is a suicide but focus on international possibilities. Level with me, Mr. Mullins. Paul Luguire didn’t commit suicide because you were close enough to him to have spotted warning signs. Tell me what you think off the record, and I’ll float it out there to see who bites.”
Mullins felt the short burst of vibration from the cellphone in his pocket. A text message. He looked at the boys on the field. “Paul Luguire was supposed to be watching his twin grandsons play here today. We planned to see the game together. It was the last conversation we had, and five hours later he was dead.”
“You don’t make plans for after your suicide.”
“And you don’t get a hundred dollars from an ATM to cross the River Jordan.”
Sidney whistled. “He did that?”
“I’m sure they have the bank security footage of me getting the money for him on his way home.”
“And the international angle?”
Mullins thought for a second about his real international interest, the creation of a Grand Cayman account in his name. “I told you, it broadens the scope of the investigation. An investigation I’m watching only from the sidelines.”
“Does that include anything I might uncover?”
“I’m not one to turn down good conversation.”
“Conversation is a two-way dialogue.”
Mullins stuck out his hand. “That’s what I hear. Good luck, Mr. Levine. I’d better get back to my grandson.”
Mullins headed to the small stand of bleachers. He could see Josh now playing in the dirt with Luke. Don Beecham wasn’t watching the kids or the game. He was staring at him.
Mullins stopped and pulled the phone from his pocket. He expected to see a message from Kayli that she needed to change the pickup time for Josh. He used his hand to shield the screen from the glare of sunlight.
The text read, “Our person of interest expects you 9am Monday. Follow through.”
The sending number was blocked, but Mullins knew the message had come from Amanda Church. She’d spoken with Craig Archer at Laurel Bank. She’d used the power of the Federal Reserve to make the appointment.
As an ex-Treasury agent, he would do what he did best. Follow the money.
Immediately after leaving the T-ball game, Sidney Levine sent a text message: Call me ASAP! Twenty minutes later, as he crossed over Key Bridge into Georgetown, his phone rang. Caller ID read Colleen’s Cell.
He answered in a whisper, “Hey, babe, you at work?”
“Yeah. I was screening a rough cut of the Italian architecture doc for the powers that be.”
“On Saturday?”
“National Geographic scheduled the damn thing for the week after next. They’re already running on-air promos, and, of course, now they want changes.”
“Guess you’ll be camping out in the edit room.”
“You got it. What’s up?”
“I need your car.”
She sighed. “Jeez, Sidney. Did the Escort die again?”
“It’s running like a champ. I’m on a story. A big story. But a guy I need to follow has seen my car.”
“For the day?”
“Maybe a couple days. A simple swap.”
“Except my Audi doesn’t break down.”
Sidney laughed. “I thought you were stuck in edit hell.”
“Okay. When do you want to get it?”
“How about now? I can be at the post house in ten minutes.”
“I’m going into a meeting with the sound designer.”
“Put the keys under the mat. I’ll do the same.”
“Sidney, you could leave your keys in the door and nobody would take your car.”
Sidney knew he’d won. “I owe you, babe.”
“Damn right. You make the national debt look like chump change.”
***
Sidney spent the afternoon in the parking lot of Shirlington House waiting for Rusty Mullins to return to his apartment. The temperature rose into the high eighties and Colleen’s black Audi turned into an oven. He rolled down all the windows and moved the car to a space in the shade. He wondered if tailing Mullins wasn’t a mistake. The guy might not know anything. He insisted he wasn’t investigating, but his reason for seeing Sidney didn’t ring true. The international aspect of the anti-Fed sentiment definitely meant something to him.
Even if the ex-Secret Service agent undertook a one-man crusade to find Luguire’s killer, he might work only the phone and Internet. But Sidney’s face to face with Mullins left him feeling the older man wasn’t an armchair detective. If he had a lead or a line of inquiry, he’d go to the source in person. And he’d do it soon.
Sidney used the time in the car to write his news blog on his laptop, upload it via his 4G wireless card, and tweet the availability of the post to his Twitter followers. He kept one eye on the rearview mirror and the other on his computer screen as reactions multiplied to his report that Paul Luguire displayed behavior merely a few hours before his death that undercut any rationale he contemplated suicide. The theme most commonly woven through the thread of responses was that Luguire had been summoned by Congress to testify before the Banking committee.
Luguire was known as a straight-shooter who didn’t dodge questions with evasive answers, and that made some powerful people very nervous. Most dangerous of all, Luguire wasn’t a prodigy of Goldman Sachs, the firm whose executives hopped back and forth between Wall Street and the Fed so frequently they shouldn’t have bothered changing offices. He was an outsider who had seen behind the curtain.
Sidney became so engrossed in the online gossip that he nearly missed Rusty Mullins pulling into the parking lot. The blue Prius flashed in his mirror as it crossed behind him, appearing so suddenly that Sidney didn’t have a chance to duck down. Just as well because that reflex action might have attracted Mullins’ attention. Instead, Sidney started the engine, figuring Mullins would expect a person sitting behind the wheel of a parked car to do one of two things: get out or drive off.
Sidney backed out of his space, angling so that the driver’s side window stayed farthest from the Prius parked six cars away. He checked Mullins in the rearview mirror and saw him grab a suitcase and multiple hangers of clothing fresh from a dry cleaners. Had he been running normal Saturday afternoon errands, or was he preparing to leave town? The grandchild was no longer with him.
If Mullins planned a flight out of Reagan or Dulles, Sidney knew he was screwed. Tailing Mullins at an airport might not be impossible, but learning his travel plans and not being seen on the same plane would require a string of luck stretching the odds to lottery-winning proportions. Mullins could even be leaving the country, if his international interest represented a very specific target.
Sidney had to be prepared for what he could control. He left Shirlington House and fueled the Audi at a nearby Shell station. He used the bathroom, bought snacks, drinks, and sandwiches, and returned to the apartment parking lot. Mullins’ car hadn’t moved. Sidney found a spot far enough away and off the route Mullins would walk that he felt relatively secure he could avoid detection.
By ten o’clock, Mullins hadn’t reappeared. Sidney decided Mullins was spending Saturday night in. He left for home. He packed an overnight bag, grabbed a few hours sleep, and was back at Shirlington House at four-thirty in the morning.
Five hours later, Rusty Mullins emerged from the high-rise apartment building carrying the suitcase and a hanging bag.
Sidney knew only one thing. Mullins wasn’t headed for church.