Crown's Vengeance, The (18 page)

“Good call. We might have to get Nick involved with this if things get hairy.”

Outside in the warm sunlight, surrounded by carefree adolescents headed to class, what had minutes ago seemed innocuous passersby suddenly took on a sinister tint, every person a potential threat.

They made it to her car without incident, and ten minutes later had locked her apartment door behind them, Parker already heading to the bedroom closet where her gun was stored.

“Look at you, listening to me.”

In one hand were the three extra magazines he’d instructed her to buy.

“I have two more boxes of ammo in there as well. I hope that’s enough.”

A humorless grin crossed his face.

“If we need that many bullets, we’re not getting out anyway.”

Ignoring his gallows humor, she fired up her laptop and pulled out her handwritten notes on Revere’s letters.

“I spent the past week inspecting those letters for any errors or inconsistencies. Everything checked out, so the next step is to follow up on Revere’s intelligence.”

Parker’s eyebrows jumped. “You really think you can do that? That report is a little out of date.”

“Don’t doubt me just yet. I have an idea where to start.”

Parker looked expectantly at the monitor as her fingers danced over the keyboard.

“The part that grabbed my attention was Revere’s mention of George Simpson,” Erika said. “At first, I didn’t make much of it, but after you spoke with Ben, it’s been stuck in my head.”

“You mean because Simpson was related to Ben’s boss, that Drake guy?”

“Correct. Seeing as how we have literally nothing else to go on, it’s as good a place as any to start.”

“Do you think Drake could be tied in with this?” Parker asked.

The thought had crossed her mind. “I love the enthusiasm, but hold on a second. You realize you’re talking about a conspiracy stretching over two centuries, which would involve one of the largest financial institutions in the country? I love a good story as much as you do, but we have to be realistic.”

Parker muttered to the ground. “It could happen.”

“We’ll see. But for now, let’s focus on Simpson, the only person we can associate with the plot with any certainty.”

“A plot of which we don’t even know the details.”

“Yes, but that’s what we’re going to find out.”

The Internet, in all its glory, provided scant information on Mr. Simpson. Beyond some minimal background regarding his service as Head Cashier at both the First Bank of the United States and its successor, the Girard Bank, there was little to be found.

Parker leaned over her shoulder as she read. “Hey, look at this.” His finger stabbed the screen. “Simpson went to college at Eton.”

No bells went off in her head.

“Why’s that important?”

Here his normally confident tone diminished. “Well, maybe nothing. Didn’t Ben tell us his boss went to Eton?”

She opened a second browser and found Spencer Drake’s corporate profile. “Good memory. Spent half his teenage years there before coming back to the States. He was born in Massachusetts, though. He’s an American citizen.”

“I’m not sure if it means anything. Just throwing it out there.”

“We can file that one away for now. But it’s an idea.”

Thirty frustrating minutes later she was ready to give up.

“This is awful. There’s nothing out there about George Simpson. The guy was basically a nobody as far as history is concerned.”

Parker had pulled out his own laptop and was peering at the screen.

“Well, since you’re striking out, take a look at this.” He brought the computer over and presented a screen shot from Aldrich Securities website.

Erika said, “Don’t tell me they list George Simpson as a founding member.”

“Not quite that obvious, but it’s something. Look at the first board of directors.”

“Who has your eye?”

He indicated the first name.

“Henry Stephen Fox? Who’s that?” Erika asked, her forehead wrinkled.

“In 1836, he was appointed as the British Ambassador to the United States. His posting lasted through 1843.”

It took a few seconds, but then it clicked for her.

“Which includes 1839, the year Aldrich Securities was established.”

Parker held out his hand, which she begrudgingly slapped. “Two points for Erika. Now, I know this doesn’t prove anything, but guess where he was educated.”

His finger traced over the now-familiar school.

“Eton College,” she murmured. “Interesting.”

Erika took a deep breath. “Do you really think that one of the foremost educational institutions in the world is connected to a two-hundred-year assault on America?”

“I’m not saying that.” His shoulders reached towards the ceiling. “I’m just saying that in the sea of uncertainty that we’ve floated through this past week, Eton College has been a shining beacon of consistency. It’s a fact, and a damn strange one.”

“Well said, and you’re right. I can’t argue with it. However, by no means does it establish that Eton is a center of evil. If you listed every notable Briton over the past two centuries, I’d bet at least fifteen percent of them attended that school.”

“You’re probably right. This could be nothing, but I say we take a hard look at British and American economic relations during the time period. Who knows what else may turn up?”

She had to admit, it made sense. Her interest piqued, Erika got down to business. “I’m going to call Ben and tell him about this. He was supposed to keep his ears open for me. Maybe he learned something.”

Erika asked, “Keep his ears open about what?”

“Do you remember the diagram I drew about Ben’s offshore activities with Drake’s money? The funds he had to use to buy oil futures?”

Parker reached for a pen and paper.

“Yes, yes,” she said hurriedly. No need for another lesson. “Did he get any more mysterious directives?”

“No, but Ben was told about a very strange conversation. Apparently Spencer Drake was on a conference call with the CEOs of some heavy hitters in the financial community. The gist of it is that Drake is encouraging these men to engage in proprietary trading, which is using depositors’ money to purchase stocks, bonds or other financial items.”

That didn’t seem so strange.

“Isn’t that what banks do? Invest money to make money?”

“Yes, but not with deposits. Investing money is risky. People don’t put their money in the bank so fat cats like Drake can play the market. If he loses his shirt, theoretically, those savings could be gone forever. Now, the practice isn’t illegal. Yet.”

She looked up.

“I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“It will be illegal soon,” Parker continued. “After the financial crisis, Congress passed an act outlawing proprietary trading. It is supposed to go into effect within the next year.”

“If it’s not illegal, then what’s the big deal?”

“Think about it. If Drake and his cronies invest all this money that isn’t theirs, they face two major problems. One, they could lose everything if the market crashes. You’d think they would be smarter than that, but no one saw the housing collapse coming.”

“That makes sense.”

“Two, once all of the money is invested, even if they turn a profit, they’d have to pull out of the market almost immediately. With the way financial instruments work, especially derivatives, you can’t just undo all that activity overnight. It would take months to unravel everything and get the depositors’ money back into the proper accounts.”

Her face screwed up in thought. “Why?”

“It’s not as though each dollar they invest has a tracking chip to identify where it came from. All of the funds that are invested go into a pool of money from a variety of investors, depositors, and other sources. Unwinding hundreds or thousands of those trades would be an immense undertaking.”

Parker held his hands far apart for emphasis. “And this doesn’t even begin to address the issue of insider trading. If Drake had advance knowledge of oil pricing, which he almost certainly did given how he is manipulating the market, he could go to jail for using this information for personal gain.”

That phrase rang a bell in her mind. “You mean like what happened to Martha Stewart?”

“Same idea.”

This new information washed over her. The world of banking was not her forte, but what Parker was saying made sense. It certainly didn’t prove anything, but with everything they’d learned in the past week, Aldrich Securities was practically screaming for their attention.

Parker continued, “That’s what I need to speak with Ben about. I hope he’s not out with one of his women.”

“Plural? I thought he had a girlfriend?”

Erika could have smacked the smirk off his face.

“No, he’s one of the lucky ones. He has quite a few girlfriends.”

She waited until he turned around before firing a pretzel at his head.

A moment later, Parker’s voice jerked her from the computer screen.

“Hello? Yes, this is Parker Chase. Who’s this?”

Every speck of color drained from his face.

“No way. You can’t be serious. What does he look like?”

More silence as he ignored her pleading looks.

“Oh no. What happened?”

Finally he mouthed the words.

Ben’s dead.

Erika’s breath caught in her throat and tears sprang unbidden. It couldn’t be.

“Thank you.”

Parker was completely crestfallen as he hung up.

“That was the police. A Boston patrol officer found Ben last night, lying on the street near his office. He was shot in the head.”

A single tear welled in one eye, the liquid diamond sliding down his face. It was the first time she’d ever seen Parker cry.

“He’s dead.”

Chapter 30

Boston, Massachusetts

Michael Brown lost fifty years in five minutes.

One shot, and it was done. Benjamin Flood was eliminated. In no hurry, he shuffled away from the ATM, cane clicking on the sidewalk. Three blocks later he turned down an alley filled with darkness, and more importantly, a speck of light in the distance.

During the minute-long walk around Dumpsters and over one sleeping bum, he took off the thick scarf and fedora, his limp disappeared, and the cane retracted in on itself and slid up his coat sleeve.

Whereas a withered old man had entered the alleyway, a trim and unassuming businessman exited with a briefcase in one hand. Moments later, a cab fortuitously rolled by, and Michael Brown settled in for a short ride across town.

He paid in cash and was dropped off several blocks from his hotel. On the street, a homeless man panhandled for change. Michael gave the man a dollar and set the briefcase down as he walked past. By tomorrow the old man’s coat, hat, scarf and cane would be lost amongst Boston’s underground community of vagrants.

One hour later, after a wonderful dinner of lobster and clam chowder, Michael prepared to depart for the train station and a two-hour ride into the blessed anonymity of New York City. His lone bag packed and all evidence discarded, he walked into the hallway. Unfortunately, his cell phone began buzzing in his pocket.

That infernal man was calling again. Michael didn’t like to be bothered.

“Spencer Drake.” Time to send a message. “Spencer, I know where you live. I know what kind of car you drive and where you like to eat.”

Michael let the silence stretch on.

“What do you want?”

Drake was flustered, his words clipped before they finished.

“Well, Mr. ...”

“You can call me Mr. Smith. Please get on with it.”

“Yes, of course. Mr. Smith, I’m not calling about our recent arrangement, as I trust you will complete the agreement in due time.”

“Then what are you bothering me about, Spencer?”

“I would like to engage your services again.”

Well, this was a pleasant surprise. Michael had assumed Drake was growing impatient and checking up on him. If Spencer wanted to give Michael more of his money, he’d be happy to take it.

“Who would you like me to meet?”

“It’s actually two people. They are currently in Philadelphia.”

“I trust this is your private line? The one in your office that is checked daily?”

“Of course, Mr. Smith.”

“Then please continue.”

Drake described a man and a woman, the latter a professor in Philadelphia. Michael noted their names and occupations, mentally cataloguing other relevant details.

Before Drake had finished, Michael was calculating how much it would cost.

“Mr. Drake, I accept your proposal. The fee is ten million, payable immediately.”

Drake didn’t even flinch. “Agreed.”

“Send it to this account.”

Michael read a long string of digits written from the slip of paper he held.

“I’ll deposit the money immediately.”

“I will contact you upon completion of the agreement. And as I’m sure you’re interested to know, our last arrangement was completed this evening.”

Michael clicked off and walked outside, hand covered by his shirtsleeve when he closed the door. He’d wiped the entire room down as well. No sense in leaving any prints behind for the police, no matter how remote the chance they’d find his room.

Tonight, he would rest on the train. Tomorrow, he’d learn about his new assignments, Parker Chase and Erika Carr.

Chapter 31

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

After an hour of calls, Parker finally learned what had happened to Ben.

“Thank you, and I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

He hung up, leaving Ben’s sister sobbing on the other end.

“The cops don’t know what to make of this. Ben was at an ATM, and surveillance footage shows an old man walk up behind him and shoot him point-blank in the head. Ben never saw it coming.”

“An old man? How do they know that? Did they see his face?”

Questions started to tumble out of Erika’s mouth.

“It was dark outside and there weren’t any streetlights around, so they didn’t get a look at his face. The shooter was wearing a fedora and scarf, and was using a cane. It’s the summer, but you know how old people are always cold. Apparently the guy just shuffled off after he shot him. And get this; he didn’t even take the money lying on the ground.”