Roberts followed up with, “Oh – Mr. Chairman. Can you –”
The Committee Chairman interrupted, announcing “The gentleman's time has expired.”
* * * * *
Chairman Cohan's intercom buzzed. The Chairman pressed the button and began speaking. “Yes, Carol.”
“Sir. FDIC Chairman Brechter is here for your one-thirty appointment.”
“Thank you, Carol. Will you please ask him to wait for five minutes and then send him in?”
“Yes, sir.”
Chairman Cohan pulled out a cigar, bit off the tip, and lit it. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk, taking a draw of smoke from the cigar deep into his lungs. He exhaled the smoke into the air. He relaxed, continuing his leisurely smoke until the FDIC Chairman walked in.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Chairman,” Chairman Edward Brechter greeted the Fed Chairman.
Cohan looked up, exhaling smoke into the air. “Well, hello Ed. I’m glad to see you.” He stood up and they shook hands.
Chairman Cohan gestured to the FDIC Chairman to take a seat and then sat down behind his desk. “So,” Chairman Cohan continued, “to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
“Mr. Chairman. Ah – Ethan, I'll get right to the point.” He paused for effect, and then continued speaking. “You have authorized the transfer of $75 Trillion in derivatives from the Merrill Lynch arm of Bank of America, into the Bank of America retail banking subsidiary.”
“So?”
“You have also authorized the transfer of $79 Trillion in derivatives from the JP Morgan investment bank subsidiary to their Chase retail banking subsidiary.
“So? What's your point?”
“So, Mr. Chairman, because all of these derivatives will be covered under the FDIC as though they were part of retail banking, your action will place the American people on the hook for any write offs that occur with these derivatives.”
“So what?” Chairman Cohan perused the cigar in his hand. “My primary concern is to the banks, not the American people. I can't allow the banks to go under, no matter what.”
“But, Mr. Chairman. The law says that you can't do this. In fact, Section 23A of the Federal Reserve Act clearly stipulates that this is illegal.”
“So?”
“Sir. By authorizing this transfer, you are breaking the law!”
“Horse shit, Ed. The Federal Reserve Act also says we can override the law if we are acting in the public interest. And I say that we're acting in the public interest.”
“But Mr. Chairman. Saddling Americans with $75 trillion from Bank of America; and then another $79 Trillion from JP Morgan – sir, this is not in the public interest!”
“Ed. It is if I say it is.”
The FDIC Chairman's face turned red. “Damn it, Ethan! You can't –”
“No, no!” Chairman Cohan interrupted with his shaking finger. “First, Edward, I want you to call me Mr. Chairman.”
“What!”
“And then,” Chairman Cohan shook his head to exaggerate his statement, “don't ever tell me what I can and cannot do. Because I can do anything I want.”
Chairman Brechter's face was now crimson as his mouth twisted into a gnash. “I can’t believe you –”
Cohan shouted, “That’s enough!” And then he turned and faced the window. “You're dismissed, Ed.”
Chapter 15 – Sometime in the future
The Waiter made his way around the table, pouring ice water and mentally checking off items the guests might want. While moving to the next guest, the Waiter brushed against a man standing near the table. He was wearing business casual attire with a jacket and sunglasses, and an ear piece was attached to his left ear. Rather unusual dress, the Waiter thought. Especially for someone staying at a Mediterranean resort.
The table was in a far corner of the restaurant's large patio. Isolated from the ‘regular’ customers, the table was blessed with a stunning view of the cliffs and the Mediterranean. And with a crystal blue sky, the guests seated at the table enjoyed a light breeze coming off the water.
Like many older men, they fiddled and fussed over their cigars while enjoying the banter of a lively conversation ...
“... so after I explained it to my butler ...”
“... Shall we? In what way shall we seek to ... “
“... and when we implement the new global currency, we shall have much more power ...”
With this last statement, the Waiter's ears perked up. Even as his head remained bowed, he poured ice water into yet another glass and placed the glass in front of a man. He listened as yet another man was speaking ...
“... but do you think these – these Special Drawing Rights[50] will give the kind of leverage we need? ...”
The Waiter watched out of the corner of his eye as the speaker flicked his cigar ash into the ashtray.
“... so what was Emily's reply? Stupefied? ...” and then a loud course chuckle came from the man.
“... and so we create Special Drawing Rights just as we print any other currency ...”
The resort staff had talked about them, these high-rolling guests who were particularly reticent in their comments and their conversation – at least when the resort staff were within earshot. They wondered about them. And yet, no one knew much – at least, no one was talking.
The Waiter continued to listen, but the conversation had shifted from money to more mainstream concerns; such as world events, riots, war, and revolution.
The Waiter thought back to the day he was hired ...
“... remember,” the resort manager said,”you are not to repeat a single word that our guests may utter. You are not to even acknowledge their words – unless, of course, they are talking to you or ordering a service from you. If I ever find one instance of guests' business being repeated, I will fire you; and then I will shoot you!”
The Waiter grimaced at this last thought.
The ad hoc conversations continued around the table even as the servants attended to their guests. The Waiter completed his service, and then lowered his head in a humbling gesture. He withdrew from the table.
“... and they conjure paper money from nothing, and then they enslave us with it!”
He strode past the swimming pool on his way to the kitchen, weaving in and around randomly-placed sun worshipers. Most were women, their well-oiled naked bodies glistening under the bright sun, reflecting a red or brown coloured sheen. But the Waiter ignored them – his mind was somewhere else ... Who are those people? What is their role?
The Waiter’s stride was steady as he approached the kitchen. He pulled the order slip from his apron pocket. Suite S-225, he mused. This was the suite that would receive the charges for their 'minor' lunch.
Shortly, the Waiter and a couple of servers returned to the table with the appetizers. The Waiter – for he was the Head Waiter of this table – continued attending to the party, all the while hoping to hear still more conversations on money. But try as he might, he heard no more reference to Special Drawing Rights – nor any other currency.
* * *
After work, the Waiter departed the resort and proceeded to a nearby bus stop. He climbed aboard a local bus – his usual transportation for the ride back to his quarters. The Waiter was preoccupied as he rode the bus, looking down at the floor and at his feet. He didn't seem to notice the Mediterranean-style buildings, nor did he notice the villas or the palm trees as they went by. His thoughts were elsewhere ...
“... My darling! Oh my darling!” ... he could almost feel her hot breath in his ear. Her lips joined with his in fiery passion, “... my darling! Take me. Take me!” ... And then her scream of passion receded into a distant memory ...
The Waiter’s eyes remained fixed on the floor, seemingly unaware that the bus made one stop after another. But then it slowed as it approached a nondescript bus stop. The bus pulled in, and the Waiter moved up to the door and disembarked. He walked a few blocks and strode into the front yard of a
modest villa, arranged within a row of cookie-cutter villas lining the street. He picked up his mail at the entrance and went into the villa.
He sifted through his mail – much of it had been forwarded from a London suburb – and tossed most of it on the kitchen table; unopened. But he came upon one envelope that piqued his interest – the return address was for HM Revenue and Customs. He opened the envelope and removed the tri-folded sheet of paper.
HM Revenue & Customs
NOTICE
10 February
RE: Foreclosure of Real Property and Income Tax
Dear Sir or Madam,
This notice is to inform you that you are required to pay income tax on the amount of the mortgage recently forgiven by the Bank of England as a result of your foreclosure.
This notice further informs you that you are 1 year past due on your payment of said taxes; and that your bank accounts and wages shall be garnished henceforth.
We estimate the amount past due in income tax, penalties, and interest to be in the amount of: £626,272.
Please contact our office to arrange for payment.
For the Commissioner,
Bloody parasites, he thought. And then a wry smile crossed the Waiter's face. He crumpled the paper up into a wad and tossed it into the wastebasket.
* * *
It was dark. It was late. It was night. The Waiter quietly made his way across the resort grounds, taking advantage of the permanent fixtures and shadows to conceal his movements. He came to the main building entrance and tested the door. It opened. He stepped into the building and tiptoed down the corridor until he reached the office.
The Waiter inserted two thin tools into the lock. His mouth contorted and twisted as he turned his wrists and hands just so. Click! The Waiter glanced up and down the corridor. Seeing no one, he opened the door and quickly slipped into the room. He closed the door behind him.
The Waiter turned and drew a flashlight from his rear pocket. He switched it on and scanned the otherwise dark room with the beam of light. The beam traveled across the walls, interrupted by the reflection of light across a window pane. The window revealed only darkness outside.
The beam of light stopped at a row of filing cabinets. The Waiter walked up to the cabinets and checked the labels on the drawer fronts. “Here we go,” he whispered.
The Waiter pulled the drawer open and scanned the folder tabs. Finding the folder for Suite S-225, he pulled it out and opened it on the nearby desk. There, sitting neatly on top, was a reservation for a Lord Julius Delmar – a businessman from England. The reservation was made from the Glass/Hempel agency in London. And there was a note attached; the note contained cross references to several other guests.
The Waiter nervously glanced at the entrance door, but no one appeared. He took some time – maybe 15 minutes – to copy information out of the folder and the other cross-referenced folders. Then he put everything back in its place.
He retraced his steps and departed from the resort, never to be seen again.
* * * * *
Sometime later. Back in the United Kingdom ...
The late model Saab entered the cemetery from the east entrance off of Maple Street, and proceeded along the narrow one-lane road lined with mature maple and oak trees. The car wound its way through the grounds – passing clusters of grave stones off to both the left and the right – taking one curve after another and following the uneven terrain as it sloped downhill, and then uphill.
The sky was dreary as a sky could be in February, in England, with the leafless branches standing barren against the sky, slicing across the clouds with their dark, jagged lines. The grass, wet as it was, still had smatterings of snow here and there. And all of this – depression – rendering an image of a lifeless, soulless netherworld.
The car pulled up beside a cluster of newly set graves, still freshly cut and no more than a year or two old. The engine stopped, and the Waiter stepped out of the car. The Waiter walked around the front of the car and toward a particular grave. He reached the monument and stopped, but he remained standing as he looked down upon the grave.
The inscription on the monument read: “Loving and Blessed Wife and Daughter.”
The Waiter's lips curled as his eyes filled with tears. He dropped to his knees, tears rolling down his cheeks in deep sobs of grief, of pain and sadness.
He imagined her in utter despair – sitting on the side of the bed in tears – swallowing a handful of pills. And then another handful. And yet still another handful. Still in grief, she placed her head on the pillow and cried herself to sleep. For the last time.
He gazed through tear-filled eyes at the grave stone; and through his clenched lips, he uttered, “my love, my love. I am so, so sorry!” His mouth clenched tighter as he collapsed face down on the ground, his body shuddering in grief and pain.
Later, the Waiter rose and spent time with the grave – talking, conversing, with the essence of the woman he loved.
* * * * *
It was still dark when the Waiter awoke from a restless sleep. He glanced over at the clock. Whew! I've got plenty of time. He arose from the bed, showered, and dressed in business casual attire. And then he did something decidedly unusual: he fitted a beard and mustache to his usually clean shaven features. He smoothed the mustache with his fingers as he peered into the mirror. Blimey! Who is that? And then he smiled – the kind of smile that says I'm gonna put something over on you!
The Waiter departed the hotel in his late-model Saab. Winding his way through narrow streets, he soon pulled into a parking space on Ipswich Way – a well-manicured, tree-lined street located in an exclusive suburb just north of London. He patiently watched the activity – or lack of activity – around the Glass/Hempel Agency.
The Waiter had spent several days casing and researching the Agency. His notes showed that two women ran the business – but that it was privately owned by an unknown ‘investor’. The investor had made the two women – Gladys Hempel and Irma Glass – managing partners and given them a substantial stake in the business. The Waiter learned it was a long-established two-person business, promoting itself as ... The Agency of Travel and Leisure with Uncompromising Values.
The Waiter also studied each woman and her habits. He learned that Ms. Glass arrived early and left early; and that Ms. Hempel arrived about mid-morning and remained into the early evening.
The Waiter perked up as a late-model luxury car drove into the parking lot. The car pulled to a stop and a woman stepped out. Ms. Glass, I presume. The woman strode to the entrance, unlocked the door, and disappeared inside.
It was still early – about 8:00 am. He waited. Five minutes, and then ten minutes, and then fifteen minutes passed. The Waiter glanced at his wristwatch and got out of the car. Carrying a notebook computer satchel, he strode up to the entrance where he pushed open the door. He stepped inside and was greeted with a soft singing chime and a plush office setting. Looking around, he noted several offices arranged within the space, each with a glass wall facing into a central atrium. For those who demand transparency in business, he thought with a chuckle.
The Waiter noted the empty receptionist's desk and remembered she was not due for another hour. He seated himself in the waiting area, continuing to make mental notes about the office layout.
He had a good view of one office in particular. And what an office! Decorated with a mahogany desk, plush office chairs, sofa, and wet bar, it was clearly the office of a wealthy owner!
The Waiter's gaze fell on a security alarm keypad mounted on the far corner wall. And then scanning the room still more, he spotted several motion detectors and cameras positioned high above and covering much of the space. Those cameras probably cover the entire office area, he mused.
The Waiter was seated barely two minutes when Ms. Glass came up to greet him. “Good morning, sir. May I help you?”
“Yes ma'am.” The Waiter stood up and handed a business card to the woman. “I received a call early last ev
ening from a Ms. Hempel, I think her name was. She said that several of her computers had virus problems and that one was so slow it was about to expire.”
“Really,” Ms. Glass replied as she peered at the business card, “Mr., ah – Markham, isn't it?”
“Yes ma'am.”
“Well,” she continued, “Gladys didn’t say anything to me about it. And besides, we usually use a different company for our computer needs; ah – Network Systems, I think they're called.”
“Yes ma'am. But we were called by Network Systems because they wanted to provide you with really quick service, but they didn’t have the time to work on your systems today.” The Waiter smiled, “And so they sent us.”
“Oh.” Ms. Glass looked at the card again and put her hand up to her soft chin. “Well, did she say which computer it was?”
“Yes, ma'am. She said that her computer was showing symptoms and needed to be checked first.”
Ms. Glass looked at the card yet again and seemed to hesitate.
The Waiter glanced around the area and then asked, “Where is it?”
“Follow me,” Ms. Glass said as she walked toward the back of the office area. She walked into the back office on the right, with the Waiter following. She stopped and motioned her hand in a presentment. “Here it is.”
The Waiter walked toward the chair and sat down. “I will get right on it.”
Ms. Glass' voice was cold as she replied, “Please stop by my office when you are done.”
“Yes ma'am.”
The Waiter went to work. First turning on the computer, he discovered that it was not password protected. How incredibly lucky, he mused. He let the operating system load and then started the email client. Scanning backwards through the incoming mail, he looked for a block of messages around the date of the reservation.
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