by Joe Nobody
At the time, Wyatt believed he’d seen it all before. This wasn’t the first economic downturn he had steered his little company through, and it wouldn’t be the last. He had navigated these choppy waters and was familiar with them. He controlled expenses, reduced staff, and cut benefits. No matter how tightly he ran the ship, each month became more of a challenge to meet payroll and pay the bills. The business struggled to keep afloat, Wyatt and his family suffering as much as anyone on the payroll.
It was the banks and government regulation that ultimately pushed the firm over the edge. Wyatt had used credit in the past to keep his business solvent during rough times. When new banking regulations were passed, the bar was raised for creditworthiness. Wyatt’s little company didn’t qualify with the new restrictions.
In many respects, Wyatt felt as if the business were one of his children. Like any parent with a dying child, he pulled out all the stops. The family’s life savings, college funds, IRAs – everything went back into the company, hoping to keep it buoyant until things got better. It wasn’t enough. Wyatt fought like a cornered tiger, but nothing worked. Over a four-day period, he visited 16 different banks with a financing proposal and business plan in hand. He borrowed money from relatives, friends, and anyone else who he thought could help. Despite all his efforts, cash flow continued its downward spiral.
The business still had customers, but not enough of them paid on time. A true numbers man, Wyatt recognized that if only his accounts receivable were current, his business would be flourishing. The firm doubled its collection efforts, diverting resources from other departments to assist in the effort. But like a struggling momma bird flying back to the nest with a scrawny little worm, it just wasn’t enough for all the hungry beaks.
The final blow came on a fateful Tuesday afternoon. He returned from lunch and noticed the few remaining employees standing outside of the company’s office building. The bank had arrived with a sheriff’s deputy. They had changed the locks.
His initial reaction was actually relief. It was finally over. No more stalking the postman every day to see if a client’s promised payment had arrived. No more employee meetings to tell struggling co-workers that paychecks were going to be late. No more worrying whether the power failure was due to the volatile thunderstorm or the utility company fed up with not being paid on time. No more business.
Most people expected Wyatt’s reaction to the repossession to be fiery, an emotional protest. Everyone waited, anticipating he would explode like a bursting balloon. When the bank’s vice president explained his position, Wyatt stood motionless, paralyzed by the news. After a few moments, his shoulders slumped, and he sauntered slowly back to his car without another word. The bank’s needle had little effect on the balloon that was already leaking air.
After regrouping from the shock of the foreclosure, Wyatt acted on what he considered to be the only avenue left - the last glimmer of hope. A larger firm had been considering acquiring Wyatt’s business. He still had a few loyal customers and some revenue. What little value was left in his company wasn’t big money by any measure. Still, his remaining employees would have a job, and Wyatt would receive a paycheck for at least a year during the transition.
The potential buyer was at the stage of raising financing. The partners in the firm had been waiting on an answer from their bank. Today’s news regarding interest rates wasn’t good. Deep down inside, Wyatt knew that radio report just changed his future.
Minister Hong was in a foul mood. The chicken served at lunch was stringy and tasteless, and the tea was tepid at best. When the politburo appointed him as MOSS’ headman two years ago, he had humbly accepted the position with only minimal expectations. One such anticipation was a properly prepared lunch. He couldn’t see any justification for eating a bad meal in these prosperous times.
The minister had consumed enough substandard dishes to qualify as a food critic. He acquired his expertise early in life, born into a peasant family of rice farmers in the Jilin Province of northeast China. As a child, availability of food and variety in diet were elusive. His parents worked hard and did the best they could, but full stomachs were the exception.
By the time he was six years old, he astounded his schoolmarm by speaking fluent English, Mandarin Chinese, and French. Communist party officials whisked him from his small village to the provincial capital to quantify his gift. His math, science, and analytical skills were only slightly above normal, but his brain’s capability to absorb and process the intricacies of language was off the scale.
Such a talent quickly drew the attention of the Central Communist Party. At that time, during the late 1960s, China was desperately trying to climb from behind the shadow of the Soviet Union and establish its own presence in the world. Nixon had just visited the most populated nation on the planet, and a great thawing of international acceptance was underway. China needed people who could quickly become confident in foreign dialects for trade, diplomacy and most importantly of all – espionage.
By that time, MOSS was rapidly advancing to the top tier of the recruiting hierarchy. Still underfunded, with only a regional presence, the leadership of the Red Nation was beginning to give weight to the advantages of a strong intelligence service. That realization elevated MOSS’ position on the ladder of funding, influence, and ability to tap the nation’s talent pool. The young man from the remote province was transferred into the best conservatories and closely monitored by the agency until his graduation. Hong’s command of English, combined with an unwavering belief in the communist ideology, made him the perfect candidate to recruit.
Hong’s first assignment took him to British-controlled Hong Kong. A faction within the Central Bank of China was beginning to grasp the power of currency manipulation. The government possessed few experts who understood the complexities of international finance, and the city’s reputation as the “World’s Fair of Food” made the assignment more palatable.
After establishing himself as a reliable agent, a string of foreign assignments soon followed. Hong served his masters in Australia, where the glass noodles had the consistency of cardboard. East Germany and the Soviet Union followed, complete with food so putrid, the thin man actually lost weight. Were it not for a six-month mission in Singapore, he would have surely died of malnutrition.
His mundane missions always involved either industrial espionage or international finance. MOSS didn’t have the same modus operandi as the famous British, American, and Soviet intelligence services. There were few, if any, gunfights, kidnappings, or adrenaline pumping border crossings. In fact, risk avoidance was always a high priority. Chinese leadership was calculating and in no immediate hurry to dominate the world arena. Most senior members of the party fully comprehended the fact that economic supremacy would override military power in the long run. These men sensed the shark-like hunger of the world’s more mature economies to access their country’s considerable consumer base. One minister compared Western companies to a groom waiting to ravish his new bride; such was the lust to enter Chinese markets. Hong became one of the thousands who assisted the country in manipulating this blind greed to China’s advantage.
His foul mood was further stimulated by the worker sitting across from him. Yangdong wasn’t one of his favorite people. The team leader’s desk was littered with remnants from street side food carts, and his table manners were just short of offensive. He was obviously a clod who could never appreciate the value of a good meal. Such unsophisticated, shallow thinking would surely limit his career. Still, the supervisor’s performance record was adequate, and the burgeoning workload on the ministry was such that making changes at this point in time was unwise.
“You wished to see me, Team Leader Yangdong,” Hong stated, more that asked.
The man seemed excited in his own way, “Yes, Minister. Operation Golden Mountain is progressing ahead of schedule. The results of stage one have been verified, and we are ready to begin the next phase. This step, of course, requires your
approval.”
Hong leaned back in his chair. Other than this neutral action, he showed no emotion. The man is so good at hiding his inner thoughts, studied Yangdong, I envy his strength. No wonder he is the minister.
In reality, the head of MOSS was riding a tidal wave of emotion, ranging from excitement to pure joy. Golden Mountain was one of his pet projects. He had sheltered its funding and resources like a mother bear protecting her cubs. Now, this distasteful man was telling him the plan was ready to be implemented. A celebration was in order. He would have the concierge recommend the latest in upscale Cantonese fare. This report was a long time in coming, and his mind could determine best how to proceed while enjoying a well-prepared meal.
January 13, 2017
Washington, D.C.
The Marriner S. Eccles Federal Reserve building has been a landmark in Washington, D.C. since 1937, but didn’t receive its name until 1982. Forty-five years after it was finished, an act of Congress dedicated the imposing Constitution Avenue edifice to a former chairman of the Federal Reserve System, and the magnificent structure finally had a name. With an exterior of marble quarried in northeastern Georgia, the building had been designed in the mid-1930s as the primary meeting place for the 12-member board of directors. Over the years, several original nicknames described the imposing, four-story structure from “The Mount Olympus of Money,” to “The Temple of Tender.”
Representative Reed Wallace was touring the building with a small entourage of freshmen congressmen. Recently elected in the newly formed Texas 39th district, the Dallas-based lawyer and businessman was more attentive to this building than any of the others they had explored so far. Part of his campaign promise was to support a full audit of the Federal Reserve System, and he was looking forward to seeing the enemy camp.
The guide continued, “Today, we are in for a special treat. The main lobby was closed to daily traffic in the 1980s, but will be accessible for our group. Please follow me.”
As the touring politicians ambled up the marble steps, two uniformed security guards opened the heavy bronze and glass doors. Reed had traveled to Washington many times before. He had always been impressed at how government buildings were designed to project power and security. He supposed it had been that way since Roman times. Your government is stable, powerful, and in charge. Don’t worry – and don’t challenge us, he reiterated to himself.
After finishing an uneventful walk-thru of the Eccles building, the rookie policymakers continued their whirlwind excursion through Washington, receiving a cursory introduction to the more celebrated landmarks. It was late afternoon by the time the small bus parked behind the capitol building and unloaded the smiling politicians and their families. Reed was still full of energy and eager to return to his office. He glanced at his watch and decided if he hurried, he could make it there before most of the staffers left for the day. He was anxious to get started and maintain the momentum of the election victory. Seeing none of the familiar, yellow taxis at the curb, Reed opted to walk the few blocks to his temporary offices, stretching his legs in the process. His campaign manager had secured a small space at a nearby hotel and arranged for the new representative’s staff to move in. For a January day, the weather in Washington was actually quite mild, so the Texan set off, eating up the distance with long strides over the concrete sidewalks of the nation’s capital.
Reed’s desire to be a member of the federal government was, in truth, motivated by vendetta. His father had been a small town banker, honest and respected by the community. Reed had been practicing his jump shot when the older Wallace received a call, offering him a position at the Federal Reserve Bank. The compensation package easily outdistanced anything the local community bank could promise; it was the proverbial offer that he just couldn’t refuse.
Everything had gone well for four years, with Mr. Wallace being promoted every so often and generally enjoying his work. A pre-law student, Reed was in his junior year at The University of Texas when his father called that fateful day.
In retrospect, Reed could easily recognize there were so many things wrong with the conversation that day; he was a little ashamed it hadn’t dawned on him at the time. He remembered his father’s tone was troubled, the cadence of his words rushed. “Reed, I’m driving to Austin. I need to talk to someone about this. Can you skip a class and meet me?”
Reed, puzzled by the unprecedented visit, agreed. He was concerned something was wrong between his mom and dad.
His dad’s journey fell short of the capital city. The next morning, the family Volvo was spotted in a truck stop parking lot, his father slumped slightly over the steering wheel. Blood trickled from his temple, and his wallet was missing.
The police wrote it off as a robbery, and eventually Reed accepted that conclusion as well. After his father was buried, the family and community mourned the loss for weeks. Reed eventually returned to school, graduating summa cum laude. Three weeks before commencement, he was recruited by a small, but growing law firm in Plano.
Over the years, the pain from his father’s murder faded, but his memory of the man never did. Reed married, had children of his own, and lived the lifestyle of a successful man. There was little stress in his life until he met Mr. Agile.
It was a sizzling mid-June morning when the consultation was calendared with a prospective client. With the economic troubles hindering the nation, Reed’s firm had seen a spike in business. It seemed like every contract, purchase, lease, or other corporate transaction was being scrutinized to an extreme level these days. No executive officer of any company wanted to risk a deal going south or a surprise clause adding unanticipated expense later on.
Reed strolled into the conference room that day expecting another review of a real estate lease or tax issue. Mr. Agile desired no such services from the firm.
As he walked through the streets of Washington, Reed replayed the entire meeting in his head.
Mr. Agile was a very old man, at least 80, if not 90 years of age. He wore a dated wool suit that might have seemed vintage were it not for the necktie, poorly knotted and sporting a stain beneath the Masonic Lodge pin. The older man struggled a little, finally settling in the upholstered chair. Before Reed could even begin the meeting, Mr. Agile was racked with a coughing fit, producing a faded handkerchief to cover his mouth.
“How can I help you, sir?” Reed opened.
Mr. Agile studied the lawyer for some time before speaking. “I can tell just by the resemblance, but I have to ask to be sure. Are you Laurence Wallace’s son?”
Reed’s first thought was Mr. Agile was an old friend of his father’s. Perhaps this man had sought out Reed’s firm, wanting legal help from the son of an old family acquaintance – it wouldn’t be the first time.
“Yes, I am. How did you know my father?”
Mr. Agile pondered his answer for a moment and then replied in a hushed tone. “I worked with your father at the Fed. I knew him quite well. Let me get to the point, young man – my reason for being here. I have lung cancer and have been told to get my affairs in order. You, or more precisely your father, happen to be one of those affairs.”
The old gentlemen started coughing again, the handkerchief receiving more work. Reed snapped the top off a bottle of water and extended it to his visitor. Eventually, the man was ready to continue. “In my condition, there’s nothing they can do to me now. Ending up like your father would be a blessing in disguise. I’ve come here because I wanted you to know your dad wasn’t a victim of any robbery – his death was premeditated.”
Reed’s first thought was You are a crazy old fool. He had, however, been raised to respect his elders and didn’t vocalize the sentiment. Instead, he chose a polite inquiry. “How do you know this, sir?”
Mr. Agile smiled, expecting the question. “I’ll answer that shortly, son. Unlike most people, I have a reasonably good idea when my time will be up, and I’ll be standing before my Maker. I have a few things to clear from my conscious before I meet Hi
m. The story of Laurence Wallace is one of those things.”
Reed didn’t react. His ability to handle surprise far exceeded his age and experience. Years of witnesses making crazy statements, surprise evidence, unanticipated moves by opposing counsel, and insane rulings by judges had all tempered his reaction to surprise. Shock was no longer in the Reed Wallace emotional repertoire.
The lawyer calmly replied, “You have my full attention, sir.”
Mr. Agile smiled and nodded his head, gathering his thoughts before continuing. “Your father was on the fast track. His work was prompt and precise. Rumor was that his name was on the short list for a regional director’s position.”
Reed decided to play along. “Dad never talked much about his professional responsibilities. To be honest, I can’t remember his ever talking about the office or his duties. I always wrote it off to a good man who left his work at the front door when he arrived home.”
The older man waved off the statement, “Secrecy was expected at the Fed, young man. It wasn’t an attribute – it was a requirement. The Federal Reserve Bank is the most powerful organization in the world. Many people suspect or speculate about its influence and reach, but few really know. Every nut case conspiracy junkie and rookie reporter would love to pry open the organization’s inner secrets. Any Wall Street executive would sell his soul for even a crumb of insider information. Many try, but none succeed. The reason why is simple - a strictly enforced, total adherence to silence.”