Donald was new to the readiness lifestyle, having only embraced the concept in the last six or seven years. It started with an unsolicited novel by William Forstchen, followed by a series of books by Jim Rawles, sent to him by Susan. The concepts in the books struck a chord, and he began to perceive world events differently. He became a student of prepping, and devoured every book and preparedness guide available on the subject.
He and Susan married in 2005 with a well-attended wedding. Susan had just completed her military career in the Air Force, and Donald was firmly ensconced at the accounting firm of Vitale Caturano—VC. Although they were not Big Four, VC was one of the most prestigious firms in Boston, boasting an international clientele. Donald, the consummate accountant, was of average height, stocky and relatively nondescript. Susan, a devout Christian and the daughter of a wealthy Bostonian with roots dating back to the Lowells, loved him dearly. Soon after marriage, life took an interesting and unexpected turn.
Upon taking their wedding vows, Donald and Susan envisioned a simple life. Good jobs, a two-car garage, two kids and the requisite Labrador retriever. Instead, Donald “took one for the team.” In 2009, with a three-year-old wreaking havoc on the Quinn household and another child on the way, Donald plead guilty to seven counts of a federal indictment, to include charges of money laundering and conspiracy to commit income tax invasion.
VC’s client list consisted of many wealthy, connected Bostonians, all requiring complex tax, estate and retirement planning. Donald was tasked with assisting a friend of his father-in-law with his estate plan, despite his relative inexperience with estate plans of this magnitude. His new client was adamantly opposed to the concept of federal estate taxes, particularly the newly proposed changes to the inheritance tax. Further, he was concerned with protecting his assets from an ex-wife, who had openly voiced that she was entitled to his estate—because she had “paid her dues.”
Unknown to Donald, the client had already made several ill-advised attempts at financial planning, which included large transfers of money to exotic locales like the Turks and Caicos Islands, Tortola, and Nevis. How the client was able to transfer several million dollars to the banks in these countries was never fully disclosed to Donald.
One evening, Donald returned to their home in Waltham to a welcoming committee that would alter the course of his life. Present were his visibly shaken and very pregnant wife, his father-in-law Charles Lowell, the client, and a mystery guest—an older gentleman who was never formally introduced and remained silent during the entire meeting.
Within an hour, Donald agreed to plead guilty to the federal charges, taking full responsibility for the client’s ill-advised scheme. Despite the magnitude of the crime, Donald was assured that he would receive no more than a twenty-four-month sentence. The plea agreement had already been “negotiated.” With “good time,” he would return home within twenty-one months—to a new house in Brae Burn Country Club in West Newton, a guaranteed high six-figure income, and a position dealing in large part with the “Mystery Man.” Susan kept her composure throughout the meeting, smiling reassuringly with the occasional tear. She was a real soldier.
Donald reported directly to the Federal Medical Center on the grounds of Fort Devens, just forty-five minutes west of Boston, where he was immediately “assigned” a serious medical condition—despite being in perfect health. All part of the complex illusion of his incarceration, he would discover.
What immediately struck Donald was the fact there were no fences or guard towers surrounding FMC. It looked like any other group of buildings. Over time he realized why they called this type of facility a “country club.” It wasn’t the Brae Burn lifestyle that awaited him, but it certainly beat a federal penitentiary. Mystery Man couldn’t buy Donald’s way out of prison, but he could apparently purchase a medical condition—the next best thing in the Federal Bureau of Prisons. His condition came with perks.
Ordinarily, any other inmate would miss many of the life-changing events “on the outside” like the birth of a child. Not Donald. He was whisked away on a “medical emergency,” requiring outside medical treatment, for the birth of their second daughter, and was allowed to stay with Susan for a couple of nights.
Despite being away from Susan and the girls most of the time, Donald changed for the better during his stay at FMC Fort Devens. He started to exercise regularly, replacing thirty pounds of fat with lean muscle in the facility’s weight room. Donald also became a prepper, reading every book sent to him and taking detailed notes.
Donald’s final wake-up inside FMC was little more than a physical formality. His mind had already been awakened and conditioned—with a different view of the world. He walked up Tremont Street, for a meeting with his “benefactor.”
Chapter 4
December 15, 2015
Boston, Massachusetts
Sarge bounded down the front steps of the Belfer Center like a kid released for summer break—only to be greeted with a brisk winter breeze and an MBTA bus roaring down Eliot Street. The temperatures were already far milder than the previous year, spurring hope that they might avoid a repeat of the one hundred plus inches of snowfall that wreaked havoc in the eastern United States. A cold breath of air, supplemented with the exhaust of the MBTA bus, was a welcome relief from hundred-car pileups on the highways and downed power grids in Tennessee.
He resisted the urge to run into Dunkin’ Donuts, opting instead for a quick cash withdrawal at the Bank of America ATM. Long lines inside the branch caught his attention. Odd for closing time on a Tuesday; maybe everybody is going Christmas shopping. Part of Sarge’s “duties,” in addition to his profession, was to keep up with world events, especially related to global economics. As he shoved the twenties into his pocket, he thought about how worthless these paper notes might become someday. Today’s modern banking system manufactured money out of thin air. Like a magician’s sleight of hand, global bankers had the power to create money and control credit markets. With the stroke of a pen or the punch of a keyboard, they could deliver wealth to whomever they chose.
Ironic, Sarge thought to himself as he pressed the key fob on his new Mercedes-Benz G63 AMG. Am I hypocritical to condemn the activities of the global elite, the same powerful people who provided this G-Wagen to me as a company car? As he settled in, the earthy smell of the Nappa leather refocused him on the task at hand—Christmas shopping.
Sitting behind the heated steering wheel of the G63 was like entering the cockpit of an airplane. Having taken delivery just a few days ago, Sarge hadn’t taken the proper time to familiarize himself with the interior. Turning the key was the easy part. Then he adjusted all of the comfort features, which fortunately included lots of heating elements. Finally, of course, the ultimate in driver distraction was the G63’s COMAND system with an 80 GB hard drive navigation system, Bluetooth, HDTV and Sirius radio. No wonder Apple and Google developed self-driving cars. Sarge would never use all of these gadgets. His rare 1968 Toyota OJ40, Bandeirante model, was more his speed. No frills, no thrills. The only thing these two vehicles had in common was a Mercedes-Benz engine. No fancy electronics in the Bandeirante, he thought. That might be a good thing someday.
Pulling out of the garage onto Eliot, he fumbled with the COMAND system and nearly struck the back tire of a bicycle—the backpack and winter coat laden student long gone by the time Sarge took a deep breath and exhaled. See! This is what I’m talking about. Finally getting his shit together, Sarge managed to navigate south onto JFK without taking out any of the Kennedy School of Government’s student body. An adjustment of the COMAND volume brought the voice of his friend Neil Cavuto to life.
“Markets closed flat today amid continued uncertainty about whether Greece, Italy and Spain would reach bailout agreements with Eurozone officials. After the markets closed, a rumor swirled that a tentative agreement had been reached, which sent DOW futures higher. However, conflicting reports out of Frankfurt made by Deutsche Bank officials said otherwise, dr
iving futures back to a negative position.
“To discuss all of this, I have as my guest Jon Wellington with Barclays UK in London, how are you, sir?” asked Cavuto.
“I am chipper as usual, Neil, and glad to be on with you this evening,” said Wellington.
“What do you make of this news, and how does it affect the markets?” asked Cavuto.
“All day long it was like watching a classic Wimbledon tennis match of troubles, with investors volleying between radio silence from a closed-door meeting amongst Eurozone leaders on the Mediterranean members and the brightening outlook of a cease-fire agreement in Ukraine. Markets would push higher on the positive reports out of Ukraine and then fall lower on the uncertainty surrounding the Eurozone trio of trouble—Spain, Greece and Italy. Add to that a late-day press conference from the President regarding his use of executive powers and you had one bloody day of jittery stock trading,” said Wellington.
“So what should investors consider as a plan of action?” asked Cavuto.
“Neil, markets like stability. As we have seen over the last five to six years, despite relatively sluggish growth worldwide, markets have risen to tremendous heights. Unfortunately, we are one bad news story away from deflating this incredible run for stocks,” said Wellington.
“I’m a ‘glass half full’ kinda guy, Jon. What would you suggest for those of us who espouse to the ‘glass half empty’ outlook on investing?” asked Cavuto.
“In my experience, a ‘glass half empty’ investor is typically cautious and is likely to sell at the slightest hint of a market downturn. Then there are those few daredevil opportunists who fearlessly attack a potential downturn to turn a healthy profit. They short sell,” said Wellington.
Sarge was travelling south on Soldiers Field Road along the River Charles, enthralled by this conversation. His job duties did not require managing investments. Those responsibilities fell on the shoulders of others. But it was important for him to understand the mechanisms of the markets and how it affected the geopolitical landscape. He passed Boston University, home of Rhett the Wet Noodle Terrier. Lame-ass mascot. He turned his attention back to the conversation.
“Short selling,” continued Wellington, “is the sale of a stock the seller does not own, but has merely borrowed. It may sound like an odd practice, but it is actually done often by seasoned investors. Short selling is typically prompted by speculation or by a desire to hedge downside risk. It is a risky proposition for the average investor and is only recommended it be used by experienced traders who are familiar with the great financial risks.”
“Is now a good time to short sell?” asked Cavuto.
“Neil, no investor has a crystal ball. For the last several years, financial pundits have warned that the financial markets are overvalued and the central banks of the world, like the Federal Reserve, are out of bullets to deal with a financial crisis. Yet the markets keep rising. This meteoric rise is probably a function of all-time-low interest rates. Investors are willing to gamble their money in stocks rather than receive little or no interest in banking-related investments. But, to answer your question, in the absence of a ‘bad news story’ I referenced earlier, equities are still the way to go!” said Wellington.
Sarge thought to himself—investing like a bunch of drunks. They have no idea.
Chapter 5
December 15, 2015
73 Tremont Street
Boston, Massachusetts
Donald crossed Tremont Street and walked purposefully up the sidewalk toward the Park Street intersection. Parking was available at 73 Tremont, but Donald made it a habit to park off-site on his rare visits to the “Penthouse.” Donald believed in maintaining some semblance of a gray-man strategy, especially when meeting with his benefactors. Better to blend in with other visitors to the building.
Waiting on the traffic to clear the crosswalk, he admired the historic Park Street Church across the boulevard. Despite his lack of historic bloodline, which flowed through the veins of his “friends,” Donald was an avid Revolutionary-era historian. He and Susan had long ago graduated from the touristy Freedom Trail, which included well-known attractions like the Old North Church, the USS Constitution and the site of the Boston Massacre. They now explored a lesser known, but equally important layer of history that blanketed Boston.
Crossing the street, Donald checked his watch, noting that he was early. I insist on punctuality—the words rang in Donald’s head. He insisted on a lot of things. Beyond the curb, a tour guide dressed in the cold-weather version of traditional eighteenth-century garb began his presentation. Donald took a moment to listen. Despite its distinction as one of the Freedom Trail’s most prominent features, the Park Street Church was a historic gem that never grew old.
“Welcome, everyone, and thank you for daring the brisk weather to continue on the Freedom Trail tour. I see most of you stretching to look skyward at the magnificent steeple, which sits atop the historic Park Street Church here on Tremont Street. By the way, did you know Tremont is always pronounced trem-mont in Boston, not tree-mont?” asked the guide.
Heads nodded affirmatively, although Donald suspected none of them knew this until now.
“Rising toward the heavens, the two-hundred-seventeen-foot steeple, designed by architect Peter Banner, was once the first landmark travelers saw when approaching Boston. Today, the first landmark a traveler sees is a series of illuminated road signs reading ‘forty-five-minute delay on the Mass Turnpike.’ Things have changed, have they not, my friends?” said the guide, to hearty laughter.
“Built in 1809, the church took a prominent role in the abolishment of slavery. Speakers came from all over New England to advance their mission of human rights. On July 4th, 1831, the patriotic song ‘My Country, ’Tis of Thee,’ written by Samuel Francis Smith, was sung a capella during a children’s Independence Day celebration,” said the guide.
Passing the tourists’ parked carriage—a red Hop-On, Hop-Off Trolley Bus—Donald continued up trem-mont, humming the words of the famous song.
“My country, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims’ pride, From every mountainside, Let freedom ring.”
If only that were still true. He somehow doubted the Founding Fathers would recognize the state of the republic they had left behind for the American people. Donald pushed his way through the impeccably polished, brass revolving door, pausing to wonder what would happen if he did a 360 and drove home. Nothing good.
Entering the lobby, Donald was struck by the magnificence of la grande entrée of 73 Tremont. After a major renovation in 1988 added several stories to the existing neoclassical granite structure, the building took on a character of its own. From the Carrara marble inlay floors to the forty-foot-tall vaulted ceilings, the lobby was gracefully appointed with polished brass, mahogany wood and elegant soft lighting. Despite a level of grace and style that would rival the finest five-star hotel, the lobby was sparsely decorated to minimize the chance of an impromptu street gathering. Everything in 73 Tremont had been designed with a purpose.
Replacing the historical bellhops of the former Tremont House were subtle reminders of the buildings twenty-four-hour armed security team. A careful look revealed numerous security cameras shrewdly incorporated into the architectural finishes—an odd feature for a building owned by a trust set up to benefit Suffolk University. Of course, Donald knew all too well that the building had little to do with the university.
“Good morning, sir, how may we help you?” asked a well-dressed concierge behind the reception desk.
Donald could feel the eyes studying him from above. I am not paranoid, just aware.
“Yes, I have an appointment on the thirteenth floor,” said Donald.
Two members of the building’s security team emerged from a shallow alcove to Donald’s right. Men in Black types. Definitely not your typical campus security arrangement.
“Your name, please?” asked the conc
ierge, picking up a phone receiver.
Donald provided his name and waited several seconds. He wasn’t sure why they put him through this drill. They’d probably identified him a block away. The concierge listened to the phone and nodded, replacing the receiver. Two more men emerged from the alcove, bringing the total to five.
“Before these gentlemen escort you upstairs, sir, we must ask if you are carrying any weapons—including sharp objects. If you have any weapons, please allow us to check them for you,” said the concierge.
Donald had received his concealed-carry weapons permit shortly after his release from prison. He had never owned a gun prior to “going away,” but it soon became clear his new job duties would require personal protection. Within weeks of returning, he received correspondence from the Office of the Pardon Attorney in Washington, D.C., granting him a full Article II pardon and restoration of his civil rights, permitting gun ownership. An application to the Massachusetts Parole Board, marked APPROVED, arrived a few weeks later, completing the process. Everything had been prearranged on his behalf. He’d never seen the applications.
“Yes, I do have a weapon to check,” said Donald.
The concierge motioned for him to follow the men through a door, where he voluntarily surrendered his Springfield XD-S 9mm to the solemn gentlemen who hadn’t smiled—much less spoken. One of the security team members released the magazine and cleared the chamber before locking it away in a wall safe. After a brief search of his Hartmann signature tweed briefcase, they motioned for him to follow. Although Donald had been through this procedure a few times before, it never failed to reinforce the importance of the man he had come to see.
Three members of the security crew entered the elevator; one of them inserting a key into an unnumbered slot on the brass elevator keypad. They rode to the thirteenth floor in awkward silence. When the elevator opened, Donald strode confidently to the reception desk, which was hosted by two attractive, professionally dressed women. On closer inspection, Donald could see how they trained their eyes on him—no doubt performing a threat assessment. He suspected their security training equaled, if not exceeded the men escorting him. Though it had been nearly a year since Donald’s last visit to the thirteenth floor, he felt an increased security presence. One of the women broke eye contact to glance at one of his escorts, who simply nodded. Do they have mental telepathy too?
The Loyal Nine Page 3