by David Meyer
A puzzle piece clicked into place. Malware had known about the riot. That’s why she’d given me sixty minutes to reach my destination. And as I looked at the growing chaos and listened to frenzied chants about food and money and power, that hour suddenly felt very short.
“Wait here,” I told Graham. “I’ll be back.”
He crossed his arms. “You really think I’m letting you go out there alone?”
My satphone vibrated. I pulled it out of my pocket and stared at the screen. Just you, it read.
“I’m coming.” Graham burped. “And that’s final.”
Yeah, he was tipsy and his belligerence would probably get us into trouble. But he was still the best wingman I knew. Plus, I didn’t have time to argue with him.
My fingers flew across the virtual keyboard, typing my reply. We’re a package deal.
Malware’s response came almost instantaneously. The more, the merrier, I suppose. Malware approved.
As I pocketed the satphone, a few rioters turned my way. Their visages darkened in the pale moonlight and they began climbing the Explorers Society’s exterior staircase.
“Don’t you dare leave,” Donovan called out. “Or I swear to God I’ll give your award to someone else.”
“It’s a fake award.” I walked outside. “It deserves a fake winner.”
CHAPTER 6
“Oh really?” Terry Horst, the esteemed Secretary of the Treasury, crossed her stubby legs. “And exactly what are you going to do, Harold? Beat me like you beat Sharon?”
Harold Sanchez, the Chairman of the Commodity Futures Trading Commission, glowered at her. His jaw tightened. Deep lines formed upon his dark, doughy visage.
“That’s completely unnecessary,” Lori Scott said before he could respond. “And frankly, beneath even you, Terry.” Scott, the Chairwoman of the Securities and Exchange Commission, was tall and curveless. Her hair, dyed frosty blonde, was trimmed close to her scalp. She wore a tight navy blue blouse over white pants, along with an elaborate shell necklace consisting of multiple metallic chains hanging at different lengths.
Terry Horst brushed a wisp of hair away from her eyes. She wore a black pencil skirt and a form-fitting colorful top with plunging neckline. Her love of tight clothes, coupled with her plus-sized body, brought her plenty of disgusted stares from skinny folks. They expected—no, wanted—her to hate her body, to hide it under baggy, dumpy clothing. She had no interest in that. She clearly loved her figure, loved to show it off. And if she could offend a few skinnies in the process, all the better. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking,” she replied sweetly.
“Sharon was—is—a psychopath.” Sanchez exhaled a long breath. Despite his happy-go-lucky nature, or perhaps because of it, he was often found in the company of troubled women. Usually alcoholics with acid tongues and serious daddy issues. “She's just trying to get back at me for breaking up with her.”
“Women don’t lie about that sort of thing,” Horst said in a singsong voice.
“She’s not a woman. She’s a damn harpy. Just like you.”
You can choose your friends, Ben Marvin thought as he watched the three high-powered individuals bicker like children from the hallway just outside his home office. But you can’t choose your collaborators.
For him, at least, that was definitely the case. He didn’t particularly care for Horst, Sanchez, or Scott. However, their respective positions, as per Executive Order 12631, gave them permanent membership alongside him in the Working Group on Capital Markets. Or, as the press liked to call it, the Plunge Protection Team. And since his plans required the Working Group’s unique powers, he was stuck with the three of them, whether he liked it or not.
Ben was the appointed Chair of the Board of Governors at the Federal Reserve. He was a short, bespectacled man. At first glance, most observers pegged him as the stereotypical accountant, churning through endless reams of numbers in a brightly-lit, windowless room. And there was some truth to that. For he’d earned the right to use the CPA title many years earlier. But he was more than just an accountant. Indeed, Ben was widely considered the brightest financial mind the United States had to offer.
He lingered at the doorframe, listening to them argue, annoyed beyond belief. This was supposed to be a moment of triumph. Petty disagreements had no place here.
Decades, Father, Ben thought as he turned his attention to the framed photograph behind his desk. It took decades, but your dream is coming true. I just wish you were here to see it.
The blown-up black-and-white photograph depicted a slim, tall man with slicked back hair. The man—Roy Marvin—sat in a cushioned wood seat, surrounded by distinguished-looking men the world had long forgotten.
Nine months earlier, Roy had succumbed to heart failure. He hadn’t gone easily, battling the Grim Reaper every step to the grave. It was the final epic defeat in a lifetime full of them.
Reluctantly, Ben glanced back at his three collaborators. He’d heard enough of the argument to understand the situation. Quite simply, Horst had lost her nerve. He didn’t fully blame her, what with the violent riots currently plaguing the country. Still, he couldn’t exactly cut her loose at this point. Not when the end game was so close.
Ben cleared his throat.
The bickerers broke off in mid-argument. Swiveling in their chairs, they turned to face him.
“We’ve got a problem.” Sanchez sneered. “Terry’s wimping out on us.”
Secretary Horst eyed Sanchez with disdain. “Open your eyes, Harold. People are hurting and it’s our fault.”
“Typical Terry. First sign of trouble and—”
“Everyone, please calm down,” Ben said. “Let’s talk about this. By the way, any problems getting here?”
Scott shook her head. “We followed protocols to the letter. No one knows we’re here.”
“Thank you, Lori.” Briefcase in hand, Ben walked to his desk. For a second time, his eyes locked on the framed photograph. He’d discovered it shortly after his father’s death, locked away in a bedroom safe. It was just one of thousands of items Roy had saved from his long and troubled career in the field of economics.
The photograph had been taken in 1949, on the eve of what should’ve been Roy’s greatest triumph. And indeed, that was what Ben liked about the photo. It showed a light in his father’s eyes, a laugh upon the man’s lips. This was a Roy he’d never known, one full of youth, hope, and moral clarity. But even this photo hinted at the inner agony that would eventually darken Roy’s soul.
Ben set his briefcase next to the oak desk. Sliding out his leather chair, he sat down. Then he clasped his hands together and gazed at his collaborators as a professor might gaze upon a couple of first-years.
“Let me get something straight.” Scott shifted toward Horst, causing her necklace to jangle lightly against her chest. “Is this you being a drama queen? Or are you seriously thinking of bailing on us?”
“I’m not thinking about it,” Horst replied. “I’m doing it.”
“Are you out of your damn mind?” Sanchez asked.
“Please keep your language civil,” Ben said.
“Have you read the news lately?” Horst asked Sanchez. “First, that whole Columbus Project debacle. Now, this. America’s going up in flames, all because we decided to light a match high up in our ivory tower.”
“Ivory tower?” Sanchez scrunched up his face. “What ivory tower? What the hell are you talking about?”
Scott shook her head. “We had nothing to do with the Columbus Project. That was completely out of our hands. We didn’t even know it was happening when we started this little thing of ours.”
“But we know about it now,” Horst replied. “And we still have time to pull back, to stop this before America is brought to her knees.”
Ben cleared his throat. Silence fell over the room. “I understand your concerns, Terry,” he said. “We all do. It’s one thing to talk about riots in the abstract. It’s a whole other thing to see them in
real-life.”
“Riots that we caused,” Terry added. “None of this would’ve happened without our doing.”
“You know as well as I do that these riots were written in stone long ago. Our crime, if you can call it that, was merely to fast-forward the process.”
“Well put.” Scott nodded sagely. “Like all great nations, America will eventually fall before the power of economics. It’s inevitable.”
Terry exhaled an exacerbated sigh. “Yes, all great nations fall. And yes, America will follow suit one day. But why does it have to be now? Why can’t we just wait for it to go off the cliff on its own accord?”
“Because we all know what will happen in the event of an unguided collapse,” Ben replied. “Food shortages. Mass homelessness. Wealth confiscation. Martial law. And war, civil or otherwise. But if we continue on our present path, we can avoid those things. We can steer America to a soft landing. We can preserve this great land of ours, just in a different form. Lives, millions of them, will be spared.”
It was a strong argument, one Ben had pressed upon the others for months now. And he knew Horst understood it well. But he could still see uncertainty in her eyes. “I know it’s difficult to see it right now,” he said softly. “But a better world lies ahead of us. A world without strife, without conflict. A peaceful world, safe for prosperity.”
Secretary Horst looked away.
What are you thinking? Ben wondered as he gazed upon her plump features. Do you recognize this moment? Do you see it for what it is?
Ben firmly believed that one’s life path hinged on just a handful of critical decisions. Those decisions, more often than not, felt relatively unimportant at the time. It was only later, with the benefit of life experience, that a decision’s true importance was revealed.
At least two such decisions had defined his father’s early life. First, the man’s decision to join the America First Committee, the foremost anti-war group of its time, in 1940. Numbering some 800,000 paying members, the AFC was dedicated to keeping the United States out of World War II. Second, Roy’s decision to remain steadfastly anti-war after the December 7, 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor.
As for Ben, four decisions stood out above the rest. First, picking up An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations from his father’s bookshelf at the precocious age of thirteen. Second, blowing off Sally Keller the night she’d given him that work-less-or-lose-me ultimatum. Third, opening that strange Capitalist Curtain file in his recently-deceased father’s safe nine months earlier. And fourth, joining forces with the three people sitting before him.
He didn’t know much about Secretary Horst’s personal life. But the decision before her, he knew, was one of those life-altering moments. Would she ignore her doubts? Or would she give in to her fears and thwart all their carefully-laid plans?
Horst sat quietly for another few seconds. Then she pushed her chair back, rose to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“You’re sorry?” Sanchez stared at her, disbelief etched in his angry features. “You little—”
“Harold.” Ben shot him a stern look. “Please.”
Sanchez crossed his arms.
Horst’s face twisted into … was that sadness? Then she walked to the door. She stopped at the threshold for a moment, her back to Ben and the others. “I just can’t do this,” she said quietly. “When Monday rolls around, I’m going to begin unwinding my portion of the transactions. I suggest all of you do the same.”
You can fix this, Ben thought. You just need to say the right words in the right tone. Oh, if only it were that easy. But unlike, say, President Walters, he didn’t possess the gift of gab. Indeed, Ben was pathetically normal when it came to thinking on his feet.
“What, uh, about tomorrow’s meeting?” was all he could manage.
“I still plan on going,” she replied. “I hope you’ll do the same.”
“What are we going to tell him?”
“The truth.”
Gasps rang out in the office.
“We need to tell him everything and explain how we can unwind things before it’s too late. President Walters is a good man. He’ll understand.”
“Understand?” Sanchez shouted. “Understand what? That we’ve brought this country to the brink of collapse?”
“He’s right,” Scott added. “Use your head. If you tell him the truth, we’ll spend the rest of our lives in prison.”
“Maybe that’s what we deserve.” With that, she walked out of the office and marched down the adjoining hallway, her flats shuffling lightly on the wood floor.
“She’s full of shit.” Sanchez ignored Ben’s arched eyebrow. “No way she goes to Wade. She’d end up in jail right next to us.”
“Not if she cuts herself a deal,” Scott said.
“You really think she’d sell us out?”
“To stay out of prison? Absolutely.”
Ben inhaled, exhaled. “You know Terry better than both of us put together. Can we change her mind about this?”
Scott thought for a moment. Then she shook her head.
“So, all our planning, our preparation … and this is how it ends?” Sanchez sighed. “It doesn’t seem right.”
Ben spun his chair in a half-circle and stared up at his father. Roy had been a moral beacon and one of the most brilliant economists the world had ever known. But a series of defeats and missteps had marred his career and eventually, his life.
Is that my path? Ben wondered. Is this where it all goes downhill?
He racked his brain for a solution, considering the problem from all sides. He needed Horst. But she was out and worse, was planning to undo all of their hard work.
“Go home,” he said after a moment. “And enjoy your weekend.”
Scott furrowed her brow. “We have to talk about this, Ben. Terry’s going to—”
“Don’t worry.” Ben took a deep breath. He knew what had to be done. He didn’t like it, but unfortunately, Horst had left him no choice. “I’ll take care of her.”
CHAPTER 7
“Eat the rich. Eat the rich. Eat the rich …”
The chant, distant yet close, poured into my eardrums along with a mishmash of other sounds. The odors of sweat, cinders, garbage, and electricity flooded my nostrils. The air was hot and full of vibrant lunacy.
“There’s something about a riot,” Graham said, “that makes me want to start breaking stuff.”
I knew the feeling. I suppose we all have that temptation inside of us, somewhere deep down. That barely-controlled desire to light civilization aflame and dance on its ruins with ridiculous glee.
I glanced down the enormous staircase connecting the Explorers Society to E. 80th Street. A couple of rioters climbed the steps at a methodic pace. Their bodies, dressed in black clothing and shrouded in shadows, blended into the darkness. They looked like ghostly apparitions, fading in and out of the material world.
While on remote digs, I always carried my machete at my side. However, this was New York City. One didn’t just walk down the streets sporting a long blade. Not without causing an army of trust-fund babies to faint behind their bodyguards anyway.
I was weaponless, but far from helpless. As the rioters drew close, my fingers curled together, forming fists. But the rioters—clean-cut white men of roughly college-age—weren’t interested in me or Graham. Instead, they strode right past us.
Two rioters went for the doors, pounding them and screaming drunken threats. “Open up,” one rioter screamed. “So we can kill you.”
“Open up so we can kill you?” Graham rubbed his one good eye. “He can’t really expect that to work.”
“What if Keith is near the door?”
“Okay, maybe it could work.”
Meanwhile, other rioters attempted to scale the white marble exterior, evidently targeting the colossal faces of famous explorers that stood watch over the street. But they kept slipping on the slick surface, only to come crashing back to the ground. Th
ey looked like people wiping out on vertical treadmills.
“Eat the rich,” the distant chant continued. “Eat the rich. Eat the rich …”
I stole a look at my satphone. 8:26 p.m. Fifty-four minutes to go.
Graham steered a weaving path to the street and I followed suit. A few empty cars were parked haphazardly on the asphalt. Rioters attacked them with relish, scraping away at the paintjobs and ripping out sound systems and GPS devices.
“That’s odd,” I said.
“Odd? All of this …” Graham belched, drawing admiring looks from nearby rioters. “What was I … oh yeah, you call this odd? Because I call it …” He trailed off.
“Yeah, that’s a great description,” I remarked. “Anyway I’m not talking about the riot. I’m talking about this street. It’s normally jam-packed with cars. But now, it’s mostly empty. It’s like the drivers knew this was coming.”
“Lucky them. So, why are we here and not getting hammered backstage?”
“Someone kidnapped Beverly.”
The bleariness melted away. “Who?”
“She calls herself Malware. If I don’t help her get what she wants, she says she’ll kill Beverly.”
“What does she want?”
“An excavation. I’m supposed to go to 1199 Madison Avenue, at the corner of 75th. I’ve got a little less than an hour to get there.”
“I doubt we’ll get much help from the police,” he remarked as a group of rioters ran past us. They were naked from the waist down and screaming drunken nonsense at inanimate objects.
“Do we ever?”
“Fair point.”
“One more thing. Malware’s some kind of computer genius. She hacked my satphone, probably yours too. In fact, I bet she’s listening to us at this very moment.”
“Yeah? I’ve got something for her.” He reared back and belched even louder. When he was done, he wiped his lips and pulled out his phone. “I guess I should ditch this, huh?”
I shook my head. “Hold on to it. We need to be able to communicate with her and each other.”
Turning west, I strode down E. 80th Street. Just ahead, I saw Madison Avenue and ever-growing mayhem. People smashing windows and attacking gated storefronts. People tearing up the asphalt and ripping down street signs. People scaling metal poles, their hungry eyes fixed upon blinking traffic lights.