The Crowns Vengeance

by Andrew Clawson

  “I’m surprised the English would let Revere, or any other American, for that matter, get so close to King George right after the war.”

  She favored him with a sly grin.

  “Come on, Mr. Finance. You of all people should know that a little bad blood can’t get in the way of making money. After the war, Britain found itself in a crisis of sorts, with their shipping lines disrupted by the French coupled with loads of debt taken on to finance the war. To pay all these bills, and to maintain their enormous military, one of the first orders of business was re-establishing relations with their former colonists.”

  Parker understood. “And if you want to do business, you need to have businessmen from each side.”

  “Exactly.” Her finger stabbed the air for emphasis. “And who are the businessmen between nations? Diplomats.”

  With that, she pointed to the decoded message.

  “This letter alludes to some amount of time spent in London, which is where a diplomat would be. Revere also notes that he’ll be sending additional reports at a later date. When you put it all together, I can’t help but think Revere must have served as an American envoy in some capacity.”

  Images of Hillary Clinton surrounded by Secret Service and personal assistants flashed across his mind.

  “I’d bet diplomats had an entourage, even back then.”

  “They did.”

  “So it wouldn’t have been difficult to bring a few spies along for the party.”

  Erika patted his head in mock admiration.

  “I agree. At the time, Revere was not well known outside of Boston. His midnight ride didn’t become famous until Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote a poem about it sixty years later. After the war, Revere would have easily blended in with a diplomat’s support group.”

  Parker thought back to his history classes in college.

  “Alexander Hamilton was the architect of America’s financial system, if I’m not mistaken. Why would he be involved with espionage?”

  Erika slid onto a stool across the table, hands moving rapidly as she lectured.

  “It wasn’t uncommon for government figures to wear multiple hats in those days. Kind of like a small business, there were only a few men who were intimately involved with each aspect of our nation’s development. Hamilton was the go-to guy for financial matters, but there’s no reason he couldn’t also have worked in espionage, especially if it involved money or financial policy in any way.”

  “A renaissance man of sorts.”

  “Correct. Look at Benjamin Franklin. He was a diplomat who founded the US Postal Service. There’s no reason Hamilton couldn’t multi-task.”

  Viability established, Parker focused on the next big question.

  “Assuming Hamilton and Revere worked together as spies, we still have no idea what Revere is talking about. Any idea about what kind of infiltration he discovered?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” Erika responded.

  Without explanation, she jumped up and went back into her bedroom, bare feet moving silently across the bamboo floors, only to re-emerge with her laptop.

  “I haven’t done a thing over the past twenty-four hours but analyze this letter.”

  Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she spoke.

  “Regarding your question, I don’t know what kind of plan Revere is talking about. There’s nothing out there, at least anything substantiated, that refers to or discusses a British spy infiltrating America’s government immediately following the Revolution. Now, is that because the British never tried, or because they were never caught? I don’t know.”

  With a flourish, she flipped her screen around for him to see.

  “What I did find, however, is going to blow your mind.”

  On the screen was a snapshot of the interior of a room with wooden floors and walls. A brick fireplace sat in one corner, near a small table surrounded by four wooden chairs. Against the far wall sat a bureau, stained to a deep shade of brown.

  “This is a receiving room inside of Paul Revere’s house. The structure still stands and contains quite a few pieces that date from when Revere lived there. It’s a museum now.”

  “Why am I looking at Paul Revere’s living room?”

  His question was met with a mischievous grin.

  “The answer’s in front of your face.”

  If that was how she wanted to play it, fine. He scoured the room’s contents for any clues. Every piece of furniture appeared to be hand-hewn, worn, but crafted to last.

  He recalled a phrase from Revere’s letter. “All right, clearly I need to find two arrows that can be shot at each other.”

  The reference contained in Revere’s report wasn’t even hidden. Unfortunately, no bows or winged munitions presented themselves.

  “Am I missing his hunting gear?”

  “It’s not that simple, but you’re on the right track.”

  Of course it wouldn’t be. He began to search methodically, dividing the photo into quadrants and combing through each one before moving on. As he searched, Erika watched him intently, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction of displaying any frustration. On the last quadrant, his eyes narrowed.

  “What about this?”

  He enlarged the picture, focused on the single bureau. Six drawers filled the container’s center area, each decorated with several triangle-like designs turned on their side, which left each apex pointing to the drawer’s center.

  “These triangles that are pointing at each other kind of look like arrows.”

  One glance at her face was all it took. He’d found it.

  Erika hopped up from her chair and darted around the table.

  “These designs”-her fingers traced the page-“look exactly like arrows. And if you imagine they’re the points of an arrow, look what happens when you fire them.”

  Her two fingers crashed into each other, directly where the drawer’s knob sat. “I worried I was twisting the facts to fit my theory, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  Parker wasn’t buying it yet. This was all well and good, but her idea had one major flaw.

  “So we may have found the arrows, but how do we know this dresser is involved? Some museum curator might have added it a hundred years after Revere died.”

  “That particular piece was crafted in England, and I located the page in Revere’s household records that lists each item he had delivered to his foundry from England,” Erika said. “This bureau was described in detail. On the invoice was a note that specifically stated it was to be given to his wife. Care to guess her name?”

  “Rachel.”

  “Right again.”

  “So you’re saying this desk is still in the museum, on display, waiting for us?”

  Erika shook her head in the affirmative.

  “You know what happened the last time we went to a museum.”

  Parker absentmindedly touched the gunshot scar on his shoulder, a stark reminder of their harrowing experience.

  For a minute, neither of them spoke. Parker looked out of her living room windows, down on the rapidly filling sidewalks. Couples walked past, arm in arm, some with dogs on leashes. Mothers sat on porches with their children, gossiping with the other women. A peaceful scene, typical of people everywhere enjoying their weekends and the short break from their normal, uncomplicated lives.

  The type of life Parker now envied.

  “Honestly, how long have you had this?”

  The fact that he was currently in Philadelphia on business and would be traveling to Boston next week was too convenient.

  Both her hands shot up, palms out.

  “Two days, that’s it. I had no idea the letter existed until this week. I know what you’re thinking.” Fire flashed across her features. “I didn’t use your trip to Boston as an excuse to spring this on you.”

  He’d known her for nearly a decade. Parker could tell when Erika was lying. Right now, she wasn’t.

  A sigh of resignation escaped his
lips. “Are you going to take a week of vacation?”

  “I knew you’d agree,” Erika replied. “Yes, I’ll take a week of personal time. I thought you might want to take a few days as well, spend some time together after your meetings are finished.”

  “I’m supposed to spend three days with Ben working on foreign accounts, so I suppose I could extend the trip.”

  His pleasant look fell away, replaced with a deathly serious stare.

  “I know you’re excited, but you remember what happened last time. We almost died.”

  She frowned at his tone.

  “Yes, but no need to be a buzz kill. This will be fun.”

  “I hope we don’t find a damn thing in that dresser. In fact, I hope they don’t let us anywhere near it. All we do is look at it, maybe poke around a bit, and then we leave. I have no interest in getting involved in another one of your awful conspiracy hunts.”

  “Excuse me, but let’s not forget who started the last fiasco. I loved Joe, but he was your uncle, and he sent that letter to you.”

  She was right, of course. His murdered uncle had mailed him a letter the day he died, which ultimately set them on a path that had nearly killed them both.

  “Okay, you’re right about that. However, that doesn’t mean we can’t learn from our mistakes. I’ll go along with you, but in no way are we going to get involved in anything illegal.”

  “Deal.”

  She slid across the floor and embraced him, her hands kneading his shoulders.

  “Thank you. I promise we won’t get in any trouble this time.”

  Chapter 8

  Philadelphia, PA

  Rich Patton slapped Parker on the back. “Come on, let’s grab a drink. I know a great spot for happy hour.”

  As Parker walked down JFK Boulevard in Center City after another marathon session of meetings, the words were music to his ears. For the past three days he’d been working fifteen hours at a time, hammering out a deal with a competing firm. After two days of arguments, compromises, and a few outright threats, they’d finally reached an accord this afternoon that should make everyone a tidy profit.

  “Lead the way, my friend. But just one. Our flight leaves early tomorrow morning.”

  Erika was at home, packing her bags for a long weekend with him in Boston. Parker had to meet with his old classmate Ben Flood tomorrow when they landed, but after that, he and Erika would be free to enjoy the city. First stop on their itinerary, the Paul Revere House.

  Parker followed his host down the sidewalk, which was jam-packed with people. Businessmen in suits, college kids on skateboards, and bums with trash bags mixed together, some more fragrant than others in the amber sunlight. Parker soon found himself inside a bustling Irish pub, surrounded by dozens of people enjoying a few pints.

  “You’re a real bastard, Chase. Why do you have to bust my chops so hard on our service fees? My boss is going to kill me when he gets a look at those numbers.”

  Rich Patton put his glass out for a cheers.

  Parker tipped his pint. “You got a good deal and you know it.” Each man felt the strain of the past few days. Parker had worked with Rich quite a bit over the past few years, reaching a point in their relationship where they could curse each other out during the day but put those feelings aside and enjoy a drink together at night. It was a solid, profitable relationship.

  “I don’t mean to talk shop after hours, but have you seen all the activity with oil futures?”

  As Parker sipped the blessedly cold beer, he recalled a barrage of e-mails he’d read that morning. “Did some dictator blow a gasket and threaten to shut off the pipeline?”

  He couldn’t remember any volatile news coming out of the Middle East, supplier of a vast majority of the world’s crude. Parker knew that oil futures, which were financial instruments purchased by traders predicting the cost of oil at some point in the future, could fluctuate for any number of reasons. If a war started, or if an oil-rich nation threatened to reduce their production, the cost of oil would likely rise. Should investors get wind of such an event, they could try to profit by immediately purchasing oil futures before they rose in price.

  If a trader could buy an oil future today for one dollar, when news broke that oil might become scarce in the future, the value of that financial instrument, or future, would rise, earning the trader a profit. However, should the expected not occur, and the market value of the oil future remained stagnant or dropped, the trader would lose money.

  Parker knew more than a few speculators who had lost fortunes betting incorrectly on the futures market. It seemed like an easy way to profit until you realized the market could be a fickle mistress.

  “No, and that’s the strange part. There’s been nothing to suggest that so many futures would be snapped up.”

  Patton had been in the business for over a decade. He wasn’t easily spooked.

  “How much activity are we talking about here?”

  Rich’s hands spread out wide, beer spilling onto the floor as he spoke.

  “Ten million contracts, give or take a few hundred thousand. That’s five times the normal amount. Of course, all these trades are sending the price of crude up as well.”

  Which only made sense. As the volume of futures purchased rose, so did their price. “Damn, that’s a lot of oil. Any idea why people are snapping it up so quickly?”

  “That’s the thing. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing is pointing to the cost of oil rising. I mean, it could go up or down a little, but nothing unusual.”

  “So what idiots are buying? Do they know something we don’t?”

  “If they do, they’re not telling. And as to who, that’s actually quite interesting.” Rich leaned closer to him, his voice low. “I have no idea who’s doing the buying.”

  That grabbed Parker’s attention. Having previously worked for a firm in New York, Patton was intimately connected to the financial scene. He knew everyone.

  “How is that possible? I thought you knew everybody.”

  Rich’s shoulders went skyward. “So did I. Apparently most of these futures are being purchased by a half dozen companies no one’s ever heard of. My buddy did some digging on one of them, and the only thing he found was their incorporation date.”

  Parker waited. Rich was a showman.

  “It was created three days ago.”

  “So? People start companies all the time. Anyone can do it.”

  “But how many people have a hundred million to throw around? That’s the big question.”

  Rich had a point, but Parker just couldn’t get himself fired up about oil futures. He dealt with personal wealth management, so unless Rich was offering a surefire moneymaker involving oil speculation, Parker wasn’t interested.

  “It could be a front for some place like Goldman Sachs or Morgan Stanley. Maybe some trader has an in with the Saudi royal family and knows something we don’t.”

  A frown spread across Rich’s face before he took a long swallow of his beer. He clearly had high hopes for a conspiracy of enormous proportions.

  “Maybe, but if that’s the case, what do they know?”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Parker teased. “Liquidate all your assets and get as many futures contracts on your balance sheet as possible. You can invite me to your new ski house in Vail after you make a few hundred million for the advice.”

  “I’ll buy an island and invite everyone but you, smart ass.”

  Parker chuckled and glanced at his watch.

  “On that note,” he said, finishing his beer, “I have to get going. Erika won’t be happy if I stay out too late. Let me know if you hear anything else about this conspiracy of yours. I’ll keep my ears open for you up north.”

  Rich narrowed his eyes, alternating between Parker and his empty glass.

  “I’m serious,” Rich told him. “If I’m right, we could make a killing if we get in early.”

  “The only oil speculating I’d do is filling my tank before gas g
ets more expensive, because right now all these new companies are doing is driving up the price of oil. As if the sheiks needed any more money.”

  “I’ll drink to that. Have a safe trip and stay in touch.”

  Parker shook Rich’s outstretched hand before weaving his way through the crowded bar, carefully avoiding the more intoxicated revelers. Outside, the sun had fallen considerably, leaving the air pleasantly warm. Parker slid into a cab, all thoughts of oil and half-cocked conspiracy theories melting away as he considered the three day vacation he and Erika had in store.

  Chapter 9

  Boston, Massachusetts

  A colorful stream of expletives filled the air inside Spencer Drake’s office. At her desk outside his door, his secretary nearly smeared bright red lipstick all over her face.

  In the office behind her, Drake sat glued to his massive television, damning the Liverpool soccer club with every fiber in his being.

  “You no good sons of whores. That was a bloody pile of shit.”

  On the screen, several men in black jerseys celebrated the goal they’d just scored to put them ahead of Everton two to nil.

  Spencer was a lifelong Everton fan, and the only thing he hated more than losing money was when his beloved Blues lost to Liverpool. The two clubs were intense rivals, each passionate in their hatred for the other.

  “The hell with this.”

  He flicked the game off. Nigel was supposed to contact him shortly about a personnel issue of some kind, whatever the hell that meant.

  On cue, a soft tone came from his desk. With the push of a button, his desktop slid open to reveal a hidden compartment underneath. A single monitor rose from the interior, Spencer Drake’s private connection to a select few others located across the Atlantic. Custom-installed SSL/TLS video connections powered by on-site servers ensured that no uninvited parties would ever eavesdrop on a conversation.

  The system was more secure than standard Aldrich Securities office connections, though Drake would never admit it to his employees, some of whom swept this specific line for bugs daily as part of the CEO’s security plan. What he discussed on here was far more volatile than any mere financial transaction. These conversations were the product of a plan set in motion hundreds of years ago, when the seeds of Aldrich Securities were planted.