The Crowns Vengeance

by Andrew Clawson

  Several hundred pounds of gold have been shipped to America to fund this enterprise. I fear the worst, as immediately after learning of this plot, my informant disappeared. Whether his true allegiance was discovered or the conspirators sought to bury all traces of their activities, I cannot say.

  As such, you must move forward assuming the English know their secrecy is lost. Beware the man who offers advice or funding, as that man may be an agent of King George, bent on destroying America. Before I depart from these shores, I will seek to gain the trust of a new court member from whom I may learn further details.

  Should I fail, however, I beg of you to act with the utmost caution, preserving our liberty that was purchased as such a dear price. I trust you will proceed with all haste to uncover the methods behind Mr. Simpson’s traitorous plot.

  Yr. Faithful Servant,

  PR

  Parker turned to face her. “If this message was never delivered, then no one had any idea this plot was in motion.”

  Erika turned back to the first page. In its entirety, the book contained only four pages nestled between the leather cover.

  “This could have destroyed the country before we ever had a chance.” Erika looked up, confusion clouding her features. “You’re the financial guy. What could they have been trying to do?”

  Framed by the prism of history, several options presented themselves. “First of all, you have to realize how much money they’re talking about. Several hundred pounds of gold would have been an unimaginable fortune to most people, a literal king’s ransom. Assuming you didn’t want to start an armed insurrection, they could have used the money to purchase the allegiance of any number of politicians. If you control the politicians, you control who they appoint to office. Get enough sympathizers in high places, and you could run America into the ground in no time.”

  Erika’s head tilted to one side. “Not bad, but if that’s what they wanted to do, why didn’t it happen?”

  Parker shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe they tried and failed. Or maybe that money never made it here. You ever think of that? There could be a fortune in gold bricks sitting at the bottom of the Atlantic right now.”

  “If we assume the shipment was delivered, and I know that’s a major assumption given how often ships were lost in those days, what else could it have been used for?”

  Not wanting to completely abandon his idea, Parker offered a new take. “The money could have been used to buy votes or the people who governed elections. Democracy was a new experience, so if someone paid off enough of the people who monitored elections, they could stuff the ballot boxes and make sure certain candidates were elected. Now I realize you’ll say that didn’t happen, but who knows? Maybe some of those handpicked candidates actually were elected, but didn’t end up doing what their British supporters thought they would. Politicians aren’t the most reliable people.”

  “You have a point. Maybe this whole plot never came to fruition.”

  He looked at the problem with a more modern mindset. “You know as well as I do that people have been doing the same stupid things for hundreds of years. Maybe whoever had all that gold told the wrong person, someone they couldn’t trust, and was murdered. People get shot for cars, wallets, even shoes. It’s not hard to imagine a few people who saw the gold getting together and killing everyone else. For your average criminal, that would have been more money than they could spend in five lifetimes.”

  An odd look of defeat settled over Erika’s face.

  “You seem disappointed that maybe this idea never panned out,” Parker said. “I didn’t think you’d be rooting for England.”

  “No, it’s not that. I don’t like the open-endedness of all this.” Erika tapped a finger on the desk. “You’d think someone somewhere along the line would have mentioned all that gold or this plot if they knew about it.”

  “Keeping your mouth shut would be the best way to stay alive, if you ask me. You know what they say about two people keeping a secret.”

  “It only works if one of them is dead. Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

  The stress of the past few days was getting to them both. He wrapped his arms around her slender waist, pulling her close. “We’ve had an action-packed weekend so far. This is amazing, everything we found, but we didn’t come here for this. It’s supposed to be a vacation, remember?”

  Her lithe frame rested on his chest as a great sigh escaped from between her lips. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I just get so caught up in this kind of stuff. It really is amazing.”

  “I agree. However, it’s been sitting around for two hundred years. A few more days won’t matter.”

  She shoved him away, a new bounce in her step. “You’re right. I’ll review everything we’ve found on Monday, back in my office where I have the proper equipment. No more Revere stuff the rest of the weekend.”

  As she stepped into the bathroom and the shower turned on, Parker couldn’t help but think that regardless of her intentions, Erika had made a promise she couldn’t keep.

  Chapter 21

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Nigel Stirling and Spencer Drake sat around a mahogany table, framed by the overstuffed leather club seats Spencer had imported from England. The room was designed like a nineteenth century men’s club, a respite from the intense world he inhabited every day. In front of both sat a crystal tumbler of single malt scotch. On the table were two video screens. One displayed the digital image of Chancellor of the Exchequer Colin Moore, and on the other was their groups fourth member. Cigar smoke curled to the ceiling twenty feet overhead.

  “Thank you, Liz. That will be all.”

  Drake’s secretary sauntered from the room, Nigel Stirling fixing her with a lecherous gaze.

  “Quite a whelp you have there, Drake. Damn fine bit of scenery.”

  “She serves a purpose.”

  Seated at the head of the table, Nigel Stirling quickly lost all traces of levity.

  “Gentlemen, we are gathered here today to discuss the next phase of our plan. As you are well aware, the operation in Washington was a smashing success.” Drake dipped his head in agreement. He hadn’t the foggiest clue how the assassin had managed to do it, but after killing the Treasury secretary, the man had vanished without a trace. “As one era ends, so a new one begins. Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your imminent appointment, Mr. Secretary.”

  Stirling’s comment was directed to the video screen on which was displayed the face of the fourth attendee. From his home in Washington, Deputy Secretary of the Treasury Gerard Webster addressed the room.

  “Thank you, Nigel, and let me say that my reign will be most memorable. I expect to hear from the president any minute now.”

  “The time is upon us,” Nigel continued. “Two hundred years of hard work and sacrifice will be rewarded in the coming months.”

  As ridiculous as it sounded, Drake knew that Nigel Stirling was correct. A plan laid out by their forefathers centuries ago was finally coming to fruition.

  Spencer Drake knew the story well. In 1781, King George III had funded an operation conceived by Lord Ramsey Fawkes, the sole purpose of which was to undermine the fledgling United States economy in hopes of destroying any chances the country had at successfully establishing itself on the world stage. Lord Fawkes, along with a select few associates, had used the money provided by King George to establish a financial institution in America. That organization had evolved over the ensuing decades, ultimately becoming what today was known as Aldrich Securities.

  The initial members had ensured that each successive generation of leaders had not only been educated regarding both their origins and the stated mission, but also embraced the ideas upon which the group had been founded. While not direct descendants of either Lord Fawkes or his comrades, all three men shared one critical component.

  They had all been educated at that most British of schools, Eton. Known as “the chief nurse of England’s statesman,” the independent school brou
ght together some of the most distinguished and recognizable names in the realm. Such an environment was rife with patriotic, impressionable lads, the most intelligent of whom were quickly identified by Nigel Stirling in his role as honorary ambassador.

  As the Stirling family was the largest private donor in school history, Nigel, like his father before him, had been appointed an honorary seat on the board for life. This position allowed him nearly unfettered access to Eton’s pupils, a privilege he utilized in his constant quest to identify the best and brightest young men. Once targeted, each boy was subjected to a carefully constructed indoctrination period, all the while never suspecting such a process was underway. During the formative teen years spent at Eton, a promising student might find himself to be the beneficiary of an inordinate amount of extra attention and educational opportunity, all of which served to mold the young minds into a powerful tool for Stirling’s use.

  In addition to currying favor with the pupil, Stirling would impart his personal view of American and British relations on the impressionable boy, ultimately convincing him that the United States was not Britain’s closest ally, as most of her Majesty’s citizens believed. Stirling would convince the young man that the United States was actually responsible for Britain’s two-hundred-year decline as a world leader, the main reason England was no longer considered to be a world leader in any true sense of the phrase.

  Stirling knew that were it not for the infernal colonists who had fancied themselves to be above their true station in life, England would never have suffered such an unprecedented fall from her perch atop the world order.

  Forced to mobilize their armed forces in dealing with the rebellion, Britain had overextended herself, exposing weakness for the first time in centuries. Other power-hungry nations, most notably the damned French, were drawn like sharks to blood and redoubled their efforts to destroy the monarchy. Facing a shortage of capital, an inexorable decline had ensued, culminating with the previously unimaginable period during World War II when Britain had been forced to rely on US intervention to halt the Third Reich’s advance. Stirling, and those before him in this crusade for justice, had never forgotten who was responsible for their fall.

  A crucial part of utilizing Eton’s unparalleled resources was that the school’s board of regents, including the Head Master, had no idea of Stirling’s true purpose. If a pupil latched on with Stirling, took to his beliefs, he would be considered for indoctrination into the group’s fold, all within plain view of the unsuspecting Head Master.

  By consensus, the group never numbered more than five active members. Any larger, and they risked not only discovery, but also a dilution of direction. Neither could be risked.

  Nigel Stirling leaned to the monitor. “I trust you will ensure the government cannot disrupt our plans this time.”

  Gerard Webster adjusted his tie as he spoke. “I can promise you that the federal government will take a decidedly hands-off policy in dealing with any future economic crises. The socialist tendencies of my predecessor have been banished to the history books in which they belong. The same history books that will soon contain the account of America’s newest financial disaster.”

  Such words issued by the leader of all monetary policy for the United States, warmed Drake’s heart. These men alone knew how close they had come to destroying the American economy over the past two centuries. Each time their efforts had been thwarted.

  They would not fail again.

  “And I can assure you,” Colin Moore chimed in, “that Her Majesty’s government will forcefully suggest that any proposal by Secretary Webster be followed to the letter.”

  “Thank you, Colin. My secretary has just informed me the president will be calling in ten minutes.”

  Drake said, “Well done, Gerard, well done. Before you go, allow me to update you as to our progress.”

  Ten minutes later, Gerard Webster had to take the president’s call.

  “I look forward to our next conversation, gentlemen.”

  His well-coiffed visage disappeared from view. Before Drake could speak, a soft knock sounded on his office door.

  “What is it?”

  Liz poked her head into the office.

  “Tom Becker from security just gave me a message. Said you had to see it immediately.”

  Drake jumped from his chair and grabbed the slip of paper. Apparently the tap on Parker Chase’s phone had yielded an unexpected result.

  “Well, this is interesting. It appears that Parker Chase was just on the phone with an Aldrich employee, one Benjamin Flood.”

  The further into the report he read, the more Spencer’s heart began to race. Stirling must have sensed his reaction.

  “What does it say, Drake?”

  “This can’t be.”

  “Dammit, man, what are you blabbering about?”

  Drake’s knuckles were white with tension.

  “Parker Chase called my employee today. He and Mr. Flood are old schoolmates, and as we know, Chase was at the Revere House.” Both men were well aware of the arrangement their group had with the Revere House management. “During their conversation, Chase told Mr. Flood that he accidentally damaged a wooden artifact and discovered something hidden inside. Nigel, there was something in that drawer on the ground. Chase and his girlfriend found a letter.”

  Despite his advanced age, Nigel Stirling jumped from his chair.

  “What did it say?”

  “I don’t know. Chase never mentioned anything specific, just generalities.”

  “We must find out what it said.” Stirling was losing control. “This can’t be, Spencer, we can’t have this. We must recover that letter. Do you realize what could happen if we are discovered?”

  Spencer grabbed Stirling by his bony shoulders.

  “Get hold of yourself. Listen to the entire report.”

  Nigel sank back into his chair, his skin the pallor of a ghost. “Please excuse me.” He took a deep, ragged breath. “Pray continue.”

  Spencer cleared his throat. “I understand the shock you must be feeling, but we did suspect that an American agent may have infiltrated the king’s circle during the planning stage, may have learned what Lord Fawkes intended to orchestrate. Unfortunately, this bit of skullduggery has chosen a most inopportune moment to reveal itself. We must not be deterred.”

  Nigel nodded in agreement.

  “As I was saying,” Spencer continued, “Parker Chase never mentioned exactly what was contained in the letter he located. He did tell Mr. Flood that he located two additional intelligence reports, both prepared by the Midnight Rider, as they call him. Paul Revere.”

  The reaction was immediate.

  “Revere? I thought he was an ignorant craftsman. Fawkes never mentioned him as a possible spy.”

  Since the inception of their mission, stories had been passed down from generation to generation, many coming from the lips of Lord Fawkes himself. One of the most incendiary regarded the possibility that a spy had infiltrated Fawkes’ group, an American confidante who had passed along word of their plans. If this was true, it would explain their repeated failures over the past centuries.

  Stirling’s gaze was unfocused as he spoke. “I’ve never heard Revere’s name mentioned as the spy. We knew he was there, of course, but no one ever suspected him.”

  “Nonetheless”-Drake had to keep him on track-“it seems he was the culprit, and even now is back to haunt us.”

  Stirling came back to the present. “Institute round-the-clock surveillance on Mr. Flood. If he meets with or speaks to this Parker Chase again, we must know.”

  “Agreed. His phone is already tapped. I’ll get a surveillance team on him immediately.”

  “I would also initiate an attempt to obtain the documents in question,” Nigel suggested. “Regardless of what is contained in these reports, if we can suppress their distribution, the issue will be moot. No one will believe mere hearsay from a girl’s mouth, even if she is an Ivy League professor. Do you hav
e any men within Aldrich who are capable?”

  The thought of putting his white collar espionage team into action warmed Drake’s heart. The securities business had grown infinitely more cutthroat over the past decade, an inevitable evolution considering the immense profits at stake. Unwilling to risk falling behind in the revenue race, Drake had quietly begun employing a select team of former criminals adept at obtaining information through illegitimate channels.

  These men weren’t typical bank robbers. Each of them was highly educated, ruthlessly efficient and morally bankrupt. For the right price, they could obtain any type of information Drake required, either through hacking a rival firm’s computer network, or through the more traditional method of breaking and entering. Several times over the past few years an immense, immediate profit by Aldrich Securities could be directly attributed to the work of their specialized skills.

  “I have just the team.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to reviewing Mr. Revere’s documents.” With surprising grace, Nigel Stirling hopped from his chair and headed to the wet bar. “Moving on. I’ve arranged a call with Sheik bin Khan to discuss the next phase of our operation. Now that a Treasury secretary who is more suitable to our intentions is in the White House, bin Khan’s cooperation is crucial. Thank goodness he hates America, because even we don’t have enough money to bribe a sheik.”

  Ice cubes clinked on crystal as Stirling swirled his replenished drink in one hand. “He is due to call in thirty minutes. Is that sufficient time to initiate the surveillance and reclamation operations?”

  “More than enough.” Spencer picked up the phone and spoke softly for several minutes, consulting the biographical pages of Parker Chase and Erika Carr as he spoke. “It’s done.” The phone clicked down with finality. “If Ms. Carr does in fact have intelligence reports written by Paul Revere, we will have them shortly.”

  Stirling saluted him with an upraised glass. “I am most interested in their contents. Also, I hope that this Mr. Flood is not a vital member of your team?”