Currency War

by Lawrence B. Lindsey

Bernadette took over and addressed Shu in vulgar Cantonese. “You little lump of dog shit. You are lying to us. He is not your nephew or your wife’s nephew and he’s not fucking here to work on his English.”

  Shu turned bright red.

  The interrogation continued in Cantonese. “So you tried to poison the First Lady of the United States. Do you know that carries a minimum sentence of life in prison? Want to know when your pathetic little ass is going to see your comrades again? Never. And you’re not going to be a martyr with three hots and a cot, either. Your fellow inmates are going to fucking hate you for what you mean to this country and will devote themselves to making your life a living hell, day after day.”

  The restauranteur stammered out in Cantonese, “But there was no poisoning.”

  “But the cameras outside won’t know that, will they? They are going to see the First Lady being hustled into her limo and speeding away. Then I will go before the cameras and say that she felt sick and had thrown up. Nobody will ever come to eat in this little dung hole again. I can see the headlines now and the nightly news. And that little sign on your awning, China Garden, will be front and center as I tell the world your food smelled of cow shit and the tea tasted like dog piss.”

  The waiter in cuffs glowered at Shu and in Cantonese said, “Remember your wife’s family.” Then the agent holding him yanked his shackled arm to silence him.

  Bernadette continued, this time in English. “Mr. Shu, all you have to do now is tell us who this man really is. The First Lady and I will leave here full of smiles and tell the world how fantastic the food really is. You see, this is the difference between the American way and the Chinese approach. We can play nice in English. Or we can play rough in Cantonese. Just as rough as this piece of shit you have as a waiter. Only difference is they can’t play nice, can they? But remember, we can play rough too.”

  Shu chose to speak in English. “A man from the embassy came here and asked us to hire this man. He then showed me a picture of my wife and her brother as children. Of course, I recognized the photo. My wife came here as a student twenty years ago and her brother stayed behind. Her parents were mid-level party functionaries, which is why they were not punished for violating the one-child policy. But in China, it is the son who is the pride and joy. May-ling was lucky to be able to come here to study. There was never any reason for her to go back.” The man was practically sobbing.

  Bernadette softened her tone, but not her message. “Shu, do you know anything about this man? Does he behave erratically? Work odd hours? Take time off?”

  Shu nodded. “He works when he wants to. Does a good job, so I really don’t mind, but he usually peruses the reservation list before deciding when to come in. Always serves the tables of his choice. Told me that he was going to be serving today. Yes, I suspected something was up. How could I not? Especially when it was the embassy that approached me and in the way they did.”

  “This is a popular place from what I understand,” Bernadette said. “Especially among people with office jobs in Washington. So I suspect this is not the first time your so-called waiter has used this particular tea set.”

  “Sounds like an accessory to me.” It was the agent holding the waiter. The other agent took out an identical pair of cuffs.

  “Thank you, Agent Donnelly,” Cynthia said. “I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, but I would wager that Mr. Shu will be happy to testify in court. Nor do I think he is much of a flight risk. This restaurant was opened by his grandfather. But we have another kind of problem, one that the President has a real interest in, I assure you.

  “Outside of here are a bank of cameras and a huge gaggle of reporters. We are here to try and calm the anger in the country. And if word gets out about this, things will not be so good.”

  Bernadette decided Cynthia had it exactly right. “Mr. Donnelly, there are three cars from CIA outside. I spotted them before I came in. Obviously they have no jurisdiction here. But their presence should confirm both the national security interest in this matter and the importance of discretion that the First Lady has pointed out. I will be happy to phone the Director and have him speak to you personally. He can assure you that we do not want this to become a public incident.”

  “All due respect, ma’am,” said Agent Donnelly. “This place is now a crime scene. We’re going to have to shut it down, do a thorough sweep of things.”

  Shu took one staggering step back and sat heavily into a vacant chair.

  “Tell you what,” Cynthia said. “Let me get the President on the line.”

  The two agents looked at each other.

  “Gentlemen,” said Bernadette, “this is what I propose. You take this scumbag—” She poked the waiter for emphasis, “and set him down in a chair over there, securely restrained. You can interrogate him or do whatever you wish. Mrs. Turner and I will straighten ourselves up and then sit here another twenty minutes to make it look like we have had a wonderful lunch together. Then we will go outside and briefly attest to that fact. The reporters will break down their equipment and be out of here within the hour. Then you can call for whatever back up you need and take this man to wherever you like, book him, and hold him in solitary. Of course, he will have to be allowed to call a lawyer from the embassy. They will know, but they are not about to blab about this to the press anyway.

  “From there you call your boss, I will call my boss, and Mrs. Turner will call her boss, and the three of them can work out what to do about this tricky situation.”

  Now she turned her gaze to the waiter and spoke in Mandarin. “I don’t know what your name is, but I suggest you tell these men as much as you can. You know that fate I described to Mr. Shu? That is now reserved for you. Your life isn’t forfeit, but your future certainly is.”

  Bernadette knew that was unlikely to work. This guy gave every impression of being one tough cookie. Probably Chinese military intelligence. They knew that their only way out was not to break and pray that somewhere down the road there might be a prisoner exchange. That would be worthless if he spilled the beans before then.

  She turned back to Agent Donnelly. “How does that sound, gentlemen? As the First Lady said, she would be happy to call the President, and I’m sure that he would be glad to speak to you and remove any doubt.”

  Donnelly nodded. “Mrs. Turner, Mrs. Coleman. We do have to do our job and take this man into custody. But an hour or so of on-site interrogation is certainly appropriate. Besides, we need to question Mr. Shu more carefully. As long as he is willing to cooperate fully and not demand counsel, he is obviously not a flight risk. Of course, if he chooses not to cooperate, all bets are off.” Donnelly stared at Shu to make sure he got the message.

  Shu nodded.

  “Well, Mr. Shu,” said the First Lady. “The matter seems to have been decided. Since our waiter is indisposed, perhaps you could bring us some fresh tea. And if you would be kind enough to bring us the check as well?”

  Shu bowed from the waist. “Please, accept my deep apologies. Today’s lunch is on the house.”

  “No,” Cynthia said, “it will not be. It is illegal for me to receive any gift over $25 without reporting it. And it simply will not do to have this lunch reported as a gift. It can only raise questions. So you will bring me the check and I will be putting it on my American Express card.

  “However, Mr. Shu, this does not mean that you are not in my debt. Even more, you are in Mrs. Coleman’s debt. I am not sure what she said to you, but I know her pretty well. She is a lady of her word. And so am I. And if a word of what actually happened here today leaks out, even to your lovely wife, then these nice gentlemen will come back and take you and May-ling to wherever Mrs. Coleman said.

  “And by the way, your food is excellent. Particularly that pork roll concoction that you invented yourself. It would be such a shame if the only place your culinary talents could be put to work were in a prison kitchen.”

  Shu scampered away to get the tea and check, and the two w
omen smiled.

  “We make a good team,” the First Lady said.

  “Actually,” Bernadette replied, “I wish I could manage your ladylike behavior. I have never heard a better example of the iron fist buried in the velvet glove. An iron fist with inch-long spikes on the knuckles.”

  “The velvet glove only works if someone else shows the spikes. Not sure what you said but I am sure that it did not involve his culinary skills. I don’t know the language, but the meaning was perfectly clear. One can gather a lot from context.”

  They toasted, and after a stop to fix mussed hair and makeup, made their way to the door, thanking both Secret Service agents on the way.

  So much for dim sum diplomacy, Bernadette thought as they stepped toward the waiting press.

  * * *

  Bob Franks and Tom Butler used the twenty-two-hour trip to northern Laos to the fullest. The Agency had outfitted them fully, even paid for business class for the Washington to Singapore leg of the trip. Gambling money. Some super-high-resolution cameras for their cell phones and miniature recording equipment. The dark pools that existed in the intelligence and defense budgets allowed the option to spare no expense.

  But there was a lot to do, starting with getting to know each other. Although Tom and Bob had been in the same group for two years, they had never had a date. The purpose of the group’s weekly get-togethers was professional bonding, not sex.

  That didn’t mean the group was celibate. Nearly all the members had dated two or three of the other guys, but early on it seemed like everyone passing one another around got in the way of the group functioning well. It was the same in most Washington social groups of people in their twenties and thirties, where networking was the goal and dating happened on the side.

  Both men were driven by the specter of General Deng. He needed to be brought down. Not only was he inflicting pain on teenage kids, he was doing so from a position of power. Getting his jollies not by giving something of himself but being constantly on the take. The very fact that Deng could do it was part of his motivation. He was proving to himself that no one could stop him.

  Both men were also driven by patriotism. They were ex-military and understood the challenge China posed to America. At twenty-eight and twenty-nine they were at the peak of their vigor and fitness yet staring at the inevitable decline that hit in the thirties. If someone was going to do something physically heroic this was the time to do it. This high-testosterone behavior allowed them to acknowledge the physical risks but be willing, and perhaps even eager, to accept them. And the plan they hatched was nothing if not ambitious.

  * * *

  The abandoned warehouse wasn’t much to look at. It was in a dying industrial park, a crumbling and weedy place on the outskirts of Passaic, New Jersey, that one only went to if one absolutely had to. With most of the windows broken out it could be cold at times, but a clever person could do a little rearranging and set up a draft-free office. There was lots of space to keep things that shouldn’t be seen in public, and urban legend had it the place was haunted, so the locals stayed away. Mobile phones made landlines unnecessary, and one could poach electricity from the factory next door, enough to run a lamp or two, but most importantly, the transmitter.

  Sean O’Malley smiled when the coded signal came through that transmitter. It would be both an honor and a pleasure to see this request through. He understood the message and from whom it arrived.

  Get the Lucky Lady.

  He and Deng had never met, but he had known about him since he was a small child. Deng had been a long-time supplier to the family business.

  Sean’s grandfather, Patrick, had served ten years in a British prison for his part in planning the attempted assassination of Margaret Thatcher by bombing her hotel. But his real skill was in arms procurement. Patrick had made deals on behalf of the IRA with the Soviets, the Libyans, and then-Colonel Deng. By the time he got out, the IRA had negotiated the Good Friday Accords and its political wing, Sinn Fein, had gone legit. There was a ceasefire, and the IRA had no need for arms. To support his family Patrick fell back on the skills he knew best.

  Patrick brought Sean into the family business when he was seventeen. His father had been estranged from the entire family since Sean was young. The story in the family was that he had been killed by the British, but something in his mother’s behavior told Sean that was not the whole truth. It didn’t matter; Patrick was the father Sean never had. And the business boomed. The O’Malleys weren’t fussy about the politics of the buyer. A booming part of the business was in North America: various drug cartels and their downstream distributors. So among his other identities, Sean carried a forged American passport and maintained a New Jersey residence.

  Unbeknownst to him, Sean shared something else with Deng other than business—an overwhelming hatred of traitors. And Bernadette Coleman, née Murphy, was a traitor, as was her father before her. They had abandoned Ireland and signed on with the British—and had risen to great heights in the British international spy operation. Bernadette herself had played a part in hunting down some of the family’s friends among the last IRA holdouts.

  Getting the Lucky Lady was returning a favor to a business associate. But it was a favor that Sean O’Malley would truly enjoy carrying out. Sean focused on the word Get. Lucky Lady played triple for matching the Queen of Spades, but the message had not mentioned that. So for now he simply had to get her. The code for “kill” might come later, but there was a lot of latitude in that order. Deng might want her alive, but that entailed a wide range of conditions.

  He looked around the warehouse. There was much to be done. He could keep her here, but another abandoned site down near Harrison would be better, keep her away from all of his precious merchandise. A place for her would have to be prepared.

  Then there was finding her residence, learning her routine. Getting a crew together. Only his best men would do. Finding a place for them to stay within striking distance of the D.C. area while they carried out their surveillance.

  And finally, the abduction itself. He had heard some stories from Patrick about grabbing the odd British soldier or sympathetic priest, but those had been sloppy, often alcohol-fueled affairs. Bernadette Murphy Coleman had her wiles, and they would have to do all they could to keep her from using them.

  Yes, he had much to do. But the results would be extremely satisfying.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  NEVER IN ITS NEARLY NINETY-YEAR history had the board room of the Eccles Building seen so many members of Congress packed inside. Keeping a secret in Washington is almost a contradiction in terms. But if one were going to try and keep something secret for a while, the place to do it was at the Fed.

  In attendance was a who’s who of D.C. leadership. Besides George Steinway, Dianne Reynolds, and Hector Lopez, the guest list included higher-ups from the board of governors and the Federal Reserve Board, leaders of the House and Senate including the majority and minority whips, and members from a multitude of congressional and Senate committees. Finally there were the grey beards—those members who actually knew the substance of the issues and were respected by their colleagues, ranging from specialists on China specialists to experts in monetary policy.

  Ben opened the proceedings. “Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished leaders of the Congress, I would like to welcome you to the board room of the Federal Reserve. This is where the Federal Open Market Committee meets eight times a year to set monetary policy and where the board of governors meets, usually twice a week, to discuss economic events and decide the various regulatory issues that come before the board.

  “Today we meet to brief you on one of the greatest monetary crises that not only this country, but the entire world, have ever faced. The Secretary and I have briefed the President on what we are about to discuss and now it is urgent that we discuss it with you as well. Let me begin.”

  Ben forced himself to take a slow pace. He had been through this material so much since this had all started, ev
en since developing the Metropolitan Plan, and could have done it in his sleep. In fact, he was certain he had done it in his sleep a time or to, for it occasionally popped up in his dreams. But he needed to keep the pace down because most of the people in this room were hearing the details for the first time.

  So he started with the state of the economy, how the federal government was carrying too much debt, so much that it would soon reach the point of no return—consuming the totality of the nation’s GDP. How the Fed owned too much of that debt in the wake of the 2008–2009 recession, and how that debt was now under water—the term for being worth less than the price originally paid. How the sale of U.S. Treasury bonds kept interest rates artificially low, and how foreign markets began to see them as an attractive investment—to the point where China and Japan were the two largest investors in American debt.

  “The odds are,” Ben told them, “is that we are only weeks—perhaps a few months at the longest—away from a meltdown. This system was created with no plan for an endgame—no idea, no way to unwind the bond purchases and the massive money creation that went along with it. Having that much debt and that much money out there was a risky idea that might lead to a collapse in confidence, what we call an endgame. We are at that end game now and have to decide how to play it.”

  Ben paused for a moment to look around the table and gauge the reaction to what he had presented so far. They were with him up to this moment, he could tell. Even those who had been responsible for not addressing the status quo during their political careers had set aside their squirming. Thank China for that, Ben thought.

  He continued, describing his conversations with Li and the uneasiness of those in the Politburo. How it saw the opportunity for an offensive play against the U.S. economy, wrecking its role as the world’s preferred currency and elevating the yuan into its place.

  “And if that happens,” he said, “China, not America, will be the world’s greatest economic power and that military and geopolitical power will soon follow.