* * *
Bailey found the lone man sitting quietly on the park bench, secluded from the light of the lamps.
“Do you have the numbers?”
“Yes.”
Like their last meeting, the night was dark without benefit of moonlight, and the lamps remained sparsely distributed – merging their dim glow into the surrounding darkness.
And like their last meeting, they barely looked at each other, barely acknowledged each other. Remaining nameless – just the lone man, and the tank.
Reaching inside his jacket, Bailey produced a cigarette and lit it. He took a deep draw and exhaled into the air.
“How do you want to be paid?”
Bailey handed him an envelope. “In here you’ll find the range of vacant serial numbers, along with the account number for my numbered Swiss bank account. Please transfer the funds to this account.”
“Fine. I will take care of it.”
“When?”
“By close of business tomorrow.”
“That’s acceptable.”
Tank stood and walked away from the bench, continuing his casually measured pace through the park. A minute or so later, he stopped and looked back at the park bench. The lone man was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 6 – Circa 1996
Her mid-length brown hair blowing behind her, Brandy was running a smooth 70 mph along the Superstition Freeway. The morning desert air feels so good, she reflected. She looked in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of the sun – rising over the Superstition mountains. Wow! So beautiful! She pulled out her sunglasses – a perennial fixture in the Arizona desert – and fitted them over her eyes.
Still at 70 mph, she glided along the road, chewing slowly on a wad of gum. And then she shifted to a more focused posture when, up ahead, she spied an 18-wheel tractor pulling into her lane. To the right side of the shifting truck, she caught a glimpse of an 18-wheel tanker truck; the trailer was obviously moving into position to pass the tanker. Damn they're slow!
Few cars could match the acceleration and handling of her Porsche 911 – and she knew it. So when the truck moved over, she felt her face flush with glee – I got ya now! Simultaneously, she engaged the clutch, downshifted to fourth, punched the gas, and flipped the wheel ever so slightly – bringing her into the adjacent lane. Now doing 80 mph, she accelerated quickly – faster and faster toward the ever-narrowing gap between the two trucks. In a flash, she shot the gap – and despite herself, she felt her body flush with excitement! She smiled and looked down at her speedometer – 120 mph. Cool! She grinned as she began to scale back her speed.
She soon reached 80 when she noticed red and blue flashing lights in her rearview mirror. Damn cops! She pressed down on the gas – again accelerating faster and faster. What the hell am I doing, she chided herself. She slowed down to 65 mph, the speed limit, and watched as the cop came up behind her. He didn't pass.
Damn! Brandy pulled into the breakdown lane and came to rest. The cop pulled in behind her, his flashers continuing their spinning.
She composed herself while she waited. She knew he would first run her license plates by headquarters; and while he did, she took stock of her assets. Brown, wind-blown hair touched the shoulders of her V-necked blouse; and showing just enough cleavage to be acceptable in a business setting. She looked down at her trim waist and skirt; coming just above the knees – but he probably won't be able to see much of my legs, she mused.
She caught a glimpse of him getting out of the cruiser. She allowed herself to relax and let her personality come forth – an engaging smile with bright eyes and (gasp!) dimples.
The state patrolman walked up to the passenger's side. She watched as he took in the sleek lines of her car, and then fixed his gaze on her. He spoke in a somewhat perplexed tone. “Excuse me, ma'am, but do you know how fast you were going?”
A Dallas native, Brandy was no fool. So she used her sexiest Texas drawl to great advantage. “I'm sorry, officer; but I just have to make it to work. You see, I have a conference with a very important client. And if I don't make it on time,” she blinked twice; her eyelashes ever so subtly telegraphing her southern bell persona, “they – well – they'll fire me,” she lied.
“Huh!” He said, obviously unconvinced. “License and registration please.”
Brandy sifted through her purse and produced her drivers’ license. She then reached over to the glove box and retrieved her registration. She handed both documents to the officer, her southern belle persona again showing through.
Patient and assured, Brandy watched as the officer walked back to his cruiser and made a call on his radio. Soon, the officer returned to the passenger’s side of her car. She watched him as he took in her appearance – as though he were undressing her in his mind. His face softened.
“Well, ma'am,” he continued, “you were doing 80 – and maybe faster.” He hesitated for a moment. “But I tell you what – I'll let you off with a warning – this time.”
And then his features hardened. “But if you ever come through here like that again, I'll have your ass! - er, ah – what I mean is, I'll give you a ticket!”
“Yes, officer,” Brandy said demurely.
And then the cop hesitated as he looked up and down at the sleek lines of her car. “And another thing,” he spouted out. “This is a nice car – but it's red. And red cars carry a sign that says 'pull me over'. You best get yourself a different color!”
He tipped his hat at Brandy. “Good day, ma'am.” He strode back to his cruiser.
Brandy felt a wave of relief wash through her. Eureka! She started her car and engaged the throttle, pulling out of the breakdown lane and proceeding down the freeway at (sigh) a meager 65 mph. Within a minute, the cruiser flashed by her.
* * *
Brandy drove into the parking garage at the First National Bank of Arizona. In her rearview mirror, she glimpsed the bright sunshine of the desert as it disappeared – replaced with dark concrete and steel. Pulling into her space, she stepped out of the car and strode across the garage toward the back entrance to the building. With purposeful strides and head held high, her long legs and smooth-flowing posture carried her down the spartan corridor where she cornered an elevator.
She entered her office and sighed – just another day! She was still waiting for her new office furniture and decorations. Damn! These large corporations move so slow!
Brandy West was a newcomer to the banking industry. With a two-year-old MBA, most of her work had been in marketing and organization – stuff that made sense to her. But this ... the way the banking industry worked ... made no sense at all. Unless, one was devoid of ethics!
Oh, sure. She understood the ledger entries. She understood the marketing of loans. And she understood the loan origination process – mostly. But what she could not understand – ethically – was how the bank could manufacture money out of thin air!
She thought back to the first day of her orientation; head-spinning as it was ...
“And this is our loan process. First, we have the borrower sign the promissory note. Then we use his promissory note as collateral for a promissory note that we create. And then we deposit the promissory note into an account under his name ...”
For a time, she spun it around in her head. But how can this work? How can such a scheme possibly work!
And then she thought back to the explanation her manager provided: “Let's say that I write an IOU for $100 dollars. And let's say I walk into a store and purchase a dress priced at $90 dollars; and that I give the merchant my IOU for $100. Well ... the merchant will give me the dress and also give me money back – the money she gives me will be an IOU for $10 dollars. So you see, we use IOUs to exchange for goods and services.”
Brandy shook her head in dismay as she thought about this. This so-called money is nothing but paper. There's no value to it!
Sitting down, she began typing on her computer keyboard. Some data appeared on her computer monitor – t
he previous day's mortgage loan activity. She perused the data until her gaze zeroed in on a specific entry:
Patricia Bowman application; denied.
She printed it out.
Ripping the paper out of the printer, she strode down the hall and into the office of the Vice President in charge of Loans.
Marcus was the primary loan officer. He was also a haughty sort of man – aloof, distant, particular, and mechanical – he had been a strong supporter of the banking system and had worked his way up on the back of his accounting degree. Marcus had recently hired her, so Brandy was still learning how best to work with him.
“Marcus,” she said as she handed him the paper. “I was just perusing the loan reports and I came across this entry.”
Marcus scanned the paper and paused.
“Yes?” Marcus looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Do you have a question?”
“Yes, I do!” Brandy’s eyes bored into him. “Her background looks good. And I personally interviewed her – she really needs the money. So why was she denied?”
Marcus leaned back in his chair, touching the fingertips of his hands together. “As you know, we periodically receive reports from the FBI about people in our area.”
Marcus looked directly into Brandy’s eyes. “We received a report about Ms. Bowman.”
“And?”
“And apparently, she has been involved in some kind of right-wing patriot group.”
“Is this a problem?”
“Well, yes, it is indeed a problem,” he replied. “Some of these patriot-type people don’t accept Federal Reserve Notes as money. They – some of them, at least – think they do not have to repay a loan.”
“So, does Ms. Bowman’s credit history give any indication that she won’t repay?”
“No.” Marcus looked away. “In fact, her credit history is impeccable –”
“Then besides this report,” Brandy interrupted, “is there anything in her background that suggests she will not repay the loan?”
“No ...,” Marcus replied. “The worst thing we show for her is that she bounced a check about ten years ago. But it looks like she paid it promptly.”
“Then why do you give this report so much weight?” Brandy asked.
“Because the Federal Reserve has instructed us to do so,” Marcus said. “As you know, we are required to conduct our business in accordance with Fed policy.”
Marcus continued. “We’ve received previous citations from both the Fed and the FBI stating that these patriot people are on a watch list. They say they’re a threat to our government and our banking system. And as you know, the list has expanded since the Oklahoma City bombing.”
“So,” Brandy’s eyes narrowed as she looked down at Marcus, “what does the report say that she did – specifically – that was so dangerous?”
“According to the report,” Marcus answered, “she entered into a contract with some kind of unregulated investment trust. The prospectus of this ‘trust’ says they may invest large sums of money in the ‘private economic arena’, whatever that is; and that returns on investment can be in the millions on just an initial investment of just $1,300.”
Brandy stroked her chin, and then said, “Okay ... so maybe she’s stupid. Are we supposed to assess a borrower’s IQ prior to giving a loan? Besides, it seems to me that the Constitution protects the individual right to contract; so, are you saying that the government now assumes the right to pass judgment on private contracts?” Brandy was drawing on her knowledge of contract law from her MBA coursework.
“No,” Marcus replied. “It’s not the Federal Government that is stipulating this. It’s really the Federal Reserve. Apparently, the Fed wants borrowers to completely buy into the system. And this woman has shown she doesn’t necessarily buy into it.”
“I don’t understand.” Brandy replied. “How would investment in a private trust be equated to not buying into our system of money?”
“Well, it goes further than that.” Marcus continued. “Apparently, this group she invested with is also teaching about the plain language of the U.S. Constitution. And as you may know, the plain meaning of the Constitution does not allow for the existence of fiat paper money, nor does it authorize a central bank.”
“The fact is,” Marcus continued, “this is what they teach and this is what Ms. Bowman believes. Frankly, we can’t allow people access to credit when they refuse to acknowledge the supremacy of our monetary system.”
“Damn it, Marcus, this makes no sense! The woman is 62 years old. Hell, she’s a threat to no one! What does the FBI think she’s gonna do – blow up a building or something? Damn! I guess we better all take to the bunkers now!”
Brandy was on a roll now. “Shit! The loan would be secured by the home that she’s buying. Damn it, we’re creating the money for this loan off of her promissory note – the bank is not putting any of its own funds at risk!”
Marcus sat in his chair, still touching his fingertips together, seemingly unmoved by Brandy’s diatribe.
“Well?” Brandy raised her voice still more.
Marcus paused, and then said, “I’m sorry, Brandy, I can’t authorize this loan.”
Chapter 7
The flock took off seemingly all at once, moving in a chaotic rush of feathers and wings. Bill Ford raised the shotgun to his shoulder and fired at one of the doves in mid-takeoff. He smiled as he watched it fall. That makes two today, he thought.
Early morning dove hunting was getting to be a habit. A habit he truly enjoyed; especially since it provided a nice prelude to his work day. He wasn’t sure what he liked more; the hunting, or just spending time in the outskirts of the Valley – out in the desert, where it was quiet and peaceful.
But the habit was soon to end; or at least the ‘work’ part of it was ending. For his mother had passed from this world, and now her wealth belonged to him. A year had gone by since that day – a year of grief, of reflection, of deliberation; and finally a decision. And it was just last night that he resolved to move on his decision.
Bill gathered his game and field-dressed them. Then he hiked down the trail, retracing his path through the dry dusty desert – past the rocks, a clump of cholla, a barrel cactus here and there, a saguaro cactus. He soon arrived at his truck, where he stored his game in a cooler. Driving home, Bill let the cool desert air wash across his rugged features and his dirty blond hair. It was April, and the early morning desert was a sight to behold. The air was cool, clear, crisp; and you could see the mountains on the far side of the Valley – 30 miles or more away. And yet the mountains were so clear, it was as though you could reach out and touch them.
He was smiling – serene. Damn – I love bird hunting in the early morning! And then his mouth clenched and his eyes became hard. But doing something like this was always a hassle when I was with Jennifer, he reflected. God how I'm glad to be out from under her nagging – what a bitch! But even as the thoughts passed through his mind, he felt a wave of sadness wash through him. I don't think I ever want to marry again!
Bill dropped the birds and shotgun at home, then proceeded on to work. He soon drove into a vast parking lot and navigated rows and rows of cars, until he finally pulled into a parking space.
Winding his way between the cars, Bill reflected on his work and the people he would be leaving. I must be nuts to do this! What if it doesn’t work out? What if I screw it up? What if ... ?
Bill swiped his access card across the card reader and heard the expected click! of the door lock. As he walked into the hallway, he was greeted by an engineering colleague – Russell Hart. “Morning Bill,” said Russ, waving as he passed by.
“Morning Russ,” Bill replied as he strode toward his office.
He logged on to his computer; and in no time at all, he typed his resignation into an email and sent it to his manager – Alexis Cooper. Then he leaned back in his chair and smiled. Two weeks notice – that's enough, he mused. And since a slack period was approaching, he was
certain that Alexis and the group could bring someone else up to speed in time to handle the next schedule crunch.
Bill's thoughts shifted to his transition. Wow! This is as big as when I split with Jennifer! I've seen a lot of changes in the last two years. Who'd a thought!
A senior staff engineer with a large electronics company, Bill had worked at the firm for the last four years. He started in the Network Systems Division as a technical contractor; and when they decided they liked his work, they brought him on as a staff engineer. But he felt only marginally fulfilled by the job. Working in a large bureaucratic organization was not all it was cracked up to be, he reflected.
Bill grabbed his coffee cup and headed to the break room. He rather liked this cup – inscribed with ‘IS-41 1996’ – it made a statement about his area of expertise. Cellular networking.
The break room was typical of what you’d find in a technology company. Cabinets, kitchen sink, countertops, and several cafeteria-style tables throughout the room.
“... so, how do you like the real world?” Bill joked with Pamela, a new apprentice engineer.
“Oh,” she grinned, “it's a lot different than college. The assignments here are bigger and more complex. And,” the corner of her mouth crooked up, “the guys hitting on you tend to be older than college.”
Bill laughed and then took a sip of coffee. “Hitting? Who's hitting on you?” He joked. “I hope you know that sexual harassment would make me liable for dismissal – or worse!”
“Ya – right!” She replied. And then her expression became sly – seductive. “So – Bill – you wanna come up to my place?”
Bill feigned interest. “What do you have in mind?”
“Oh. I could get you drunk and take advantage of you.” She laughed.
At that moment, Alexis walked into the break room. She paused and looked at Bill with a smile – a decidedly unhappy smile. “Bill, will you please drop by my office when you get a chance?”
“I’ll be there in just a minute,” Bill replied.
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