Crown's Vengeance, The (23 page)

Erika enlarged one of the news articles on her screen. It was what had grabbed her attention in the first place.

“So imagine my surprise when I find this.” She watched his lips part and eyebrows reach skyward as he read the interview of Quentin Waldegrave. Printed in
The New York Times,
dated two days before the market collapse, Waldegrave had done little to assuage the fears of a skittish public.

“All he talks about is how bad things are going to get,” Parker observed. “He didn’t say anything about staying calm. In fact, everything he’s quoted as saying is the complete opposite.”

“And that’s not the worst of it.” A second interview she had located of Waldegrave the following day presented more prognostications of disaster. Not once in the conversation did the Aldrich Chairman imply the impending storm would soon pass or offer any calming words.

Parker began to pace around the desk. “Those two interviews sound like he
wants
to create a run on the banks, to scare people into withdrawing all their money. He sure didn’t do his team of gurus any favors.”

“That’s the same thing I thought. This second interview was on Wednesday, and on Thursday the market tanked. It doesn’t make any sense that Waldegrave would sabotage all their efforts at stabilizing the situation.”

He parked his rear end on Joe’s desk across from her. “Wouldn’t the other guys have seen these interviews and called him on it?”

Her shoulders lifted. “You’d think so, but remember that this was a hundred years ago. Those men may have been so involved with trying to salvage things that they didn’t read the paper. Which, by the way, was the most popular medium of communication, along with the radio. It’s not like they could go to
The Times
website and check the headlines. With all the turmoil, a single interview could easily have slipped under their radar.”

As Parker mulled this over, she brought up the most damning part. On the screen was a photo taken on the market exchange floor on Black Thursday. Waldegrave, along with his fellow industry leaders, stood together below the famed market bell, engrossed in conversation with the president and vice president of the exchange.

“Look at this. One day after his second negative interview, Waldegrave is singing a different tune.” Several quotes below the black-and-white photo from Aldrich’s chairman urged investors to remain calm and not pull out of the market.

“Why would he do that? If he really wanted to avert a disaster, he sure did a poor job of it. Those two interviews on Tuesday and Wednesday would have destroyed investor confidence.”

Always a list person, Erika pulled out a notepad and pen. “I think we’ve found a pattern.” Red ink carved out a series of names on the yellow sheet.

“Going back to when this whole mess started, the first person we found was George Simpson, when Revere listed him as a traitor.”

From across the desk, Parker picked up on her line of thinking. “Which led us to Henry Fox and Richard Lyons, both British Ambassadors to the United States, and both members of Aldrich’s board of directors.”

“And both men were educated at Eton.”

Those two names were scrawled below
George Simpson
on her pad.

“Which brings us to the latest suspect, Quentin Waldegrave.”

Parker stood from his perch on the desk’s edge. “Where did he go to school?”

Her humorless grin said it all.

“He went to Eton as well. What’s up with that place?” Parker asked.

“That’s a good question, one that I don’t have an answer for. Waldegrave spent his teenage years at Eton, though he was an American by birth. After Eton,” Erika said, “he came to America and continued his studies at Yale. Right out of college, it looks like he started working for Aldrich and eventually became chairman.” From each name, Erika drew a line which led to the college’s name, written in capital letters.

“Other than the fact they all attended this English prep school, what else connects these guys?” She felt herself being drawn into the mystery, anticipation trumping frustration and fueling a desire to unravel this mess.

“Well, we know that Simpson was a traitor, involved with some plot to undermine the American economy.”

She turned toward Parker, who had gone rigidly still.

“Erika, I think that’s it.”

“What’s it?” He could be so confusing at times. Typical man.

“The motive. Every one of them.”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

One finger stabbed at her list. “George Simpson. American by birth, worked with the English, wanted to destroy our economy.”

She nodded, allowing him to talk out his theory. “Fox and Lyons,” Parker continued. “Both Englishmen who were in America. Both ambassadors, men with power. And both involved with the forerunner to Aldrich Securities.” He leaned close to her, his hazel eyes dazzling as rays of sunlight streaming through the open window struck them.

“These two also encouraged the South to secede from the Union.”

Finally the lightbulb clicked on. It had been in front of her the whole time.

“They both tried to destroy America,” Erika stated. “To rip this nation apart at the seams.”

Parker nodded, face alight. “And Lyons’s position as the British ambassador allowed him to succeed. Who knows how much weight his promise of purchasing Southern cotton carried, but I’d bet Jefferson Davis was pretty excited to know there would still be a market for his cash crop.”

“Too bad he didn’t think about how to transport it.”

“Which was lucky for the North. If the South had more money, maybe we’d only have twenty-five states today.”

He pointed toward the final name, but no explanation was needed.

“And now we have Mr. Waldegrave, Eton grad, chairman of Aldrich, and from the look of these interviews, a man wholeheartedly determined to destroy confidence in the stock market and banking system.”

Parker had returned to his perch on the desk. He favored her with a penetrating gaze. “Why would these men try to wreak havoc on the United States? They all must have come from privileged backgrounds, considering the positions they held, the schools they attended. What could possibly inspire them to do this?”

She knew the questions were rhetorical.

He continued. “As crazy as it sounds, Revere may have been right. Don’t you agree?” Faced with the mounting evidence, she had little choice.

“I’m not sold yet, but it certainly looks like it. I’ve only made it to the early twentieth century of Aldrich Securities board members. Who knows what else there is to find?”

“In that case, I suggest you continue searching.”

Parker plopped down onto the room’s sole remaining chair, a dark leather club seat whose three matching companions had fallen victim to the gun battle several months ago.

“I’m interested to see what you find from Aldrich’s more recent past. Specifically from a few years ago.”

“You mean 2008?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. The worst financial crisis since the Great Depression. Yesterday I would have said you were nuts, but it’s right up their alley.”

He traded the iPad for his cell phone.

“I’m going to call Nick and tell him what happened. Hopefully he knows how Ben was killed and if there’s anything strange about the murder.”

“Make sure to ask him what he learned about Spencer Drake. I have a feeling that guy has some skeletons in his closet.”

While Parker dialed the phone, she realized that she should be frightened out of her mind. For the second time this year, someone was actively trying to kill her. Instead, the discovery of Paul Revere’s letters and the thrill of the search left her with-and it was hard to explain-a feeling of satisfaction. All was not well, and she was starting to enjoy it.

Chapter 37

“Dean.”

The gruff voice of his CIA friend put a smile on Parker’s face. The man was all business.

“Nick, it’s Parker.”

“Did you make it somewhere safe?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of? You have any bullet holes in you or not?”

Parker recapped their narrow escape from the slender assassin. Nick said nothing until he was finished, though Parker could hear a pen scratching away as he spoke.

“Are you on a cell phone?”

Oops.
“Yeah.”

The anger in his voice was a tangible object. “Hang up and call me back on a landline.”

The line went dead, and Parker redialed Nick’s number from Joe’s desk.

“What did I tell you about cell phones? I hope it’s a throwaway.”

“Don’t worry, it is.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re at Joe’s apartment. I still have the key.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea. About time you did something right.” From Nick, that was a true compliment.

“What did this assassin look like, and where did you leave the body?”

Parker described the gaunt man and his final resting place.

“Parker, you have to be more careful. Nice work getting rid of him though. You know my offer still stands.”

After their interaction a few months ago, Nick had offered Parker a job with the Agency, promising to keep in him Philadelphia to work on his team. Though he did seem to have a knack for staying alive under fire, Parker wasn’t ready to give up his day job just yet.

“I appreciate that, but right now I want to figure out why this is happening, starting with who would want to kill Erika and me.”

“As do I. I did some digging on your friend’s murder. There’s not much to go on, but it looks like an old man walked up behind him at an ATM and shot him. No one in the area saw this old guy, and forensics came up with absolutely nothing. No hair samples, clothing fibers, zip. We talked to every cab company, and none of their drivers remember picking up anyone fitting his description in the area. I hate to say it, but right now we have nothing.”

Parker had suspected as much. If Ben’s killing and the recent attempt on his own life were related, they were probably dealing with professionals.

“Thanks for checking. There’s something else you should know, a common denominator Erika and I have been researching.”

“What do you have?” Nick asked, an edge of intrigue in his voice.

“Those letters from Revere mentioned a single name, one man who Revere suspected was a traitor.”

“His name was Simpson, right?”

“Correct,” Parker confirmed. “We’ve found a trail leading from George Simpson to the twentieth century, and the trail may not have reached a conclusion.” Parker summarized their findings, from Simpson’s alleged betrayal to Henry Fox and Richard Lyons, the British ambassadors who served on Aldrich’s board. He told Nick of their suspicions regarding Lyons encouraging the South to secede, and finished with Quentin Waldegrave, a past chairman of Aldrich who seemingly encouraged the investor panic that led directly to the Great Depression.

“So,” Parker finished, “we have a link stretching from Revere’s discovery of a plot to destroy the American economy to the chairman of Aldrich Securities giving contradictory interviews immediately prior to the Depression. And Erika’s still working on the more recent Aldrich boards and presidents.”

Nick was silent for so long that Parker worried he’d lost him. “You still there?”

“I’m here,” was his terse response. “Chase, we need to meet. Now.”

That was the last thing he’d expected. “Sure, we can do that. What do we need to talk about?”

“I’ll tell you later. Can you be outside Reading Terminal Market in fifteen minutes?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Wait by the covered entrance. I’ll pick you up.”

Parker turned toward the desk where Erika was furiously tapping at her computer.

“Time to go. Nick wants to meet.”

She was obviously not expecting that either. “What? Why does he need to see us?”

“He didn’t say, but you know Nick doesn’t joke around. We’re leaving now.”

Fifteen minutes later, Parker and Erika stood at the corner of Twelfth and Filbert, shrouded in the passing crowds of tourists and locals, many on their way into Reading Terminal. A Philadelphia landmark for over a century, each year millions of hungry people came to the market in search of food or merchandise. The market covered a square block and offered a nearly limitless variety of culinary options. The delicious smell of fresh-baked bread wafted outside, slicing through the stench of garbage on a hot summer day. It was only when a black Suburban nearly clipped their toes that they realized Nick had arrived. A window slid down to reveal the stern countenance and considerable bulk of CIA Agent Dean.

“Get in.”

Parker hopped in the front seat, Erika in the rear, and the throaty growl of eight cylinders firing sent them shooting into the city’s downtown area.

Parker remained silent as Nick drove, waiting for the ever-serious government man to speak first. Not until they merged onto the Schuylkill Expressway, the main traffic artery that desperately needed a Lipitor prescription, did Nick say a word.

“You two have no idea who you’re messing with.”

What was he talking about? Parker glanced over his should at Erika, who wore an equally bewildered expression.

“That stiff you left by your apartment is a ghost. Not Casper the friendly ghost. He’s a nobody, a guy who doesn’t seem to exist. We can’t find anything on him. No prints, no tattoos, no driver’s license, passport, nothing.”

Erika spoke up from the rear. “What does that mean?”

“It means that whoever he was, he went to a whole lot of trouble to make sure he was invisible. If Interpol’s database has nothing on him, he’s either squeaky clean or dirty as hell. We’re sending people around to all the hotels in the area and checking airport and train security footage to see if we can find someone who saw him or figure out how he got here.”

Parker sensed there was more to this meeting than that. “Is that what you wanted to tell us?”

Nick went silent for a moment as he exited the expressway, turning into the Manayunk neighborhood of the city. About ten miles from downtown, it was popular with a younger crowd, as much for the abundance of bars and restaurants as the affordable rent.