Hidden Order: A Thriller (8 page)

“Which do what?”

“They represent the twelve districts the Federal Reserve has divided the nation into. Their job is to help implement monetary policy as established by the Federal Reserve’s Federal Open Market Committee.” He could see Harvath’s eyes glazing over. “The Open Market Committee focuses on establishing interest rates and dealing with the nation’s money supply. They also oversee the Federal Reserve’s purchase and sale of U.S. Treasury securities. And to keep it simple, the district Federal Reserve banks help regulate the banks in their area. Does that make sense?”

Not really
, thought Harvath, but he didn’t want to look any dumber than he already felt. “Got it,” he lied, figuring they’d get to his own area of expertise soon enough. “Please continue.”

“As a thirty-thousand-foot view, that’s pretty much it.”

“And shortly after Chairman Sawyer died, your top five candidates to replace him disappeared, and one of them turned up murdered this morning.”

Lewis nodded.

“It looks like someone is trying to send you a message.”

“You can say that again,” replied Jacobson, as he removed a hideous photograph from his file and slid it across the table.

T
he terrible image was a police evidence photo of a woman who had been mutilated and apparently beaten to death. She was lying atop a bed of logs, her ears missing, with some sort of sign hung around her neck.

“This is Claire Marcourt?” the Old Man asked, his voice filled with pity for the woman.

The security chief nodded solemnly. “Her body was found early this morning on Jekyll Island, about forty-five minutes from her vacation home on Sea Island down in Georgia.”

“How’d you get a copy of the photo?” Harvath asked, examining it.

“We have some influence down there.”

“Any idea why they cut off her ears?” Carlton inquired. “Could she have heard something she wasn’t supposed to?”

The security chief shrugged. “For all we know, the symbolism is the exact opposite. Maybe someone felt she wasn’t listening as she should.”

“Do you have a better picture of whatever this sign is around her neck?”

Jacobson pulled another photo from his folder and slid it across the
table. Harvath picked it up while the Old Man pulled a pair of glasses from his breast pocket. Before he’d even slipped them on, he heard a quiet gust of air blown from Harvath’s mouth.

“What is it?”

Harvath handed the tight shot of the sign around the dead woman’s neck to his boss. Upon it had been painted a skull and crossbones with a crown floating above. The sign was streaked in blood, as if the victim’s bloody fingers had slid down it. Carlton read aloud the words painted beneath: “The Tree of Liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.” Looking up from the photo, he stated, “I’ve heard that before. Who said it?”

“Thomas Jefferson,” Harvath replied.

“Exactly,” the security chief confirmed. “We think we’re dealing with some sort of anti–Federal Reserve extremist group.”

“What do these other letters mean here at the bottom?
S.O.L.
”

“S.O.L. is an abbreviation for multiple sayings and phrases: statute of limitations, standard of living, sooner or later, speed of light. It could mean anything.”

The Old Man changed tack and asked a different question, “As far as you know, Mrs. Marcourt was kidnapped from home, correct?”

“According to her husband, that’s what we understand. Yes.”

“Did he have any additional insight, any clues as to who might have taken her or why?”

“No,” replied the security chief. “He was asleep, as were their children. Claire had been up drinking wine. There was no sign of forced entry. She liked to sit out near their pool. We’re assuming that may be where she was when she was kidnapped.”

“Why take her to Jekyll Island?”

“On that point, we’re pretty confident we know why. Jekyll Island is where the Federal Reserve Act, back in 1910, was originally outlined in a series of complicated meetings. You’d never know that, though, by listening to the conspiracy nuts. As far as they’re concerned, the meetings had everything but devil-worshipping masses and animal sacrifices.”

“That bad, huh?” said Harvath, picking up on what a hot-button issue this was for the security chief.

“Was there a certain degree of secrecy around the meetings, of course there was. Considering the sensitivity of what they were trying to do, why would that be strange? If I had been their security director back then, I would have advised them to do exactly what they did and stay as far under the radar as possible. We keep a lot of the day-to-day stuff here quiet because we have to, for security reasons, but that just fuels the crazies. You have no idea what a colossal pain in the ass those people are. Not a day goes by that we’re not dealing with something they’re stirring up.”

“I can imagine,” said the Old Man, who followed up with another question. “Have there been any ransom demands?”

“We’re not sure,” he replied, sliding another picture across the table. “This was also found at the scene.”

It was a picture of Claire Marcourt’s severed ears, propped up and bracketing an odd note that read
Today is already the tomorrow which the bad economist yesterday urged us to ignore.

Harvath lined up the photo of the ears and note alongside the tight shot of the sign. The writing was exactly the same. “Any idea what it’s supposed to mean?”

“I assume it means someone doesn’t like how the Fed is handling the economy. It’s just a quote from some dead economist named Henry Hazlitt.”

Harvath doubted it was “just a quote.” It obviously held significance for whoever had written it. Placing the crime scene photo of Claire Marcourt’s body with the other two pictures, he remarked, “How about the local police, do they have any clues to go on? Witnesses? CCTV footage?”

“Nothing,” the security chief replied. “Whoever did this went to great lengths to make sure they didn’t leave any evidence behind.”

He found that hard to believe, too. There was always evidence. It was just a matter of how well trained you were to look for it. Harvath studied the photos for a few more moments before saying, “I’m not exactly sure why we’re here. The FBI must already be all over this.”

He could feel the Old Man bristle next to him, but he didn’t care. The question needed to be asked.

“Yes,” Lewis offered. “The FBI is already involved, but we want to
make sure we’re bringing in every resource we can to prevent anyone else from being killed.”

Jacobson added, “I have contacts at the Bureau and I know how it works. If we have any hope of bringing this to a rapid resolution, we need to have someone familiar with the system who, how do I say this delicately? Someone who’s not afraid to work outside it.”

Harvath didn’t reply. He let Jacobson’s words float in the air above the conference room table.

“We also need someone who can keep quiet,” Lewis stated.

Now we’re getting to the heart of what this is really about,
thought Harvath.

“You need to understand,” Lewis continued, “that there are several forces arrayed against the Federal Reserve who want to see us gone, and it’s not just citizens. There are members of Congress as well. Granted they’re not very powerful or very well organized, but a scandal of this magnitude could help put some wind in their sails and we don’t want that.”

“With all due respect, how are you going to hide it? You’ve already got five kidnappings, one of which has turned into a murder.”

“We’re trying very hard to keep it out of the press. So far, we’ve been successful.”

“There’s no way that’ll hold,” Harvath replied.

“We’ve asked the families and law enforcement for their cooperation, and so far they’ve been on board, but now with a murder things are going to be different,” Jacobson said. “We’ve got maybe forty-eight hours, seventy-two tops before this story is everywhere.”

Lewis nodded and Jacobson pulled a sheet of paper from his file and pushed it across to their guests. “This is a list of the missing candidates.”

Harvath and the Old Man studied it together.

Marcourt, Claire—New York City

Mitchell, Betsy—Seattle

Penning, Herman—Boston

Renner, Jonathan—San Francisco

Whalen, Peter—Chicago

“I’ve never heard of any of these people,” Harvath finally said.

“Me neither,” the Old Man replied. “Who are they?”

“Private sector people. Investment banking mostly,” said Lewis. “Because of the trouble the economy has been having and the way fingers have been pointed at us, we were considering bringing our next chairman or chairwoman from outside of the Federal Reserve. Sort of a breath of fresh air as it were.”

Harvath looked at him. “How many people knew these were your top picks?”

“It was quietly known inside the organization.”

“And outside of it?”

“The candidates themselves knew, and there were some financial reporters who had speculated on who might be on our list, though as far as we know, no one had come close to winnowing it down to our five.”

“And the Bureau is aware of all of this?”

“All of it,” said Jacobson. “They’ve already begun interviewing everyone here who had any knowledge of things. Our number-one goal is getting the kidnap victims recovered and making sure the perpetrators are dealt with. That’s why we’re having this meeting with you.”

“
Dealt with
?” Harvath repeated. “I’m sorry, but what exactly is it that you think we do?”

The Old Man put his hand on Harvath’s forearm. “They came to us because of our kidnap and ransom expertise.”

Harvath knew that wealthy companies and individuals often brought in kidnapping specialists to augment the efforts of the FBI. “There are plenty of people who do K-and-R,” he stated. “Why us specifically?”

“Because,” said Lewis. “We want the best and you came very highly recommended.”

“By whom?”

“I think the response you’re searching for,” the Old Man corrected Harvath, “is thank you.”

“That’s all right,” Lewis said. “Mr. Harvath, Stephanie Gallo has been a personal friend of mine for many years. She was also a friend of Chairman Sawyer’s before he passed away. When her daughter was kidnapped
while doing aid work in Afghanistan, you were the person the President personally recommended she hire to cut through all the red tape and bring her back alive, which is exactly what you did.”

Harvath remembered the case. The Taliban had captured Gallo’s daughter Julia and were holding her hostage in exchange for the release of a very dangerous Al-Qaeda operative. Not many people knew of Harvath’s involvement, much less that the President had quietly recommended him to the Gallo family.

“We don’t discuss our clients or any of our operations,” he replied.

“And I respect that,” Lewis stated. “Like I said, we need someone who can keep quiet.”

The Old Man tapped Harvath on the forearm again. “It’s okay. The Gallo family knows that we’re meeting with Mr. Lewis.”

“Even so,” said Harvath, “that was Afghanistan. This is the United States. The rules are different,
a lot
different. I’m not saying we can’t help, but without a ransom demand this is almost entirely a law enforcement function. There’s only so much a K-and-R team will be allowed to do.”

“You’ll have all of our resources at your disposal,” said Lewis, “including the aircraft, which is being held at Reagan with a fresh crew standing by.”

Harvath wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. He had several more questions, none of which were appropriate to ask in front of Lewis and Jacobson. He needed to speak with the Old Man privately. The prospective clients, though, were not content to afford him that opportunity.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have the luxury of time for you to think this over,” Lewis stated. “I need to know now, whether you’re in or you’re out.”

Before Harvath could respond, Reed Carlton answered for both of them. “We’re in.”

“T
hey’re a client with a license to print their own money,” said Carlton as he drove toward Harvath’s home on the outskirts of Alexandria, Virginia. He was in a much better mood now that their meeting was over and they had the assignment. “That’s not something that falls into your lap every day.”