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“You never know,” Durkin said. “He may surprise you.”
Ryan was halfway out the door when she turned around and asked, “Why wasn’t I let go with the rest of the team when they were fired?”
“Why do you think?”
She shrugged. “I certainly broke my fair share of rules, just like the rest of them.”
“That’s the way the team was set up. You were expected to color outside the lines in order to get results.”
“But why keep me and not the others?”
“Because unlike the others, you didn’t ask for that assignment. You got put there as a babysitter. We knew you’d have to break a few rules, but we also knew where your loyalties were.”
“We?” she asked, “Or you?”
“What are you saying?”
“Did I get some sort of special treatment that the others didn’t get? Is that why you thought you could come on to me the way you did?”
“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “That was me being stupid. You’re still here because both the CIA and I value your talent. Nothing more. Now stop letting Nafi Nasiri mess with your head. You’re too smart to be manipulated like that.”
Coming from anyone else, it would have been a nice compliment. Nevertheless, she remained professional. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now go.”
• • •
Once Ryan had left his office and the door had fully closed behind her, Durkin picked up his secure telephone and dialed. When a man’s voice answered on the other end the CIA man said, “We’ve got a problem. A big one.”
CHAPTER 9
WASHINGTON
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
The security at the headquarters of the Federal Reserve was similar to security at government buildings throughout the nation’s capital. Uniformed men with sidearms were posted at the entrances, as well as at the checkpoints inside.
Harvath and Carlton were required to pass through a full-body imaging machine before being allowed to proceed to a reception desk near a plush waiting area. “I should have warned you, but I’m glad you didn’t bring any weapons,” said the Old Man.
“Who said I didn’t bring any?” replied Harvath.
For a moment, Carlton couldn’t tell if he was pulling his leg or not. He decided to let it go and walked over to the reception desk.
Harvath admired the building’s interior. Even by Washington standards, it was impressive. With its polished marble and modernist interpretation of Beaux Arts style, if this was supposed to be an awe-inspiring temple to money, its architects had succeeded.
After giving their names to the receptionist, Carlton rejoined Harvath. “Ever been here before?” the Old Man asked.
Harvath shook his head. “No. I’ve been to the Treasury and about every other federal building in town, but not this one.”
“This one isn’t federal.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Federal Reserve is a private organization. They gave themselves the title Federal Reserve to sound more official, but they’re not part of the government by any stretch of the imagination.”
“But, I always thought—”
The Old Man cut him off as someone approached from the other side of the lobby. “Here’s the gentleman we’re meeting with.”
The man was in his late forties, with short hair graying at the temples and a pronounced beak of a nose. He wore a well-tailored gray suit with an understated tie and a plain white pocket square. His shoes shone like mirrors.
“Good morning,” the man said as he walked up and extended his hand. “I’m Monroe Lewis.” His fingers were long and slim like a pianist’s and he spoke with the muted patrician accent of an old New England family.
Harvath and Carlton both shook the man’s hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said. Looking at Harvath he added, “Especially you. I hope you found the plane comfortable.”
“It was more than comfortable. Thank you,” Harvath replied. Closer now, he noticed that the man had undergone some sort of modest cosmetic surgery; either Botox or a lift of some sort, which had tightened the skin across his face. Harvath wasn’t a fan of cosmetic surgery for men. While some guys might be able to get away with a little, there were others who didn’t know when to stop and whose faces ended up looking like they’d seen more knives than a grill at a Benihana.
Lewis was accompanied by a protective detail made up of three solidly built men in dark suits. Sca
“I have our conference room available,” Lewis offered. “Shall we go upstairs?”
Carlton nodded and the Federal Reserve man led the way. As they walked, he pointed out different pieces of the Fed’s history adorning the walls, and made polite small talk. He was quite knowledgeable about the organization, having worked there for more than two decades. His path to the Fed had begun with a quote from Karl Marx he discovered in high school—Money plays the largest role in determining the course of history.
Monroe Lewis had been a shy, frail boy of modest upbringing and lofty ambitions. He would never captain a football team or lead men into battle. He didn’t possess those skills. His strength lay neither in his muscles nor his character, but in his mind.
He was a voracious reader whose escape had always been books. And while outsiders saw him as perfectly suited for a career in academia, he knew academia was far too small a stage. One did not impact the course of history from some university campus. To impact history, one needed to be at the epicenter of where history was made. For him, that epicenter was the Federal Reserve.
Arriving at the conference room, he showed his guests in and asked his security detail to remain outside.
It was an enormous rectangular room with an almost thirty-foot mahogany table ru
“I suppose, given the situation, the security is a necessary precaution,” he said, closing the door and crossing to Harvath and Carlton, “but it does take some getting used to.”
“Always better to have it and not need it,” said Harvath.
“Indeed,” Lewis replied. “Indeed. Can I offer you gentlemen some coffee?”
The old spy and his number two accepted china cups with saucers and joined Lewis at the long inlaid conference table. As they pulled out their chairs, there was a knock followed by the door opening.
“Ah, William,” Lewis said as a man walked in with a folder tucked beneath his arm. “Thank you for joining us.” Turning to Harvath and Carlton he introduced the new arrival, “This is Will Jacobson, our director of security.”
Jacobson was a large man in his late fifties. He was fit, with thick arms outlined by the sleeves of his almost too tight navy blue suit. He had silver hair that was neatly combed, and dark, almost slitlike eyes. He carried himself with an air of self-importance.
After shaking hands, they all sat back down and Lewis handed control of the meeting to Jacobson.
“Thank you, Mr. Lewis,” he said, staring across the table and sizing up his two outsiders. “As you’ve probably heard, one week ago Federal Reserve Chairman Wallace Sawyer passed away.”
“How did he die?” asked Harvath.
Jacobson, who didn’t enjoy being interrupted, shot him a look. “Heart attack.”
“Has the cause of death been confirmed?”
“Yes, by the coroner. Though it wasn’t released to the press, Chairman Sawyer, who was sixty-six years old at the time of his death, had an underlying heart condition.”
“Where was he when it happened?”
“You realize you weren’t brought here to talk about Chairman Sawyer,” Jacobson said curtly, irritation evident in his tone.