A Novel by Walt Thiessen ©2009 Walt Thiessen, All Rights Reserved

For Louise,

whose steadfast love and support

made the writing of this book possible,

and for my Dad,

who is no longer with us physically

but who is always with us in spirit.

I hope you like the story, Dad.

I want to thank my sister, PJ, whose in-depth knowledge of theater and drama, as well as her clear understanding of the art of successful storytelling proved invaluable to me in this project. I never attempted a fictional work on this scale before, and she took the time to help me understand what makes a story work and what causes a story to fail. She was one of my earliest and most helpful volunteer editors. Watch for her new, soon-to-be-released play about the love affair between Thomas Jefferson and his slave, Sally Hemings. I expect it will get a lot of well-deserved attention from the public.

Other volunteer editors who helped enormously in this venture include my wife, Louise, whose training in psychology and years of clinical experience provided a wealth of insights and suggestions regarding character development in the story. She also came up with the story's title.

My brother, Mark, also played an invaluable role as a volunteer editor and reviewer. He didn't hesitate to tell me when I'd written something good or when I screwed up royally with some part of the story. My mother, Marvonne, also read a later version of the manuscript and made a number of useful suggested changes.

My good friend, Rich Blackwell, of Reston, Virginia, played a key role as a volunteer editor and reviewer. His insights into police and FBI procedures made those segments of the novel much more believable than I might otherwise have portrayed them. I can't wait for your first novel, Rich!

Special thanks to my niece, Michaela, whose love for life and ability to live within the moment inspired in part the character of Michaela Knight.

Greg LaFever of Cincinnati, Ohio did a fabulous job with the cover illustration. I very much appreciate his patience in continuing to render and re-render the image that resided in my mind until it came out exactly right. He has incredibly great talent as an illustrator.

Mona and Dan of Ciao Bella Photos in Warrenton, Virginia did a great job with the photo on the back cover.

Finally, and most importantly, I want to thank my professional editor, June M. Saunders of A+ Wordsmith in Clifton, New Jersey, who did a marvelous job of helping me clean up the remaining typographic, punctuation, word usage, phrasing, and other problems in the novel after my volunteer editors did their part.

I take sole responsibility for the resulting product, including any remaining faults or typos you might find within it.

Two men watched from the shadows as a lone, very well-dressed man untied his yacht from the dock and headed toward the helm. The two men crept quietly through the misty morning air toward another boat waiting nearby as the lone man started his yacht's engine and slowly backed away from the dock. A strong scent of fish and salt spray hung in the wispy grayness. He headed the yacht out of the harbor through the hazy gloom. His shadows quickly and quietly boarded the other boat.

“Get the line, Porter,” the taller of the two shadows half-whispered.

“I untied it,” Porter replied. “Donahue, where the heck is this guy going?”

“I don't know,” Donahue answered.

As the yacht passed the mouth of the harbor, Donahue slipped the smaller boat away from the dock.

The Pacific Ocean's waters swelled and fell at a gentle rate as the lone yachtsman pushed the throttle open, salty wind whipping his face, and put distance between himself and the shore. His secret pursuers doggedly kept up without getting too close, fearing they might lose him in the gathering fog, while also fearing he might detect them. Had the yachtsman just peeked over his shoulder? The two regarded each other, and Donahue shrugged.

“He won't get far,” he muttered to his companion.

The furtive chase continued for half an hour. The two vessels traveled more than 10 miles off shore. The mist thickened even more, and the two men almost didn't slow their boat down in time when they saw the yacht floating quietly in the light fog. Donahue cut the motor to an idle. The yacht bobbed about 200 yards away, and they saw the lone man facing away from them on the port side, the bow pointing to their right. His figure created a silhouette against the foggy background. Suddenly, to their amazement, he jumped over the side and disappeared. They could hear nothing. Sound seemed swallowed by the deepening fog.

The two men exchanged glances, shock etched on their faces. The fog had thickened so quickly now that they could hardly see the yacht anymore. After a moment, Donahue eased the throttle and moved their boat slowly to the yacht's starboard side. As the two watercraft touched, Porter leaped over the rail onto the yacht's deck, a gun held tightly in his hand. He quickly crossed the deck and checked over the port side.

“I can't see any sign of him,” Porter called back. He saw nothing but water in all directions, as far as he could discern anything in the atmospheric soup that now blanketed the entire area.

He turned back as Donahue cried out, “He's got to be somewhere!”

Porter shrugged his meaty shoulders and shouted back, “Well, I can't find anything but this boat and the water. I tell you, there's no sign of him!”

“Must have drowned or something. Let's go,” Donahue replied, and Porter climbed back onto their boat, pushing off the yacht in the process.

“What do we do with the yacht?” Porter asked.

“We leave it,” Donahue replied as he turned their boat for the long trip back to shore.

Three months later, Justin Knight sat in his study holding a manuscript in one hand after Donahue, his security chief, left the room. He waved it at the woman sitting opposite him across the desk.

“Why did you write this?” he demanded with anger in his voice.

She answered carefully, “It was my doctoral thesis.”

“You cannot truly believe what you wrote,” he said with more intensity. “I expect better work from a person with your level of scholarship and achievement.”

“Why?” she asked defensively, trying unsuccessfully to keep her voice calm under the strain. “What's wrong with it?”

“You portray us as thieves, pirates, and money suckers. We are no such thing. We provide the lifeblood of the country,” he growled, as his own blood flooded into his face.

“I make no personal accusations in my thesis....” she began with more intensity, but he interrupted her.

“You claim that we engage in fraud!” he shouted.

Elizabeth Kohn, called Lizzie by Justin's daughter Michaela, sat fuming for a moment. How did this man manage to both attract her and infuriate her at the same time?

He studied her in silence. The way her smooth, brown hair flowed around her neck and over her shoulder appealed to him, but he refused to acknowledge it. The heat of his anger sustained his intention.

She finally said in a sarcastic voice, “So you don't find any ethical problems with banking practices today?”

He leaned back in his chair with a scowl on his face.

“Some things could be better, no doubt, but we live in an imperfect world with imperfect people. Those of us who work at the highest levels of banking live by a kind of code. We do our level best to do the right thing at all times. We carry the burden of keeping the lifeblood of the economy flowing as smoothly as possible. We make the economy's success our top priority every single day,” he finished with a flourish.

Lizzie stopped him with a wave of her hand.

“The debt-based monetary and banking system has left millions of families at risk of losing their homes. In the long run, we face the chickens coming home to roost. We stand on the brink of recession and probably depression, and yet the top bankers (and their lackeys in the media) place the blame on 'sub-prime borrowers' and 'foolish lending practices', when we both know that those are symptoms, not causes! Can you honestly sit there and tell me that all these problems haven't been caused by legal, yet fraudulent, activities such as banks lending money that doesn't belong to them?”

They sat on opposite sides of the desk in his beautiful study at the back of his rambling Long Island estate. The late afternoon sun glowed in his salt-and-pepper hair, giving him a silver aura about his head. The mirror-like surface of the beautiful mahogany desk reflected the huge matching bookcase on the wall. The soft, supple leather of his executive swivel chair gave more comfort than most living room recliners.

He breathed slowly and deeply, trying to calm himself while considering his reply. No employee had talked to him this way in a long, long time. He struggled to remember: had an employee ever spoken to him this way? He couldn't remember such an occasion. The fact that he didn't want to fire her only augmented his frustration.

Finally he said, “I did not say that, but we cannot simply erase hundreds of years of banking tradition just because we do not like everything about how....”

“I don't want us to erase history!” Lizzie interrupted in quick reply, warming to her subject. “I want us to learn from it and make appropriate changes! History gives us more than enough evidence to explain the causes of the problems we currently face.” She gestured dramatically, ticking off each point using the fingers of her left hand, “Such as: (1) perpetual abuse of the power to create money out of thin air; (2) the tendency to make promises to depositors without always keeping them; (3) the habit banks have of claiming control over money which they don't own; (4) the pattern of using clever monetary manipulation to draw the financial lifeblood out of what people have earned for themselves–all these lead to tremendously harmful results. To avoid such results, we need to make it illegal to harm others in these ways. That's why we have law: to protect us from those who harm us.”

Her eyes flashed as if to say, “So there!”

“But no deliberate harm exists in the system! Any harm done occurs accidentally, as a quirk of the way money works,” Justin countered defensively. “There’s no vast conspiracy, no diabolical secret cabal intentionally harming the people of the world for its own profit.”

Lizzie felt a hot glow in her face, and it went beyond anger. This man attracted her in a way she hadn't felt in years, especially when he passionately defended what he saw as right. But she must put her feelings aside. She must!

After a moment to catch her breath, she replied in a quiet, gentle voice as she carefully considered what he had said, “If that were only true! Then we would only need to agree that even accidental harm should be avoided and make appropriate legal changes. I used to think we needed nothing more. I know differently now.”

Before he could say anything she hurried to add, “Look. I don't honestly believe you behave as one of those financiers who intentionally manipulate money and finance for their own benefit to the detriment of others. I believe you when you say you always try to do the right thing. You have profited from harm done to others on many occasions, but I believe you didn't do it maliciously; it's just the way the current financial system is designed to operate. We could debate all day whether it's wrong or not, but that's only part of the issue.”

He started to reply, but she waved it away. She leaned forward intently, “You see, I do have proof of a conspiracy, a secret cabal run from the very top of the system that manipulates finance for its own benefit, knowing full well in advance the negative consequences of those actions for others. Unlike you, the cabal doesn't care one bit about ethical concerns. They have no interest in doing the right thing when it interferes with profits. They only care about building their wealth and power, no matter who suffers in the process.” Her voice rang of finality.

“Oh come on, Ms. Kohn! You cannot possibly believe that,” Justin laughed in disgust, shaking his head, his disappointment over her apparent naivety etched clearly on his handsome face.

“Like I said, I have proof,” Lizzie retorted. “Want to see it? I warn you...you won't like what you see.”

Justin hesitated. Could she actually have some real proof of some kind? He couldn't deny that this woman came with impeccable academic credentials. You don't win a doctoral degree in economics without having some ability to make a convincing case. Even so, he scoffed at the ludicrous idea that such a conspiracy could actually exist.

He considered her for a moment, and, after gathering his nerve, said, “Okay. Show me this proof of yours.”

“Good, but let me be clear. You won't like what you see. It will appall you how close to home this proof actually lies. Are you sure you want to see this?”

“Enough with the dramatics. Get on with it.”

“Fine!” She pulled out her laptop carrying case and retrieved a disk from it. She stood up and walked around to Justin's side of the desk, indicated his laptop, and queried, “With your permission?”

He granted it with an imperious wave of his hand.

She opened the CD/DVD player, slipped the disk in, and closed it tight. After a moment, the disk spun up and a splash screen announced, “A History of the United States. Click here to play.”

“We can ignore this,” Lizzie said. She reached over and typed something on the keyboard. As she did, he couldn't help but notice the curvaceous shape of her figure standing next to him. What she typed didn't appear on the screen, but the splash screen suddenly disappeared. A moment later, a video player popped up. Then a video began to play. The homemade video jumped and jostled.

“This is an excerpt from a much longer recording,” she said, “but it shows the most interesting part of the conversation that took place that day.” She walked back around to the other side of the desk to sit down while the video played. He enjoyed watching her do it.

He then saw Barry Bradford, chairman of the Federal Reserve Board, Harry Peterson, U.S. Secretary of the Treasury, and David Knight, President and CEO of Hanover-Rush and Justin's own blood uncle. The video portrayed a heated discussion among the three. Their voices echoed as if in an auditorium, although they apparently sat near each other. The camera holder moved around a lot, and the action proved difficult to follow. Even so, Justin heard what they said.

Secretary of the Treasury Harry Peterson: “We know what's going to happen. Even as we pour all this new money into the system, it continues to seize up. Most old-line financial institutions will be forced into default. Even Mr. Knight's bank now faces the danger of succumbing to the coming tidal wave. My old firm, Silverman-Cahn remains in fair shape, but if we allow this to continue unabated even it will likely falter.

“But if we take action now, we can preserve these venerable institutions and even enhance their future profitability. The most destructive events can lead to profits. Hanover-Rush, Silverman-Cahn, and the other big banks that have the least exposure to the sub-primes can emerge from this stronger and more profitable than ever before.”

Federal Reserve Chairman Barry Bradford: “But we're not talking about taking a reasonable financial risk and then collecting rewards if it succeeds. We're talking about passing the risk along to the taxpayers and leaving them holding the bag while we take the rewards.”

Hanover-Rush CEO David Knight: “Barry, let us be candid with each other. We know this progression and how it repeatedly proves itself historically. The country faces recession, so your committee lowers interest rates in order to stimulate economic activity. The newly created money from that stimulation works its way into the economy. The economy takes off, and prices increase. This leads businesses to hire more people and increase production because the greater economic activity makes them expect increased demand for their products and services.

“Once the newly created money runs out, the economy levels off and starts to slip. Businesses that expanded now have to lay employees off and cut back on production. People find their money buys less than it did before because prices went up due to all the new money. So you create even more money to stimulate the economy again. The cycle keeps repeating itself. Eventually some financing turns sour, and some banks or other companies find themselves unable to meet their obligations. The government steps in to bail out the ones determined to be essential to the economy.” He grinned.

When the others didn't react, he leaned forward and said, “Just between us, I do not care personally about those people and businesses. I concern myself instead with making sure that our profits keep coming, making bailouts a necessity, because our monetary system depends on them. This time around, the price tag rose high. It will likely rise even higher next time around. We have known for a long time this would happen, because it happens every time. You know it does. Aaron Blackbridge, your predecessor, knew it too. So did every man who has sat in that chair since 1913. It is the inevitable result of managing a fiat money supply, and it's time to close the deal. You know it, and I know it. So let us do it. Let us get the deal done.”

The video played on, and Justin stared at it in horror. The phrasing of his uncle's rhetoric sounded normal enough for a typical person, but for someone who knew Uncle David it had a very definite meaning. His uncle rarely used throwaway phrases. He carefully measured every word he said. When he referred to closing a deal, he meant an actual, real-life deal. He wouldn't use a phrase like that lightly.

Finally, Justin found his voice again once the video stopped playing.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded in a tortured whisper as his body quivered. He had a wild expression in his eyes.

“I can't tell you that specifically, but I can tell you generally,” she replied quietly and evenly. “Obviously, someone else sat in the meeting. Your uncle's stenographer took the minutes. She didn't know she had a camera in her corsage. She remained unaware of her clandestine role as she recorded the meeting. Someone planted the camera on her without her knowledge and recovered it later. However, I can't tell you who planted the camera or who arranged for this recording to be made.”

“Do you mean that you cannot tell me or that you will not tell me?”

She paused and pursed her lips. “I won't tell you. Not yet, anyway.”

Justin stared at her for a moment. “Leave me,” he whispered.

“I have more proof.”

“I said leave me!” he shouted. She nodded curtly and left the room.

Was this anger or guilt? It cut like a deep, ugly wound that spread through his face and chest. A little of both, he mused. He watched the video again, and by the time it reached the part where his uncle spoke, the agony overtook his whole body.

A life-long banker with two generations of Knight bankers preceding him, Justin usually relished his ancestry and the history they shared. With the famous oil baron Warren Stoneman three generations back on his mother's side and the equally famous financier J.R. Hanover on his father's side (via his grandmother), Justin prepared all his life to fulfill his destiny as Vice-President of Operations at Hanover-Rush. Formerly a source of pride, his heritage now hovered over him like a dagger ready to plunge.

He pushed a button on his desk, and a silent, hidden motor slowly opened the curtains across the wall-sized floor-to-ceiling window, displaying the estate's carefully mowed acreage with Long Island Sound gently rising and falling in the background. The last rays of the late afternoon autumn sun disappeared into the horizon. The light reflecting in his prematurely graying hair continued to cast a glow around his head, but his drawn and troubled face remained in shadow. He normally stood about six feet tall, but today he sat slouched at his desk like a much older man than his 41 years would otherwise suggest. A lone desk lamp provided the only source of light within the room, other than the sunset. The lamp shone upon papers he held loosely in his hand, which lay on the desk. Actually, the manuscript didn't really bother him all that much. He had heard that kind of economic theorizing before. The financial elite didn't generally hold the so-called Austrian school of economics with its strident criticisms of the Federal Reserve, the monetary system, and common banking practices in high esteem, but they all knew of it. Yet that video conversation galled him.

Again he watched his uncle tell Bradford in the video that they needed to close the deal. “To close the deal”–Uncle David actually said those words! Of course, in the banking industry deals closed all the time, but Justin never thought he would hear that phrase in a context like this one, uttered by someone who literally meant it.

The proposed $700 billion congressional bailout of October 2008, the obvious subject of the meeting, dominated the current news cycle. The major media reported that the crisis occurred because banks and mortgage lenders made nearly one trillion dollars worth of so-called “sub-prime” mortgage loans to people who couldn't afford them. They reported the truth as far as it went, but not the whole truth.

It reminded him of a story his senior manager for loan underwriting, Jack Reese, had told him recently about that family in Virginia. What was the name? Blackwood, that was it. A lot of families had similar stories to the Blackwoods' story, but for some reason that one stood out in his mind. He contemplated it in the sun’s dying rays.

Alisha and Otis Blackwood tried for five years to save a down payment so they could buy their new home. They managed to save $6,000, but the price of real estate kept rising, and they worried that they might never be able to afford to buy. The soaring real estate market made them wonder if they could continue to afford to rent, let alone buy. After all, their rent nearly doubled over the five years they lived in the apartment.

In early April 2004, Alisha and her husband Otis went to the Northern Virginia Real Estate Fair at the local convention center. Otis, a master carpenter who worked for Piedmont Construction in Centreville, heard about the fair at work. It featured real estate and financial experts from around the region and even speakers from across the country, available to provide advice and counsel to people like them who wanted to own rather than rent. His boss, Frank, raved about how easily one could find all kinds of creative ways to buy a house at the fair. All the local realtors had booths, as did all the local banks and mortgage companies. Piedmont Construction planned to participate with its own booth, too.

In fact, Otis got free tickets from his boss, with the grumbling understanding that he had to spend an hour at the Piedmont booth greeting visitors and handing out flyers. Otis didn't like the idea of having to work for the tickets. He felt he more than earned the tickets by working 10-12 hour days for the company, six days a week. He didn’t see why he had to work the booth too. As for Alisha, her job at the local hospital as a physical therapist normally didn't afford her any free time during the week, but her supervisor had listened to her stories of frustration for so long that he didn't hesitate to give her the day off this one time.

The morning of the show, Alisha felt so excited that she could hardly wait for Otis to finish his breakfast so they could go.

“Come on,” she exclaimed as he lingered over his eggs and bacon. “I want to get there as soon as possible!”

Otis looked up at his 27-year-old wife who stood over him as he sat at the kitchen table. Standing only a shade or two above five feet tall and having an average build didn’t exactly create a dominating physical presence, but Alisha never let her lack of size prevent her from making her wishes clearly known to her husband. With her dark brown hair tied back, he found her face easy to read. He recognized the determined demeanor, the same one she wore whenever she wanted him to do some yard work or something else on her “honey do” list.

He sighed and replied, “Can't you wait 'til I finish?”

She stared back at her muscular husband as if to demand why he complained, but then her face softened. Just two years older, the man she loved might not be the sharpest tool in the box, but she knew he worked hard for his family and cared about all of them very much.

His piercing eyes, black hair, and quiet, manly demeanor still gave her goosebumps, so her tone softened when she said, “Yes, of course you can finish, but be quick, okay? I've only got today off, and we've got a lot to do and see at that show. Don't you care about whether we buy a house?”

He shook his head and growled, “ 'Course I care, but I gotta eat!”

“Okay, okay.” She put up her hands in a defensive posture as she walked back to the sink to wash her breakfast dishes. She excitedly anticipated having a dishwasher in their new home. Doing dishes by hand really sucked.

“Sherise! Tyreese! Come on, get dressed and ready to go! We leave in five minutes,” she called out to their two children as she dried her hands. She heard running feet as four-year-old Tyreese rushed out of the children's bedroom.

“Sherise hasn't got her shoes on, but I've got mine!” he announced proudly. She saw he had indeed put them on, although she noticed he tied his shoe laces in a huge knot again.

Alisha sighed but said, “That's good, baby. Go get your jacket on.”

He ran off while she walked briskly down the hall to the children's bedroom. The tiny apartment required only about six steps for her to reach it. Peeking inside, she saw five-year-old Sherise sitting at the foot of her unmade bed watching a cartoon on the TV, which sat squeezed onto a table between the two beds.

“Sherise, what are you doing?” she demanded.

Sherise jumped, startled, and replied, “I'm almost ready.”

She ran carefully down the narrow aisle between the beds, turned left and slid over to the dresser she shared with her brother, pulled out some socks at random, and quickly put them on.

“I count on you to provide a good example for your brother,” her mother said, “although he's the one providing the example this morning.”

Sherise frowned as her face burned, but she said nothing as she put on her shoes. She didn't dare catch her mother's eye.

Alisha sighed yet again and said more softly, “I'm sorry, Sherise, but we really need to get going. Don't you want to have your own bedroom?”

Sherise paused with her shoelace half tied and turned to face her mother, a new look of anticipation in her eyes.

“My own bedroom? You mean it? But I thought Daddy said we couldn't 'ford it?” she inquired, as hope dawned.

“We didn't think we could, until we heard about this fair. We're going there to see if we can make it happen, but it won't happen if you don't hurry up!” her mother replied, with a tilt of her head for emphasis. Sherise finished dressing in seconds.

“Let's go!” the girl cried, hurrying from the room to find her coat.

Alisha smiled inwardly and went back to the kitchen, where she found Otis finishing his last piece of toast.

“I've got the kids about ready,” she announced.

“Okay, okay,” he answered, getting up from the table. “I'll be ready to go in a minute.” He strode from the kitchen to their bedroom, closing the door behind him. She saw the dirty dishes he left on the table, sighed again, and picked up his breakfast plate, fork, and coffee cup, putting them into the sink. She could wash up later.

The trip to the convention center took about 20 minutes. When they arrived, they found the parking lot jam packed and a line of cars slowly working its way in. Five minutes later, their car nosed through the gate of the parking lot. An attendant took their $5 parking fee.

As Otis rolled up his window, he heard another attendant say, “That's it. We're full.” People in cars behind them groaned when they heard the bad news, and one started shouting while someone else honked the horn.

Otis parked the car at the far end of the lot where directed. The four of them piled out and began the long walk into the convention center. A huge line of people waited for tickets, but Otis led them to a special entrance where he presented their tickets. The attendant quickly admitted them.

The floor of the convention center overflowed with exhibit tables as far as the eye could see. The crowd flowed in all directions, and Alisha instructed her children to take her hands. Right in front of them stood an exhibit booth with a huge sign that read, “Hanover-Rush: 100 Years of Dependable Service with 21st Century Expertise.”

“Come on,” Alisha commanded.

The family walked up to the booth, where a salesman with a friendly face in a dark suit greeted them.

“May I help you?” he asked.

Alisha and Otis glanced at each other.

Turning back to him Alisha said, “We've been trying to get financing to buy for a few years now, but we don't seem qualify for anything. So we wanted to see what you have to offer.”

The man behind the counter smiled and said, “You're in luck! Our Senior Manager for Loan Underwriting will give a short talk in Conference Room 2 in about 10 minutes. He plans to talk about alternative mortgage options. I can give you free tickets if you'd like to hear him,” he added pleasantly.

Otis perked up a bit as Alisha said, “Wow!” She turned to her husband, and they exchanged a silent glance of understanding.

“Sure,” she said to the salesman after a moment, “Where do we go?”

He gave them directions.

Before they set off, Otis stopped his wife and said, “I promised Frank I'd stop by when we got here. Why don't you take the kids to the conference room, and I'll check in at our booth. I'll join you there in a few minutes.”

“What? You plan to come, don't you?” Alisha asked in surprise. “I can't do this by myself. You have to be there!”

“Yeah, 'course I'm coming. I'll only be a few minutes!” he replied defensively.

She sighed and nodded. She gave him one of the tickets, and they set off in opposite directions. It didn't take long for her to lead Sherise and Tyreese to the place the salesman directed them. They saw huge doors labeled Conference Room 2 and a sign below which read, “Real Estate Financing Alternatives. Speaker: Jack Reese, Senior Manager, Loan Origination and Underwriting, Hanover-Rush, Inc.” They presented their tickets at the door after waiting briefly in line and walked inside.

The huge room had filled nearly to capacity, with at least 200-300 people already! She spotted four seats together and led her children over to them. It took a few minutes for them to sit down, settle in, put coats over the backs of chairs, etc. All this time, Sherise and Tyreese peppered her with questions, requests, and complaints about each other's behavior. Almost immediately, someone spoke into the microphone and announced Jack Reese as the speaker, and a young man in his forties went to the podium. He surveyed the audience as they took their seats and quieted their conversations.

As Jack began to speak, Otis came into their row, found his seat, and sat down. He and Alisha shushed their children so they could listen to the speaker.

“As you all know, the real estate market surged over the last five years or so, not just here in Virginia but all across the country. While a booming real estate market helps our economy, it sometimes makes it more difficult for average people to afford to buy a new home. Hanover-Rush is committed to helping everyone who wants to buy a new home to find an affordable way to do it.

“So I want to talk with you today about some alternative forms of financing that have gained a lot of popularity recently. Let's start first with the Option ARM, a kind of variable mortgage which starts off at a below market interest rate. Here's how it works.

“You get to pick your monthly payment. Most mortgages force you to pay off a predetermined piece of the loan as well as the monthly interest every month, but the Option ARM allows you to decide how big a piece or how little a piece to pay in a particular month. This comes in particularly handy for home buyers who have seasonal or varying income levels such as construction workers, agricultural workers, resort workers, etc. It also proves useful in some cases for people who can't otherwise qualify for traditional financing.”

Otis and Alisha exchanged excited glances. Reese had just described Otis's job and their family's financial situation! They tried to follow the rest of his talk, but they found the financial jargon confusing.

As he wrapped up, Jack said, “I will be available afterward to answer your questions more specifically. Thank you for listening, and good luck with your home hunting.”

A small crowd of people already formed at the foot of the dais, and Otis said, “I don't think we can get close enough.”

“Why don't we go back to the Hanover-Rush booth? They could probably help us with it.”

As they prepared to leave the room, a woman called out to them. “Alisha! Otis! How wonderful to see you!”

Cynthia Jaymes, the agent at Barstow Realty who showed them a new development north of town the previous week, waved to them. The middle-aged woman in a light business jacket and skirt with a perfect coif and steely gray eyes came rushing up to them. She shook their hands warmly and asked pleasantly, “And who are these fine young people with you?”

Alisha replied, “These are our children, Sherise and Tyreese. Sherise is five, and Tyreese is four. Say hello to Ms. Jaymes, kids.”

“Hi!” Tyreese shouted loudly, his head lolled as he swung back and forth while hanging onto his father's arm like a rope. Sherise just blushed a bit and hid coyly behind her mother, her braided hair swinging over her ears and her big brown eyes staring.

“It's very nice to meet both of you,” she said, then looked up. “So what did you think of the presentation? I find this Option ARM format quite exciting, don't you? In fact, it occurred to me that it might be perfect for your situation, given the fact that we couldn't quite find a mortgage that fit your needs. It should give you the flexibility you need to afford a house in the current market, before the prices go any higher.”

“Well, yeah,” Otis answered hesitantly.

Alisha jumped in and said, “We're on our way over to the Hanover-Rush booth to ask them some questions. We plan to ask lots of questions before we do anything.”

“Wonderful,” Cynthia replied with a big smile. “Mind if I tag along?”

Otis glanced quickly at Alisha, who pulled a face suggesting that having a real estate agent along didn't appeal to her at all.

He said, “Well, we wanna talk to some folks first before we buy anything.”

“Exactly right,” Cynthia responded quickly, helping Sherise with her coat. “One should never make such decisions quickly or without careful examination and thought. But I can be a real help to you with the bankers. They can be great smooth talkers, and it often helps to have a professional around who knows how to watch out for your interests.”

Otis didn't know what to say to this, and Alisha rolled her eyes and shook her head as if to say, Oh, all right, if you must. Otis nodded curtly, and the family set off with Cynthia tailing them.

They found the salesman at the Hanover-Rush booth and talked with him for about an hour. They didn't have the easiest of conversations because Sherise kept trying to push up off the table to get a closer view of the brochure the salesman held while Tyreese kept trying to break away from Otis's firm grip so he could go run around the hall. Cynthia kept throwing in her two cents worth too, but somehow they managed to get through it. The salesman answered all of their questions willingly. Otis wanted to apply right away, but Alisha hesitated. She asked about the risks involved.

“Well, you have three main concerns you need to keep in mind,” the salesman said. “First, if long-term interest rates go up, so will your monthly mortgage payment. Second, if you have reason for concern that your home might lose value, that could also cause a problem. Finally, it would cause you really big problems if both of those situations occurred at the same time.”

Cynthia jumped in at this point and said, “Real estate prices have been going up for more than 40 years. Even if there's a small correction, it's likely to be temporary. The overall trend is going up because everyone needs a place to live.”

“But what if the prices don't keep going up?” Alisha asked. “What if they go down? If that happened we could get into trouble. Or what if one of us lost our job? What would we do then?”

“You're the one who wants us to buy a new home,” Otis accused her. “Now you're trying to talk us out of it?”

Alisha glared at him. “No, of course not, but we have a really big decision to make.” Her tone turned imploring. “Baby, I think we should talk to someone first, a lawyer or something.”

Otis rubbed his hand on his forehead. With a relenting sigh he said, “Okay, so we talk to a lawyer.”

They took some brochures and paperwork with them and thanked the salesman, who gave them his card saying, “Call me any time.”

“I'm hungry,” Tyreese moaned.

“Me too,” Sherise echoed.

“Okay, we'll find something to eat,” their mother replied.

Alisha turned to Cynthia: “I think we want to get some lunch now. Why don't you give us your card so we can call you when we're ready to buy?”

Slightly crestfallen, Cynthia accepted the dismissal with good grace, handing a card to each of them. Even Sherise and Tyreese got one card each, and they oohed and aahed over them. The family of four went off in search of a food vendor.

The huge convention center allowed the Blackwoods to increase the distance from Cynthia Jaymes quickly. They wandered around for a bit until they found the food court, where everyone gobbled down hamburgers and hot dogs. After throwing the wrappers, cups, etc. into garbage and recycle bins, they found a program and located the real estate attorney’s booths on the floor map inside. Choosing one at random, they walked up to the booth, saw the sign offering free consultations, and sat down to talk with him.

After they showed him the brochure about Option ARMs, he nodded with an understanding smile and started answering their questions. He said pretty much the same things the salesman said, but when they asked him about the future of the real estate market, he didn't reply in the same glowing tones that Cynthia and the loan salesman used.

“You must understand,” he patiently described, “no one knows for sure what the real estate market will do. Any market can go down, even real estate. Keep that in mind, even though we live in a time when real estate prices seem to go up and up endlessly.

“On the other hand, you will find some very nice tax advantages that homeowners with mortgages receive. You can write off all the interest portion of your mortgage payments every year, as well as your initial broker fees and any points on your mortgage that you pay in the year you buy it. Your tax preparer can show you how to take the appropriate deductions. It should reduce your income taxes substantially!”

Otis and Alisha sat very quietly. When neither of them indicated that they planned to say anything else, the lawyer handed them his card and said, “I handle real estate closings. If you decide to go ahead and buy a home, I would gladly represent you at the closing. I will go over all the contracts and paperwork very carefully in advance to protect your legal rights and interests. I will also answer any questions you might have during the entire process. You will find my fees quite reasonable.”

With both Sherise and Tyreese getting antsy, they decided to forgo talking to anyone else at the show. They accepted the attorney’s card, thanked him, and gathered up their things for the trip home.

Over the next few days, Otis and Alisha talked often about what they wanted to do. Ultimately, they decided that if they could ever afford to buy a home, they would have to do it now before prices rose too high. Sherise and Tyreese needed separate bedrooms very soon. As a family, they needed more room in general, room to grow. They decided they really had no alternative.

They ended up buying a three bedroom McMansion (as some people called them) on the north side of Manassas in a lovely new development near the old Civil War battleground. The price of the home frightened them a bit, but they reasoned that if something went wrong–if the economy took a nose dive or one of them lost a job–they could always sell the house. Given the likely direction of the market, they would probably even make a nice profit!

Their relatively small down payment proved more than adequate to buy the home. It took awhile, but the bank qualified them for the Option ARM mortgage they requested.

Moving day proved stressful but terribly exciting. The new house featured brand new appliances, and the amount of space in the kitchen absolutely thrilled Alisha. The huge amount of storage space in the unfinished basement easily accepted the overflow from their old apartment. The small yard space didn't concern them because of the nice common area and playground for the kids.

Apparently, a lot of families lived in the neighborhood already, with more arriving every day. Sherise and Tyreese both made new friends their own ages with Josie and Franklin, who lived next door, even as the movers unloaded the large truck. Two other houses up the streets also had moving vans outside. The kids watched with wonder as all their familiar furniture and stuff quickly moved inside the house, but soon they asked their mom for permission to go to the playground. The street ended in a cul-de-sac and had very little traffic, and the playground stood just two houses down from their new home. With a promise to their mother not to stray into the quiet street, they took off with their new friends toward the swings.

The Blackwoods quickly and easily settled into their new home. Otis worked seven days a week now because of all the new construction going on. He and Alisha spent as much time with the kids as they could, although Alisha took on most of the child care outside of daycare and school. They took advantage of the extra large paychecks Otis brought home, socking away as much as they could into their savings account. Christmas that year proved the most bountiful the family ever experienced.

In 2005, Otis gratefully cut back his hours to just five days a week. This dramatically reduced the amount of money they added to their savings account each month, but they didn't mind because they’d already managed to save about $10,000. More importantly, Otis spent more time with the kids. Real estate prices continued to soar, and their house, which they bought for $350,000, rose in value to more than $400,000! Life was good.

However by 2006 the real estate construction market slowed considerably. Otis still officially worked a full week, but his supervisor Frank sent him home early more and more often. Since Otis worked on an hourly basis, money started to get tight. Piedmont Construction laid off half their workforce due to the slowdown that June, but Otis survived the cut because of the good work he did and because of his seniority. By October, however, the team had been cut by another 25%, and the inventory of finished houses could find no buyers. He and Alisha tried not to show their concern around Sherise and Tyreese, but the kids had already picked up on the fact that their parents acted nervous and a bit high-strung these days. They sometimes asked why, but the two parents repeatedly deflected their questions.

The only good news came when the Smiths down the street sold their house for $430,000. At least their home value kept going up.

The news media noticed the housing slowdown and reported it. Industry experts from the National Association of Realtors didn't acknowledge the end of the bull market. They did acknowledge that the market could experience a small correction, but their forecasts for 2007 still suggested a positive market for real estate, although not as vigorous as the previous seven years. Some industry commentators suggested that a market correction for real estate could happen, given the tremendous ride the market had given everyone to that point, but they expressed confidence that new, sustained growth would follow any minor correction.

The news media didn't report, however, that buyers had dried up. Less than half as many buyers as before shopped for houses anymore. Meanwhile, the number of sellers doubled as investors attempted to cash out and collect the impending profits from their investments, but real estate prices had reached a level where most remaining renters couldn't afford to buy. It's not that they didn't want to buy; they just couldn't afford it. The run-up in housing prices also drove the rental markets up too, and many who still rented dearly wished they could get a home of their own. On average, renters paid 25-35% more in rent than they'd paid before the turn of the millennium, yet, curiously, the media ignored this fact too.

By September 2007, neither the government nor the media admitted that the country faced recession. They acknowledged an economic slowdown, but no more. Otis noticed it, however. Piedmont cut his hours in half. At least he still had a job. Most of the company's workforce got pink slips. Alisha noticed it too as she went over the monthly bills. The bank sent them notices that they needed to make a principle payment this month in addition to their regular interest payment, but they didn't have the money in their checkbook. They sadly dipped into their savings and wondered what tomorrow would bring.

They had a more frugal Christmas that year, although Tyreese and Sherise barely noticed the difference. The kids grew like crazy. Sherise had already turned eight, and Tyreese celebrated his seventh birthday. Between new clothes, soccer club fees, piano lessons, judo classes, and all the other little expenses that crept in here and there for kids in school, Otis and Alisha barely held it together.

Otis received the bad news in January 2008. Sales of new homes dragged to a halt at the end of 2007. Piedmont laid everyone but the owners off until work picked up again. Frank got laid off too. He told Otis that Piedmont had promised him they would rehire the two of them first when things picked up again, but neither of them really believed it would happen any time soon.

Alisha knew what happened just by Otis's face and posture when he came home that evening. They didn't say a word until they'd gotten the kids to bed after dinner and homework. They flopped down on the sofa together later that evening and put their arms around each other.

“Frank got laid off too?” Alisha asked.

Otis nodded but said nothing. They cuddled together more closely, and she laid her head on his shoulder.

After a few moments, Alisha asked, “What are we going to do?”

Otis shrugged forlornly and whispered, “Don't know.”

“There's always unemployment.”

“Yeah, but it ain't gonna be nowhere near what I was bringin' home, an' Frank told me no one's hirin'. Frank said unemployment checks might last up to a year.”

“At least we've got some savings,” Alisha pointed out. Otis agreed.

In May 2008, Otis got work at the local building supply store. Retail wages earned him about half what he made as a carpenter, slightly higher than unemployment checks. With all their savings nearly gone, he and Alisha despaired.

Alisha wrote a long letter to Jack Reese at Hanover-Rush, telling their story, since they'd bought their home as a result of the talk he gave four years earlier and asked if the bank could do anything to help. She visited the local bank branch, but they told her nothing hopeful. She and Otis just didn't qualify for any other mortgage alternatives.

By June, their savings disappeared, and they sent in their July mortgage payment late. By August, potential bank failures and the Fannie Mae/Freddie Mac crisis appeared daily in the news, and the Blackwoods couldn't make their August payment. In desperation, they contacted Cynthia Jaymes about selling their house in an attempt to stave off bankruptcy. Unfortunately, a quarter of the homes on their street had “For Sale” signs on the lawns already. She agreed to try to sell it for them, but she said that they might not break even compared to what they paid four years before.

“The market is flat right now as prices fall. With so many people trying to sell and not as many buyers as when you bought it, we may have problems finding you a buyer,” she said.

Alisha asked, “Can we do anything to improve our chances of selling the house? With Otis making less than half what we he used to make, we can't make our monthly mortgage payment anymore.. We really need your help.”

Cynthia tilted her head and replied, “Well, we could try an offering price below the current market, hoping to attract one of the few buyers out there to consider your house first. You paid $350,000 for it four years ago, and today the market price is about $320,000 to $340,000. Even in that price range it's hard to find buyers. Your mortgage hasn't reduced much because you exercised the option to underpay your principle, so you still owe about $330,000. We could try asking $300,000 or $310,000, but you're going to have to pay the difference in order to settle up your mortgage if we sell below that amount, in addition to your seller fees. You could try contacting your bank to see if they could work with you on that.”

Alisha sighed and told her, “I wrote to that guy Jack Reese at Hanover-Rush's main office in New York who spoke at the fair where we saw you four years ago. I wrote to him this past May about our situation, but I haven't heard anything back, and the local branch couldn't help either.”

She and Otis decided to ask $330,000, and Cynthia promised to do her best to find a buyer. Unfortunately, it didn't happen. By November, prices plummeted another $70,000, and they already had fallen three payments behind. Their home's value fell to just $260,000, and they still owed $328,000 on the mortgage. Foreclosure loomed. Meanwhile, the federal government passed the $700 billion bailout bill and talked about bailing out the Big Three auto makers. Hints in the news suggested the bailout might help people refinance their homes, but when they checked into that possibility they found that the politicians and bankers would only help those who had enough income to qualify for sufficient refinancing to cover their current obligation. Only those who merely needed an interest rate fix would gain assistance. With their reduced income, the Blackwoods didn't qualify for the assistance. In January 2009, they anticipated their foreclosure notice from the bank.

A knock came at the door. Justin roused from his reverie about the Blackwoods.

“What is it?” he called out with a touch of irritation in his voice.

Lizzie poked her head into the room, while holding her laptop case.

“I don't want to hurry you, but you really need to see the rest of my proofs as soon as possible. You must know the whole truth.”

She flowed into the room again, her light peasant dress billowing gently as if a breeze blew it. He realized that her current attire varied from her norm. He couldn't remember her wearing a dress since he'd first interviewed her for the post as his daughter's tutor five years before. A stimulating sensation went down his legs, and he squirmed uncomfortably.

She sat down again on the other side of his desk, facing him. She reached into her laptop case and pulled out a sheet of paper. She handed it to him. The title read, “Signed Statement of Alan Rossi, Hollywood Producer, January 2007.”

“What is all this about?” he asked.

“You know Rocky Stoneman, of course. I believe he's related to you,” she replied.

“Of course. He's on the board at the bank. He's also my first cousin,” he cautioned.

“Rossi made this statement about Mr. Stoneman,” Lizzie said. “Read it.”

He read Rossi's statement:

“I met him through a friend, a female attorney who called me one day and said, ‘Rocky Stoneman would like to meet you.’ He saw a film I made called Reason for Anger, knew of my candidacy for governor of California, and wanted to meet me. I said, ‘Sure, I'd love to meet him.’ We met, and I liked him. He was a very, very smart man. We used to talk and share ideas and thoughts for hours.

“He told me in October 2000 to expect an event the next year. He never told me about the event specifically. Out of that event, he said we would invade Afghanistan to run pipelines from the Caspian Sea. We'd invade Iraq to take over the oilfields and establish a base in the Middle East, all toward the goal of creating a New World Order.

“The events of 9/11 occurred less than a year later.

“I remember he told me to expect to see news reports of soldiers looking in caves for people in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He called it a war on terror, with no real enemy, a giant hoax perpetrated by the big bankers in league with the government, intended to pull the wool over the eyes of the American people. He laughed as he said this.

“He foretold the government would claim that Iraq possessed weapons of mass destruction in order to ensure the new war on terror would go on and on, with no real enemy and no winner. They intended to scare the hell out of the American public so they could do whatever they wanted. He described this war on terror as a fraud, a farce.

“I learned early on when I told this story to some people that they would call me a nut case, which makes it very hard to speak out about it.

“Stoneman asked me if I might want to join the Committee for International Consolidation. He said I would have to get a letter to join them, but would I be interested? He kept asking me that over and over again.

“We were friends. He came to my house a lot. We would have dinner together, and then we would talk for hours at a time. He told me about his business investments. He often offered to include me in those investments.

“Each time he asked me to join the CIC, I replied, ‘As much as I like you, Rocky, you and I sit on opposite sides of the fence. I don't believe in enslaving people.’

“He replied, ‘What do you care about them? What do you care about those people? What difference does it make to you? Take care of your own life. Do the best that you can for you and your family. What do the rest of the people mean to you? They don't mean anything to you! They're just serfs; they're just people.’ He expressed such a lack of caring. It was cold, so cold.

“I asked him, ‘What's the point of all this? You have all the money you need. You have all the power you need. What are you after?’

“He said the goal was to get everybody chipped, to get an RFID chip implanted into every human body, to track all their money, making it easier for the elite to control them. They want to control the whole society, to have the bankers, the elite people, and some global President control the world.

“I asked him, ‘Do all the people on the Committee for International Consolidation feel the same way you do?’

“He said, ‘No. Most of them just believe in doing the right thing.’”

“You give me a conspiracy theory?” Justin protested angrily as he threw the signed statement down onto the desk. He flung his hands out and demanded, “You call this proof???”

She replied, “If I merely gave you that statement, I agree it would be nothing more than a conspiracy theory by itself. However, in light of the video's contents, I think you know better now. I also have a third piece of evidence to give you, one to convince you that not only is there a conspiracy, not only has it been working with the government, but it's been actively working with less reputable people to achieve its aims to your personal harm.”

He stared back at her, suspicion in his eyes. What could she possibly know that could harm me personally?

She continued before he could interrupt: “Permit me a brief lecture. The roots of the current crisis, as you know, reach back to the 1990s. The Federal Reserve pumped large amounts of newly created money into the financial system over a long period of time to stimulate the economy. This money financed the now famous 'dot com' boom, which I believe you played an important role in.”

He took a defensive tone, “Yes, our bank helped launch many of the more successful new IPOs during that time. Unlike many of the new stock issues of the 1990s, most of the IPOs our bank underwrote are still in existence today, and some of them are thriving.”

“That's true,” she acknowledged. She recognized that IPO meant Initial Public Offering, a term used to describe a new stock offering from a company going public. “Anyway, the massive cash infusion drove stock prices through the roof and led investors to believe that fortunes could be made simply by launching a website and making a stock offering. As we both know, it worked for awhile, but it eventually fell apart in the early months of the year 2000. The subsequent tech crash wiped out a lot of investor capital. If I remember correctly, the popular joke at the time was that peoples' 401(k) plans transformed into 201(k) plans as many lost half their value or more.”

He smirked slightly at the joke, and she continued after quickly acknowledging his reaction with a small smile. “Some investors managed to hang onto the short-term profits they earned trading in that market. They ended up abandoning the stock market and turning their attention to real estate. The housing market stagnated for most of the 1990s, but it edged up toward the end of the decade. This pattern encouraged the investors. They bought massive numbers of properties as second homes and rental investments after the tech crash. The increased demand drove real estate prices up at a tremendous rate.”

“You call this your third proof?” he asked, a little bored. He already knew all this. He had learned over the years to trust and appreciate her financial savvy and insights, and they frequently discussed this mutual interest, but sometimes he tired of her lectures.

“Bear with me. I'm getting to it,” she replied.

Forging ahead, she continued, “Other markets boomed beside real estate, however. The government spent hundreds of billions after 9/11 on its wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, where most of the rest of the newly created money went. It went into the defense industry.”

Just then, the door of the study opened and his daughter Michaela came rushing into the room over to his desk.

“Hi Dad,” she said smiling and threw her arms around his neck. “Cook wants to know when you're going to be ready for dinner.”

She turned and said, “Hi Lizzie! I wondered where you went.” She beamed at her tutor.

A beautiful young lady already, Michaela almost certainly would turn heads in the near future, just as her late mother had. Amanda's physical beauty had crested at age 18, and Justin fell in love with her, marrying her four years later, after her graduation from Harvard. By that time he realized that her timeless inner beauty affected him more deeply than anything in his experience to date. Nine years of absolutely rapturous marriage followed, the happiest time he had ever known, including the first eight years of their daughter's life. The most devastating time imaginable followed, starting the day Amanda died in the auto accident. He never really got over the loss.

Justin felt a sense of bittersweet pride as he watched their daughter grow up. He saw Amanda in Michaela's face every day. They had the same natural light blond hair and blue eyes. At 14, Michaela already stood 5'6” tall. She likely would reach the 5'9” frame that her mother achieved. Like other teenage girls, she showed rounding in the appropriate places.

He reminded himself that his daughter displayed a more overtly outgoing personality. Where Amanda had moved quietly, softly and gently, their daughter flew like a whirlwind of energy and enthusiasm. Not that Amanda didn't have energy or a free spirit. She delighted, for instance, in debating and discussing political news and topics, she loved secrets and taking small but sometimes mischievous risks, and she could defend her position like a bulldog. Yet most of the time her low-key, gentle nature won out over anything truly dangerous or brazen.

“Is it really that late? I hadn't noticed the time,” he replied with a remarkably sober face, and his daughter giggled.

Justin marveled at the way Michaela so easily lived in the moment. Everything she did, she did with gusto, great pleasure, and happiness. Her enthusiasm overflowed all the time. Watching her reminded him how everything he encountered as a young man had enthralled him. She treated every minute of each day as a precious gift.

And so it is, he thought. And so it is.

He smiled and straightened up because he didn't want his daughter to know his true feelings. She deserved his best attitude at all times. Never mind the deep melancholy and perhaps even despair which threatened to overwhelm him now. That simply wouldn't do for his Michaela.

“Go ahead and tell her she can start dinner whenever she is ready,” he said kindly, and he smiled at her.

“Okay, Dad!” she replied gaily. She kissed him on the cheek, grinned at Lizzie, and ran from the room.

Raising a young girl by himself after his wife's untimely death challenged him. They never lacked money, but a young girl's unique issues confounded him at times. It greatly relieved him when he hired Lizzie Kohn as her live-in tutor. Lizzie played a more important role than merely a tutor to Michaela. As confidante and mentor, she served as a valuable role model and adult female influence for his quickly maturing daughter. He didn't know how he would have raised her without Lizzie's steady, guiding influence.

Justin doted on Michaela, which compensated to some degree for his failures as a parent, as he perceived them. He feared for years that he failed her because, well, he was a man, and she was a girl. He knew little about young girls' needs. And yet, somehow, they got through it. Genuine love overcomes all, and he loved his daughter very much. It surprised him a little how much she loved him right back, but it pleased him greatly.

“Perhaps we should finish our conversation after dinner?” Lizzie asked, interrupting his reverie.

Almost immediately, and sooner than they expected, Michaela once again burst into the room, barely pausing to knock before throwing open the door. “Cook says to tell you that dinner will be ready in 25 minutes, Dad!”

He smiled again. “Okay, sweetheart. We will come soon.” Again, she rushed from the room.

“Yes, I think we had better leave it until then,” he replied to Lizzie. He put the manuscript and the copy of Rossi's signed statement down next to his laptop on his desk, ejected the disk from his laptop, put it in his pocket, turned out the lamp, and they got up to leave the room.

The small breakfast room served as an all-purpose private dining room that the family used on a daily basis. The main dining room stood closed most of the time, opened only on those occasions when a social event occurred. Michaela and Lizzie arrived together, and Lizzie stood waiting while Michaela sat down in her customary chair, chattering away. She giggled as usual. The pleasant smell of sautéed onions and sage, as well as baked apple and cinnamon, wafted from the kitchen.

“You should have seen the expression on Jon's face when Rosie's horse started to run! He looked absolutely mortified!” Michaela breathed, excited.

“Well, I'm not surprised, since he was supposed to keep that horse under control so that Rosie learns to ride it safely,” Lizzie replied.

“What's all this about?” Justin asked as he strolled into the room after Lizzie and followed her toward her customary chair at the table. He pulled it out for her.

“Thank you, Mr. Knight,” said Lizzie, turning her head to him. She smiled pleasantly, and it enhanced her young and intelligent face. Her eyes suggested that she wanted to know how he would receive her smile. Even though she stood about Michaela’s height, she displayed a woman’s body, lithe for a woman of 37 years. Her dark, silky hair flowed smoothly behind her now, and her eyes probed and sparkled. Her charm and beauty often overshadowed her impeccable credentials.

“You're welcome, Ms. Kohn,” Justin replied kindly but with a slightly reserved tone as he helped move her chair closer to the table. “So, what's this about Mr. Stevens and my niece?”

Michaela's cousin often came over for horseback riding lessons. Jonathan Stevens acted as the estate's equestrian master and instructor, a service his family had provided to the Knight family for the last three generations.

“Rosie decided the time had come to ride by herself. She didn't tell Mr. Stevens, and the horse bolted,” Michaela told him with a delighted grin. “Mr. Stevens ran after them too late, trying to catch the horse. It took a few seconds before the horse recognized who called him and slowed to turn around. Mr. Stevens got really mad,” she giggled.

“Good Lord!” Justin replied. “I hope no harm came to her.”

“Oh no, she's fine,” Lizzie interjected. “She enjoyed herself immensely. Mr. Stevens, on the other hand, lost a few months off his lifespan, I'd say.”

Justin grimaced and shook his head.

“That girl is an accident waiting to happen,” he replied. “So, what do we have for dinner?”

On cue, the door to the kitchen opened and Mrs. Pomfrey, the family cook, came in holding a platter with a beautifully presented roast turkey on it. Her sturdy, stout frame plodded around the table, whereupon she placed the platter directly in front of her employer.

“Ah, there you are Mrs. Pomfrey. That looks delicious!” Justin declared.

“Good evening, sir,” Mrs. Pomfrey replied in a loud voice. Her expression didn't change, but a twinkle in her eyes suggested the compliment pleased her. He could never easily tell what Mrs. Pomfrey thought. “I've got gravy, potatoes, and stuffing coming too. There's also apricot salad on your left and some buttered beans on your right. We have apple pie for dessert.”

“Delicious as usual, Mrs. Pomfrey,” Justin announced.

“Oh Dad,” Michaela said, rolling her eyes, “You say that every night.”

“I say it,” he replied, “because it is true every night, my dear.” He hid behind an unconvincingly solemn face.

His daughter giggled again, watching Lizzie who grinned back.

Justin smiled despite himself. “So, where are Mr. Stevens and Rosie?”

“Rosie went home,” said Michaela. “I invited her to stay for dinner, but they're having spaghetti tonight, and you know how much she likes that stuff.”

Just then, the other door to the room opened, and Jonathan Stevens slowly walked into the room.

“Sorry to be late,” he said sheepishly.

“Not at all, we just arrived ourselves,” Justin replied. “Did you catch up to the horse finally?”

A mortified Jonathan acknowledged, “Oh, you heard about that.”

“Relax Mr. Stevens. I'm sure she caught you by surprise, and you did all you could. Really, I know what a handful my niece can be,” Justin said, and Jonathan smiled gratefully as he sat down at his customary place at the table. An experienced and weather-worn horseman, he checked his hands below the table to make sure he'd gotten all the stable grime off them.

The Knight household didn't resemble a typical family, particularly among the upper crust. The hired help never ate with such a family, but Justin changed that practice immediately after his wife's death. He couldn't bring himself to eat alone with his daughter. He desired adult companionship and instructed certain members of his staff to join them for dinner every night. It evolved into a private family tradition. The chosen staff members felt tense and uncertain about it at first, but after so many years it no longer bothered them.

Dinners at the Knight home usually proceeded in a pleasant, jovial manner, so it surprised the others that Justin ate so quietly this evening. Even Mrs. Pomfrey hesitated to interrupt his reverie when she came in to serve dessert. Only Lizzie ignored Justin's unusual reticence.

“So,” she said at one particularly quiet moment, hoping it might help break the tension a bit, “Michaela, tell your father what you studied today.”

“Oh, we read about early American history! We talked about how they financed the American Revolution. They had an awful time with inflation, and by the end of the war President Washington said, 'A wagon-load of money will scarcely purchase a wagon-load of provisions.'“

“They hadn't elected him president yet, Michaela,” Lizzie corrected her. “He was General Washington during the war.”

“Oh...yeah...I forgot. Anyway, I thought it was pretty strange. I mean, who actually carried money around in a wagon? Lizzie said it was a metaphor, that the value of the money fell so much that it would have taken a wagon load to buy anything worthwhile with it. Couldn't they have just written a check instead?”

“We still have a way to go with American financial history,” Lizzie told Justin apologetically, and he gave her an uncharacteristically disapproving stare. Lizzie's eyes widened, but she said nothing.

“What else did you learn today?” he asked with a mild smile, turning his attention back to his daughter.

“Well, Lizzie told me about how the Massachusetts Bay Colony first tried paper money in the 1690s, but it didn't work. The more money they printed, the less valuable it became. Not just Massachusetts; other colonies tried it too. The same thing happened in nearly all the colonies,” Michaela reported.

“What I don't understand,” she added, this time to Lizzie, “is how paper money finally worked. What did they end up doing differently? What makes it work today?”

Lizzie paused a moment to consider her answer. “We have a lot to cover yet, so be patient.”

Michaela thought about that for a moment, and then turned to her father. “May I be excused?”

After a quick examination of her plate to make sure she had eaten enough, he replied, “You may,” and she jumped up and ran from the room.

Lizzie noticed Justin’s troubled expression and studied him. “You don't approve.”

“It is not a question of approval. I just do not want her to follow in my footsteps,” he answered.

“You know how curious she is about you. She wants to understand everything she can about what you do. Everything we talk about she ends up relating to something about your career. When we study math, she wants to know what kinds of math get used in banking. When we work on geography, she wants to know where your bank's branches are located in the world. When we study history, she wants to know how it ties into the history of American banking. When we study government, she wants to know the role of government in banking. In case you hadn't noticed, she thinks the world of you,” said Lizzie.

Justin shook his head no again and said, “I still do not want this for her. I know she is curious. At her age I was the same. While other kids played sports or built electric train sets or thought about the opposite sex, I learned about letters of acceptance and mergers.”

“It's not just that,” Lizzie replied. “She's a rich kid living on an estate. She has very few friends, although I'm sure she'd like to have more. So she latches onto the adults in her life, unconsciously trying to fill in the missing spaces.”

“She has friends at the club,” Justin protested, annoyed. “Not to mention her dance classes and soccer club and horseback riding and…”

“But how many friends does she hang out with? None!” she interjected.

He ignored this. “Things have gotten complicated. The world is more complex, colder, more dangerous than when I was growing up. I am a lot more cynical than I used to be, and for good reason.” He paused and considered her significantly. “I do not want this for her,” he finished firmly.

“She's growing up,” Lizzie replied firmly. “She's not a little girl any more, and she's finding out more and more about how the world works faster than you want her to. You can try to discourage her from following you with a banking career, but I know you. You won't discourage her from using her mind, and that means she's going to figure it out one of these days. Even if I avoid teaching her anything about finance or banking or money ever again, she's still going to figure it out on her own.”

Justin sat quietly, steaming. He stared at his hands which he folded carefully on the table. He closed his eyes, slowly drew a breath, and released it just as slowly. He shook his head.

“No, I do not want this for her.”

He reached inside his dinner jacket and pulled out a small circular disk labeled “A History of the United States.”

“You left this in my laptop,” he told her.

“Yes,” she replied, “thank you.”

“Just keep it out of my office. I do not ever want to see it in there again,” he said curtly, glancing down at his dessert plate.

She stared at his eyes for a quick moment, then replied coolly, “Of course, sir.”

He stared instead at his pie á la mode with a frowning face, refusing to acknowledge he heard her. After a moment, he took another mouthful. They sat silently.

Immediately after exiting the breakfast room, Michaela ran upstairs to her room, grabbed her iPod Touch, and ran back into her father's study. She zoomed over to the desk, turned on the desk lamp and started searching in drawers. Ever since she could remember, her father left little treats and surprises for her in and around his desk. He admired President Kennedy and liked to emulate the way JFK left candy around the desk in the oval office for his son, John-John.

She practically jumped into the comfortably squishy desk chair that her father favored. She could smell chocolate from somewhere in the desk. After poking around for a few more seconds, she found a stash of Milky Way mini-bars in the top drawer. They weren't her favorite, but that didn't matter. The hunt and finding her quarry mattered the most! Besides, she liked coming in here. Just standing or sitting in the room made her feel important.

Her father didn't mind her finding treats in his desk, but he chided her more times than she could count that he didn't want her spending a lot of time in his office. He said he didn't like it when she messed up the papers on his desk or left her toys lying around on the floor of the office. Why doesn't he notice that I'm not eight years old anymore? she wondered. Fortunately, he likely hadn't left the dinner table yet, so she felt safe sitting in here for a few minutes. She tossed her iPod Touch on top of the desk, grabbed a bar, and ripped off the wrapper. Chewing slowly on the chocolate-covered caramel confection, she sat back in the chair and swung it around to face the lawn.

Night fell, and the lights along the shore of Long Island Sound dotted the landscape in the background. A small pair of lights made its way right-to-left, probably a fishing boat seeking port. The estate spread out far enough away from the lights of the city that she saw stars filling the clear night sky. The North Star glittered directly ahead above the horizon. She tried to spot the dock and the boats at the end of the lawn, but it had turned too dark to see anything that far away clearly.

She saw something else instead. A shadow shaped like a person moved slowly and evenly across the lawn. She jumped up thinking she should call Mr. Donahue, her father's chief of estate security, when she saw him stride from the house directly toward the dark figure. She turned and extinguished the desk lamp. The figure halted and waited as Mr. Donahue approached him. The unseen stranger didn't seem to fear the meeting. To the contrary, he acted as if he expected it.

The two men (she presumed the other person was a man) came together and stood still for quite a while. They undoubtedly talked, but she could see no motion, and with the window closed she could hear no voices. She crept over to the window, and opened it as quietly as she could. Now she heard their voices, but she still couldn't make out anything they said. Suddenly their conversation ended, and the other man strolled away toward the bushes on the right.

Mr. Donahue walked briskly back toward the house. She thought about calling out to him to ask what had happened, but something about his manner changed her mind. She decided that he might resent her butting into his business. Mr. Donahue behaved stiffly toward her most of the time. Her father claimed that Mr. Donahue had the best skills for the job, but his cold and calculating attitude toward her put her off; she didn't trust him.

As he approached the building, he didn't look up but merely walked to the side and out of sight. He never noticed her standing there. She closed the window and climbed back into her father's chair, turning the desk lamp on.

She considered Mr. Donahue's behavior very strange. Whom had he met, and why had they met out on the lawn at night? The scene seemed drawn from an Agatha Christie novel. She froze suddenly. I wonder if there's going to be a murder or something! There's always a murder in the Christie novels.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized that she lacked enough information to go on. She filed the incident in the back of her head, climbed back out of the chair, and picked up her iPod from her father's desk, intending to leave the room.

She didn't mean to pick up the manuscript that lay beneath the iPod on the desk, but she realized her mistake pretty quickly. She started to drop it back on the desk, but something about it grabbed her attention. She contemplated the title. It read, “Free Banking In America As It Relates To Griffin's Creature From Jekyll Island: A Study of the Federal Reserve System and Its Role in Modern Monetary Policy.”

What a long title! She expected to find a reference or two to banking in it, but the reference to a creature surprised her. It reminded her of some kind of Godzilla-like movie character. And where was Jekyll Island?

Her curiosity aroused, she made a quick decision. She knew she'd better not stay in her father's study if she didn't want to get in trouble, so she ran back to her room, carrying the manuscript. She closed the door behind her, threw her iPod on the bed, plopped herself onto the bed, and began to read.

She didn't understand a lot of it, but it read a little like a mystery novel—a weird mix of Agatha Christie and a course syllabus from some university economics department.

Suddenly a knock sounded on the door.

Michaela called out, slightly alarmed, “Who is it?”

Lizzie's voice came from the other side: “It's me.”

Instantly, Michaela jammed the manuscript under her pillow and said, “Come on in.”

The door opened, and Lizzie poked her head around the door, scanned the room quickly, and came in. Michaela didn't behave like a “girly girl,” but her room displayed a decidedly feminine touch. Like all the rooms in the house, it struck her as enormously spacious. A large four-poster queen-size bed in pinks and off-whites filled part of the space. Two sheer swags formed a sort of arch above the bed, with the word MICHAELA spelled out in large letters in a quilt-like arrangement on the wall above the headboard, each letter occupying one square of the pseudo-quilt. Big, soft, fluffy pillows and stuffed animals covered the bed. A comfortable couch sat by one wall, and a large, modern bookcase dominated the opposite wall. The wall opposite the bed bore a large, personally signed portrait of heartthrob Zac Efron. It read, “For my friend Michaela” and then in big, sweeping letters, “Zac”.

“Ah, there you are,” said Lizzie. “Your father and I had a little chat, and I agreed to cut down on our discussions about banking as it relates to your studies. So I need you to do me a favor. I need you to promise me that you won't keep asking me banking questions as we study.”

The corners of Michaela's mouth turned down. She wanted to understand her father's world, and he and her tutor conspired to prevent her! She decided to just sit there and not say anything.

After a moment of silence, Lizzie said, “You didn't answer me.”

“You didn't ask me a question,” replied Michaela with only a slight tinge of tartness. On this rare occasion she decided upon deliberate stubbornness.

“Listen, Michaela, I don't want to give you a hard time about this. To be honest, in this case I don't want to follow your father's orders at all, but I work for him. You don't have to like it, but we have to do it.”

Michaela didn't say anything but she sat there mutinously. She stared at the blanket on her bed, refusing to meet Lizzie's eyes.

“I'll say goodnight then,” said Lizzie, as she turned and walked out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

Michaela jumped up from the bed, walked over to the door, and locked it. She went back to the bed and pulled the manuscript out from beneath her pillow. She read some more of it, but it didn't make much sense to her. She finally gave up and got up to unlock the door, manuscript in hand. Opening the door quietly, she crept down the hall toward her father's study. She tip-toed inside the darkened room and slowly pulled the door closed. She walked softly over to the desk, gently laid the manuscript on top, and turned to walk back toward the door.

Suddenly, a shadow moved by the wall. Michaela started with a sharp intake of breath.

“Who's there?” she asked. The shadow moved as fast as a cat’s paw, and a cloth-covered hand grabbed her roughly over her mouth. An arm circled her middle, knocking her off balance. She struggled, but as she did she breathed in heavily and smelled something like alcohol and nail polish remover. Another breath and the room receded into a murky distance. Within seconds she ceased to struggle and blacked out.

At the same time that Michaela fell unconscious, Lizzie had a conversation on her laptop in her locked bedroom, while Charles the family butler answered the front door. No one listened outside Lizzie's bedroom door, but if they had they would've heard a surprising exchange.

Lizzie said, “All things considered, he took it well. I think it's likely that I'll have positive results to report very soon. I still have to give him the third proof. We were interrupted this evening before I could present it.”

The voice on the laptop replied, “Good. I don't have to tell you the importance of all this to us. There must be no slip ups.”

Lizzie paused a moment. “I'm still not sure about this. He's going to be very hurt.”

“But you know it's necessary,” came the response.

“Yes, I know.” Lizzie sighed as she said it. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” said the voice on the laptop. “Keep in touch.”

Downstairs, Charles escorted Justin's guest into the living room.

“Mr. Ward Porter, sir, from the bank's security department.”

Justin saw a short, very muscular man in his forties, wearing a mid-priced business suit. The suit expanded to its limit, and the man moved awkwardly, unaccustomed to wearing such clothing. His face showed kindness but had an unmistakably hard edge to it. Justin half expected the man to reach up to his neck with his index finger in an attempt to loosen the collar pressed tightly around his neck. His hair fell, a bit scraggly, above his eyes and mono-brow.

“Thank you, Charles. Please, have a seat, sir. So, you work for my uncle. What does he want from me this evening?”

Mr. Porter regarded the beautifully appointed living room with a certain degree of awe. It reminded him of something out of the Todd Oldham collection, but vastly more opulent. He sat nervously on the chair offered him. Amazing! It literally formed itself to your body's shape. Porter couldn't ever remember sitting in a more comfortable chair. Then he remembered his mission and pulled himself together, determined not to screw up this very important meeting.

Very quietly, he said, “Actually, I work for the bank's security chief, Nevio Roone. It has come to our attention that you possess a certain video that is bank property. We want it back.”

Justin's attitude changed dramatically as he stared piercingly back at his guest.

“What did you just say?”

“I said we want it back.”

“To what video do you refer?”

Porter warmed to the exchange.

“Don't play games. We're quite serious. That video is bank property, and we want it back now.”

“And what makes you think that I have such a video?”

“We know that you played it on your laptop in your study this afternoon. Don't make the mistake of treating me like a fool.”

Justin felt quite heated now.

“Are you telling me that you bugged my private study? I am Vice-President of Operations at the bank. By whose authority did you place a listening device in my home?”

“Well, we didn't bug it. Not exactly. But we did find out about it. We acted on your uncle's authority, of course.”

Justin's eyes widened. Incredible! He felt very angry now. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his Blackberry, and quickly made a call.

“Hello, who is this? Yes, I want to speak to my Uncle David. This is Justin Knight.” After a brief pause, he said, “No, I want to speak my uncle…Yes, I know the hour. Please put him on the line...What do you mean, no?”

The voice at the other end spoke for another few seconds, then hung up.

Justin stared at the Blackberry, which showed the time as 8:08 p.m. He then put it in his pocket and gazed with renewed interest at his visitor. His face turned red, and he pursed his lips.

“Who do you think you are? What do you think you're doing?”

“I think I work for your uncle, and I think you know that, too,” his guest said, with a sneer.

“Do not adopt that tone with me!” Justin remonstrated, but then added, “I do not have the video.”

“Mr. Knight, we have your daughter. I respectfully advise you to turn that video over to me right away.”

“WHAT!!!??”

“Yes, a member of our team broke into your house while you answered your door, and they safely spirited her away to a secure location,” Porter replied. He felt much more relaxed about this conversation now. Clearly, he surprised his host, which meant that everything had proceeded like clockwork.

Justin's anger peaked as he said, “Well, we will just see about that. I am going to call the police.”

Porter interrupted him and said gently, “I wouldn't do that, sir. You see, we contacted the police and reported that video missing and that you might be a suspect. It wouldn't surprise me if you heard from them. We also contacted the Department of Homeland Security. They know your intentions. They plan to investigate you as a possible threat to national security. I'm sure you understand how that works.”

Justin stared back in stunned amazement.

“Outrageous!” he exclaimed.

Porter now spoke in a soothing voice: “You don't need to be so melodramatic, Mr. Knight. We need that video, and you want your daughter back. We can make a straightforward trade.”

Livid, but experienced with difficult negotiators trying to overpower him in his role as a bank officer, Justin sat back for a moment to give himself time to appraise the situation.

Finally, he said, “Uncle David would never harm my Michaela.”

A determined look came over Porter's face as he said, “I don't think you fully appreciate your position, Mr. Knight. That video you possess would cause harm in the wrong hands, and we won't let anything happen to it. You know as well as we do that if that video got into the hands of, say, the New York Times, the consequences could be disastrous for the bank, for the country, and for the entire world economy. You saw what it contains. Do you really believe your uncle wouldn't sacrifice his grandniece if he thought it would keep that video secret?”

Justin felt the jaws of the trap closing around him, yet still he took his time. A minute passed in silence. He allowed yet another minute to pass.

Then, very slowly, he said, “No, I do not think he will harm her.”

This time his visitor paused. Porter's face showed some surprise.

He said, “You are a very brave man, but in the end I think you'll find that you are mistaken.”

Then Porter stood up abruptly and walked quickly out of the room to the front door. He pulled the door open and walked out, slamming it behind him. Immediately, Justin jumped up and ran upstairs. He raced to his daughter's bedroom and threw open the door. Finding no sign of her, he walked quickly to the next door and knocked.

“Ms. Kohn, open the door!”

Within seconds, he heard the sound of the lock turning, and the door opened.

“Ms. Kohn, have you seen my daughter?”

“Why

yes, I looked in on her about 10 minutes ago. Why, what's wrong?” Lizzie replied.

“She has disappeared. I just checked her room to be sure!” Justin said, fear racing through him like electricity.

Lizzie glanced quickly around at her room, checked the hall, and, seeing no one there, pulled him toward the room.

“I have to call the police,” he said, shaking his arm loose.

“Wait!” she cried urgently. “I'm sure I know why they took her. Come inside so we can talk privately.”

He hesitated, stared at her for a moment, and then stepped in. She closed the door.

“Who abducted her? How do you know she didn't just wander away somewhere?” she asked.

“Never mind how I know; I just do.”

“You've had a visitor. Perhaps asking about the video?”

He stared at her, wide-eyed. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Come now, we both know what's on that video. It's no surprise to me that someone else knows too. Someone connected with the bank, perhaps?”

He couldn't help but stare at her a few more seconds before finally blustering again, “I have to go call the police!”

She grabbed his arm, backed him up against the closed door and shook her head adamantly.

“Surely you must realize that if you do, you will place your daughter in mortal peril. In fact, it would greatly surprise me if they haven't already warned you against such a step. The people after that video are deadly serious, and they have excellent connections. They will do anything to protect themselves. I'm certain they have covered all their bases very carefully.”

He threw her grasp from his arm, stepped to the side toward the far end of the room and declared, “I must protect my daughter!” He took out his Blackberry and dialed 911.

“Hello, Justin Knight here, on Evergreen Drive. Someone abducted my daughter, Michaela, from our home within the past 10 minutes....No, I did not see her taken, but I had an unwelcome visitor at the time who told me it happened, and when I checked her room after he left, I found no sign of her…Thank you.”

He hung up. “They said they will dispatch someone to come over right away.” His phone rang. “Hello? Yes, Justin Knight here. What?...What do you mean, the FBI took over the case? How could that be? I just reported the incident! Special Agent Regan, you say? Do you have a number where I can reach him? Okay, her then…Look, someone took my daughter. When will someone come over here to start investigating?”

The voice at the end said something else, and then he heard a click.

“I do not believe it,” Justin gasped. “The FBI already knew about the case, and they took it over. Some woman named Special Agent Regan will call me, but they will not even tell me when. Incredible!”

Lizzie's eyes widened for a brief moment, and then she said quietly, “We both know the world. The affairs of government and high level finance often trump the affairs of people. Sometimes governments take actions they don't want the general public to know about. You know as well as I do that your uncle will do whatever he feels he must, no matter how much it pains him to do it. You also know that the top levels of our government will back him every step of the way. From their point of view, they believe they have no choice.”

“What do you mean?” Justin demanded.

Lizzie patiently replied, “I mean that they'll cover it up.”

“Then I must give them that video,” declared Justin.

“I don't think that will matter,” Lizzie replied, with more intensity in her voice. “How do they know that we haven't made a copy of it? And now that they know that you know the importance of that video, what makes you think that they'll just give you your daughter back and leave you alone for good? You don't want to underestimate them. They'll hang onto your daughter until they have verified 100% that they have all copies in their possession. It's even money that they'll kill her before they return her to you. They also won't likely release her unless they believe they have some hold over you to keep you quiet forever. You must act carefully, or you may never see your daughter alive again, even if you give them the video now.”

“Damn it, I must make a call,” he said, nearing hysteria.

“Who will you call?” countered Lizzie. “You can't call the police or the FBI. You know as well as I do that the bank already reached them, and you already know the results of your call. You can't call your uncle. Obviously, you can't call your bank's security department either. So, who will you call?”

“I do not know. Somebody...” He stopped, deflated.

“You have no one you can call, except perhaps your family attorney. You will need a lot of legal help putting your social position and wealth to its best use. Beyond that, though, no one else you know can help you, but I know people who can. Let me help,” she offered boldly.

“You? Do not be absurd. Who could you possibly know?” he blustered.

“I think it should be obvious to you by now that I know quite a bit more about this situation than a simple private tutor could reasonably know.”

“No kidding!” he said loudly. “In fact it occurs to me that you know far too much about all this. First you show me all these 'proofs' about the 'bad, bad banking industry,' including a video of my uncle, the Fed chairman, and the Secretary of the Treasury which you probably obtained illegally. Later the same evening my daughter gets kidnapped! You know far more about this than you should.”

He glared at her now. She sighed, glanced around as if searching for something. “Yes, I suppose you could interpret it that way. But do you really think I would tell you all I have told you this evening to try to deceive you?”

He stared at her intently. Her eyes gazed at him resolutely. Could those possibly be the beginning of tears in the corners of her eyes? He certainly couldn't think of anyone to call. He didn't know what to think. Could she possibly know someone useful, someone who could really help him? At this point he felt prepared to try almost anything.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“I'll make a call of my own,” she replied without hesitation. “Meanwhile, go find your manager of security and ask him how they managed to get past his security measures. Say nothing to him about my role in this. Tell him nothing about my call.”

Justin paused, appraised her almost imperceptibly, then nodded his head and strode from the room.

As he walked down the hall, he pulled his Blackberry from his pocket, pressed a button, and shouted, “Donahue, come to my study right now!”

A moment later, he sat at the desk in his study. A knock on the door preceded its opening, and Haven Donahue entered immediately afterward. He affected a relaxed pose, but Justin sensed that the man stood across from his desk like a tightly wound spring, ready to leap into action at the slightest stimulus. A dark, angry undertone emanated from the man, accentuated by his chiseled military build and crew cut.

“Someone kidnapped my daughter a little while ago. Where the hell were you?” Justin barked.

Donahue's eyes widened slightly, and he said, “Kidnapped? Are you sure? I'll phone the police immediately, sir.”

“No, I have already done that, and they transferred the case to the FBI! The bank's security department grabbed her. Apparently they already have that avenue covered. I have taken steps. I want to know from you how the hell they got in here!”

“Bank security? Steps? What steps? What are you talking about, sir?” Donahue asked, with military precision in his voice.

“I said how the hell did they get in here?” Justin shouted at him.

“I have no idea, but I will check the security tapes,” Donahue answered, ignoring Justin's anger.

“Do that! God knows I pay you enough.”

Donahue tried a final time: “You mentioned something about steps you took, sir. What are they?”

“You just go check those tapes. I expect a full report from you in 20 minutes. I will worry about those steps. Now move!” Justin's forceful voice caused Donahue to flinch.

“Yes, sir.” He left the room in high gear.

Taking the back stairs to his office in the basement, Donahue worried about what his boss had just said. He pulled out his cell phone and made a quick call.

“He says he took steps.... I don't know; he wouldn't say. He already called the police and deduced that he's not going to get much help that way…Yes, of course I'll watch him....I'll report back when I know something.”

He disconnected the call.

He didn't bother to check the security tapes. He knew they showed nothing, and he already had his excuse prepared. Someone disabled two security cameras; he planned to report that fact to Knight. Justin's unexpected reaction and his quick conclusions regarding the police troubled Donahue, as did his insistence that he already “took steps”.

Donahue walked out of his office to fix the two disabled cameras, one in the bushes, the other by the back door. He plugged in each of them while pondering this little mystery. Could he have called a private detective? Possibly, but Donahue thought it unlikely. So who did that leave? Let's see. Knight never served in the military, so it couldn't be an old army buddy. A bank client with a security or military background, perhaps? Possibly. Or perhaps he called the family's attorney...yes, a distinct possibility. I must check into that. Glancing at his watch, he saw that 18 minutes had passed. He walked quickly back toward Knight's study.

He walked in to find Justin in conversation with the girl's tutor. Someone needed to do something about her. She obviously knew more than she let on.

Justin looked up. “Ah, Donahue. So what do you have to report?”

“Unfortunately, sir, the miscreants managed to defeat two of our security cameras. Nothing on any of the other tapes showed any kind of intruder.”

“How the hell did they manage to disable the security cameras? I thought that our surveillance recorder would record anyone who tried.”

“It should have been impossible, but they did it somehow, sir,” Donahue dutifully replied.

“Honestly, Donahue, why the hell do I pay you all this money? This is ridiculous. You had better figure out how to tighten up our security, or you will need a new job,” said Justin, his voice rising.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, do you want an engraved invitation? Someone breached this estate's security tonight, and you just stand there. Get cracking, man!” Justin commanded imperiously.

“Yes, sir,” replied Donahue with a troubled face, and he left at once.

Lizzie signaled Justin silently with her head to join her in the hall. Once there, she whispered to him, “They might have bugged your office, perhaps this hall too. Come into my room again. You can call your attorney from there and have him deal with the police and the FBI directly.”

She walked down the hall toward her room, and he followed her. Once they entered her room, she closed and locked the door, turning to him.

She considered him for a moment. “Check your pockets. See if you find anything in there you don't recognize.”

He gave her a quizzical glance, and she answered it by saying, “They might have bugged your person. It could be anything, as small as a tiny dot. Check everything on you carefully.”

He did as she asked, confirming he had nothing unusual on him. She went to her bedside table and picked up what looked like a plastic hair-curling wand. It plugged into her laptop, which she carried under her arm over to the foot of the bed. She ran the wand over him like a guard at an airport security checkpoint and read the readout on her laptop.

“Well, I can't find anything on you other than your Blackberry. Bring that out for a moment,” she said.

He did as she asked, and she ran the wand over the phone.

She said, “I don't think they put a bug on you, although I can't be certain. Perhaps my equipment can't detect it, but I doubt it.”

As a final precaution, she ran the wand over herself in the same way. The readouts on the laptop didn't change. All this activity impressed and surprised Justin.

He glanced around the room. Like his daughter's room, Lizzie's room bore an unmistakably feminine touch without being flowery or showy. A spring green comforter lined by pastel green and yellow pillows covered a queen-size bed. The walls displayed very little, except for a beautiful landscape on the wall opposite the bed. A lounge chair sat in one corner, and a very comfortable couch lay against the adjacent wall. Except for the laptop, he saw very few personal belongings. The relative starkness of the room contrasted with the opulence of other more elegant rooms in the house, yet it evoked a distinct feeling of warmth and comfort.

She paused a moment. “You will need to move very carefully, now that we know that your security manager joined the plot against you.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded, bewildered.

“Do you really think that the intruder could have gotten in without Donahue's assistance? I've seen the security you have around here. No one could have reached the security cameras without the recording system capturing them, unless someone turned the recording system or the cameras off. So only one other alternative possibility remains.”

“What?”

“Donahue disabled the system.”

This caught Justin by surprise.

“Donahue? Ridiculous! The man came here more than three years ago. He's ex-army and ex-CIA. His security qualifications surpassed even your academic qualifications. How could you possibly suspect him?”

“Where did you find Donahue, anyway?” Lizzie persisted.

Justin paused a moment to remember. Then it came to him.

“He came highly recommended by Nevio Roone who runs the security department at the bank. He has top credentials. He...” Justin stopped as it dawned on him what he had just said. Roone introduced and recommended Donahue to him. Roone's department acted under his uncle's orders this evening!

The dawning truth knocked Justin off his mental balance for a moment. Roone planted Donahue at the Knight estate three years ago! By the time Justin recovered, he realized this hard, cold fact meant that his uncle didn't trust him and quite possibly intended to harm him or Michaela...or both.

It also suggested what the video he saw earlier this afternoon confirmed: a long-term plan executed inexorably in the background. Unseen hands set it in motion many years before. The conspiracy theory so newly introduced in his mind earlier in the day thus transformed into a conspiracy fact.

For the first time since the day's events unfolded, Justin realized to his astonishment that he felt fear. He feared for himself, and he feared even more for his daughter. He hadn't felt this way for a very long time. Yet, to his surprise, he also felt something else, something unexpected. He felt hope.

“Have you called your family attorney yet?” she asked, breaking his reverie.

“No, not yet.”

“Do it now. We need as much legal firepower working for us as we can get. Say as little as possible over the phone. Someone might easily have tapped such an unsecured channel.”

Justin's eyes widened as he stood and pulled out his Blackberry again, pressed a button, and held it to his ear. He soon heard a familiar voice.

“Tom, Justin Knight here,” he said. “I am fine, Tom, but I need your help right away. Someone abducted Michaela this evening.... I do not dare say much over an open phone line. Will you please come over right away? No, do not call the police. I called them...No, just come over right away...Thanks, Tom,” he said, then disconnected the call and started for the door.

“Now,” said Lizzie, grabbing his arm, “we must finish our earlier discussion.” She indicated the couch for Justin to sit down.

“Are you crazy?” he burst out, pulling his arm from her grasp. “They kidnapped my daughter, and you want to talk about a doctoral thesis?”

“No, I want to talk about my third proof. You must learn about this final piece of evidence. It will make clear to you exactly what you face,” she stated firmly, gesturing to the couch. He hesitated, and then sat down.

She slowly paced the room as she spoke, not willing to meet Justin's eyes as she told her story.

“As you know,” she began, “I enrolled at Harvard University 19 years ago as an undergraduate. What you don't know is that I met someone my first day at college destined to heavily influence my life from that day forward. Like other freshmen, they assigned me a roommate. Roommates, of course, don't always hit it off, but this particular roommate and I became best friends almost instantly. I called her Amy, mostly to tease her because she really hated that name. She preferred the formal version of her name: Amanda Radcliffe,” Lizzie said. She stopped a moment and regarded Justin, whose mouth hung wide open.

“You knew my wife in college?” he asked in stunned amazement.

“As I said,” Lizzie answered simply, continuing her pacing, “she became my roommate and my best friend. She teased me right back by calling me Lizzie. I can't tell you how much it shocked me when your daughter called me Lizzie the first time I met her when I interviewed for the tutoring job. She even sounded like Amy when she said it.”

She stopped pacing and smiled briefly, “By the way, you may be interested to know that Amy talked about you a lot. You had a profound effect on her, perhaps more than you knew. I already knew your appearance because of the picture she kept of you on her desk. It didn't surprise me at all when she told me at graduation that she’d accepted your proposal of marriage.”

She continued pacing.

“At any rate, Amy and I shared everything, even our academic interests. I majored in economics, and she majored in political science. We sometimes had the same classes together. Even then I had a bit of a radical streak. I tested my views and ideas on her. She had a brilliant, incisive mind, and I used her as a devil's advocate to poke holes in my theories. She planned to go to law school, of course, if she hadn't married you instead,” she said, stopping her pacing to consider him.

Justin's attention riveted upon Lizzie's eyes as she talked. He nodded in acknowledgement but said nothing.

Lizzie nodded back. “Our friendship went way beyond academics, though. We were inseparable. If either of us had homosexual tendencies, we probably would have become lovers, but we were both too boy crazy for that,” she said, with a sheepish grin.

Justin smiled slightly, shaking his head.

“Why did she never tell me about you?” he asked. “I cannot believe she never said anything...Wait a minute!” he said suddenly, “I remember something about her best friend in college, come to think of it. Her name was not Lizzie, it was...”

“Flakes,” Lizzie finished for him.

Justin reeled.

“You were Flakes?” he almost shouted, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head.

“Yeah, strange nickname, huh?”

“Why Flakes?” Justin asked, still astonished.

“It was just one of those stupid college things,” Lizzie explained, shaking her head dismissively, with a wry grimace. “One day we walked to class together, and it started snowing. So the two of us started laughing and carrying on about snowflakes. I threatened to start calling her Snow, because she snowed me so easily. You know how much she loved to debate, and she really learned how to improvise, shall we say? Anyway, she countered that she'd call me Flakes for being so flaky. The names stuck. From that day forward, I called her Snow, and she called me Flakes. We only called each other Amy and Lizzie when talking with a classmate or friend.”

Justin laughed and said, “So you are Flakes! Unbelievable! But one thing I do not understand. Amanda adamantly refused to invite you to our wedding. I thought it pretty strange, you being her best friend and all, but she steadfastly refused and would not change her mind. She never explained or gave a reason. Why did she not want to invite you?”

Lizzie, folded her arms tightly around herself and stared at the floor.

“Because I asked her not to, and I told her I wouldn't come even if she asked. I was very radical at the time, particularly in economics. I'm sure you figured that out by reading my doctoral thesis. One form my rebellion took entailed a complete and utter rejection of everything establishment. I didn't like the fact that she planned to marry a rich kid banker. She thought I was just being stupid. So we drifted apart after graduation. She went home to marry you, and I went to graduate school.”

Lizzie resumed her pacing.

“We stayed out of touch until my last year at Columbia. She, of course, had a family and worked with you at the bank. Nine years passed, and it surprised me when she called. It was good to hear her voice, but I could tell something was worrying her. She said she wanted to meet, that she needed to talk, and there was urgency in her voice. I couldn't imagine what could possibly be so urgent, but I longed to see my old friend again, so we agreed to meet for coffee at my apartment on the upper West Side. Let me tell you the story....”

A younger Lizzie went to get the door with a bit of trepidation. Turning the handle, she pulled the door open and saw her old friend standing on the doorstep. Her surprisingly lined and sad eyes looked at Lizzie as if dazed. Lizzie didn't notice at first as she greeted her friend happily.

“Snow!” she cried with enthusiasm.

Her friend focused on her and lit up, quietly answering, “Hi Flakes,” with a big smile. The two women hugged. A second later Amy's smile disappeared.

Now Lizzie began to notice the change in her friend as she invited her into the small apartment. In addition to the lined face, she saw shadows under Amy's eyes. She no longer saw the quietly mischievous gleam in those eyes. The youthful spirit no longer resided there; it was replaced by...it couldn't be...fear?

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked uncertainly.

Amy shook her head no but said nothing. Lizzie noticed that Amy's hands shook as she held her bag.

“What's wrong, Snow?” she asked her.

Amy peered quickly around the small living room as if she expected something or someone to grab her at any moment. The familiarity of Lizzie’s multitudes of house plants, on the floor, on table tops, and hanging from the ceilings, brought her some comfort. The heavenly fragrance of an assortment of flowers that now filled her head hadn’t changed. But Amy had.

Lizzie walked carefully over to her friend, took her hand, and guided her to a nearby love seat where she sat down. Lizzie sat across from her in an armchair and didn't relinquish her friend's hand. “What is it?”

Amy smiled quickly but the smile faded just as rapidly. Her nerves began to affect Lizzie too. “Flakes, I think I'm into something way over my head.”

“What happened?” Lizzie asked her. Amy couldn't speak.

Finally, Lizzie got up and said, “Let me go get you a glass of water. You can take a moment to collect your thoughts.”

Amy nodded, but she just sat there, shaking slightly, her gaze fixed on an indeterminate spot on the far wall. While reluctant to leave her friend even for a second, Lizzie finally walked quickly into the galley kitchen, grabbed a glass, filled it with water, then returned to the living room. She sat down in front of her friend and grabbed her hand to place the glass there. After a moment, Amy regained enough of her awareness to grasp the glass, and she took a big gulp of water.

The cold January air seemed to penetrate the little apartment despite the warmth of the radiator in the living room. Most New Yorkers still suffered the after-effects of 9/11, which had occurred just four months previously, but the city had settled back into a kind of routine. Most people steered clear of where the towers once stood. The wound in the ground mirrored the wound inside everyone, and no one liked its reminder. Still, avoidance didn't ease the fear that gripped the city. Lizzie wondered if this still bothered her friend, causing her current frazzled state.

“Is this about 9/11 or something?”

Amy smiled half-heartedly and said, “Sort of.'“ After a long moment, she began to talk. “After Justin and I married, I worked mostly on one account at the bank–the Holloway account.”

Lizzie raised her eyebrows. Holloway, Inc. appeared in the papers every other day about some new defense contract or whatever. The latest news focused on their involvement in the upcoming military incursion in Afghanistan.

Amy noticed and said, “Yes, Holloway, believe it or not. In fact, my husband landed the account for the bank in the first place. He helped John Holloway with his IPO. It launched Justin's career. His uncle made him a vice-president last month.”

“Really?” Lizzie asked in a distracted way, hardly listening past her own concern over her friend's apparent state of mind. Then she realized what her friend said about her husband's promotion and added, “Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” Amy replied with a brief smile before sinking into her moodiness once again. “I handle most of Holloway's international transactions. About two weeks ago, an unusual wire transfer crossed my desk for processing, for $50 million, designated for some company I never heard of in Pakistan. I handle wire transfers every day, but I rarely saw one anywhere near as large as this one. Transfers that large usually get reserved for buying out another company or something big like that.”

Relieved that Amy finally started talking, Lizzie just nodded and sat mute, unwilling to interrupt.

“I started entering the transfer in my computer. While I did the work, I noticed the description of the transfer. It merely said, 'OBL-AQ-22' and nothing else.”

“What does that mean?”

Amy shook her head and said, “I don't know. Descriptions on wire transfers often contained simple codes and such, but this one caught my attention. I could sense something familiar about it, but I couldn't identify what! I had a pile of other work on my desk and didn't have time to study the description, so I made a photocopy of it, threw it in my desk drawer for later study, and finished putting the transfer through. Then I promptly forgot about it as I plowed through the rest of the work on my desk.”

Lizzie nodded but said nothing.

“Today, during a lull in the work flow, I came across the photocopy I made that day. I pulled it out of the desk drawer and stared at it for awhile. You see, I never saw a code like it before! While I mused it over, my eyes went to the headline on today's copy of The Daily News that sat on the corner of my desk. It mentioned Osama Bin Laden. I made the connection. Could OBL mean Osama Bin Laden? And AQ...that could be Al-Qaeda. I scoffed as soon as I thought it. It didn't make sense. Hasn't the government already frozen all of Bin Laden's known assets?”

“Well, they claim they have,” Lizzie acknowledged.

“I thought so too, but I couldn't buy the coincidence. So I ran a computer query. It came back with a security warning. The computer wouldn't let me access it! I didn't know what to do. So I put the photocopy in my briefcase. Within seconds, I got a phone call from bank security, demanding to know why I performed that particular query. I said I was doing some research, that there might be something that we should report to the FBI.”

“What did he say to that?” Lizzie asked.

“He got really angry! He said I should never perform that search again, or I'd get in a lot of trouble. He also specifically told me not to call the FBI or anyone else about it. Then he hung up.”

Now her shaking resumed in earnest.

“It really shook me up. I decided to leave work for the day, and as I headed to my car, I called you on my cell phone. You know the rest.”

“May I see the photocopy?”

Amy pulled it out and handed it to her. Lizzie examined it carefully. Then she excused herself for a minute, got up, and went into her bedroom where she had a small copy machine. She made a copy of it and went back into the living room where Amy still sat shaking, her head now in her hands. Lizzie studied the photocopy for a moment, verifying the code: 'OBL-AQ-22'. Then she handed it back to Amy.

Lizzie asked her, “Have you told your husband about this yet?”

Amy shook her head no. “The phone call shook me up too much. I guess I couldn't think clearly.”

“Are you afraid of how he would react?”

Amy laughed. “Of course not. Don't be silly!”

Still, the whole thing made her nervous, and she continued to shake as she sat there.

“Why don't I go with you to your house? It'll be a chance for me to meet your family, and I can sit with you while you tell your husband what happened.”

Amy looked at her wide-eyed. “You'd do that for me...after everything?”

“You're still my best friend, even if I haven't seen you in eight years!”

“Thank you!” Amy sniffed. Lizzie moved over to the love seat to sit next to her friend, and within seconds they hugged each other.

“I really missed you,” Amy said.

“Me too, Snow,” Lizzie answered her with a smile, her right arm still around the shoulders of her old friend, their foreheads touching. “Me too.”

Lizzie paused, remembering that day. Then she resumed her narrative.

“In the end, I agreed to follow her back home, to be with her and give her moral support as she told you what happened. She said it would also be a chance for you and I to meet for the first time.”

Justin didn't like where he sensed this story might lead. He swallowed with difficulty and shifted again on the couch, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Lizzie resumed her story.

The two women left the apartment together.

“Where are you parked?” Lizzie asked.

“I'm down by the corner,” Amy replied.

“My car's in the garage. Give me a minute to drive it up to street level, and I'll meet you at the corner.”

Amy smiled her agreement. “Thanks for doing this, Flakes.”

“What are friends for?” Lizzie asked with a smile.

While Amy walked cautiously down the street to her car, Lizzie took the steps down to the basement where she could feel the bite of January cold. She let herself into the small parking area with her key, smelling the oil stains she knew were on the floor, and pushed a button to open the ramp door, got in her car, then drove up to street level, turned right, and moved down to the corner just before her friend's car.

Amy pulled out, and she led her friend over to the ramp toward the West Side Highway. Lizzie followed her through the streets until they got on the FDR Drive, and followed her as she maneuvered her way onto the Long Island Expressway. The light traffic allowed them to make good progress on the highway. As they passed the exit for East Meadow, suddenly a black sedan pulled alongside Amy's car in the lane to the left of her, practically out of nowhere. The sedan alarmed Lizzie as he followed because the driver drove rather wildly. She half expected the car to go crashing out of control into the guard rail.

She saw two men in the car. The one in the passenger seat rolled down the window and...Lizzie gasped...he pointed a gun through the car window at Amy's car....and fired twice!

The sudden sharp noise startled Lizzie. She watched in horror as Amy's car went careening off the road, slammed into a guard rail, and flipped over a few times, while the black sedan sped up and took off.

Lizzie screamed, “NO!” She slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the right side of the road in an instant. She threw off her seat belt and jumped out of the car, running back to where Amy's car lay twisted and smoking acridly in a heap by the side of the road.

“NO!” she screamed again, unable to fathom the events she just saw.

She ran over to peer in the driver's side window. Amy lay in a twisted, broken position inside the crushed interior of the car. Lizzie saw blood and glass everywhere, and she knew her friend must be dead. Then she saw the smashed-in side of Amy’s head. Lizzie lurched over to the side of the road and hurled out the contents of her stomach over and over again. Other people stopped, and a kind man came over and tried to calm her down as she knelt on the ground on all fours shaking from the shock while vomit poured out of her mouth spasmodically.

Between heaves, she screamed repeatedly, “NO! NOOOOO!”

The man helped her sit up and asked her, “Are you all right? Do you know the driver?”

Lizzie couldn't say anything. She struggled to speak as she gasped for icy breath, but nothing came out. It was too terrible, too horrible! The man kept trying to calm her, trying to get her attention, but she could only focus on the fact that someone had just blown a hole in her best friend's head at 60 miles an hour.

She looked around wildly for any sign of the black sedan. She couldn't see it anywhere, and the terror she felt held her hostage. How had they found Amy? Had someone from bank security done this? Some terrorist group? Frantic thoughts coursed through her brain. The more she thought, the more petrified she became. No one could get a word out of her.

A short while later, an ambulance and a state trooper car with screaming sirens and skidding tires arrived. The witnesses told the trooper about Lizzie. He tried to get her to talk, but she clammed up, still shaking with fear.

While he tried to talk calmly to her, Lizzie came to a decision. She felt the risk to her own life too great to say anything. If those thugs could find her best friend so fast, imagine how fast they'd kill her if they knew her connection to Amy. Lizzie decided not to say anything to anyone.

The trooper asked her questions gently, and she finally spoke up.

“I was driving behind her, and I saw the car go flying off the road,” she told the trooper. “I stopped to see if I could help. I guess I freaked out when I saw...the body,” she said. “It was too horrible.”

“Did you know the victim?” he asked her.

Lizzie shook her head but didn't say anything else.

“OK, just give me your name and address, so we can contact you if we need more information,” the trooper said.

Justin sat there, shocked and distraught. All the gut-wrenching memories of that day six years before came rushing back. Tears streamed down his face, which he held tightly in his hands as he stared through his fingers. Blood pooled in his neck and chest. He'd gotten the phone call at the office. They wanted him to come identify her body. Long-blocked memories coursed through his mind again, unbidden. The unbearable pain, so fresh after all those years, returned.

After a long moment, he wiped his eyes, recomposed himself, turned to her and said with agony in his voice, “Why on earth did you tell me that?”

“Because you need to understand the huge, real and imminent threat to you and your daughter,” Lizzie replied in an uneven voice, her own eyes bloodshot, tears streaming down her cheeks as well.

“But it was just a terrible accident. She wasn't shot,” he argued feebly.

“YES, SHE WAS!” Lizzie shouted through her tears. “They murdered her! The bastards murdered her! I saw it happen, but I doubt that the police noticed the evidence of it. Like I said, the scene was pretty gruesome. Everyone thought the crash killed her. They saw nothing obvious to suggest otherwise, so they didn't include anything else in their report.”

Justin sat in total shock, unable to speak, breathing shallowly.

Lizzie took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then released it.

“After I got home, I remained dreadfully frightened. I didn't leave my apartment for three days, fearing what might be out there. Friends and fellow doctoral students called me and left messages asking for me, but I refused to take any calls. The painful image wouldn't go away. They murdered my best friend right in front of me!”

He still didn't say anything, so she faced him with determination and said, “I didn't come to live here in order to exploit the people she loved. I came here because I loved her. I came here because of her daughter. And I came here because...”

She couldn't finish the sentence. She turned away from him.

“Because what?” he demanded.

She stared fixedly at the floor as her face reddened.

“Well, never mind the third reason. But you must believe me, I didn't come here to hurt you. I came here to help.”

He remained silent, and when she glanced up at him, his eyes told her she had earned his trust.

She took a deep breath, then continued her story: “Eventually I regained my composure, and my brain started to work more clearly again. I had a friend on campus from my economics classes, sort of a fellow traveler, named AJ. He introduced me to the Austrian economists, like Murray Rothbard and Ludwig Von Mises, who rarely get included in the official curriculum. He also told me about a secret society he joined dedicated to promoting change in the monetary, banking, and corporate system. They call themselves the Agorist Underground. The word agora, as you may know, is an ancient Greek word that means ‘marketplace’. I knew that he would listen to my story sympathetically and might even help me find some understanding as to why it happened. So I called him.”

AJ didn't look forward to the trip to his friend's apartment, no matter how grateful he felt that she finally took his call a short while before. Still, someone had to do it. Better him than someone she didn't know.

When she answered his knock, he saw her blotchy red face and eyes peeking around the door, terror etched in her face. He never saw her like that before. “You gonna let me in?”

She nodded shakily and opened the door for her big friend just enough to let him through, then closed it quickly behind him, locking it three times. He looked at her curiously but said nothing. When she showed no signs of wanting to go anywhere, he took her hand and led her gently into her own foliage festooned sitting room and her dark-green sofa.

“What happened?” he asked, sitting down beside her.

She lurched through the story unevenly, leaving out parts, stopping to go back to fill in blanks as she went along.

Once he had the gist of the story, he asked her, “Why didn't you tell the state trooper?”

She looked at him in horror and said, “I told you! What if those thugs figured out that I knew her!”

He shook his head in dismay but didn't press the point. Instead, he changed the subject a bit, saying, “Where's that paper you mentioned?”

She picked up her copy from her scallop-edged, walnut coffee table and handed it to him for his inspection. He saw an official bank document. The amount of the transfer, the description, the fact that it came from the Holloway account all clearly showed on the form.

He turned the photocopy over to examine the other side, found nothing but a blank page. “I want to introduce you to someone I know...someone in the Agorist Underground.”

“I don't want to meet anyone right now.”

AJ nodded. “I know. Take your time. I won't try to force you, but I want to assure you this person can help you.”

Lizzie furrowed her brow and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“You know I'm in the AU, right?”

Lizzie nodded. “I remember you telling me something about it one time.”

“I have tried to get you to join for months now. We both know that the fiat money system must collapse under its own weight one of these days. The AU plans to help us make the transition to hard money when it does.”

“AJ!” she protested, “my best friend got murdered in front of my eyes a few days ago. Now you want me to join a protest group? I thought you were my friend!”

“Of course I'm your friend. So hear me out! If anyone can help you, my friends in the AU can do it.”

“What can they possibly do?” Lizzie demanded incredulously.

“They can give you protection, and they can help you fight back against the thugs.”

“I don't want to fight them! I don't ever want to see them again! And I certainly don't want them to see me!” Lizzie shouted, outraged.

“Listen to me! Listen!” AJ said forcefully, grabbing her wrists. “You really want to live in fear of those bastards the rest of your life?”

That caught Lizzie's attention.

He said, “The AU commits itself to bringing down the current monetary system and replacing it with a precious metals system. We don't engage in non-violent protests or anything like that. Instead, we work our way into establishment circles, seeking potential recruits to join our ranks. We believe that the best way to change the public's mind about money and banking is to find spokespeople who work within the existing system to do the speaking and writing for us. The best way to change the system is to infiltrate it.”

Lizzie shook her head in exasperation. “How the hell does that help me? You want me to turn that photocopy over to the New York Times or something?”

“No, they'll just bury it. As you know, ever since 9/11 the public has mostly accepted the official version of what happened, and the government's approach to combating the terrorists has received widespread acceptance and support. This included the President's order to freeze Bin Laden's accounts. So your evidence might make a big news story for a short time if the media found out about it, but America can't handle it yet. If we release it, the government will confiscate the photocopy, announce a new, tougher investigation of Bin Laden's financial reach and of American banking practices, and then they'll bury the matter. They have followed that pattern with most revelations that arose over the past four months. When anyone protests, particularly someone from the media, the government invokes 'national security' or 'executive privilege' or 'state secrets', and that ends it. This approach basically allows the government to pursue the same policies it wanted to pursue all along no matter what, while effectively fragmenting and silencing any opposition.”

“So what does all this have to do with me?”

“The AU plans to secretly build a case against the current system. I want you to help.”

“How? Why?”

“For now, just meet my friend.”

“And what about this protection you promised?”

“Just meet my friend,” he insisted. “She'll answer all your questions.”

Worn down by his determination, she agreed, and he left to set up the meeting.

The next day, he appeared at her door again.

“Are you ready?” he asked her.

“For what?” she said.

“To go to the meeting!”

“I don't know, AJ. I don't really want to leave my apartment, you know?”

He turned and pointed to a white, unmarked van parked on the street in front of her apartment.

“I've arranged transportation. We'll go to the meeting secretly, invisible to any prying eyes.”

A worried look crossed her brow. He took her hand.

“Come on, let me show you what's inside,” he said as he led her to the curb. They walked around to the back of the van, which he opened. Inside, she saw four very comfortable velvety, royal-blue armchairs arranged in a circle. She looked at him curiously.

“First class,” he said with a grin, a gold tooth showing. He offered his hand for support. Reluctantly, she took it and climbed inside. He climbed in after her and pulled the door shut. He waved her to a chair, and she sat down while he pounded twice on the front wall of the van. A very muffled engine started up, and she felt a gentle nudge under the floor. Apparently, the van had moved into traffic.

He buckled himself in. “Want a drink?”

“Where are we going?”

“That's a secret. Only TST knows the exact location.”

“TST?”

“An acronym...stands for The Security Team. They handle all security for the AU,” he explained. “What will you have?”

She spotted a small mini-bar next to his chair.

“What have you got?” she asked him.

“Anything from milk to whiskey.”

“How about a Sprite?”

“You got it.” He pushed a couple buttons. A door opened, and a medium-size glass of clear, sparkling liquid appeared. He handed it to her, and she tasted it, the fresh bubbles tickling her nose. Yup, Sprite.

The journey only took about 20 minutes. Presently, the van came to a stop, and a light came on, embedded in the door. AJ unbuckled himself and opened it.

Lizzie saw the inside of a small parking garage. She saw a large door with a sign above it which read, “Welcome to the Agorist Underground.” She started toward it, but he stopped her.

“Not that way. We get our own door.”

They walked over to a side door with no handle. He knocked twice. A security camera above the door scanned them, and the door opened. A middle-aged woman with light mocha skin, twice as light as AJ's, stood holding it open.

“Come on in,” she said. “I'm Janice.”

Lizzie took her hand and said, “Janice what?”

“Just Janice,” she replied with a smile.

She gestured to Lizzie to enter, who did so gingerly. They sat at a small high-polish, cherry wood conference table, which dominated the room with its pale, mocha-brown walls and dusty-rose carpeting. In the corner, a candelabra stand of lit candles, scented with lavender and vanilla, provided simple elegance designed to calm the nerves.

“So, AJ told me your story,” Janice began.

“I don't want to join anything.”

Janice laughed. “There's nothing to join. The AU is a loosely organized network of people who share a common goal. Individuals work together on common projects to whatever degree they choose on a case by case basis. It's all strictly voluntary.”

“It sounds pretty disorganized.”

“Yes, it does,” Janice agreed, “yet despite that fact the AU has a number of strengths going for it. The network has some very well-heeled participants. We have no hard numbers regarding membership, because no formal membership exists, but we estimate tens of thousands of people have involved themselves in one way or another. A large number of sub-groups have organized themselves in the network. One sub-group, TST, set up this meeting for us. They devote their efforts to creating secure communications, locations, and record-keeping for the AU.”

“And you think they can help me?”

“I'm sure of it. You can always tell which sub-groups include the wealthy members, because they run the successful, well-funded projects, like TST. Among other things, they've created a secure Internet-based communications protocol which enables AU participants to communicate securely with each other using channels that cannot be penetrated by unfriendly persons, including government agents. They developed and trained an intelligence and investigative team who pursue a variety of covert activities. And they maintain covert meeting places like this one.”

“How does that help me?”

“Let me finish,” Janice replied. “I'm a leader of TST. I'm here to recruit you. If you accept, we can give you all kinds of protection.”

“I thought you said there was nothing for me to join! Why me?”

Janice smiled. “Your academic qualifications, for one thing. Also, AJ tells me that philosophically you share the AU's overall goals. However, I must admit the major reason we want you is you knew Amy Knight.”

Lizzie looked daggers at AJ, who sat mute.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Janice continued. “You can do something for your late friend that could also help the AU...and the rest of the world, for that matter.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Lizzie asked skeptically.

“AJ told me your story and what happened to Amy. While her death is obviously a horrible tragedy, there could also be a silver lining. Her husband seeks a tutor for their young daughter. We have worked for years to create relationships with top families of the banking establishment. We want to get you into their house as a member of their domestic staff. We want you to help us recruit Mr. Knight to our cause.”

Justin said hotly, “I cannot believe what I am hearing. They sent you to spy on me?”

Lizzie shook her head no and said, “The idea didn't appeal to me at all. I never wanted to be a secret agent or anything like that.”

Justin doubted this, but he said nothing as Lizzie continued, “Janice smiled and said she didn't expect me to just sign up on the spot. She asked that I keep an open mind and let them show me more of their operations. She wanted me to take a long time before I even considered joining. That's the way they work, she told me. They never recruit someone quickly. They do it slowly over time. Patience is a virtue in their eyes.”

“Yeah, I'll bet it is,” Justin replied unhappily, deep mistrust in his eyes.

Lizzie frowned but ignored his comment and said, “Over the next few weeks, I received a number of invitations to some private meetings. I promised not to tell you the details of these meetings, because they are closely held secrets within TST. Yes, I did end up joining TST.”

“So you were sent to spy on me after all!” Justin exclaimed.

Lizzie shook her head and answered, “No! You started your search for a tutor for Michaela within weeks of your wife's death. This was the opportunity the AU waited for. They arranged for you to be contacted via Harvard's alumni association. I believe that's where you first heard of me?” Lizzie paused for Justin's reaction.

Yes, he remembered contacting his alma mater searching for someone with superior knowledge and breeding compared to the typical, run-of-the-mill, live-in tutor. His class president called him back to say he knew someone who might fill the bill and sent Lizzie's C.V. to him.

“I didn't want to go to the interview, but they assured me that I need not commit to anything. AJ said I should just go and see for myself if it interested me. So I went reluctantly.”

“Justin,” she said, the name sounding a bit shocking because she never called him by his first name, “you surprised me. It never occurred to me I would actually like you before I met you. You represented a segment of society to which I object completely. So it surprised me when you showed me your human side. I expected you to be professional, a bit snooty, somewhat aloof. You were all of those things, but then Michaela interrupted us, and you invited her into the room so I could meet her. I suppose you wanted to find out how well we might get along together. You surprised me the way you interacted with her. You didn't just treat her as a dutiful daughter to be patted on the rump and sent off to play. I saw for myself the love, warmth, and tenderness you displayed for her. While she was clearly top priority in your life, I also saw that she felt the same way about you. I didn't expect that. It impressed me.”

“Why?” asked Justin, clearly surprised.

Lizzie sat down in front of him, unconsciously touched his arm and answered, “It never occurred to me that you might behave as a real human being. It surprised me, that's all.” She felt blood rushing to her cheeks and suddenly realized what she'd done. She quickly removed her hand.

She paused for a moment to regain her composure. “I expect you remember that I took a long time deciding whether to accept the position. The opportunity both intrigued and alarmed me. It intrigued me because I had the opportunity to work for the very goal for which I'd studied all my college years. It alarmed me because I hadn't forgotten what happened to my best friend, and I didn't want it to happen to me too. In short, I reached a major crossroad in my life. I had to decide what to do with my life, whether or not to work for real change in the system. And also...well...”

She hesitated and visibly changed her mind in mid-pause, then said, “I almost decided against it. You won me over the way you interacted with Michaela. It made me want to get to know both of you better. So I decided to accept the position,” she finally concluded, “because I wanted to help.”

Justin scoffed, “To help your AU comrades you mean.”

“Not just them. I wanted to help you and Michaela.”

Justin pondered her story for a long moment before saying, “It still seems to me you came here as a spy.”

“Not as a spy, as a recruiter.”

“You have a strange method of recruiting. You wait until they kidnap my daughter, then you try to get me to join some underground movement? Pretty disgusting!” Justin said angrily.

“No, I'm not trying to get you to join now. It's much too soon for that. I'm trying to tell you that TST can help get your daughter back, and in case you haven't figured it out yet, I want to get her back too. I love your daughter very much. In six years I've never forgotten that she's Amy's daughter. Helping raise my best friend's daughter means more to me than anything else I've ever done. I can't bring my best friend back, but I can help her daughter grow up to be a happy and healthy young woman,” Lizzie finished intently.

Justin looked down at his hands for a moment, then looked up and said, “Thank you, but how can an underground movement get my daughter back?”

“TST has been quite successful over the years recruiting talent. The team includes trained military vets, ex-CIA operatives, former green berets, former secret service agents, an FBI agent or two, electronics and computer experts, defense experts, academics, scientists, engineers, financial experts, even an occasional politician. I don't know the exact numbers, but I gather that literally thousands of us joined. On the other hand, tens of thousands of AU participants have not joined TST.”

Now she turned and faced Justin even more intently than before, saying, “But for all the expertise we have, we operate very quietly in the shadows. We make it our top priority to never permit our operations to appear in newscasts. We never do anything splashy or provocative. Our successes and our failures never get publicity. I actually play a very minor role on the team, and I don't know very many team members personally. I just know the ones who work directly with me on my mission, but I can tell you this: these people can get your daughter back alive if they want to. I have no doubt about that.”

Justin said slowly, “I do not know. This sounds crazy.”

Lizzie ignored that and said, “I can think of something else you need. You need protection. If we try to get her back, they may try to kill you. I want to get you a bodyguard. I also want to get you a bullet-proof vest to wear until the danger passes. TST can provide one if I ask them.”

Justin shook his head and said, “I do not need a bullet-proof vest or a...”

Lizzie interrupted and shouted, “They kidnapped your daughter! They fear you might not give them that video! Of course they plan to kill you! Even if they don't actually choose to do it, they'll plan it, just in case. You must protect yourself. Please, Justin! Is wearing a bullet-proof vest such a big price to pay to keep your life?” Her eyes begged him.

Her pleading surprised him.

He got up and moved away from her, saying, “I cannot go around wearing something like that. I cannot show that I expect an attack.”

“We can get you one to wear under your shirt,” Lizzie implored. “Please Justin...we're talking about your life! Let me order one for you. TST will supply it. I know they will. A courier can have it here in no time.”

Flustered, Justin threw his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he said. He set his jaw. He would wear the damn thing, but under protest.

“Good,” she said getting to her feet, “I will also ask for a bodyguard. That might take a little longer, but I don't doubt they will send one.”

“Now,” she continued, “let's talk about what to say to your attorney. I presume most of your personal financial assets are with your bank. You must send them to other financial institutions. If you have an off-shore account, make sure you move some of them there too. Your uncle will want to start freezing your assets if he thinks it might help his cause. Have your attorney move them quietly for you.”

“Yes, I already thought of that.”

“Good. You also need to file a lawsuit or two against the bank, get a court order, that sort of thing, demanding your daughter's release, just something quick that they have to respond to right away. Put legal pressure on them to officially deny that they have your daughter. Then respond with some more lawsuits to apply more pressure. We need to distract them from considering the idea that you might take a more direct approach like TST will come up with. I don't know the right legal steps to take, but your attorney undoubtedly does, right?”

“You are talking about a diversion.”

“Yes exactly. Now, we must get our stories straight for when the police or the FBI get here. We don't want to tell them everything.”

They continued planning as the hall’s grandfather clock chimed 9:00 p.m.

Special Agent Catherine Regan never met the Director before, and her nervousness showed. A late night summons to headquarters didn't help.

“Sit down, Regan,” he said in a friendly manner. He considered the young woman as she sat before him. Some of his closest advisors thought her too young, but her unique qualifications suited this case perfectly in the Director's opinion. At 5'4” and 115 lbs, she didn't display a fearsome physical presence, but she more than made up for it with one of the top arrest and conviction rates in the entire bureau. Most importantly, no one disputed her loyalty.

“Regan, I read your file. Your record impresses me. Your supervisor recommended you for this case because he believes you are loyal to your country and the bureau. We currently face an internal crisis in this country. As you know, the economy faces certain recession and possible depression, and the banking crisis touches all sectors of the economy. Our leaders took bold and precipitous action to forestall the crisis and return a sense of normality to the economy,” the Director elaborated. “I have a very special assignment for you, top secret. You'll report only to me. You must report to no one else. Do you understand?”

Regan sat wide-eyed, but she nodded slowly.

“Good!” said the Director as he slid a red folder marked, “Classified – For Your Eyes Only,” across the desk to Regan. She looked down at it but didn't touch it.

“Read it,” he said. “Review it carefully. You have one hour. Bring it back to my office when you're done.”

Picking up the red folder, she walked out of the office, proceeded out into the hall, and walked south toward the elevators. The empty halls echoed gently at this hour as she walked past dark offices. She took an elevator down three floors, exited it and walked 100 yards to her office. As she walked into her office, she paused and checked up and down the hall. Seeing no one, she walked inside while pulling the door closed. She sat in the chair behind her small desk, pulled open the folder, and began to read. Her agile mind digested facts as quickly as she read them. She pieced the situation together with admirable accuracy, yet she managed to do so without imposing her own bias on the analysis. A speed reader, she finished a mere 30 minutes later, despite the fact that the report contained 127 pages of information.

She closed the folder, put it on her desk, and sat back to contemplate what she read. This case required her to walk one heck of a tightrope. Clearly, she must retrieve the video. Also, just as clearly, a young girl's life (or at the very least, her freedom) hung in the balance. The government sided with the abductor. Most remarkably, the report considered none of these concerns top priority.

She needed to brush up on the economic issues involved. She didn't really care about them per se, but they mattered for understanding the psychology of the various players involved. It occurred to her that she might benefit from consulting with an independent, non-governmental economist. She doubted that the bank's economists could express unbiased judgments in the matter, given the fact that the bank's security department decided to kidnap the girl in the first place.

Clearly the Director placed top official priority on recovering the video. The girl's life held only secondary priority, officially speaking. The main task, the most secret task in the case file, intrigued her the most. She could see clearly the Director's reasoning, the importance of seeking a new equilibrium which altered the balance of power in the intelligence community.

One point disturbed her, however. The file instructed her not to discover the contents of the video, a highly unusual official instruction. If she followed that instruction to the letter, it severely interfered with her ability to identify the correct video. She had code word clearance, privy to many more important national secrets than this one. Further, the unofficial instruction following this instruction countermanded it. The curious juxtaposition of these two instructions raised a question in her mind. Why?

She still had eight minutes left, but she decided to go back to the Director's office early. Carrying the red folder carefully with her, she made her way back upstairs, again spotting no one in the halls at this late hour. Shortly, she entered the vestibule of the Director's office once again.

“Very quick,” he commended her. “So you really are a speed reader. Excellent. Anything you didn't understand? Do you have any questions?”

“Just two,” she replied. “You expect me to ignore the contents of the video officially, while unofficially you want me to discover the contents anyway. That's a highly unusual requirement.”

“Yes, I realize that, but this case presents unique challenges. The bank's president and CEO, David Knight, insisted that we make this requirement a part of the assignment.” He watched her calmly while awaiting her response.

Without hesitation, she replied, “I take it, then, that we want to be most careful to keep Mr. Knight happy.”

“You surmise correctly. You have a second question?” he inquired.

“Did my family background influence your selection of me for this assignment?” she asked.

“Of course it did. It was the determining factor,” he answered. “Well then, if you have no more questions, I have a question for you. How long before we'll have the video in our possession?”

“Unless something unforeseen or unexpected happens, I think I can have it wrapped up in a week,” she surmised.

“You have two days. Get this done, Regan.” the Director said in measured tones.

“Yes, sir,” she said without hesitation. Two days! Can I really get the job done that quickly? she wondered.

“You're dismissed.”

“Sir,” she nodded and turned to leave the office.

Attorney Tom Robinson turned into the long driveway of the Knight estate at 9:45 p.m. He pulled his car up to the door, got out, walked up, and knocked on the door. A moment later, Charles the butler opened it.

“You're expected, sir,” intoned Charles as he made room for Tom to walk inside. “Please wait here.” Charles turned to walk up the broad, circular front staircase.

An old-school lawyer, Tom never wanted to work in corporate law. He preferred offering basic legal services to a few wealthy families that his family's firm served for years. Just as his father had served Justin's father, so also he served Justin. His graying temples gave him dignity, but his blue eyes missed nothing, and his dark eyebrows gave away no clues, as if pasted firmly into one position. Sparely built and not very tall, he managed to convey a safe, dignified air that his old-line clients loved. He specialized in discretion, which continued the tradition his grandfather started so many years ago. If his firm had a motto, it would have been simply, “Tradition”.

A few moments later, Justin descended the staircase followed by an attractive woman, and when they entered the room Tom recognized her as the family tutor.

“Thanks for coming Tom,” Justin said as they shook hands, and he led them into the living room. “I believe you know Ms. Elizabeth Kohn, my daughter's tutor,” he stated.

“Yes, of course. Nice to see you again, my dear,” Tom began after taking her hand and bowing over it. “Now, tell me everything, Justin. What happened?” The three of them sat down.

“Earlier this evening I received a visitor from the bank, an able-looking man named Ward Porter. He said he came on bank business, that he wanted me to turn over a video to him, a video which he claimed as bank property.”

Tom interrupted him, “And do you know the video to which he referred?”

“Yes,” replied Justin, “but I did not let on about that right away. I saw the video earlier this afternoon for the first time. It showed my uncle meeting with the chairman of the Federal Reserve and the Treasury Secretary. In that video, my uncle made a very disturbing admission. He made it clear the proposed $700 billion bank bailout concluded a long planned series of events. He said it was time to close the deal.”

Tom's eyes dilated. Distracted, he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“I see...All right...” His eyes shifted furiously. “Where does your daughter fit into all this?”

“When I balked at releasing the video to them, Porter told me that someone had simultaneously broken into my house to take my daughter. He implied that if I did not cooperate with them, something bad would happen to her. I tried phoning Uncle David, but he refused to take my call. I made it clear that my uncle would not harm his grand-niece. That ended the interview.”

“You realize that may not be true.”

“Yes, but I refused to let him see my concern about that.”

“So what did you do next?”

“I went upstairs to find my daughter. When I couldn't find her, I went to find her tutor,” he said, indicating Lizzie. “She told me that she had seen Michaela just a few minutes earlier. I phoned the police and reported her missing. Less than a minute later, the police phoned back to say the case had already been turned over to the FBI at their request. My man Donahue...” Justin paused when he saw Lizzie shake her head almost imperceptibly. “Come upstairs Tom, I want to show you where it all happened.”

The three of them walked upstairs. Justin led them past Michaela's room to Lizzie's room. Lizzie closed and locked the door after they went inside.

Tom regarded both of them quizzically and said, “What's going on?”

Justin replied, “We have reason to believe someone bugged the house.”

Tom turned to Lizzie and said, “Why have we come here?”

“Because I already checked this room for listening devices,” she replied.

She walked over to her laptop and picked it up along with the attached wand. She carried them over to Tom, and he watched with great interest as she passed the wand over his body.

After reading the display, she reported to Justin, “All clear.”

“So what couldn't you tell me downstairs?” he asked, turning to Justin.

Justin hesitated a moment, and said, “We think my man Donahue is involved. When I asked him how the intruder managed to get past our security cameras, he reported that he did not know. Somehow, two security cameras got turned off. Ms. Kohn here pointed out to me that could only happen if Donahue turned them off himself. As you may remember, Nevio Roone, who runs the bank's security department, originally recommended him to me.”

“I see,” said Tom, turning with interest to Lizzie. “What else did this attractive woman suggest?” Lizzie smiled, politely, ignoring his patronizing attempt at a compliment, inwardly sighing with constraint knowing that he really did mean well.

“She suggested that we need some high powered legal talent,” Justin replied. “She also said that we cannot trust the police or the FBI in this.”

“Very wise.” Tom nodded his head deferentially in her direction. She nodded back.

“We essentially need to take on both the bank and the government here, Tom. I need a high-powered legal team. How quickly can you put one together for me? I want them filing briefs and taking whatever other legal actions they deem necessary to put pressure on my opponents. The bank may try to cut me off from my accounts and assets in order to limit my ability to take action. I need you to transfer those funds elsewhere for me.”

“You know that we will probably face Patriot Act provisions which they might use to shut you up,” Tom pointed out.

“I suppose so,” Justin agreed. “I need you to get some top people on this right away. We need to carve out some maneuvering room before the other side succeeds in closing my available avenues. We need preemptive action.”

“Okay, I know the people we need. You realize that this will cost a pretty penny, right?”

“My daughter's safe return is my top priority.”

“Yes, of course. I'll start making calls.”

“Mr. Robinson,” Lizzie interjected, “please don't mention my role in any of this. I need to remain as anonymous as possible.”

“And what exactly is your role in all this?”

She hesitated and turned to Justin who moved his eyes from one to the other while thinking. “Tom,” Justin said, “we need to keep her role out of this as much as possible. I cannot tell you why just yet. Will you trust me?”

“I'm your attorney, Justin. You can trust me. Everything you tell me remains strictly confidential and legally protected by attorney/client privilege. I could go to prison if I revealed any of it.”

“I do trust you, Tom, but I dare not discuss this sensitive point with anyone just now. Do you really need to know more right this moment?”

“I won't know until you tell me more,” Tom said to Lizzie, “so please fill me in on those details as soon as you can.”

“I promise,” Justin replied.

Tom got up to leave. He reached his car just as Special Agent Regan's plane landed at Kennedy International Airport at 10:18 p.m. By the time he hit the road and started making calls, Regan had merged onto the Long Island Expressway for her trip out to the Knight estate.

When Michaela awoke, her head ached. The skin around her mouth and nose felt chapped and irritated. Nausea battled with the cottony taste in her mouth. She tried to move and felt woozy. After allowing herself a minute or so to regain her balance, she tried again and moved herself into a sitting position. Her memory slowly returned. She remembered the hand over her mouth, the awful smell, and someone grabbing her.

She got up in frighteningly, unfamiliar surroundings and found the bathroom after bravely trying a few doors at random, her symptoms temporarily overpowering her need to figure out her location. Sprinkling water on her face helped a lot, and she found some Tylenol. She hesitated as she habitually would first ask an adult, but then decided to carry two pills with her back into the living room, hoping to find something to help her swallow them. Her arm hurt a bit, and she rubbed it on the way. She felt a lump and examined it once she reached the living room. She saw something under her skin. It bulged a little like a bug bite, but it hurt a lot more than a bite.

The alien apartment unnerved her, smelling of ammonia. At the window she couldn't see the ground directly below because of the trees in the way. The skyline belonged to New York. Scanning around, she saw no telephone. She tiptoed from room to room, but she found no one in the apartment.

The doorknob on the front door wouldn't move, remaining frozen when she tried it. A small frosted plastic pad sat next to it, about the size of her thumb. She tried placing her thumb on the pad but nothing happened. Not sure what else she could do, she walked into the propane-scented kitchen.

She found the refrigerator packed with food. She saw sodas on the top shelf, and she opened one and washed down the two pills. It took a few minutes, but she started to feel like herself again. The fridge contained a variety of meats, two crisper drawers filled with vegetables, various condiments, some fruit, butter, milk, and a full freezer too, including (yum!) some vanilla ice cream. She pulled out some deli-sliced ham, Swiss cheese, a loaf of bread, and a small jar of mayonnaise. It took little time to go through the mostly empty cupboards to find a plate, a dinner knife to make the sandwich, and a cutting board, but she eventually found them. She also found some salsa and chips, which looked delicious. She made herself a meal and carried the food into the main room. It took her about a minute to devour the sandwich, and she dove into the salsa and chips immediately afterward as she pondered her situation.

What am I doing here, and what am I going to do? She now remembered the unknown man walking across the lawn who met Mr. Donahue. At that time, it reminded her of an Agatha Christie novel, but it frightened her to fall into one. What can I do?

She explored the apartment more carefully. She found one normal bedroom with some man's clothes in the closet and drawers. The other shared duty as a storage and hobby room. The owner enjoyed an electronics-based hobby of some kind. Wires and computer cards and other kinds of circuits lay strewn around a large table. Opening a closet door revealed more electronic equipment. In the middle of the closet she found an old laptop computer. She pulled it out, plugged it in, and it booted successfully. It refused to connect to the Internet, however.

How could she get on-line? If she could manage to find a way to connect, she could send a message to someone asking for help. Nothing useful jumped out of the pile of discarded electronic components. She returned to the living room and found a TV. Turning it on, she discovered that it had cable access. Tracing the wires behind the TV, she found the cable wire. Now if she could only find a cable modem!

She went back into the electronics bedroom to dig around. Going through drawers and boxes, the amount of junk amazed her! Then she saw a long, low box sticking out from under the bed. Pulling it out, she carefully inspected every piece, and finally the miracle happened. It contained an old cable modem with a power supply. She searched frantically for an RJ-45 cable, found one, and grabbing the cable modem, took them into the living room. She returned to the bedroom to retrieve the laptop and power supply, brought them into the living room as well, plugging them into the wall next to the TV. Then she connected everything. Opening a browser window, she tried visiting Woohoo search. It worked! The 'net appeared on her screen.

A quick glance through the list of programs installed on the laptop revealed no communication programs. So she visited talkscape.com and downloaded their user client. After installing it, she logged on using her ID and password as she tried to remember Lizzie's talkscape name. It took her a moment to remember, but she finally got it. She asked talkscape to search for it. Bingo! Unfortunately it showed Lizzie not currently logged in. That's okay, Michaela‘s breathing started to become short and rapid. I'll just text a message to her. Let's see, what should I write?

She shook nervously, and it took her awhile to compose her message. After a number of backspaces and deletes, she finally wrote, “Lizzie! I've been kidnapped. I found a laptop and rigged an Internet connection. I'm in an apartment in a tall building in Manhattan. I can't get out, and there is no telephone. I'm all alone, and I'm scared. Please help! Michaela.”

She addressed it to Lizzie's cell phone and sent the message. In a matter of minutes that seemed like hours, a message came back to her. It said, “Michaela. Message received. Are you hurt? Don't worry, we'll find you. Look outside the apartment. Do you recognize any of the buildings? Lizzie.”

Michaela ran to the window and checked out her nearby surroundings. She thought she recognized the south end of Manhattan. She ran back to the laptop and typed, “I'm okay. I think I'm near Dad's bank.”

A minute passed, and then another message came back to her. “Why can't you leave?”

She typed back, “The doorknob won't open. There's a pad for your finger, but it doesn't work. I'm really scared. You gotta help me!”

After another moment, another message came back to her. “Michaela, this is your father. Lizzie just told me. We're figuring out how to get to you.”

Michaela typed back frantically, “Dad! Help me!”

Struggling between wanting desperately to help her and simultaneously wanting to maintain his habitual reserve, Justin responded a moment later, “I am coming, sweetheart. Keep this channel open. Do not worry if you do not see any messages from us right away. We are coming; count on it! Lizzie says to see if you can find a microphone or a headset to plug into the laptop in the meantime.”

Michaela immediately tore off to the spare bedroom and started digging around some more.

Meanwhile, Justin and Lizzie talked about this latest new development. “It certainly sounds like the kind of setup Roone would use. He probably has an apartment near the bank, but I do not know where,” said Justin.

“Call your attorney again,” Lizzie suggested. “He can find it a lot quicker than we can.”

While Justin made the call, Lizzie thought about the locked apartment door. How could they get past it? Charles interrupted to announce that a visitor from the FBI had arrived.

Special Agent Regan saw something during her trip from Kennedy out to the northern shore of Long Island that people saw all too often these days. Moving vans predominated in the light traffic, even this late at night. As she drove through Queens, and even when she reached the more opulent areas of Long Island after exiting the expressway, she saw many homes with vans out front or, worse yet, furniture, appliances, and other stuff planted on the lawn or in the driveways with For Sale and Foreclosure signs prominently displayed on the lawns. It all looked so eerie in the moonlight.

When she arrived at the Knight estate at about midnight, Regan followed the butler into the living room where he invited her to sit. She nodded her thanks but didn't sit down. While the butler went off to announce her, she made a quick examination of the room. It screamed of wealth...no surprise, given the occupants of this huge house. The doorbell rang, and the butler answered it. What a very, active house for so late in the evening!

Multiple footsteps came down the stairs, and the butler said, “This package just arrived for Ms. Kohn, sir.”

“Thank you Charles; just deliver it upstairs,” a male voice replied, and footsteps went back up the stairs.

After a moment, a man followed by a woman came into the room and said, “I am Justin Knight. Let me introduce to you my daughter's tutor, Ms. Elizabeth Kohn.”

“Call me Lizzie,” the woman interjected.

“Special Agent Catherine Regan,” Regan said, showing them a photo ID. They shook hands with Regan, and the three sat down to talk.

Justin said, “I assume they briefed you about the case. You people knew about it even before I reported the crime.”

“Yes,” Regan replied, “but please tell me the story yourself.”

About five minutes later, Justin finished telling the story, although he omitted some of his discussions with Lizzie as they agreed earlier he should do. Regan sensed the incompleteness of the story, but she nodded her head at all the right places. She turned to Lizzie when he finished. “And where do you come into all this?”

“Well, as Mr. Knight said, he knocked on my door when he asked me whether I'd seen his daughter. I told him I saw her in her room about 20 minutes earlier.”

Despite her relative youth compared to other agents, too many years on the job told Regan she had heard an incomplete report. No matter. It would come out sooner or later. It always did. It just required patience and a little sympathy.

“Regarding the video that this Mr. Porter came to see you about: may I see it?” Regan inquired.

Regan noticed Justin hesitate. He glanced at Lizzie, as if seeking reassurance from her. She glanced right back at him. Are they lovers? Are they involved in taking the video together? Regan bet herself that something like that happened.

When neither showed any inclination to answer her question, she decided on a subtler approach.

“You know, my father used to be a banker like you. Perhaps you knew him? Paul Regan?”

Justin's reaction exceeded her wildest hopes.

“You are Paul Regan's daughter?”

“So you did know him?” she asked calmly.

“Oh yes, I met him. I cannot tell you how sorry I was to hear of his death. You must have been very proud of him.”

Regan's face darkened, which confused Justin. Still, she affected a light, professional air. “How well did you know him?” she asked politely, masking her emotions.

Justin hesitated a long minute, studying his hands. Finally, he looked up and replied with determination, “Well enough to know that he did not commit suicide.”

Lizzie snapped her full attention to him.

“That was what the official report said,” Regan pointed out, struggling to maintain her composure. This wasn't going the way she wanted it too.

“Of course, I do not know for sure,” he prevaricated.

Both women stared at him and exchanged quizzical glances. Regan practically saw the wheels turning inside the other woman's head.

“Tell us what you think,” Lizzie suggested, staring at Justin. Regan stiffly nodded her approval.

Justin got up and started to pace the room. His hands stayed in his pockets, and he stared at the floor as he paced. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. Then he started to talk while staring out the window.

“Three months ago, I met your father for the first and only time, two days before they reported him missing. He came to me with a most unusual story. He did not know where to start, so I tried to put him at his ease by asking him some polite questions about his bank.

“I suppose most people thought of us as competitors and adversaries. Actually, his Western American Bank operated mostly on the West Coast and in the Midwest, while my bank engaged in international finance and East Coast operations. Our banks might occasionally go head to head, but for the most part they did not. At my inquiries, he replied that his bank was in trouble, but not because of bad investments. He said that a top regulator from the Federal Office of the Comptroller of the Currency contacted and informed him that they planned to declare his bank insolvent and that he would hear from the FDIC shortly. When your father demanded to know their grounds for the ruling, they refused to give a clear answer. He told them his bank maintained all regulatory and reserve requirements meticulously, and his bank's current default rate still ranked among the lowest. The regulator who called him disagreed. Their audits, he claimed, showed that your father cooked the books. They planned to close down the bank and arrest him for conspiracy to commit fraud.”

He paused to check Regan's face, but it remained stoic.

“I thought it especially interesting to learn later that some other banks with greater default rates avoided takeover by the regulators while your father's bank did not,” he said, watching Regan. She still didn't react.

“Your father went on to assure me that the charges against him were completely fabricated. I believed him. He did not act like a guilty man at all. He acted like a very confused man who had no idea why his bank was under attack from the government or why they were telling him their plans in advance. He wanted to know if I ever had heard of such a thing before.”

Regan finally spoke up: “And had you?”

Justin shook his head. “The whole story seemed most irregular. The regulators handled the case in a highly unusual manner. When a regulator plans to shut your bank down imminently, you get no warning before he shows up at your door with a team of sheriffs, accountants, lawyers, and staff in tow. The only advance notice you get from the regulators comes when the bank's rating gets lowered, and the bank receives a cease-and-desist order. That comes weeks or months in advance, never just days before.

“I offered to help if I could. He thanked me and said I already had. He said it with conviction and determination. Then he left my office, and I never saw him again.”

“That's all?”

Justin nodded. “Two days later, when I heard him reported missing and his yacht found abandoned at sea, I immediately suspected foul play. Later, when they declared him dead, I knew. You see, everything about the man told me that suicide never occurred to him. No, I would bet good money that Paul Regan did not drown himself in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”

Regan stared at Justin for a moment. “I couldn't help but notice that your bank didn't hesitate to jump on the carcass when they bought what was left of my father's bank at a bargain basement price.”

Justin stared at the floor, troubled. “Yes, the price offered by the regulators was too good to pass up.”

Regan sat down smoothing her clothes.

“Actually, I have long doubted the official report regarding my father's death. So what you say does not surprise me.”

Her comment surprised both Lizzie and Justin. Lizzie in particular displayed new interest. “What do you think happened to your father?”

“Actually, I was hoping Mr. Knight could answer that.”

“Why do I suspect your father's disappearance has something to do with the reason they assigned you to this case?” Lizzie asked.

“Perhaps, but first we must get that video back. Before we go any further, I must ask that you turn the video over to me.”

Justin's eyes checked Lizzie's before he answered, “I do not think we can do that. The video is our ticket to getting my daughter back in one piece.”

Regan smiled. “Then I must insist that you accompany me to our local field office in Melville, where we can discuss this further.”

Justin started to object, saying, “Now see here...” but Lizzie interrupted.

“Special Agent Regan, you must realize the danger to Mr. Knight's daughter, quite possibly life-threatening danger. We need to focus on getting her back ahead of all other priorities. We cannot afford to waste time on this other matter until she is safely back in her father's arms.”

“I understand completely, but I can confidently say that we can cover what needs to be covered at the office much more quickly and completely than we can here. I plan to put the bureau's resources to work locating your daughter, Mr. Knight.”

“You would do that?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Knight,” Regan replied with a slight smile. “While getting back the video tops our priority list, we frown on kidnapping and will make every effort to help you get your daughter back.”

“We want to start getting her back tonight,” Lizzie clarified. “We don't want to wait.”

“Then let's go,” Regan replied. “The sooner we go to the field office and record statements from the two of you, the sooner we can get to work finding your daughter. Shall we go?”

Justin shrugged at Lizzie, who turned back to Regan and said, “Just let me get my bag upstairs. Mr. Knight, would you please come upstairs, too? We need to have a private word before we leave. If you'll excuse us for a moment, Agent Regan?”

Lizzie walked upstairs with Justin following her. They went to her room, and she picked up the package that Charles had placed on her couch. Opening it, she pulled out the contents and handed the vest to Justin.

“Please put it on,” she said, “then call your attorney and fill him in.”

Justin grunted affirmatively and carried the item down the hall to his own room. Meanwhile, Lizzie grabbed the video disk and typed a quick message to Michaela on her laptop:

“We're meeting with the FBI right now. Don't worry about any delay. Your father loves you, and we are working hard to find you. We will be there soon, so hang tight. Don't panic if you don't hear from us right away. Just stay calm. We're coming once we get the cavalry on our side!”

Then she sent the message, put her laptop to sleep, slipped it into her carry-all bag with the video disk, and carried it downstairs. Justin arrived a moment later.

“Let's get going,” Regan said.

The sparse traffic to Melville moved quickly at this late hour. A short time later, they walked into a nondescript but well-lit building. Regan let them in with her pass card and moved them quickly past a deserted security desk. She took them into a small room with lounge chairs and a table. A computer sat on another, smaller table in the corner. She went over to it, slid her pass card in the slot, typed some stuff, and came back to the center of the room, gesturing to the chairs in an invitation to sit down.

“This is a secure room, and I turned off all recording features. We will make no record of this conversation. We can speak candidly here,” Regan said.

“First things first,” she continued. “Now that we are in a secure location, I need to tell you both something. The FBI must retain a close working relationship with your bank, so we made an extraordinary concession to them. We promised them not to try to discover the contents of the video. The President of the United States granted this concession to your bank, anxious to accommodate them. The President therefore ordered the Director of the FBI to conduct our investigation with this restriction in place,” she said very seriously.

“However, we also have another priority. I hope I can trust you with knowledge of the nature of that priority. You must agree never to divulge it to anyone, particularly Mr. Knight's uncle or other bank employees. Do you agree?” Regan asked both of them.

Lizzie nodded her head immediately. Justin hesitated, but nodded his assent.

“Good!” Regan said. She paused. “Your bank's security department became an intelligence agency of its own. While crudely organized, your bank funded Roone's department very well. The people he recruited to work with him barely qualify a rung or two above common thugs, but we expect the quality of their hires will improve over time. Eventually, they'll start to attract more professional, higher skilled operatives. Even in its nascent, crude state, the FBI now takes them seriously, due to the money power behind them.

“They have become a threat to our territory,” she continued, “and I don't mean just your bank. Each of the top banks and some of the largest corporations in this country have similarly large intelligence gathering outfits. They often undermine the FBI's authority within the government. So, we engage in various kinds of secret counterespionage as a counterweight.”

It irritated Justin to learn that his daughter's welfare hung on an FBI turf war, but he wanted Regan's help, so he didn't say anything.

“Okay,” she said, “first I need you to describe to me what that video contains.”

Justin hesitated. Lizzie spoke up first.

“Why do you need to know the contents of the video?”

“Because I need to know why the bank took the extraordinary step of kidnapping a young girl in order to get their hands on it.”

Lizzie pressed her lips together for a moment. “We think we know Michaela's approximate location.”

Reagan's eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

“Because she contacted us. She’s waiting for us to come rescue her. Special Agent Regan, we must get this over with quickly so we can find her and bring her home safely.”

“If you help me collect my daughter, I will answer all of your questions about the video,” promised Justin. “But first I need my daughter back.”

Regan thought quickly. “For now, I only need to know what the video said. Tell me that, and we can go get your daughter. I can hold off my other questions until later.”

Lizzie checked with Justin. He hesitated but relented with a nod of his head. Lizzie took out her bag, opened it, and pulled the small disk out of one of the pockets. She also took out her laptop, slid the disk into the player, and typed something into the laptop. Within a minute or so, the video started to play. Lizzie turned the laptop toward Regan so she could watch it.

A short while later, Regan sat back in her chair digesting what she saw. Now she knew why the bank wanted the video back. She also knew why the bank didn't want the FBI to know what it contained. It portrayed potentially explosive revelations. It also undermined the bank's official position that Justin Knight and his daughter threatened national security. Yes, public revelation would undermine that position significantly.

“That recording didn't come from the bank's video cameras. Who recorded it?” she asked Justin.

Lizzie replied instead, “Someone hid the camera in a corsage worn by David Knight's secretary without her knowledge. She didn't know that she recorded the video. I can't tell you more.”

Meaning that she refuses to tell me more, and likely with good reason.

After another moment of reflection, she sat forward. “Okay, I know what I needed to know. Where do you think your daughter is?”

They told her the story about how Michaela got in touch with Lizzie.

As they described the part where Michaela made the talkscape connection, Regan interrupted. “Can you reestablish contact with her?”

Lizzie replied, “Yes, but I need an Internet connection.”

Regan got up and went over to the corner computer.

She typed in a couple of commands. “Go ahead, you should be able to log onto the Internet now.”

A few moments later, Lizzie found that she had a good Internet connection. She initiated a talkscape call to Michaela. Shortly thereafter, they heard Michaela's frantic voice.

“Dad? Lizzie? Where are you? I was afraid you weren't going to call me back!”

“Good girl, Michaela. You found a microphone,” said Lizzie.

Her father added, “Sorry about the delay sweetheart. We've got a new friend helping us. Say 'hello' to Special Agent Regan of the FBI.”

“Oh!” Michaela gasped. “Hello Special Agent Regan!”

Regan smiled, “You can just call me Cathy, Michaela. It's nice to meet you. We want to come get you now. If I send you a small program as an attachment, can you install it? It will help us find you.”

“I think so,” Michaela said.

“Good girl,” said Regan. She walked quickly over to the computer in the corner, opened a drawer, and pulled out a CD. She walked back to their table and said to Lizzie, “May I?”

Lizzie hesitated, but gave her permission with a wave of her hand. Regan turned the laptop toward herself, opened the disk player, pulled out the video disk, put it in her pocket, and slipped in her other disk. Lizzie and Justin watched her do it but said nothing, although they did exchange glances. Once the second disk spun up, she attached a small file to the chat screen.

“Michaela, you should be able to download the attachment. Do it now.”

“Okay,” said Michaela. They waited a few moments, and heard Michaela report, “Okay, I installed it. What do I do now?”

“Hang on,” said Regan, and she went back to the computer in the corner.

She quickly ran a program, and within seconds she said, “Got her! She's in a building on Nassau. I found the address. I need to arrange a team. I'll be right back.” With that, she walked out of the room.

Lizzie turned the laptop and spoke into its microphone, “Michaela, Cathy went to get some people to help us. I need to disconnect for a moment, but we'll call you back in just a minute or two, okay?”

“I'm scared!” said Michaela.

“We are coming, sweetheart,” her father assured her, and Lizzie saw the blood rushing to his face. “We will be there soon. Just hang on.”

“Okay,” Michaela sounded more like a frightened eight-year-old than a 14-year-old.

Lizzie quickly ended the talkscape call, then opened another program and typed a command into it. Within a minute, she connected a different kind of call. She typed a couple of messages and disconnected.

As she quickly worked to reestablish contact with Michaela, she said to Justin, “That's for backup.” Within a moment, he chatted with his daughter again, assuring her that they would come soon.

Regan soon came back into the room.

“All set. We can go.”

“We can come with you?” Justin reacted with surprise. “I would have thought that you would try to keep us away from the scene.”

“Normally I would, but this is an extraordinary situation. We need to act quickly, and having you nearby might prove helpful. I'll send the team in to extract her, but you'll stay with me. Now let's move!”

They got onto the highway again at 2:00 a.m., and Regan tried to engage Justin in conversation. He felt too excited to talk much, so she decided to focus on Lizzie instead.

“You know, it surprises me how well informed you are about all this, Ms. Kohn,” Regan began. “You seem more than a mere tutor.”

“Well, I suppose you could say that I'm something of a monetary policy and banking expert. I planned to become an instructor of economics at Fenwick University when the position of tutor to Mr. Knight's daughter became available. After spending a lot of years getting my degrees, I needed a break from academia. Tutoring a lone teenage girl and living on an estate sounded like a nice, easy job at the time.”

“Got a bit more than you bargained for?”

Lizzie laughed.

“Well, yes and no. As Mr. Knight knows, I took the job in part because of his role in the banking industry. I wanted the opportunity to interact with someone on the inside, as sort of an anecdotal way to test some of my ideas about money and banking. Most economists, by the way, consider my ideas to be radical at best.”

“How so?”

“Well, I take the position that much of modern banking derives from legalized behavior which we might otherwise consider fraudulent.”

“Yes, I can see how that idea might ruffle a few feathers,” Regan laughed.

“You don't know the half of it! I must admit it surprised me a bit when Mr. Knight hired me. He knew about my theories, of course,” Lizzie said with a smile.

“So why did you hire her, Mr. Knight?” Regan also smiled.

He answered with a straight face. “Ms. Kohn has not mentioned her academic background. A Harvard undergraduate degree, a master's degree from MIT, and a PhD in Economics from Columbia made her overqualified for the job from most people's point of view. I wanted someone who could really challenge my daughter intellectually, so her qualifications attracted me. Ms. Kohn has proven to be an able catalyst for Michaela.”

“I can imagine,” said Regan. “What kind of challenges do you give her?”

“Well, I challenge her with issues like this: we all know that banks make money by lending out deposits and collecting interest on the loans. So why is it morally okay for the banks to lend out that money in the first place?”

“Well, what's wrong with it?” Regan replied, astonished.

Lizzie answered her. “That money originally came from a deposit by its owner in the bank for safekeeping. Deposits into checking and savings accounts, sometimes known as 'demand deposits', promise that the funds can be withdrawn on demand. Yet banks will often lend the money out for many years at a time, as a mortgage, for example. Once they loan it out, it can become impossible, under certain circumstances, for the bank to meet its obligations to its depositors.”

“But isn't that why banks keep some money on reserve, to provide instant cash if depositors demand their money back?”

“Yes, but many times historically even the reserves couldn't cover depositor demands. The worst problems occurred during the 19th and early 20th centuries up until the Great Depression, when bank runs and failures happened frequently,” Lizzie explained.

“Didn't they create the Federal Reserve System to prevent bank failures?” asked Regan.

“Yes, but before we discuss that, I want to go back to my original question. Why is it okay for a bank to loan out depositor money over the long term in mortgages, car loans, business loans, etc. while simultaneously promising depositors that they can have their money back at any time, on demand? If you or I tried to do that, we would call it fraud. Why isn't it fraud when a bank does it?” Lizzie asked.

Regan thought it a very good question. It surprised her because she never really thought about it this way before.

“Interesting point,” she said. “You discuss this sort of thing with a 14-year-old girl?”

“No,” said Lizzie. “Only the simplified version.”

“I might understand the simplified explanation.”

“Okay. If a bank lends from its own assets, we could understand, but lending other people's money regardless of what those people think about that lending surely stretches morality–at the very least.”

Regan mused, “You don't have to keep your money in that bank, though. You could always take it out and deposit it somewhere else.”

“True, but where could you find a bank that doesn't lend out your money at all? If you don't want any bank to make money off your money, where can you deposit it? No bank in existence anymore will take such a deposit.”

“You could open a safe deposit box,” Regan pointed out.

“Yes, but that would prevent you from writing a check against it or using a debit card to withdraw it. You can only use modern banking tools for buying and selling goods and services if you put your money in an institution that lends your money out to someone else. I know that legally such behavior isn't considered fraud. I want to know morally why it isn't fraud, particularly since none of us have any choice about the nature of the banks that handle our financial tools.”

“That's certainly an interesting question, but isn't it really academic in this day and age? I mean, why get all worked up about nothing?”

“But that's just the point,” Lizzie explained. “It's not academic any longer, and it's not 'nothing' anymore. These days the mortgage crisis dominates the news. Everyone knows that our financial system teeters on the edge of disaster, and no one really knows how to iron it out. The practice I described helped cause the crisis. Surely, no better time exists to bring up questions like the ones I'm asking.”

“But I thought the current crisis came about because of foolish lending and borrowing practices?”

“Yes, all of that certainly happened, but those are only symptoms. The root cause lies elsewhere. The crisis stems from a foolish and dangerous monetary system.

“Have you ever asked yourself where the banks get all the money they lend out?” Lizzie quizzed her. Central banks create new money with the stroke of a pen. It's literally nothing more than an entry in their bookkeeping. Once they've created it out of thin air, they loan it out, usually to the government first.”

“What does creating new money have to do with what caused the crisis?”

“Actually, you just raised my next point. Money supposedly serves as a stable medium of exchange, a storehouse of value, but when the money supply increases, prices tend to rise, and money's buying power decreases. Another way of saying the same thing: inflation makes money worth less. So why is it not fraudulent to create money out of thin air, as the Fed does? After all, creating new money sucks some of the value out of the existing money.

“Here's my overall point,” Lizzie summarized. “I've raised some questions about the morality of certain very common banking and monetary practices. We can reasonably assume that our current financial crisis occurred primarily because no one ever asked and satisfactorily answered such questions in the past, or perhaps even deliberately ignored them. I think we should declare such behaviors fraudulent and prohibited by law.”

“But if we did that, we wouldn't have any money anymore, would we? That would pretty much destroy the economy,” Regan challenged. She wasn’t a banker’s daughter for nothing, and the conversation had stimulated her analytical powers.

“No, we could still have money...better money. Another form of money preceded the current system, based on silver and gold, and it worked very well except when the banks engaged in the immoral and fraudulent practices I describe.”

“But it wouldn't be practical to carry around gold or silver coins all the time.”

“We have no need to carry around coins. We can have debit cards and checking accounts denominated in gold or silver. We must stop the way banks take advantage of the law to make themselves rich, putting the entire economy at risk, as they have been doing for many generations now.”

Regan admitted to herself that she never considered this angle before.

Before Regan, Justin, and Lizzie arrived, Special Agent Casper led Regan's team as they gained entry to the building with the apartment holding Michaela prisoner. The guard at the desk called the building manager, who gave him authorization to let the FBI team in the building. Casper asked to speak with him.

“Who is this?” he asked after taking the phone from the guard.

“Bill Stevens here,” the voice said.

“Mr. Stevens, this is Special Agent Ron Casper of the FBI. We have reason to believe that a minor is being held against her will in one of your apartments. Do you have a master key to the apartments?”

“Hmm...well, it depends on which apartment she is in. We have masters for some of them, but not all. Some tenants prefer to put their own security on the doors.”

“Agent Casper, we found her,” reported one of the FBI team members. Casper turned to see Agent Wilson coming toward him. “She's on the 12th floor, apartment 1204.”

“It's apartment 1204, Stevens,” Casper said.

“1204? Hmm! I'm not sure who has that one. I'll come over to the office to meet you. We can check our records there.”

Stevens arrived a couple minutes later and unlocked the door to the office. While he admitted them, Wilson and Casper discussed options.

“We found an optical panel next to the door,” Wilson said.

“Is that a standard feature of the apartments, Mr. Stevens?” Casper asked him.

“No,” Stevens answered. “As I explained, we permit our tenants to add their own security measures to the doors. Let me take a look at the records. Hmm...1204...ah, here we go.” He pulled up a record via computer search.

“Who is the tenant?” Casper asked him.

“The name on the lease is John Smith. It's a cash lease. The customer paid the full year's rent plus deposit in advance by cash, so I don't have much information about him. After all, a cash customer...” he added without elaborating.

“Who is on the door?” Casper asked Wilson.

“Franklin, Grant, and Meyerson,” Wilson told him.

“Can they get past the optical lock?”

Wilson pulled out his cell and walkie-talkied the team members outside the apartment.

“What's your status? Can you get in?”

He listened to the answer then relayed it to Casper.

“They can't get in. The manufacturer is not listed on the panel, but they think it might be a Secureport system.”

Meanwhile, a man dressed all in black and wearing a mask gained entrance to a second floor apartment in a small building at the other end of the block. He carried a black backpack. After jimmying the lock on the apartment door, he quietly but swiftly moved inside, peeking around the door into the hall to make sure no one saw him. He taped the lock and latch on the door open and gently pulled the door to a closed position.

Verifying the apartment's emptiness as he went, he moved quickly into the room that overlooked the street. The flashing colors from the police line down the block filled the room with stroboscopic effects like a discotheque.

He removed the backpack and opened it carefully, pulling out pieces of a very peculiar device. The five pieces snapped and locked together in roughly 12 seconds. When assembled, he held a strange rifle with a telescopic eyepiece and a small magazine of cartridges. He noticed with approval its surprising lightness and balance as he opened the window and took up position.

The gunman adjusted the scope for infrared and peered through it at the police line. The viewer showed unusual colors in a very clear and brightly lit scene. Now he just had to wait.

Michaela heard a noise outside the door. Who could that be? Her fear began to mount. Suddenly, someone pounded on the door.

“Is anyone in there?” she heard a voice shout, a female voice with a strong New York accent.

Frozen with fear, Michaela couldn't think what to do. The unknown person pounded again and shouted, “Open the door. This is the FBI!”

Wide-eyed, Michaela hesitated before she ran to the door. “I'm in here, but I can't get out!”

“Are you Michaela Knight?”

“Y-yes.”

“She's here, guys,” she heard the voice say, somewhat muffled. Michaela heard running footsteps and two male voices talking over each other at the same time.

After a pause, the female voice said, “Hang on, Michaela. We'll find a way to get in and get you out of there.”

Michaela breathed again, this time with relief. Someone came to help her...a few someones, by the sound of it. “Is my father out there?” she called.

“Not yet,” the female voice replied. “He and your tutor will arrive soon, though.”

Now Michaela laughed with joy. The living nightmare would finally end.

Outside the door, one of the agents, an electronic security expert, began to work on the optical system blocking access to Michaela's comfortable prison. He brought a toolkit with him, and he tried a number of tricks to fool the system into letting them in. None of them worked.

“It's a pretty sophisticated system,” he told his colleagues. “This might take awhile.”

Michaela didn't like the sound of that.

“Why haven't you gotten me out yet?”

“We're working on it,” the female voice said. “Can you sit down and be patient while we figure this out?”

“I'm always asked to be patient!” Michaela muttered under her breath.

“What was that?” the voice asked her. “I couldn't hear what you said.”

“Nothing,” Michaela answered. “What's your name?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Michaela. My name is Special Agent Theresa Meyerson. You can call me Terry.”

“You're an FBI agent?” Michaela asked, wanting confirmation.

“Yes, I am. Here, I'll hold my badge up to the peephole in the door, so you can see it.”

Michaela crept up to the door and looked through the small hole with one eye. Sure enough, someone held a magnified ID card up to the door. She could see the letters, “FBI” really big, and she saw a picture of the agent. She saw a woman about Lizzie's age, but with red hair. Terry looks nice enough, Michaela supposed, although I really have no idea what a nice FBI agent looks like.

“Okay, I see it,” Michaela said. “When are you going to open the door?”

“We're working on it, dear,” Terry said. “Just be patient. Ummm...do you have a favorite movie?”

“High School Musical,” Michaela answered without hesitating. “I have a signed picture of Zac Efron on my bedroom wall. He signed it himself when my Dad took me to a public appearance he made last summer. He's such a hunk!”

“You met Zac Efron!? Well, that must have been exciting!” Terry exclaimed.

“Oh yeah,” Michaela said matter-of-factly. “We always get great tickets anytime we go to see a show. My father helped finance the Broadway production, so we got backstage passes there, too.”

“You're lucky,” Terry replied. “I've never had backstage passes to anything.”

While she kept Michaela talking, her colleagues continued to work on the door. A call to the optical scanner's manufacturer yielded no useful clues, although the manufacturer's rep did confirm that the security system contained no built-in booby traps. Finally, Meyerson decided to call Regan.

Regan's cell phone rang as she turned onto FDR Drive.

She answered it: “Regan.”

“Meyerson here, ma'am. We've found the apartment, but the lease-holder has an advanced security system on it. We haven't gained entry yet, and the system's manufacturer has not been helpful.”

“You've got her, but you can't get her out?” Regan asked for confirmation. Justin and Lizzie drew their breaths in anticipation.

“That's right.”

“Do anything you have to do. Break the door down. Cut your way in with a torch. I don't care how you do it; just get that girl out of there, stat!”

Terry relayed Regan's order to the others.

The third agent, Grant, said, “Let's try to kick it in.”

“Stand away from the door, Michaela, so we can try to break it down,” Terry called out.

“Okay,” Michaela said, moving to the other side of the living room.

She heard some heavy blows on the other side of the door. Once. Twice. Three times. The door didn't budge.

“It must be steel reinforced or something,” she heard one of the male voices say.

A moment later, she heard Terry call out, “Good! Get that thing over here! Michaela, stay away from the door. We're going to use a blowtorch to cut our way in. Stay far away so you won't get burned by accident.”

“Okay,” Michaela called back.

About ten minutes later, the team got the door open, and Michaela emerged from the apartment. With Terry to accompany her, she ran outside to greet her father when he arrived.

Some of the building's residents, roused from sleep, milled around outside the taped-off area in night clothes and light jackets, watching the proceedings and wondering what had happened. FBI agents and cops talked with people everywhere, and the block teemed with squad cars flashing their lights.

When Regan's car arrived, Justin got out and ran toward Michaela, who cried, “Dad!” and broke free from Terry's grasp, rushing into her father's waiting arms. The small crowd of onlookers cheered their approval. Lizzie and Regan got out too, and Lizzie also got a hug from Michaela, who now talked at about 300 words per minute.

“I was waiting for your next message, and then there was this noise at the door, and someone knocked and said they were from the FBI, and I said, 'I'm in here!' and they said they were going to try to get in, and then there was all this pounding, and I talked to the agent, and she said I was going to be okay, and that you were coming, and then there was more pounding, and they said they were going to cut down the door and that I should stay back, so I did, and there was this flame coming through the wall...”

Lizzie and Justin laughed and hugged Michaela and nodded their heads while the teenager kept babbling on at top speed. The relief on all their faces showed clearly, and a great weight lifted from them. Some of the people outside the police line smiled as they witnessed the happy reunion.

Down the street, the gunman now took careful aim, waiting for the signal that would tell him to fire.

A black sedan pulled up next to the police line, and two more men in blue and yellow windbreakers that said FBI on the back got out. Justin let go of Michaela and turned in the direction of the newcomers. Suddenly, a very loud bang reverberated in the street from the other end of the block, and startled people cried out as they turned toward the sound. Police and FBI agents pulled out their guns as they all scanned in the direction of the sound, and some of them started working their way toward the source in combat movements.

“DADDY!” Michaela's scream drew their attention back. Justin had flown backwards onto the pavement with a yelp of pain. The gunman silently and invisibly withdrew from the window after he pulled the trigger and disassembled the weapon. It came apart as quickly as it went together.

On the police line, someone shouted to the crowd, “Everybody down!” and people started ducking to the ground. The men in the FBI jackets grabbed Michaela and Lizzie and pulled them to the ground as they added to the chorus of cries to “Get down!”

The gunman stowed the five pieces in the backpack, sealed it, and strapped it on before the cops and agents advancing toward his building had moved halfway down the block. He ripped the tape off the lock and ran out through the apartment door, hurried a half dozen steps to the stairwell, opened that door, and slid down the hand rails to the ground floor, running out the door to a sedan waiting on the side street.

At the police line Lizzie heard someone yell, “Get them in the car.” She felt her body lifted and moved into the nearby black sedan. She also saw someone doing the same thing with Michaela, who screamed again. Someone yelled, “Get going,” and the car squealed away from the scene.

Around the corner at the other end of the block, the getaway car's door flew open for the gunman, and he dove in, pulling the door shut as the driver accelerated to the end of the block and turned right. The driver pushed a button on the dash which changed the license plates on the front and back of the car. He drove a block and turned right again. As they crossed Nassau Street, the gunman gazed out the car window and saw the flashing lights at the scene while a wail of sirens filled the night air.

While all this happened, the first of the running police officers and FBI agents arrived at the corner, too late to see anything. A police cruiser arrived a split second later and turned the corner, its inhabitants scanning in all directions as the cruiser roared down the street, trying to pick up some trace of the getaway car.

Regan noticed the black sedan leaving the police line with Michaela and Lizzie before anyone else did.

She yelled, “Where the hell are they going?” Before anyone could react, the car squealed its tires and disappeared. Regan checked her own car and saw it blocked by a squad car.

“Get that car the hell out of the way!” she yelled too late.

“Damn it! Did anyone get their plates?”

“I'm on it,” yelled a nearby police lieutenant, as he told a police officer to put out an APB. Sirens erupted all over the place now. Two EMT technicians attended to Justin. They moved him onto a gurney to be loaded into a waiting ambulance. Within minutes the ambulance left for the local hospital, with a cop assigned to go along for the ride.

“Lieutenant,” yelled Regan over all the noise, “Has anyone spotted them?”

“We've had eight sightings of black sedans in the past two minutes,” he yelled back, “but so far none of them match the plates we reported.”

“Damn it!” she yelled. “Find me that sedan!”

Michaela shouted hysterically, demanding that they go back for her father as the car turned the corner away from the scene.

“Shut that kid up,” the driver yelled as he pressed a button on the dash. In the front and the back of the car, the license plates rotated to show a completely different registration from a different state.

“What the...?” answered Lizzie from her position in the back seat behind the driver. “Her father just got shot. What the heck do you expect?”

“Quiet, lady, or you'll live to regret it. And shut that kid up,” the driver repeated. The other agent in the front seat turned and faced Lizzie. His vindictive eyes suggested a threat, and she realized that the driver wore the same visage, and they both reeked of cigarette smoke.

“Do as he says!” the other guy said.

“I demand to speak to Special Agent Regan immediately!” she shouted.

“You're in no position to make demands,” the second man retorted. “I don't work for Regan.”

“Well then, who do you work for?” Lizzie asked. The man just laughed. She said, “You don't work for the FBI or the police, do you?” She posed a statement, not a question.

”No shit, Sherlock!”

“Where are you taking us?” she demanded.

“That's for us to know and for you to find out. You'll see soon enough.”

The driver found another button which rolled up a window between the front seat and the back. “This should shut them up,” he said, as the window rolled closed.

Lizzie turned to Michaela who continued to shout hysterically. Lizzie grabbed her face with both hands to force her to look in her eyes.

“Listen to me! Listen!” she implored. “We can get out of this, but you've got to stop carrying on.”

Michaela stared at her tutor for a long moment, her tears suddenly stopping, and she slowly nodded her water-streaked face.

Lizzie let go and checked the two men up front. They ignored their passengers. She carefully reached down and grabbed her belt buckle, which had an embossed figure on it. Michaela looked closer. Shaped like a person's face, it bore a small gem in the forehead. Lizzie slid the gem to the side and back again. It moved like something in a slot, although Michaela could see no slot. The gem flashed twice and then stopped. Michaela looked quizzically at Lizzie, who smiled and winked back at her. She put her finger to her lips as if to say, “Shhhh!”

A few miles away, an alarm tripped on a computer screen, and the person monitoring the computer spoke into a phone.

“She's activated her GPS transponder now...No, it shows that she's moving away from the scene...No, we have nothing new from our observer at the scene...They're heading north. Looks like they may be headed toward the upper west side...Yes, past the park toward Columbia...I have a team standing by...Will do,” the computer operator said.

He keyed a command into his computer, selected a number of items from a list that popped up, pressed the transmit button on the screen and spoke into a microphone connected to the computer.

“Lizzie's GPS transponder just came on-line. They're headed north along the west side of Central Park, toward Columbia's campus. Let's plan a reception for them at the 116th Street interchange. They should be there within minutes.”

A number of voices responded: “Roger.”

Meanwhile, Michaela quizzed Lizzie. “What can we do?” she whispered.

Lizzie checked up front, but the two men ignored them. She held her finger to her lips once again.

“Shhh! We need to relax and prepare ourselves. Do you want to continue to be a victim of those two guys up front?”

Without hesitation, Michaela shook her head. “Of course not!”

“Neither do I. Some help is on the way. We must get ready to act as soon as it arrives.”

“So what do we do?”

“Well, I've already done the first part. My belt buckle is actually a GPS device. You saw me activate it. Some friends of mine in the Agorist Underground have a computer which monitors the channel 24/7 for the signal. Once they detect it, they'll use the GPS satellite to track our location and come get us. When they get here, we'll need to move quickly.”

“You're part of an underground?!” Michaela asked in astonishment.

“It's just a loose organization of people,” Lizzie assured her, “dedicated to restoring the liberty our country has lost over the past 100 years or so, or at least as much of it as we can possibly save.”

“Do they blow things up and stuff like that?” Michaela asked, awe-stricken.

“No,” Lizzie grinned, “it's not that kind of underground at all. We try to meet and influence people in positions of power to do the right thing.”

“You mean people like Dad? He's pretty powerful!”

Lizzie nodded, smiling, “Yes, people like your father–people who care about other people and about doing the right thing. The AU also provides protection for victims of unscrupulous, powerfully evil people and institutions.”

“They help people like us?”

“Yes,” Lizzie replied, her eyes sparkling now, “people like us. Now get ready to leave this car fast when our friends show up.”

“Got it!” said Michaela, determination filling her face as she concentrated.

Lizzie sighed. Okay, guys, now it's your turn. Please show up soon!

As they reached the northern end of the park, a city truck pulled in front of them before the light turned red. Their driver couldn't pass the truck because a car came up along the left-hand side of them. With parked cars on their right, he had nowhere to go. While he came to a stop, Lizzie peeked outside her window to her left and saw a man with dark brown skin, huge muscles, and a gold tooth beckoning to her from the passenger seat. Lizzie turned to Michaela, who watched wide-eyed.

“Come on, it's my friend AJ,” she whispered. She grabbed the door handle and pulled it. The door opened, AJ opened the back door of his car, and the two of them piled out of the black sedan and into the refreshingly clean back seat of the neighboring car.

Their captors realized what happened and started shouting. Once Lizzie pulled the door tight, the driver of her friend's car pulled out around the line of cars, did a u-turn, and started heading south. The car behind them pulled up, blocking the two men who jumped out of the sedan in their attempt to follow. One of the men pulled out a large gun and pointed it at the driver of the car blocking them, ordering him to move his car, but he quickly realized the driver had nowhere to move it. A small line of cars behind them had also moved up and now blocked his ability to back up. The gunman ran out to the southbound lane, too late to stop the departing car–now more than a block away. He ran back to the sedan, ordered his friend back inside, and as the light turned green he leaned on his horn until the truck in front moved forward through the intersection. Then he cut across traffic and forced his car into the southbound lane.

He saw no sign of the getaway car. He headed south anyway while his companion got on the radio installed in the car.

“They got out of the car, climbed into another car, and are now heading down Broadway,” he said into the microphone.

“Got 'em,” came the reply. “They've turned onto the West Side highway.”

“Let's go!” he said to the driver, and they turned right to find an on ramp.

Meanwhile, Michaela's excitement couldn't be contained.

“We made it! We got away!” she exclaimed.

“Lizzie, turn off your transponder so that they can't pick up the signal,” AJ instructed her. She reached down to her belt buckle and did as he asked.

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” she replied. “That frightened us!”

AJ smiled, his gold tooth flashing as he did so. The fine gold chains hanging around his dark-skinned neck contrasted nicely with his bulging arm and neck muscles.

He said, “You're welcome, but we have no time to celebrate just yet. We gotta get you to a safe location first. Cesar will have us there in about 15 minutes.”

Lizzie saw the driver, a small Hispanic man about her own age with dark hair and eyes and very short hair, nod to them in his rear-view mirror.

“Where are we headed?” Lizzie asked.

“You'll see,” AJ replied in his deep basso voice. “It's a safe house in the Village, set up for use by the AU, run by TST.”

Cesar exited the highway and moved back into the city streets. He turned right onto 7th Avenue heading south again. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the black sedan appeared on their left-hand side. The thug in the passenger seat pointed a gun straight at Cesar's head. He fired, but not before Cesar slammed on the brakes, sending the sedan hurtling past them. The bullet broke the glass window of an empty storefront up ahead.

Cesar swerved and accelerated dangerously across traffic onto a side street, while the sedan behind them attempted to stop and turn around. Michaela screamed, amazed that they didn't hit anything or get hit by another vehicle. He took a couple of quick turns to take them out of view once the sedan reached their street.

“How the hell are they tracking us?” he shouted to AJ as they drove.

“How the hell should I know?” AJ shouted. “Lizzie, are you sure you turned off your transponder?”

“Yes!” she shouted back.

He pulled out a laptop and frantically typed into it.

“Come on!” he urged the machine as it ran slower than he wanted. He entered another command and watched his GPS program load up.

Within seconds, he shouted, “Okay, I'm on-line. Wait a minute...I'm still getting a GPS signal. Give me your belt buckle!” he ordered Lizzie. She ripped the detachable head off the buckle and handed it to him. He checked it quickly, swore under his breath, then reached into a bag and pulled out a small, metal box. He threw the lid open, jammed in the buckle, then closed the cover.

“Damn!” he said, “I'm still getting a signal!”

“That's impossible!” shouted Cesar. “Omigod, they're behind us!” he said as he checked his rear-view mirror.

“What do you mean?” Lizzie asked. She turned and saw that the black sedan had indeed caught up and hovered now a mere half block behind them.

“This is a lead-lined box,” AJ answered. “It should block any radio signal inside, but I'm still getting a GPS signal from our position! It's got a different PRN, but the position is the same. That means there's another transponder here in the car someplace.”

Cesar took a hard left as Michaela suddenly sat up alert and shouted, “Could it be me?”

“No, sweetheart,” Lizzie answered, “It has to be a small electronic device, probably no bigger than your finger tip.”

“No!” Michaela protested. “I mean could it be what's in my arm?”

AJ rotated quickly in his front seat.

“What do you mean?” he demanded. Cesar took another hard right, throwing AJ against the window, then a quick left. The black sedan kept pace with them.

Once the squealing of the tires stopped, Michaela answered, “When I woke up in the strange apartment, my arm hurt, like I had a bug bite. There's a lump on it,” she shouted, showing them her forearm.

AJ grabbed her forearm and studied the red mark in the middle of the top side of her arm. Cesar accelerated, and the car hit some street covers and bounced on uneven pavement. AJ ran his finger over the lump and felt a hard object below the surface, about a centimeter long.

“It must be an RFID chip!” he shouted. “That's how they're tracking us; RFID chips have built-in GPS. We've got to cut it out of there, now, or we'll never escape from them!”

“WHAT??” Michaela pulled her arm back and started to cry, horrified. Lizzie pushed over and hugged her close, reassuring her that everything would be okay, while AJ rummaged around in his bag.

Cesar inserted an ear piece with an attached microphone into his left ear, slapped a button on the dash, waited a moment, then shouted, “Access 13546...Give me Janice, stat!..Janice, we have the packages, but they're tracking us. We have their sedan on our tail right now. One shot fired. We're trying to shake them in mid-town. One parcel has an embedded RFID. We're attempting removal, but we need backup and a diversion once it's out.”

“Found it!” AJ crowed. He pulled out a Swiss army knife and opened the smaller blade.

“What are you going to do?” Michaela cried in panic.

“I'm going to pry that RFID chip out of your arm,” AJ told her.

Michaela screamed, “NO! DON'T HURT ME! PLEASE, LIZZIE, DON'T LET HIM HURT ME!” She huddled away from AJ and his knife.

“We're currently heading east on 34th Street crossing 5th Avenue at Macy's,” shouted Cesar, “Okay, got it...up to Lenox...Right...Burn at 142nd, then continue to Yankee Stadium...Okay, got it.”

“Sweetheart, listen to me,” Lizzie said to Michaela calmly but loudly. “We've got to get that chip out, because it's how those men are tracking us. It's how they knew where to find our car. Once we get it out and disable it, they won't be able to find us anymore.” She tried to be reassuring.

“But it'll hurt!” Michaela pleaded.

Crash! The black sedan rammed them from behind. All four passengers bounced in their seats, and Michaela screamed again.

“Damn!” shouted Cesar. “We're outta here!” He hit the accelerator, turned left onto Madison Avenue heading north, and accelerated again. The sedan kept pace and followed close behind. Although driving through light traffic, Cesar had to constantly change lanes in order to block the black sedan.

AJ shouted over the squealing tires, “I'll do it as quickly as I can so you'll hardly even notice it,” he said. “Yes, it'll hurt a little, but only for a moment.”

“I'll be right here,” Lizzie assured her as she held and comforted her. “It'll be out before you know it.”

Michaela's fear abated a bit, but she nuzzled into Lizzie's shoulder. Lizzie helped her put out her forearm where AJ could work on it, grabbing it tightly so that Michaela couldn't flinch away. AJ breathed a little nervously, but resolute. She gave him a stern nod that said Do it now...and quickly!

The light traffic continued to make it possible for Cesar to bob and weave through the erratic flow of cars heading north. Each lane change caused the passengers to sway severely one way, then the other with the next lane change. The sedan slipped a little back but stayed within shouting distance. The surrounding neighborhood decayed in the vicinity of 96th Street as they passed into Harlem. Lizzie noticed the change but said nothing. She concentrated on soothing Michaela and keeping her calm.

AJ waited for a lane change to finish, then put the point of the blade next to the lump in Michaela's skin and pushed, making a half-inch incision in her arm. Michaela screamed with the pain, and Lizzie held her as tightly as she could. The car hit a bump, but miraculously AJ managed to hold his position, continuing to restrain Michaela's arm as he worked. He got the blade under the chip as Michaela shrieked with pain. He then flicked it up. The chip popped up amid a small pool of blood. He grabbed it with his fingertips and removed it. Then he shoved it into the lead-lined box and closed the lid.

He checked his laptop. The blip disappeared.

“It's neutralized,” he shouted to Cesar, who nodded.

Lizzie reached into her bag and pulled out some tissues, applying them to the wound on Michaela's arm like a compress to stop the bleeding.

“It's okay,” she cooed repeatedly. “It's over. There's no more pain. It's going away.”

She cuddled Michaela very close, kissed her forehead, and ran her hand up and down the teenager's back. The car bounced as it continued its northern trek through Harlem. Michaela's tears subsided as she held the tissues tight to her own arm now, but she gave a little shriek with every sudden movement of the car. Cesar turned left at 125th Street, and Michaela took more of an interest in their surroundings. The renaissance taking place in this part of the city made the streets less frightening than 20 years before, but the unfamiliar neighborhood still unnerved the car's occupants. Even the black sedan behind them drove less aggressively now.

As Cesar turned right again onto Lenox Avenue, he said to his passengers, “We're getting close now. You'll hear a squawk on the radio. When you hear it, close your eyes really tight! Cover them with your hands. Lenox Avenue will light up like a sunny summer's day in a split second. Keep your eyes closed so it doesn't blind you.”

“What will you do?” Lizzie asked. “You're driving. You can't close your eyes!”

“I'll be fine,” said Cesar in a confident voice. “It's a straight shot, and our people have cleared a path for me to go through. The flash won't last more than a few seconds.”

The radio said, “Burning at W142nd Street.”

They passed the Savoy Ballroom on their right. A moment later a loud squawking sound came over the radio. They all covered their eyes (Cesar just closed his) and suddenly Lenox Avenue lit up like a huge sun flooding the entire street all at once, which they could all see through their hands. The sudden burst of light temporarily blinded the driver of the black sedan behind them, and in his panic he swerved into a parked car by the side of the road. The crash sounded terrific. Cesar opened his eyes, which dazzled a bit, but he could see the street just fine in the temporary afterglow of the burst.

“What did they burn?” Lizzie asked as she uncovered her eyes.

“Magnesium powder,” Cesar replied just before he turned right on W 145th Street. A few blocks over, he turned left again and headed up 7th Avenue (known in this section of the city as Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Blvd.) toward the Macombs Dam Bridge which took them across the Harlem River toward the Major Deegan Expressway and Yankee Stadium.

“Shit!” shouted the driver of the black sedan, shaking off the effects of the crash. His eyes still blinded by the wall of white hot fire, he rubbed his knuckles in his eye sockets, trying fruitlessly to restore his sight. Slowly, it started to come back to him.

He glanced over at his partner and asked, “You all right Porter?”

“Can't see anything,” Porter moaned, whose mouth dripped with blood. “Better call for backup.”

Pushing a button on the dash, the driver said, “Base, this is Masters. We lost them. Someone helped them. They lit something like a friggin’ sun, and we couldn't see anything. I don't know what the thing was. Never saw anything like it. It felt like being thrown out into the desert after spending a week in a cave. It blinded us, and we drove into a parked car.”

The voice on the radio squawked back at them: “Any idea who it was?”

“Don't know,” Masters said. “Can't be the feds or the cops, can it?”

“Don't be stupid,” the voice on the radio replied. “We've got two cars dispatched already. Can you move your car?”

Masters tried to start the car. It turned over, but the engine made a nasty clanking sound as it idled. He put the car into reverse and hit the gas. It moved jerkily. He steered it out onto the street and started forward.

A couple of people on the sidewalk shouted out to them, “Hey, where do you think you're going?”

“Barely,” Masters spoke into the radio. “We'll try to get it to the shop. It's only about five blocks from here.”

“Any heat nearby?” the voice on the radio asked.

Masters gazed around and checked his mirrors, then replied, “I don't see any. I want to get this heap off the road before they show up.”

A few minutes later, their luck still held. He turned right, and then left, into an alley. The car groaned as it took the bumps but kept going. A door in the side wall opened, and he pulled in, the door closing automatically after him. He pulled onto a marked parking spot in the middle of the small parking area. As soon as he stopped, the patch of floor they sat on started to descend into the ground, like an elevator. Moments later, they sat ten feet underground. Masters and Porter got out of the car, while a team of mechanics swarmed around the car. They started stripping the car down; they would completely dismantle it within 30 minutes.

“Melt down anything you can't use,” he told the supervisor. “We need wheels. Whatcha got?”

“Nothin' right now,” the supervisor replied. “We just got word that one of your buddies will be here for you in a couple minutes.”

“Right,” Masters answered. “You ready?” he asked, turning to Porter.

“Yeah, let's go,” Porter replied as he dabbed his mouth with a cloth, and the two of them went through outside and up some narrow stairs to ground level. Momentarily, a dark green SUV pulled up. The side door opened, and they jumped in, the car accelerating as Porter's feet left the pavement.

When Cesar's car arrived at E. 161st Street in the South Bronx, they saw the old Yankee Stadium on their right and the new Yankee Stadium on their left. Construction equipment blocked part of the road. They worked their way around, until they reached Joyce Kilmer Park, where a number of automobiles awaited their arrival.

“Okay,” AJ said, “we've reached our transfer point.”

“I don't understand,” Lizzie replied. “I thought we wanted to go to Greenwich Village?”

“We do, but first we need to separate the two of you from this vehicle. The opposition knows its description. They also know yours. Further, we need to create a diversion. So we've got a number of vehicles with women your age in them. All will head out in various directions, helping to mask your destination.”

Indeed, when Lizzie peered closer, she saw that most of the cars had a woman and a teenage girl in the back seats. AJ got out and held the door for them to get out. When they reached the sidewalk, another pair got into the car they vacated, and Cesar drove off with them, heading north.

“We didn't even get to say thank you,” Michaela said.

“That's okay,” AJ smiled. “Cesar knows. He's gotta make tracks to protect himself and his new passengers, too. Come on!”

The three of them climbed quickly into a dark blue car with deeply tinted windows. From the outside, they couldn't see into the car at all, except for the driver, an older woman with straight, steel gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a gaze fixed firmly in front of her. She didn't notice her new passengers and said nothing to them as they entered the vehicle.

At that same moment, the dark green SUV carrying Porter and Masters arrived in time to see a bunch of cars, all carrying a woman and a teenage girl in the back seat, starting off in all directions.

“Which one?” the driver asked. “Which car do I follow?”

“That one!” Porter answered immediately. “The yellow one with the smacked back end.”

They followed Cesar's car, pulling alongside it. Porter checked the back seat. He saw the woman and girl, but closer examination made him realize they had followed the wrong car. The Asian woman clearly didn't resemble Lizzie, and the teenager had black, not blond, hair.

He shouted, “Shit! It's not them. They've changed cars.” The radio confirmed that their friends had similar bad luck with the car they'd picked to follow.

Meanwhile, AJ sat in his familiar position in the front passenger seat, pulling his pack into his lap to open it. As soon as they belted themselves in, the driver immediately took a left-hand turn and traveled up Grand Concourse. He turned left again, heading for the entrance ramp to the Major Deegan Expressway southbound lane. Lizzie turned to look out the rear window as they left the park and saw the other cars departing as well, headed in various directions up and down Grand Concourse on the other side of the park.

“You can relax now,” AJ said as the driver accelerated onto the Expressway. “We should be there in about 25 minutes.”

Michaela felt anything but relaxed, and Lizzie's nerves still jangled too.

About 10 minutes later, as they took the Willis Street exit toward FDR drive, AJ turned back to them and said, “The safe house is intended to be a completely secure location. Only authorized TST team members know it. We'll need to blindfold ourselves.”

Michaela shifted instantly back into panic mode, but this time she reacted a bit more fiercely saying, “What do you mean, blindfold me? No one's going to blindfold me!”

“It's okay,” Lizzie said, trying to calm her again. “We need to have these arrangements to prevent the bank security people from getting to you.”

“Bank security?” Michaela asked, wide-eyed. “You mean Dad's bank did all this to us?”

Lizzie sighed. She suddenly realized they'd had no time to explain any of this to Michaela. Of course, she didn't understand. No one told her! AJ and Cesar had to concentrate on their getaway and couldn’t listen to their passengers.

“I'm sorry, we had no time to tell you the story, and it's a long one, but now isn't the time.”

“When then?” Michaela demanded. “I've been shot at, driven all over New York City, our car rammed from behind, this guy,” she indicated AJ, “stuck a knife in my arm, my Dad got shot, he may be dead, and last I saw he lay on a sidewalk while you and I were kidnapped...again! So if you know what's going on, I want to know!”

“Yes, I will tell you, but right now we've got to get to a safe location. They maintain security by making sure no one, not even the people protected, can find them.”

“You promise to tell me what's going on once we get there, if I put this blindfold on?”

“I promise,” Lizzie replied without hesitation. “What’s more, as far as I know, your father wore a bullet proof vest when he was shot. It’s very possible he wasn't hurt at all.”

Michaela’s eyes went wide with hope, ready to comply with anything they told her. AJ pulled out three blindfolds and three slim pairs of headphones from his knapsack and handed a set each to Michaela and Lizzie.

“The headphones will play some relaxing flute music. They'll also keep us from hearing anything. I'll go first,” he said.

He pulled the blindfold over his eyes and put the headphones over his ears. Then he smiled, closed his eyes, and started to hum, “Georgia On My Mind”.

Michaela's uncertainty showed, but she finally put on the blindfold and then the headphones. After checking Michaela, Lizzie put on the blindfold and headphones herself. AJ was right. The music made her relax very quickly.

The driver checked all of them in her mirror, before turning off the FDR drive to make her way over to the streets of Greenwich Village. Lizzie felt the car make a number of turns, both left and right. She couldn't have said for sure their location. In fact, they might have doubled back on their original track.

A short while later, they turned off a main street onto what felt like a bumpy country road. She knew of no bumpy dirt roads in the city, so she figured they must have turned into an alley or a parking lot. They went downhill and rapidly around a sharp corner. A few seconds later, the car came to a stop and the driver tapped AJ on the knee. He removed his headphones and blindfold, proceeding to help Michaela and Lizzie remove theirs.

“We're here,” he announced.

They opened the car doors and found themselves inside the entrance of a small, basement garage. They saw other cars so tightly packed it seemed impossible for any of them to ever get out. A metal door that obscured any view outside blocked the driveway going up.

“This way,” AJ said, leading the way to a blank door. The driver still hadn't moved, and Lizzie got the impression that she didn't plan on sticking around.

The three of them passed through a door and entered a small room with a desk and a single elevator. A sign over the desk showed a logo, a simple “AU”. Underneath a much smaller sign said, “All guests please sign in here.”

A woman at the desk wearing a security uniform gave them a friendly smile and said, “Welcome to the Agorist Underground. We expected you, of course. If you'll come over here and sit down, we'll prepare your credentials.” She indicated two chairs for Lizzie and Michaela.

Lizzie turned to AJ, who stood over by an ATM-like machine. He placed his thumb on an optical pad and received a laminated photo ID on a soft cloth ribbon, which he pulled over his head.

“Go ahead and sign in. I've been here before, so I've got my credentials. I'll see you in the morning.”

With that, he gave Michaela a friendly wave and pressed the elevator button.

“Wait! Don't go!” Michaela shouted to him.

He stopped and she walked a few steps closer to him.

“You saved us,” she said, both grateful and a little afraid. She studied him for a moment before saying, “But why?”

He smiled. “You needed the help. Lizzie sent us her signal, so we knew to move in.”

Michaela struggled with his answer. “Yes, I know that, but what made you come? You knew that it would be dangerous for you.”

He grinned. “Yes, I suppose I did, but Lizzie is my friend. I couldn't abandon my friend at the moment she needed me most, could I?”

“No I suppose not.”

The elevator arrived, but as he started to get on, she said, “Why are you leaving us now?”

“I'm tired. Aren't you? I'm just going to find my bed. I need to sleep.”

“Will we see you again in the morning?”

“Count on it.”

Michaela still acted troubled.

“What is it?” he asked her finally.

Tears formed in Michaela's eyes. “My Dad was shot tonight. We don't know what happened after that. I don't even know if the bullet-proof vest worked, if he's...he's...still alive,” she said, the tears starting to flow.

Lizzie took her in her arms and held her tight. Suddenly the sobs started pouring out of her. AJ stepped out of the elevator and let its door close behind him and said softly with remorse, “I'm sorry Michaela, I should have told you before, but in all the craziness we went through I forgot. We received word that your father will be all right.”

Michaela practically ripped herself from Lizzie's grasp, turned and shouted, “He will? Where is he? I want to see him!”

“He's in a local hospital being treated. The bullet struck him in the chest but didn't penetrate to do any damage,” AJ started to explain. “The vest did protect him. He's going to be fine.”

Michaela whirled around to face Lizzie, sheer joy eclipsing her tears, and cried, “He's alive! Lizzie, he's alive, he's ALIVE!” Whereupon she threw herself again into Lizzie's grasp and cried even harder, sobbing for all that happened to her that night, for all the trauma, for all the fear, and in gratitude for the miracle of the people she didn't know who came to her rescue, as well as the ones she did know who came, the ones who meant more to her than everyone else in the world. And most of all, she sobbed for the news that her father would recover.

The news caught Lizzie by surprise too. The dual stress of trying to fulfill her role as temporary guardian of her best friend's teenage daughter fought and combined with her overwhelming relief that her employer would end up okay. It swept over her like a tidal wave. AJ could see her dueling fiercely with her emotions.

“Thank you,” she mouthed silently to him, the gratitude shining on her deeply reddening face. A smile of understanding came over him, and he mouthed back to her, “You're welcome.”

“The guard will assign you two a room to sleep in,” he said out loud. “We can meet at breakfast if we're up at the same time, or later if you need more sleep. There's no hurry.”

He turned to press the elevator button again. Michaela broke away from Lizzie and hurried over to him, gripping him tightly in a hug of gratitude, hoping she could express in it all the overwhelming feelings that coursed through her at the moment.

He hugged her back. “Sleep well. I'll see you in the morning.” The elevator still sat waiting for him as he got in and pushed a button, closing the door.

Michaela turned back to Lizzie, who came over and held her for another moment before they turned to walk over to the desk where the security guard waited patiently for them.

After watching the whole interlude, the security guard smiled pleasantly., “Ms. Kohn, since you're already a TST member, your part is easy. Just give me your thumb print, and I'll print up your credentials.”

She indicated a small optical pad. Lizzie pressed her thumb on the pad, and the light above the pad turned from red to green.

“Now, young lady,” the guard said, turning to Michaela. “I believe this is your first time staying with us?”

Michaela nodded wide-eyed, at a rare loss for words.

“Very good. We don't expect you to join our organization or anything like that. However, as our protected guest, we do ask you to agree to a few things. Normally, we would require that your parent or legal guardian approve your application, but obviously we have an unusual situation. We'll accept Lizzie's approval for the moment until we get direct approval from your father. This will give you temporary access to our facility.”

Michaela glanced at Lizzie for reassurance, Lizzie nodded her agreement, and then Michaela nodded too.

“In essence, you agree never to reveal anything about this location or any other secret location we may share with you to anyone, although between you and me we have confidence you'll never know anything important enough that could harm us. We do a pretty good job of maintaining our security. You know Lizzie, of course, and you've met AJ.”

Michaela smiled.

“What's your name?” she asked.

“I'm Carmen,” the guard answered. Michaela studied her face. Carmen's smile and engaging manner easily won Michaela over. She especially liked the way Carmen said her vowels.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“I'm originally from Peru, but that's one of the things you must promise not to ask staff members, okay?”

“Oh, sorry!” Michaela said, a little surprised.

Carmen smiled and continued, “Our staff members go by their first names only. You must agree never to ask for more personal information from staff members, and staff members will never ask for more than your first name. If any staff member ever does, don't trust him or her, and report it as soon as possible! Do you agree to these terms?” she asked pleasantly.

Michaela nodded her head solemnly.

“That's fine,” the guard smiled. “Next, you might meet other guests like yourself during your visit. You may exchange personal information with them if you wish, but you agree to keep that information confidential. You also agree not to discuss AU business with them outside of facilities we control or protect. We require this more for your protection and that of our other guests than for our benefit. Do you agree to this also?”

Again, Michaela nodded.

“Good,” the guard said approvingly. “Third, you must agree to obey all signs you see and verbal instructions you receive from staff while you are here, especially when a sign or a staff member asks you to do something. Do you agree to obey all such requests and directions?” she asked.

For the third time, Michaela nodded yes.

“That's fine,” said the guard. “Normally, we require a cash payment for our protection services, but given these very unusual circumstances, and since your father has not arrived yet, on Lizzie's say so, I'm marking your account payment deferred. I'm sure your father will pay it once he arrives.”

She typed a few things into the computer at her desk and printed out a single page.

She put the printed page in front of Michaela and said, “This contract summarizes what you just agreed to verbally. If you still intend to keep this agreement, please sign and date it at the bottom.”

Michaela checked with Lizzie, saying, “Dad said I should never sign anything without reading it first.”

Lizzie smiled and said, “Your father is quite right. Read it over carefully. Make sure it really does say what the guard here claimed that it says.”

Michaela read the contract over very carefully. In very plain English it said little more than what they already discussed. An added provision said that the Agorist Arbitration Association must settle any disputes or contractual disagreements.

“What's arbitration?” Michaela asked Lizzie.

“It's an alternative to trial where parties agree to appoint an individual or panel to make a binding award or decision based on the evidence and testimony presented,” Lizzie explained. “So if you and the AU have a disagreement about this contract, you both agree that the Agorist Arbitration Association will provide an individual or panel to settle the dispute.”

Michaela thought about it for a moment and signed the contract.

“Very good,” the guard said. “Since your father isn't here, I'll mark this for him to approve when he arrives.”

She asked Michaela to press her thumb on the optical scanner so that it could take a picture of her thumb for future security checks, which she did willingly. After it finished the scan of her thumb, the guard pressed a few more keys and clicked her mouse button. The ATM-like machine on the wall started to make noises again, and moments later, two sets of credentials attached to cloth ribbons waited for them: one for Michaela, and one for Lizzie, both with their photos, their first names, a bar code, and a room number on them. They pulled the lanyards over their heads.

“I see that you hurt yourself,” the guard said. “Would you like to have our medical staff look at it?”

Michaela shook her head no, but Lizzie overruled her and said, “Yes, that would be really good of you.”

“No trouble at all,” the guard said. “When you get upstairs, just turn right and go to the first office on the right. That's our first aid station. Your ID card gives you access to your room. It's just down the hall from the first aid station.”

She smiled and pushed a button. Seconds later, the elevator arrived again. Michaela followed Lizzie into the small booth, and the door closed. She saw no buttons on the wall to push, but instantly the elevator started moving upward. Seconds later, the door opened onto a small, empty sitting room. They turned to the right and quickly found the first aid station.

Opening the door, they found a young Asian man sitting in a desk chair wearing a white coat with a red cross above the breast pocket. He had his feet up while reading.

“Oh! Excuse me,” he said, putting his e-book reader down. He smiled apologetically. “I don't get many visitors at night. What can I do for you?”

“My young friend here had an RFID chip embedded in her arm. I'm afraid we had to dig it out quickly with a Swiss knife, so she has a bit of a hole in her forearm,” Lizzie explained.

“Okay, let me take a look,” he said, gently taking Michaela's arm. The bleeding had long since stopped, but the blood had trickled a bit. “Oh, that's not too bad. We'll just clean it up,” he said, grabbing a piece of cotton and a bottle of some clear liquid, which when uncapped filled the small room with the light aroma of antiseptic.

“Will it hurt like before?” Michaela asked timidly.

“No,” he said with a smile. “We don't need to use anything with alcohol or peroxide in it. That's what stings.”

He soaked the cotton ball and worked gently around the site of the wound. It cleaned up pretty quickly. Michaela relaxed when it didn't hurt. Then he carefully dabbed at the wound itself, cleaning it up within minutes.

“Would you like a colored band aid or a flesh-toned one?”

“Can I get a green one?” she asked him.

“Sure,” he said, smiling. Seconds later, a bright green band aid adorned her arm.

Lizzie asked him, “Should we be concerned about infection?”

He shook his head, “I very much doubt it. The wound looks clean. If it starts to act up, let us know, and we'll give her an antibiotic. However, as a general policy, we try to avoid that kind of thing when not medically necessary.”

“There might be a small scar,” he continued, “but I think it will heal to invisibility. At your age, it takes a really ragged cut to leave a noticeable scar. This one seems pretty clean.”

Lizzie and Michaela thanked him. He shook hands with them, and they left the first aid office. Out in the hall, Lizzie couldn't tell which way to go. She didn't see any signs indicating which way their room awaited them.

Michaela started down the hall. She found numbered doors on either side of the hall. She found Room 12 and tried the handle. It wouldn't budge. She slid her card into the door slot, and it unlocked and opened. She pushed the door wide. They found two queen-sized beds tightly packed into a room with a TV on a small stand, no windows, and a private bath.

“It looks small,” Michaela said doubtfully.

“Well, we're used to big rooms at home,” Lizzie said. “At least we have comfortable beds.”

“Yeah,” Michaela said as she landed in a sitting position on one of them. “They feel pretty good!”

Since they didn't have any luggage with them, they satisfied themselves with simply undressing to their underwear for bed. Michaela climbed under the covers first, but her eyes remained wide open despite circles forming under them. Lizzie went over to sit down next to her.

“Are you okay now?” she asked, and Michaela nodded.

Lizzie said, “We'll find him tomorrow, you know.”

“Okay,” Michaela answered her softly. She solemnly studied Lizzie's face for a moment. She said, “You like Dad, don't you.”

“Of course I do,” Lizzie answered. “He's been very kind to me.”

Michaela shook her head and said, “That's not what I mean. I mean you like him, don't you?”

Lizzie took a short breath and held it, unsure what to say. Her face started to turn red again. Finally, not quite knowing what to say, she said, “Yes, he's a very nice man.”

“You know what I mean,” Michaela said.

Lizzie dismissed the whole conversation by saying, “Go to sleep. We'll try to see him tomorrow if we can. Do you think you can sleep?”

Michaela nodded. Lizzie stroked her hair for a moment and started to get up. Michaela reached out and grabbed Lizzie's arm, stopping her. Lizzie turned her attention back to Michaela, her eyes curious.

“It's okay that you like Dad. I love you,” Michaela said, looking straight into her eyes.

Lizzie felt her equilibrium being knocked about a bit, but she forced herself to steady and replied, “I love you too. Very much.”

With that, Michaela suddenly sat up in bed and gave her a huge hug, refusing to let go for a very long moment. Lizzie hugged her right back and kissed her gently and warmly on the forehead. Michaela turned over and prepared to go to sleep. Lizzie got up and moved to her own bed.

As she pulled the blankets over her, she heard Michaela say, “Thanks for coming to get me.”

The tears threatened to spill down Lizzie's cheeks.

“You're welcome, sweetheart,” she replied softly and gently as she moved to her own bed, with a strong tug of emotion. She turned out the light and lay down in bed. Michaela's breathing quickly changed to the deep, even breaths of slumber. Lizzie wrestled with the notion that she found herself in loco parentis in an entirely new way tonight, thoughts which quickly and gently guided her to an unconscious state of much-needed rest.

Special Agent Regan's fury raged, and she made sure that every person who reported to her about this debacle knew it. Special Agent Casper, in charge of the team that retrieved Michaela from the apartment, stood in front of her reporting his initial findings. An average height, slightly built, non-descript man spoke with a soft voice.

“So what happened?” Regan yelled.

“Ma'am, while the victim and her family reunited after the rescue, a lone gunman fired a single shot from a weapon, likely a rifle, striking Mr. Knight in the chest. We haven't yet recovered the bullet, but we do know that it didn't penetrate Mr. Knight's body,” reported Casper.

“What? Why is that?” asked Regan with genuine surprise.

“Knight wore Type III-A ballistic armor under his shirt and jacket, ma'am,” answered Casper.

“Body armor?” Regan asked incredulously.

“Yes ma'am,” said Casper.

“What's his condition?” she asked.

“Early report: good condition, treated for bruising in the upper chest. The armor made us suspect the gunman used a .22 rifle. The vest kept him alive. The shot would have hit him directly in the heart.”

“Well, at least we caught one break. Does he say why he wore it?” Regan responded incredulously.

“No ma'am,” Casper answered. “He insists on speaking directly to you about it.”

“I'll bet he does,” said Regan ruefully. “What about the sedan? How did that get through?”

“It arrived at the same time the shooter fired the weapon. Everyone's attention focused on the gunman and Mr. Knight, so no one had time to question the newcomers.

“When we noticed Mr. Knight hit, someone apparently called out, 'Get them in a car.' I have two officers and one agent who report hearing that, but they don't agree on where it came from. Two men dressed in standard bureau issue approached Michaela Knight and Elizabeth Kohn, forcing them bodily into the sedan. My best guess: the order came from one of the two suspects.

“Descriptions of the two men: white, male, Caucasian, one approximately 5'10”,170-180 lbs.; the other about 5'9”, 175-185 lbs., both black hair, both wearing sunglasses, blue jackets, and black pants. No distinguishing marks, scars, etc. I put out an APB with that description and a description of the sedan,” Casper concluded.

Two local TV news trucks from two different stations arrived at the scene simultaneously. Other reporters carrying notebooks and hand-held recorders called out questions from the police line at the sidewalk to everyone they saw, but no one answered. One broke through and came rushing over to where Regan stood.

“Are you in command here?” he demanded.

“Control the scene, Casper. Get this man out of here,” she said to another officer standing nearby, indicating the reporter. The police officer grabbed him and pulled him back toward the police line.

“You're up next, lieutenant,” Regan indicated to a stocky man in plain clothes standing a few feet away with a police ID hanging around his neck.

“Ma'am,” came Casper's reply before he strode quickly away, while the lieutenant stepped forward.

“And you are?” she began after the two men exchanged places.

“Lieutenant Harold Wilson, ma'am, first precinct.”

“Report, Wilson.”

Before Wilson could begin, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned, and in a 10-second rapid stream the reporter fired out, “Shandra Howard, TV9 news. You must be Special Agent Regan. They said you're in charge here. What's going on here, Regan? We have eyewitness reports of a shooting, and someone says that the victim was a top officer at Hanover-Rush. What can you tell us about what's going on?”

“You two! Officers!” Regan screamed. “Get these news people out of here. Secure that line!”

Two more uniformed men grabbed the reporter and cameraman to lead them back to the police line. More police moved in to shore up the perimeter. After some shoving and pushing, they restored order–for the moment.

Regan turned her attention to Wilson, who said, “Yes, ma'am. Based on reports from officers and agents on the scene, we're about 90% certain that the lone shot came from that building across and down the street, probably on the second or third floor,” he said as he pointed. “Half a dozen officers converged on the location within minutes of the shooting, but we found no evidence inside of a shooter. No one spotted anyone carrying a rifle. We found no empty cartridges. We found windows open in a number of rooms. Witnesses inside the building reported hearing a loud noise, but reports conflict as to which apartment or suite it might have come from. We conducted a top floor to basement search of the building, but we don't have anything yet.”

“Tell them to search it again,” Regan yelled.

“Yes, ma'am,” Wilson replied.

Another interruption came as one of her team pushed in and said, “Sorry, ma'am, but someone's going to need to make a statement to the press. They're piling up faster than a snow drift in a storm after a plow.”

“You came up with that all by yourself, didn’t you Jenkins?”

“It’s an expression.”

“No it’s not. Don’t just stand there,” Regan barked. “Call the bureau. Have them send a press spokesman over here, stat. Find somewhere we can hold a news conference. Corral the newsies in there and promise them we'll have a statement for them. Continue Wilson,” she said, once her subordinate left.

“Yes, ma'am. As you might expect, witnesses in the crowd provided a wide range of contradictory reports regarding the shooter and the fake agents. A number of people claim to have seen his face, but reports conflict dramatically They don't agree on the shooter's race, gender, height, hair color, clothing, or age. We continue to conduct interviews, but I don't have much to add to what Agent Casper said. Our forensic team continues to search the grounds and the street for the bullet and any other evidence we can find,” he concluded rather lamely.

“Give me your assessment of the incident based on what you know so far,” demanded Regan.

“If I had to guess, I'd say that it was a professional operation. It's almost like investigating something that a black-ops agency did. It has that kind of feel to it,” Wilson answered.

Regan nodded. She thought so too.

“Which hospital admitted Knight?” she demanded.

“New York Downtown, over on Williams Street.”

“Get an officer to take me over there. I want these thugs found. I want answers yesterday, Wilson. Get to work!” she said forcefully.

“Yes, ma'am.” He escaped quickly, but not without a backward glance. He didn't like having to kowtow to a fed. “Roberts, take the special agent anywhere she wants to go.”

Officer Brian Roberts indicated his squad car, but Regan shouted, “We'll take my car,” as she climbed behind the wheel. Roberts climbed into the passenger seat, and they took off within seconds. As Roberts guided her through the south Manhattan streets, she estimated him: 23 or 24, not quite six feet, probably about 195 lbs.

A few minutes later, they pulled into the emergency entrance to the hospital. Within seconds she parked the car, and they raced inside on foot. When they reached Knight's room, they found an officer standing outside the door. Regan identified herself, and the officer let her in the room.

Knight sat up in bed reading a news magazine.

He looked up when Regan walked in with Officer Roberts behind her and yelled, “Was that what you call security?”

“I'm glad to see you doing so well,” Regan replied. “I'm quite furious with both my team and the NYPD team on the scene, as Officer Roberts here can attest.

“However, as angry as both you and I are,” Regan continued, “we have some inescapable facts in this case. We underestimated the kidnapper's willingness to go to great lengths to get that video back. They risked an armed confrontation with about two dozen local police and federal officers. They didn't hesitate to attempt murder. They deliberately interfered with a police rescue mission and investigation. There can be no doubt about the criminal nature of these people. These are highly motivated criminals, well-organized and well-financed. Their people probably have military or paramilitary training, given the perfectly timed clockwork raid they staged. So what made you decide to wear a chest protector this evening?”

“Ms. Kohn suggested it, and frankly I found it the best protection I have received so far, although I have to admit I resisted the idea at first.”

“How did she manage to talk you into it?” Regan asked, ignoring Justin's jibe.

Justin stayed silent for a moment before speaking. “While I was convinced that my uncle wouldn't hurt my daughter, Ms. Kohn asked me if I was equally convinced that my uncle would not hurt me. The idea caught me off-guard. She pointed out that if Donahue disabled my security cameras as we suspect, providing Mr. Donahue as my chief of security showed my uncle would not hesitate to violate my rights. While I was reluctant, in the end I agreed. She contacted a top company that sold the vests, and they delivered it by courier an hour later, just before you arrived at the house.”

This impressed Regan.

“You have a wise and impressive tutor.”

“Getting her back safely ranks as high as getting my daughter back safely.”

“Mr. Knight, I need to ask you a few questions about what happened. Did you see who shot you?”

Justin shook his head. “One moment I was standing there, grateful for my daughter's safe return. The next moment I found myself on the ground feeling like someone fired an anvil at me and hit me in the middle of the chest. I did not even notice the sound until after I hit my back.”

“Did you see either of the two men who grabbed your daughter and Ms. Kohn?”

Justin's face began to turn red, and she saw tears in his eyes.

“No, but I could hear my daughter screaming. I did not even have any breath to call out to her. I heard someone yell something like, 'Put them in the car,' but that is all. Ms. Regan,” he continued, looking her straight in the eyes, “I wish I could say that I do not care about the video anymore, that my uncle and his thugs can have it, and that I only want my daughter and Ms. Kohn back safe and sound. I wish I could say that, but I cannot. Oh, I really do not want the video anymore, but now that I know how far my uncle is willing to go to get it back, I want him stopped. I want him arrested.

Justin paused. “Do you understand the full nature of what he confessed on that video? I could not believe my ears the first time I heard it. My uncle, along with who knows how many other top officials, apparently leads a conspiracy that dates back nearly 100 years to the origins of the Federal Reserve System, perhaps even further back than that.”

“What does the video have to do with all this?”

“As you may have guessed, a close-knit fraternity exists among top bankers. I do not mean the kind of fraternity you might find on a college campus. As with any industry, people who pursue the same career interests tend to know each other and, in many cases, like each other. We often take vacations together. Our social circles overlap.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Yes, I am sure you would know about that. Ever since I can remember, people assured me that no conspiracy, no banking cartel, no money trust exists. They assured me over and over again that those things never existed. The assurances came from people I trust, people in my particular fraternity, including my uncle.”

“And what did they assure you?” Regan asked, although she thought she already knew the answer.

“They assured me that we never hope to be bailed out by the taxpayers, that we never request such actions except as a last resort, and that we never, ever plan on them happening.”

“Your tutor suggests otherwise.”

Justin nodded. “I know that serious weaknesses exist in the configuration of our monetary system. I know about ethical problems with modern banking, but I believed that the men and women who run our system do their level best to do the right thing for everyone, not just whatever will put the most money in their own pockets.”

“And now?”

“Now I realize my mistake regarding some of them. Now I want to stop those people, including my uncle.”

“I have some detective work to do. Get better fast, and call me if they release you from the hospital before I return. Don’t leave the hospital grounds under any circumstances until my return, and make sure you always have two officers here with you at all times. If something happens, call me immediately. Here's my card.”

She handed Justin a business card.

“Call me anytime, day or night.”

Turning back to the officer she said, “I want you to stay outside Mr. Knight's room with the other officer. I want two of you watching this room at all times. Do not, under any circumstances, let anyone enter whom you haven't cleared personally. If the hospital wants to release Mr. Knight, or if they want to move him to another room, you both stay with him at all times. Here's one of my cards for you, too. Do you understand, officer?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“I'll be back soon, Mr. Knight. Hang in there. We will get both your daughter and her tutor back as fast as humanly possible.” She turned to leave the room.

“Special Agent Regan.”

She looked at him over her shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She nodded and left the room. She gave similar instructions to the officer standing outside the door, giving him a card as well. As she walked to her car thinking, It won't be as easy as I made it seem to Mr. Knight.

A young couple sat in the emergency waiting area. The young woman read a popular magazine. Her bob-cut, black hair and plain features helped her blend into the background easily, as did her ripped jeans and well-worn cotton blouse. The young man played with a small game pad. His faux-cut, also quite common for a young man in his early 20s, and his average build and features made him just as nondescript as his girlfriend.

Neither of them seemed to notice when Regan walked past them outside to her car, nor did she notice them. Even during the middle of the night, the Emergency section buzzed with new people entering and others leaving every few minutes, typical of a big city hospital. After Regan left the building, the young man looked around to see anyone nearby and tapped a couple of buttons on his game pad. Some musical notes played, “mi-do mi-mi-do,” and a voice said from the game console, “Access.” The young man pressed some more buttons and muttered something into the game pad. His girlfriend heard him whisper, “Fed gone. Subject in treatment area. Instructions.”

A moment later, a quiet voice emerged from the game pad, saying, “Stay and watch. Report movements. Keep this channel open.” The young man and young woman exchanged glances, but then she returned to her reading, while he returned to the game he had played earlier.

About five or six minutes later, she put down her magazine and walked over to the hall where the treatment rooms lined up. She spotted the two police officers outside Justin Knight's door at the other end of the hall. So she turned around and returned to her seat, picking up the magazine once again.

A few minutes later, the young man stood up with his game pad and walked slowly to the hall while thumbing the buttons on the game until the police officers came into view. Then he too turned around and returned to the waiting area.

This pattern repeated over and over on a varying schedule, although they never got close enough to get the attention of the police officers standing outside Justin's door. Occasionally, one or both of the young people walked up to the emergency room's information desk to further randomize their movements, but no one noticed that they never stayed at the desk long enough to ask a question, including the very busy people working behind the desk. Sometimes they went over to the vending machines, which also gave them a view of the hall where the emergency treatment rooms connected to the lobby, but only rarely did they buy anything from the machines.

Nevio Roone burned with anger. He arrived at his office at 3:30 a.m. to interrogate his underlings about the debacle.

He flexed his forearm muscles and grimaced as he listened to a report from Haven Donahue about what transpired on Nassau Street. They met in Roone's office on the 62nd floor of the Hanover-Rush building. Donahue sat on the other side of his desk, watching Roone's blazing eyes, which accented his flaming red hair. Roone's red hair came from his father's Irish side of the family, as did his temper. His Sicilian mother accounted for his Italian first name. He stood only 5'6” tall with a medium build, but the fire inside him constantly threatened to rage out into the open at the best of times and made him seem much larger to most people. At the moment, it took every fiber of his being to prevent himself from putting Donahue through a wall.

Born and raised in Belfast, he grew up a republican activist and attended the signing of the Good Friday Agreement, which marked the end of the period in Irish history known as “The Troubles”. However, his compatriots, he didn't want to remain a revolutionary. He aimed considerably higher. He learned during his youth that those with the political might and the big money behind them always won...and he intended to get both.

He immigrated to New York, where he quickly found employment with Hanover bank in its security department before it merged with G. Rush & Co. to form Hanover-Rush. He proved himself on the job demonstrating enthusiasm and found himself quickly moving up in the ranks. Finally, at the relatively young age of 35, he won the position as head of security at Hanover-Rush. He amazed many with the speed of his career advancement, which he accomplished primarily by turning a chance meeting in a hallway with David Knight himself into an opportunity to make an impression. Knight took to the young Irishman immediately, and his future prospects brightened considerably. His career growth took off, culminating in Knight personally selecting Roone for the top security position eight years ago.

Now 43, his red hair thinned in places, but his fire still roared. He sat at his desk with his hands bundled up in fists. He sized up Donahue for a moment before bellowing, “What the bloody hell happened?”

“What do you mean?” Donahue replied, surprised. “Your people screwed up the whole thing, allowing the feds to find her and get her out of there so easily. I pulled your bacon out of the fire. I got Knight. Quit complaining!”

“You eijit,” Roone jumped up and leaned across the desk to shove his nose in Donahue's face, “You didn't get him. He's still alive!”

“No way,” Donahue replied, “I'm a sharpshooter. Top of the class at the Point. I got him right in the middle of the heart. I'm sure of it. If he isn't dead now, he will be soon.”

“I sent a feckin’ sky pilot to do a man's job. Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. He wore a bulletproof vest, you mongo sap! Why didn't you shoot him in the head?” Roone raged.

The shock on Donahue's flushed face perfectly complemented Roone's deep red one.

“He doesn't own a bulletproof vest! Where the hell did he get a bulletproof vest?”

“How the feck should I know?” Roone screamed. “It's your job to know these things before you pull the trigger!”

“Shit!” exclaimed Donahue.

“Yeah, no shit!” Roone shouted back.

Roone shook his head in disgust and plopped back into his desk chair. He took a couple of breaths, then asked, a little less angry, “So, how did it perform?”

“The rifle? Very impressive. I've never tried a W2000, but I'd say this little beauty,” he held up a small suitcase, “performed at least as well, possibly better. Snapped it together in less than 15 seconds. Comfortable and well-balanced. The trajectory held straight and true. I could've hit the bastard at twice the distance. Your propeller heads did a nice job when they invented this,” Donahue said.

“They're working on a repeater,” Roone said with a smile. “Semi-automatic .030. Should be done by spring. All right, we've gotta figure out our next steps. At least Porter's men got the teenage molly back, and her sally tutor to boot. That's good insurance.”

Just then the phone rang. Roone grabbed it and shouted, “Roone.”

He stood up and spoke in a calmer voice, “Yes, sir...No, sir...Yes, sir, we got her back...Yes, her tutor too...No, sir, we won't screw up again...Yes, sir, you do pay me too much for that kind of...No, sir!...No, sir....Yes, sir, I understand...Yes, sir, you can count...”

After an audible click, Roone stood there holding a phone connected to nothing. As soon as he hung up, it rang again.

“Roone,” he said, after picking it up. After a moment he sighed and said, “Report!” Then he collapsed in his chair, rolled his eyes, and ran his hand through his short hair. “Am I completely surrounded by morons?” he shouted into the phone. “Get back here. We've got to take Knight back. We'll have a plan by the time you arrive, so move!”

He slammed the phone back down again and his eyes dared it to ring. The phone wisely stayed silent.

“Sonofabitch,” he expostulated. “They lost the sally and the molly. The old man will friggin' kill us!”

Donahue knew better than to say anything at this point. He just sat and waited. After a moment Roone said, “Okay Donahue, I want you to organize a snatch. Get an ambulance out of the motor pool and find a medic. Work out the timing and personnel for grabbing Knight and getting him into our ambulance. You'll take him to our Brooklyn holding pen until I arrive. Got it? Get back here in 20 minutes with the details worked out. I want a complete, well-timed, written plan. Move!”

“I thought we wanted Knight dead,” Donahue said, getting up.

“Eijit!” Roone shouted at him, “Without the other hostages, the old man will piss green when he hears about it. You heard me on the phone just now. I promised him no more screw-ups, and two minutes later I find out that we screwed up...again! We need a patsy now, a fall guy, and we need him right now,” Roone ranted. “We gotta get his nephew back in our hands. I'll bet the old man could throttle the bastard himself, and him in his 60s! Don't imagine for a minute he couldn't pick up the phone in five seconds and find someone to throttle you and me! Now get going!”

After Donahue left, Roone picked up the phone and made a different call. After a moment he heard the other party answer, “Regan.”

He said, more calmly than before, but still with an edge to his voice, “Roone here. So, did you get the video?”

“Yes, we have it,” said Regan.

“Thank God!” Roone breathed with relief.

“Why did you take a shot at Knight?” Regan demanded.

“We didn't,” Roone denied instantly, shouting again. “What kind of amateur setup are you running over there anyway?”

“Oh, come on, Nevio, that operation had your fingerprints all over it,” Regan said disgustedly. “Don't insult my intelligence. Of course your people did it. I want to know why you did something so boneheaded.”

“I said we didn't do it!” Roone yelled into his phone. “We don't have any reason to want Knight dead.”

“Yeah, right. Who else could it have been?”

“Clearly, a third party got involved in all this, someone who wants Knight dead, probably the same someone who made the video in the first place.”

“Oh, really! And who might that be?”

“How should I know who it is? That's your problem, mate, not mine,” Roone shouted. “We want that video back now.”

“That video is evidence in a kidnapping that your people carried out.”

“Do I have to ask my boss to call the President again?”

”You shouldn't be so proud of yourself. The only reason you're not in custody now is because of your political connections.”

“And they're pretty damn good connections, I think you'll agree.”

“Maybe, for now, but you're too cocky for your own good. Political fortunes can change at the drop of a hat. You ought to be more careful, Roone.”

“Oh, spare me the holier-than-thou bullshit. Your time is up, Regan. You just haven't figured it out yet. But enough of the melodrama. Where and when do we meet?”

Regan sighed. She saw no point in withholding the video now. She already made a copy for bureau files, and clearly no court would ever see it in a kidnapping trial.

“Send someone to Federal Plaza at 11:00 a.m., and we'll turn it over.”

“Okay, good. Now that makes sense.”

“Which one of your flunkies will you send?”

“No one, I'll take custody of it myself. I'll be there at 11:00.”

He hung up and sat back. He needed time to think.

Regan disconnected at her end, too. The bastard didn't lie very well, but at least she found him easy to read, and he guessed one thing right without realizing it: a third party did act in the background. She found it interesting that he didn't know anything about the Agorist Underground.

She went to Federal Plaza and made arrangements to leave the video disk with Records to duplicate it and make it ready for pickup by Roone. She took a call which informed her that the scene of the kidnappings had turned into a media circus. While speaking with someone named Robert Jeffries from the bureau's Office of Public Affairs, she learned that he scheduled a press conference for noon that day. An earlier briefing at 10:00 a.m. would give them the opportunity to get their message straight for the press.

No leads had emerged yet on the missing black sedan, so she had little else she could do at the moment. An unpleasant upcoming call with the Director loomed later in the morning, but for the moment she needed to get some rest. She phoned the NYPD First Precinct and arranged for someone to call her if any new developments arose. Then she headed over to her hotel for a few hours of much needed sleep, with instructions left to wake her immediately should anything arise.

Regan awoke when her hotel telephone rang with her wakeup call at 9:00 a.m. after four very short and troubled hours of sleep. She ran a quick shower and dressed for the day. After a mediocre continental breakfast downstairs, she walked two blocks over to Federal Plaza. On the way over, she made a call to Agent Casper to learn if he had any new information. She learned that they found the slug which had failed to kill Justin Knight, a .22 caliber, as they suspected. She left instructions to call if they found anything else, hung up, walked into the building, and took the elevator to the 23rd floor. After quickly checking in at the desk, she headed over to the conference room.

She walked into the room and found a man sitting at the long conference table with papers and folders spread out in front of him.

“You must be Jeffries,” she said. “I'm Catherine Regan.”

He looked up and smiled.

“Of course, Special Agent Regan. A pleasure to meet you. Please, sit down. Don't mind the mess; I like to spread out a bit.”

“Thank you. That's fine. I just checked in with my man on the scene, but he doesn't have anything new for me, other than having found the bullet. It was a .22 caliber rifle bullet, as we suspected.”

“Yes, so I've heard. I wonder why the assassin used such a low-powered weapon?”

“We all want to know that.”

“Well, I have the particulars in hand. How much do we share with the press?” Jeffries asked, changing the subject.

“I'd rather not tell them anything, but I know we can't do that. My question to you is: how little can we tell them and simultaneously downplay the incident?”

“Well, we have to acknowledge the shooting, obviously. They'll want me to confirm the identity of the man shot, but I can give them the 'ongoing investigation' line and decline to provide specifics. I'd like to tell them his condition, but I recommend we omit any references to the body armor.”

“Yes, that would raise more questions we don't want to answer.”

“What about the two kidnappings at the scene?”

“Well, that depends. What does the press say about that?”

“So far they report two agents seen taking them into protective custody. The FBI jackets the kidnappers wore fooled the press, too.”

“Good, then let's not say anything about the kidnappings at all.”

“And if I'm asked about them?”

Regan sighed. “Can you stall, avoid revealing information about them? I really prefer not to say anything at all.”

Jeffries nodded. “I may take some shrapnel on that one, but I can avoid saying anything concrete. However, if one of them figures out the kidnapping angle, that situation will change.”

“Keep your fingers crossed that it doesn't change, then!”

“I've scheduled the press conference for noon. Do you plan to attend?”

“I'd prefer not to, if possible.”

“It's not only possible, but I highly recommend you stay away. If you’re not there, it makes it impossible for a reporter to corner you on some unexpected question. In fact, you'll have to be on your guard from now on. They have your description, and if any of them spot you they'll have a microphone in your mouth within seconds. Trust me when I say you don't want that to happen. If it does happen, just keep saying 'no comment' to every question they ask. If they persist, direct them to my office.”

“Okay, then, we agree. Anything else?”

“No, that should do it,” Jeffries replied. “Leave me your card in case something comes up that requires your attention.”

She did so, shook his hand, and left the room. At least she didn't have to face all those reporters. Her cell phone rang. “Regan.”

“Special Agent Regan, this is the comm center. I have a caller on the line asking for you by name. He says he represents the Agorist Underground. Shall I put him through?”

Her heart rate accelerated a bit as she replied, “Yes, right away.”

She heard a click. “Go ahead Special Agent Regan.”

“Regan here.”

“Special Agent Regan, my name is AJ. Perhaps Lizzie told you about me?” a deep voice said.

“No, she didn't,” Regan said, her heart rate speeding up.

“Oh, well, I represent the Agorist Underground. I presume you've heard of us.”

“Yes, I know about your organization.”

“Good, that saves time. I have some good news for you. We recovered Lizzie Kohn and Michaela Knight last night.”

“What do you mean...I'm sorry, I don't know your last name.”

“Just call me AJ,” came the reply with a definite smile attached to it.

“I see. So you're the ones who kidnapped them last night, masquerading as FBI agents.”

“Come now, Regan. We didn't take them initially. We both know who did. However, we did avail ourselves of some information that came to our attention immediately after the kidnapping. We organized a counter-operation. We successfully rescued them in Harlem within the hour. If you check with the NYPD you'll discover a record of a minor incident near the Savoy Ballroom last night. We now have them under our protection.”

“And why does the Agorist Underground take an interest in this case?”

“I think you already know. We'll even meet with you to discuss next steps. We ask in return that you include Mr. Justin Knight in that discussion. We want to speak with him directly. We would prefer to do so in private, but given the fact that he currently enjoys your protection, we recognize the necessity of including you in the conversation.”

“You intrigue me. Where and when would you like to meet?”

“I’ll come to Federal Plaza.”

“FBI headquarters? Doesn't that take you into the lion's mouth?”

“Maybe,” AJ said, once again the sound of a smile evident in his voice, “but I'm willing to take that chance in this case.”

“You must want to speak with Mr. Knight very badly. I'm sure you realize that your cover will be broken if you come to our headquarters,” Regan said carefully.

“Perhaps, but that's not important. I'm a very minor person in a minor role for the AU. Even if you arrest and question me, I simply can't give you a lot of information that could compromise the AU itself. I volunteered because I believe the potential rewards outweigh the risks. Also, I care about my friend.”

“Your friend? And what rewards are you talking about?”

“That's all I'm prepared to say about that,” AJ replied. “I'm sure you understand.”

“Yes, I think I do. Very well. Shall we say 12:00 noon?”

“You have a press conference scheduled at that time.”

“You're very well informed. However, I have no plans to attend that press conference myself. One of our spokespeople will handle the press in this case.”

“Unfortunately, I have plans of my own at that time. I can meet you at 3:00 p.m. on the 23rd floor of 26 Federal Plaza.”

“3:00 p.m. then,” Regan agreed, and they disconnected.

She next took a call from one of the officers guarding Justin, and after hearing what he had to say to her and then asking Justin to wait long enough for a doctor to check him over, she called the precinct and instructed the captain on duty to arrange for Justin's release from the hospital, then to bring him to Federal Plaza by noon with a large police escort. A few minutes later, she got the word that the doctor had cleared Justin. After another brief call to Justin, assuring him he would leave soon, she arranged a secure call to the Director in Washington.

“Regan, you've had a bad night,” the Director said immediately upon connection.

“Yes, but a better morning, sir.” She told him about the call from AJ.

“At least you have the video. That should calm down our adversaries. I presume you had a copy made for the archives. I'll write an order to have it classified. When does Roone pick it up?”

“He's scheduled to pick it up at 11:00 a.m.”

“You must get him out of the office as soon as possible. You do realize that, don't you?”

“Yes, sir. You can count on me.”

“So as we suspected, they planted the tutor.”

“Yes, sir, we think so.”

“Do you have any concerns about this AJ's willingness to 'enter the lion's mouth' as you put it to him?”

“Not at all. Naturally, we hoped for this kind of entrée. His willingness to meet at our office intrigues me, but I don't think we have anything to lose by it. I assume he wants to ask Knight to join them.”

“I agree. What will you tell him if he asks whether Knight is under arrest?”

“Just that we don't recommend that he leave FBI protection. He will counter that given the circumstances, staying in FBI protection might lead to his arrest if the President orders it.”

“Precise and to the point. You have the situation well in hand. This is your first contact, Regan. You know I'm taking a risk here with this plan. Make sure nothing goes wrong, like another assassination attempt on Knight.”

Regan blushed. “Yes, that caught me by surprise. They won't catch me off-guard again.”

“As I thought. Actually, it worked out well for us. In my experience, nothing replaces sheer good luck. I want to impress upon you the importance of this mission. As you know from the briefing file you read so quickly and efficiently last evening, we have a very sensitive situation. When the President signed the executive order requiring the video's recovery without the bureau learning its contents, I believed and still believe that order unenforceable. Nevertheless, it creates a very ticklish problem. On the one hand, corporate intelligence gathering has increased to the point where it threatens our territory within the current and future administrations. On the other hand, we dare not challenge it because of the political climate regarding the banking and financial industry.”

“So, we must pretend to have retrieved the video while successfully adhering to the absurd requirement the President placed upon us.”

“I wouldn't call the requirement 'absurd' to the President's face.”

Regan smiled and said, “No, I suppose not, sir.”

“But you analyze it well I can't overemphasize the most important point however. We need to make this contact with the Agorists a complete success, without those goons at Hanover-Rush getting wind of it. Otherwise, it will permanently compromise the future value of this overture. We have an excellent opportunity before us. If we can turn first contact into an ongoing relationship, it won't only expand our intelligence gathering activities, but it will also give us a much-needed leg up on the corporate intelligence community, including Hanover-Rush's insufferable goon...er...security team.”

“Yes, sir, I understand completely. I wish we could arrest them.”

“Me too. Just between us, the President's position on this has become quite insufferable. Very good, carry on, Regan,” and he switched off.

At precisely 11:00 a.m., Nevio Roone strode into the building at Federal Plaza like he owned the place. When the guard at the desk asked him to sign in, he did so only grudgingly, his demeanor clearly suggesting his disgust. As quickly as possible he got on the elevator to the 23rd floor. Informed of his imminent arrival, Regan met him as the door opened.

“Mr. Roone,” she said, offering her hand. He shook it reluctantly. “This way,” she indicated, without preamble or greeting. She led him to an interview room down along the corridor.

“You don't want to meet in your office?” Roone challenged her with a sneer.

“I don't have an office in this building. I left my office in Washington D.C.”

Roone's face told her he didn't appreciate the implied snobbery, but he said nothing. Regan just smirked.

“Sit down, please,” she said in her coldest voice as she walked to the opposite side of the table. Once seated, she pulled a paper out of a manila folder and placed it in front of him. “This is a standard release form which we need you to sign indicating your agreement that by turning the disk over to you we meet our obligation to you.”

“Where's the disk?”

“Right here!” She pulled a CD-size disk out of the folder and placed it on the desk in front of him. The label said, “A History of the United States, vol. 5.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No, it's not a joke,” Regan replied calmly. “This is the disk on which they stored the video at the Knight estate. Apparently your second story man missed it. A pretty smart hiding place, as it turns out. Who would think to seek a video like this on a disk for a computerized educational course? It certainly fooled your guy.”

“I want to verify it before I leave,” Roone said, refusing to rise to her bait.

“Go ahead.”

“Got a computer I can use?”

“Our instructions were not to play this disk in any way. That means it can't be played on any of our computers,” Regan said with a slight smile. “You're welcome to play it on your own laptop.”

“I didn't bring one, bitch!”

“Well, that was pretty stupid of you, wasn't it?”

“Be warned, woman! You're playing with fire!” Roone stormed at her, rising to his feet and pounding the table with his fist.

Regan brought her hand out from under the table so that Roone could see the gun in her hand pointed at his crotch.

“And you're playing with your life, not to mention your private parts,” Regan said coolly. “Now sit down so we can finish our business quickly. Or shall I call in reinforcements?” she added sweetly, reaching with her other hand for the phone on the table.

Just as she picked up the receiver and reached with her index finger to press a button on the phone, he put up his hands defensively and said, “Okay, okay, keep your knickers on,” as he sat back down nervously.

She put down the phone and waited, still pointing the gun at him.

“Well,” she said, “Are you going to sign for the disk, or are you just going to sit there?”

“I'm signing, I'm signing,” he said, waving it all away as he reached for the pen she tossed on the table. After signing the form, he said, “Would you mind pointing that thing somewhere else?”

“Yes, I believe I do mind. Now take your disk and get out of here!”

“Not so fast!” he said, watching the gun out of the corner of his eyes. “We want Knight, too!”

“Justin Knight? What makes you think we plan to turn Mr. Knight over to you?”

“He stole the video!” Roone declared, rage seeping into his voice despite the gun she continued to point at him. “We intend to press charges against him. You should already have him under arrest!”

“And what evidence can you show that he stole the video?” she said quietly, oblivious to his rage. Holding a .38 pointed at him made it easier to stay cool.

“It's ours, isn't it! And he had it at that friggin' estate of his! What more proof do you need?”

“How about proof that it originally belonged to you?”

“It belongs to my bank!”

She stared at him silently. “Prove it!”

Roone glared at her, and then spat with a malevolent grin. “Do I need to ask my boss to call your boss's boss again?”

“Go ahead,” she said, offering him the phone. “It won't do you any good.”

Roone studied her face carefully like a poker player trying to spot a bluff. Regan didn't flinch, didn't even move a muscle. Roone shivered slightly. This bloody woman acted very confidently...too confident for her own good, really. What did she know that he didn't know?

He decided not to force the issue, thinking it best not to push things for the moment. He didn't really expect her to turn Knight over to him right now. Besides, if his team didn't let him down again, he expected Knight in his grasp within the hour. He signed the form, grabbed the disk, and stormed out of the room without another word.

After he left, she relaxed her posture and put the gun away. That guy will explode one of these days, and I don't want to be around when it happens.

Lizzie felt like she just laid her head down on the pillow when something roused her from sleep. She looked up and saw a lighted painting of an outdoor scene on the wall, which helped bring some life to the otherwise windowless walls of the room. The painting showed no light the night before, and Lizzie realized that it had some kind of internal programming that turned the light up slowly, mimicking the effects of daylight. The light awakened her, and that fact gave her a curious sensation. She couldn't see outside, but it felt like morning.

She saw a clock on a nearby table that said 10:03. Let's see...that meant she'd slept for, what, five hours? Six? She got up and crept over to Michaela sleeping soundly in her bed. She put her hand gently on Michaela's shoulder.

“Come on, Michaela, wake up. It's almost lunchtime already!” she said as she shook her by the shoulder.

“Wha-at?” Michaela mumbled, still half asleep.

“Aren't you hungry? We need to get the day started,” Lizzie replied.

“I'm tired,” Michaela said sleepily.

Lizzie smiled and said, “Okay, sleep a few more minutes, and I'll take a shower. Then it'll be your turn.”

Michaela mumbled something and then drifted quickly back to sleep.

A short while later, Lizzie sat on the edge of Michaela's bed with one white towel around her body and another wrapped around her head. Steam emanated from the bathroom. Again she touched Michaela's shoulder to awaken her.

“I'm still tired. Can't I sleep some more?” Michaela moaned.

“Don't you want to go find your father?” Lizzie asked.

That did it. Michaela sat up and propped herself on her elbows. “Dad?”

“Yes, but we've got to get ready for the day and go find some breakfast first. Are you hungry?”

“I'm so hungry I could eat a cow. How's the water?” she asked as she noticed what Lizzie wore.

“The hot water's great. You take a shower, and then we can go find something to eat, okay?”

Michaela got up quickly and stripped off as she ran into the bathroom. On her way, she grinned and stopped at the TV to turn it on before disappearing. Fortunately, the sound level remained low on the set.

Lizzie got up and dropped her towel on the bed while she started to dress. She moved slowly, trying to plan out their day as best she could. She lacked key information, which they needed to acquire before they could make any concrete plans. For the moment, they could get some breakfast, try to find AJ, and then see what they could learn about Justin.

Michaela emerged from the shower in a towel of her own and sat down in front of the TV with the remote, flipping through the channels. Except for the usual mid-day fare, she didn't find much. Suddenly, she came upon a different channel–one she didn't recognize.

She said, “Hey Lizzie, take a look at this; it's an underground street.”

Lizzie glanced over at the TV. The screen had an AU logo in the lower right corner of the picture. The picture had the flavor of a local program. A roving reporter interviewed shoppers in a street, except that it clearly didn't exist above ground, although it shone with bright street lights. Looking more closely, she realized it had street signs but no traffic lights, and all traffic proceeded on foot. The shops stood separately, resembling buildings you'd find on Main Street USA rather than the condo-like style that shops usually have in a mall.

“Turn up the sound,” Lizzie said, and Michaela complied.

“...Agorist Village, not your typical American town. Participants in the Agorist Underground created Agorist Village to provide an alternative shopping experience for our allies and sympathizers. Here you'll find products and services not normally available in the 'real' world, and every merchant accepts alternative precious metal currencies, as well as fiat dollars. The 'hard' nature of the currencies used most frequently here and throughout the Agorist network make it possible for merchants to offer their wares at stable, consistent prices so you can think globally and buy locally. For AUTV, I'm Jasmine.”

The camera switched to a news studio, again with an AU logo on the back wall, where an unfamiliar newscaster said, “In other news, a TST operation in Harlem last night created some interesting fireworks for locals when a magnesium burst lit up Lenox Avenue around 3:30 a.m. TST spokespeople refuse to confirm involvement, but the event, reported to AUTV by local AU supporters, resulted in a driver of a black sedan plowing into a parked car and a few instances of temporary blindness. No one reported any serious injuries. The driver hit and ran, despite the efforts of locals on the scene to stop him, leaving a damaged parked car behind. While TST denies any involvement, a magnesium burst suggests their fingerprints are all over this incident, given their prior history with that element. AUTV hasn't discovered yet the reason for their involvement. Count on this: we will inform you as soon as any new developments arise.”

Michaela turned down the volume with her remote. She and Lizzie exchanged glances.

“Very interesting,” said Lizzie, raising her eyebrows.

Michaela fidgeted. She bounced softly on the bed with pent-up energy as she watched the program while putting on her clothes. Lizzie suspected that the events of the past 24 hours still keyed her up. She remembered that she promised Michaela late last night to explain why it had all happened. This morning, she felt no closer to knowing how to explain it without telling her everything. Perhaps I should tell her everything. She's 14, after all. She's old enough to understand most of this.

But part of her hesitated because she knew that some of the story should come from Justin, particularly the part about her mother and the bank's role in her mother's death. True, Lizzie herself played a key role in those events, making her an ideal witness, but at the very least shouldn't her father participate in that discussion when it took place? Lizzie thought he should. She didn't know how she could keep Michaela satisfied with cursory answers in the meantime, but she didn't see any reasonable alternative.

She stood up, found her ID lanyard, draped it over her head and said, “Shall we go?” Michaela immediately jumped up, thereby making clear the overdue nature of the request.

“Great! I'm starving,” Michaela said as she practically ran to the door.

In the hallway, they saw signs on the walls they'd overlooked the previous night. One indicated a dining room one floor up. They walked back to the main entry room past the first aid station. The elevator door stood closed, and they could only find a down button. Michaela found another elevator door a little further down the hallway.

“Let's try this one,” she shouted to Lizzie.

“There's no need to shout,” Lizzie replied as she walked to the door Michaela found. Sure enough, it looked like an elevator, and this one had an “up” button. Michaela pressed it. Within seconds, the door slid open. They walked inside. The panel showed ten buttons labeled 1 through 10. The “1” button glowed, suggesting their current location. Michaela pressed the second floor button, and moments later the door closed.

When the door slid open again, they saw a fairly large room containing about a half dozen tables with crisp, white cloths and colonial-era wooden chairs. While empty at the moment, they saw a server walk through an adjacent door, a barely, aromatic trace of bacon, coffee, and dish detergent following him.

“Oh! Have you come for breakfast?” she asked. Her white blouse and black slacks would have fit in at any five-star restaurant, but her long, dark brown hair hanging down her back suggested a more relaxed atmosphere.

“Yes,” Lizzie replied. “I hope we're not too late.”

“No problem,” the server said, her young eyes smiling as much as her mouth. “Most of our guests have already eaten, but we can fix something up for you. Where would you like to sit?”

“Anywhere is fine,” Lizzie replied, then turned to Michaela and said, “Do you have a preference?”

The room had no windows, but a colorfully lit aquarium dominated the left-hand wall.

“Let's sit over there,” Michaela replied, gesturing with her head, “so we can watch the fish.”

“By all means,” Lizzie answered, grateful for anything that might put off the dreaded conversation that she knew Michaela would eventually demand. A distraction like a fish aquarium seemed tailor-made.

Michaela grabbed a seat that faced the aquarium, and Lizzie sat beside her, facing the elevator, her back to the wall. The huge aquarium, probably eight feet wide and four feet high, sat recessed into the wall. It teemed with fish that fed on small pellets that floated down from the surface. They could see an attendant through the water on the other side who disbursed more fish food onto the surface of the water. The hungry fish darted furiously at the floating bits and pellets, gobbling them up hungrily.

Lizzie didn't know fish varieties, but she recognized some goldfish. Guppy-sized fish predominated, and their coloring glowed spectacularly. Every color of the rainbow poured into their visual field. One reflected an all-American appearance with a marine blue and white front and a red tail. Another swam clothed in pinks and violets. A few glowed a bright neon green, and the goldfish reflected a brilliant gold coloring. She realized that the lighting in the tank came from very strategic locations that created an almost surrealistic environment.

The seascape of the aquarium represented all manner of coral, plant life, and rock shapes for the fish to swim around and under. Lizzie could see a number of fish hiding in recessed areas. It almost resembled an underwater amusement park. The person who designed it had creative talent.

Michaela's gaze transfixed on the constantly shifting scene.

“It's beautiful!” she gushed in almost a whisper.

Their server put place settings in front of each of them, adding a simple menu on top of their plates.

“My name is Lisa, and I'll take care of you this morning. I'll give you a moment to decide what you want,” she said with a smile. “Would you like coffee or juice in the meantime?”

“Yes, please, coffee for me,” Lizzie said gratefully. “Michaela, would you like some orange juice?”

“Okay,” she replied distantly, her attention remaining fixed on the water-and-light show before her.

Lisa nodded and smiled as she headed off toward the kitchen.

Lizzie picked up her menu and read it. The small 6x9 heavy stock card displayed a half dozen main breakfasts on one side and an ample a la carte section with beverages on the other. No prices appeared anywhere on the card. She decided on a standard breakfast: eggs, toast, bacon, and hash browns. She felt exceptionally hungry this morning, so she decided she'd add sausages as well. Their late night adventure the previous evening certainly whetted her appetite.

“Michaela, what do you want for breakfast?”

“Pancakes,” Michaela replied instantly without taking her eyes off the water show.

Lizzie decided she'd better leave the girl alone. The silence soothed her, and she gladly put off the inevitable uncomfortable subject until later. She looked around the tastefully furnished room, realizing that like every other room they saw so far, the lack of windows stood out. The aquarium certainly made up for it, but the windowless rooms suggested an aspect of security to the place. She guessed that their benefactors didn't want the guests to have any outside visual references that might reveal their exact location.

In addition to the aquarium and the dining section itself, the room offered a large reproduction of Eugene Delacroix's famous painting, “Liberty Leading The People” which adorned most of the wall to the left of the elevator. The violence of the image seemed out of place to Lizzie, considering the room's purpose as a dining facility. Revolution might interest some people these days, but the image didn't improve her appetite for breakfast. Still, the vivid colors of the painting did provide a startling contrast to the otherwise formal appearance of the room.

A door next to the aquarium opened, and a young man in white shirt and black pants similar to their server walked through the room. He smiled at her and nodded as he passed but said nothing. Having finished his fish-feeding task, he now moved quickly toward his next chore, whatever it might be. Just after he passed through the door to the kitchen, she saw Lisa emerge through the same door and walk over to their table.

“Have you decided what to have?”

“Yes,” Lizzie replied. “My young friend would like some pancakes, and I've decided on your #2 breakfast with both sausages and bacon.”

“Very good. She's not your daughter then?”

“No,” Lizzie said with a little laugh, “it just seems that way sometimes.”

Lisa smiled and replied, “I understand. We'll have your breakfasts for you in about 10 minutes.” She swept from the room in a flash.

Lizzie thought about the irony of the server's question. She played the role of surrogate mother to her best friend's daughter. She'd done it for so long that it came quite naturally now. Her conversation with Justin from last night brought memories of Snow to her mind. Six years later she seemed just as alive as the last day they talked together. The events of that horribly tragic day resurrected in her mind in light of current events. One moment she reunited with her friend, the next moment she stood on the side of a highway gazing down at her broken body.

No! Don't go there. Her face began to burn a bit, and her eyes started filling with tears. Snow had been so young...too young. She glanced around for a box of tissues and found one on a small table next to the wall beside her. Grabbing a couple of tissues, she dabbed one to her eyes to mop up the excess liquid.

“What's wrong, Lizzie?” Michaela asked, her attention now drawn away from the aquarium.

“Oh! It's nothing,” Lizzie waving her hand vaguely.

“No it's not. What's wrong?”

Lizzie shook her head, completely unready to have this conversation. “No, really, it's nothing. It's a pretty aquarium, isn't it!”

Michaela watched the aquarium for a moment. “Yes, it's beautiful. I watched two of the fish playing. They kept chasing each other around the corners and hiding places in the rocks. It reminded me of a game of cops and robbers. It got me to thinking about last night. We sort of played cops and robbers, didn't we? Only this game was for real.”

She looked back at Lizzie, who nodded her agreement.

“Lizzie, why was I kidnapped? You know something about it, don't you. I can feel it. It's why you're crying.”

God! She's just like her mother. Snow could always tell what went on in Lizzie's head too. The similarity unnerved her. What could she say? The moment she dreaded had arrived. She looked down at her plate a moment, and glanced up again at Michaela.

“I do know something about it, but your father knows even more. He should tell you,” Lizzie said, having decided on this particular form of evasion.

Michaela wore her stubborn face.

“Dad can tell me what he knows later. Tell me what you know now.”

Lizzie balked.

“I can’t do that. In order to tell you what I know, you must know what he can tell you first. Otherwise, the story won't make sense to you.”

“Then you must tell me. I'll forgive Dad later on for not telling me what was going on, but I must know now the part you can tell me. If that means telling me part of his story, then fine. I'll live. So will he.”

Just then, Lisa came in with their breakfasts. The food looked delicious, and both of them tucked in and went silent as they ate their food for a few minutes.

Lizzie gratefully let the talk subside while Michaela poured an incredible amount of maple syrup on her pancakes. She didn't like the conversation's course at all. To the contrary, it threatened to get out of hand far too quickly, although she saw no way out of it. Could I get away with telling just the bare bones of the story? She doubted it, but felt she must try.

Unfortunately, Michaela didn't give her much of a break.

“So tell me what you know,” she said with a mouthful of pancakes in mid-chew.

“Don't talk with your mouth full,” Lizzie said automatically.

Michaela glared at her.

“All right, but just the highlights, okay? You must promise not to press me for the details.”

Michaela replied instantly, “I promise,” knowing Lizzie couldn't see her fingers crossed under the table.

Lizzie gathered her thoughts for a moment and then started her story: “Your father received a video of a secret conversation between your great uncle David, Harry Peterson, the Secretary of the Treasury, and Barry Bradford, the Chairman of the Federal Reserve. In this conversation, your great uncle made an admission about our monetary system that no top level banker or government official ever previously admitted. They had planned for and expected the current financial crisis many years in advance and intended to bilk taxpayers out of billions and ultimately trillions of dollars.”

“Who gave Dad the video?”

Lizzie sighed. “I did.”

Michaela's eyes widened as she said, “Where did you get it?”

“I can't tell you that just yet, but someone secretly recorded the meeting without the knowledge of any of the participants.”

Michaela continued to stare at her but said nothing, so Lizzie picked up the thread of her story again.

“The bank discovered the video's existence and contacted your father to gain custody of it. They know that if the video gets into the hands of the media or gets played for the American people there will be hell to pay. It rated such a high priority for them that they arranged to you have kidnapped at the same moment that they contacted your father to collect the video from him. They felt they needed instant leverage over him. That's why they kidnapped you.”

Michaela continued to listen. “Your father received a visitor from the bank's security department, demanding the video. He told your father they took you. He promised your return once they had the video.”

Now Michaela protested, “You mean, Dad could have had me released immediately? Why didn't he just give them the video?”

“Because he didn't have it. He gave it back to me. Your father also isn't used to being pushed around. Later, I convinced him that giving the video to the bank wouldn't necessarily get you back anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because they wouldn't know he didn't make a copy of it.”

Michaela accepted that answer, much to Lizzie's relief. Perhaps she wouldn't have to spill all the beans right now after all.

“Why is the video so important to them?”

This caught Lizzie by surprise. Isn't it obvious? “Because they've never admitted it before.”

“So what? What difference does that make? Who'd really care?”

An interesting point. A lot of people in the financial field would care. Economists like herself would certainly care. The newscasters would have a field day with it, but how much would the average man in the street understand about its significance? Probably very little, unless someone explained it to them in detail.

She realized that her bacon and eggs tasted absolutely delicious, cooked to perfection. The sausage tasted delicious too, and the kitchen staff had considerately provided her an English muffin as well. It gave her the excuse to stay silent while she considered Michaela's question.

People would get the impression of the bankers' deceit, which would surprise very few. Some politicians would get upset about it and would call for congressional investigations. Taxpayer groups would scream bloody murder. A public relations black eye would result for Hanover-Rush and the Fed. It might create a foreign policy quandary for the current administration, but they expected to leave office in January, no matter what. Wall Street might dither about it, but in the end traders would claim it strengthened the administration's claim that the banking system needed the bailout money.

Beyond that, very few other people would truly understand the importance of it. Public trust in banking and Wall Street would reduce, but that had happened many times in the past. They survived before, and they'd survive such scandal again. The public would see it as a hardship, but one they couldn't avoid. In a few weeks, it would be old news.

“I suppose,” Lizzie began after a time, noticing that Michaela still watched her intently, absent-mindedly chewing on the huge forkful of pancakes she'd shoved in her mouth, “the average person won't care very much in the long run. It will upset people at first, but as with other things beyond the control of ordinary mortals, they will eventually dismiss and ignore this too. However, it makes a big difference within the financial community. One of the myths that supporters of the Federal Reserve system, and indeed of all central banking systems, have long argued is that central bankers play an important role in stopping financial crises before they become too damaging. They argue that central bankers never act for their own gain, that they never actually cause the problems, but rather act for the good of all of us. Further, the politicians tell everyone that each crisis surprised us all, including the experts. The video admission provides direct evidence that none of that is true.”

“Why is that important?”

“Well, our monetary system survives mainly due to the public's confidence that the government stands behind it. If people think the corruption from within happened intentionally, then they think government backs corruption. People won't trust the dollar as a result. For a fiat money system, such news creates a crisis all by itself.”

“Fiat money...that means that the money is government controlled, right?”

“No, but you're close. Those who control fiat money are given full monopoly power over the money supply by the government. The word 'fiat' means 'by decree' and means the money is money simply because the government says it's money. However, our money gets created by the Federal Reserve system, which is privately owned, not by the government.”

“Oh, it's not? Really?” Michaela asked with great surprise. “Why doesn't the government own it? I thought they did because of its name.”

“No! It's run privately. The only direct input the government gets is that the chairman and members of the Federal Reserve Free Open Market Committee get appointed by the President with the consent of Congress. They called it the Federal Reserve because they didn't want people to realize it was created and run by the bankers themselves.”

“You mean, like a conspiracy?”

“Well, yes, in a sense it was a conspiracy. In November 1910, a group of Wall Street bankers met in secret on Jekyll Island off the coast of Georgia to map out a plan for a central banking system. The Federal Reserve Act passed just three years later almost exactly matched the plan those bankers created.”

“Wow! That's unbelievable! Why doesn't the government run it?”

“The monetary system? The government doesn't run it because the U.S. Constitution largely forbids it. Article I, Section 10 says:

No State shall enter into any Treaty, Alliance, or Confederation; grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal; coin Money; emit Bills of Credit; make any Thing but gold and silver Coin a Tender in Payment of Debts; pass any Bill of Attainder, ex post facto Law, or Law impairing the Obligation of Contracts, or grant any Title of Nobility.

It impressed Michaela that Lizzie could quote the Constitution word for word. Truthfully, it impressed Lizzie herself. She knew that passage so well because of her studies.

“Some people argue,” Lizzie continued, “that the Constitution does not empower the Federal Government to print paper money. In fact, this sentiment helped defeat earlier attempts at central banking in the United States prior to the Federal Reserve, the last being the Second Bank of the United States, which closed in 1832. Critics challenged the government in court when President Lincoln issued 'greenbacks,' money that was printed by the U.S. Treasury during the Civil War, and governments have historically been very untrustworthy when it comes to running money supplies directly.”

She paused to take another mouthful of eggs with a bite of muffin and to drink some coffee. This conversation turned into a lecture, which she hadn't intended. Still, she successfully avoided talking about the details of the kidnapping that she wanted so much to sidestep.

“It's also clear from records at the Constitutional Convention,” she continued after swallowing her food, “that the founders wanted money to be gold or silver, not paper. Remember how we talked about the earliest attempts in the colonial era to issue paper money that turned out so disastrously? Well, those attempts remained fresh in the minds of the founders at the Constitutional Convention in 1787. Transcripts of the debates made it clear that they didn't want the government issuing 'Bills of Credit'. The 'Bills of Credit' clause means money substitutes, paper money and other promissory notes, issued by the government to serve as money in place of gold or silver are constitutionally prohibited,” Lizzie said, finishing her short lecture before taking another piece of toast.

Michaela chewed on that, along with her pancakes, for a long time in silence, affording Lizzie a chance to eat some more of her delicious breakfast. Lizzie could practically see the wheels spinning in Michaela's head, but she gratefully welcomed the lack of questions about yesterday. With any luck, she might avoid the kidnapping question entirely.

Eventually, Michaela said between mouthfuls, “Why are bills of credit both paper money and promissory notes? Aren't promissory notes something you sign when you borrow money?”

This question impressed Lizzie. It validated the claim she'd made to Justin last night that Michaela would eventually figure banking out whether Lizzie explained it to her or not.

After taking a sip of coffee, she smiled at Michaela as she answered, “That's because paper money is created by creating debts.”

Michaela stared at Lizzie as if she had two heads.

“How do they do that?”

Lizzie smiled sadly and answered, “First, the government creates a piece of paper with a pretty design and an official seal on it. They call it a treasury bond, bill, or note. A U.S. Savings Bond is one example of such a piece of paper among many others. The government promises the holder of this paper to pay a specific amount of money plus interest on a specific date. Next, the piece of paper goes to the Federal Reserve, which classifies it as an asset on the assumption that the government will actually honor their promise. In return for the piece of paper, the Federal Reserve sends a check to the government. This check has no pre-existing money behind it other than the piece of paper the government gave them! In this manner, they create the money out of thin air.”

“How much is the bond worth?” Michaela asked.

“It's worth whatever the government and the Fed say it's worth.”

“But don't they have to have an asset to back it up?” Michaela said, knowing that's how loans usually got made.

“Good point. No, they don't. The Fed simply declares the piece of paper an asset and enters it as an asset in their bookkeeping,” Lizzie replied.

“Even though it has no real value until the government honors it?”

“Yes.”

“That's bizarre!”

“Yes, it certainly is.”

“What does the Fed do with the bond?”

“They sell it to someone else, usually a bank or a large company, if they can.”

Michaela puzzled over that one for a few more moments, while Lizzie started on her hash browns.

Michaela thought the whole thing crazy, although she could see that it had a certain twisted logic to it.

“So any time the Fed wants to create new money, it lends the money it creates to the government?”

“That's right, or they lend it to some other large company or government in return for a similar piece of paper. When the government spends the money, it eventually ends up deposited in the commercial banks. They count that money as an asset and use that asset to lend out even more money, which effectively creates more new money out of thin air.”

“So, what happens when those debts get paid off?”

“Then the money disappears back into the nothingness from which it originally came.”

“So if all the debts everywhere in the world get paid off, what would we do for money?”

“Good question. Actually, there wouldn't be any fiat money left. It would all disappear.”

“But that’s insane!” Michaela shouted.

Lizzie nodded her agreement, smirking.

Michaela stared at her with her mouth wide open in astonishment, and they both burst out laughing. “No way!” Michaela shouted.

“Way!” Lizzie laughed. "But it's worse than that. It means that if the economy needs stimulating, the Fed must create more money, which requires the country to go deeper into debt. If the money supply shrinks because debts disappear, it means that the economy falls into recession or worse. So the only way to have prosperity is to go deeper into debt. Of course, the economy only needs stimulating in the first place when society tries to recover from the last round of debt creation. The system also encourages individuals and businesses to buy things at higher prices by going deeper into debt. In essence, we never get a break to try to pay debts off, except those of us fortunate enough to make large enough sums of money to pay their own debts or who exercise extraordinary self-discipline over the long haul. However, the national debt doesn't get paid down at all; even the very wealthy don't escape the consequences, although obviously the poor get hurt much more. Meanwhile, the national debt just keeps growing.

“Think of it this way,” she continued, “As the early colonists learned the hard way, when you inflate the money supply, prices rise. With debt-based money, to inflate the money supply you have to go deeper into debt. The inflation happens because the extra money makes people think there's more demand for products and services. Basic laws of supply and demand tell us that when demand rises, prices also rise. So the price we pay for Fed-stimulated 'prosperity' is deeper debt, more interest payments, and higher prices.”

“That's why General Washington said what he said about a wagon load of money, isn't it!” Michaela interrupted.

“That's right. Inflating the money supply by creating more debt makes everything cost more, although what really happens is that the money becomes less valuable. Prices only seem to rise because the value of money falls. The more new money enters the money supply, the more existing money loses value.”

“So, when the Fed creates more money by going into debt, they make the money less valuable, right?”

“Yes. When the money supply shrinks by getting rid of debt, business activity decreases. The immediate net result is recession.”

“So why is it a crisis if debts aren't paid off? Because the people who are owed the money don't get their money back?”

“That's right”.

“Too weird,” Michaela giggled, shaking her head. Again, Lizzie sadly smiled in agreement. Michaela sat quietly for another long moment. “So why can't there be money without going into debt to create it?”

“There can. In fact, we used to have money just like that. Gold and silver served as money long before paper became money.”

“But they had to dig it up from the ground, right? So wasn't that like going into debt?”

“In a sense, but any 'debt' ended the moment the money entered the economy, and unlike fiat money, no interest payments followed every year for using gold or silver as money. The person who digs up the gold or silver refines it and turns it into coins or bullion bars, hoping to exchange them for goods and services directly and immediately, not to collect interest on it for years on end afterward like he or she would with a loan. Paper money creates a perpetual debt. Gold and silver do not. Most important, however, is that it's very hard to increase the amount of gold or silver money, but it's easy to print paper. So gold or silver are harder for bankers and politicians to manipulate for their own profit, to the hidden harm of everyone else.”

“So why don't we use gold or silver as money anymore?”

“That's a very good question. It has a long, complicated answer because of all the history involved, but mainly the bankers and governments debased and undermined gold and silver using a combination of paper money and fixed exchange rates. The law also failed to identify and prosecute certain kinds of monetary fraud by banks and politicians, practices which continue today. That combination proved more than gold or silver could overcome.”

“Why did the bankers and the government do it?”

“The people who fought for the creation of the Federal Reserve system and used it to undermine the gold standard did it because they make a lot more profit from fiat money than they ever could from gold or silver money,” Lizzie answered her. “With gold or silver as money, we wouldn't have the huge financial problems we face today, but the bankers wouldn't be as rich, and the politicians wouldn't be as powerful. The average individual, on the other hand, would benefit greatly.”

“Why haven't we tried to fix the problem since then?”

“The people in charge have no motivation to do so. The politicians don't want to give up the basis for so much of their power, and the bankers don't want to give up the basis for their ill-gotten wealth. But let's put that discussion aside for the moment,” Lizzie said, putting her napkin down after wiping her mouth. “What do you say we go explore this safe house and see if we can find out something about your father?”

Michaela liked the idea immediately and agreed. They got up from the table and went to the elevator.

When the elevator door opened, they stepped inside. The panel showed 10 floors, with the “2” button lit. Floors 4 through 10 all had the words “Security Floor” next to them in small letters.

Lizzie said, “Let's see what the 3rd floor looks like.” Michaela grinned and pushed the button.

Moments later, the door opened onto a hallway. Sounds of conversation came from both directions. Michaela didn't wait for Lizzie but just started walking to the left. Through the door, they came upon a sitting room where a number of lounge chairs lay scattered across the floor. A television played softly in the far right-hand corner, but no one watched it. On their left, an old man and a young boy sat across from each other at a small table huddled over a chess board. Most of the chairs around the room stood empty. They heard a noise off their right shoulder and turned. A dark-skinned man sat slouched in a lounge chair reading a book with his feet draped over the arm of another chair he apparently had pulled up.

“It's AJ!” Michaela shouted.

He grinned at them, showing his gold tooth as he put his book down.

“I wondered when you two would finally get up and around!” his deep voice boomed as he got to his feet.

Once he'd stood up he came over to give Lizzie a big, warm hello hug.

Lizzie whispered as she hugged him back, “Thank you for coming to our rescue last night. I never really thanked you properly. We really appreciate it.”

AJ smiled and said in his booming deep voice, “No problem. I couldn't let my favorite study partner down.”

Lizzie grinned in reply. Michaela acted a little put out until he gave her a hug too.

“Hey there, little one,” he said as he put his huge arms around her and gave her a gentle squeeze.

“Who are you calling little?” she demanded with her usual grin as she threw her arms around his huge neck, obviously pleased by the attention–so pleased in fact that she didn't let go for a long moment. AJ's grin relaxed into a happy smile, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the hug she gave back to him.

“Did you both sleep okay?” he asked Lizzie after Michaela released him.

“Pretty well, although I wouldn't mind getting a couple more hours.”

“Well, there's plenty of time around here. Take a cat nap anytime the mood strikes you.”

“We just had breakfast!” Michaela interrupted. “They have a beautiful aquarium down there.”

“It is beautiful, isn't it!” AJ agreed. “Sometimes I think it's the best part of eating here.”

“Can you take me to see my father now?” Michaela asked him.

Caught off-guard, AJ hesitated before answering, “Not just yet. First we have to arrange for his release from the hospital and from FBI protection.”

“We thought we'd do some exploring. That's how we ended up finding you,” Lizzie put in.

“Well, you won't find a lot to explore, to be honest,” AJ said, a little mournfully.

“But the building has ten floors, according to the elevator,” Michaela pointed out.

“Officially, yes,” AJ conceded, “but if you examine more closely the buttons for the 4th through 10th floors, you'll see them marked as 'Security Floors.' You need a special ID card to access them. I don't have sufficient access, so the time I tried one of them I found the elevator shooting down past the first floor to the garage level, where our lovely security guard greeted me and wanted to know what the heck I had in mind. Like you, I told her I just wanted to explore, and she said that if I wanted to explore I should take the shuttle over to the trading floor. So I did.”

“Shuttle?” Michaela asked. “What shuttle? What's a trading floor?”

“Well, they have a kind of minibus that shows up down in the garage on a prearranged schedule. Like everything else around here, it has no windows, but if you get on it you end up in another underground garage about a half an hour later. You slide your ID in the door, and it lets you onto the trading floor. It looks sort of like an underground mall. The decor supposedly resembles Main Street USA, but I think it looks plastic. Still, they've got some cool stuff there.”

“Oh, wow! Can we go, Lizzie?” Michaela begged.

“Well, I suppose so, but we need to go get your jacket from our room.”

“I'll go,” Michaela said as she ran back to the elevator.

“Michaela, wait!”

“Don't worry, she can't get into any real trouble around here,” AJ assured her. “The security's too good.”

Lizzie studied AJ's reassuring face for a moment, then relaxed a bit.

“What?” said Michaela who poked her head around the corner, returning in heed to Lizzie's call.

“Nothing,” said Lizzie. “Go ahead and get your jacket. We'll wait for you here.”

“Okay!” exclaimed Michaela as she disappeared. They heard the elevator door open a moment later, then close soon after.

“Have a chair,” AJ gestured to one beside his own, and they both sat down to wait for Michaela's return.

“So what's the real scoop with the security floors?” Lizzie queried. “I noticed you didn't say anything else about them.”

“I don't really know, but if you want my guess, I think they're not real.”

Bemused, Lizzie said, “Not real? Why do you say that?”

AJ lowered his voice a bit and said rather conspiratorially, “I mean I don't think they go anywhere. I think this building only has three floors and a basement.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, have you noticed the floors?”

“What do you mean?”

“They're springy. I don't mean that they have a carpet. I mean that if you jump up and down a little on them, they flex a bit. That probably means wooden floors, which suggests a brownstone or a townhouse style building rather than a steel and concrete building.”

Lizzie frowned skeptically. “Maybe, but why do they have an elevator with 10 floors?”

“Like I said, they could if the top seven floors don't exist. I'm guessing it's a security measure to find out who might try to sneak around and discover stuff they shouldn't discover.”

This impressed Lizzie. It added up.

Lizzie glanced around to make sure Michaela hadn’t returned yet. She lowered her voice to AJ. “So tell me more about Mr. Knight's condition. You didn't tell us much last night.”

AJ shrugged, “As far as we know, he's in good shape. The problem is that he's still in FBI hands. They've already demonstrated their willingness to sacrifice his interests in favor of their own. We're concerned that he won't be safe until we get him away from them.”

“How will you do that?”

“Well, let's just say we're working on it. I plan to contact the FBI directly today to set up a meeting. We'll just have to wait and see how it goes.”

“Michaela won't want to wait that long. I've already promised her we can look into her father's condition today. She's going to want to go visit him.”

“That's why I suggested the trip to the trading floor. It seemed like a good way to distract her until we can work out a way to free him.”

“Let's hope it works. You put quite an operation together for us last night. By my count about 20-25 people participated.”

“Well, it wasn't just me. I played the front man, and if I had to guess I'd put the number closer to 50. A lot of people worked behind the scenes, so to speak.”

“If true, then I'm even more impressed. All those people coming together in less than an hour to get the job done. Wow!”

AJ smirked and teased her, “You've been out of touch on that estate of yours for too long!”

“You know perfectly well it's not my estate!”

“Well, you know what I mean,” AJ said, laughing now. “In the past six years while you've been a virtual recluse, the AU grew considerably. As usual, no one knows the actual numbers, but it wouldn't surprise me if we tripled in size, possibly a lot more than that.”

“How do you know?”

“The Internet, mostly. The AU gets references all over the 'net, all around the world. If we had chapters, we'd probably have them in most Western countries and about half the Eastern ones. Try doing a search sometime, and you'll see what I mean.”

“So how come you holed up here with us?”

“Well, a number of our adversaries saw my face last night. I shouldn't show it today. So I'll just hide underground for awhile until things cool off out there. I guess I'm in the same shoes you are for now.”

“I'm sorry I got you into this AJ.”

“Don't be,” he replied, a touch of anger in his voice. “I'm glad I did it. You know why I'm in the AU. My reasons haven't changed.”

Just then Michaela appeared with her jacket in her hand. She implored, “Can we go now? I can't wait to see the underground mall.”

Lizzie turned back to AJ, who shrugged. “Why not? Let's go check the mini-bus schedule.”

The three of them went down to the first floor by elevator, where AJ found the schedule on a bulletin board next to the first aid station. It showed the mini-bus currently unscheduled due to lack of regular demand, but they could use a phone installed on the wall to request a special pickup. The phone had no dialer on it. AJ picked up the handset and waited a moment.

“Yeah, we want the mini-bus to the trading floor. ....Sounds good. We'll be downstairs waiting.”

“They're sending it over now. It should be here in about 20 minutes. Want to get a snack or something?”

“Actually, I want to get a couple things from our room. How about I get my stuff, and I can meet the two of you back here in about 15 minutes.”

“Okay,” AJ said.

“Can we go see the fish again?” Michaela asked him.

“I don't know why not, as long as you don't mind,” he said to Lizzie.

She smiled. “Sure, go ahead. I'll meet you two there.”

Upon reaching her room, she slid her ID in the slot and let herself in. After brushing her teeth and washing up a bit, she glanced around their room to decide what to take. Better take the laptop, she thought, and who knows how cold it might be outside? She grabbed her coat and picked up her laptop bag. It proved very handy last night, and she didn't like the idea of leaving it unguarded in her room, no matter how good the security.

She walked back to the elevator and rode it to the second floor, where she found AJ with Michaela who cried, “Let's go!”

They rode the elevator down one floor and took the other elevator to the basement level. A different guard sat on duty–a young man with red hair this time. Apparently he expected them, because he had mini-bus passes ready for them. He invited them to sit in the austere waiting area next to the door.

“It should be here in a minute or two,” he assured them with a slight Irish accent.

Sure enough, within two minutes the outside door opened and an older man peeked at them.

“You call for the bus?”

They got up and followed him out to the garage where a windowless van sat waiting for them. He opened the back door to let them in. Michaela eyed it warily.

“What's wrong,” Lizzie asked her.

“It doesn't have any windows, does it.” Michaela stated rather than asked.

“No, it doesn't.”

Michaela still stared at it as she said haltingly, “Why can't it have windows?”

AJ hesitated. “For security.”

Lizzie thought she knew Michaela's concern.

“You're nervous about what happened to us last night, aren't you?”

Michaela nodded.

“We're in safe hands, hon,” Lizzie assured her. She offered Michaela her hand, which the teen gratefully accepted, squeezing it tightly. Together they got inside the bus.

When they climbed in, they found four very comfortable lounge chairs bolted to the floor. The cramped but well-lit interior included a small mini-bar in the far corner.

“Make yourselves at home,” the driver said as he closed the door. “We should be there in about a half hour. I advise use of the seat belts.”

On closer inspection, Lizzie saw that each chair did indeed have a seat belt. How strange to see a lounge chair with a seat belt! Although it certainly made sense. She didn't remember seat belts the first time AJ took her for a ride in one of these vans. Maybe it had them and she just didn't remember.

They picked chairs and belted themselves in. After a moment, they felt a slight movement, then nothing.

“Hear that?” AJ asked.

“What?” said Michaela nervously. “I don't hear anything.”

“That's the point. This van is soundproofed. Notice how we hear no street sounds, no traffic sounds, not even the sound of our engine.”

“You mean we're driving now?”

“That's right, and notice how we feel almost no vibrations or feelings of the van shifting from side to side. These vans have the best suspension and shock absorption systems money can buy. We've probably made a few left and right turns already, but I'll bet neither of you felt them.”

“Remarkable,” said Lizzie, “and a very nice ride. But why?”

“Security,” AJ answered simply. “By taking away the sounds and feelings of the road, they make it almost impossible for their passengers to guess the route.”

Michaela's face showed how much this impressed her. She let go of Lizzie's hand and pushed her hand against the side of the bus.

“Wow! I feel almost no vibration at all!”

“Want something to drink?” AJ asked, turning his chair toward the bar. He reached for a handle above the bar and pulled it down. It opened like an old style secretary, revealing a variety of alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages in small bottles.

“I should warn you,” he said, “that they tack a fee for this onto your bill.”

“We're being billed for this?” Lizzie asked.

“Of course. You don't think TST does all this for free do you? We're not socialists after all.”

“I know, but I haven't seen anything like a bill yet.”

“Sure you have. You agreed when you first signed up with TST, and Michaela agreed when you checked into the safe house last night, remember? It listed all charges and fees incurred in your rescue. I believe they deferred the account until your employer can be reached. They assumed he'll pick up the tab, that he'll be quite happy to get his daughter and her tutor back in one piece. Besides, as a TST member, they have already agreed to help you no matter what.”

Lizzie didn't remember signing a form, but she had to admit she must have done so at some point. She must take greater care from now on. Certainly, Justin would cover all costs, but even so...

“What happens if someone needs help who doesn't have the money to pay for it?” she asked AJ.

“TST tries not to turn anyone away for lack of funds. They evaluate the customer's financial situation and charge based on an ability-to-pay scale. In a few cases, the client ends up doing some simple, safe work for TST for a short time to work off their obligation. TST is well funded, but as you know we believe that everyone should earn their own way in life. No one wants to take someone's last dollar, so we ask them to pay as best they can for the service they get. Of course, we expect someone as well off as your employer to pay full price.”

A short time later, the little bit of motion they felt stopped entirely. The back door opened, and their driver invited them to get out. Once again they found themselves inside a parking garage, although larger than the previous one. Before them they saw a double-doorway with a sign above it that said, Welcome to Main Street USA.

“Shall we?” AJ asked as he gestured with his hand, and the three of them walked to the door with AJ leading the way.

Once inside, a remarkable sight unveiled before them. Someone had constructed a stylized version of a typical small town main street, or rather an intersection of such a street. Michaela and Lizzie both recognized it from the TV program they saw earlier that morning. Looking around, they saw that the place didn't really look like a mall at all. A mall is usually a large, open, rectangular place full of rectangular stores packed side-by-side. The small space where they stood looked more like intersecting tunnels in a subway system. The intersection of tunnels had storefronts on each corner, and they could see hints of dark “buildings” down each of the four tunnels. The ceiling and walls consisted of machine-carved rock.

“How big is this place?” Lizzie asked.

“I'm not sure,” AJ answered, “but I've heard it's about half subscribed now. Those unfinished storefronts down there are new.”

He pointed down one of the tunnels. They saw construction going on in one of the unfinished storefronts, where they smelled fresh-cut wood and heard a lot of banging and pounding. A tape line blocked them from getting closer to it. Among the stores already open in the small square where they stood, they saw a bank, a restaurant, a grocery store, a book store, and a sidewalk café. They also saw a peculiar building that resembled a shrunken town hall, suitably labeled “Town Hall.”

“That's the management's offices for Main Street USA,” AJ explained as they eyed the Town Hall. “The manager has a peculiar sense of humor, I guess.”

“Does he own all this?” Michaela asked.

“No, he's just the manager. This is owned by the UMA.”

“What's the UMA?” Michaela asked.

“It stands for the United Merchants Agora, a relatively new AU group. They aggressively promoted the idea of underground shopping malls for quite some time. Main Street USA serves as their prototype. A lot of people in the AU thought it sounded impractical, but the UMA proved them wrong and that the UMA has lots of money behind it.”

The bank stood next door to Town Hall and bore a sign that read, “First Agorist Bank.” Unlike any regular bank you'd see in the above-ground world, it only had one teller window and one customer service desk. It reminded Lizzie more of a small corner newsstand than a bank on Main Street.

Next to the bank they saw a café, with a simple little sign that read, “The Villager”. Three small tables with chairs perched on the “sidewalk,” little more than a narrow rubber walkway between the shops. One customer sat reading a newspaper, while two others at a different table carried on a quiet conversation.

“It has a kind of Greenwich Village air to it, doesn't it,” Lizzie observed, and AJ nodded.

Across the “street” from the bank and the café they saw The Open Market, with a small produce stand out front. They could see customers inside the store with very small, short, compact shopping carts, although they couldn't readily tell how far into the interior the store extended. Lizzie saw very fresh and bright produce. She supposed that in order to survive here they had to offer superior (and perhaps pricey) merchandise compared to what one might find in a regular grocery store above ground. Catty-corner from the bank they saw Free Market Books, a tiny mom-and-pop bookstore. Down the tunnel beside the bookstore they saw a small sign for a restaurant (a small café, really) which bore the unusual name Taipan Tradewinds.

“It's an Asian foods restaurant,” AJ said, in answer to Lizzie's questioning gaze. “They offer Chinese, Vietnamese, Thai, Cambodian, and Indian cuisine.”

“It seems only right,” Michaela said matter-of-factly. The two adults stared at her curiously. “Well, isn't there supposed to be a Chinese restaurant in every town in America?”

They all chuckled at this.

“Let's grab a table,” AJ said, indicating the one where the gentleman with the newspaper sat a moment ago.

“I want to go see the bank,” Michaela declared.

“Why?” Lizzie asked in surprise. “There's nothing to see.”

True enough, the bank didn't seem to have much to offer, but Michaela walked the few, short steps to it anyway. They followed her as she confidently strolled to the customer service desk.

The young woman behind the desk said, “Ah yes, may I help you?”

“Is this a real bank?” Michaela asked.

“Of course it's real,” the woman answered, her very short dark hair barely moving as she nodded, and her warm eyes sparkled as she added, “My name is Rita. I'm the branch manager.”

“Branch manager?” Lizzie asked. “You mean the bank has more than this one branch?”

“Naturally,” Rita replied. “We have branches in 10 major cities around the world, and we're growing fast. We also do business above ground through Hanover-Rush.”

“That's my Dad's bank!” Michaela gushed.

“Oh, does your father have an account at Hanover-Rush?” Rita asked pleasantly.

“No, I mean he runs it.”

“Michaela, that's enough,” Lizzie said, a little worried about where this conversation might head.

Michaela whipped her head around to Lizzie. “Why, what's wrong?”

“We don't want to broadcast who your father is,” Lizzie whispered to her. “We've already had enough trouble yesterday, if you'll recall. Let's not invite more trouble today, okay?”

Rita watched all this with apparent interest, but she said nothing further on the subject.

“What kinds of accounts do you have?” Michaela asked her.

“Oh, we offer almost every kind of account you're already familiar with, along with some you may not be. For instance,” Rita answered, handing Michaela a small brochure. “This is our gold checking account. Account fees are quite reasonable, just one twentieth of a cent aurum per month plus transaction fees of one-hundredth of a cent aurum per item.”

“Aurum? What's that?”

“Aurum is the Latin word for gold. The scientific symbol for the element gold is AU, which is also derived from the word 'aurum'. AU also stands for the Agorist Underground.”

“You mean this is a checking account for gold money?” Michaela asked with surprise.

“Yes, that's right,” Rita patiently explained. “Some of our customers prefer to do business outside of the dollar-based economy entirely. This account works perfectly for them, and our fees rank among the lowest in the industry. We also offer our silver checking account for people who prefer to do business in that metal. Again, our fees rank among the lowest in the industry, just 40 cents argentum per month. Transaction fees are just one cent argentum per item. We also offer a combined account which allows the customer to write checks on either silver or gold, depending on their needs.”

“Argentum means silver?” Michaela guessed.

“You've got it!”

“Do people actually use these accounts?”

“Of course! We just began offering them within the past six months, but already we have over 10,000 customers. Here,” Rita said, reaching into one of her desk drawers. She pulled out a small cellophane package, kind of like a tiny lollipop without a stick. She offered it to Michaela, who took it and looked at it closely. It had a very small and flat silvery thing inside it about ¼ inch in diameter and paper thin. Michaela read the words First Agorist Bank embossed along the top of the cellophane with the words One Cent AG along the bottom.

“What is it?” Michaela asked.

“It's a silver penny, worth one cent argentum,” the branch manager replied. “It weighs exactly 1/100th of an ounce. In U.S. dollars, it's worth about 14 cents at today's exchange rates.”

“That's real silver?”

“.999 fine.”

Michaela looked questioningly at her.

“That means it's virtually 100% pure silver,” Rita explained.

“Not very practical,” Michaela observed doubtfully.

“It's not meant to be,” Rita answered with a laugh. “We use them mainly for marketing purposes. Feel free to keep it if you'd like.”

Michaela smiled and studied her new mini-coin.

“Do they come in larger sizes?”

“Yes, of course, we offer silver dimes, silver quarters, silver halves, and silver dollars, just like this country used to have. Unlike the old American coins which were only 90% silver, our new coins are virtually 100% silver and are weighed and measured to exact fractions of a full ounce of silver,” Rita said patiently.

As Michaela considered all this, she reexamined the brochure about the gold checking account.

“Why don't you have free checking accounts like other banks have?”

“We do, but not in gold or silver. We can arrange a Hanover-Rush dollar-based checking account for you, provided you give us the usual identification cards, birth certificates, social security numbers, etc. However, we don't get much call for them. In fact, I haven't had a single request for one since I began running this branch. People who choose our bank do so because they want a way to get out of the dollar economy.”

“But why can't you get a free gold or silver checking account?” Michaela persisted.

“Well, you need to understand that there's really no such thing. Even if you go into a regular bank like Hanover-Rush and get one of their free checking accounts, the account isn't really free. First of all, many of them require minimum balances, but even more than that those banks use your money to lend out to other people. The interest they collect for those loans pays for the checking accounts. Otherwise, they'd have to charge fees for their checking accounts, too. Further, we never lend out gold or silver money deposited with us in order to help provide a 'free' checking account, because that money does not belong to us to lend. It's your money, not ours. The fact that banks historically loaned out money that didn't belong to them is what ultimately led to all bank panics.”

“So you don't use fractional reserve banking?” Michaela asked, showing off her fluency in banking terminology. She was her father’s daughter, after all.

“So you understand then. Yes, fractional reserve banking is where banks keep part of the deposits made to them on reserve with a central bank rather than lending them out to help make sure that cash is available when people want to withdraw it.”

“Actually, I only understand it a little. Lizzie is my tutor, and she teaches me this stuff. She told me what you said–that banks get in trouble by lending out money they don't own. So they can't always have enough cash on hand when the depositors want their money back.”

Rita nodded her approval at Lizzie. “You're very lucky to have someone teaching you who is so knowledgeable. Yes, we consider such business practices dishonest. Besides, even if we did get one or more of our depositors to agree to such a loan, they'd want the interest for themselves. Dollar-based banks expect to keep most of the earnings and give small shares to the depositors in the form of interest, if they share any of it at all.”

“That's terrible!”

“I agree.”

“Come Michaela, we should get going,” Lizzie interrupted. “We've taken more than enough of this kind lady's time.”

“Oh, it's been my pleasure,” said Rita as she stood to shake hands with her departing guests, “and it's been a pleasure to meet you. It's usually a little slow this time of day, being mid-week and all, so your visit helped brighten my day.”

“You get more business on the weekend?” Lizzie asked.

“Oh yes!” Rita replied. “We get lines of people on the weekend, especially around the first of the month. Come back and see us anytime, though!”

They said their goodbyes and got up to leave. Main Street foot traffic had picked up a bit during their visit to the bank. They saw a number of people walking down the tunnels to the various shops, as well as some people watching the construction going on. A number of them wore sunglasses–a bit strange considering they walked indoors. Lizzie spotted a few Muslim women with brightly covered scarves around their heads and shoulders, and one man wore a black face mask and a dark suit, like Batman without a cape. She fought down the impulse to say, “Where's Robin?”

AJ noticed her reaction and commented, “Yeah, a lot of people show up here in various forms of disguise. This is, after all, an underground market.”

“Does that mean this is a black market?” Michaela asked.

Lizzie didn't know what to say to that, but AJ handled it easily saying, “Yes, it is in a sense. It's not the kind of black market where people deal in human slavery or tactical nukes, but laws certainly exist against using gold or silver as money. Much of the trade that takes place here gets done using precious metals, so some people like to come here incognito.”

“Do the police ever raid it?” Michaela persisted.

“Not yet,” AJ answered. “The UMA has it pretty well hidden, and you only get in if TST lets you in. They screen people pretty carefully before letting them arrive at the parking garage for the trading floor. No one gets here directly from street-level except TST staff with high security clearance.”

“But no one searched us when we came,” Michaela pointed out.

“Actually yes, they searched us, although you might not have noticed it. The doorway to both the garage in this place and at the safe house have metal detectors and X-ray machines in them. I wouldn't be surprised if they use ultrasound as well, although I have no idea how they do it. Plus, they already knew who you were before you arrived. They do extensive background checks on everyone who does business with them. It's pretty hard getting anything past them, although some people certainly have tried. Anyone hungry?”

“I am!” Michaela said. “Can we eat on the sidewalk? You know what I mean!”

Lizzie and AJ smirked quietly to each other as they walked over to a waiting table at the café. Within minutes of sitting down, a server came out and handed them menus that said “The Villager” on the front before she scurried back inside. A fair amount of foot traffic flowed in and out of the door of the establishment, and they heard talking and the sounds of dishes inside. The Villager apparently did a brisk trade at lunch. A digital clock on the “tower” of Town Hall showed 1:10 p.m..

Examining her menu more closely, Lizzie noticed that they had two columns of prices next to each item, the second column being marked much lower than the first.

Michaela noticed it too. “How come the right-hand prices are so low?”

“It's because the second column is priced in silver. See the top?”

Sure enough, the top of the second column said simply “AG”, while the first column had a dollar sign over it. Seeing the price comparison brought home the reality of just how much value the dollar had lost over the years. For instance the Inflation Burger Platter (so big you'll think it's growing!) cost $16.95, but its equivalent price in silver came to only AG 0.99.

“How come there's no gold price?” Michaela asked.

“Well,” AJ said with a bit of a yawn as he explained and stretched at the same time, “gold is considerably more expensive per ounce than silver these days, so most lower-cost items are priced in silver instead. You only see gold prices on the higher ticket stuff. For instance, look over there.”

He pointed across the street at another shop near the exit to the garage, which they hadn't noticed when they first came in. The shop, a travel agency, displayed a number of specials on large posters in the window. One advertised two weeks in Hawaii priced at AU 3.99, on special today for AU 3.69.

“I thought silver traded at roughly $14 an ounce today,” Lizzie said. “Why is the ratio on this menu closer to 17:1?”

“They probably just offer the dollar pricing because people new to the AU often still want to do business in dollars. They have to charge extra to cover their exchange costs when converting dollars to silver.”

Just then, two men standing in the middle of the small street drew their attention. They talked quietly for a few minutes, but then they raised their voices. The language didn't sound anything like English, but their argument made clear their mutual irritation with each other. Both wore sunglasses. The taller one wore a dark blue business suit, but the shorter one wore more casual clothing with a white keffiyeh, which combined with his swarthy complexion to advertise his Middle Eastern heritage.

Out of nowhere, two TST guards, both carrying sidearms, appeared along with a third guard, a young woman, who followed close behind carrying an automatic rifle slung over her shoulder. The first two guards got between the arguing men and attempted to calm them down. The man in the keffiyeh stopped arguing and backed off, but the man in the blue suit kept shouting, ignoring the guards’ attempts to quiet him. He took a swing at the guard holding him and suddenly found himself lying prone on the ground, his right arm twisted in an extremely uncomfortable position above his head and held at the wrist by the guard. The man screamed with agony, while the guard shouted that he should stop struggling or else the pain would increase. The man stopped moving, and a slight shift by the guard (along with the fact that the man stopped screaming) suggested that the arm twisting stopped.

A fourth guard appeared at that moment and helped get the man in the blue suit to his feet, and two of them frog-marched him toward the door to the parking garage. The guard with the rifle remained talking with the man in the keffiyeh and gestured with her hand, inviting him to go in the same direction as the others went. The Arab nodded his head in agreement, and the two of them left the street with the fourth guard following close behind.

She announced to the surrounding onlookers, “Sorry about the disturbance everyone.”

“You don't see something like that every day,” Lizzie observed quietly.

“Probably an argument over a deal of some kind,” AJ said. “At least the security is good.”

“No kidding! Did you see how fast those guards moved? Did you see where they came from?” Michaela asked, obviously impressed.

“Like I said, security is pretty good around here,” AJ answered. “I think I'm going to have the Silver Dollar Pancakes.”

“Pancakes for lunch? Yuck!” Michaela declared, and Lizzie just laughed.

“What are you laughing at?” AJ asked fiercely “I'm hungry!”

“Just ask her what she had for breakfast,” Lizzie answered, indicating the teen with her head.

AJ looked at Michaela who said authoritatively, “I had pancakes. So what? Pancakes are for breakfast, not for lunch!”

He chuckled to himself and dismissed the whole thing by shaking his head. He then said, “Well, I've gotta get my energy built up if I'm going to go get your father.”

Michaela perked up at that and asked loudly, “WHEN?” Lizzie also tilted her head with interest.

He suddenly realized he shouldn't have said anything but replied, “I've got a three o'clock meeting, and there's a very good chance it will lead to a happy reunion.”

“Can I come too? Please?” Michaela could hardly contain herself at the prospect.

“Sorry, it's too dangerous,” AJ answered looking straight at her. “We went to a lot of trouble to rescue you last night. I'd get in a lot more trouble if we lost you to the bad guys the very next day, don't you think?”

Michaela's unhappy demeanor nearly broke AJ's heart.

“Sorry,” he said, “I shouldn't have said anything until we knew for sure we have him. I don't want to get your hopes up only to have to tell you later that we got delayed or that it didn't work out.”

“When were you planning to tell me...us?” Lizzie asked.

“As soon as we knew for sure that we have him,” AJ answered, realizing now the double-nature of his mistake. “You can't do anything to help right now except to stay safely out of reach of Hanover-Rush's hit team and the FBI. There's no place safer than the AU. You realize that by now, right?”

Lizzie nodded. “I do, but I hope you realize I can be trusted with such information.”

“I know you can. Like I said, I just didn't want to get your hopes up only to disappoint you later on. Still, the odds look pretty good. If all goes well, we should have Mr. Knight at the safe house by 5:00 p.m. at the latest.”

Robert Jeffries, from the Bureau's Office of Public Affairs, walked to the podium in a large room in a building off Nassau Street at exactly 12:00 noon, about the same time that AJ, Lizzie, and Michaela arrived at the trading floor. The press filled most of the room with cameras and notebooks, and the podium overflowed with microphones. Jeffries felt calm and in his element. Not many Bureau employees relished public appearances, particularly since they usually took place after unpleasant events, but Jeffries truly loved his work. He enjoyed talking while telling people as little as possible. He also enjoyed treating it like a really fun game, although he'd never admit it so blatantly to anyone. Some might call his attitude perverse, but he thought of it as job satisfaction.

The room quieted as he mounted the podium and pulled out his notes, dividing them into two neat piles on the podium. Then he looked up at the gathered crowd and began.

“Good morning,” he said, and some in the crowd returned his greeting.

“My name is Robert Jeffries. I am the new Director of Communications for the local district office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. As most of you know,” he began, “the FBI raided an apartment in lower Manhattan last night to rescue a 14-year-old female held there against her will. We are withholding her identity because of her status as a minor and because the case remains under investigation. Shortly after her release from the apartment, an unknown gunman fired a shot at street level which hit a civilian standing in the street. Fortunately, the victim, a 41-year-old male, is in good condition. Once again, we intend to withhold his name because the case remains under investigation.

“Members of the New York Police Department participated at the scene and played instrumental roles in bringing the situation under control after the shooting. We don't yet know the identity of the gunman, although our investigation continues to move forward. I have no other information for you at this time. I'll take your questions now,” Jeffries concluded.

About 30 voices shouted, “Mr. Jeffries!” and he recognized a woman in the front row.

“Mr. Jeffries,” she yelled, “Anne Franklin, News Channel 4. Witnesses told us that the shooting victim was a vice-president at Hanover-Rush. Can you confirm the truth of this report?”

“I cannot confirm any specifics of the case at this time.”

“A follow-up please,” Franklin shouted as others tried to gain his attention. “We also have witnesses who told us that the girl rescued from the apartment was the daughter of the bank officer. Can you confirm this?”

“Again, I cannot confirm any specifics of the case,” Jeffries intoned as the crowd yelled for recognition. He pointed to a man in the third row.

“Mr. Jeffries, I'm Jack Clark, 1010 WINS News. We have reports that FBI agents took the teenage girl and a young woman from the scene immediately after the shooting. Are they in custody, and who is the woman?”

“I'm sorry,” Jeffries repeated, “but again I cannot comment on the specifics of a case still under investigation,” as the riot of voices clamored for attention once again.

The next person he called on said, “Mr. Jeffries, Leslie Simpson for the Daily News. What can you tell the people of New York who fear that their streets lack safety even with the police and the FBI present?”

“Let me assure the people of New York that we will work diligently to track and capture whoever initiated this attack. I would also point out that we contained the scene of the crime within minutes of the attack, and APBs went out within seconds thereafter,” Jeffries said, as the chorus of voices clamoring for his attention grew louder. Two reporters tried to call their questions over each other without waiting for recognition, with the result that nobody could clearly hear either one. Jeffries ignored them both and called on someone else in the back.

“Mr. Jeffries, I'm Jason Holt from the Village Voice. We have a report of a car chase in Harlem late last night, shortly after the attack you described. Can you tell us about any link between the two events?”

“I have no information regarding any such event at this time,” Jeffries said to another group cry for attention, but Holt refused to let Jeffries push him aside so easily.

“Our informants tell us that the car chase ended when a large, bright flash of light led the trailing car to plow into a parked car by the side of the road. The trailing car, a black sedan, resembled very much the car that took the teenage girl and the woman away from the scene earlier in the evening. Can you confirm whether it was the same car?” Holt asked.

“I have no information about that,” said Jeffries to a storm of cries of his name, and he called on another man in the second row.

“Mr. Jeffries, Kit Powers, WOR: has the bullet used in the shooting been recovered yet?”

“We recovered a .22 caliber rifle bullet in good condition at the scene.”

Powers followed up over a chorus of cries, “If you recovered the bullet at the scene, do you know if it penetrated the victim's body?”

“I can't comment on that at this time. Suffice to say that the victim's condition is good, and he’s expected to make a full recovery.”

Powers had much more to say. “What’s the condition of the bullet?”

“As I said, the bullet's condition was good,” Jeffries said and called on another woman.

“Susan Walker, Mr. Jeffries, from the Wall Street Journal. We have information that the victim was Justin Knight, Vice-President of Operations at Hanover-Rush. Does last night's shooting have something to do with the current financial crisis?”

“As I said earlier,” Jeffries replied, unruffled, “we won't release any of the names of the victims in this case at this time.”

“But don't you think that if last night's events have something to do with the financial crisis, the public has the right to know the connection?”

“The FBI,” Jeffries answered smoothly, “does not comment on financial events. We focus instead on law enforcement and public protection, not economics.”

He called on another journalist who didn't identify himself but merely asked, “Do you have any information about the shooter?”

“And you are...?”

“Ronald Jeffries, WPIX-TV,” the reporter answered to a chorus of chuckles.

“Really?!” Jeffries asked, bemused. The reporter grinned.

“I seem to have a long lost brother here,” the FBI spokesman observed puckishly, and the reporter laughed along with the crowd.

“We haven't identified anyone as the shooter as yet, Mr. Jeffries,” Jeffries added, still amused.

“Has the weapon the shooter used been found?” the reporter followed up.

Agent Jeffries shook his head and said, “We have found no weapon yet.” He pointed to a young woman in the crowd and said, “I hope your name isn't Jeffries, too!”

“No, Mr. Jeffries. I'm Shandra Howard, TV9 News.”

“I'm relieved to hear that,” Jeffries said, to even more laughter.

“Have police identified where the shot came from?”

“We believe the shot came from the second or third floor of a building at the other end of the street. We don't yet know which building. FBI investigations continue as we speak, including a search of the buildings nearby.”

“A follow up, sir, if I may,” she shouted as other reporters shouted for recognition. “Why hasn't the rifle been found yet? Police ran immediately in the general direction where the shot was heard. Surely they could easily have spotted a man running with a rifle in hand.”

Jeffries shook his head. “I have no further information regarding the shooter or the weapon at this time. I won't answer hypothetical questions.”

“When will you have more specific information about the shooter and the rifle?” Shandra followed up a third time.

“As soon as possible,” Jeffries said, turning deliberately to another reporter on the other side of the room.

“Hi, Mr. Jeffries. I'm Lana Page, from the New York Post. Numerous witnesses listening on police band scanners report that an APB was issued immediately following the shooting for a black sedan carrying a woman and a teenage girl. Other witnesses at the scene report that two men dressed in FBI jackets moved the woman and the teenage girl into a black sedan which promptly drove from the scene. Were those two men FBI agents, and if so why was an APB issued?”

Jeffries hesitated a moment, then said, “Again I can't get into specifics.”

Ms. Page interrupted him and plowed on. “You have given us information regarding the bullet. Why can't you give us information regarding the black sedan?”

Jeffries felt the flow of the press conference slipping out of his grasp, but he said, “Once again I can't get into specifics regarding an ongoing…”

Again Ms. Page shouted, “Mr. Jeffries! Were the unnamed woman and teenage girl kidnapped by two men posing as FBI agents?”

A hush fell over the crowd. All eyes stared at Jeffries.

Though clearly caught off-guard, he paused by taking a deep breath and said, “I'm sorry, I can't comment on that.”

He immediately walked off the podium as hundreds of reporters shouted follow up questions regarding this newest and most surprising revelation amid a blinding flood of flashing bulbs.

Around the same time Lizzie and Michaela ate breakfast, Justin Knight awoke and sat up in bed. Tired of being wired like a computer, he pulled the tape off his skin and pulled the IV needle out of his arm. After the initial pain, a wave of relief poured over him. He examined his chest, which felt quite sore and showed signs of turning black and blue, then shrugged. It certainly beat the alternative!

After a trip to the bathroom, he felt more human again. He rubbed his face and realized that he didn't have a razor at hand, but that could wait. Finding his clothing in a small closet, he changed out of the johnny they had put him in. Before he put on his shirt, he noticed the body armor that saved his life the night before hanging up in the closet, still in good condition. Although not the most comfortable item he had ever worn, he had no doubt it saved his life. Reluctantly, he decided to put it back on, followed by his shirt and pants. After he sat down and finished dressing, he got up again from the bed and walked over to the small mirror above the sink in the bathroom and gazed into it.

All-in-all, I look pretty good considering what I went through last night. His head hurt in back–probably where it made contact with the pavement after the bullet knocked him over–but overall he felt pretty good.

No doubt the police, the FBI, and the hospital staff did all they could for his benefit, but he had needs more pressing than any of them seemed to appreciate. His daughter and her tutor had been kidnapped (again), and he keenly felt the need to take action to get them back as soon as possible.

After taking a quick glance around the room to see if he'd left anything behind, he walked to the door and opened it, surprising the two officers on duty outside.

“Hold it, Mr. Knight,” said one he recognized as Roberts. “We have orders not to let anyone see you without authorization.”

“That does not mean you have to keep me from leaving the room, only that others cannot enter it. Now stand aside; I have business to attend,” Justin replied as he turned to walk past Roberts down the hall. The other officer stepped in front of him.

“Please, sir, you must not leave until we get authorization,” he said.

“Do you intend to hold me against my will? Am I under arrest?” Justin asked him.

The two officers checked with each other uncertainly, then Roberts said, “No, sir, of course not. Just let us call in to get authorization first.”

Justin felt temporarily stymied, but his patrician blood rose up in him this morning.

“Do it quickly!”

Roberts made a call on the spot after examining the business card Special Agent Regan gave him last night.

“Special Agent Regan? Officer Brian Roberts here. Mr. Knight wants to leave his room, and you said to permit no one to see him unless we contacted you first...Yes ma'am, hold on.”

He held the cell phone to Justin: “She wants to talk to you.”

Justin took the phone. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Mr. Knight,” said Regan. “You sound well this morning. Officer Roberts tells me you want to leave. We will make arrangements to have you released from the hospital and transferred to FBI headquarters for your protection. Also, I have some good news for you, which I plan to give you when I see you in person. Please don't try to leave on your own. We have reason to believe that if you try, you could endanger your life once again,” she added.

“What news? When?”

“When what?”

“When can I leave!” Justin practically shouted into the phone.

“A hospital doctor will drop by your room within the next 10-15 minutes to check you over. I will also arrange for a team to give you a full police escort out of the hospital. They should arrive within the next half hour,” she said, before disconnecting.

Time dragged to a crawl while he waited for the doctor, who arrived 20 minutes after the phone call. He examined Justin quickly, quizzed him for a few minutes as to how he felt, and told him that the bruise on his chest would probably turn completely black-and-blue by the end of the day, but not to worry. X-rays showed no fractures in his chest at all. He called the nurse's duty station from the room's phone and asked them to contact the FBI to let them know that the hospital could discharge Mr. Knight immediately.

Within minutes after the doctor called, Justin received a phone call, again from Regan.

“Looks like we can get you out of there now. An escort team should arrive within another five minutes or so. Can you remain patient that long?” she asked.

Justin said he could...barely...then disconnected again.

In the lobby, the young man with the game pad received a phone call. He nodded and whispered the information to the young woman.

“They will probably send someone very soon,” he said a little more loudly, and she nodded. About 10 minutes later, the young couple watched as members of the NYPD marched into the emergency wing and headed straight for Justin's room. They both stood up and walked outside to look around, as if stretching.

They saw a few squad cars and an unmarked van. They both continued to scan the surrounding area.

After a moment the girl said quietly, “Over there, in the parking lot. Two o'clock.”

He turned and saw it too. An ambulance pulled up and stopped, and a group of three men climbed out. They stood staring toward the door, muttering among themselves, and separated, two going off to the right and one going to the left. They moved very quickly.

The young man sauntered over to one of the squad cars where an officer sat behind the steering wheel, apparently waiting for his colleagues inside. He knocked on the window. The officer lowered the window.

“Excuse me, officer, but I just want to alert you to something. See that ambulance over there?” He pointed at it, and the officer gazed in that direction.

“I just saw three people get out of that ambulance and spread out toward either side of this entrance. I have reason to believe they could be attempting to interfere with what your associates plan to do inside the hospital.”

The officer considered him with a squint and said, “Who are you?”

“A friend,” the young man said before walking away. “Just keep your eyes open.”

He walked across the street and headed toward the ambulance, his young female friend joining him. The officer watched them, got on the radio and told his fellow officers to take care when they exited the building.

The young couple slowly approached the ambulance. They looked inside but saw no one in the front seat, with no window allowing them to see in the back. The young man walked around to the far side where the officer couldn't see him.

He looked at the young woman who nodded and said, “Go ahead, he's not looking this way right now.”

He pulled something small out of his pocket, reached under the rear fender, and placed it there. She heard a small clank as it came in contact with the metal of the car's chassis. The magnet on the back of it should hold it steadily in place. They then walked calmly away in opposite directions: he to where the two men had gone, and she toward the lone man. Soon they disappeared from the view of the officer in the squad car.

Haven Donahue and Ward Porter made their way along the side of the hospital building among the parked cars, trying to stay low and out of sight. They reached the corner of the building, beyond which they would have a clear view of the triage area. They took up positions concealing them from the view of anyone except someone immediately behind them, and waited.

Meanwhile, the third man worked his way from the opposite side until he could see the same triage area from the opposite corner of the building. He looked across the way and saw his two compatriots already in position. All three could see the officer still sitting in his car. Just then, they saw the doors opening and a small group of officers surrounding Justin Knight emerged from the lobby. Each of the three men pulled out a large gun with a silencer attached.

Suddenly the young man with the game pad shouted appeared behind the two men shouting, “They've got guns!” before ducking behind a parked car.

On cue, his female associate shouted, “He's got a gun!” from her position behind the lone gunman on the other side and ducked away.

The disruption worked. Two of the officers with Justin went into emergency mode and rushed him to the police van, while their partners pulled their weapons and fanned out, advancing carefully in the direction of the voices. The three men hesitated and all turned to run, stuffing their weapons inside their jackets. None of them ran toward the ambulance, however. Instead, they ran in opposite directions down the street, quickly reaching vehicles that they climbed into, started, and drove off.

The young man and the young woman came out of their respective hiding places and pointed the direction the culprits went to the officers, who took off on foot in pursuit, only to have the waiting cars outpace them. After playing their roles, the young couple walked quickly in a different direction to their own car waiting for them on the street and drove off.

“Hey, you!” one of the officers called after them, but too late. The AU operatives moved very quickly.

The officers needed to keep their team together, so they returned to their squad cars and formed an escort line, with Justin's van in the middle. One squad car remained behind by agreement. Within a minute, the rest left the grounds of the hospital as two remaining officers carefully approached the ambulance across the street where it sat abandoned.

A short time later, Justin's escort arrived with him at 26 Federal Plaza and pulled into the ground-level parking level. At exactly 12:00 noon, they delivered Justin to Special Agent Regan's interview room, just as the scheduled press conference began about 30 blocks away. She greeted Knight and urged him to sit down and give her a moment. Then she stepped out into the hall.

“Thanks for the report and for getting him here safely. Do you have any word about the ambulance?” she asked the lead officer.

“It's not really an ambulance. It's just a van they stole from a courier service in Poughkeepsie and put a fake light rack on top. The company didn't even notice it missing,” he said.

“I don't suppose you found any fingerprints?”

“Lots, but someone wiped the steering wheel and door handles clean. They probably wore gloves. We found other prints around the vehicle, probably left by uninvolved employees of the courier service. Also, we found this,” he said, handing her a small item.

“A GPS device?”

“We found it under the rear fender.”

“Figures. Anything more about the young couple?”

“Nothing”

She nodded and went back inside the conference room.

“Feeling better?”

“It took you long enough to get me out of there,” Justin grumbled.

“Well, this should cheer you up. I have good news for you. We received word that your daughter and her tutor are safe.”

“What!?!?” he cried, sitting forward quickly. He immediately regretted it because the bruise on his chest didn't like it went he moved that fast. The news was worth the pain, however.

“Yes,” she said, taking a seat. “I wish we could take credit for their rescue, but we can't. An organization known as the Agorist Underground rescued them. Have you ever heard of them?” she asked politely.

Justin hesitated. Lizzie asked him to promise not to discuss this subject. Still, he made that promise before she and his daughter went missing. If these Agorists rescued them, and if the FBI already knew about it...maybe he should acknowledge some of what he knew.

“Ms. Kohn mentioned them.”

“A representative of the AU plans to visit this office in about three hours. They told us that they carried out the rescue soon after the abduction last night. We pieced together some of what happened, but we don't have the whole story yet.”

“However,” she continued, “that's not what you and I need to talk about. The AU want you to attend that meeting, a condition to which we agreed. I presume you have no objections?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. I believe that they plan to offer you asylum in their organization. They will suggest that they can keep you safer than we can. It's not true, of course. They don't have our resources, and we can hide you much more easily than they could for as long as needed. Still, I would like to know in advance how you plan to answer them, should they make such an offer.”

Justin realized that by saying all this she tacitly admitted to not objecting to the transfer, an extraordinary fact by itself.

“I take it you want me to accept their offer?”

“Not necessarily. It really depends upon what role you want us to play. Officially, we cannot charge your bank's security team with your daughter's kidnapping, although not for lack of proof. Actually, they ran an amateurish operation, and I think we could make a good case in court. But the President told my boss that we won't take such action, with the implication that even if we did he would simply pardon anyone involved at the bank's end.”

“Your boss?”

“The FBI Director.”

He again sat back for a moment to consider what she said. He couldn't get over how extraordinary a course this conversation had taken so far.

“Let me see if I have this straight,” he said slowly. “Someone kidnapped my daughter, and you know who did it, but you will not arrest them because the President of the United States said not to. You helped rescue her, but immediately afterward allowed the known perpetrators to kidnap her again as well as her tutor, while they simultaneously took a shot at me, trying to kill me. They failed, not because of anything you did, but rather because my daughter's tutor apparently understands my enemy and the risks to me better than you do. She asked me to wear a bulletproof vest, which saved my life.”

“We understood the threat to you.”

“Yet they managed to assault me anyway, no thanks to you. Along comes a ragtag underground movement who apparently provided the vest that saved my life. After my daughter's second kidnapping, along with that of her tutor, this revolutionary band managed to free them both shortly after the kidnapping, while your crew still tried to figure out what happened. They will offer me protection, and you do not necessarily want me to accept their offer. You want to provide protection instead, but you're not pressing the matter. Given all these facts,” Justin asked, “why do you believe I would choose your protection over theirs?”

“We're the United States government, and they're not.”

“Yes–a government which refuses to prosecute my daughter's kidnappers, even though they can identify them and know where to find them. So why on earth do you want to know in advance whether I would accept the AU's offer? Why not just wait until they make the offer and see what I say?”

“Because officially we don't want you to accept their offer, but unofficially we want you to accept it.”

He digested her answer for a moment and asked again “Why?”

Regan shifted a moment in her seat. “This is off the record. You must never repeat this publicly, and if you do we'll deny it and do our best to discredit you. As you know, we want to establish a secret relationship with the AU, as a way to offset the growing influence of the private corporate intelligence outfits such as your bank's security team. We have now reached a juncture where the AU, we believe, plans to offer you their protection. We believe that in return for that protection they will ask you to become a spokesman for them.”

“A spokesman? Why?”

“Consider the reason given for your daughter's first kidnapping. Your bank wanted their video back, they said. In fact, the video never belonged to them in the first place. You haven't confirmed this, and neither did Ms. Kohn, but we believe that an AU operative made that video. This unnamed person managed to get a secret video camera into a high level financial policy meeting undetected. Describe to me, Mr. Knight, as a banking expert, the possible ramifications if that video reaches the public.”

“Well, it would cause a lot of consternation and disruption on Wall Street. Bank stocks would suffer even more drastically than they already have, and indeed it would probably affect stocks in all other industries as well. It would also undermine public confidence in our banking and monetary system, possibly even leading to the system's collapse.”

“It would do more than that, wouldn't it? Wouldn't it raise the question as to why the President of the United States refused to permit prosecution of officers of the biggest bank in the world for engaging in a conspiracy to prevent the video from being made public?”

“True. It would create a political mess.”

“More than that, it would create a huge crisis of confidence in our government. The President himself might be impeached for such an act.”

Justin nodded his agreement.

“So,” Regan continued, “obviously the AU, which commits itself to monetary change, would want that video made public and will do whatever they can to accomplish it. However, they also want to provide other evidence to help people understand the nature of what we see in that video. Who could provide a better understanding and make the video more convincing than to have it presented and introduced by the Vice-President of Operations at Hanover-Rush?”

Of course, Justin realized. It all makes sense.

“But why does the FBI secretly want me to join the AU? Does not the FBI want to protect the government from such an embarrassment?”

“Officially, yes, and I will count on you to keep our involvement in this quiet. Unofficially, we want that video released to the public. We cannot release it ourselves, because the political fallout would likely come flying back in our faces. The President must believe we continue to do his bidding. However, we want that video released as a way to hold the President accountable for his actions, unconstitutional actions that abused his power.”

“And what does the FBI Director say about all this?”

“Officially, he doesn't know about it.”

“And unofficially?”

“Unofficially, he can't know about it or raise any allegations. The potential political consequences...Like it or not, the FBI operates as a political organization in this instance. We serve to protect the people and enforce the law, yet in this case the political leader of our country ordered us not to do our duty. If we refuse to follow his order, our inaction constitutes insubordination. If we follow his order, we violate our oaths of office. This situation makes us inherently political, much to our consternation,” she answered him.

“So you want to put your neck, and your career, on the line to make sure that I join the AU?”

“We need the public to learn the contents of that video.”

“Absurd!” Justin declared. Regan didn't react to that, even though she agreed about the absurdity of the situation. Unfortunately, she could see no better option.

“I should also tell you that I turned the video disk over to Nevio Roone earlier this morning.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because the President ordered us to do it. He ordered us to recover that video for the bank, and we did it. Of course, I don't believe for a minute it's the only copy left in existence. I can't believe that both Roone and your uncle overlooked that possibility. That part troubles me. They haven't made any real effort to capture and destroy all copies of the video. I don't know why.”

“Give me your best guess then.”

“Well, Roone is an incompetent, dimwitted and angry man, and he’s in charge of the security team.”

“I know him. I also know that my uncle has no military training at all. He quite possibly has not thought of the potential for copies to exist.”

Regan shook her head with a wry smile. “If true, maybe Roone did think of it, but he hasn't mentioned it to his boss. After all, he must be in deep trouble already about the botched kidnappings and shooting. He probably does not want to make his position weaker.”

“Did you make a copy of it?”

Regan didn't answer but just stared back at him. Justin shook his head ruefully with a small smile.

“Sorry, I asked a stupid question.”

“So,” Regan said, ignoring the gaffe, “how will you respond if the AU offers you asylum?”

Justin paused once more to think.

“I do not know.”

“Well, you have less than three hours to decide before their representative arrives. We can make you comfortable until then. Do you need anything?”

“Yes. I need to contact my attorney.”

“Feel free to use our phone if you like,” indicating the phone on the conference table.

“Will your people listen in?”

“No, but I can make arrangements to let you use your cell phone instead, if you wish. I should point out that we can just as easily listen to your cell as we can this phone.”

Justin saw her point. He picked up the receiver from the phone on the table.

She arose and said, “I'll leave you so you can make your call privately.”

“Thank you,” said Justin, who started dialing while she pulled the door closed behind her as she left the room.

Presently he heard his attorney, Tom Robinson at the other end of the line.

“Hi Tom, Justin Knight here.”

“Justin, I've been trying to reach you! Where the heck are you?”

“I'm in NY at the office of the FBI in Federal Plaza.”

“Thank God! The newscasters reported someone shot you on the street in lower Manhattan, and a rumor says someone kidnapped Michaela and Ms. Kohn after the shooting. I tried both the police and the FBI, but no one wants to confirm anything for me.”

“I can confirm both stories, Tom, but I'm okay, and I just received word confirming the rescue of Michaela and Ms. Kohn.”

“My God! But if someone shot you, why aren't you in a hospital?”

“They kept me overnight, but just for observation. I wore a bulletproof vest at the time of the shooting, and it saved my life. Ms. Kohn suggested that I order one by special courier last night. It arrived at the house shortly before you did. I wore it when we went left with Special Agent Regan,” he said, and he proceeded to fill Tom in about the rest of the events of the preceding evening after Tom left the house.

Tom sounded flabbergasted by the series of events, and when Justin got to the part where the FBI wanted him to meet with representatives of the AU about joining them and possibly becoming a spokesman for them, he went ballistic.

“You can't do it, Justin! First of all, it will ruin your banking career. Second, how can you possibly join an underground movement? You can't revert to your youth and join a commune. Next thing I know, you'll plan to knock off a convenience store!”

“Calm down, Tom. You know I would not do anything like that. Nor do I want to join an underground movement...at least not yet. I do not like the idea of being their spokesman, either. On the other hand, the revelations contained in that video change everything for me. I used to think I worked to help build a solid financial system for America. Now I know that I participated in and supported a systematic looting of the American people. I never intended to do that, but I cannot ignore the evidence before my eyes.”

“But you didn't loot anything, Justin! We know that.”

“Tom, I believed my colleagues, coworkers, and fellow bankers who assured me that the failures and weaknesses in our financial system came from unavoidable and necessary side-effects of dealing with paper money. They assured me no one wanted to take advantage of the situation for their own profit to the detriment of everyone else. They assured me our central bankers work tirelessly to ensure that structural financial problems like the ones plaguing our economy today never happen. No one ever, ever told me that today's financial problems could be avoided, that we knew they must come eventually. Before now, no one admitted we hoped to profit from such a situation.”

“But they still haven’t!”

“Yes they have. The video showed my own uncle telling the chairman of the Fed that they anticipated this entire scenario, that they knew for years it must happen. My uncle planned to profit from it all along!”

“But is profit wrong? You must see reason, Justin! Profit drives our economy!”

“Not profits collected by cheating people, by deceiving them. Besides, they murdered my wife, Tom! Do you understand that? They murdered my wife to keep her quiet about some wire transfer, something that might have to do with financing terrorism!”

“You don't know that! Ms. Kohn may have made up that story, for all you know! She already admitted they planted her in your home. How do you know she didn't just make up that part of her story!”

“You did not watch her while she told me the story. I have no doubt she told me the truth as she knows it. I also saw a copy of the wire transfer. I recognized our bank's internal form for wire transfers. I bet the bank's records would confirm her story, provided security has not removed them already.”

“Amanda died in a car crash. The police reported it as an accident!”

“You forget, Tom, I had to identify her body,” Justin yelled at him. “I saw her remains. Something most definitely smashed her head. I almost threw up when I saw it. From what I remember, they could easily have overlooked a bullet in her brain, for all the damage the crash caused her head. My God, Tom, her head and face looked like they went through a meat grinder!”

Justin worked himself into a near frenzy as he described what he saw to his attorney. The horror of that day flooded over him. Tears poured from his eyes as he recounted the tale.

“Justin, you're upset. I completely understand, but you must also understand that the evidence is completely circumstantial. We have no 'smoking gun' here, just Ms. Kohn's claim that someone used a gun. None of the hard evidence we have substantiates her claim!”

“I know that, Tom, but what other evidence can we expect besides circumstantial evidence? We could never find the gun, even if we exhume the body to see if a bullet can be found lodged in her skull. Besides, I recognize the pattern, familiar to any student of financial history. You know the story of the Rothschilds, right?”

“The historic European banking family? What do they have to do with it?”

“Yes, the banking family. They made their fortune by investing in warfare, often investing with both sides of a conflict. For instance, the Rothschilds financed Napoleon by helping to finance his supply lines as he prosecuted his efforts in Russia. Then, because he stood in the way of their continued opportunities to profit, they financed his opposition, led by the Duke of Wellington, who defeated Napoleon at Waterloo. The Rothschilds famously financed both sides of many military conflicts, knowing exactly how profitable...”

“But that happened nearly 200 years ago, Justin!”

“Yes, but the tradition of bankers financing war and forcing countries into supporting those wars continued long afterward. In our own country, America became involved in World War I only because J.R. Hanover, my revered ancestor, financed the Entente Powers, Britain, France, and Russia. When the war started to go against them, due mainly to the success of the German U-Boats, Hanover urged the President to go to war to protect those investments.”

He continued, “Hanover financed the Russian Revolution. He provided financial backing to both Lenin and Kerensky, Lenin's socialist rival. Once again, a banker, this time my own ancestor, backed more than one side in a conflict. I have been very uncomfortable most of my life knowing how many Americans and Russians died to protect his investments. My peers convinced me that no one could avoid it, that they did the patriotic thing at that time. Nevertheless, no one doubts that bankers continued to make huge profits from all the wars the U.S. engaged in right up until today. We have made a ton of money supporting the country's War on Terror. Cannot some bankers profit by working the other side of the fence as well?”

“You don't even know whether that really happened in this case! The only clue you have comes from a code on a wire transfer that includes an acronym which matches Osama Bin Laden's initials. Nothing else! Have you forgotten how angry Americans become whenever anyone even hints that America might have had something to do with 9/11?” Tom implored him.

“It makes me angry too!” Justin yelled into the phone. “You think it does not?”

“People won't see it that way! They'll blame you for blaming America for the attacks of 9/11!” Tom argued, trying to get Justin to see reason.

Justin didn't know what to say to that.

“Justin, you're one of America's leading bankers. If such a thing was going on inside Hanover-Rush, you'd know about it.”

“Not necessarily, Tom. An awful lot of transactions happen at a bank like Hanover-Rush every day, let alone every year. Even I never see more than a tiny fraction of them all. Who knows how many of those transactions we might find if we look deeply enough in the bank's records? Mayer Amschel Rothschild famously said, 'Let me issue and control a nation's money and I care not who writes the laws.' He knew that the major power lay in the money, not as much in the politics.”

“That's not the way most people will see it! They'll think that you should have known, that you had a patriotic duty to know. They won't be impressed by your claims of ignorance. I'm sorry, Justin, but I still say the entire case is circumstantial, and it's potentially dynamite that could easily blow up in your face. You have no really hard evidence. They would call you a conspiracy theorist.”

“I know one very hard fact. When I tried to call my uncle to ask him why the bank kidnapped my daughter, he refused to take my call. He refused to talk to me, his own nephew! Is that hard enough evidence for you?”

“Okay, so he didn't take your call. That does not prove he financed Osama Bin Laden! It certainly doesn't prove the involvement of John Holloway either. You have no proof at all that a connection exists between your uncle and your client,” Tom declared in disgust. “In fact, your uncle's attorney could argue that you make a better candidate for any connection between Holloway and Hanover-Rush!”

That made Justin stop to think. “I see your point, but the evidence does prove my uncle knew about the kidnapping, Tom! Even if we have little clear evidence about Bin Laden, one fact remains crystal clear. My uncle willingly kidnapped his great niece and threatened me in order to keep that video from reaching the public. Even if you doubt its importance, we can have no doubt that he thought it important!”

Tom couldn't disagree. Regardless of what the whole series of events really meant, David Knight's actions made clear that he took the whole thing very, very seriously. He brazenly broke the law in order to get his hands on a video which, legally, didn't belong to him. Worse, he managed to wrangle the President of the United States into protecting him as he orchestrated the crime. Whatever David's real purpose might be, Tom couldn't deny the gravity of his actions.

“Be that as it may, I still think you would make a big mistake by becoming a spokesman for an underground movement that wants to bring modern banking to its knees. The country would see you as a traitor in your own industry, Justin. It would end your career!”

“I do not really care about my career anymore, Tom. I can think of no way I could go back to work for Hanover-Rush, knowing what I know now. I could not live with myself if I did that. Speaking of which, what progress have you made moving my accounts away from the bank?”

“Well, I've made a good start. I've used my power of attorney to get some of your funds transferred to your accounts outside the country. However, I think someone at Hanover-Rush got wind of my actions. Some of your accounts now have freezes in place. They demanded that I provide written proof that I'm acting on your orders, as if a written power of attorney isn't enough! I protested that the power of attorney you granted me affords me that right, but they balked, claiming they just want to protect your financial interests. I think we will probably have to file a lawsuit against them before we can get them to budge.”

“So do it.”

“I have the wheels turning, including drafting a new power of attorney for you to sign. However, I must tell you about another turn of events. Your uncle tried to reach you. He wants to talk with you.”

My uncle wants to talk with me? What about? Justin's eyes narrowed as he considered this news.

“He must know I got shot last night. How did he make the request?”

“I found out when I contacted your house. Your butler answered the phone, and I identified myself. I asked where I could reach you. He told me you and Ms. Kohn set off to Manhattan in the company of the FBI agent late last night after I left the house. He also told me about your uncle's call.”

“When did he call?”

“Sometime last evening. I guess he called before they shot you. I suppose he ordered the assassination then, if indeed he ordered it at all. I still haven't ruled out the possibility that the AU might have attacked you!”

“Oh, come on, Tom! I concede that we do not know for sure who took a pot shot at me, but we know that the bank already had it in for me. They kidnapped my daughter and threatened me. Surely that ranks them as the top suspects on our list!”

“Your uncle's call may be the way to find out. If he wanted to talk with you last night, he probably will still accept a call from you today. Get him talking, and maybe he might admit his involvement.”

Justin considered this. Would his uncle still talk to him? He just might.

“Tom, I wonder if we should try to return his call and make a recording of what he says?”

“It you want to gather evidence to prove in court that your uncle tried to have you killed, I'd recommend against it without a court order. Any judge in the world would throw it out and not allow it to be introduced as evidence without such an order.”

“So let us get a court order.”

“Can't do it. To get such an order, we'd have to file a charge against your uncle first, and he'd have the opportunity to reply. It's far too early for that step, and I don't want to give them the opportunity to further cover up their actions. We can't force them to give us what we want immediately. After all, we're not the government.”

“What if I can get the FBI to get the court order and record the conversation for us?”

“How do you plan do to that?”

“I am calling you right now from FBI offices in Federal Plaza in New York City. Special Agent Regan hinted that she wants me to go with the AU. Perhaps she will do us a favor in this case.”

The idea appealed to Tom, but he responded cautiously because of the dangers he noted earlier. The two discussed the possible ways such a conversation could go. Justin promised to let his uncle do most of the talking, while attempting only to provoke him into making important admissions.

After Justin hung up, he wandered out of the conference room into the hall and asked for Regan. Once he found her, he pitched the idea to her.

“So, we want the FBI to get a court order and tape the conversation between my uncle and me. Will you help us?”

It intrigued Regan. Justin's uncle probably wouldn't say anything useful, but you never knew what might come out. If he did say anything useful, it could give the Director leverage with the President.

“Why not? Of course, you must agree not to mention the FBI.”

“Fine, just as long as my attorney and I can get a copy of the recording.”

“I'll contact Judge Morrow. He signs most of our Patriot Act warrants. He'll probably agree to it,” and she went off to make a call.

Justin picked up the phone again and made another call, this time to his assistant.

He heard a man's voice say, “Jack Reese.”

“Jack, Justin Knight here.”

“Justin! What the hell is going on? Are you all right? First we saw on the news that someone shot you. Then, your uncle came to my office this morning and told me he fired you and that I'm the new VP of Operations. What in the world is going on?” he whispered frantically into the phone.

The news rendered Justin speechless for a moment. “My uncle fired me?”

“You mean he hasn't even called you?” Jack whispered, bewildered.

“I got a message from him just a few minutes ago, relayed through my attorney. I plan to call him after I talk with you. Did he say why he fired me?”

“'Gross insubordination. I couldn't believe it, especially a blood relative,” Jack whispered again.

“Why are you whispering, Jack?”

“Because your uncle said that no one should talk directly with you! I don't want anyone to overhear me.”

“He said that?”

“I know, it sounds crazy. I couldn't believe it when he told me. What's this all about, Justin?”

“I...I cannot tell you the whole story, not yet anyway. You will hear the whole thing soon enough. Jack, I need you to do me a favor, a really big favor.”

“Name it.”

“I need you to look up a wire transfer for me, an old one from 2002,” Justin said. “I do not have the transfer number, but I can give you something to look up in the description field. I would do it myself, but I suspect my uncle already cut off my computer access.”

“Sure, whatcha got?”

“Just do a general search and enter 'OBL-AQ' to see what shows up in the results. Whatever you do, don't click on any of the results! I just want to find out if anything shows up.

Jack entered the search term and waited a moment.

“Wow, this is really weird,” he said.

“What do you mean? Did you find something?”

“Yeah, I got a whole page full of results. The weird part is that every one of them is flashing, and there's a security flag next to each one of them, all dated between 2000 and 2002. Wait a minute...they all just disappeared!”

“What do you mean, they just disappeared?”

“I mean the screen went blank. The only two options I have are two buttons to click which say 'Cancel' and 'Continue'.”

“Hit Cancel, quickly!”

“Okay, I did.”

“Whatever you do, never do that search again, Jack! You hear me? If you do, your life might be in danger. I am sorry I even asked you to do it now. Just do not do that search ever again! Promise me!”

“Okay, okay, I won't. My God, Justin, what's this all about?”

“You just confirmed for me that they murdered my wife,” Justin said as he hung up.

“Murdered? What? You mean Amanda? But that was...what...seven, eight years ago? I thought she died in a car crash....Justin?....Hello?....Are you there?” Jack said to a silent phone. He hung up once he realized Justin had already disconnected.

Justin sat after hanging up the phone, thinking furiously.

Just then, Regan came back into the room and said, “We'll have the warrant in about five minutes...What's wrong?”

Justin hesitated, not sure what to tell her. Then he asked, “Can we add another name to that warrant?”

Regan frowned and said, “Who do you want to add?”

“John Holloway.”

“John Holloway? From Holloway Industries?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Forget what? Talk to me, Mr. Knight. If this has anything to do with Hanover-Rush, I need to know what it is.”

Justin put his hands to his forehead and tried to think. Lizzie warned him not to say anything to the FBI about his wife's story or about the wire transfer. In fact, they agreed to tell Regan as little as possible, but now he had proof, real proof! On the other hand, his attorney begged him not to say anything about a terrorist connection. The risks...the implications...could they confirm it? He could think of only one way to find out.

He wanted to get John Holloway on tape admitting that he knew about OBL-AQ. He knew that if he could utter those cryptic letters to John, he would recognize them, and he'd probably react somehow. How much should he confide to Regan? He decided to tell her as little as possible. Maybe he could tell her just enough to get her to go along with his request.

“I cannot tell you everything because it would endanger me and my family, but I will tell you some of what I know.”

He invited her with his hand to sit down across the table from him. She sat wordlessly, her attention fixed firmly on him.

“Eight years ago,” he began, “my wife died in an auto accident on the Long Island Expressway on her way home from work. Like me, she worked at Hanover-Rush. Up until very recently, I had no reason to question the accident as reported. However, I now have reason to believe that someone murdered my wife that day.”

“Murdered?” Regan said, opening her eyes wide in surprise. “How do you know?”

“I dare not tell you just yet. The evidence that came to me convinced me, but I did not have any confirmation. The evidence came in the form of eyewitness testimony, someone who saw the murder and the car crash as it happened.”

Regan's eyes bulged, and her brain raced. She had a theory about who Justin might mean. If correct, her theory explained a lot.

“Just now, I called a friend at the bank, someone who works with me. He told me that my uncle fired me for gross insubordination. I believe my uncle called and left the message so he could tell me to my face.”

“What does this have to do with your wife and Holloway?”

“I received a copy of a wire transfer that my wife processed shortly before she died, a wire transfer sent on behalf of Holloway to some company in Pakistan, for $50 million. The description of the transfer only said 'OBL-AQ-22' and nothing else. Just now, as I said, I called a friend at the bank. While I spoke with him, I had him do a search in the bank's database for any wire transfers that contained the phrase “OBL-AQ' in the description. He said he got a whole page of results. They all flashed at him, marked with security flags, and then the whole page went blank.”

“What's OBL-AQ–some kind of banking code?”

“No, but it might just be an acronym. It might possibly be short for Osama Bin Laden – Al-Qaeda.”

Regan didn't react nearly as surprised as Justin expected. In fact, she acted almost nonplussed. She's not surprised. Why on earth is she not surprised?

Now Regan did some furious thinking, trying not to show any reaction to Justin. The Director, who gave her the brief when she took charge of this case, had speculated in it that this case might have more to it than an embarrassing video. It outlined the possibility of a potential connection to terrorism. The brief didn't specify anything, only speculation. Still....

“Why would John Holloway want to accept a call from you?”

“Because I helped him launch his company's initial public stock offering. We have an extensive business background together.”

Again, it tallied with the brief she read.

“I need to know the details about how your wife died.”

“No, I cannot. I dare not. Maybe later, but not now.”

She picked up the phone and dialed three digits.

“Johnson? Regan here. That wiretap. We need to add John Holloway to it...Yes, right, of Holloway Inc. ASAP...Thanks,” she added, hanging up. “We should have it in about ten minutes. What else can you tell me?”

Justin shook his head and stayed silent. Ten minutes seemed like ten hours, but the phone finally rang.

“Regan…Right. Thanks.”

She hung up and said, “We added his name to the warrant. You want to make the call now?”

He reached for the phone, but she grabbed it first and dialed another three digit code. “Regan…Start recording on this line immediately. Don't stop until I tell you to...Okay, thanks.”

She hung up and picked the receiver up again, handing it to Justin. He took it and dialed the number from memory while she picked up a small ear piece next to the phone and held it to her ear.

“Holloway Industries,” said a female voice.

“Janet, Justin Knight here. I need John right away.”

“Yes, Mr. Knight. Please hold.” The line went quiet. A moment later, she came back on the line and said hesitantly, “I'm sorry Mr. Knight, but Mr. Holloway isn't available right now. That is to say...he's...in a meeting. May I take a message?”

“No! I need to speak to him right now. Just tell him 'OBL-AQ'. That should make sense to him.”

“Please hold,” Janet said, and the line went quiet again. A moment later, he heard a familiar male voice.

“What do you want, Justin?” he heard John Holloway say.

“What? No greeting for an old friend?”

“I'm a busy man, Justin, as you know.”

“Well, I am glad you have so much concern about my health, considering I got shot last night.”

“Yes, of course, I did hear about that. Sorry, Justin. I hope you are okay.”

“I feel quite well today, all things considered.”

“What do you want?”

“OBL-AQ.”

“Yes, Janet mentioned something about that. What's this all about?” Holloway sounded suspicious and guarded to Justin.

“Why did Holloway Industries send money to Osama Bin Laden?”

He heard a distinct gasp at the other end, then silence, followed by, “We aren't! It's...complicated. There's a lot you don't understand.”

“Enlighten me then,” Justin said, anger creeping into his voice.

“We should meet. For dinner. Or perhaps you'd like to come here and we can meet...somewhere near my office?”

“I want you to tell me now!”

“Justin, please! This is an open phone line. I can't say anything more.”

“My wife got killed over your little game! Someone tried to kill me last night, and they kidnapped my daughter! If this has something to do with Bin Laden, you better damn well tell me what!”

“What? Your wife? Wait a minute...your wife died, didn't she? Some years ago. Something about a car crash, wasn't it?”

“A car crash that I now know was murder! It happened the same day she looked up one of your wire transfers she processed for you in 2002, for fifty million dollars. It terrified her into leaving work early that day. Two hours later, an eyewitness saw her get her brains blown out at 60 miles an hour on a highway!” Justin roared.

“My God! My God! Justin, I had no idea. You've got to believe me!” Holloway pleaded in a flustered voice. “Listen, let's meet. I'll answer your questions, I'll tell you what I can, but I don't dare say anything more over the phone! How about we meet someplace? You name the spot–some place quiet.”

“Meet you?” Justin said as he noticed Regan shaking her head no, gesturing wildly with her free hand, trying to get his attention. “I...I cannot. My life is in danger. There is no place safe enough. Wait a minute, hold on,” he said as she put the ear piece down and frantically wrote something on a yellow legal pad lying on the conference table. It said, tell him you'll find a safe place to meet. You'll call him right back.

“Okay, listen John! I think I have an idea how we can meet, but I have to try to arrange it. Give me a little time, and I will call you as soon as I get it worked out.” He turned to Regan, who nodded her approval.

“Okay, good,” Holloway said with obvious relief. “Just keep it quiet.”

Justin agreed and hung up, looking questioningly at Regan.

“We need to control that meeting,” she said. “We need to have you wear a wire so we can record it. The question of where to have the meeting comes down to one thing: have you decided whether you plan to accept the AU's offer of asylum, if they give it?”

“You think we can get a wire past the AU?”

“No, we will tell them about it, but if you plan to accept their offer, then we need to plan on having the AU set up and run the meeting, rather than the FBI. Remember how I told you and Ms. Kohn that the FBI wants to establish a liaison of some kind with the AU? This creates a perfect opportunity to make that happen.”

At 2:55 p.m., a cab pulled up to the entrance at 26 Federal Plaza, and a large man flashing a gold tooth emerged and walked inside. An hour to travel from the trading floor of the AU to Federal Plaza seemed excessive to some people, but it didn't bother AJ. He expected it. After being taken via closed van from the underground garage to Grand Central Station, he emerged and easily found an available cab, which took him downtown.

He took the elevator up and exited at the 23rd floor, where he announced himself at the front desk. Within minutes he found himself facing Special Agent Regan and Justin Knight. “How do you do, Mr. Knight,” he said politely, offering his huge hand, which Justin shook cautiously. “Thank you for agreeing to this meeting, Special Agent Regan,” he added as he gently shook her hand also. They sat down.

“I assume Special Agent Regan told you why I'm here, Mr. Knight?”

“Yes, she said you wanted to meet me with her in the room.”

“I see, so she didn't tell you? Well, no matter. I know that Lizzie gave you a good overview of the AU and TST. As I'm sure you know by now, we successfully rescued your daughter and Lizzie from their kidnappers within hours of the event last night. They are now safe and protected.”

“When can I see them?” Justin asked.

“Anytime you like, although I wouldn't recommend a street-level reunion, for your own protection. We think it would be safest for both you and them if you reunited under our protection.”

“Your protection,” Justin said with tinge of suspicion in his voice.

“Yes, that's right. Well, not mine personally, you understand. I'm just the messenger here. I'm talking about AU protection, of course, specifically to be provided by TST, also known as The Security Team. They rescued Lizzie and your daughter, and they provide a great deal of security and support for AU activities.”

“More than that,” AJ continued, “Certain persons within the AU asked me to make you an offer to you. Our people originally planned to wait until we reunited you with your daughter, and indeed a minority still believe we should do that. However, the leadership decided we should make the offer now so you don't feel pressured to accept while under AU protection. Regardless of what you decide, we'll help set up your reunion with your daughter and Lizzie.”

“Special Agent Regan thinks you plan to offer me asylum,” Justin said cautiously.

“Yes, I suppose you could describe it that way,” AJ replied calmly with a nod to Regan, “although I think I prefer to call it alternative protection, since the FBI are well known to have exemplary witness protection options. With all due respect to Special Agent Regan here, we believe that we provide the better option in this case because, well, frankly, the FBI has a conflicting interest in this affair. On the one hand, they bear responsibility to uphold the law. On the other, the White House apparently ordered them not to.

“As you may know, the AU exists to promote marketplace-based change to society. One of our main targets is your industry, banking. We have long championed hard money and opposed fiat currency. We also oppose certain practices common in the industry. I believe you read Lizzie's doctoral thesis on the subject. The AU largely agrees with what she wrote.”

Justin interrupted, “What does all this have to do with me?”

“Sorry,” AJ said, “I sometimes get carried away. One of the ways the AU attempts to achieve its goals is to infiltrate the financial industry, watching for people within it who might share similar views to us. We need people within the industry of your stature to speak for us, to present our case, since our position sounds better coming from an insider. You have been through some very difficult times due, in no small part, to the bank which currently employs you, so the time may be ripe to approach you.”

“Actually, I believe they plan to fire me.”

“Really!?” AJ said, caught by surprise.

“Let me cut to the bottom line. I will not only consider your offer, but I think I can significantly enhance my desirability to you.”

AJ's eyes widened as he asked, “How so?”

Justin turned to Regan, who spoke up next. “Officially, the FBI also offers protection to Mr. Knight, and we urge him to choose our offer over yours. Unofficially, and strictly off the record, we prefer that he accept your offer instead. In addition, we propose a sharing of information, sort of a pooling of resources.”

AJ became even more intrigued. “Go on.”

“We want to help Mr. Knight record conversations with certain people, conversations which you might find quite interesting and useful. I refer to David Knight and John Holloway,” Regan said.

“Of Holloway Industries?” AJ repeated, clearly surprised.

“Yes, exactly.” She and Justin then told AJ the story of the secret warrant and the recording they made of Justin's call to Holloway.

AJ's excitement increased, but he remained deeply suspicious as he said, “Why does the FBI want to help the AU?”

Regan answered. “We have an interest in this information coming out, although as you pointed out the President made our position difficult. So we can't release the information ourselves.”

“But you'd let us use that information? You'd let us release it?”

“Yes, provided that you don't attribute it to us.”

“Why do you want to do this?”

“Corporate security. Corporations like Hanover-Rush have entered the intelligence community with their own operations, just as the AU has done. The President pays much more attention now to corporate intelligence, giving them a lot more credence than in the past, often to the detriment of FBI intelligence evaluations. The FBI needs to regain some lost influence. So, for now, we want to work with you.”

“The President is nearing the end of his second term. Change is in the air. Why not just wait for the next administration to take office and see where you stand?”

“It's not just the current President. I just described a long-term problem that has grown over time,” Regan explained. “We can't afford to wait.”

“Your offer will intrigue my friends. As I said, I'm only the messenger. I have limited parameters for operation at this meeting. I can't officially accept your offer, although I believe my friends will receive it very favorably.”

He turned back to Justin and said, “For this meeting, I can only offer you AU protection. I need your answer now. Will you accept our protection?”

Regan spoke up, “It's too early for that. We should work out the details of our temporary alliance before Mr. Knight goes with you.”

Justin interrupted her, “We cannot wait. John Holloway expects me to get back to him right away. I know him, and I know how he will react. I do not dare keep him waiting too long. He might try to back out of the meeting if we make him wait. It has to take place today.”

Regan said, “Then I will come with you.”

AJ stared at her. “My arrangements don't cover two people. I'm prepared to take Mr. Knight from here in secret, and no one else.”

“How do you plan to take him? By cab, like you arrived here? By car? Come now, AJ, I'll know soon enough,” Regan challenged him.

“It's an unmarked van.”

“I will hazard a guess it does not have any windows.”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Well, then, what harm exists in bringing me too? I won't be able to see anything.”

“With all due respect, you're FBI. You have any number of ways you could attempt to find out where we go. You might carry a wire or a bug yourself, perhaps a GPS tracker. You might have the van followed.”

“I can promise you that I won't bring anything like that without telling you first. In any case, I'm sure your security people will check me over quite thoroughly. Also, I cannot believe you would attempt such a transport without having a contingency for someone following you.”

AJ paused and grimaced. “Why do you want to come so badly?”

“Because I can protect FBI interests while also insuring that you will protect Mr. Knight adequately. Also, I want to meet your leaders.”

“You won't meet our leaders, at least not the top leadership. The most I can arrange, if at all, is for you to meet the person who coordinates this operation. She's the one I report to.”

“That'll do for now.”

AJ turned to Justin, who nodded his agreement.

“May I use your phone?” AJ asked Regan.

“Go right ahead.”

“Don't bother having it traced,” he noted as he picked up the receiver. “I'm calling a pay phone.”

Regan smiled and nodded but said nothing.

He dialed a number and after a moment he said, “Change in plans. Special Agent Regan will join us. Notify Janice, and arrange a security transfer....Good, that'll do. Also, we need to set up a safe, recorded meeting for Mr. Knight with one of his business associates for this evening– somewhere in Manhattan?” he asked looking at Justin, who nodded his agreement.

After another moment, AJ hung up.

“The van will be outside in five minutes.”

“I need time to arrange a wire for Mr. Knight to wear to his meeting,” Regan pointed out.

“Forget it,” AJ said. “We can supply one. Shall we go?”

After their failure to capture Justin at the hospital, Nevio Roone's rage knew no bounds. He practically tore up his own office in his fury. Donahue managed to escape most of the rampage, hiding out in his own office down the hall from Roone's.

Once Roone calmed down enough to speak in coherent sentences, Donahue risked knocking on his door.

When Roone yelled, “It better be important!” Donahue opened the door and said, before Roone could utter a word, “I know how we can get him.”

Roone froze. He cocked his head slowly and muttered, “How do you plan to do it?”

“Well, it's pretty obvious, really. We have to infiltrate this outfit that grabbed his daughter. I've been doing some checking on them. They call themselves the Agorist Underground, a bunch of do-gooders trying to start a revolution or something like that. They even put out a video report on the 'net bragging how they got away with the snatch.”

“Never heard of them. So where do we find them?”

“We don't know how or where yet, but I think I know who might know. Obviously, the FBI will try to reunite the daughter with the father. They already have the father, and they've given us no indication that they plan to arrest him. That means they plan to release him at some point. All we have to do is stake him out. When they try to move him, we follow. Eventually, he'll lead us to this AU outfit.”

Roone nodded, abnormally quiet for the moment. “That's a good angle. How much help do you want?”

“Just give me Porter for now. We get along, and he follows orders. It's probably better if we don't have a big presence outside FBI headquarters, anyway. When I'm ready for more troops, I'll call.”

“That's where they took Knight?”

“According to my sources.”

“OK, get on him. And don't lose him this time!”

“Right,” Donahue said as he wheeled and strode out of the office.

An hour later, Donahue picked their spot carefully outside 26 Federal Plaza. Available parking eluded them at first, but they eventually managed to grab a spot in a relatively obscure position that gave them a clear view of the building's entrance.

“I guess we'll be here awhile,” Porter observed as he watched the drive and the entrance to the headquarters through a pair of spyglasses.

“Yeah, maybe,” Donahue said. “I brought some coffee. Want some?”

“Depends! How does it compare to that muck you gave me over at the hospital?”

“Something wrong with my coffee?”

Porter sighed, rolled his eyes, and said, “OK, give me a cup.”

Donahue handed him a cup and mumbled with his mouth full, “Have a donut,” pointing with his elbow at the box on the seat between them. Porter opened it carefully and looked. Powdered jellies; at least Donahue had better taste in donuts than he did in coffee, although Porter did frown for a moment while looking at his own well-expanded waistline. What the hell, he could always put in some extra time at the gym.

Three cups and four donuts later, the day warmed considerably. Good thing, because the October air carried a definite chill in it. They couldn't watch properly with the windows up; long years of experience taught them that keeping windows open could mean the difference between life or death.

Porter eyed his partner for a moment before asking, “So how did you end up at Hanover-Rush? You strike me more as a military guy.”

Donahue harrumphed. “Yeah, I was. Born and bred.”

“Army brat?”

“My father was a Marine, but yeah, I ended up in the Army after graduating from the Point after Green Shores Military Academy.”

“Officer, huh? Did you see any action when you graduated?”

“I was in the Gulf War, the first one, when we liberated Kuwait. First lieutenant.”

Porter raised his eyebrows. “One of our finest hours.”

“You bet your ass,” Donahue agreed but added nothing more.

“So what did you do when you got out?”

Donahue shrugged. “Joined the CIA.”

Porter's eyes widened. “Field ops?”

He nodded again.

“So what did you do? Infiltrate the 'rabs? Track down yellow cake or something? I suppose you were some sort of American version of James Bond?” Porter‘s smirk faded away under the glare Donahue gave him.

“Something like that.”

“So why didn't you stay?”

Donahue remained silent for a long moment. “My father was a bastard and an alcoholic. He beat me almost every day when I wasn't away at military school. It wasn't so bad. Actually, he taught me a valuable lesson. Darwin had it right. Life is about survival of the fittest, and the bastard made damn sure I got fit. In this life, you either rule or you get ruled...nothing in between. I decided then I'd rather be a ruler.”

“It's a dangerous world.”

“Damn straight. I found out just how dangerous in intelligence work.”

“Where did they assign you?”

“Saudi Arabia. That's when I learned about the plot.”

“What plot?”

Donahue turned to him and looked him over carefully. “Are you a patriot Porter?”

“Of course!”

Donahue scowled while he decided what to do. Finally, he made up his mind.

“It was early 2001. Anti-American activity was on the rise. You wouldn't believe the shit we discovered. We, all of us, filed report after report, but the bastards kept ignoring us.”

“What bastards?” Porter interrupted him to ask.

“Langley.”

Now Porter stared at him wide-eyed.

“You mean you reported all that chatter they talked about getting before 9/11!”

Donahue nodded. “But they wouldn't do anything! We knew something was up. We had a pretty good idea it would involve aircraft, that something would happen on U.S. soil. But getting people in power to listen! Well, let's just say I pissed a few people off.”

“When did you leave?”

“The company? After 9/11.”

“Why?”

Donahue shrugged. “I guess I pushed back too often. They dumped me in early 2002.”

Porter digested all this in admiration.

“So what did you do next?”

“Well, they tried to pull me from Saudi Arabia, but I told them to shove it. If they didn't want me working for them, I said fine, screw them! But I wasn't going to leave the country, company or no company. I still saw too much work that needed doing. Then I met a man with red hair and a foul disposition who said he represented the Committee for International Consolidation.”

“Roone?” Porter asked, his attention more narrowly focused on his partner now.

Donahue nodded again. “He was my best source in the field when I worked for the company. I got more information from him than from anyone else I knew. All of my best contacts in Al-Qaeda and the other terrorist networks came from Roone. Best of all, his tips always panned out. I sometimes wondered where he got such good information. He never told me. He'd just say, 'The CIC knows more than the CIA.'”

Donahue sniffed the air frowning. “Did you just float a serious air biscuit?”

Porter stiffened in his seat. “Yeah, run while you still can.”

“...Geez Porter!” Donahue tried to wave the stench away from him, and he quickly lit up a cigarette. Porter concentrated on his log book.

The Federal Plaza building received a fair amount of traffic, and they found themselves hard-pressed to keep up with logging it all. Porter ended up with most of the written work, but he kept at it.

“Did you notice the van?”

Donahue nodded: “Unmarked, immaculate condition. Kinda unusual for the city.”

“Couldn't see the driver for the tinted windows, either.”

“Uh huh. Keep an eye on it.”

The van parked right outside the main door, and the passenger, a large African-American male, went inside. A while later, he emerged with Justin Knight and the female FBI agent! Donahue car.

Justin, AJ, and Regan emerged downstairs to find an unmarked van at the door. AJ went first, opening the back door of the van and entering. Justin and Regan followed him inside. AJ pulled the door closed, and the van sped off. Like the mini-bus Lizzie and Michaela took earlier with AJ, this van had comfortable lounge chairs with seat belts.

As their van left the premises, an unmarked car pulled away from the curb and followed them.

Ten minutes later, the van came to a stop, and the back door opened.

A man in a delivery uniform awaited them. “Please step out here.”

They found themselves inside an underground garage. Their van stood in a row of vans, all identical. Regan and Justin got out, and AJ led them to another van where a technician sat next to a laptop and some electronic equipment. He jumped out and invited Regan over first, running a scanning wand all over her. He did the same with Justin and AJ. Returning to the van, he worked with his laptop for a couple minutes. “Okay.”

AJ led them to yet another van, inviting them inside. Once they settled into the usual lounge chairs, he pulled out a Polaroid photo and showed it to Regan.

“Friends of yours?” She observed the photo and saw a slightly blurry shot of two men sitting in the front seat as seen through the windshield. “They've been following us.”

Regan shook her head. “I left orders that no one should follow us.”

Justin reached for the photo. “Let me see that!”

The delivery man handed him the photo. Justin looked more closely. “That is Haven Donahue, the security manager at my estate. And that is Ward Porter, the man who visited me at the house the night my daughter was kidnapped!” he said angrily.

“They're from your bank?”

Justin nodded.

The delivery man retrieved the Polaroid, and closed the door. They heard a number of engines start. Apparently, all the vans planned to leave at once.

“Multiple targets,” Regan said approvingly. “That should confuse them.”

“Confuse who?” Justin asked.

Regan smiled enigmatically but said nothing. As they started off, Justin pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

“Who do you plan to call?” Regan asked him.

“I want to leave a message for that snake, Donahue, that he is fired,” Justin steamed as he tried unsuccessfully to work his phone.

“Don't bother,” AJ said. “Your phone won't work in here.”

“Why not?”

“This part of the van is lead lined. No electronic signal can get in or out.”

Justin put the phone back in his pocket. He sat fuming for the next 20 minutes until the van came to a halt once again. When the doors opened, they found themselves in another underground garage, one which AJ recognized instantly, although he didn't say anything. They disembarked and walked into the only door they saw. Passing through, they came to a desk with a female security guard behind it.

“Welcome, Mr. Knight,” the guard said, “We've been expecting you. And you, Special Agent Regan. Please sit down,” she gestured to chairs across the desk. The two sat.

“First, Special Agent Regan, I'm afraid we have to ask you to turn your weapons over to us for safekeeping during your visit.” Regan stiffened. “No need to worry,” the guard continued pleasantly. “We'll keep them safe, and they'll be returned to you when you leave us.”

Regan reluctantly pulled out her service revolver, examined the load briefly, and placed it carefully on the desk.

“The other one too, please.”

Regan pulled up her right pant leg and removed a small derringer velcroed to a strap around her leg and placed it on the desk as well.

“Thank you,” said the guard as she typed something into her computer, and a printer started printing. In a moment, she grabbed the paper and handed it to Regan. “Your receipt.”

Turning to Justin she said, “Mr. Knight, as you know we provided protection services for your daughter and her tutor, after we rescued them from your bank's...employees, shall we say? We presume your willingness to cover the expenses we have incurred toward that end.”

Another paper printed out, and she handed it to him. She kept talking as he scanned it.

“Mr. Knight, we generally only do business with people we have done extensive background checks on. In your case, we waive that because of your very public position. Also, forgive us, we did extensive checking on you before your tutor went to work for you. So we can forgo that part of the procedure.”

“Your services do not come cheap,” Justin commented as he read.

“Do you object?”

“No, I just thought I would mention it, that is all. I am quite grateful to you people for rescuing my daughter...and her tutor, of course, although I thought you already assumed responsibility for Elizabeth's safety.”

“A fair point. I can charge her expenses to TST.”

“No problem. I will gladly pay them.”

“Very well. We also need you to agree to our terms of service.”

A set of pages printed out, and she handed them to Justin when it finished. He read them carefully, and their thoroughness impressed him.

“Looks like you have some good lawyers in your little revolutionary group,” he commented, and he reached for a pen to sign the papers.

“Special Agent Regan, you arrive here as our guest,” the guard stated. “We normally don't allow guests not yet vetted inside this facility, but we will make an exception for you today. I must request that you not wander around at all during your visit and limit your activities to only those places our people take you. Do you agree?”

Regan nodded.

“Good,” the guard said, pressing another computer button, and a new set of credentials for each of them soon appeared. “You have people expecting you on the third floor. Enjoy your stay.”

AJ, Justin, and Regan went to the elevator and climbed in. When they reached the first floor, they transferred to the other elevator, and AJ pressed the 3 button. Moments later, the door opened and AJ led them off to the left.

“Dad!” Michaela screamed with joy upon sighting her father, and she rushed over to leap into his arms. Relief flowed over him as he experienced the exhilaration of reuniting with her. Tears poured from his eyes as he held his only daughter close, as if he would never release her again.

Lizzie came over too and smiled broadly at the father and daughter reunion.

Justin noticed her and said, “Elizabeth,” releasing his daughter to reach for her.

“Mr. Knight,” she said, slightly embarrassed, pulling back ever so slightly.

“I think we're long past that, don't you, Elizabeth? Call me Justin.” He took her hands and drew her closer and held her gently for a moment. He released her slightly so they could see each other more clearly, still holding on.

“Yes...Justin,” she whispered after a moment, her cheeks turning quite pink. Her hair around her neck enhanced her femininity for him just as it always had. The blood rushing to her head and neck made her beautiful and enticingly vulnerable.

“Thank you for my daughter's life,” he said to her in an intimate voice, “and for mine.”

Then he took her upper arms, gently pulled her to him and kissed her warmly on the lips. She stiffened at first, then wrapped her arms around his neck to pull them even closer together and kissed him back just as warmly, perhaps even more so.

Michaela's mouth dropped open, and it rendered her speechless for a rare moment. Her eyes widened as she watched this display.

“Ohhhh!” she exclaimed, although she didn't smile.

AJ, on the other hand, though clearly surprised, flashed a big smile. He laughed his slow, gentle laugh.

Regan didn't show much reaction, other than to nod quietly. She’d suspected something like this from the moment she met them.

When Justin released her, Lizzie could hardly think of anything to say. She continued to blush, squirmed a bit, stammered for a moment, then said to him, “'Elizabeth' is so formal. Do you think you could call me Lizzie?”

Now Justin had to to smile. “All right...Lizzie.”

She smiled, and her smile grew even bigger than his. This gave him warm chills up and down his spine and into his legs. Michaela decided that her tutor had quite enough attention for now and pulled her father away, talking to him at her usual 300 words a minute. Regan and AJ watched quietly, as did another person in the room.

Justin noticed her and asked, “Who is this?”

AJ stepped in and said, “Mr. Knight, let me introduce you to Janice. She coordinated your daughter's rescue, and Lizzie's too, of course. Janice, meet Mr. Justin Knight and Special Agent Regan of the FBI.”

Janice stepped forward to shake hands with each of them.

“It's a pleasure to meet you both,” she said in a contralto voice and turned directly to Justin. “I've enjoyed getting to know your daughter for the past hour or so. She's quite an interesting, enthusiastic, and energetic young lady!”

She stood taller than average, about 5'9”, with an average build. When Lizzie and Justin kissed, she stood in the shadows and didn't react, although Justin thought he'd noticed a smile right after he released Lizzie. He estimated her age around mid-to-late forties. She wore her black, curly hair down, and Justin thought he saw some streaks of gray in it. He wondered if she permitted the gray on purpose, perhaps to add to her air of being in charge, an air which she possessed quite naturally already. The streaked effect contrasted nicely with her creamy mocha skin tone.

“I'm ever so grateful for all you have done for my family,” he told her as he shook her hand.

“You're quite welcome,” she said with a warm smile. “I don't want to rush this wonderful reunion,” she said, “but I believe we have a tight schedule.”

“Yes, of course.” Justin turned to Michaela. “Sweetheart, these people must help me do something very important right now. Then we can have a late dinner together, and you can tell me everything. Would that be all right?”

“But you just got here!”

“And I plan to be here all night, too.”

“And tomorrow, and the day after?”

“We will be together quite a bit from now on.”

Slightly put out, Michaela scanned all the adult faces and grimly resigned herself to the inevitable.

“Why don't we all sit down,” Janice said, indicating the comfortable chairs in the room. Someone had arranged the group of them in a circle so that the conversation would include everyone.

After they sat, AJ outlined for Janice what they discussed at Federal Plaza. He described the plan to meet with Holloway and record the conversation for both AU and FBI use.

“And for my use as well,” Justin pointed out. “I want that conversation on record in case I need to use it later.”

Janice said to Justin, “I take it Mr. Holloway is in town?”

“Yes. He has offices just off Broadway.”

“And what about your uncle?”

“I want to call him afterward and talk with him based in part on what John has to say to me. I am sure he will fire me, but I also want to corner him about his plans and intentions, if I can.”

“He'll fire you?” Michaela asked quickly.

“Do not worry,” Justin assured her. “It will work out for the best.”

“We've prepared a meeting place for you and Mr. Holloway. Do you think he'll agree to be taken to the location with a blindfold?”

“He might. I scared him when I mentioned the wire transfer's description. He will do whatever it takes to reassure me about it.”

“All right, then. Call and tell him a car will be sent to his office. Give me the address, so I can arrange it,” she said, and he wrote it out for her. “Tell him to expect us at exactly 6:20.”

“Will my cell phone work here?”

AJ interceded, “No, the walls are shielded.”

Janice smiled and said, “Come with me, and you can use the office phone, a secure line.”

She led him to an office, unlocked the door with her thumb print, and gestured toward a desk with a phone. Justin sat down, selected Holloway's number from his cell's address book, and dialed the number. A digital clock on the wall showed the time as 5:39.

“John Holloway, please…Justin Knight.”

A moment later, he continued, “John, I have worked out a way for us to meet. I can send a car over to your office at precisely 6:20. The driver will take you to a hidden location where we can meet. Does that suit you? Good...Yes, I will gladly hear what you have to say...Yes, I hope it does too...Okay, John, see you soon.” Then he disconnected.

Janice had left the room to make a call of her own. She returned just as Justin completed his own call.

“We will have a bit of a wait. Would anyone like anything, something to eat or drink while we wait?” she asked around.

One of the wait staff appeared next to her, ready to take orders. Michaela jumped up first.

“Come on, Dad,” she said, pulling him to his feet. “I want to give you the grand tour!” The two of them went off together down the hall, with Michaela once again gabbing along at top speed.

They returned a short while later to find the others chatting amiably over drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Michaela's patter had played itself out, and she mainly just sat with her father as they joined the party. A man came into the room at 6:45 and whispered something to Janice, who turned to speak to Justin.

“We picked your friend up. He resisted the blindfold at first, but then he accepted it. He should be at the rendezvous in about five minutes. We prepared everything. You should leave now to arrive on time.”

He nodded and got up to go. Michaela didn't want to let him go, but he hugged her close, assured her he would return soon and left with Janice's aide.

“Wait a minute,” Regan said suddenly. “You forgot something.”

Everyone froze and turned to her.

“He needs a wire to wear to this meeting!”

Janice spoke up, “Don't worry. The room is completely wired for sound and video. We'll get a good recording.”

This concerned Justin. “Do you make it a practice to record all your guest's private conversations?”

Janice shook her head, “No, but we have rooms like this one available in case the need arises.”

After their quarry gave them the slip yet again, Porter sighed and said, “Roone's gonna have our hides.”

Nevio Roone had indeed blown a gasket when Donahue reported the miscue by phone and nearly screamed at them to find a way into the AU.

Donahue refused to match Roone's tone.

“Look,” he told Roone calmly, “we now know this van ahead of us is a decoy, but we also know that they have some connection with the AU. They must have, because that bait-and-switch back there didn't resemble an FBI operation. We should follow them and see where they take us.”

“Make sure you succeed this time!” Roone shouted before disconnecting.

They followed the van to a small brownstone in Greenwich Village. Its driver pulled into an open spot, while Donahue hung back a block and pulled into a spot of his own. The van's driver emerged and scanned the vicinity. After a moment of this, he satisfied his curiosity and walked into the brownstone.

Once again, the two men relaxed into a waiting mode. They had no clue how long they would have to wait this time. Porter told him about a time in 'Nam when he and his buddy got separated from their unit. They holed up in a particularly dense piece of jungle, determined to find their way out the next day. He got to the part where some Viet Cong showed up, when all of a sudden Donahue shushed him.

“Look what we got.”

Porter looked up the street and saw the van's driver reemerge from the building, this time with a female companion. The two of them quickly climbed into the van, and within seconds they started off again. Donahue started the car and moved back onto the street, keeping a one block length between the van and themselves.

“Do you recognize either of them?”

Porter shook his head no. “Not really. Wouldn't mind knowing her, though.”

Donahue knew what he meant. Blond and curvy, wearing some kind of uniform, she easily attracted attention.

“Don't lose them,” Porter admonished. Donahue snorted in reply.

The van took them on a lazy loop around the West Side of Manhattan. At one point, it doubled back on its own prior route. Donahue started getting excited but held well back. Clearly, the driver hoped to avoid pursuers. Donahue continued to hang back even further, ordering Porter to keep a close eye on where the van went.

At one point, they thought they lost it, but then Porter saw it heading down a side street. Donahue stopped and carefully made the turn, scrupulously avoiding anything that might sound like squealing tires or a revving engine.

Finally, after about a half hour of driving around, the van came to a stop in front of an empty storefront, clearly under construction. The two men hung back, with Porter watching their quarry through the spyglasses. The van turned into a driveway, headed downward, and disappeared below street level.

The two men glanced at each other. Donahue turned off the motor, and they got out of the car. They worked their way carefully over to where the van disappeared. The street remained surprisingly quiet, and the storefront appeared deserted. They quietly checked doors around the store's entrance to see if someone had left any open, but none let them in. Donahue put his hands over his eyes to shield them from the sun, which make it easier to look inside the deserted store window. Seeing nothing of interest, he strode over to the studio apartment next door and peered into that window. Then he peered in another window, and another.

He turned to Porter and said, “These are all false fronts. You can't see anything inside but a wall right next to the window with a little scene painted on it inside to look like there are furniture and fixtures inside.”

He grinned a predatory grin. “I think we just found the Agorist Underground.”

Porter looked at the building skeptically. “Maybe, but how do we get in?”

Donahue looked at the van again. He saw a small sticker on the bumper that said, “Gabe's Pawn Shop” and listed a nearby address.

“If you wanted to find underground help, who would you talk to? Your friendly neighborhood pawn broker perhaps?”

Porter nodded his head. It made sense. They got back in their car and drove off.

Upon reaching the pawn shop, Donahue pulled the door open, walked inside and looked around as Porter followed him. Less organized that most pawn shops, this one had stuff piled all over the place with no discernible plan or intention. The clutter suggested seediness. So did the dust.

Donahue slowly approached the counter where an overweight man sat reading a paperback.

The proprietor looked up as they approached. “What do you need?”

Donahue looked around before answering, “You guys got any gold or silver?”

The proprietor shrugged. “Some. Anything in particular?”

“I'm looking for a place that handles bullion.”

The proprietor gazed at him skeptically. “You buying or selling?”

“Buying. I prefer gold.”

“What size?”

“Ten ounces if you have them.”

“We don't get nothing like that around here.” The proprietor smirked as he turned back to his novel.

“Know anyone who might?”

“You might try Manhattan Gold & Silver over on W. 47th Street,” the proprietor suggested without looking up from his book.

“Well, I'm looking for something a little less visible. Those legit dealers ask too many questions, if you know what I mean.”

The proprietor glanced up, shrugged again. “Sorry.” He returned to his paperback.

Donahue pulled out his wallet and put a $100 bill on the counter. “I would think someone in your line of work might know some, well, shall we say unusual people.”

The proprietor barely looked up, shrugged. “You could say that,” but he didn't get up or touch the bill. Donahue noticed that his attention didn't waver from it though.

“Perhaps you know people who work a little more, shall we say, quietly?” Donahue continued.

The proprietor displayed a nervous habit of playing with his ring. He kept twirling it back and forth.

Finally, after a moment of silence, he said, “No, I don't think so.”

Donahue considered him for a moment. Then he pulled out a business card and put it on the counter next to the hundred dollar bill.

“If you think of anyone who could help me, give me a call. My cell number is on the card.”

Then he turned and left the shop, with Porter following him. They went back to their car and climbed in.

“Now what?” Porter asked.

“Now, we wait patiently. Want another donut?”

Porter looked in the box. His stomach felt a bit queasy.

“No, thanks. Maybe we should try another pawn shop?”

“No, I expect to hear from that guy pretty soon, unless I completely miss my guess.”

“So Roone hired you after you got out of the CIA?”

Donahue nodded.

“He must have given you a helluva sales pitch, after what you'd been doing,” Porter added, trying to egg him into telling more.

“Actually, yes, he did. That's when I learned about Operation Gadfly.”

“Sorry?”

“You know it was an inside job, right?”

“What job? What are you talking about?”

“9/11.”

Porter stared at him in open-mouthed, stunned shock. “You're shittin' me!”

Donahue scowled. “They called it Operation Gadfly. Come off it, Porter, admit it. You knew. You must have known. Everyone in the community knew.”

Porter sputtered, deep anger in his voice, “But they targeted America! They killed thousands of us! How...what...how could you possibly...”

“Don't be a fool. We didn't do it.”

“But you just said it was an inside job!” Porter spat back, enraged, his face beet red with anger.

“Oh, come off it, Porter! I just told you we knew about it in advance. Just because Langley didn't take the threat seriously doesn't mean no one else did.”

“What do you mean?”

Donahue sighed and shook his head.

“Look, do you honestly believe that Osama Bin Laden and Al-Qaeda were independently wealthy enough and resourceful enough to pull 9/11 off by themselves?”

“Well, of course they did. Everyone knows that!”

Donahue rolled his eyes. He wondered why he had to put up with such incompetence so often in his line of work. It must be a hazard of the profession.

“You really are a git, you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Porter, did you really buy all that rubbish the 9/11 Commission handed out? Do you really believe the terrorists caught the CIA and the FBI with their pants down that day? Haven't I just told you that we knew about it in advance, and that only Langley buried its collective head in the sand? Do you really think we're all that stupid? They designed all that guff they handed out to the media to keep the masses dumb and happy. They didn't dare tell the truth. I thought you were smart enough to know that.”

“But that's just a conspiracy theory!”

“Porter!” Donahue snorted in dismay. He shook his head some more. “Okay, look, remember on 9/11 when the President caught all that flack for reading a story in a school classroom while the attacks went on? Some people said he should have taken action, but he claimed that they didn't have enough information, and they needed to project a sense of calm to the country. Most Americans accepted that explanation, although many didn't like it.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Did it ever occur to you to ask yourself why the Secret Service didn't act that day?”

“What do you mean? They guarded him throughout the day. That's what they're supposed to do, isn't it?”

“Look, if the President is in the West Wing of the White House, one of the most secure fortresses in this country, and some coup takes place in Peru or something, and intelligence chatter suggests that something else might happen somewhere else in the U.S., what does the Secret Service do?”

“Well, I suppose they lock down the White House and restrict entry until they get better intel.”

“That's right. They call it a 'crash.' They crash the White House until they know that the President's life is not in danger. And what happens if the President resists what the Secret Service wants him to do?”

“Doesn't matter. Until the danger is controlled, they do what they have to do, even if they have to drag the President to the bunker kicking and screaming.”

“Exactly!” Donahue shouted triumphantly.

“So what's your point?”

Donahue rolled his eyes again. “So why did the Secret Service let the President continue to read to school children in the middle of an unprecedented attack? Forget about what the administration said afterward. That's just politics. The Secret Service has one, primary job: protect the President at all costs, no matter what. Why didn't the President get dragged off to safety while the country remained under attack?”

Porter gaped at the suggestion.

“You mean the Secret Service fell down on the job? They screwed up?”

“No, I don't mean that at all,” Donahue sighed, holding his forehead in his hand as if to ward off Porter's denseness. “I mean that the Secret Service did their job very well that day, just as they always do. So the facts can only add up to one possibility. Think, Porter, use your brain cells for a change! What does it all add up to?”

Porter's face screwed up in concentration. Suddenly, his eyes popped wide open as a new thought entered his head.

“You mean, the Secret Service already knew the attacks would happen before they happened?”

“It took you long enough to get there,” Donahue sighed as he shook his head once more. The two men sat silently for awhile.

“How much longer, do you think?” Porter asked to change the subject.

“Not long,” Donahue guessed with a glance at his cell phone. As if to prove him right, it chose that moment to ring. He answered it.

“Donahue,” he said. He paused while the voice spoke to him. “We'll be there,” he said before disconnecting.

“Who was it?”

“Our pawn shop buddy, of course. He said to meet someone over in Central Park by the statue of Christopher Columbus.”

“Pay dirt.”

Donahue started the car, and they headed off to the park. About 20 minutes later, they found a spot to park near the statue in question. They approached it slowly, looking around. A number of people walked by. Some sat on benches. Others lounged on the inviting grass. The two men continued until they stopped at the statue, still scanning the immediate vicinity. No likely candidates appeared. The two men stood uneasily, waiting for...they didn't know what.

Finally, a young man with long hair and a backpack approached them.

He looked them over carefully before he walked up. “You guys buying metal?”

Donahue returned his stare. “That's right. You selling?”

The young man snorted. “Do I look like I'm made of money? Get real.”

He handed Donahue a card. It had an address and a time on it.

“Be there at 3:00 p.m., and they'll take you to the trading floor.” Then he turned and walked away without another word.

Donahue grinned at Porter and winked.

“We're in. I think I'll phone for some more troops.” He pulled out his cell phone and began making calls.

President Jordan Hedge sat behind the Resolute Desk within the Oval Office with the FBI Director sitting quietly across from him. Neither man spoke. The speaker phone interrupted the silence as a woman's voice said, “David Knight on line one for you, Mr. President.”

“Thank you, Helen,” he said and pushed a button on the phone. “Mr. Knight, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Good morning, Mr. President! Thank you for taking my call. You have, perhaps, heard from your FBI Director that they recovered the missing video?”

“Yes, he's here with me right now. I presume this lays your fears to rest.”

“If only it were that easy! Unfortunately, sir, we have no way to ascertain whether my nephew or his confederates made copies of the disk. Nor do we have any reason to believe that the disk he possessed was the original, because we still do not know who shot the video. We discovered that an unknown person dressed as a delivery man duped my personal secretary by presenting her with a corsage on the day that meeting took place. We strongly suspect the corsage contained a hidden video camera. Unfortunately, she knew nothing about the deception, and she hardly remembers disposing of that corsage. We guess she threw it out after the flowers wilted, and the delivery man or his confederate recovered it shortly thereafter.”

“Who do you think arranged the recording?” the President asked.

“You may have heard that my great-niece was kidnapped the day your FBI and the NYPD failed to protect my nephew from an assassin's bullet. We learned that she ended up in the hands of a group known as the Agorist Underground. We suspect their involvement with the video's creation.”

“Yes, I heard about that,” the President said with a baleful glance at his FBI Director. “If what you say is true, then it appears the crisis has not yet been averted. However, I don't see what we can do about it.”

“While your FBI continues to blunder about, my own security department has already begun the process of tracking down this underground. We made some progress, but their security has proven difficult to penetrate so far. We need the FBI and your office to lend your assistance and support to the cause.”

The President stiffened at this and raised a hand to silence the FBI Director before he spoke.

“That is problematic. No matter what I personally think of this underground you mention, until they do something that violates federal law, the federal government has no jurisdiction in the matter. It's a local police matter.”

“On the contrary, Mr. President, this is a matter of national consequence. Need I remind you what public release of that video could do to the public's confidence in its political and banking leaders? The country faces a dire economic situation, and the entire world watches our every move with bated breath. Public release of the video at this time would prove chaotic at best and catastrophic at worst.”

“What do you suggest, Mr. Knight?”

“Mr. President, resolving the financial crisis requires determined, strong leadership. This includes keeping information away from the public that might undermine confidence. The entire monetary system depends upon the public's confidence in it, and right now that confidence hovers at an all-time low. The times demand a firm, decisive leader who knows how to take control of a situation and impose his will on it. Of course, with the election approaching and your party's imminent electoral demise, perhaps I should just wait until your successor takes office?” Knight gently taunted him.

The President bristled at the suggestion and shouted, “We have provided determined, strong leadership! This administration's leadership created the TARP package you pleaded for so desperately. Don't you dare accuse us of not providing strong leadership. If not for your industry's irresponsible lending policies, this crisis never could have happened in the first place!”

Knight assumed a calming voice as he soothed, “Of course, Mr. President. I meant no disrespect. Since we agree on the need, I have no doubt you will gladly join us in working to stop this underground from releasing the video to the public. Our mutual interests depend on it.”

The President slumped in his chair and sighed, exclaiming very unenthusiastically while rolling his eyes, “All right, Mr. Knight. Tell us what you have in mind.”

“I should think our course of action is obvious. The underground kidnapped my great-niece. Surely the FBI bears the responsibility to extract her from her captors, do they not? If they help us infiltrate this underground's headquarters, it should create opportunities for us to discover more information about the video's whereabouts.”

The FBI Director shook his head no, holding his finger to his lips.

The President replied, “Please hold the line for a moment, Mr. Knight.” He pressed the hold button on the phone and said, “Well?”

“Mr. Knight lies, Mr. President. We have solid information telling us that the underground rescued his great-niece from the real perpetrators of the kidnapping.”

“And who are these perpetrators you refer to?”

“We have only one person's story, with no confirmation, but we believe that Knight's security team may have carried out both kidnappings.”

The President's eyes widened fractionally. He took the call off hold.

“Mr. Knight, the Director informs me that the FBI believe it unlikely the underground kidnapped your great-niece.” Then he waited to see how Knight would reply.

It came without hesitation. “If I may be so bold, you are poorly advised, Mr. President. We know for a fact that they have her, and we also know that this underground exists for the purpose of bringing down the entire financial system. What better way to attempt to apply pressure than to hold a family member of a top banking executive hostage as part of their overall plan to move their agenda forward? I imagine they might attempt to use her to apply pressure over any number of potential issues.”

The President looked at the Director for his reaction. Again, he shook his head no, but as the President reached again for the hold button, he reached out with his hand and stopped him.

“Mr. Knight, have this underground presented any demands to you or to your nephew?”

“Well, no,” Knight began, but the Director interrupted him.

“Then how can you know that they intend to use her as a hostage?”

“It seems most obvious to me.”

“Well, it doesn't seem obvious to me. To the contrary, the only organization known to have kidnapped her is your own. After we extracted her from the building, someone shot your nephew and kidnapped your great-niece again.”

“Yes, and right under your noses.”

“So,” the Director continued, ignoring Knight's taunt, “why should we assume that the perpetrators the second time around came from a different organization from the one who kidnapped her the first time–your own?”

“He forgets which side you are on, Mr. President,” Knight replied coolly without acknowledging the Director personally. “Our only interest all along has been to recover that video, for all our sakes. Besides, what you said changes nothing about my great-niece's current predicament. I notice that you do not claim that this underground does not have her. In fact, they do have her. Even your FBI Director agrees on that point. We should limit our efforts to the factual situation as we know it and not squabble among ourselves. If that video emerges publicly, it will harm your administration–and indeed the entire federal government–just as much as it will harm my bank, the Federal Reserve system, and the world-wide economy. We must act. We must attempt to track down and acquire all copies of that video. We have no choice!”

The President rubbed his forehead and temples, trying to ease the oncoming headache he felt. His FBI Director sat mute.

“Very well, Mr. Knight, but your team will have to find their headquarters. Once they do, we'll arrange something appropriate.” He punched a button on the speaker phone to end the call. Then, he pressed his secretary's button. “Helen, have someone bring me some aspirin or something.”

“Yes, Mr. President. Right away.”

The FBI Director stood to take his leave. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Just a moment, Fred.”

The Director turned. “Yes, sir?”

“I expect you to continue to give Mr. Knight every cooperation.”

The Director sat down again.

“Mr. President, I must continue to raise my objections to this entire affair. Engaging the Bureau on behalf of known kidnappers–well, I can hardly even complete that s