Aboard Air Force One
President Walker sat in a padded chair on Air Force One. He had asked the staff to empty this part of the aircraft and to leave him in peace. The dull roar of the engines provided a small bit of comfort somehow.
His daughter Elizabeth sat in the seat next to him. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not showed any other emotion. He had just told her about Kate’s death. She was being strong for him. He knew Elizabeth loved Kate like a sister. She was being forced to face the fact that she was gone.
He looked out the oval window in the fuselage of the Boeing jet at one of the Air Force F-22s flying alongside guarding the president’s aircraft. The lines on the fighter jets were graceful, reminiscent of American power. The sunlight glinted off the cockpit glass and one of the pilots waved at him. He waved back somberly. How much things have changed over the last few months, he thought. The world had become a much more disturbing place.
He was playing a game of brinkmanship with the alliance countries. He knew he had to back up any threats he made. He was careful to make sure he could act if his bluff was called. It was a dangerous game, a slippery slope.
It was the financial problems that were killing the country. The entitlement spending was out of control. He had to find a way to bring the country back to fiscal reality and sustainability. That was the challenge. The spending had to be slowed, and the economy had to begin growing again. The debt issuance cycle to fund further borrowing had to stop. He was fairly new in office and it was a Herculean task. In addition, the economic downward spiral led to a weakened national security position. It was inviting threats and attacks. He had to shore up America’s defenses as well.
He stared back at the aircraft alongside.
“Just don’t let her death go to waste,” Elizabeth finally said softly. The president was jerked back to reality. “Fix the problems, Dad. Take the hard road and get it done.”
President Walker took in the words and pondered them. Out of the mouths of babes, he mused.
He would do so. He would take the hard road. But what does that look like? he wondered.
Isle of Hope
Intracoastal Waterway
Savannah, Georgia
The conspicuously black, U.S. government Suburban left the mainland and entered a narrow, two-lane causeway that made its way across the marsh, splitting the southern waterway that separated the barrier islands from the Georgia mainland. Their destination was one island in particular. The wetlands separated the island from the neighborhood of Sandfly, an old slave community. Seagulls soared overhead, looking for dinner in concert with the occasional hawk circling above. Connor could see the shells of the creatures that by the billions mostly formed this man-made thoroughfare littering the sides of the road. He thought of his driveway on Eleuthera in the Bahamas and the shells crunching under his tires as he drove.
The view of the marsh was peaceful with the reeds gently blowing in the breeze. The tide was slowly retreating, exposing nests of oyster shells and black, muddy banks teeming with crabs. An occasional alligator sunned himself on the salty earth.
It was not a long ride across the marsh and Moon River. Soon they were back on dry land as they arrived on the Isle of Hope. Palm trees greeted them, as well as huge, ancient, oak trees dripping with Spanish moss hanging from the branches like a beard. This is the old country, thought Connor.
The island got its name from, of all places, the disease malaria. When the aristocracy of Savannah was smitten with the disease during the colonial period, the residents fled to the island to escape the sickness, hence the name Isle of Hope.
A quarter mile after accessing the island, the vegetation thickened, and the Suburban turned right onto a wide, tree-lined passageway. The road went on as far as the eye could see. This is spectacular, thought Connor. The majestic oaks were welcoming. The branches interlocked overhead and blocked out the sunlight like a jungle canopy. He could imagine a horse-drawn carriage making its way down the lane hundreds of years ago. The view was probably not much different.
They drove on for what seemed like ten minutes.
Eventually they reached the main structure, which was built in 1828 and still stood in good condition. The state of Georgia acquired most of the property in 1973, which included 822 acres of a colonial plantation. The original, fortified home had been reduced to ruins.
The Suburban pulled into the turnaround in front of the stately house. Connor stepped out of the vehicle and was followed by a man in his sixties. He was obviously important, hence the multiple body guards, who also exited before and after him. They were met by an elderly gentleman.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Secretary,” the older man said as he addressed Connor’s companion. “Welcome to Wormsloe Plantation. To what honor do we owe the pleasure of hosting a member of the president’s cabinet?”
“Well, Mr. Ulmer, thank you for meeting us here on such short notice,” said the United States secretary of the treasury. “I think Mr. Murray can answer that.”
Connor greeted the man and extended his hand for a firm handshake with the caretaker. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sealed, plastic envelope. Unzipping the plastic opening, Connor pulled out an old, yellowed parchment that he had taken from Burr’s chest at the trust. He also retrieved an old, iron key. Mr. Ulmer’s eyes widened.
“So you’ve finally come,” he said matter-of-factly.
Several months back, Connor stood and stared in wonder at Alexander Hamilton’s grave at Trinity Church in New York; the large, marble tomb with the obelisk on top stood out among all of the other ancient graves. The excitement began to bubble up inside him.
On the bottom right side of the monument, almost hidden by the grass and etched into the marble at the base, was the image of a little lion. It was the same image that was inlaid into the top of the wooden chest from the trust. Below the lion, in block letters was the word WORMSLOE.
Hamilton must have given instructions on his deathbed after the duel to have the etchings made on his grave, Connor thought.
“I know where it is,” he said aloud.
Wormsloe Plantation dated back to the early eighteenth century and played a role in American history ever since. The property was developed by one of Georgia’s original colonial founders, Noble Jones. Although a Tory, Jones fortified the original quarters on the property to guard the intracoastal waterway from Spanish incursion prior to the American Revolution. After his death, his son inherited the property and was a patriot to the American cause.
The grounds also played a role in the American Civil War, again protecting the waterway from Northern invasion.
Mr. Ulmer took the parchment from Connor and carefully opened the folded document. A smile broke out on his face as he read the lines of handwritten prose. Connor thought he saw tears in the man’s eyes.
“I have waited all of my life for this, as did my father and his father before that.” He looked up at Connor and the secretary when he was done reading. He said nothing for a tortured few moments. Then he finally regained his composure and spoke. “Please follow me,” he requested politely.
Connor and the secretary with his entourage followed the elderly man silently for several minutes along a trail through the forest along the marsh. The silence was broken only by birds chattering overhead. The moss hung eerily from the branches, and the palms rose from the ground as they got closer to the water. Soon the ruins of an old, fortified home were visible, the tabby walls jutting from the ground in pieces, highlighting the grounds of the old structure.
Finally the old man turned to face them and spoke.
“My ancestors built this property initially to protect the city of Savannah from Spanish invasion. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, my great great great uncle received a visit from another secretary of the treasury, the first one as a matter of fact. Mr. Alexander Hamilt
on. It seems that Mr. Hamilton had some items he wanted to store for future use in his business dealings and wanted the items kept far away from the prying eyes of his contemporaries in New York. So he hired my uncle to store them for him. Here. At Wormsloe. Two hundred and twenty years ago.”
Mr. Ulmer held up the parchment for all to see.
“He set up a trust here in Savannah to pay for this storage in perpetuity until the holder of this document returned to claim the items with this key.”
He turned again and walked towards the ruins.
Once inside the perimeter of the original house, he made his way to a small structure that presumed to be a storage shed and opened the lock and swung open the double doors. Inside there was a trap door in the floor, which he opened and at the same time passed out several flashlights, which were mounted on the inside wall.
The party made its way down an old flight of stone stairs into a subterranean cellar.
Again, Mr. Ulmer turned to face them.
“Gentlemen, I present you the property of Alexander Hamilton hereby bequeathed to you.”
He inserted the key into the lock of the ancient iron door, turned it, and to his amazement, it opened.
Connor pointed his light towards the rear of the cellar and saw trunk after trunk lining the walls of the underground space. There must have been one hundred of them. He walked to the closest one and carefully unlocked the lid. It was filled with gold bars.
Office of the Secretary of the Treasury
Washington, D.C.
Connor looked around the office and noticed the personal mementoes of the man he was speaking with. He had picked up this habit in his early business training, and it served him well. What a person put in his office him one many things. It also provided items for conversation. The treasury secretary was speaking. Connor forced himself to rejoin the conversation.
“The law of the state of Georgia gives the treasure to the beneficiary of the trust,” said the secretary. “Officially, the gold is yours. That is how Hamilton designed it. It was taken from Latin America but we do not know where. The Bahamas could have a claim, as it was taken from there as well years later, but there is the small fact that they do not know about it. However, I believe Hamilton had an ulterior motive in mind. I believe he thought that whoever was privy to the information inside the trust would be selected with the highest of standards. I believe he wanted the gold to belong to the United States of America.”
“I believe that as well,” said Connor.
“We are prepared to offer you a finder’s fee, if you are prepared to turn over the gold to the United States Treasury.” The Secretary paused for effect. “Your country needs your service, Mr. Murray,” he said rather matter-of-factly. “We are prepared to offer you a finder’s fee of ten million dollars.” He let the words sink in.
Connor’s mouth was open but he was unable to speak.
“And I should make other points known,” he continued. “We will be prepared to fight you in court for the rest of your natural life if you do not agree. We believe this gold belongs to the people of the United States.”
“I agree to your terms, Mr. Secretary,” replied Connor. “The gold is yours, as it should be.”
Oval Office
The northwest door, which gave access to the main corridor of the West Wing, opened slowly. President Walker rose and walked around his desk. He had been told she was entering the office but had no idea what she looked like.
Natasha walked in.
President Walker was stunned by her beauty. She had to be late twenties, very slim and fit, with long, black hair. It was a natural beauty, not enhanced, not overdone, a Russian princess from long ago.
Wow, he thought to himself. The Russian president has good taste.
He walked up to her and extended his hand.
“Natasha, I want to extend to you the heartfelt thanks from the people of the United States. Your efforts in our behalf have been invaluable. We are in your debt. I know you have been through an extremely stressful situation and need some time to yourself. Please know that I and my staff are at your service. Let us know what we can do for you.”
She smiled a genuine smile and her face lit up.
“Mr. President, it is an honor to meet you,” she said in fluent English, although with a strong, Russian accent. “I have my reasons for helping you, which we can discuss at some point if you would like. However, I have always dreamed of seeing California. I have heard so much about it. I love architecture and want to see the bridges, museums, everything. Maybe when it is safe, I can spend some time there. Perhaps, aahh, how do you say in English, I can be a tourist?”
“Done,” said the president.
“It would be good to relax and enjoy myself!”
He laughed. “We have to debrief you first. You are going to spend a bit of time in seclusion with our team, but I will honor your request.”
She smiled again. “Thank you, Mr. President,” she said and was led from the room.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Corner of Wall and Broad
New York City
It was a ceremony of sorts, a kind of testament to the courageous and forward-thinking actions of a man several hundred years before. It was a tribute to his service to his country.
Connor walked slowly down Broad Street in front of the New York Stock Exchange. The J.P. Morgan building was on his right, the House of Morgan. Here, the United States was saved, rescued by this banker decades before during another financial crisis. John Pierpont Morgan used millions of his own money to stop the financial panic of 1907.
At the time, the charter of the Bank of the United States was allowed to lapse by President Andrew Jackson before the Civil War. Therefore there was no central bank that could act as a lender of last resort. When the federal government couldn’t act, Morgan did. Convincing other tycoons to put up money with his own, he staved off a crisis. His legacy still existed today in the form of J.P. Morgan Chase, Morgan Stanley, and others. The crisis also gave weight again to Hamilton’s idea of a Bank of the United States. This eventually became the Federal Reserve Bank of the United States.
Much had happened in this small corner of real estate. Connor gazed at the impressive, smooth, stone blocks that comprised the building. “The Corner,” as it was called, was intimidating. It was probably designed that way, he thought.
A large bomb detonated here in September of 1920. The pockmarks in the granite slabs of the building were still visible with the naked eye. The perpetrators were never identified, and the event further inflamed the Red Scare that was sweeping the country. The area was deep with history.
The treasury secretary walked beside him. They both wore long coats, as winter was approaching. It was an unusually cold morning for this part of the year.
They turned left at Wall Street. The street got its name from its origin as the northern wall of New Amsterdam, the original city on Manhattan Island. The wall kept the Indians out of the settlement. Traders would gather here under a buttonwood tree hundreds of years ago to exchange goods and eventually shares of companies. Eventually they formalized the trading process. This was the beginning of the New York Stock Exchange.
The two men soon passed the Bank of New York on their left. They stopped and turned to face it. Alexander Hamilton built this bank. It was his baby, in addition to the Bank of the United States, the Coast Guard, and many other pillars of American society.
After a brief moment of silence, they turned and continued down Wall Street to Trinity Church. The street was blocked off by the police to give them security. They could now roam the area freely. They passed through the entrance and then through the gate to the cemetery on the south side. They continued to Hamilton’s grave, where Connor stood months before.
The secretary spoke as they faced the grave.
“Secretary Hamilton, we are here today to thank you
for your efforts on behalf of your country. They have endured over the centuries and are helping us immensely today. Your gold has been returned to the United States Treasury at a time of great need. I assure you that the wealth will be used with the utmost of care and frugality. Thank you again.”
“Thank you Secretary Hamilton,” Connor added as the events of the last few months flashed through his mind. Snow began to fall.
They left the cemetery and headed back to the waiting limousine.
“So how do we get out of this mess?” Connor asked the secretary as they were whisked back to Midtown New York on their way to JFK airport. The police escort made the usual thirty-minute drive much shorter. It was the kind of interference that New Yorkers hated in their daily lives. Connor winced as he saw the pedestrians not being able to cross the road due to police barricades. Many times he had cursed the occupants of vehicles like the one he was in now.
The secretary didn’t answer right away. He just shook his head in disgust.
Finally he said, “Well one thing for sure is it’s not gonna be easy. We have dug ourselves a giant hole. We have to get the economy growing for one thing. We can pay off our debts if we unleash the American people. We have to get government off their backs and allow them to do what the American people have always done─innovate and make money.
“And we must have sound economic policies. Many of the imbalances of the past few decades are starting to be unwound through whatever means. The American economy is very resilient. We are changing from an energy importer to exporter. We must further that process. Although our defaulting on our debt to the Chinese was undesirable, it was necessary. The president was right to do so. We will achieve peace only through strength, not weakness. The reduction in interest expense will give us some breathing room to build up our defenses again.
“We must reform entitlements. They are killing us. Reducing spending and reforming our entitlement culture is a priority. It doesn’t work. It hasn’t ever worked. Even the communists know that. Look at China, Russia, Vietnam. The list goes on and on. They are capitalists now. We have here the greatest economic and political experiment in human history, and we are blowing it. Unbelievable actually.”