In total, Salomon loaned the new American government $800,000, without which the Revolution would have been lost. He never wore a uniform or brandished a sword, but he performed an enormous service. He died penniless, age 45, in 1785. His entire fortune had been spent in service to his adopted country. A wife and four children survived him. All of the documentation relative to his loans was turned over by his widow to the Pennsylvania treasurer. But those securities and certificates were subsequently lost. No repayment of those debts was ever made. His son repeatedly pressed the case from 1840 to 1860. Congress in 1813, 1849, 1851, and 1863 favored some type of repayment. In 1925 the House actually moved to have Salomon’s heirs compensated.
But that recommendation never passed.
“His family tried for over a hundred years to have those debts honored,” the president said. “They never were. They remain unpaid to this day. The official excuse was always that there was no adequate documentation to say they existed.”
“Seems like a good one,” Harriett noted.
“Except that’s bullshit. Congress, in 1925, wanted to pay the heirs what was owed. A recommendation made it out of committee, but never came to a floor vote. Why? The then secretary of Treasury nixed the idea. His name was Andrew Mellon.”
Stephanie began to connect the dots.
“If you multiply the percentage increase in the consumer price index from 1781 to 1925, that $800,000 loaned by Salomon becomes $1.3 billion,” Danny said. “But that’s too simple a measure. It leaves out a lot of value. If you use the labor method, which is what a worker would have to use in 1925 to buy that same $800,000 worth of commodities bought in 1781, you get $8.5 billion. The entire federal budget for fiscal year 1925 was only $10 billion, and that’s with a $400 million deficit. So you can see why Mellon killed the idea. Full payback would have literally bankrupted the country.”
“What does all this matter anymore?” she asked. “The U.S. has trillions in assets, and surely the amount is negotiable.”
“That debt today is worth $17 billion with the simple CPI method, but $330 billion using the labor value method.”
“Again, that’s negotiable, not insurmountable, and certainly not worth all of this.”
“Howell, there, in his book, thinks that Andrew Mellon either found or was given the documentation that was supposedly lost by the Pennsylvania treasurer. He hid it away and used it as leverage on three presidents of the United States. That’s how he held on to his job for so long.”
“It certainly sounds plausible,” she said. “But we’ll never know if that’s true or not.”
“Actually, we might be able to learn the truth. The letter I received asked that I investigate the Salomon debt. The group felt the heirs deserved something. And I agree, they do. So I had Treasury look into it. The job was given to Paul Larks. Then all hell broke loose.”
“Did Larks find proof of the debt?” she asked.
“I think he did, and I also think he stumbled into something even bigger.”
“Then why not just find out? All these people work for you.”
“I wish it were that simple.”
“I need you two on board. God knows Treasury can’t handle things. I want my A-team on this.”
“Coming in off the bench?” she said. “With the score not in our favor?”
“You’ve done your best work starting halfway through the game.”
“Flattery never works,” she said, adding a smile.
“But it can’t hurt.” He stared into her eyes. “Stephanie, this one’s different. A lot has been happening the past forty-eight hours. I got a bad feeling. Me and Joe Levy are about to have a come-to-Jesus talk. He won’t be a problem anymore. But we need Cotton to find us some answers.”
She knew the correct reply. “We’ll get it done.”
He pointed her way. “That’s what I came to hear. First, though, I want you both to listen to somethin’. Then, Stephanie, I need you to take me somewhere. Harriett, this is where you get off.”
“That’s not a problem. I have plenty else to do. And that’s why we have the Billet.”
“I appreciate your heads-up, though,” he said. “Good job flushing Treasury out into the open.”
But Stephanie still wanted to know, “Why am I taking you somewhere?”
“’Cause the Secret Service isn’t going to let just anybody drive me around.”
TWENTY-ONE
VENICE
Kim carried himself with ease and intentionally stayed back, following the American Malone through the enclosed gangway and into the luggage control area. Hana was ahead of him, closer to where the woman with the Tumi satchel was walking, both of them now out in a blue-gold morning on a busy concrete dock that accommodated water taxis. People seemed in motion everywhere, hopping aboard boats, luggage being handed down, orders barked then obeyed. Before leaving the cruise ship, he’d hesitated long enough to spot Malone bound down one of the two circular staircases and disembark, too. He was surprised to see him. Apparently the ploy in delaying him with Larks had not worked. Was he after the woman with the satchel too? Hard to say. But he had to know. So Kim had fallen in with the crowd and kept pace with the American.
He watched as Malone loitered, clearly following the young woman with the satchel. Hana remained off to his left, on the wharf that stretched twenty meters ahead, then right-angled and ran another thirty meters toward the lagoon. The entire dock sat at the end of a man-made inlet that also accommodated the cruise ship, which floated at anchor to his right. He knew Hana would follow on whatever boat the woman chose, gaining access one way or the other. No railing guarded the dock’s outer edge, the boats nestling close and transferring passengers at any available spot along its exposed length.
A woman tumbled over the side and splashed into the water.
Amid the confusion he hadn’t seen how it happened. People reacted, but there was little anyone could do as the wharf rose two meters above the waterline. The woman surfaced among the boats, one of the drivers coming to her assistance. That moment of distraction caused him to lose sight of the satchel.
He searched the crowd.
Then the woman carrying it reappeared.
She almost ran into him as she fled past, headed back toward the cruise terminal.
* * *
Malone was focused on both the young woman and Isabella Schaefer. A man in a ball cap and purple sweater had intentionally clipped Schaefer, sending her over the side. The move had happened in an instant, but was enough to take Treasury out of the game and alert him to the attacker’s identity. Anan Wayne Howell. No question. He had the man’s face frozen in his brain. And though the ball cap was there to hide features, he’d caught enough to confirm it.
Schaefer surfaced and seemed all right.
The woman with the Tumi bag never missed a beat, reversing course and heading back toward the terminal. Follow her? Or go after Howell? His orders were to find Howell. The woman had just seemed the best way to achieve that goal. His eyes searched the crowd and he spotted Howell, hustling across the dock among the passengers, the ball cap gone, a thin brush of black hair now visible.
Malone excused himself and elbowed his way past people concentrating on the water taxis. He was momentarily delayed by a stack of luggage being handed down to one of the boats. Howell was now a good two hundred feet away, on the far side, heading down the long edge toward the lagoon. A boat eased close and Howell hopped down into it. The craft jerked left and turned back for open water.
He heard a whistle.
Then another.
“Pappy.”
He turned.
Luke Daniels was on the water, at the helm of the same boat from last night. Two other boats blocked Luke’s access to the dock. Malone leaped onto the bow of the first one, then scooted across the low wooden roof that protected passengers from sun and spray. He jumped to the next boat and repeated the process. Luke was waiting at the stern of the second craft, and he hurdled to the deck
beside him.
“Good timing,” he said. “You know what to do.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Luke reversed throttle, maneuvered away from the congestion, then turned hard right and powered up the engines.
* * *
Isabella was both angry and embarrassed. She’d been deliberately shoved. Worse, the woman with the satchel would now be long gone. One of the water taxi operators helped her up onto his boat. She sat on his deck, dripping water, then grabbed hold of herself and hopped back up to the wharf.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
A rookie mistake.
Her anxiousness had gotten the better of her. So much that she’d stopped thinking like a seasoned government agent.
And worse.