Swanson sat back down. She had a feeling Butler was finally revealing himself.
“Analyst?” she asked sarcastically.
Butler shrugged his shoulders. “I analyze situations,” he offered with a smile.
“For who?”
“For whom,” he corrected.
“Fuck, whatever!”
“Formerly the CIA.”
“So you were downsized?”
“Hmm, I think fired would be more appropriate.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” she said with some concern, wondering whether Chan and Smith really were the good guys.
Butler watched as she looked at Chan and Smith. “Trust me, I’m not your problem here.”
“Are they CIA?” she asked watching the two become twitchier. Her sitting back down had unnerved them.
“I’m not sure. Hired assassins, probably,” mused Butler, refusing to look at them.
“So they were going to kill you?”
“Right about the time you drove your car at them. Smith was about to pull the trigger when we had to brake.”
“Holy fuck!” she exclaimed a little too loudly and caused a number of patrons to turn and look at them.
Butler threw a look towards the other patrons that resulted in them all suddenly finding whatever food lay before them far more interesting than anything else.
“I do therefore owe you a very heartfelt thank you,” said Butler.
Swanson looked deep into the eyes of a man she had arrested the previous day, just spent the last hour with, and it seemed had just met in the last few seconds. The man before her bristled with confidence, sat straighter and sounded far more commanding than the man she had arrested.
“Who exactly the fuck are you?” she asked again.
“A great friend and a truly terrifying enemy,” he replied while watching another Chrysler pull to a stop.
“And how should I view you?” she asked, her hand moving towards her Glock. She was going to have to choose sides. She had noticed the other car draw to a stop and three men had exited. It was five against two and Butler was unarmed.
“If your hand moves any closer to your gun, I’ll be your killer but if you hand me the gun, I’m your only hope!”
“I thought you said they wouldn’t come in?” she asked, the tension was palpable.
“I was wrong!” he replied simply. “But if we don’t move now, a lot of innocent people are in danger!”
Swanson considered the threat and Butler’s concern for the other diners and made an instant decision that she’d have to live with for the rest of her life, however long that would be.
“Run!” he said.
“What the fuck do you mean run?”
“Back door, hit it and run for our lives.”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” she said as they both stood up and Butler led the way towards the restrooms. They watched as the five men, as one, moved towards the diner’s entrance. Chan raised his hand to his mouth. He was communicating with someone, whoever was covering the back, Swanson thought.
Before she had a chance to tell Butler, he swept past her, hit the emergency bar on the fire escape with his back and turning through one hundred and eighty degrees, raised his hand, and in one swift and seamless move, removed Swanson’s Glock from her holster and shot the two men waiting for them in the alley to the rear. Swanson stood helpless; her backup weapon was in her Audi parked out front.
The noise of the Glock was followed quickly by the front door of the diner crashing open. All hell had broken loose. Swanson was not unaccustomed to firefights but was used to a significantly larger force than the opposition and usually benefitted from having her own weapon.
Butler grabbed her free hand and catapulted her through the door with him. The two ambushers were down. Butler handed Swanson her weapon while retrieving one from the ground as they sprinted down the alley. The first shots rang out just as they cleared the corner.
“Fuck!” screamed Swanson, her adrenaline pumping to levels she had never before thought possible.
Butler just kept running. He wasn’t kidding, she thought, his plan is exactly what he said, run.
“I’ll call for backup!”
Butler shook his head. “You don’t understand, we can’t trust anyone!”
“We can trust the FBI,” she replied indignantly.
“The same guys that handed me over to two killers!”
Swanson was about to reply but two bullets zipping past her head stopped any further discussion. Butler skidded to a stop, spun and dropped down to one knee, again all in one fluid motion. The shooting position allowed him to fire off four accurate shots that stopped the two pursuers in their tracks. They both slumped to the ground. From a distance, it was hard to tell how badly they were hurt but from the lack of screams, Swanson could only assume the hits were fatal.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asked in awe. He was fifty-four but ran faster and shot better than anyone she had ever trained with, and she had trained with some seriously tough guys.
“Let’s go, and will you please lose that cell phone - they’re tracking it!” he asked firmly but politely.
“Shit!” Swanson threw the phone towards the pursuers without a second thought. This shit was real.
After another ten minutes of running, Swanson was ready to drop. She could run a half marathon with ease but not at the pace at which Butler ran. He eased up, and she bent over, emptying the contents of her stomach onto the ground.
“Sorry about that,” said Butler, “but I wanted to be sure we’d lost them. I assume two followed on foot while the others retrieved a car. We probably lost them when we ditched your phone.”
Swanson looked up at him briefly. Her breath was slowly coming back and her stomach had relaxed.
“Now can you please tell me what the fuck is going on?” she struggled between breaths.
Butler looked around again. They were in the middle of a park under a bandstand; even from above they couldn’t be seen. They were as safe as they were going to be anywhere.
“You’ve heard of America’s Trust?”
“Of course, everyone has.”
“Two years ago, when I was working a case, I stumbled across something. Two months later, I was fired. I’ve been looking into it ever since. America’s Trust is a sham. America as we know it is on the brink of extinction.”
Chapter 7
Three years earlier, 20 January 2013 - President Jack King Inauguration day
Oval Office – The White House
“Compound interest, that’s when interest accumulates year on year?” asked Jack, trying to sound interested.
“I suppose, basically, yes. Over a long period, this can prove very lucrative,” replied Mr. Walker with a glint in his eye.
Jack remained thoroughly underwhelmed, thinking that a meeting one hundred years in the making should surely be more interesting than a lesson in interest rates.
“Anyway, perhaps I should just get to the point. The current deficit stands at what, gentlemen?”
“Roughly sixteen trillion dollars,” replied Lee instantly, this was the number that kept them awake at night, the number they had vowed to do all in their power to reduce.
“That, gentlemen, is a massive mountain to climb, and your best hope over the next four years is what?”
“Best case, back to twelve,” replied Jack wistfully, knowing that pledge was going to come back to haunt them.
Mr. Walker withdrew an envelope from his briefcase; it had yellowed with age. He withdrew a letter and laid it before the president.
“This is a Trust document signed on the 1st March 1913. As you can see, the notepaper bears the initials J.P.M. I’m sure you are familiar with Mr. J.P. Morgan. Other names on this document include many of the richest industrialists and families that America, the world, has ever known - J.D. Rockefeller, Andrew Carnegie, John Ford, the Astors, the Vanderbilts.” He flicked the note aside. “I think you get the idea, t
he list does go on.”
Jack and Kenneth traded a look of interest, slightly more intrigued with whatever Warren Walker was there to tell them. Both nodded.
“They decided to set a trust fund up for the future. Mr. Morgan noticed a spendthrift attitude amongst successive governments that he believed would undermine America’s ability to build a strong and powerful nation. He asked a number of his wealthy friends and associates to contribute to a pot that would be held in trust for the future of the great country they were helping to build. Money that, long after they all had gone, could help build a nation they believed was the greatest the world would ever see.”
Jack began to edge forward again in his seat. This was beginning to sound very interesting.
“Mr. Morgan died less than a month later but secured the trust and its secrecy as a legacy for America’s future.
Kenneth jumped in before Jack. “How much?” he asked.
“Fifty million dollars,” announced Mr. Walker triumphantly.
“We just spent that. And there you go, we just spent that again!” replied Kenneth, explaining to Mr. Walker how derisory a number fifty million really was.
“Yes but that was fifty million in 1913,” he replied calmly. “We all know the task you face - an unparalleled deficit, an infrastructure that hasn’t been fit for purpose in seventy years. Power outages are commonplace, communication networks are third world, the transport system is crumbling around us…”
“In short, the country’s a mess,” concluded Jack, fully understanding the scale of the problem he faced; he didn’t need to hear it all again.
“Yes, Mr. President, and that’s exactly why Mr. Morgan set up the trust.”
“One hundred years ago?” asked Kenneth, struggling to comprehend Morgan’s foresight.
“Yes, Mr. Lee. Mr. Morgan noted a shift in people’s mentality, we had become a want rather than need society and he could see the impact this would have in future: spend now, worry later.”
“I applaud his foresight but unfortunately, it’s such an underwhelming amount of money to deal with the problems.” As far as Jack was concerned, he had lots to be getting on with and fifty million bucks, as Kenneth had pointed out, wasn’t even a drop in the ocean.
He made to rise, but Walker continued.
“But, Mr. President I do not sit here with an underwhelming sum of money. In fact, very far from it.”
Jack looked at Kenneth before taking his seat again. Mr. Walker’s demeanor had become extremely serious.
“A billion?” asked Kenneth.
“Not even close,” replied Walker.
“One hundred billion?”
“No. I’ll give you a clue. The trust had one edict - the money had to be invested at all times, never was it to sit and just earn bank interest. Mr. Morgan was very clear, the money had to work for the future.”
“I don’t have time for games, Mr. Walker, I do have a country to run,” said Jack impatiently.
“Perhaps not, Mr. President,” teased Walker.
“Oh trust me, with a sixteen trillion dollar debt and as you so rightly pointed out, a crumbling infrastructure, never mind the increasing likelihood of a military involvement in the Middle East--”
“What would you do with eight point five trillion?” interrupted Walker.
“Are you saying that fifty million dollars in 1913 is now eight point five trillion?” asked Jack, certain he must have misheard Walker.
“I never said that,” Walker replied and watched as President King’s excitement evaporated. “I asked what you would do with eight point five trillion?”
“I must be missing something. You ask what we do with an amount of money and yet that is not the amount of money that you have?” asked Kenneth.
“Correct, but I never said fifty million had become eight point five trillion, I merely asked what you would do with that sum,” said Walker smugly, pausing briefly before adding, “I asked what you would do with that sum, as that will be your surplus!”
Two blank faces stared back at him.
“Fifty million at an average of fourteen percent compound interest over one hundred years equates to approximately twenty-four and a half trillion dollars, Mr. President.”
Kenneth and Jack turned to face each other as one, disbelief filling their faces. Silence settled momentarily as the full force of the revelation hit home.
“Did you just say twenty-four trillion?” managed Jack after a few seconds.
“Twenty-four point five and change actually, Mr. President,” confirmed Mr. Walker.
As Jack and Kenneth struggled to comprehend the enormity of the difference such a sum would make to the government, Mr. Walker began to explain the process for expenditure of the trust. Once the debt was paid down, only projects that would benefit the American infrastructure could receive funds. A board would have to be created to ensure the funds were used appropriately. He suggested Kenneth should be the president’s representative on the board and produced a list of names of people the Trust felt might best be suited. Jack noticed the name of a number of potential cabinet secretaries, including the Homeland Security Secretary. Homeland Security was responsible for the security of the nation’s critical infrastructure and the implementation of the National Infrastructure Protection Plan.
With eight point five trillion to play with, that plan is going to have to be significantly revised, thought Jack.
“Mr. Roger Young will be in contact, he is the CEO of the Trust. When he calls, could you please give him ten names from this list, Mr. President?” asked Walker.
“Mr. President?” prompted Walker when Jack didn’t respond.
Jack was startled back into the reality of the situation. He had heard Walker’s explanation of the process but was still reeling from the enormity of the task that he had faced being instantly alleviated.
“Yes, Kenneth as my representative and I’ll choose from the list,” he responded nonchalantly. A response that three years later he realized had all but ended his presidency the day it had begun.
Chapter 8
Present day – 1st July 2015
American Airlines AA187
Chicago (ORD) – Beijing (PEK)
James Marshall hit the button and raised his first class bed to the seated position. They were only an hour out from Beijing and his new role as US ambassador to the People’s Republic of China was the single biggest job he’d ever undertaken. Relations were at an all time high with the Chinese and the president had made it clear he wanted it to remain that way. The newfound wealth of the US had turned the tide and the Chinese were no longer a challenge to the US’s economic might. Recent agreements over long standing issues in the Middle East with the Chinese no longer supporting Russian vetos had also led to a warming of relations.
There were ongoing discussions of an acceptance of Taiwan as an independent state, something that even a year earlier remained unthinkable. However, the Chinese had made it clear they wished to end the issue once and for all. It did nobody any good and offered them little in any event. There was even talk of pressuring North Korea to demilitarize significantly. The Chinese wished for peace, not conflict, in the region and James Marshall was the president’s man to make it happen.
Lifelong friends, they had both excelled in their fields, President Jack King in the military and James Marshall in business. When James had announced his retirement on his fifty-fifth birthday, President King had pounced; Marshall was perfect to obtain the treaties that would secure the Far East. Jack loved and trusted him like a brother. With over four hundred million dollars in the bank, all James Marshall had wanted was to enjoy life but he’d never let Jack down and he’d certainly never let his president down.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Ambassador?” asked the stewardess, having noticed his seat moving.
“A coffee would be great,” he replied restraining a yawn. “And please, it’s just James, I’m not official until I meet President Junpeng later today.”
She nodded and he knew it hadn’t made any difference. To the American Airlines crew, he was the ambassador when their president announced it, not the Chinese president.
***
Dzemgi Airbase
Sukhoi Development Facility
Russian Far East, 200 miles from Chinese Border
After rereading the instructions three times, Colonel Ivan Petlin made one call home to his wife. The brief call was less than thirty seconds and the content of the message, although recorded as a matter of course, was unintelligible to anyone on the base. The colonel’s wife spoke Negidal and was one of only a handful of people left in the world who spoke it fluently. He had learned enough to convey what he needed to and the tear-filled response told him she had understood him precisely.
The chief test pilot for the Russian Air Force, Colonel Petlin was the single most senior officer still flying within the military. When he spoke, all within earshot listened. When he asked for something to be done, it was done without question, spoken or unspoken. The munitions requested were part of the most recent batch delivered for testing and as such, created no concerns. The filed flight plan was standard and took in the bombing range normally used as part of any test exercise. In short, everything was as normal.
As he fired up the engines of the T-50, the Russian Air Force’s most advanced fighter, a trickle of sweat dripped from his forehead. He caught the drip and looked at it with disgust. In all his years of flying, he had never once been nervous. He pushed the throttle and the fighter jumped into the sky with ease and rocketed towards the stratosphere.
From the first time he had taken the control of a plane, Ivan Petlin had come to life. Flying was his calling and whatever plane he flew became an extension of his soul. He managed to gain speed where it wasn’t available and take turns that weren’t possible, always pushing the limits of an aircraft’s capability. He had soared through the Russian military and despite his peasant roots, he sat firmly on top of the world. After all, there weren’t many pilots at that precise moment that would be cruising at 60,000 feet.
America's Trust Page 4
