Maiden Lane

by Christopher Blankley

  “Take the gate!” Eve laughs as I hit the chicane of a small access road at the far end of JFK. There’s a security gate and guards, but they’re not expecting anyone approaching from the runway side of security. The P1 fits perfectly under their barrier arm. Vroom! I’m onto the city streets and accelerating away before the guards even realize I was approaching.

  “This is amazing!” I laugh as I throw the car into a corner, doing ninety. It hugs the corner and slides perfectly between a MTA bus and SUV. I shift down and gun the engine. Eve and I are crushed against the back of our seats.

  “Slow down!” she yells over the screaming engine. “I’m pretty sure we lost them.”

  I let off the accelerator, bringing the car back to city speeds. Almost.

  “I’m sorry, I got a little carried away,” I apologize.

  “Don’t worry, I know the feeling.”

  “Who were those guys back there? In the suits and the dark glasses?”

  “You haven’t guessed?” Eve smiles, coyly.

  “Feds?” I try.

  She shrugs. “Oh sure, but not the half of it.”

  “There more to it than the Federal government?” I ask in disbelief. Eve nods. I take a right at a traffic light. I’m almost at the parkway. “Like what?” I prod.

  Eve hesitates, not totally comfortable saying the words out loud. “Red Shield.”

  “Red Shield?” That wasn’t the answer I was expecting. Russians, the Mob, Democrats, maybe, but Red Shield? I’ve never heard of it. “Who are they?”

  “Not a they,” Eve says.

  “Red Shield is a person?”

  Eve doesn’t answer. “Really? You have no idea?”

  I shrug and look bewildered. It’s an easy act to put on. I have no idea what she’s talking about. I merge the super car onto the parkway and open it up to eighty. We’re making good time, heading back toward Manhattan. “Tell me.”

  “Err...okay...” Eve stammers. “I’m not quite sure where to begin.”

  “Maybe at the beginning?”

  “Really? But the beginning is a mighty long time ago.” Eve sucks in a deep breath. “Have you ever heard of a man named Mayer Rothschild?”

  “Rothschild?” I dare steal a glance at Eve’s face. She’s serious. I instantly return my eyes to the road in front of me. “You mean, like the wine?”

  “Yes, Mayer is the progenitor of that family line. He was a banker, in Hanover, in the late eighteenth century. A successful man, but otherwise of little, historical note. What Meyer Rothschild did do, however, was have five sons: Nathan, Jakob, Solomon, Kalman and Amschel, all successful bankers in their own right. Hoping to extend his business empire, Mayer bankrolled each of his sons, having each set up a bank in a different European capital – London, Paris, Vienna, Naples and Frankfurt. They all thrived, making money as bankers do. But it was Mayer’s son Nathan, the one he sent to London, who really hit on something big.

  “You see, this was the middle of the Napoleonic wars. All the Rothschild banks got rich financing the war. They financed both sides equally. They played no favorites. Both the Allies and Neapolitan needed money to buy cannons and muskets and to pay soldiers’ wages. They say an army marches on its stomach, but someone, somewhere has to pay to fill those bellies. Inevitability, that job fell to the Rothschilds and their banks. And with every battle, every loss, every victory, their wealth increased.

  “But all wars, as profitable as they might be, eventually come to an end. And Neapolitan's end finally came on the 18th of June, 1815. The Battle of Waterloo. Which, you may or may not know, is in Belgium, a long way from London. Nathan Rothschild was heavily invested in the war effort backing the allies against Napoleon. He was gambling on a long conflict, but then, not three months after Napoleon's return to France, the war was suddenly over. Nathan was ruined. He was about to lose everything – his investments, his bank, his family’s good name. The British pound was certain to surge at the news of Napoleon’s defeat. People would call in their loans, exchanging worthless paper for cash, money. There’d be a run on his bank, and Nathan didn’t have the liquidity to cover his investments. But Nathan had one ace up his sleeve. Once last chance to save himself, his bank, and the Rothschild name.

  “You see, one of the Rothschild family’s greatest strengths was their messenger network. The five brothers were suspicious of using any formal postal system to communicate between their banks, so they had established a private network of couriers, all over Europe. This excellent network brought Nathan word of Napoleon's defeat almost instantly after the battle ended, almost a full day before word would arrive by more formal channels. Nathan was forewarned that the end was near. But the wise businessman that he was, he didn’t panic. He simply started to move money around, make new investments...as if Napoleon had won the battle of Waterloo.

  “He started short-selling pound sterling, gambling that the pound was about to crash. Ostensibly, Nathan was losing a small fortune. Other investors paid attention. What was Nathan doing? ‘Rothschild knows,’ people began to whisper. ‘Waterloo is lost,’ the rumor mill began to turn.

  “Other investors followed suit. The value of the pound plummeted. And then, in the minutes before official word came about Napoleon's defeat, Nathan turned his order from sell to buy.

  “And when the news of the victory at Waterloo broke, the value of the pound soared. Nathan made a fortune, more than enough to offset his war losses. In fact, when all the celebrating was over, and the markets returned to normal, Nathan Rothschild had virtually cornered the market on the British pound. From that day forward, if anyone in England needed money, the government included, they had to come to a Rothschild’s bank for the loan.”

  “This is interesting and all,” I interrupt. Brooklyn is peeling back, and I can see the skyline of Manhattan before me. “Maybe going right back to the beginning wasn’t exactly what I meant.”

  Eve continued, ignoring me. “The Bank of Rothschild essentially became the lender of last resort for England and the rest of the European powers. A central bank of sorts. Nothing happened without the Rothschild’s say so. No war fired a shot, no railroad laid a track, no mine sank a shaft, and no king got assassinated without the Rothschild’s explicit permission. And with every war and railroad and mine and assassinated king, the Rothschild’s wealth grew and grew.”

  “But?”

  “But what?” Eve answers, confused.

  “There must be a ‘but.’ I’m guessing there’s a ‘but.’ You didn’t start a story like this unless there’s a ‘but’ at the end.”

  “No, you’re right,” Eve takes another breath. “But...” She smiles. “...America was mostly free of the Rothschild’s influence.”

  “You mean we could start our own wars? Build our own railroads? Sink our own mineshafts and kill our own kings without the Rothschilds?”

  “Exactly. Early American leaders were strongly opposed to the establishment of the Rothschild bank here. Alexander Hamilton, a noted Rothschild agent, tried and failed. He was assassinated in a duel when his attempts started to show fruit. The First and Second Bank of The United States collapsed. Andrew Jackson called the defeat of the Second Bank his most important act as President. But after the market crash of 1907, politicians began to agitate for a lender of last resort in the American banking system.”

  “The Federal Reserve?”

  “Correct. The purpose was overtly to stabilize the U.S. currency, but many saw the hand of the Rothschild’s behind the push. In 1912, a year before the establishment of the Federal Reserve System, a group in Europe opposed to the Rothschild’s influence, sent three envoys to the United States to warn of the threat. Benjamin Guggenheim, Isidor Straus and David Astor. They set out from London to New York aboard the fastest conveyance available for crossing the Ocean at that time. They never arrived. Along with fifteen-hundred other people, the three envoys were lost at sea.”

  “The Titanic?”

  Eve nods.

  “You’re jo
king?”

  “I wish I was. But you asked who those guys were, back there.”

  “You called them ‘Red Shield?’”

  “Rothschild is derived from the German ‘zum rothen Schild’ meaning ‘with the red sign.’ Rothen Schild...Red Shield...”

  “So those agents – the Feds. They work for this Rothschild guy? They’re from the Federal Reserve?”

  “Not exactly. They work for one of Red Shield’s most powerful agents.”

  “Who?”

  Eve opens her mouth to answer, but she doesn’t get the opportunity. We’re on the Brooklyn Bridge now, crossing the East River. We’re almost home free. Then, out of nowhere, helicopters swoop down on the bridge, blades thundering. They’re low, really low, searching the westbound lanes with spot lights. Before I can act, their lights lock onto the McLaren. Could we be any more conspicuous?

  “Oh hell! They found us!” Eve screams. “Punch it!”

  Chapter 7

  It isn’t like I’m going to outrun a helicopter. They can fly after all. But they can’t stop me either. Not up there, clear above the bridge’s iron cables. No, I’m far more concerned about the two black SUV’s that appeared in my rear-view the instant the searchlight locked onto our car. They’re closing in fast, and a collision between one of those steel machines and my carbon fiber go-cart would not end well for one of us.

  They might have the weight, but I have the speed. At this hour, the bridge is mostly clear ahead of me. I’m doing one-hundred and twenty when Eve screams out. “Take the FDR!”

  The hairpin turn is only feet away. I throw the wheel to the right and take the corner with aplomb. I shift up to third as I pass the SUVs, heading in the opposite direction, taking the off-ramp down to the waterfront highway.

  The FDR is wide open. There’s only a few taillights in the distance. I let the car do its thing, hitting 150 before I slack off the gas. The whole thing feels like a dream. This can’t actually be happening; the car feels almost too responsive to my touch. I must have fallen asleep, back at the airport, waiting for my flight. And this is the dream I’m having! Oh, what a dream. I swerve around a slow-moving Honda. It’s like the car already knows what to do.

  But something hits the roof hard, shaking me out of my fantasy. The glass portions of the roof above me shatter, raining safety glass down over the seats. I look up and see the landing strut of a helicopter. I’m no longer under the protective canopy of bridge cables. One of the helicopters had swooped down and landed right on top of my car. I hit the gas and pull away, the Manhattan Bridge looming before us. The helicopter has to pull up and away, climb or crash into the bridge deck. The landing strut did little damage, but I’m shaken out of my comfortable fantasy. They’re really trying to kill us! I brush glass off my jacket and look in the rear view mirror. The black SUV’s are back there, hurtling along, keeping pace.

  “What the hell?” I shout at Eve.

  She looks as terrified as I feel. “Faster!”

  When we’re clear of the Manhattan Bridge, the helicopters again swoop down low. This time I’m ready for them, careening left, then right across all the lanes of traffic. At the Montgomery on-ramp, a herd of police cruisers – lights flashing, sirens blaring – join the black SUVs in the chase.

  “Watch out!” Eve screams.

  I’m watching the cops in my mirrors, not paying attention to the road. There’s a van right in front of me. I have to hit the brakes hard not to rear end it. A helicopter whizzes past overhead. It banks and hovers over the street in front of us. The van swerves to avoid hitting the helicopter and smashes the Jersey barrier, doing forty. Its front end crumples. I’m low enough to the ground that I slip right under the helicopter’s skids.

  But I’ve lost precious momentum. The SUV’s are almost on top of me.

  One pulls up to my right. The driver’s side window comes down. One of the agents from the subway looks over at me, glaring from behind his dark glasses. I cock a finger in acknowledgement, just as I shift down and accelerate. The agent throws his wheel over hard, but I’m already nowhere near where I was a second ago. The two SUV’s collide to the sound of breaking glass and twisting metal.

  The helicopters are still up there, only feet above me. We’re hauling along, and the Williamsburg Bridge is closing fast. One helicopter take a chance and swoops in for the kill. I hit the brakes at the last second, and he overshoots his target. But before he can pull out, I floor the gas and my windshield hits the helicopter’s landing strut, cracking the glass. It rakes along the carbon fiber roof, making a terrible groan, and its back end latches under my rear, hydraulic spoiler.

  I keep up the throttle. He can’t pull up against the force of my 900 horsepower. The Williamsburg Bridge is closing. I can hear metal groaning, expensive things snapping, as the pilot frantically struggles to detach his helicopter from my car. The bridge is almost on top of us...

  ...and we both go under it, together. The helicopter just fits under the bridge deck. I slam on the brakes and the strut comes loose, along with my rear spoiler. But the pilot is out of control. He does three complete circles in front of me, then banks hard to the right. The last thing I see is the helicopter going down, backwards into the East River.

  I take a breath, looking back. The night’s sky behind me is a flashing light show of strobing red and blue.

  “Oh my God,” Eve exclaims in disbelief.

  “I think I broke his helicopter,” I reply in equal disbelief.

  The road is open before me now. The second helicopter is keeping a safe distance, and the SUV’s can’t keep pace.

  Despite the damage, the McLaren is purring along, ready for the next challenge.

  And soon enough, it’s in front of me. I see why the police weren’t in a big hurry to catch up. The whole of the FDR is a great phalanx of police cruisers, hurtling the wrong way down the road toward me.

  There’s only one shot: the 42nd Street exit. But the police cruisers are almost right on top of it.

  Luckily I have a fast car.

  “No! No!” Eve cries out, realizing what I’m trying to do. As the car accelerates forward, playing chicken with a solid half of the NYPD, Eve desperately searches for something to hang on to. She settles on a door handle. And my right arm.

  “Ouch!” I scream in pain. But I don’t have any time to tell her to stop. The cop cars, the flashing lights, the ever narrowing gap between Jersey barrier and speeding fender that is the 42nd Street exit...

  ...I slide through with only inches to spare – less than inches, as my left mirror disintegrates against the wing of a speeding cruiser. I hit the bakes hard and navigate the tight left at the end of the off ramp. And like that, I’m on 42nd Street, heading west. I blow through the first red light, picking up speed.

  There’s nobody behind me. I’ve even lost the last helicopter amongst the tall buildings. But I don’t want to slow down, give anyone the chance to catch up. 2nd Street, 3rd Street, Lexington, Park – I blast through a red light at each. I’m cutting between buses and trucks, inches on my left and right. Traffic is blocking the intersection at 5th. I have no choice but to slam on the brakes. I take the momentary break in the action to remove Eve’s fingers from my right arm.

  She looks over at me, terrified, only then realizing what’s she had a hold on. “Sorry,” she says.

  When there’s a glimmer of light between cars, I gun the engine. But a Prius pulls forward, and I bump its fender. “Come on! Move!” I shout. I would have rolled the window down and shouted, if the windows in this car rolled down. I look in the mirror and can see the two SUV’s closing in. How they cleared a path through the dozen police cars back on the FDR, I don’t know. But here they are, closing in, and I’m waiting for a Prius to move ten inches in reverse.

  “Move it, you idiot!” I scream again. From my pantomiming, I think he gets the idea. He slowly, laboriously, pulls his car back a few inches. I gun my engine. I’m away again!

  I watch as the SUV’s reach the same
intersection. They’re slightly less subtle about their approach. One SUV his the Prius square in the side, sending it whirling. The other follows through the wreckage.

  “Who are these people?” I ask in despair.

  “I told you, Red Shield,” Eve answers.

  “That doesn’t mean anything to me! What do they want from me? What did I ever do to them?”

  “It’s your mathematics,” Eve says. “They want the new math you invented.”

  “Megalytics? Why?”

  Eve shakes her head. I make a hard left at the Port Authority. I’m following the signs to the Lincoln Tunnel. If they want to chase me, fine. They can chase me all the way back to California, for all I care, cannonball style. A right, then a soft left, and I merge into the tunnel. I open up the throttle and take the bend as fast as I dare. But with the many openings of the tunnel before me, I slam on the brakes hard. I’d thought the phalanx of police back on the FDR had been impressive.

  It looks like I found the other half of the NYPD.

  The tunnel is completely choked with police cars. Men in SWAT uniforms are waiting, rifles raised. I contemplate throwing the car into reverse, but I can already see the flashing lights of the approaching police cruisers.

  I’m boxed in. Trapped.

  I look at Eve. She’s looking at me, her car door is already open.

  “Where are you going?” I ask her.

  “I don’t know why they want you,” she says with a wistful air. “But I do know that the answer to that question is the same as the answer to mine: What lies at the end of Maiden Lane, Roderic?”

  And with that, she’s gone, running off into the night, her evening gown billowing behind her. I think she might have a good idea and open my door. But I’m met by the barrels of a dozen guns pointing at me. Men in gas masks are bellowing that I should raise my hands.

  I slowly comply.

  Chapter 8

  They cuff me and make me sit on the curb, getting my handmade shoes all scuffed. A dozen policemen stand as guards. There’s a lot of discussion and pointing at the McLaren. I’m quickly getting the sense that they don’t know quite what to do with me.