Maiden Lane

by Christopher Blankley

  “So...we should just turn it off?” the Admiral again.

  “Sure, that’d slow things down, but the damage is already done. We still need to address the original issue, replacing the function of Red Shield.”

  “And what was that?” Tusk asks.

  “Well, let’s think like Rothschild for a second, after the Battle of Waterloo. He’s found himself with unique access to the levers of world, economic power. And what does he do? He wants to protect the economy from another systemic failure, either intentional or accidental, just like the one he, himself, had almost caused. What does he see as the problem?”

  “Insufficient regulation?” someone says.

  “Lack of liquidity?” another says.

  “Not exactly. Rothschild understood there’s something fundamentally wrong with the money supply itself. Think back to my original question: What are the characteristics of money?”

  “A medium of exchange?” Eve answers. “A store of value?”

  “And a unit of account. But what’s the fourth characteristic that we all forget?”

  No one answers.

  So I answer myself. “A convertible format. That’s what Rothschild realized was missing from the money supply – what was wrong with the British pound. It lacked convertibility.”

  “Convertibility? Into what?” Tusk asks.

  “Into something more valuable.” I look around at the blank stares. “Um...think about gold. When money was made of gold, there was an innate convertibility to the money supply. If the money began to inflate, a kilogram of gold coins would become less valuable than a kilogram of gold jewelry. In that situation, there’d be natural instinct for people to melt down the gold coins and turn them into jewelry. Inversely, if the money supply deflated – a kilogram of gold coins became more valuable than the same weight in jewelry – there would be a natural instinct to melt down the jewelry and make gold coins.

  “You see, with a convertible currency, there’s an innate check on inflationary and deflationary forces. This is what Rothschild could see that an economy based on the British pound lacked. Sure, back then, the money was backed by gold: the receipt was for gold bars stored in a bank, but the abstraction denied the economy the natural check of a convertible currency. The money was free to inflate or deflate, and the economy would suffer boons and busts based on that cycle. Win a war? Lose a war? Things could change dramatically. So what did Rothschild do?”

  “He build a computer,” Eve answers. “To convert the currency.”

  “Yes, the original Red Shield. Calculating the value of the British pound – or U.S. dollars – in gold. But it was doing more than that. By issuing buy and sell orders on bonds issued by a central bank, it was essentially taking money in and out of the economy, keeping the value of the dollar pegged to the value of gold. That’s the genius of Rothschild – that’s the function Junior can’t even hope to recreate. Despite all its predictive power, despite all its computation prowess, it lacks the function to do that most basic task.”

  “Then all we really need...” Eve says, thinking.

  I already have my phone out, tapping away. “Is a very simple algorithm, ignorant of any outside data source, except the total calculation of dollars in circulation and the total tonnage of gold available.”

  “It can’t be that simple.”

  “Oh, but it is,” I tap my phone two more times and I’m done. “Here,” I say to a lieutenant sitting at a computer. “Plug this in.”

  I hand him my phone. He looks at it in confusion. He looks to the President. We all do. Slowly, warily, Tusk nods.

  The lieutenant pulls a cord from the side of his computer. He plugs it into the phone. With one last affirmative from Tusk, he raises a finger over the phone’s small screen. He taps on the dollar bill icon.

  For a moment, nothing happens. Everyone is watching the big screens, tentatively. I peer over the lieutenant’s shoulder, looking at my phone’s screen. I’m worried I did something wrong.

  But then an alarm, somewhere stops sounding. I hadn’t really noticed it was there until it stopped. Then, looking up at the three story screen in front of us all, I can see the line indicating the Dow Jones average begin to level out.

  A cheer rises up from the whole command center.

  The other economic indicators quickly begin to trend up, too. Suddenly, I’m shaking hands with generals, being slapped hard on the back. I’m blinded by their wide grins. People are on their feet, jumping up and down.

  But I don’t take my eyes off the screen. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. But after seconds, minutes, nothing about the indicators changes. Everything is pointing up. The economy is recovering. Fast. Really fast.

  It’s over.

  There’s a hand on my shoulder. I turn. It’s President Tusk. “What did you just do?” he asks.

  “I replaced Red Shield with a very small shell script,” I say.

  Tusk doesn’t get a chance to respond. I’m pulled out of his grasp. Eve has an arm around my neck. She looks up into my eyes.

  She doesn’t say word. She just kisses me. Long and hard.

  Just the right mix of romantic entanglement and personal peril will focus my genius, I’m thinking.

  Without a doubt, I’m focused.

  Chapter 23

  Eddie checks his watch. The 4 train is 10 minutes behind again. He keeps his lunch box close, tight on his lap, keeping the seat to his left and right clear. Doesn’t the MTA know people have places to be?

  Calm down, Eddie tells himself, you’ll still be there in plenty of time. Eddie turns his attention to studying the other passengers in his car. It’s his normal, morning routine, a game he likes to play with himself. Can he guess where the other passengers are going? Coming from? What lays ahead of them in their day? Success? Failure? The same old day-to-day routine?

  Eventually, the 4 train arrives at the Wall Street station. Eddie checks his watch again. Eleven minutes late now, he shakes his head. But still, plenty of time.

  Eddie disembarks, carrying his lunch box in his left hand. He climbs the stairs and exits the station. It’s a nice, early winter’s day. Eddie turns north on William Street and passes Cedar and Liberty streets. Then, on Maiden Lane, he takes a left. Half a block along, he scans his ID card against a nondescript door into the Federal Reserve building. It’s unmarked. Uninteresting.

  Inside, there’s a metal detector and two men with machine guns. They welcome Eddie by name but put him through the full security scan. They search his lunch box thoroughly. It’s the same as yesterday – the same as every day – but they take the ham and cheese sandwich out of its foil and flick through its layers like a deck of cards. They open the flask and sniff at the coffee, swirling it around.

  Satisfied, they put the lunch box back together. Eddie steps through the metal detector to the sound of no alarms. That used to trip him up – months ago. His belt buckle. After the third time of full pat-downs, Eddie got smart and bought a plastic belt. Now it’s just his keys, MTA card and ID in the bucket beside the scanner. The guards check these over anyway. Nothing new.

  With the formalities over, Eddie recovers his belonging and continues on deeper into the building. At an elevator, he scans his card again. He takes the elevator down many floors. Many, many floors it seems. Eddie doesn’t know. There’s no indicators on the inside of the elevator. Just an up and down button. It takes a full two minutes before the elevator doors open again. Eddie steps out into a long corridor.

  The corridor ends at another nondescript door. This one also guarded by two armed men with machine guns. They welcome Eddie by name, but they don’t move.

  Standing at the door between them, Eddie fishes into his pocket and flips through his keys. He finds a large one, like a church key, and puts it in the lock. The door makes a great deal of grinding as Eddie turns the key and pushes the door open.

  It makes just as much noise as Eddie turns the key on the other side, locking himself in. As he does, a motion sens
or triggers the light. It’s a small room, empty except for a card table and chair in the center. The lights are garish, white. One tube is blinking on and off. Eddie sets his lunch box on the table. He pulls our the chair and sits.

  He looks at the small, black phone before him on the table. There’s a USB cable coming out of it, running who knows where. Eddie looks at the time. He look at his watch to confirm.

  There’s just enough time, he thinks, reaching for his lunch box.

  He has his ham and cheese sandwich almost to his mouth, when the phone chimes, telling him there really wasn’t. Eddie rolls his eyes and puts down the sandwich. He checks the phone’s screen. One new message. He opens it. A long string of figures, as always, and a dialog box.

  Upload Data to the Federal Reserve? it reads. And there’s a button for Yes and a button for No. Eddie taps the button for Yes. The message on the screen disappears and is replaced by a confirmation: Upload Successful.

  His work done for the day, Eddie turns his attention back to the sandwich. Ham and cheese. Delicious.

  Chapter 24

  “Breakfast, Monsieur,” the valet says, pushing his cart into the room.

  “Excellent, thank you,” I reply. “On the veranda, please.” I point at the double doors, out toward the Mediterranean.

  “Oui, Monsieur,” the valet nods and busies himself emptying large, silver trays of food. As he works, I busy myself with the morning papers. The news is good. It’s almost like the economic collapse never happened. The news cycle has moved on, and the papers are obsessing themselves with President Tusk saying something new and alarming.

  When the valet finishes, I toss the papers aside and tighten my impossibly fluffy dressing gown. “Oh,” I say after the valet. “And if you might do something about those shoes by the door, that would be great.”

  The valet stops and picks up my shoes. Or what’s left of my beautiful, perfect handmade shoes. “Oui Monsieur,” he answers in disgust. I can almost sense him deciding if he should just throw them away, or make an attempt at repairing them.

  I’m not overly concerned. I sit down at the table on the veranda in the morning sun and pick up a slice of toast. I begin to chew.

  Sensing breakfast, Eve emerges from the bedroom, wrapped in an equally fluffy, white dressing gown. She sits across from me and blinks out at our majestic view of the French Riviera. She finds some bacon and eats with her hands.

  “You know Tusk said we can stay at any of his hotels, anytime we want. For free. We don’t have to hang around this dump any longer than we really want.” She smiles at me across the table. I smile back.

  “Yes, but...” I sigh. “...when you have a Megalytic super computer at your disposal, you really do have to break the bank at Monte Carlo. Just once.”

  “You know we’re going to have to give that money back, right?” Eve holds her hand over her eyes, making sure she can see my expression.

  “I know, I know,” I agree. “But it was worth it, just to see their faces...”

  Eve laughs. I help myself to the eggs.

  “But seriously,” Eve goes on, after we’ve portioned out the breakfast between us. “We need a plan. We can’t just keep bumming around Europe like we’re Princess Grace.”

  “We can’t?” I shrug. “You mean we don’t have a plan?”

  Eve looks at me as I eat. Half curious, half concerned. “What do you mean?” she finally asks.

  “Oh come on,” I swallow. “I know what’s going on. What we’re going to do next.”

  “What? What’s going on?” Eve puts her utensils down, playing coy.

  “That this is all still part of it. Everything has been predicted. That we’re still in Junior’s Rubric.”

  Eve guffaws.

  I’m not laughing. “Don’t try and deny it.”

  “What makes you think-”

  “Look, I might not be as smart as you say I am, but I’m not stupid. I figured it out. It may have taken me awhile, but I figured it out. Back there, back at Tusk’s estate, I know I was always supposed to take that baseball.”

  “What?” Eve is shocked.

  “All of this,” I wave at the Mediterranean. “Everything that happened: you in Logan’s apartment, the rush across Manhattan, me figuring out how to replace Red Shield. All of it – all of it was predicted by Junior’s Rubric. Don’t try and deny it.”

  Eve doesn’t. She’s just watching me across the breakfast table.

  “Tell me, what were the real odds that I’d pick the baseball over the letter opener? One-hundred percent?”

  “Ninety-six point three,” Eve answers.

  “Wow,” is all I can say.

  “Yes, I guess you’re not the stabby, shooty kind of guy. When did you figure it out?” Eve returns to her breakfast.

  “Oh come on!” I laugh. “Logan? A direct descendant of Rothschild? He’s from Bromley. His dad was a dentist.”

  “Yeah, that was a little over the top,” Eve allows. “I think he got carried away. But just the right mix of romantic entanglement and personal peril, remember? And it worked.”

  “YOU worked, you mean?”

  Eve doesn’t answer. She just pokes at her food.

  “Was it all the Rubric?” I have to ask. “Was all of it Junior’s predictions? Even...us?”

  “No,” Eve shakes her head, not looking up. “Not that.”

  “But Junior did predict it, correct?”

  “Junior?” Eve sounds offended. “Junior is just a computer.’

  It’s my turn to be speechless. “You mean?”

  “That you’re not the only math genius at this table?” Eve looks up at me, that fire burning in her eyes. “Sorry.”

  I almost fall off my chair. “You mean, you’re...”

  “The real Red Shield? The direct, biological descendant or Meyer Rothschild himself?” she nods.

  “YOU predicted...all of this? You always knew what Junior really was? That it could never replace Red Shield? You knew when Red Shield was going to fail?”

  “No, that was a surprise – way earlier than I’d originally predicted. But I had a Rubric ready for the eventuality.”

  “But you knew it WOULD fail. And you knew I could fix it. But if you’re such a genius, why did you need me?”

  “As you said, sometimes we’re so smart, we’re stupid. I guess I needed...a second opinion.”

  “But you knew I’d have to fall in love with you – really fall in love with you – for me to succeed.”

  “I knew we’d have to fall in love with each other. Maiden Lane is a two way street, remember, smart guy?”

  “But...” There was really only one question to ask. “Why?”

  Eve shrugs. “Call it a dry run.”

  “Dry run!” I exclaim. “The total collapse of the world economy? That’s a dry run? Dry run for what?”

  “As you said, we’re still in the Rubric,” Eve smiles. “Anything is possible.”

  “But? What’s PROBABLE?”

  “It’s nothing to really worry about. A one in two-hundred chance, at the outside.”

  “One in two-hundred chance of what?” I can’t quite describe the feeling of terror building up inside of me.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about faster-than-light travel, would you?” Eve asks, scratching her ear.

  Faster-than-light travel? I laugh. Eve doesn’t.

  What lies at the end of Maiden Lane? I think. Eve has asked me that a million times. Only now, I realize that I really never had an answer.

  What does lie at the end of Maiden Lane?

 

 

 
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