by David Meyer
It had been a long night. After leaving the depository, Beverly, Graham, President Walters, Ben, Donovan, and myself had been escorted to another part of the building. We’d gotten showers and a quick meal. Then we, along with everyone else, had been assigned to makeshift sleeping quarters for the night.
I rubbed my eyes. Graham stood in front of the door, grinning like an idiot. He held a garbage can lid in one hand and a giant metal spoon in the other. His grin widened as he banged the spoon against the lid. “At least one of you is listening,” he shouted. “Now, it’s your turn, maggot.”
Beverly, still grumbling, wiped sleep from her eyes. “If you call me maggot one more time, I’ll shove that spoon right down your throat. Got it?”
“Loud and clear, rodent.”
She gave him the look of death.
I rubbed my eyes and checked the time. It was 4:37 a.m. “Can’t this wait?”
Graham shook his head.
“Why not?” Beverly demanded.
“Because President Walters will be here any minute and we still have a decision to make.”
I was tempted to kick him out of the office. To barricade the door, plug my ears, and drift back into dream world. But instead, I kicked my legs off the mattress and rose to my feet.
During the night, someone had entered our room and dropped off the duffel bags Hooper had packed for us. Rooting through mine, I saw clean clothes, toiletries, and my trusty machete.
I rooted around a little more, making sure no one had taken the Capitalist Curtain papers. Then I shrugged out of clothes I’d borrowed from the depository, donned my own clothing, and attached the machete sheath to my belt.
While Beverly dressed, I looked at Graham. “Any news?”
“K.J.’s people worked through the night, cleaning up the mess and disabling various systems. Good thing, too. From what I hear, there were over a dozen traps in Vault A alone.”
“What’s Cruzer doing for security?”
“Nothing. He’s still in charge, but in name only. K.J. is running the show and he’s taking a low-tech approach to things. He’s got a team of crack soldiers guarding the vault door in rotating shifts. Other troops are handling exterior security.”
Beverly slid a tight-fitting gray tank top down her curvy torso. Then she hiked a pair of black yoga pants over her curvy backside. Yoga pants were all the rage these days and with good reason. They were comfy, slimming, and could make even the biggest slouch look like a dedicated athlete.
But no one—I repeat, no one—wore them quite like Beverly Ginger.
She was, simply put, made for yoga pants and they, in turn, were made for her. They fit her curves perfectly, transforming her succulent body into something that was too good for this world. She was Beverly Ginger, athletic goddess, and it took all of my self-control not to grab hold of her right there on the spot.
She took a few seconds to smooth down her tank top. “Okay, I’m ready,” she said. “What’s this decision we have to make?”
“The president scheduled a press conference for 9:00 a.m.,” Graham replied. “He’s going to announce the new gold standard to the world and he’s hoping Cy here will be his honorary stooge.”
Ahh, yes. With everything that had happened, I’d nearly forgotten about the whole Chief Auditor thing.
Beverly looked at me. “You’re not doing it.”
I was inclined to agree. I had no desire to be a presidential puppet. But did I really have much choice in the matter? The president had made his position abundantly clear aboard Air Force One. I had to play ball if I wanted to get my hands on Justin’s military file as well as the files for the friends that had disappeared with him.
But did I really need them? Did I even need to know the truth about Justin Reed? It wouldn’t put food on my table or clothes on my back. And the person who stood to gain the most from the information—Dad—was no longer alive. Why not just let all of this go? Why not move on with my life?
I lowered my head as I burrowed deeper into my most private thoughts. Justin’s disappearance had undoubtedly shaped and molded Dad’s character and personality. Dad’s death, in turn, had a similar impact on me. His decision to commit suicide was a keystone moment in my life, one that had transformed me on every level. Even my initial foray into urban archaeology, at least on some level, had been a rebellion against his real estate business.
I thought about Dad destroying Manhattan’s skyline in order to find out what had happened to Justin. I thought about how he must’ve driven himself crazy in the process, crazy enough to commit the ultimate act of cowardice. There was no helping him now. But maybe, just maybe, knowing the truth about Justin would help me. Maybe it would help me, at long last, come to peace with Dad.
“I have to.” My mind turned to the photo of Justin I’d found on Milt’s desk. “There are answers here. And if we leave now, we’ll never get them.”
CHAPTER 54
“Cy!”
Dozens of heads spun in my direction as I strode into the room adjoining the vault. Flashes blazed as photographers captured the rather innocuous moment. Voices filled the air as reporters grabbed their microphones and began speaking in rapid-fire tones to large cameras.
“Yet another major surprise this morning as famed treasure hunter Cy Reed has just arrived on the scene,” a perky blonde reporter said breathlessly to her camera. “His presence adds numerous questions to a situation already brimming with them.”
She caught my eye. Dialing up the wattage, she offered me a brilliant smile. “Mr. Reed? May I have a few—”
“Thank you for your interest, Ms. Tate.” Donovan cut between me and her. “Unfortunately, Mr. Reed is required elsewhere at the moment. But he’ll be available for questions after the press conference.”
Grabbing my arm, Donovan dragged me toward the vault door. Meanwhile, reporters assailed me on all sides, shouting out a barrage of questions.
“Why are you here?”
“Mr. Reed, are you working for the administration?”
“Why did you miss the Explorers Society Awards Night? Is there any truth to the rumor that you were caught up in the riot at the time?”
Less than thirty-six hours had passed since I’d fought my way through a sea of Berserkers and police barricades. But at that moment, it seemed more like thirty-six days.
“Just ignore them,” Donovan said through gritted teeth. “Smile, wave, and ignore them.”
“Mr. Reed, could you please comment on the recent footage from the Manhattan riot?” a reporter called out. “Specifically, the multiple videos that purport to show you illegally taking charge of an NYPD water cannon and directing it at an array of Berserkers?”
“That was me, alright.” I grinned at the reporter. “Most fun I’ve had in weeks.”
A moment of stunned silence fell over the crowd. Then laughter rang out on all sides. Reporters and camera operators whooped and whistled their support.
“I told you to ignore them.” Tightening his grip, Donovan dragged me to the vault door. A couple of guards checked our credentials before stepping aside.
Donovan dragged us to compartment 3A. The door was open. President Walters and Ben stood inside the small space, chatting quietly.
They broke off their conversation as we entered the compartment. Lines crisscrossed their faces and dark bags hung from under their eyes. Even so, they managed to look fresh and excited.
“How’d you sleep?” President Walters asked.
“Like babies,” Graham replied. “It must’ve been the inflatable mattresses. Or maybe the itchy clothes. Or maybe even that government building smell. Glorious. Simply glorious.”
The president gave him a confused look. “Uh, I see.”
“Large crowd,” Beverly said, gesturing toward the adjoining room.
“Yes.” President Walters recovered quickly. “The reporters got here earlier than expected, so we’re trying to arrange a tour of the facilities for them.”
“When does th
e press conference begin?”
“9:00 a.m., sharp. It won’t last long. I’m going to lay down the economic reality in simple terms and then announce a series of executive orders reinstating the gold standard.” He looked at me. “Did you make up your mind about the auditor position?”
“I’m no auditor. But I suppose I could do some outside consulting if you get me the files I need.”
“Excellent.” The president grinned from ear to ear. “My speech writers have prepared some brief remarks for you to read. Nothing fancy, just—”
“I don’t give other people’s speeches.”
“I, uh …” He blinked. “It’s just that you don’t have much time to write one.”
“I’m not going to write it. I’m going to wing it.”
He chuckled nervously.
“You know, I’m sick and tired of your crap.” Donovan pushed his way past Beverly and Graham. “President Walters runs this show. If he tells you to dive headfirst off this building, you’d better do it.”
My mind flashed back to my childhood. To Dad’s suicidal leap. “Or what?” I asked. “I’ll be forced to sit next to you on the plane ride home?”
“You little—”
“It’s okay, Keith,” the president said. “He can say whatever he likes.”
Donovan’s eyes tightened. “Yes, sir.”
“Would you mind answering questions as well?” President Walters asked. “I think people will be interested in your thoughts on the new gold standard.”
“As long as I can speak my mind.”
He frowned, then nodded.
We talked logistics for several minutes. Then Donovan and the president left to get changed.
I walked across the compartment and stared at the wall of gold. Thanks to the overhead fixture, the individual bars glowed brightly.
I studied them for a long time, recalling how they’d been made from pre-1933 gold and copper coins. I didn’t know Justin’s birthdate. However, he’d been a grown man by the time he’d disappeared in 1949. So, it stood to reason he’d been born prior to 1933. In other words, he might’ve owned some of the coins in the compartment.
Ben, hands on hips, turned to face the wall of gold. “Crazy,” he remarked after a moment.
“What’s crazy?” I asked.
“All this gold sitting here, untouched and unaudited, for so many decades.” Shaking his head, he strode out of the compartment.
I hefted a bar into the air, feeling its softness and its heavy weight. Then I brought it close to my face and studied its surface.
Better safe than sorry.
“Hey Beverly,” I said. “Can you get me a small drill?”
“I’m sure I can scrounge one up.” She gave me a curious look. “Why?”
“It’s probably nothing.” I paused. “But it could be everything.”
CHAPTER 55
Halfway down the curving corridor, Ben saw an open compartment. He looked over both shoulders, confirming the area was clear. Then he veered inside it and shut the door behind him.
He stood in the darkness for a few moments, breathing softly and listening for footsteps. Hearing none, he flicked the wall switch. Light blazed forth from the overhead fixture, striking the bars and causing them to glitter in an overly-garish manner.
Ben pulled out his satphone and dialed up a familiar number.
“Hi, Pop,” Malware said, brightly. “How’s Fort Knox?”
“Busy. I trust you heard about the press conference?”
“Yes. It’s all over the news.”
“Has anyone figured out what’s going on yet?”
“Not even close. The media’s treating it as a publicity stunt. They keep referring to the WIN campaign, whatever that means.”
Ben knew exactly what it meant. WIN stood for Whip Inflation Now. Dating back to 1974, it consisted of a national voluntary price freeze, political summits, and other feel-good activities. Or more simply, it was President Ford’s attempt to stop inflation via the power of positive thinking.
Which, of course, meant it was a giant—albeit hilarious—failure.
At the time, supporters were encouraged to wear WIN lapel buttons. Although the buttons might not have whipped inflation, they did serve another purpose, namely as an impromptu personality test.
Anyone wearing a WIN button was a bona fide chump.
“WIN was from before your time. It was supposed to end inflation without actually stopping the inflation process.” Ben thought for a moment. “Apparently, the media expects the president to try to fix the economy with words rather than actions. You know, make a speech about how America is still good as gold or some other nonsense.”
Malware laughed. “They’re in for a shock.”
“A double shock, actually. I think it’s time for you to leak the truth to Bert Weaver. And make sure he puts Cy on stage for the big reveal.” Ben chuckled. “The question-and-answer session should be interesting.”
A few moments passed. “Done. Bert should have the text message any second now.”
“Excellent.” Ben paused. “Any luck with Capitalist Curtain?”
“My systems deciphered Justin’s handwriting. So, the bulk of the text is readable. Also, I think I’ve figured out his diagrams, so I’ve got a good idea how he made the dump trucks disappear.”
“I’m sensing a but in there somewhere.”
“I still don’t know how he made them reappear.” She exhaled. “Unfortunately, his notes only show the smoke and mirrors part. They say nothing about how he actually got the trucks out of the clearing.”
“But he did get them out, right?”
“I don’t see how. According to this, he used reinforced dump trucks. No way his crew could’ve driven them through the surrounding forest. Plus, Shrieker Tower is almost vertical. Driving up it would’ve been impossible. There was just one exit, a thin strip of grassland, and Milt was parked directly in front of it.”
Ben frowned. “Then where they’d go?”
“I think we have to consider the possibility they tricked everyone and never left the clearing. I don’t know how, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. And that’s not all.” Willow inhaled a sharp breath. “I’ve searched under every digital rock. After December 14, 1949, Justin and his crew ceased to exist. There are no photographs of them on the web, no copies of their handwriting in public or private databases, no unexplained gold transactions in the U.S. or otherwise.”
“I can’t imagine there are a lot of records from those days. Anyway maybe they were just extra careful.”
“Maybe. But what if something happened to them? What if they somehow hid the trucks underground and died in the process?”
Ben took a deep breath. She had a point, of course. Maybe Justin and his cohorts had pulled a fast one. Maybe they’d hidden the gold—and themselves—on that fateful day. And maybe, for some unknown reason, they’d never resurfaced. “What do you suggest?”
“I think we should send a team to scout the area. If the trucks are still there, we can evacuate them before anyone’s the wiser.”
“Can you get a team together in the next hour?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Then get them to Shrieker Tower, but keep them on a tight leash.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know if Cy has copies of the papers, but he’s definitely sniffing around. Once the truth about Fort Knox emerges, he just might connect the dots to Shrieker Tower.”
“Then I’ll have the perfect team ready to meet him.”
“It won’t be just him. Most likely, the U.S. Army would take control of the area. If that happens, your team will need a way to access the clearing.” Ben leaned his back against the compartment door. “How’s the Berserker movement in these parts?”
“Pretty strong.” Malware paused. “Why? You want me to stage another riot?”
“Only if Cy goes to Shrieker Tower.”
“That area is extremely remote. How am I supposed to get
people there?”
“By dangling juicy bait. If Cy goes to Shrieker, it won’t be just him and the U.S. Army. Not when President Walters has so much at stake.”
CHAPTER 56
“How’s this?” Beverly extended a small mechanical drill in my direction.
I took it and examined the tip. “It’ll do.”
As she closed the compartment door, I approached the wall of gold. Sitting down, I picked out one of the lower bars and tried to shift it. Weighed down by other bars, it didn’t move at all.
Taking a deep breath, I turned on the drill. Then I touched the whirring edge to the bar. It started to churn through the soft gold.
Graham and Beverly knelt behind me. Quietly, they watched me work.
The drill jerked in my hand. The soft whirring noise grew louder, harsher. Holding the tool steady, I drilled for a few more seconds before turning it off.
The bar now featured a small hole. Looking into it, I saw gray metal.
“Gray?” Graham leaned forward. “Why’s the gold colored gray?”
I took a deep breath. “Because it’s not gold.”
CHAPTER 57
“That’s impossible.” Graham recoiled in surprise. “Look at the exterior. It’s definitely gold.”
Beverly’s eyes widened. “No, it’s just gold-plated.”
Gently, I prodded the gray metal. It was brittle and extremely hard. The gold plating, meanwhile, was soft and malleable.
Standing up, I grabbed one of the bars on top of the wall. It didn’t just look like gold. It felt like gold. The color was perfect. Its texture was spot on.
Gently, I banged the bar against the floor. A dull ringing noise filled the air. It even sounded like gold.
But most curiously, its weight was at least a rough match of what I would’ve expected it to weigh. Gold was a dense material, weighing in at 19.281 grams per cubic centimeter. In contrast, lead was a mere 11.343 grams per cubic centimeter. Only a few materials could match gold’s density and most of them were extremely expensive.
