by L. Todd Wood
The Bahamians had actually recruited him to their Olympic sailing team recently. He was that good. Sailing and treasure hunting were his passions.
Just finishing a nice weekly lunch with his fellow club members, most of them elderly, he really had nothing to do the rest of the day, so he decided to drink. He looked out across the harbor to Paradise Island. Many sailboats sat at anchor and bobbed in the sunny waves. There was a nice breeze coming off the water. He tried to enjoy the scene and the moment.
The prime minister’s offer was intriguing.
Alex was the premier treasure hunter in the Caribbean. He had spent most of his adult life attempting to find and catalogue the wrecks that littered the ocean floor around the many islands and cays that formed the country known as the Bahamas. His talents were well known.
“I want to form a partnership,” the prime minister had said. “You have something I want and I have something you want.”
What the man wanted was money, money in the form of gold. He knew Alex would find many treasures if he kept up his quest. There were rumors that a large find could be in the works.
Alex wanted to be free from government interference. There was the slight sticky point that the treasure Alex found technically belonged to the Bahamian people. The government always took its share and then some. In fact they could confiscate the treasure altogether. The prime minister suggested that Alex could do away with these silly worries by splitting the booty with him, illegally of course. All proceeds were to be deposited in an appropriate offshore account that did not bear his name.
Alex flagged the club waiter and ordered another drink and stood.
Whenever he felt the stress rising through his chest, he started pacing. When he started pacing, he knew the unhappiness was coming. He stepped near the table and reached for the bottle. It had become ingrained in him. It was the only thing that calmed the waters, the only thing that got him through the night. Sometimes, it was what got him through the day as well. He looked forward to the first drink, every day about this time. He knew it was a problem, but he shrugged it off. There are worse problems and I’m Russian. It’s in my blood, he thought.
The vodka went down easily. At least he had ordered the good stuff.
He looked again at the towering spires of Atlantis rising from Paradise Island across the harbor. The resort and casino brought throngs of rich Americans to the island, where they parted with their money. He casually watched as an older couple sat on the deck of their sailboat anchored one hundred yards from the club. They sipped drinks and stared back in his direction, oblivious to the machinations of the local economy. Their world was their boat and the casino behind them.
“This endeavor is becoming quite lucrative,” he murmured to himself. He thought again of the prime minister.
It was an intriguing proposal indeed.
But Alex had other masters, and he had to be very careful.
May 23, 1701
London, England
The macabre parade made its way to Execution Dock, Wrapping, London. Captain Kidd was tied up with several other condemned men in a horse-drawn cart with the full effects of the horror of eighteenth-century London. He was poked with sticks, urinated on, and smeared with excrement as the column weaved down the cobblestone streets to his end. He had been drinking drams of rum all morning and was roaring drunk. He was the life of the party. He bellowed at his tormentors in the crowd and gave them what they wanted, a sick scene of sadism.
What a fall he had taken. Four years ago, he was a respected businessman and mariner who had bought a pew in Trinity Church in New York. He had a beautiful family and was respected by the Crown. Now he was a hated pirate about to die.
The procession made its way to the gallows. The birds were swarming, as they knew what was coming. This realization frightened Kidd more than anything. He tried to put the thought out of his mind.
He was to be gibbeted. In other words, his body was to be left hanging in the harbor for the birds to pick for twenty years until all that was left was his skeleton. This would be a warning to future generations of the consequences of piracy.
Kidd had made one last plea. He told the court of his wealth hidden in the Caribbean, but unfortunately they did not believe him. “I offer you one hundred thousand pounds in gold for my freedom,” he had stated. The court laughed.
The gold therefore stayed hidden in Nevis.
Pardons arrived at the last moment, but alas Kidd was not among them. Several of the prisoners were released into the boisterous crowd, their families rejoicing. Life in eighteenth-century England was a day-to-day test of survival, especially if one was poor.
The horses pulled the cart underneath the platform where the ropes were hung. He remained defiant and dignified. The noose was put around his neck. The crowd of the pathetic London underclass numbering in the hundreds quickly became ghastly silent. This was the best part. This was their entertainment.
The cart was abruptly pulled away, and he hung briefly but tumbled to the ground. The crowd howled and rushed forward. They wanted to see the death dance as the condemned writhed under the gallows in agony, soiling their trousers.
The rope had snapped against his neck, and he fell.
I’m still alive, he marveled. The rope had broken.
The executioner would not be foiled a second time. The hanging was prepared again, the noose put around his neck, and the cart was pushed away. This time the rope held, and Captain Kidd died. Relatives of the other men swinging in their nooses wept as they pulled on the legs of their loved ones to hasten their death.
Sarah could not bear to be in London for Kidd’s trial. She also feared for her daughter’s safety in England. She waited in New York for the return of her husband. He did not arrive.
She received news of his hanging some time later.
She was ordered out of her home by the colonial government and lost all of her possessions. Despite this unfortunate outcome, she hired an attorney and fought the order; the residence was eventually returned to her.
She remarried and had another child named William. However, she outlived her fourth husband as well as her daughter. She was the only one left alive who actually knew where Kidd’s treasure was located, but she never spoke of it again. Its location died with her. She passed on a very wealthy woman in spite of the treasure and left her possessions to Captain Kidd’s grandchildren.
Chapter Eight
December 16, 1792
New York
The secretary of the treasury sat back in the large, wooden chair behind the expansive desk in his office. He allowed himself a few minutes of rest and closed his eyes. He could feel the tension falling away from his face. It was a trick he had learned during the war, when he had to get sleep when he could; twenty minutes and he could be as good as new. Funny the memories that stay with me, he thought to himself.
It had been a long day. The dire affairs of his new country needing immediate attention were numerous. Debts from the last wars, troubles along the frontier to pay for, and building up a new Cutter Service to protect his country from threats offshore were all on his mind. However, his heart was very troubled for a different reason.
The previous day, he was visited by two of his colleagues in government, James Monroe and Aaron Burr. They confronted him regarding allegations he had improperly used his influence as secretary of the treasury, and they believed he was corrupt.
He vehemently denied these accusations, as he knew himself to be scrupulous in the affairs of state. However, he did admit that the rumors that he had been unfaithful to his wife were true.
His confession of his affair with Maria Reynolds would possibly soon be published in the local paper and would be public knowledge. It had been going on for years, and it also hurt him that he would have to tell his wife. He was to be disgraced. He described in detail to the men the carnal even
ts that had taken place between him and the woman. That thought brought him awake again, and he sat up in the chair. No I have to rest, he told himself.
He fell back again and closed his eyes. It was a battle that played out frequently with him as he drove himself in his duties; however, sometimes his body just had to take a break. He was older now.
His life was falling apart; however, there was still one thing that drove him; the financial security of his country, the country he helped birth.
After a brief respite, he opened his eyes and took a look at the maps before him spread out on the desk, twenty in all. All of the locations were in the Caribbean. They were small, out-of-the-way hiding places that no one would ever find. It had taken him years to search out these locations. He had his men then get them ready for the deposits, which soon were to be stored at each one. He was much younger at that time. He could have never moved the gold now from Nevis; the area was too populated and he was too old. He didn’t have the energy anymore. But it was safe now in these hidden locations, and that thought warmed his heart.
The Bank of New York and the Bank of the United States had been established. It was time to fund them properly. The gold would do this. It was his dream, the only thing that allowed him to sleep at night, even if ever so infrequently.
The most important entity was the Bank of the United States, which was founded the year before. Only $2 million of its initial $10 million of capital was provided by the U.S. Government. The rest was to come from private individuals. The treasure would allow the bank to grow in capability and influence, two things Hamilton knew were crucial to its success. America needed a central bank to manage its currency and ensure continuity of payments. There was a lot of opposition to the institution having this much power, but he knew without it there would be financial chaos.
He put the maps into the leather pouch, deposited the pouch in his jacket pocket as always, and left his office.
Tomorrow he would put the final plan in motion and bring the gold home. That thought kept him going.
June 30, 2017
Nassau
They checked several more of the map locations that Connor had retrieved from the chest at the trust company in Nassau. Each foray ended in the same result, empty. The treasure had been moved. Connor was stumped. He knew in his heart that the documents he was given were authentic. What am I missing? The only thing he knew to do was to return to the law offices in Nassau and go through the material with a fine-tooth comb. Alex was champing at the bit to be brought into the trust offices as well to go over the documents, but Connor refused. Money had a way of corrupting people, and he did not trust anyone that much. Besides, he was now suspicious of Alex. He dared not give away any more information.
He sat in the mahogany room at the trust company for hours poring over the items in the chest. He was amazed at the complete silence of the room and the adjoining offices. It must be a nice life to be a trustee, he mused. There’s been absolutely nothing happening here all day.
He found no new information in his reexamination of the contents of the container. Exasperated, he slammed the lid to the chest down after replacing all of the documents. He was late to meet Kate. Perhaps he would never solve this puzzle. The imprint of a baby lion stared him in the face on top of the chest. Strange, he thought as he made his way out of the conference room.
The receptionist let him out. He exited the building and felt the blast furnace of the heat hit him as he walked onto Bay Street in Nassau. The traffic was deadlocked as he walked between the cars to the other side of the thoroughfare. A policeman in white colonial attire attempted to direct traffic. He wondered if absent the cars it looked the same two hundred years ago. Some of the vintage drawings of the harbor showed several of the current landmarks that were still standing.
She was waiting at a little Greek restaurant that Connor frequented when in the Bahamas. It was located on the upper floor of the building lining the traffic artery through the town. The deck was crowded, but she had secured a table overlooking the hustle and bustle below. The family wait staff was handling the crowd with their usual pleasantness.
It was late morning, and Kate was glistening in the sunlight as the sweat covered her chest and brow. Sometimes people could not beat the heat here; they just had to learn how to coexist.
Connor stopped the lump in his throat as he saw her. I again forgot how beautiful she is, he thought to himself as he sat down across the small, wrought iron table.
“I love this place,” he said as he eased into his chair. “I always come here when in Nassau, although usually by myself. They know me.”
“I’ve heard that before,” she responded.
They had been together on several expeditions with Alex and were now rather friendly.
“Where’s your sidekick?” she asked. “I half expected him to show up with you today. It’s not often when a girl gets you for brunch by herself.”
“He’s in the office today. I thought we could maybe get to know one another better. You should feel special.”
“I do,” she answered. “Do you want a drink?”
“Love one.”
“Two Bloody Marys,” she relayed to the young, Greek girl taking orders.
The realization hit Connor between the eyes, and he literally was forced back in his chair against the railing overlooking the street below.
“Oh my God,” he whispered to himself.
“What’s wrong, Connor?”
“It was blood on the pouch,” he said aloud.
“What?”
“It was Alexander Hamilton’s blood, the Little Lion. I have been a fool and didn’t see it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There was a baby lion imprinted on the top of the chest. Alexander Hamilton’s nickname was the Little Lion. The dark substance on the pouch was his blood from the duel. Incredible,” he said softly. Burr must have found access to the trust Hamilton had established.
He was lost in his thoughts, taken back to the shoreline in New Jersey over two hundred years ago. He felt like he was actually there.
He downed the Bloody Mary and said, “I’ve got to get back to the law office. There has to be more there I’m missing.”
Connor left and Kate was somewhat annoyed.
What does that mean? Being annoyed?, she asked herself. “Are you falling for him? You’re not supposed to do that,” she said aloud.
She finished her drink alone, paid the bill, and left.
Connor sat at the table he had left an hour earlier. There was an eagerness now that was missing then. He had stumbled onto something of more historical significance than he had ever dreamed of.
He laid all of the documents out on the table in a very orderly way. There was the journal, many maps of Caribbean locations, trust documents, and the original pouch, which also contained papers granting the bearer access to the trust. This is how Burr had gained access to the trust and found the maps, he thought.
The journal was not helpful, although it was a piece of national historical treasure. It was about Aaron Burr’s life after the duel. It did not explain how he gained access to the bearer documents.
He must have stolen the pouch somehow, Connor surmised.
He looked at the items spread out on the oiled, mahogany table. Most were maps of small cays located throughout the Bahamas and the West Indies, but one stood out from the rest.
It was a topographical map of a volcano looming out of the ocean, which had formed an island around it. There was no name on the map, but it was obvious as to its location. “I’m going to Nevis,” said Connor aloud. “The birthplace of Alexander Hamilton.”
New York City
On the forty-fourth floor of a building across the city from Connor’s office, another trading floor at a competitor firm buzzed with activity. Keshwar Rajim loved New York City. Since he arrived
here from India ten years ago he had become extremely successful trading bonds. He was a natural. He could read the economic tea leaves better than anyone. He would put on trades accordingly and bring his clients in as well. He became very wealthy and had developed a devoted following. He also was very young.
Part of his success came from the fact that he had some very well-heeled clients. He could throw up some size when putting on a trade. Some of his trades were so large that he feared moving the market. It was a good problem to have.
Keshwar was contacted years ago by an Asian businessman who wanted to set up an account. He was brand new to the business and was flattered with the opportunity. It was a lucky break for him, and he never questioned why a client of such size would seek out such an inexperienced trader.
The orders were fairly small at first but over the years had grown substantially. The funds were run through an offshore trust on the island of Nevis. He had done the due diligence on the man and the trust itself and was comfortable he was not exposing himself or the firm legally. However, the sums had now grown quite large. He was not asking any questions. He had done his homework. He was making too much money.
Let sleeping dogs lie, he thought to himself.
Keshwar prided himself on making money for his clients. They came to him for ideas, and he had acquired a nice stable of what in the business they called “pots of money.”
Currently he was shorting U.S. treasury bonds across the yield curve. The Federal Reserve had been flooding the market for years with printed money. There was no way the Chinese or any other foreign creditor would continue to buy treasuries at these low rates. Already there were the beginnings of stress in the new issue auctions that came several days a week from the Fed. The tails were getting longer, and the bid to cover ratio was shrinking. The United States was starting to have trouble selling its debt.
In order to continue floating this astronomical debt load on the international capital markets, the U.S. would have to start paying significantly higher levels of interest. This meant that the bonds currently outstanding would be worth less and their value would drop. The Federal Reserve could not keep buying its own bonds forever to hold down interest rates. This is what Keshwar was counting on.
