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 events 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.

He could feel it. It was going to happen. It was a home run, the big short.

The debt load was now unsustainable. The U.S. was like Greece, who defaulted several years ago but on a scale that was unimaginable. There was no way the United States could pay back the debt. The economic power of the world had shifted east to Asia. It was people like Keshwar who recognized this and were planning to become rich off this realization.

The Bloomberg terminal squawked with an incoming message. Most trading was done this way now, as there was a written record of the conversation as opposed to verbal communication, which introduced additional human error.

The market data terminal system, or Bloomberg, was founded and developed by the now multibillionaire Michael Bloomberg of New York City fame in the early eighties. He presciently realized that Wall Street would pay big for a terminal system that could provide fast, accurate market data, along with associated analytics. Over the years, a messaging service was added, which recorded all trading communication and currently was relied on to provide proof of instructions given. Trading systems were standard to the system now as well.

With over 250,000 terminals presently in the network worldwide, the business was a cash cow. The monthly access fee was not cheap. One could not realistically operate on Wall Street today without a Bloomberg.

The orders were transmitted briefly and succinctly. Keshwar sold another hundred million U.S. long term bonds for his client.

 

 

 

July 1, 2017

 

 

“You like her a lot, don’t you?” asked Alex as Kate’s car drove up to the club.

“I do, mate, she’s special,” said Connor as he glanced in the direction of Alex’s gaze.

Kate drove up the hill to the parking lot and was now walking higher towards the building where the two sat nursing a couple of beers on the upper deck. They watched her slowly approach. It was a pleasant sight.

The Cricket Club overlooked the Bahamas National Cricket field in Nassau. The downstairs level consisted of locker rooms for the home and opposing teams. The second floor was comprised of a bar and restaurant with a large deck, which allowed patrons to eat and drink and have a perfect view of the field. It was a very British scene with a touch of Caribbean thrown in for spice. The wall around the field was covered in pastel advertisements that the area was known for.

Cricket had its roots in the early medieval bat and ball games of Europe. It was derived from the same origin as American baseball. Although, the two games evolved along different lines but from the same general source, similar to the evolution of man and apes from the same origin. The name cricket was believed to come from the Old English word cricc, which meant staff or rod. Cricket became very well established in England as the national sport and then spread throughout the English-speaking colonies with the growth of the British Empire. In the Caribbean, cricket was worshipped and created great nationalistic fervor.

The game consisted of a bowler pitching the ball toward a batsman. The batsman had to hit the ball and run to touch the crease at the other end of a rectangular pitch in order to score a run. Outfielders similar to baseball fielded the ball and tried to dismiss the batsman. The game was played on an oval field and could last for up to five days. As an American, Connor did not understand the passion the game created in-country, but he was attempting to learn the sport.

Above the field stood Fort Charlotte perched on the high ground. Her cannons pointed outward towards the harbor a quarter mile away to the north as they did hundreds of years before. It was as if they still protected the island from invaders. The cruise ships were moving in and out of the harbor as always. The sun was making its way down to the horizon, accentuating the crystal clear blue water. A cool breeze took the edge off the heat as the night approached.

Kate walked through the bar and restaurant area on the upper floor and joined them both on the deck. Connor pulled up a metal chair for her as she arrived, the feet of the chair screeching over the surface of the floor.

“Well I can see you both are doing well at the moment,” she said as she surveyed the multiple empty Boddingtons’s on the table.

“Yes several dead soldiers,” responded Alex. He motioned for the waitress to bring another round for all of them.

They drank for a couple hours in the pleasant Bahamian environment. Several of the local girls came up to Alex, and he slipped them money under the table. They walked away embarrassed but happy. Kate and Connor shot him inquisitive glances.

“I cover the health insurance for a few of the local ladies I’ve met here over the years,” he remarked. “Sometimes you have to give back a little, you know?”

“Ah, so you have a soft spot,” remarked Kate. She was getting to know him better but still had reservations. “You really have gone native.”

“You have no idea,” Alex fired back. The banter between them was awkward thought Connor. It was obvious Alex didn’t like her.

They enjoyed the early evening.

Sometime later, a younger, native black man approached the table. Connor saw Alex stiffen.

“You need to be careful, Alex,” the man said in a thick Bahamian accent. “You need to protect ya tings, mon,” he said again in broken Caribbean English.

“You need to watch what you sayin’ mon, in front of my friends,” Alex shot back.

Alex stood up out of his chair to face the man, and they stared each other down. Kate put her hand on Connor’s leg as they looked at each other, wondering what was going on.

“You gonna get hurt, mon, we know what you’re bein up to.”

“Leave,” Alex commanded. “Before I hurt you myself.”

The man turned away and went down the stairs out of the club.

“Something you want to tell me?” asked Connor when the guy was out of sight.

“My business, mon.”

“No problem,” Connor answered but he was worried.

 

Connor and Kate left the club, and she drove them both back to the Hilton. The Bahamian nightlife was still raging around them as they walked from the parking lot to the lobby. They ended up sitting in the bar late into the evening. Their company was a group of English flight attendants who had flown in that night. Obviously they weren’t flying the next day, as they were drinking heavily.

Since Alex had left for the evening to go home, Kate asked, “So what’s going on with your friend?”

“I don’t know but something is definitely going down. I’m worried,” Connor answered.

“That’s an understatement. He’s crashing and burning and you don’t know why.”

“He’s a friend and I trust him. Or at least I used to.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t.”

They stared at each other for an eternity.

“Speaking of crashing, why don’t you just crash in my room,” Connor offered. “I’ve got a king and I won’t take advantage of you,” he teased and winked at her.

She looked at him with a discerning eye for a few moments.

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” she responded. “No reason to pay for another room this late at night.” What the hell, I like him, she thought to herself.

They made their way to the elevator.