Chapter Twenty

 

 

 

He hibernated for several weeks at his house on Eleuthera. It was good to be alone. The way the property was laid out to allow him privacy, he would not be seen unless he wanted to be. The small cove in front of his home became his only world, a world he never wanted to leave again.

The locals brought him food from time to time. He was appreciative of that. He was a good neighbor over the years and had built up some good karma. People were concerned about him.

Time seemed to stand still on the island. The crushing rhythm of the waves brought a comfort, knowledge that this and all things shall pass. His favorite time was dusk, as the sun slowly made its way down, splashing the heavens with Caribbean colors. It was then that he thought of Kate, and of Emily. He knew clearly he was very lucky to have had them both in his life.

He spent many nights staring at the ocean from the deck on his home. The warm, summer breeze coming off the water was soothing. And from time to time, he ventured to the bar where he had met Kate; however the pain there was great and these visits became fewer and fewer. The bartender greeted him as always but left him alone. It was obvious he wanted solitude.

The days passed. He took long walks on the beach. Over time the pain started to recede. Or, at least it became more manageable. He was always able to compartmentalize things. He would have to do so again. He had to put the pain in a tiny box in his brain and wall it off. It was only to be felt when he could afford to let the feelings out.

There was one thing Connor was having difficulty understanding. Why didn’t Burr find the gold? He obviously was searching for it. The answer remained a mystery.

Eventually he decided to reengage with life and return to Nassau. The decision did not come lightly, but after many days, he knew that was what he wanted. Perhaps civilization would get his energy flowing again. He wanted to revisit the trust. He wanted to solve the riddle about Burr not finding the gold.

It seemed odd to return to this pirate city. Kate and Alex were dead. The place seemed foreign to him now. The thrill of the hustle and bustle in the streets was gone. He was lonely. He had grown used to not having this feeling with Kate around. It was back. It was back with a vengeance. He was depressed.

He really didn’t remember getting to the trust company. He didn’t even notice the tourists milling about the shops anymore.

The staff recognized him and let him in. A large, Bahamian woman smiled at him and shepherded him to the ornate room to which he had first been shown weeks ago. Nothing in the room had changed. Then they brought him the box, opened it, and left him alone.

My how far he had come since he first opened the box. There must be something I am missing, he thought.

He searched the chest again and again, examining every item thoroughly. Nothing. He had gone through these documents a hundred times. He closed the lid and noticed the golden little lion staring at him. He touched it, caressed the smoothness of the craftsmanship. The gold piece moved slightly as he touched it. What?

He pushed down on the golden inlay. The whole lion moved inward. He heard a noise inside the chest and opened it. He had pushed the lining of the top of the chest into the chest itself. He opened the lid so it faced upwards to the ceiling. There he saw a very old parchment pressed to the top that had been hidden inside the lining.

He opened it and began reading.

It was a letter to an unnamed person.

So this was why Burr never found the gold. He had never found this parchment.

The parchment confirmed what he had found at Hamilton’s grave.

Connor left the trust company an hour later after combing the box for any more hidden chambers. There were none.

He had some hope again. Maybe this will all come to some good after all, he thought.

 

 

 

Hong Kong

The French finance minister entered the executive suite at the top of the hotel where the leaders were located. He was a proud man, an elitist. This task did not come easy for him. How could it? He believed with all of his heart in the European project. He believed in the cradle-to-grave entitlement system. He believed in the state. And most of all, he believed that all Europe needed was to borrow a few trillion euros to buy some more time, and he was sure that Europe itself would work out its problems. He could not fathom failure. It was unthinkable.

He was led to the conference table by a staffer, where the others were waiting. The introductions were friendly enough. However, the pleasantries did not last long.

“Mr. Valentine,” the Chinese premier spoke in fluent English. “You have come here seeking our help, have you not? You have a problem. You are out of money. If you are not lent large sums of money, and I’m speaking of trillions of euros, your region will suffer an economic disaster. Have I summed up the situation clear enough?”

“Yes, Premier Len,” the finance minister replied. “I think you have summed up the situation correctly. None of the measures we have put in place over the last decade since the crisis started have been effective. We need large amounts of capital to bail out several economies of the Eurozone and to stabilize our banks. If we are not successful in raising this money, the euro will cease to exist. This would be devastating for all of our economies. If fact, it would be devastating for the world economy.” He looked at the men seated around the table and tried to glean their intentions; he was trying to make this their problem as well. “However,” he continued, “I do believe with some breathing room the funds will give us, Europe can solve its own problems.”

“Seeing as how the United States just defaulted on the money they owe the People’s Republic of China, we are very leery of lending you this money. If we would consider doing such a thing, there would be a price. A very high one.”

“Premier Len, please outline your terms. Our way of life is at stake, and we do not have many options. I will relay them to my superiors.”

“Very well. We require the following. All international transactions by the European Union going forward must be denominated in yuan. U.S. Dollar transactions globally will cease to exist. All foreign troops must leave European soil, that is United States forces. NATO must cease to exist. Defense spending in the Eurozone must cease to exist. You must turn over any technologies we deem appropriate to the People’s Republic of China. And we expect a reply within forty-eight hours, at which point, this offer will be null and void. The Americans have no money. Even though they have defaulted on our debt, they still are indebted to the rest of the world. There will be no discussion of these terms. You are dismissed.”

Valentine looked at the Chinese premier across the table, a look of disbelief on his ashen face. How can I relay this to my superiors?

The French finance minister stood up and left the room with his tail between his legs.

 

 

 

Somewhere Over the Continental United States

Aboard Air Force One

 

 

President Walker sat in a padded chair on Air Force One. He had asked the staff to empty this part of the aircraft and to leave him in peace. The dull roar of the engines provided a small bit of comfort somehow.

His daughter Elizabeth sat in the seat next to him. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not showed any other emotion. He had just told her about Kate’s death. She was being strong for him. He knew Elizabeth loved Kate like a sister. She was being forced to face the fact that she was gone.

He looked out the oval window in the fuselage of the Boeing jet at one of the Air Force F-22s flying alongside guarding the president’s aircraft. The lines on the fighter jets were graceful, reminiscent of American power. The sunlight glinted off the cockpit glass and one of the pilots waved at him. He waved back somberly. How much things have changed over the last few months, he thought. The world had become a much more disturbing place.

He was playing a game of brinkmanship with the alliance countries. He knew he had to back up any threats he made. He was careful to make sure he could act if his bluff was called. It was a dangerous game, a slippery slope.

It was the financial problems that were killing the country. The entitlement spending was out of control. He had to find a way to bring the country back to fiscal reality and sustainability. That was the challenge. The spending had to be slowed, and the economy had to begin growing again. The debt issuance cycle to fund further borrowing had to stop. He was fairly new in office and it was a Herculean task. In addition, the economic downward spiral led to a weakened national security position. It was inviting threats and attacks. He had to shore up America’s defenses as well.

He stared back at the aircraft alongside.

“Just don’t let her death go to waste,” Elizabeth finally said softly. The president was jerked back to reality. “Fix the problems, Dad. Take the hard road and get it done.”

President Walker took in the words and pondered them. Out of the mouths of babes, he mused.

He would do so. He would take the hard road. But what does that look like? he wondered.

 

 

 

Isle of Hope

Intracoastal Waterway

Savannah, Georgia

 

 

The conspicuously black, U.S. government Suburban left the mainland and entered a narrow, two-lane causeway that made its way across the marsh, splitting the southern waterway that separated the barrier islands from the Georgia mainland. Their destination was one island in particular. The wetlands separated the island from the neighborhood of Sandfly, an old slave community. Seagulls soared overhead, looking for dinner in concert with the occasional hawk circling above. Connor could see the shells of the creatures that by the billions mostly formed this man-made thoroughfare littering the sides of the road. He thought of his driveway on Eleuthera in the Bahamas and the shells crunching under his tires as he drove.

The view of the marsh was peaceful with the reeds gently blowing in the breeze. The tide was slowly retreating, exposing nests of oyster shells and black, muddy banks teeming with crabs. An occasional alligator sunned himself on the salty earth.

It was not a long ride across the marsh and Moon River. Soon they were back on dry land as they arrived on the Isle of Hope. Palm trees greeted them, as well as huge, ancient, oak trees dripping with Spanish moss hanging from the branches like a beard. This is the old country, thought Connor.

The island got its name from, of all places, the disease malaria. When the aristocracy of Savannah was smitten with the disease during the colonial period, the residents fled to the island to escape the sickness, hence the name Isle of Hope.

A quarter mile after accessing the island, the vegetation thickened, and the Suburban turned right onto a wide, tree-lined passageway. The road went on as far as the eye could see. This is spectacular, thought Connor. The majestic oaks were welcoming. The branches interlocked overhead and blocked out the sunlight like a jungle canopy. He could imagine a horse-drawn carriage making its way down the lane hundreds of years ago. The view was probably not much different.

They drove on for what seemed like ten minutes.

Eventually they reached the main structure, which was built in 1828 and still stood in good condition. The state of Georgia acquired most of the property in 1973, which included 822 acres of a colonial plantation. The original, fortified home had been reduced to ruins.

The Suburban pulled into the turnaround in front of the stately house. Connor stepped out of the vehicle and was followed by a man in his sixties. He was obviously important, hence the multiple body guards, who also exited before and after him. They were met by an elderly gentleman.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Secretary,” the older man said as he addressed Connor’s companion. “Welcome to Wormsloe Plantation. To what honor do we owe the pleasure of hosting a member of the president’s cabinet?”

“Well, Mr. Ulmer, thank you for meeting us here on such short notice,” said the United States secretary of the treasury. “I think Mr. Murray can answer that.”

Connor greeted the man and extended his hand for a firm handshake with the caretaker. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sealed, plastic envelope. Unzipping the plastic opening, Connor pulled out an old, yellowed parchment that he had taken from Burr’s chest at the trust. He also retrieved an old, iron key. Mr. Ulmer’s eyes widened.

“So you’ve finally come,” he said matter-of-factly.

 

Several months back, Connor stood and stared in wonder at Alexander Hamilton’s grave at Trinity Church in New York; the large, marble tomb with the obelisk on top stood out among all of the other ancient graves. The excitement began to bubble up inside him.

On the bottom right side of the monument, almost hidden by the grass and etched into the marble at the base, was the image of a little lion. It was the same image that was inlaid into the top of the wooden chest from the trust. Below the lion, in block letters was the word WORMSLOE.

Hamilton must have given instructions on his deathbed after the duel to have the etchings made on his grave, Connor thought.

“I know where it is,” he said aloud.

 

Wormsloe Plantation dated back to the early eighteenth century and played a role in American history ever since. The property was developed by one of Georgia’s original colonial founders, Noble Jones. Although a Tory, Jones fortified the original quarters on the property to guard the intracoastal waterway from Spanish incursion prior to the American Revolution. After his death, his son inherited the property and was a patriot to the American cause.

The grounds also played a role in the American Civil War, again protecting the waterway from Northern invasion.

Mr. Ulmer took the parchment from Connor and carefully opened the folded document. A smile broke out on his face as he read the lines of handwritten prose. Connor thought he saw tears in the man’s eyes.

“I have waited all of my life for this, as did my father and his father before that.” He looked up at Connor and the secretary when he was done reading. He said nothing for a tortured few moments. Then he finally regained his composure and spoke. “Please follow me,” he requested politely.

Connor and the secretary with his entourage followed the elderly man silently for several minutes along a trail through the forest along the marsh. The silence was broken only by birds chattering overhead. The moss hung eerily from the branches, and the palms rose from the ground as they got closer to the water. Soon the ruins of an old, fortified home were visible, the tabby walls jutting from the ground in pieces, highlighting the grounds of the old structure.

Finally the old man turned to face them and spoke.

“My ancestors built this property initially to protect the city of Savannah from Spanish invasion. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, my great great great uncle received a visit from another secretary of the treasury, the first one as a matter of fact. Mr. Alexander Hamilton. It seems that Mr. Hamilton had some items he wanted to store for future use in his business dealings and wanted the items kept far away from the prying eyes of his contemporaries in New York. So he hired my uncle to store them for him. Here. At Wormsloe. Two hundred and twenty years ago.”

Mr. Ulmer held up the parchment for all to see.

“He set up a trust here in Savannah to pay for this storage in perpetuity until the holder of this document returned to claim the items with this key.”

He turned again and walked towards the ruins.

Once inside the perimeter of the original house, he made his way to a small structure that presumed to be a storage shed and opened the lock and swung open the double doors. Inside there was a trap door in the floor, which he opened and at the same time passed out several flashlights, which were mounted on the inside wall.

The party made its way down an old flight of stone stairs into a subterranean cellar.

Again, Mr. Ulmer turned to face them.

“Gentlemen, I present you the property of Alexander Hamilton hereby bequeathed to you.”

He inserted the key into the lock of the ancient iron door, turned it, and to his amazement, it opened.

Connor pointed his light towards the rear of the cellar and saw trunk after trunk lining the walls of the underground space. There must have been one hundred of them. He walked to the closest one and carefully unlocked the lid. It was filled with gold bars.

 

 

 

Office of the Secretary of the Treasury

Washington, D.C.

 

 

Connor looked around the office and noticed the personal mementoes of the man he was speaking with. He had picked up this habit in his early business training, and it served him well. What a person put in his office him one many things. It also provided items for conversation. The treasury secretary was speaking. Connor forced himself to rejoin the conversation.

“The law of the state of Georgia gives the treasure to the beneficiary of the trust,” said the secretary. “Officially, the gold is yours. That is how Hamilton designed it. It was taken from Latin America but we do not know where. The Bahamas could have a claim, as it was taken from there as well years later, but there is the small fact that they do not know about it. However, I believe Hamilton had an ulterior motive in mind. I believe he thought that whoever was privy to the information inside the trust would be selected with the highest of standards. I believe he wanted the gold to belong to the United States of America.”

“I believe that as well,” said Connor.

“We are prepared to offer you a finder’s fee, if you are prepared to turn over the gold to the United States Treasury.” The Secretary paused for effect. “Your country needs your service, Mr. Murray,” he said rather matter-of-factly. “We are prepared to offer you a finder’s fee of ten million dollars.” He let the words sink in.

Connor’s mouth was open but he was unable to speak.

“And I should make other points known,” he continued. “We will be prepared to fight you in court for the rest of your natural life if you do not agree. We believe this gold belongs to the people of the United States.”

“I agree to your terms, Mr. Secretary,” replied Connor. “The gold is yours, as it should be.”

 

 

 

Oval Office

 

 

The northwest door, which gave access to the main corridor of the West Wing, opened slowly. President Walker rose and walked around his desk. He had been told she was entering the office but had no idea what she looked like.

Natasha walked in.

President Walker was stunned by her beauty. She had to be late twenties, very slim and fit, with long, black hair. It was a natural beauty, not enhanced, not overdone, a Russian princess from long ago.

Wow, he thought to himself. The Russian president has good taste.

He walked up to her and extended his hand.

“Natasha, I want to extend to you the heartfelt thanks from the people of the United States. Your efforts in our behalf have been invaluable. We are in your debt. I know you have been through an extremely stressful situation and need some time to yourself. Please know that I and my staff are at your service. Let us know what we can do for you.”

She smiled a genuine smile and her face lit up.

“Mr. President, it is an honor to meet you,” she said in fluent English, although with a strong, Russian accent. “I have my reasons for helping you, which we can discuss at some point if you would like. However, I have always dreamed of seeing California. I have heard so much about it. I love architecture and want to see the bridges, museums, everything. Maybe when it is safe, I can spend some time there. Perhaps, aahh, how do you say in English, I can be a tourist?”

“Done,” said the president.

“It would be good to relax and enjoy myself!”

He laughed. “We have to debrief you first. You are going to spend a bit of time in seclusion with our team, but I will honor your request.”

She smiled again. “Thank you, Mr. President,” she said and was led from the room.