Knox Page 9

  “That’d be even worse.” Swiveling my head, I studied the many boxes. They were numbered and, as expected, completely nondescript. Some were lidless. Others were partially ajar. Still others were closed. Regardless, Graham was right. Most likely, they’d all been unlocked and emptied years earlier.

  “What are we looking for?” Graham asked.

  Slowly, I walked through the vault, stepping over and around piles of boxes. Questions bombarded my brain. Questions about Malware. Questions about her motivations. But mostly, questions about her certainty. “Something boring,” I replied.

  “Come again?”

  “Malware went to a lot of trouble to get us here. And for what? Some valuables that would’ve been looted years ago?” I shook my head. “The box had to survive decades of vault robbers. Which means it’s boring. Worthless. Maybe not even a safe deposit box at all, come to think of it.”

  My gaze shifted away from the boxes. I studied the walls, the floor, the ceiling.

  Graham walked across the vault. Near the back wall, something caught his eye. “Check this out.”

  I hiked toward him and maneuvered around a sprawling pile of metal boxes. “Good find. It’s got to be in here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it doesn’t get more boring than this.” For a moment, I took in the stacked piles of small cardboard boxes. They’d been ripped open and their contents—papers—had been rifled through. Other papers, crumped and torn, were strewn about the floor.

  At some point, the people who owned the building had decided to empty the unclaimed safe deposit boxes. The valuables were either stolen or sold off to the highest bidder. That left the papers, which were transferred into cardboard boxes, evidently in case someone came looking for them. Eventually, those boxes were forgotten.

  “So, Malware wants papers,” Graham said. “But which ones?”

  “Let’s ask her.” I pulled out my satphone, typed in a quick message: Lots of cardboard boxes here, filled with papers. One of them yours?

  YES, was Malware’s reply.

  Which one?

  You can figure it out.

  It’ll go faster with your help.

  True, but where’s the fun in that?

  You’re all heart, Malware.

  “Okay, she’s not helping us.” I thought for a moment. “It must be a will. Or maybe a land deed. Something like that.”

  Graham kicked a small pile of crushed papers. They fluttered around a bit before settling back to the ground. “This could take hours.”

  “I know.” My gaze hardened as Beverly’s face flashed before my eyes. “But we’ve only got minutes.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Another letter.” Graham stared at the withered parchment like it had just kicked his dog. “This isn’t working.”

  Balancing a tall stack of papers in my lap, I grabbed my satphone and checked the time. It was 10:23 p.m. My eyes closed and I exhaled a long breath of musty air.

  Just seven minutes left. Seven minutes until the unthinkable. I had no idea where Beverly was and no way to rescue her. My only hope was to find whatever Malware wanted. And that meant I had to keep looking, keep searching. But Graham was right.

  This wasn’t working.

  While he sorted through the boxes, I’d attacked the scattered papers. At first, I’d gone through them meticulously, reading every last legible word. But as the minutes ticked by, I’d switched strategies, pulling aside anything that looked important—wills, deeds, contracts—and junking the rest. But that still wasn’t fast enough. With just seven minutes left on the clock, I’d gone through less than half of the scattered papers. Even worse, I still didn’t have the slightest clue what we were supposed to find. I could’ve already seen it for all I knew.

  I glanced at the stack of papers in my lap. For the most part, they consisted of letters, mortgages, insurance polices, bills of sale, and discharge papers from World War II. We did come across the occasional stock or bond certificate. But I’d never heard of the various companies and I suspected the vast majority, if not all of them, had gone out of business.

  I set the papers on the ground and focused my attention on a stack of cardboard boxes. The top one was marked with thin ink from an old-fashioned fountain pen. The first line of text read, #554, which I assumed was a reference to its original safe deposit box number. The second line read, Augustus Davis. Most likely, he was the name of record for that particular box.

  The name and number meant nothing to me so I examined another box. And then another box. And yet another box. They were all the same. Same contents. Same cardboard. Same ink.

  I moved to another stack and began checking those boxes as well. Again, they were the same. Same contents, same, cardboard, same ink. Same …

  What the …?

  I did a double-take. Then I looked again at a particular box, at its two lines of text.

  #1743. Justin Reed.

  No. No, that was impossible. Utterly, completely impossible. And yet …

  I knew the name Justin Reed. Not personally, of course, but I knew it all the same.

  Justin Reed? I thought. As in, my grandfather, Justin Reed?

  CHAPTER 23

  What are you up to, Malware? I wondered. And what does it have to do with my grandfather?

  “Hey Dutch,” I called out.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you know Dad’s dad?”

  “What does that—?”

  “Did you know him?”

  A short pause followed. “I never met him, but I know of him. His name was Justin.”

  I closed my eyes. Justin. Justin Reed.

  “He disappeared in the late 1940s,” Graham continued. “1949, I believe.”

  1949. Just a few years before Five Borough Bank had gone out of business. Why was my grandfather’s name written on that old cardboard box? Had he been a client of the bank? “Disappeared?” I frowned. “Don’t you mean he ran away? Abandoned his family?”

  “Your dad never bought that story.”

  I had lots of questions, but no time to answer them. All I knew was that this wasn’t a coincidence. Malware hadn’t brought me here solely for my skill set. Somehow, she knew about my grandfather.

  I pulled out my satphone. The time was 10:27 p.m. Quickly, I typed in a message: Box #1743. Belonged to Justin Reed.

  YES, Malware replied.

  What’s this all about?

  Wouldn’t you like to know?

  Yes, actually.

  Let’s just say I have a keen interest in your grandpa.

  Why? I wrote.

  Maybe I’m obsessed with you.

  Who could blame you? So, let Beverly go and we’ll run off into the sunset.

  I’m going to hold you to that. But first, you’d better hurry. The clock is still ticking.

  No, it’s not. The game’s over.

  Not yet. Your instructions were to excavate the box AND send me the contents.

  I glanced at the tattered box. It was stuffed full of papers. Which ones did she want, exactly? Were they even still in the box or had they been tossed aside years ago?

  Since you’re short on time, I’m going to cut you a break, Malware added. Point your camera at each page of the Capitalist Curtain papers. Once I’ve got the images, our little game will end.

  What about Beverly?

  If you do as I ask, she’ll be released.

  I rooted around in the box. Stuffed up against the side, I located a packet of stapled papers. They were small in size and looked like they’d been torn out of a journal. The words, Project Capitalist Curtain, were handwritten across the top sheet.

  I wrenched the packet out of the box and shook off some thick dust clumps. The papers had taken on a yellowish sheen and felt brittle to the touch. Several were stained with what looked like coffee.

  I placed the packet on the ground. Glancing at my satphone, I saw the camera function was on. I started to move the satphone into position over the packet. But t
hen I hesitated.

  Once Malware had her pictures, what was to stop her from going back on her word? Maybe it was better to just take the packet and leave the building. Demand a face-to-face meeting with her. But what if she decided to kill Beverly because I missed her deadline?

  An internal tug-of-war played out in my head. Finally, I brought the satphone above the packet. One by one, I rifled through the papers, switching every time the camera flashed. There were twelve in total, all marked with scribbled lines of penmanship and several hand-drawn diagrams. I saw mentions of Canada, Australia, and Greenland, among other countries. I saw references to the U.S. Army and something called Shrieker Tower. And I noticed a few familiar names. Justin Reed, for one. Harry S. Truman, the thirty-third President of the United States, for another.

  Graham cleared his throat. “What is that stuff?”

  “Project Capitalist Curtain,” I replied. “Ever heard of it?”

  He shook his head.

  After the twelfth camera flash, I looked at my satphone. A message appeared on the screen.

  Game over.

  It’s about time, I replied. Now, where’s Beverly?

  Sorry.

  A creepy feeling crept down my spine. You got what you wanted.

  Yes. But not on time.

  I checked my satphone and saw the time was 10:31 p.m. No. No, this couldn’t be happening. Adrenaline raced through my body like it always did in crisis situations. This time, however, was different.

  This time, there was no one to fight.

  She’s innocent, I replied.

  A new message, containing a small image, appeared on the screen. Frowning, I clicked it.

  More grainy video of Beverly appeared. She thrashed about in her chair, biting her gag. Her eyes were still yoked open and I saw growing horror in her pupils.

  The barrel of a gun appeared at the edge of the screen. It moved to her temple. A burst of light flashed. Smoke filled the grainy image.

  Graham’s hand touched my shoulder, but I barely noticed it. Instead, I peered at the screen, waiting for the smoke to fade. And when it did, I saw her. I saw her body, still and slumped in the chair. I saw her twitching fingers, her drooling mouth. But most of all I saw the gaping hole in her skull.

  My heart shattered into a million pieces from which I knew it would never recover. I tried to deny it, to hope for a miracle. But it was useless.

  Beverly Ginger was dead.

  CHAPTER 24

  “Good evening, Ben.” Rising to his feet, President Wade Walters extended his hand across the Resolute Desk. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “Me neither, Mr. President.” Ben took the president’s hand in his own. He shook it warmly, if a bit limply.

  “I’d like you to meet someone.” The president waved at a tall, lanky man with oversized limbs and a shaved head. “This is Special Agent Ed Hooper. Ed, this is one of my closest friends, Ben Marvin.”

  Hooper rose from his seat and offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ben.”

  “Special Agent, huh?” Ben gave the outstretched hand a light shake. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Hooper smiled, sending ripples through his lined, pockmarked face. “I don’t know. Did you?”

  Ben blinked. “I, uh … well, uh …”

  “Don’t mind him.” President Walters loosened his tie and ran a hand through his neatly-styled silver hair. “Ed works for the Secret Service, specifically with counterfeiting and fraud. Suspicion is second nature to him.”

  “I see.” Ben gripped and regripped the handle of his briefcase. “Well, are you ready to begin, sir?”

  The president glanced at Hooper. “Thanks for the update. I’ll call—”

  Hooper met his gaze. “Actually, sir, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to stick around for this.”

  President Walters’ grave countenance twisted with surprise. Then he shrugged. “Why not?”

  Hooper sat back down and crossed his legs. His off-the-rack gray suit, obviously cheap, reflected his no-nonsense attitude.

  Ben grabbed hold of a chair and dragged it a few inches away from Hooper. Then he sat down, placed the briefcase on his lap, and stretched his arms over it. He’d chosen a dark blue suit, 100 percent silk, for the meeting.

  The president leaned forward, his fingers drumming a rhythmic beat upon the desk. “So, what was so important it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”

  Ben cast a sideways glance at Hooper. “No offense intended but are you sure you wouldn’t rather have this conversation alone, sir?”

  “Don’t worry.” The president smiled. “Ed knows how to keep a secret.”

  He was speaking from experience. For well over a year, Hooper had served the president as an off-the-books investigator.

  “Of course, sir.” Ben’s face morphed, taking on a serious tone. “I wanted to talk to you about economic matters. Specifically, what’s driving the slowdown and all this civil unrest.”

  “And it can’t wait until morning?”

  “No, Mr. President, it can’t.”

  President Walters eased himself into his leather chair. “I saw footage from the Manhattan riot earlier this evening. Those Berserkers were like all the others, chanting about jobs, food, college prices.”

  “Obviously, the economy is slow and unemployment is high, which means we’re in the midst of stagnation. That alone is enough to drive people into the streets.”

  “Alone?” Hooper arched an eyebrow. “There’s more?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Ben took a deep breath. “I believe we’re on the verge of a rare economic phenomena known as hyperinflation.”

  Hyperinflation. The very mention of this unstoppable force of economic nature sent chills shooting down Hooper’s spine. He was familiar with the concept, familiar with what it could do to a nation and its people. Simply put, hyperinflation was characterized by rapidly increasing prices. One day, a loaf of bread set you back three bucks.

  The next day, it cost thirty dollars.

  “Hyperinflation?” The president’s brow furrowed. “You mean that thing Zimbabwe faced back in the 2000s?”

  “The very same, sir,” Ben replied. “Zimbabwe is an extreme example. But at its peak, prices were growing some 89.7 sextillion percent, on a year-over-year basis.”

  President Walters stared at him.

  “In mathematical terms, a sextillion equals ten to the twenty-first power,” Ben added helpfully.

  President Walters recoiled in horror. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Don’t you think you’re blowing this a little out of proportion?” Hooper asked. “The last PCE report said prices were up just a little over 6 percent. That’s high, but I wouldn’t call it hyperinflation.”

  “Unfortunately, the PCE index is flawed,” Ben replied. “It only measures what’s in a shopper’s basket. It doesn’t account for changing consumption habits.”

  “Like when people buy hamburger meat because steak is too expensive?”

  “Exactly.”

  The president frowned. “Why haven’t I heard about this before now?”

  “The information is new,” Ben said. “The Board of Governors recently commissioned a top-secret pricing study. It’s still in-progress, but early data suggests consumer prices are up some 28 percent since last year. And from all appearances, that growth is now accelerating.”

  “28 percent?” The president’s horrified look turned skeptical. “That can’t be right. If it were, the media would be all over it.”

  “Remember, we’re still in the early days of this.” Ben took off his spectacles and cleaned them with meticulous attention to detail. “Plus, companies use lots of tricks to hide price hikes. For example, shrinking product packages. One week, you’re buying a sixteen-ounce can of beans. The next week, it’s fifteen and a half ounces.”

  “I guess there’s a bright side to this.” The president, still drumming his fingers against the desk, offered a feeble smile. “If it keeps up, we just might
solve the obesity crisis.”

  Ben didn’t smile, didn’t even grin at the president’s joke. “Perhaps you don’t see the gravity of the situation, sir. If this keeps up, people won’t be able to meet their basic needs. Companies will start to exit the U.S. marketplace. Economic collapse will follow.”

  The president’s fingers froze in mid-drum.

  As Hooper listened to Ben, he found himself more than a little shocked by the information discrepancy. Ben was like an economic god, spouting knowledge from his perch high up in the sky. The president and Hooper, on the other hand, were just regular folks. They had little, if any, understanding of the overall economy. Now that disaster had struck, all they could do was pray to Ben for deliverance.

  But Hooper refused to be a mere subject to an all-powerful god. Thinking quickly, he considered everything he knew about the economy, about the Federal Reserve, and about inflation.

  At its core, hyperinflation wasn’t about rising prices. It was about the declining value of money. And that happened when the money supply grew much faster than the economy as a whole. But money didn’t just appear randomly. The U.S. supply was strictly controlled by a single entity.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Hooper said. “But isn’t hyperinflation caused by too much money? And isn’t the Federal Reserve—your Federal Reserve—in charge of that?”

  “No, you’re right.” Ben shifted his arms, unruffled by Hooper’s veiled accusation. “On both counts.”

  President Walters frowned. “If that’s true, why don’t you just reverse it?”

  “Unfortunately, it’s not that simple, sir. As I mentioned, the U.S. economy is in a state of stagnation. And when you combine stagnation with hyperinflation, you get—”

  “Stagflation.” Hooper’s eyes bulged. “Good lord.”

  “What’s stagflation?” the president asked.

  “Hell,” Hooper said. “Economic hell.”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Hooper is right,” Ben told the president. “Stagflation is a two-headed dragon that can only be fought one head at a time. And such a fight is extremely costly. If we try to rev up the economy, we’ll send prices through the roof. But if we try to reduce prices, we’ll drive America into a depression.”