Cross had Bart Stapleton right where he wanted him.
“You actually think you have a choice in the matter? You don’t have a leg to stand on after the colossal fuckup you have just presided over. Even if we can recover some of the money, you’ve put your personal ambitions ahead of your responsibilities as the chairman of the Federal Reserve, and the economy of the United States of America is now at grave risk.”
“I won’t do it,” Stapleton said, his tone lacking confidence. “And a recovery fee? In the billions of dollars?”
The president glanced up at the two men sitting at the table with him and smiled. They were all having a hard time keeping a straight face.
“There is one other option, Mr. Chairman,” he said, baiting him.
Stapleton didn’t respond for a moment, and finally asked, “And what’s that?”
“You can stay in the Fed with my full support, but I’ll want you to work very closely with me.” He paused for effect. “Especially when it comes to those meetings that we’re not supposed to know about.”
With Senator Soller dead, the only person with enough power to help him navigate his way through this was gone and the president knew that. After an uncomfortable pause, Stapleton cleared his throat.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said unconvincingly.
“Well, when you finally figure it out, why don’t you give me a call and see about possibly keeping your job? I’ve heard Lisbon is a great place to visit this time of year, so maybe having some free time wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” Cross said before abruptly ending the call.
“Nice closer,” Simpson said.
The president smiled. “You’re sure your man in Europe was able to put out the safety net for the accounts?”
Simpson nodded. “Both Ryan and Trent Turner had helped to put a new system together to flag at-risk accounts and defined a protocol to follow when a restricted account was accessed. Trent passed along the accounts first thing in the morning GMT, before they left Chicago, and they were able to redirect everything leaving Federal Reserve accounts to the predetermined holding account. We were lucky that all of the banks they held money in had already implemented the new initiative.”
Cross shook his head. “This was too close for comfort. They almost pulled it off.” His eyes met each of them. “We take a lot for granted.” He exhaled. “We can’t afford any more close calls like this. How many US consumer accounts slipped through?”
“We lost around thirty million, but the good news is that we know which accounts were affected, and they were used sparingly, so we can put Humpty Dumpty back together again by midweek and nobody will be the wiser.”
The president leaned back in his chair, not wanting to think about the consequences if the hack into the banks had gone public, or even worse, been fully carried out.
“And your operative? Will he be okay?” Cross asked.
Simpson knocked a knuckle on the wooden table. “He’s already had a couple of operations,” he said solemnly. “It’s been touch and go. I hope so…I really hope so.” He managed a laugh and said, “Before he went under, he told Jack they never pressed Enter to send the final command to the bots for the remaining banks.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Unreal.”
The president nodded. “Dumb luck, but I’ll take it.” He looked at the other man who was sitting at the table and asked, “What about our other problem?”
Ivor Hood twisted his wrist, looked down at his watch and then back to the president. “We should know something any time now.”
Chapter 165
Jake Sanders reminded himself that he needed to keep cool. He had to check his emotions at the door so he wouldn’t make a mistake. There was no margin for error. This represented a new beginning for him, a way to wipe the slate clean and try to move on from the past — a past that he had once been proud of.
The drive to Pennsylvania and back had been therapeutic. He ran through all the operations HVT squad had done over the years, and it was the events of this past Saturday that grated on him the most. A thirty-second exchange with a mysterious contact in a parking lot interrupted his thoughts, and then he turned the car around and headed back to Virginia. He’d picked up a box and a black bag. Their contents held the key to his future, and he knew better than to break the seal. There would be no remorse for what he was about to do. None whatsoever. In fact, he knew this was the only way to set things straight.
He had never before dared visit his residence. It was located in a quiet upper-middle-class neighborhood with more luxury cars than minivans and SUVs. He parked the rental car at a shopping center less than a mile away from the house and nonchalantly made his way there and to the sliding glass door off the backyard deck. This needed to be done with the utmost care and discretion. He could see the alarm panel through the glass and confirmed that it wasn’t armed. Gaining entry would be a piece of cake, but that didn’t stop his heart from pounding rapidly inside his chest.
This was new territory for the operative, so he tried to convince himself that the nerves were normal. He made easy work of unlocking the door and began to slowly slide it open. He froze when it began to protest with a loud screech. He held his breath and tried to listen, but the heartbeat throbbing in his ears made it impossible to trust what he heard. Instead, he looked for shadows, any sign of movement in the home. He saw nothing.
He began to slide the door open again, this time pushing inward and upward to take the weight off of the rail. The door was silent. He stopped when the opening was large enough for him to squeeze through and slid inside the home.
Within a minute he found himself at the top of the stairs. He had memorized the layout of the house, and he knew the upstairs room where the light was on was his study. After taking a few deep breaths to control his breathing, he was ready. His heart rate was still high, but his face was a picture of control. He was like a duck — calm on the surface, with the manic kicking below, hidden from view. He took one more deep breath and strode silently into the room.
The man looked up from his desk in surprise. “Oh my God, I thought you were dead.”
“Nice to see you too,” Jake Sanders said.
FBI Director Frank Culder was visibly uncomfortable.
“What’s wrong, boss?”
“Nothing, nothing.” He wasn’t particularly convincing. “It’s just good to see you,” Culder lied.
“So, it’s just you and me now.” He jutted his chin out. “With BlackRock, that is. Rudy’s dead. We lost a lot of guys over the weekend.”
Culder had started to sweat. “I know.”
“It’s funny,” Sanders said, “but if I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you weren’t happy to see me.”
The director remained silent but shifted his weight ever so slightly in his chair.
Sanders tossed a package onto his desk and said, “Here.” He knew the director would have a gun hidden somewhere, so he needed to get to the point fast. He doubted Culder had ever shot anyone, but he had no intention of becoming victim number one. Their business together was unfinished; he would soon figure that out.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Culder grabbed a letter opener and began to slice open the manila envelope. He pulled out the documents inside and started to read. His eyes lit up, and his lips formed a smile.