The Tin Man Page 13

  “My grandfather loved that chair,” Thea offered, sighing reverently as she leaned on the rail beside him. He continued to gaze at the chair, wondering what the dollar bill could mean. If, indeed, it meant anything at all.

  * * * *

  “Feel like grabbing a bite before turning in?” Thea asked, looking over at him hopefully as they walked back to the hotel. Feeling down about her grandfather’s apparent abduction and the lack of leads, she didn’t feel like being alone—and was willing to risk rejection to secure his company.

  Night had fallen and there was a chill in the air. She felt a sudden overwhelming inclination to take his arm, for closeness as well as warmth, but she didn’t dare. It was up to him, she’d decided, to make the next move.

  “It’s been a long day and I’m tired,” he said without looking at her. “If I get hungry later, I’ll raid the mini-bar or ring room service.”

  “Whatever,” she said, shrugging to hide her stinging disappointment.

  In the distance, she could see the lighted Holiday Inn marquee. Quickening her pace, she headed toward it. Once inside, he paused in the lobby to thumb through a newspaper while she made a dash for the elevator. She punched the call button impatiently. She had no desire to stand around hoping and wondering. When the bell dinged, she stepped into the car alone, shooting him a wary glance as the doors closed. On the second floor, she got off and followed the maze-like hallway to her room. Inside, she changed into the long t-shirt she used as a nightgown, washed her face, and crawled into bed.

  So what if it was only seven-thirty? She was exhausted.

  She let her head sink into the pillow and closed her eyes. She tried not to think about her grandfather, but found herself doing so just the same, feeling like crying, praying he was still alive. To hope that he might also be safe and unharmed might be too much to ask for.

  Her thoughts turned to the dollar bill. Was it a clue? And, if so, what could it mean? She tried to piece together what might have happened in the moments leading up to his abduction: He was standing at the balustrade, looking around the Assembly Room. When the gunman came in, he would have been startled. Was it feasible that at such a moment, he’d reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill? Her grandfather was extremely clever and resourceful, but the notion still struck her as improbable.

  She knew the dollar bill was loaded with symbolism, but had never taken the trouble to examine one closely. Deciding it was time, she threw back the covers and padded across the room to the chair where she’d tossed her purse. After fishing out her wallet, she pulled out the bill Witherspoon had given them. Returning to the bed, she flicked on the bedside lamp, sat cross-legged, and looked hard at the face of the bill.

  Ignoring for now the portrait of George Washington, she carefully studied the other symbols. There was a seal with a scales, what looked like a chevron with (she quickly counted) thirteen stars, and a key. Encircling the seal were the words The Department of the Treasury and a date: 1789—the year the office was established, she presumed, by Alexander Hamilton.

  But what did the symbols mean? The scales, she supposed, could stand for justice or balance. The thirteen stars on the chevron probably represented the original thirteen colonies. The key might be the key to the treasury, she supposed, but what did she know?

  Mystified, she turned the bill over. On the back were two circles, one containing the presidential seal and the other, an unfinished pyramid crowned by an eye. Above the pyramid were the words Annuit Coeptis, below it, in a banner, the words Novus Ordo Seclorum. At the base of the circle were the Roman numerals for 1776. Having never studied Latin, she had no clue what the phrases might mean.

  She thought about calling Buchanan to see if he knew any Latin, but the fear of being misunderstood (what if he assumed she was using it as an excuse to call him?) made her decide against it.

  Setting the bill on the bed, she got up, and crossed the room to the desk, where, earlier, she’d set up her laptop. Opening the lid, she tapped the space bar and waited for her start page to load. When it was ready, she typed the words symbolism on the dollar bill into the search box and hit return. Several links popped up immediately.

  She clicked on the first one, waited for the text to load, and started reading:

  On the front of the dollar bill is the U.S. Treasury Seal. Some claim the scales represent the need for a balanced budget, but the Treasury Department itself, which actually has nothing to do with the budget, claims the scales represent justice. The chevron in the center contains thirteen stars symbolizing the thirteen original colonies (Aha, she’d guessed right!) and the key is an emblem of authority.

  On the reverse are two circles. The first is the Great Seal of the United States, the first version of which was created by a committee composed of Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson—three of the five drafters of the Declaration of Independence. Two more committees were assigned to tackle the assignment before the seal’s final design was approved six years later.

  The seal contains a pyramid—a symbol of “Strength and Duration,” according to Charles Thompson, who presented the final design to Congress. The pyramid is un-capped, signifying that, as a nation, the U.S. was still “unfinished.” Inside the capstone that floats just above the pyramid is the all-seeing eye—an ancient symbol of divinity. Annuit Coeptis, the Latin words above the eye, translate as “God has favored our undertaking.” Novus Ordo Seclorum, the phrase in the ribbon below, is said to mean “a new order for the world.”

  Thea, shaking her head in bewilderment, shut the laptop’s lid and rose from the desk. It struck her that the dollar bill, being so rife with meaning and symbolism, might very well have been intended as a clue. All the same, she still had no idea what her grandfather might be trying to communicate.

  Chapter 15

  While Thea pondered the mysteries of the dollar bill, Buchanan was in bed, pondering the mysteries of Thea. He definitely liked her, liked that she had guts, though he still found her directness off-putting at times. Did he want to get involved with her? He honestly didn’t know. All he knew at that moment was that his feelings were confused. On the one hand, he was relieved they weren’t sharing a room. On the other, he kind of wished she was with him right now.

  Rocking his head in self-disgust, he ate another cheese cracker from a packet he’d found in the mini-bar, drank more of his whisky, and sucked his cigarette down to the filter. When a cell phone started ringing somewhere in the room, he jumped, dropping his cigarette on the blanket. Snatching up the butt before it could burn the bedding, he deposited it in the ashtray as he swung his legs over the side.

  The phone was still ringing. The standard ringtone. Was it his or one of the gunmen’s? He hobbled over to the chair where he’d tossed his trousers, pulled out all three phones, and set them on a nearby table.

  Realizing his was the one ringing, he checked the display: Anonymous. Please, let it be Lapdog with more to disclose, he thought as he answered.

  “You haven’t been online,” the caller said.

  Hearing his source’s voice triggered a rush of relief.

  “I’ve been a wee bit busy playing cat-and-mouse with a couple of Arab assassins,” Buchanan said gruffly, “who, incidentally, tore up the professor’s place looking for what I can only assume is the same thing we’re looking for. Any idea what it might be?”

  “Where are you now?” Lapdog asked, avoiding the question.

  “Philly,” Buchanan brusquely replied, annoyed by the evasion. He was getting the distinct impression the guy knew more than he was letting on.

  “Why Philly? And how’s Thea?”

  “She’s fine,” he said, scowling. “And we’re in Philly because she got a call from a friend of her grandfather’s. It appears the professor has been abducted.”

  “Abducted? By whom? Did he say?”

  In spite of his questions, Buchanan got the feeling he wasn’t all that surprised. He nevertheless told him about the dollar bill
. “We think it might be some kind of clue to the whereabouts of whatever we’re looking for. Any idea what it could mean?”

  Lapdog took a minute before he said, “I wish I did.”

  “Thanks,” Buchanan snipped. “You’re a big help.”

  Silence.

  Unsure what to say next, Buchanan asked a nagging question, “I’m curious: why Lapdog?”

  The man laughed, but caustically. “Because that’s what I’ve become.”

  “For whom?”

  “The very people I’m supposed to be policing,” he said with evident bitterness.

  Policing? As in the regulatory agency sense? “Are you a federal agent then?”

  “For what it’s worth. Which ain’t much anymore, let me tell you.”

  “But you must know more than you’re letting on.”

  Silence again.

  Finally, Lapdog threw him a bone: “The men you killed were retired agents with the GIP.”

  Buchanan was stunned. GIP stood for General Intelligence Presidency—the Saudi equivalent of the CIA.

  “What the devil would the Saudis want with me?”

  “They were mercenaries,” Lapdog replied unhelpfully. “They could have been hired by anyone.”

  Anyone? Like, for instance, Milo Osbourne? “If I need you, how will I get in touch?”

  “Leave me a message on the comment thread for yesterday’s editorial,” Lapdog told him before terminating the call.

  Buchanan, taking a breath, started scrolling through his calls in search of Thea’s number. No sooner did he find it then another phone in the room started sounding. This time, he didn’t recognize the ring. He set his phone on the table and picked up the other.

  “Yes?” he said, speaking Arabic, which he’d picked up while covering the Middle East.

  “There you are,” a man returned in the same tongue. “Where have you been? I have been awaiting your call.”

  “The targets have been eliminated,” Buchanan told him, praying his charade would pay off.

  “Targets? As in more than one?”

  The man sounded suspicious.

  “He was traveling with a woman.”

  “And you have silenced her as well?”

  “It was unavoidable.”

  “Did you recover the item?”

  Buchanan tried to think of something to say that might trick the man into revealing what “the item” was. “We searched the house,” he said, at a loss. “But found nothing.”

  There was another silence.

  “Al-Jaafari, are you unwell? Your voice sounds a bit peculiar.”

  “I am perfectly well.”

  Shite. Was the caller onto him? He got his answer the next moment when the line went dead. Tossing the cell on the table, he retrieved his BlackBerry, and resumed calling Thea. The phone rang several times before she answered in a groggy voice.

  “Were you sleeping?”

  “Buchanan…?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb,” he said, “but I’ve had a couple of interesting calls this evening.”

  “Really?” She sounded more alert. “Who from?”

  “The first was from my source,” he told her. “Turns out he’s a federal agent.”

  “Oh? What agency?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “He doesn’t say much, does he?”

  “He doesn’t seem to know much.”

  “I’d be willing to bet he knows more than he’s letting on,” she said, echoing his own suspicions. “Now remind me again why we’re doing his leg work?”

  “He needs the exposure in order to prosecute.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, sounding skeptical. “And the other call?”

  “From the man who hired the assassins.”

  There was a pause, then, “Did you talk to him? Did he know who you were?”

  “I pretended to be the Arab,” he said. “I told him you and I were dead, hoping it would buy us some valuable time.”

  “Valuable time?” She sounded unconvinced.

  “To find the evidence.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “He’s Arab. And Lapdog says the assassins we killed were former agents with the GIP. Working now as guns for hire, apparently.”

  There was another, longer pause before she said, “I don’t get it. What would an Arab want with you?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” he said, shrugging, “but he asked if I’d found whatever it is they were looking for.”

  “Did he say what it was?”

  “Of course not. That would be too bloody easy, wouldn’t it?”

  She went quiet again, then, “I’ve been doing a little sleuthing of my own, studying the symbolism on the dollar bill.”

  “And…?”

  “There sure are a lot of weird symbols and slogans on our currency.”

  He listened as she described each one in detail. When she was finished, he asked, “What about the picture of Washington?”

  He heard what sounded like a scoff. “Don’t you think it’s a little…on the nose?”

  Buchanan rolled his eyes. “Think about it, Thea. If you were in your grandfather’s shoes—with only seconds to react—what would you do? Go for the obscure or the obvious? He was standing in the room where Washington was appointed Commander in Chief of the Continental Army, where he presided over the Constitutional Convention, looking right at the Rising Sun chair you said he loved so much.” He seized on something then. “Say, you don’t suppose there might be something hidden in the chair, do you?”

  “That seems unlikely,” she returned. “Suppose whoever grabbed him happened to search the place? My grandfather may be old, but he’s still as sharp as a tack. And as clever as a fox.”

  “Still, it’s worth checking out.”

  “Why not?” she said, sounding flustered. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll call Riley Witherspoon and ask him to search the chair. Now, can I please go back to sleep?”

  “How can you even think about sleeping?”

  “I’m in bed. Alone. And it’s late,” she said. “What else am I supposed to think about?”

  He could think of a couple of things but, under the circumstances, thought it best to hold his tongue. He still wasn’t ready. And, even if he was, he wasn’t exactly up for it, given the hour and his fatigue.

  Thea said goodnight. He set the phone on the nightstand, doused the bedside light, lay back, and closed his eyes. His mind was pitching like a boat at sea. Who was the Arab? What was he after? What did he have to gain by taking out him and his editors? He tried to push the thoughts away, to clear his mind for sleep, but the questions kept coming back.

  He laid there for several minutes before groping for the remote. He sat up, switched on the telly, and started surfing through the channels. When he hit Con News, he grimaced. There was Milo Osbourne, looking typically decrepit, giving some sort of commentary.

  “The government has a role to play—but it shouldn’t be the role of policing media acquisitions or cross-ownership,” Osbourne was saying. “The current regulations and models are archaic, contradictory, and dampen rather than promote investment in news enterprises.”

  He went on to rail against the FCC’s cross-ownership rule, which stipulated how many newspapers and broadcast stations a single company could own in a particular market. In recent years, to Buchanan’s vexation, the rules had been relaxed to the extent that they were nearly non-existent. And the FCC was currently in the process of relaxing them even more.

  “In a world dominated by new media and digital delivery, the FCC’s rules seem utterly absurd,” Osbourne continued. “Just as publishers must adapt to these new realities, so must federal regulators…”

  “It’s not just about competition, you myopic git,” Buchanan raged at the set. “It’s also about diversity of opinion and the free marketplace of ideas—something you wouldn’t know if it jumped up and bit you in the arse, you old fuck.”

  When Osbourne started spouting off about American values, th
e founding fathers, and Freedom of Speech, Buchanan shouted, “You don’t deserve to be an American citizen, you money-grubbing imperialist!” And when the tycoon started decrying government assistance to journalism—code for “let’s do away with NPR and the BBC”—just about the only objective news sources left in the world thanks to him—Buchanan switched the channel. He flipped around to CNN, nearly losing it when he saw Anderson Cooper interviewing Azi Zahhak, the owner of The Babylon Group. Apparently, he’d just announced plans to acquire Atlas.

  When Cooper asked the Saudi prince how he managed to get around the laws restricting foreign investment in the media, Zahhak responded by saying: “Part of our agreement to join the World Trade Organization called for the relaxing of those very regulations in the U.K. and America. And this merger marks the first time Britain’s Prime Minister has been given the opportunity to honor that promise.”

  Something struck Buchanan as he sat processing all he’d just heard. It wasn’t just the Saudi’s words that unnerved him; it also was the sound of his voice. Was it the one he’d just heard on the telephone? Maybe, but he couldn’t be certain. He reached for his cell. Thea’s phone rang and rang before going to voice-mail. He puzzled. She must know it was him, so why the devil wasn’t she answering?

  He opted to leave a message: “It’s me. Where are you? I might have something.”

  He waited several excruciating minutes for her to ring him back. When she didn’t, he started to fret. If he knew the number of her room, he might have gone down there and pounded on the door. He picked up the room phone and punched the button for the front desk.

  “What’s the number of Thea Hamilton’s room?” he demanded the moment someone answered.

  “One moment and I’ll connect you,” the woman said.

  “No, wait. I don’t want to ring her. I’ve already done that and she’s not answering. I need the number of her room so I can check on her.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t give out that information,” the clerk insisted. “For security reasons.”