We’re making money, he thought. Now it’s time to go see if I am right.
After telling his assistant he would be in meetings for the next few hours, he grabbed his sport coat and walked to the exit then made his way to the nearest subway station one block down the street. He could have taken a cab, but the traffic in the city was notoriously bad, and he had to go all the way downtown. The metro was the fastest and easiest way to get to his destination. Connor bounded down the stairs to the subterranean cavern, swiped his entry card, and caught the downtown express train as the doors closed immediately behind him.
Miami
Hywel Saunders walked off the jetway in Miami as his flight arrived from Nassau and pushed his way through the crowd milling about the opening of the gate. He was not even nice about it.
How annoying, he thought to himself. To stop at the opening to the gate with hundreds of people behind you and be oblivious to the frustration you’re causing other passengers. Amazing. God it’s nice to be intelligent.
He finally cleared the mass of humanity and turned right down the concourse, walking at a brisk clip. The Miami airport was as crowded and inefficient as usual. He hated crowds and craved to be in a less low-class environment. The Miami airport was not the place to be if one disliked crowds. His kind of people didn’t deserve to have to deal with all of this riffraff in his opinion. He longed for some peace and quiet after the short flight.
“Soon, soon,” Hywel said to himself. He saw the entrance a quarter mile down on the left.
The Admiral’s Club for American Airlines was an easy place to meet and very discreet. He was proud of himself for suggesting this location, but of course he was always proud of himself.
Hywel was the trustee of the Burr trust for two decades now since Clara died and considered himself an expert on all of the intricacies of the situation. It was he who had turned over the trustee duties to Connor Murray. It was interesting to watch Connor’s reaction to reading the documents and was not too difficult to report back on his activities.
That is why I was approached by the client, he thought smugly to himself. They know where to go to get results. He was an arrogant man. Must be the English in me, he mused.
He entered the club and walked upstairs to the main floor after signing in. The room was reserved and catered appropriately as he had requested. His guest would not arrive for thirty minutes.
Now he had some peace and quiet.
He helped himself to a glass of wine. It was useful to calm his nerves and set the mood for the meeting. They should be quite happy with him. He had done their bidding well.
Ever since filing the paperwork with the government assigning the trusteeship for the Burr Trust to Connor Murray, Hywel had been busy.
His client had been in touch with him several years before, asking for information about the trust. He knew much more about the situation than Hywel could ever believe. He should have asked some questions and done more due diligence on the client but then he might have pushed himself away from this opportunity. He thought about it while he sat alone in the conference room.
How did he acquire that amount of data that should have been privy to only the trustee? But he had not wanted to rock the boat. He had smelled opportunity.
Hywel never felt guilty about selling the secrets of the trust. He had built a nice bank account in the Cayman Islands and was able to send both his children to boarding school in England. That had gotten his psychopathic wife off his case and allowed him to have some peace in his life. It was the best decision he had ever made. He had no regrets. Now he had even more information to pass along to his client on the activities of Mr. Murray and the affairs of the trust.
He stood up smartly as the client walked through the door of the conference room. Hywel bowed and then offered the client a glass of wine.
New York City
Connor hung on to the steel pole that ran from the floor to the ceiling of the not very clean subway car. The ride was abrupt and bumpy, much worse than he remembered in the past. He had to hold on tight not to get thrown into the woman standing next to him.
The maintenance on the subway trains was severely neglected for years now due to budget constraints. It was all over the news. This made for a scary ride sometimes. Recently another woman was killed by a steel beam falling from the subway tunnel and crashing into one of the cars. He looked nervously at the ceiling.
If it’s your time, it’s your time, he thought to himself.
He was happy there were no panhandlers on the train today. He had seen the same guy for weeks now getting handouts from tourists with the same old, tired story about needing a ride to Connecticut. The guys selling candy to a captive audience were also annoying. He was always relieved when the doors closed and no one started asking for money from the riders who couldn’t move or get away from the beggars. He put that out of his mind and focused on the task in front of him. He could feel the train begin to slow as it approached the next station.
The brakes began to squeal, and he wondered how the metal kept up with the friction without ruining the entire system. The train began to grind to a halt. He saw the white tile of the subway station come into view, grimy with layers of soot and grease.
Why don’t they ever clean those things? he thought. It would not be that difficult and would be much nicer. The thought left his mind as quickly as it had come in.
His mind grew alert. He was almost there─Wall Street Station. He had been riding the subway for almost forty minutes.
The train stopped and the doors popped open. People poured out of the car into the people who would not wait and were pushing their way onto the train. The masses never learn, he thought to himself. He made his way through the throng, through the turn style, and up the stairs into the city above. The noise was deafening. Sirens, horns, and smells greeted him like a lashing to his face. Even the Wall Street protesters were here. It must be my lucky day. Gotta love New York.
He walked across the street to Trinity Church and bounced up the stairs and opened the door. It was mid-morning so the sanctuary was open.
Immediately an older woman stepped in front of him and put her finger to her lips.
“Shhhh,” she said in a self-righteous tone. “We have a baptism going on.” Sure enough Connor could see the family and the minister at the head of the church in the dimly lit sanctuary. A small child dressed in white was the center of their attention. Several tourists were also silently viewing the ceremony. He stepped sideways and stood with his hands crossed to take in the view.
The sanctuary was mostly empty except for the people standing. He was struck by how new the structure was. Not hundreds of years old for sure, he thought. Noticing a gift shop off of the side of the gathering space, he quietly walked over. The cashier was lazily reading a book as no one else was in the store. She didn’t notice Connor as he entered.
“Excuse me. Where is Captain Kidd’s pew?” he asked. Kidd had donated the pew when he was living in New York prior to leaving on his quest with the Adventure Galley. He would never see it again.
“Aahhh,” she answered. “We get that question often. This is the third building on this site. It has burned down twice. Unfortunately the pew did not survive. Can I interest you in something else? She highlighted some historical books for sale, but Connor was already out the door and making his way to his next objective.
Connor turned and made his way back out the entrance and walked to the side door of the church foyer which opened into the courtyard. Beyond this was the cemetery. The path meandered among the gravesites and he strolled slowly towards the far side of the grounds, marveling at the ages of the tombstones as he walked. Some of the old grave markers were barely readable, broken, and withered with age. However, others were very legible with inscriptions from the late sixteen hundreds and onward.
The people buried here formed this country, he thought.
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There was a large monument towards the western edge of the graveyard. American flags were stuck into the ground around the structure from the recent July 4th holiday. Someone important was buried here. Four tall, concrete urns decorated the monument, which sported a large, white obelisk in the center.
Connor walked around it several times slowly. He was incredulous that here lay the person he was chasing through time, trying to find his secrets. If only he could talk, he reflected
What am I looking for? he wondered.
He walked around the monument again. The grass grew over the edges. People walking on the nearby sidewalk from the cross street stared at him through the wrought iron fence and wondered what he was doing. He ignored them.
He stopped and gazed at the front of the edifice in deep thought and tried to remember her words.
A name is not just a name, she had said.
He read the inscription.
“Alexander Hamilton.”
Then he saw it.
Bahamas
Paradise Island
Alex walked along the concrete walkway leading down from the casino toward the line of yachts moored in the marina in the late evening. They were majestic forms illuminated brightly by the Atlantis lights as well as their own. Some were adorned in neon, which added a special artistic touch, the purple light outlining the form of the ship in the dark, warm night.
There were at least fifteen of them, many as long as a football field it seemed. Immense wealth was needed to operate such vehicles, but that is what typically came to Atlantis on a regular basis. The gambling beckoned as well as the luxurious, beautiful surroundings.
The women were predictable as well. They typically hunted in packs of twos─models, divorcees, et cetera, all looking for that Mr. Right, Mr. Billionaire Right that is. You could see them hawking their wares at the gaming tables and in the bars off the casino floor. Alex often wondered how successful they were in their quest. It must work, as they keep coming.
Alex walked past the gift shops and clubs along the marina and made his way towards the last yacht in the row. The nightlife raged around him. Tourists, locals, and the wealthy all mingled together in one big, loud party.
That was fine with Alex. He was worried about being followed and the mass of people made that harder. The Bahamian night air warmed him as he strolled. He constantly checked behind him, trying to pick out faces in the crowd. However, all he could see were tourists spending their money. It was a busy night.
He was taking no chances.
Alex was startled by a loud banging noise that arose from the walkway behind him. From behind the row of shops came a large, brightly colored mob. He relaxed when he realized it was the Junkanoo. It was a tourist attraction that was routinely performed for the casino.
The elaborate parade of dancers began to snake its way down the same walkway from the row of shops above. The noise was deafening as the fantastically adorned natives danced joyfully past him towards his destination. Drums and noisemakers beat out the dancing rhythm.
There had to be one hundred of them. He waited until they were halfway past and then blended in with them and the many tourists who had drunk way too much rum. They danced as if there were no tomorrow, similar to a high school band in a parade in the United States but on steroids. There was no way anyone could spot him now, much less follow him.
Legend says that during the slave trade decades earlier, the European owners would allow the slaves three days a year during Christmas to express themselves however they wished, within reason of course. So the captives put together bright, colorful costumes and danced like there was no tomorrow down the street to celebrate. That is how Junkanoo was born. Alex was happy to join in.
He exited the mob when he reached the yacht and hopped on board the stern platform. A door immediately opened and he was let in, almost pulled in. It quickly closed behind him.
He was led into a large cabin outfitted with sunken, leather-bound sofas arranged in a perfect circle. A round table adorned the center. The circle was manned by several eastern-looking men. There was an open spot where he was obviously meant to sit. He sat in silence for what seemed like an hour.
Finally one of the men leaned forward and spoke.
“Have you found it?” he asked.
“No,” Alex replied.
Their faces tightened.
“Why not?” another man asked.
“We don’t even know if this exists!” shouted Alex.
“There is no need to raise your voice,” said another.
It was surreal sitting there talking to these gentlemen in this way. He could see out the darkened windows the thousands of people milling about the area outside of Atlantis, but these tourists could obviously not see him, little did they know.
“I have been following what he is doing. He hasn’t found it yet. And neither have I.”
“There is a woman involved,” one of the men stated.
“Yes,” said Alex. “I do not know who she is but it is very coincidental. I don’t like it.”
“We know who she is,” said the initial speaker. “She is an agent of the United States government. Your fears are confirmed.”
Alex’s eyes widened. “She has made her way close to him,” said Alex. “She will figure it out.”
“Then we will take her when the time is right,” said the leader.
“When do I get paid?”
“When you produce!” replied the leader.
“When you approached me, I said I would try my best to find what you are looking for. You know I have searched over thirty sites and have betrayed my best friend. I want my money.”
“You will have half wired tomorrow. When you produce, the rest will follow.”
“Fair enough,” said Alex and he got up to leave.
He was about to exit the door to the cabin and enter the outside world when he turned and said, “I will inform you via the usual way when I find out anything.”
Then he opened the door and left the cabin. He blended in nicely with the throng of drunken tourists milling about the esplanade.
Strait of Hormuz
Persian Gulf
July 10, 2017
Commander Zarin was pleased. He personally had checked every detail and gone over every piece of equipment on his boat. Everything was ready. His crew was trained. This was his moment. He was overcome with joy.
He strolled down the gangplank next to the vessel, rubbing her smooth sides with his hand as he walked. She was his baby. He talked softly to her, caressing her, making her feel his love.
A Chinese-made C-14 Cat class catamaran missile boat, she was double hulled and sleek. She was also very fast with a top speed of over fifty knots.
He had made some very specific modifications to meet his requirements. She was originally designed to carry multiple C-701 surface-to-surface missiles; similar to the American Maverick air-to-surface weapon. However, due to their small payload, Commander Zarin had removed all of these and their associated equipment. His boat now carried only one Chinese-made HY-4 surface-to-ship guided missile, an upgraded variant of the well-known Silkworm. This version, in contrast to the original design had a turbofan engine instead of a liquid rocket-fueled motor. This weapon also had a much bigger warhead and could sink a large ship, like an aircraft carrier. Once launched, it skimmed over the waves at supersonic speeds and was very difficult to detect and defeat.
But it was a one shot one kill vehicle. He had to be accurate and probably a little bit lucky. And he didn’t expect to return, so he didn’t require any defensive armaments. They were all removed long ago.
The boat was hidden inside a salt mine at the southeastern end of Kishm Island overlooking the mouth of the strait, an appendage of Iran and a mere twenty-two miles from the mainland at the closest point. The island was an important trading center for centuries, due to its strategic location in the Gulf. It was
a thin, long landmass paralleling the Strait of Hormuz.
The salt mines produced product that was consumed throughout the region. Iran was masterfully creative in building this underground mooring inside the mine. A need for a waterway to transport the finished salt product allowed for an escape route for the attack boat. The need for large equipment to facilitate the removal of salt for commerce fit nicely with the development of the hiding place for his craft. With the construction done only at night, away from the prying eyes of the satellites and in conjunction with other valid enterprises, his hiding place was formed.
He now only waited for his orders to attack. He knelt and prayed that his dreams of glory to Allah and martyrdom would be answered.
January 25, 1813
New York City
Aaron Burr bent down and put his head on the iron railing overlooking New York harbor and cried. A myriad of ships were in various stages of movement in front of him, but it was no longer any matter to him. The January wind off the water was brutal in the cold temperature, but he did not care.
She was gone. He knew it in his heart, but he could not quite accept that his daughter was dead, the light of his life gone.
Burr had been waiting weeks for her arrival in New York. She should have been here almost a month ago. He had been pacing this pier since the New Year. Initially he was wild with excitement and happiness, as he could not wait to see her, but his heart grew heavier each passing day. He now feared the worst.
She left Georgetown, South Carolina on the schooner Patriot on New Year’s Eve bound to visit her father. The ship was very fast, and they should have arrived a couple days later. The schooner was previously commissioned a privateer for the United States against the British in the War of 1812. The guns were removed and the name changed, but she was still a very capable vessel. The captain, it was thought, wanted to get to New York in a hurry to sell his booty plundered from English ships. The Patriot was probably overloaded.