Chapter 15

Financial Times of London: The Chinese currency, the yuan, took a beating yesterday in the international currency market, falling 2% against the euro and a staggering 3.5% against the Saudi riyal, which had already decoupled from the U.S. dollar. Chinese investment of hundreds of billions of dollars in U.S. treasuries during the past decade had been a sound policy ten years ago but not today. The basement exchange rate of the U.S. dollar has deflated the treasury notes to approximately half of their original value. While the international markets have been tolerating a weakened dollar as a tool to increase U.S. exports, Washington has recently signaled they will have difficulty meeting the interest payments on these big ticket treasuries next quarter. This combination of a weak dollar and Washington's indication that it will withhold interest payments slammed the yuan, precipitating its decline.

Brendan followed the directions that a blocked number had texted to his cell phone. In the twilight, he stood across the street from the south end of the Newark Airport runway, the end on which all the incoming planes were landing. They were flying directly over his head with their wheels down and flaps fully extended as they descended for landing. The roar overhead was deafening.

Between him and the airport proper was the entrance/exit for the turnpike and Route 9, and a lot of soggy canals littered with cattails. Brendan had walked over a mile from a bus stop to stand in the middle of several small, forlorn, and seemingly forgotten cemeteries. The stones were grey with soot and the larger ones had that characteristic tilt of neglect. From where Brendan was standing with his back to the cemetery, he could see the lines of blue taxiway and white runway lights.

A tan Chevy Impala from an earlier decade turned onto the cemetery access road and bounced through potholes as it crept towards him with its lights off. Brendan stepped into the shadow of a tree. The car came to a stop and a window was cranked down.

"Danny, get your ass in the car," a familiar, gruff voice called out.

"Sure thing, Louie," Brendan said as he broke from his cover and scooted into the passenger seat. "Who's buried here?"

"There are Jews on this side and some Methodists on that side, and maybe Jimmy Hoffa right over there. Who the fuck cares?" Louie said with exasperation. "I'm taking you to see your father because he really needs to talk to you."

Louie threw the car in reverse and backed out to the main road. They had traveled for a ways before Louie turned on the headlights when they emerged from behind a warehouse.

"Where are we going?" Brendan asked.

"My son has a contracting job hanging drywall tonight at an office park in Iselin. The building is vacant except for a half blind and toothless security guard. There ain't no place to hide any bugs without walls or ceilings in place."

"How are things?" Brendan asked.

"Things are turning scary around here, Danny. We've got a permanent FBI or Homeland Security watch on the union building, which I don't understand at all. Newark is on lockdown. The small streets are blocked with those cement highway dividers and the big roads have security check points. Curfews are in place in and around Newark. The feds are pressing hard, but nobody knows anything and no one is talking. Word out on the street is that Homeland Security is conducting warrantless searches, yet there's no mention of it in the newspaper or on the TV."

"You believe the word on the street?" Brendan asked knowing the answer already. "You don't know from where the propaganda is coming."

The ride was creeping him out for some reason. They were taking unlit secondary roads, with dark and silent buildings interspersed with empty lots on either side. The Impala drove like a boat, throwing him right or left with each turn. Many of the traffic lights had already switched from the green/yellow/red sequence to flashing red/flashing yellow even though the evening was still young. The people they passed drove looking straight ahead, never looking at other cars.

"Danny, I took the book out of the Union Hall. You know the book and what it means. I don't remember anyone one ever mentioning hiding the book off premises," Louie said.

"It's only getting worse," Brendan said, as he thought back on the reams of newspaper. "The tanks didn't make it to Washington this time, but next time there is a protest they might. Do you realize it has been three weeks since the riots ended and we have nothing but 'official' government news releases and underground press rumors? What happened to the newspaper reporters and the TV investigative journalists? It's like they've been muzzled or something."

Louie was silent as Brendan continued. "They say there were 247 dead or wounded in Washington after the National Guard used teargas and that burn-inducing microwave thingy. The military censored the video feeds as soon as they could get a hold of the cameras and we may never know what really happened right in the middle of The Mall, between the Capitol, the White House and the Washington Monument. This is the geographical heart of our democracy and we're blind."

Louie still didn't say anything. Instead he pulled into an industrial complex of small businesses that need garage space and a mail drop. Hitting a button on a remote, a garage door raised and Louie drove right into the deep, narrow storage space. Louie kept the car running while he stepped out and grabbed a box with a wand attached to it by thick rubber coated cord. Louie ran the wand over, under, and around the car until he was satisfied.

"The car is clean of gps bugs. Hop on out, Danny, and jump in the back of that white van over there. Don't damage the drywall or my son will have my head. My son, Bob, is already in the driver's seat, waiting for you."

"Thanks, Louie," Brendan called over his shoulder as he ran for the back of the van. Inside he had to wedge himself between the wallboard and the side of the van, sitting on the wheel well. He said hi to Bob who looked like he always did: unshaven, crooked teeth, and a half smile that might have been induced by intoxication. Bob had looked that way since he was eighteen.

Bob couldn't drive worth shit either and sitting on a metal wheel well with the shifting boards was agony. Finally the van stopped and then backed up before coming to a lurching stop.

"End of the line, Danny," Bob said as he turned off the engine. "Help me get the trolley out and loaded with the boards just like we was working together. We can get upstairs without anyone questioning us."

"Why are you putting up walls tonight?" Brendan asked.

"There's a 10% bonus if I finish by tomorrow at 5:00pm. I can haul ass all night and no one can get in my way or slow me down," Bob said.

Twenty boards high seemed precarious to Brendan but Bob acted like the load was normal. Upstairs Brendan pushed the cart into an open space with wires running everywhere and electrical outlets hanging in empty space. The ribs of metal framing were standing floor to ceiling everywhere. Blue chalk lines ran in confusing patterns across the floor and stacks of drywall were spaced out across the floor waiting for someone to put them up. Brendan walked over to the windows and saw a few cars driving on the ten lanes of Garden State Parkway.

Turning around, Brendan caught sight of his father sitting on a cardboard box halfway down a hallway that wouldn't be there until the morning.

"Dad!" he called as he ran to him.

They embraced.

"Danny, I've been worried sick about you. Good to see you alive and well, son."

"It's good to see you too, Dad. We can talk here?"

"We talk while we work. Bob needs the extra hands, and I could use a few dollars. We can talk while we put up drywall."

Brendan felt like a gunslinger with the professional grade portable drill in his hand. Four drywall screws down each side, two across the top and two across the bottom were the orders. They didn't have to cut any of the drywall and the work went fast with Brendan lifting and his father popping in the screws.