The Paris Vendetta

He knew he shouldn’t ask, but, “Why do you say that?”

“I thought you said this guy was cool,” Foddrell said to Sam. “He doesn’t know spit.”

“Look,” Malone answered, “I’ve been into the whole alien autopsy, Area 51 thing, for the past few years. This monetary stuff is new to me.”

Foddrell pointed a nervous finger. “Okay, you’re a funny man. You think this is all a big joke.”

“Why don’t you just explain yourself?”

“The Federal Reserve makes money from thin air. Then it loans it back to America and gets repaid by the taxpayers with interest. America owes the Federal Reserve trillions upon trillions. Just the annual interest on that debt, which by the way is mostly controlled by private investors, is approximately eight times bigger than the wealth of the richest man on the planet. It’ll never be paid off. A lot of people are getting filthy rich off that debt. And it’s all a cheat. If you or I printed money, then loaned it out, we’d go to jail.”

Malone recalled something he’d read earlier on Foddrell’s website. Supposedly, John Kennedy had wanted to end the Federal Reserve and signed Executive Order 11110, which instructed the U.S. government to retake control of the nation’s money supply from the Reserve. Three weeks later, Kennedy was dead. When Lyndon Johnson took office, he immediately rescinded that order. Malone had never heard such an accusation before, so he’d checked further and read Executive Order 11110, an innocuous directive whose effect, had it been carried through, would have actually strengthened, rather than weakened, the Federal Reserve system. Any relation to the signing of that order and Kennedy’s assassination was purely coincidental. And Johnson never rescinded the order. Instead, it was purged decades later along with a host of other outdated regulations.

More conspiratorial bullshit.

He decided to get to the point. “What do you know about the Paris Club?”

“Enough to know that we need to be afraid.”

ELIZA STARED AT THORVALDSEN AND SAID, “HAVE YOU EVER wondered what money can really do?”

Her guest shrugged. “My family has amassed so much, over such a long time, I never think about it. But it certainly can provide power, influence, and a comfortable life.”

She assumed a calm air. “It can also do much more. Yugoslavia is an excellent example.”

She saw he was curious.

“Supposedly, in the 1980s, the Yugoslavs were an imperial, fascist regime that committed crimes against humanity. After free elections in 1990, the people of Serbia chose the socialist party, while the people from other Yugoslav republics chose to implement more pro-Western governments. Eventually, the U.S. started a war with Serbia. Prior to that, though, I watched as world policy gradually weakened Yugoslavia, which, at that time, had one of the best economies in Eastern Europe. The U.S.-Serbian war, and subsequent dismantling of Yugoslavia, destroyed any idea that a socialist economy might be a good thing.”

“Serbia was clearly oppressive and dangerous,” Thorvaldsen said.

“Who says? The media? Were they any more oppressive than say, North Korea, China, Iran? Yet no one advocates war with them. Take a match and make a forest fire. That’s what one diplomat told me at the time. The aggressions on Serbia were heavily supported by the mainstream media, along with influential leaders all over the world. That aggression lasted for more than ten years. All of which, by the way, made it quite easy, and far less expensive, to buy the entire former Yugoslav economy.”

“Is that what happened?”

“I know of many investors who took full advantage of that catastrophe.”

“You’re saying all that happened in Serbia was contrived?”

“In a manner of speaking. Not actively, but certainly tacitly. That situation proved that it’s entirely feasible to take advantage of destructive situations. There is profit in political and national discord. Provided, of course, that the discord ends at some point. It’s only then that a return can be made on any investment.”

She was enjoying discussing theory. Rarely was she afforded an opportunity. She wasn’t saying anything incriminating, only repeating observations that many economists and historians had long noted.

“The Rothschilds in the 18th and 19th centuries,” she said, “were masters of this technique. They managed to play all sides, generating enormous profit at a time when Europeans fought among themselves like children on a playground. The Rothschilds were wealthy, international, and independent. Three dangerous qualities. Royal governments could not control them. Popular movements hated them, because they were not answerable to the people. Constitutionalists resented them because they worked in secret.”

“As you are attempting to do?”

“Secrecy is essential for the success of any cabal. I’m sure, Herre Thorvaldsen, you understand how events can be quietly shaped by the simple granting or withholding of funds, or affecting the selection of key personnel, or just maintaining a daily intercourse with decision makers. Being behind the scenes avoids the brunt of public anger, which is directed, as it should be, to open political figures.”

“Who are largely controlled.”

“As if you don’t own a few.” She needed to steer the conversation back on point. “I assume you can produce evidence on Lord Ashby’s treachery?”

“At the appropriate time.”

“Until then, I am to take your word about Lord Ashby’s statements to these unknown financiers?”

“How about this. Allow me to join your group and we shall together discover if I am truthful or a liar. If I am a liar, you can keep my twenty-million-euro admittance fee.”

“But our secrecy would have been compromised.”

“It already is.”

Thorvaldsen’s sudden appearance was unnerving, yet it could also be a godsend. She’d meant what she’d said to Mastroianni-she believed in fate.

Perhaps Henrik Thorvaldsen was meant to be a part of her destiny?

“Might I show you something?” she asked.

MALONE WATCHED AS THE WAITER RETURNED WITH BOTTLED water, wine, and a breadbasket. He’d never been impressed with French bistros. Every one he’d ever visited was either overpriced, overrated, or both.

“Do you really like pan-fried kidneys?” he asked Foddrell.

“What’s wrong with them?”

He wasn’t about to explain the many reasons why ingesting an organ that rid the body of urine was bad. Instead, he said, “Tell me about the Paris Club.”

“You know where the idea came from?”

He saw that Foddrell was enjoying his superior status. “You were a little vague with that on your website.”

“Napoleon. After he conquered Europe, what he really wanted was to settle back and enjoy. So he assembled a group of people and formed the Paris Club, which was designed to make it easier for him to rule. Unfortunately, he never was able to use the idea-too busy fighting war after war.”

“Thought you said he wanted to stop fighting?”

“He did, but others had different ideas. Keeping Napoleon fighting was the best way to keep him off guard. There were people who made sure he always had a crop of enemies at his doorstep. He tried to make peace with Russia, but the tsar told him to stuff it. So he invaded Russia in 1812, an act that nearly cost him his whole army. After that, it was all downhill. Three years later, bye-bye. Deposed.”

“Which tells me nothing.”

Foddrell’s gaze fixed out the window, as if something suddenly caught his attention.

“There a problem?” Malone asked.

“Just checking.”

“Why sit by the window for all to see?”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

The question declared a growing annoyance at being dismissed so easily, but Malone could not care less. “I’m trying to understand.”

“Since you’ve read the website, you know that Eliza Larocque has started a new Paris Club. Same idea. Different time, different people. They meet in a building on the Rue l’Araignee. I know that for a fact. I’ve seen