Maiden Lane by Christopher Blankley

Author:Christopher Blankley
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: young adult, federal reserve, trump, ya, rothschild, conspiracy, action

Chapter 14

I might as well be on another planet. Brown skin, white jacket: the perfect one-percenter camouflage. At a party like this, nobody pays attention to the staff. The agents could spend the whole night searching for me and never find me on the party floor. I serve my drinks and make my way toward the back of the mansion. When my tray is empty, I slip out onto the grand veranda and find a tray of appetizers to carry.

The party is raging out there, too, all the way down to the Long Island Sound. Boats are puttering around in the water, decked out in lanterns and lights. I mingle, but my appetizers are less popular than the drinks. I still have half a tray by the time I reach a hedgerow south of the veranda. I scoop up a handful and shove them in my mouth, tossing the tray away into the hedge.

Out of sight of partygoers, I circle around the house, away from the water. The ground is wet here, and my shoes sink deep in the mud. Oh, my poor shoes. I look down in disappointment. Is there no indignity too vile?

Heedless to the cost, I push on and soon can make out the glass outline of the conservatory in the darkness. Through the glass, I see the lights are still on in President Tusk’s office. Moving as silently as I can, I slog through the mud, toward a window in the building proper.

The lead-paned window is slightly ajar. When I’m near, I hear the sound of the cable news channel coming from inside. Tusk is still watching the news, sitting in a chair by the fireplace, fidgeting with the remote control. The news isn’t good. The stock market is still crashing, unlikely to recover. Experts are baffled. Democrats are blaming Republicans, Republicans are blaming Democrats. In a matter of hours, whole fortunes have been wiped out – people’s savings, retirement funds gone. Crowds are taking to the streets in protest. The National Guard has been called.

I linger at the window. There’s nothing left for me to see inside, but the news on the television is disconcerting. What the hell is going on and exactly what do people think I can do about it?

Nothing, I tell myself; this is all some sort of stupid misunderstanding. I’m just about to back away from the window, when I see the headlights of a car approaching the conservatory. I duck down, hiding in the bushes. Perhaps I lingered a little too long.

The car stops, the headlights die. A door opens. Shoes crunch against the gravel then thunder on steps, up into the greenhouse. Then there are voices inside Tusk’s office.

“What the hell are you playing at?” a woman’s voice demands. I almost leap up out of my hiding place. It’s Eve! I’m sure of it. More cautiously, I leave the cover of my bush and return to the window. Inside, it’s Eve, dressed in a different but equally stunning, evening gown.

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