Hidden Order: A Thriller by Brad Thor Page A

Federal Reserve is a private organization. They gave themselves the title Federal Reserve to sound more official, but they’re not part of the government by any stretch of the imagination.”
    “But, I always thought—”
    The Old Man cut him off as someone approached from the other side of the lobby. “Here’s the gentleman we’re meeting with.”
    The man was in his late forties, with short hair graying at the temples and a pronounced beak of a nose. He wore a well-tailored gray suit with an understated tie and a plain white pocket square. His shoes shone like mirrors.
    “Good morning,” the man said as he walked up and extended his hand. “I’m Monroe Lewis.” His fingers were long and slim like a pianist’s and he spoke with the muted patrician accent of an old New England family.
    Harvath and Carlton both shook the man’s hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said. Looking at Harvath he added, “Especially you. I hope you found the plane comfortable.”
    “It was more than comfortable. Thank you,” Harvath replied. Closer now, he noticed that the man had undergone some sort of modest cosmetic surgery; either Botox or a lift of some sort, which had tightened the skin across his face. Harvath wasn’t a fan of cosmetic surgery for men. While some guys might be able to get away with a little, there were others who didn’t know when to stop and whose faces ended up looking like they’d seen more knives than a grill at a Benihana.
    Lewis was accompanied by a protective detail made up of three solidly built men in dark suits. Scanning the lobby, Harvath could make out at least two more, their heads on swivels, as they took in every person and every movement in the cavernous space.
    “I have our conference room available,” Lewis offered. “Shall we go upstairs?”
    Carlton nodded and the Federal Reserve man led the way. As they walked, he pointed out different pieces of the Fed’s history adorning the walls, and made polite small talk. He was quite knowledgeable about the organization, having worked there for more than two decades. His path to the Fed had begun with a quote from Karl Marx he discovered in high school— Money plays the largest role in determining the course of history.
    Monroe Lewis had been a shy, frail boy of modest upbringing and lofty ambitions. He would never captain a football team or lead men into battle. He didn’t possess those skills. His strength lay neither in his muscles nor his character, but in his mind.
    He was a voracious reader whose escape had always been books. And while outsiders saw him as perfectly suited for a career in academia, he knew academia was far too small a stage. One did not impact the course of history from some university campus. To impact history, one needed to be at the epicenter of where history was made. For him, that epicenter was the Federal Reserve.
    Arriving at the conference room, he showed his guests in and asked his security detail to remain outside.
    It was an enormous rectangular room with an almost thirty-foot mahogany table running down the center. Along one wall was a large marble fireplace and suspended above the table was an ornate chandelier that looked to be at least a thousand pounds.
    “I suppose, given the situation, the security is a necessary precaution,” he said, closing the door and crossing to Harvath and Carlton, “but it does take some getting used to.”
    “Always better to have it and not need it,” said Harvath.
    “Indeed,” Lewis replied. “Indeed. Can I offer you gentlemen some coffee?”
    The old spy and his number two accepted china cups with saucers and joined Lewis at the long inlaid conference table. As they pulled out their chairs, there was a knock followed by the door opening.
    “Ah, William,” Lewis said as a man walked in with a folder tucked beneath his arm. “Thank you for joining us.” Turning to Harvath and Carlton he introduced the new arrival, “This is Will Jacobson, our