CHAPTER 3
Perhaps the single most important element guiding Martin Vreeland
was a meticulous study of history.
He had learned the lessons of politics well, therefore
harboring few illusions regarding to what extent those with power
would go to maintain it -- and fewer illusions respecting by whom
and for whose gain political power was always exercised.
Had he not believed the incorruptible were statistically
insignificant, he would have been an anarchist.
His latest bestseller, Not Worth a Continental, stated his
views on the current crisis clearly:
The true cause of the general rise in prices
that is usually called inflation is one of
history's best-kept secrets: it is known to almost
everybody but its victims. To listen to most
political debates on the phenomenon, one would
think that it was some malarious fever -- still
incurable -- which is to be treated with the
quinines of joint sacrifice, Maoist self-
criticism, and liberal doses of governmental
controls. Yet, even today, one can look up
"inflation" in most dictionaries and find in its
definition a proper diagnosis of the disease and
by that diagnosis an implied cure.
Inflation is the process whereby the central
bankers in collusion with politicians -- to mutual
benefit -- have counterfeited warehouse receipts
for a commodity the public have chosen as a
medium of exchange, and traded those counterfeits
to those they have defrauded and forced them into
accepting them.
By doing this they gain something for nothing.
Those who accepted the counterfeits, on the
other hand, have taken nothing for something, but
not realizing this, they calculate their own
future spending as if they had received more
something.
The primary effect of all this nothing being
passed around is a discounting of the medium of
exchange -- seen by everybody as a rise in prices
of everything else -- as people lose the ability
to distinguish between something and nothing.
The most important secondary effect is mass-
scale malinvestment caused by the general false
sense of prosperity.
By the point at which there is more nothing
being traded than something -- our current
situation -- a hedonistic inversion is so rampant
that even the bankers and politicians are losing.
But by then it is much too late for them to save
themselves -- and they see little profit in saving
us.
The cure for inflation is to stop inflating.
Elliot had known his father was under fire from high places
for incessant -- and widely reported -- attacks on government
economic policies, but Dr. Vreeland had told him that direct
reprisals were relatively unlikely. A Nobel prize afforded some
protection; the high public profile of a bestselling author,
more; popularity among the million members of the radical
Citizens for a Free Society, still more; and perhaps most
important was his wide repute among the fiscally conservative
delegates -- and personal friendship with the current chancellor
-- of EUCOMTO, the European Common Market Treaty Organization.
What Dr. Vreeland now told Elliot was that while he had
considered reprisals unlikely, he had not considered them out of
the question -- especially as a prelude to a major political
upheaval of some sort -- thus he had taken various precautionary
measures. Among these were preparing secret caches and asylums
for emergency retreat, with extensive contingency plans for each.
He had also found it advisable to cultivate, through timely gifts
to "underpaid officials," loyalties that might be useful during
uncomfortable periods.
Earlier that day this last had paid off: one of his friends
in the Federal Bureau of Investigation had transmitted him a
message that the Vreeland name had been found on a list of
persons to be secretly arrested that coming weekend. "We leave
tonight," said Dr. Vreeland. "All of us. And probably from a
country now a dictatorship."
This simple proclamation shook Elliot's sense of security
almost as much as the earlier one declaring his father dead.
While he had been aware of current political-economic
developments -- been steeped in them -- he had never accepted
emotionally that they might have personal consequences. Mr.
Harper's classroom warning was driven home as Elliot's father
explained what his sudden "death" was all about.
"We have little time and a lot to accomplish," said Dr.
Vreeland to Elliot and Denise. The three were at the dining
table while Cathryn Vreeland prepared a long overdue lunch for
herself and her husband. "Each of us has necessary tasks to
perform with no room for error. One slip -- even one you might
think insignificant -- may prove our downfall."
"Any choice about what we have to do?"
Dr. Vreeland looked at Elliot seriously. "Certainly," he
replied, then paused several extended moments. "Listen, you two.
You're both old enough to make any crucial decisions about your
lives. It's much too late for me to impart values to you; but if
you don't have them, then I'm not much of a father. Ell, there
are only two choices my situation allows me to offer you: either
you leave now before you hear my plans -- in which case you're
completely on your own as of now -- or you accept my authority
with out reservations until we're safely out of the country."
Ten seconds passed. No one spoke. Finally, Denise broke
the silence: "Where are we going, Daddy?"
"Everything in due time, honey. Just let me proceed at my
own pace." Dr. Vreeland faced Elliot again. "You didn't answer
me." Elliot answered slowly, deliberately. "You know what my
answer is, Dad."
Dr. Vreeland nodded. "Denise?"
"I'm in," she said cheerfully. "Give my regards to
Broadway."
"Good. For the official record, then ..."
Martin Vreeland, Ph.D (so the story would go), had died of a
heart attack brought on by overwork and the tensions of his
public position. The official death certificate would confirm
this, and his personal physician's records would document a
nonexistent previous attack. Preceded by an immediate-family-
only funeral service the next afternoon, the body was to be
immediately cremated. The neighbors had been told that Cathryn
Vreeland and her children would be staying that night with her
sister-in-law; since she did not have a sister-in-law, this could
not be swiftly followed up.
"If you find yourselves unable to avoid the press," said Dr.
Vreeland, "then say nothing factual. Make only generalized,
emotional statements about me" -- he smiled -- "preferably
laudatory. I will be leaving the apartment in disguise as soon
after five as possible."
Denise asked, "Won't Jim think it unusual that a stranger he
didn't let in is leaving the building?"
"No. First, Dominic will be on by the time I leave, and if
he sees me, will simply assume that this 'stranger' came in
before his shift. Second, I don't intend leaving through the
lobby. I'll use the fire exit out to Seventy-fourth Street."
Cathryn Vreeland brought a plate of sandwiches from the
kitchen, joining her family at the table. "Spam," she said. "It
was all the Shopwell had left yesterday that I had ration tickets
for."
Dr. Vreeland picked up a sandwich, bit into it with a
grimace, then continued to talk and to eat intermittently: "The
three of you will leave this apartment at 7 p.m., and will
rendezvous with me on the west side of Park at Seventieth Street,
where I'll be waiting with a rental car -- and to anticipate any
questions, all arrangements have already been made. From the
moment we get in that car, we will no longer be in the Vreeland
family. We will all be carrying full identification, including
passports, exit permits, and visas -- each with our new names --
and we'll continue using them until we legally identify ourselves
in our country of final destination."
"You still haven't said where that is," said Denise.
"To be perfectly candid, I don't know yet. We will be
driving to International Airport, taking, at 10:05 tonight, Air
Quebec Flight 757 to Montreal -- on of the cities in which I have
emergency assets and a number of friends. We might be there just
a few days, but if much longer, you'll have a chance to practice
your French."
"Et ensuite?" asked Elliot.
"Trop compliqué," replied Dr. Vreeland, referring both to
variables involved in choosing their next destination and to his
inability to say all that in French. Dr. Vreeland paused several
seconds, then managed to regain his original train of thought.
"In packing your belongings, anything with our real names on it
-- or any pictures of me -- must be left behind, no matter how
treasured, no matter how valuable."
"We're going to have to leave almost everything behind,
aren't we?" Denise asked wistfully.
"I'm afraid so. There's very little here that can't be
replaced, nor would I, in any case, consider personal possessions
to be worth risking my family 's imprisonment. Even if your
mother considers me excessively paranoid."
"I'll say," Mrs. Vreeland confirmed.
Everyone turned to her. Cathryn Vreeland rarely ventured
unsolicited opinions; when she did, they commanded full
attention. She would have commanded it anyway: the flame-haired
woman could easily have been a top commercial model, and though
she was thirty-nine, bartenders still demanded her proof-of-age.
"When Marty first told me his plan, I suggested that he leave
alone, while we three stay behind long enough to close out
affairs here normally. He wouldn't hear of it."
"And still won't," Dr. Vreeland said. "I am not about to
flee the country, leaving my family behind to answer FBI
questions. There will be too many discrepancies in my story
within twenty-four hours. If we were leaving the country under
normal circumstances, we'd be selling and giving away most of our
belongings anyway."
"One set of items we will risk taking," continued Dr.
Vreeland, "is twenty-five Mexican fifty-peso gold pieces -- at
today's European exchange worth about eleven and a half million
New Dollars." Elliot whistled. "Don't be too impressed. When I
bought them back in 1979, I only paid nine thousand old dollars
for them, and they'll buy about four times that in real goods
today. But, Ell -- this concerns you personally -- I don't want
its value to cloud your thinking. If by 'losing' it or paying it
as a bribe I can improve our escape chances one iota, I won't
hesitate to do so for one second."
"Are they here?" Elliot asked.
"No, that's just where you come in. You're going downtown
for me to get them."
Elliot's eyes widened.
A few minutes later, Dr. Vreeland drew Elliot alone into the
master bedroom. "You'll be going to an -- uh -- 'exotic'
bookstore off Times Square," said Dr. Vreeland. He wrote the
address on a piece of paper.
Elliot took the paper, studied it a moment, then crumpled it
up. "Do I have to eat this?"
"Not necessary," said his father. "Your contact is a
bald, bearded man -- somewhat overweight -- called 'Al.' As a
sign you're to ask him for a copy of Not Worth a Continental --
be sure to mention my name as author. His countersign is, 'I may
sell dirty books but I don't carry trash like that.' Your
counter-countersign is, 'What do you recommend instead?' He will
invite you into a back room and give you a package. The coins
will be inside. Got all that?" Elliot nodded.
Dr. Vreeland went to his dresser, returning with a small
box, which he opened. Inside was a .38 caliber Peking revolver
that he and Elliot had practiced with in New Hampshire. "Can you
use it?" Dr. Vreeland asked.
Elliot picked up the pistol, swung out the cylinder --
noting all six chambers loaded -- and swung the cylinder back.
"I can use it."
"Good. Only, don't."
"What if I'm stopped by a cop?"
Dr. Vreeland took a deep breath. "Under our present
situation, a police officer must be regarded in the same manner
as any other potential attacker. You can't afford to be caught
with either a firearm or gold bullion. If you can talk your way
free, do so: New York police must pass periodic shooting exams.
But if your only chance of making rendezvous is using this gun,
so be it."
"Terrific chance I'd have."
"The Keynesian Cops are understaffed at the moment" --
Elliot winced at the pun -- "Consider themselves underpaid and
overworked, and are on the verge of striking again. If they're
seen making an arrest openly, they're as likely as not to start a
riot. They are not looking for trouble. Anything else?"
Elliot made a wry face. "Do you have any more ammunition?"