James Twining - The Double Eagle

The car was new and the smell of faux leather and moulded plastic hung heavily in the air. A silver crucifix hung on a thin chain from the driver’s mirror and spiralled gently, its flat surface catching the light every so often.

Looking up from her notes, Jennifer lowered the window and let the hot breeze massage her face as the car crawled through the downtown traffic on Constitution Avenue towards the Smithsonian, as first the Lincoln and then the black hulk of the Vietnam Memorial inched past. A lone veteran was on patrol, two small Stars and Stripes taped to the handles of his wheelchair like pennants on a diplomatic stretch. Up ahead, two huge coaches spewed Japanese tourists onto the sidewalk, cameras unholstered as soon as their feet hit the concrete.

Unconsciously she smoothed the left lapel on the jacket of her black trouser suit. She always wore black. She looked good in it and besides it was one less decision to make in the morning. Noticing the time on the dashboard clock, Jennifer shook her head in irritation. She was late for her appointment and she hated being late. Five minutes later, seeing that she was only level with the Washington Monument, she opened her purse.

‘I’ll walk from here,’ she said thrusting twenty dollars past the driver’s right ear.

She opened the door and stepped out onto the street, the tarmac already soft under the heel of her shoes as the temperature climbed. She squeezed between two government-issue black sedans, their air-conditioned passengers shielded behind smoked glass, and stepped onto the sidewalk. A bit further on, a hot-dog seller had already installed himself on the corner of 16th Street and the smell of frying onions and reheated sausage meat made her stomach lurch unsteadily. Gritting her teeth and breathing through her mouth, she walked on.

The Smithsonian Institution is the largest museum complex in the world, comprising fourteen separate museums and the National Zoo in DC itself and two further museums in New York. Taken as a whole, the museum’s collection numbers over one hundred and forty-two million separate objects.

The Money and Medals Hall of the National Numismatic Collection is housed on the third floor of the National Museum of American History, a low-slung, white stone 1960s building on the National Mall at the junction of 14th Street and Constitution Avenue. The Collection numbers over four hundred thousand items although only a tiny fraction of these are ever on display.

Ten minutes later, Jennifer was ushered into a dark wood-panelled office, her feet sinking into the thick green carpet. A Stars and Stripes loomed in the corner. Framed by two large windows at the far end of the room, Miles Baxter, forty-two, the curator of the National Numismatic Collection, was sitting behind a massive desk covered in files and papers. He wore a dark blue sports jacket over a button-down white shirt and beige chinos and the air was heavy with the scent of freshly applied aftershave. He didn’t get up.

‘They didn’t tell me they were sending a woman.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’ Jennifer felt herself tensing automatically.

‘Quite the contrary, Miss Browne. It’s a very pleasant surprise. It’s just that if I’d known I’d have made more of an effort.’

He smiled and two rows of piano-key perfect teeth flashed back at her from a tanned and confident face. They shook hands and his palm felt moist. Almost subconsciously she registered that his hair was less fluffy where it parted on the left hand side. She knew instinctively that he had licked his hand and then smoothed his hair down just before she had been shown in. So much for not making an effort.

‘It’s Special Agent Browne, actually,’ said Jennifer, taking out her ID and passing it to him.

His smile faded.

‘Of course it is.’

He studied her ID carefully, diligently comparing her face to the picture with several searching glances. She took the opportunity to wipe her palm, still damp where he had clutched her hand in his, against her trouser leg. He snapped her wallet shut and handed it back to her.

‘Of course, I’ve dealt with the FBI before, although if I may say so never with someone quite so … attractive. Unfortunately I’m not at liberty to discuss those cases with you.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘A small matter of national security; I’m sure you understand.’ He gestured towards the right hand wall which she could see was decorated like a small shrine with photos, carefully calligraphed certificates and gilt-lettered diplomas. She nodded and hoped that he didn’t notice her stifle a smile.

‘Do you know Washington well?’ She gave a slight shrug which seemed to be all the encouragement Baxter needed. ‘You know, if you want someone to show you around, I’d be very happy to act as your tour guide one weekend.’

A couple of years ago, when she had still believed that intelligence and hard work would be enough for a black woman to make it as an FBI agent, Jennifer would have met that sort of offer with an acidic smile and a dismissive laugh as a matter of principle. But that was before the dull blade of experience had taught her to use all the tools at her disposal. If that meant telling Miles Baxter what he wanted to hear so that she would have something good to go back to Corbett with, then so be it.

‘I’d like that.’ She brushed her hand coquettishly through her hair.

‘Great.’ He beamed. ‘Please sit down.’ He nodded towards the leather armchair opposite him. ‘And you must call me Miles.’

‘Thank you Miles.’ She smiled warmly. ‘You must call me Jennifer.’

Baxter placed his hands together as if in prayer, his fingers sore and ripped where he had bitten his nails.

‘So, Jennifer, how can I help?’

She reached inside her jacket.

‘What can you tell me about this coin?’ She held the coin still sealed inside its protective plastic envelope, out to Baxter, who slipped on a steel-rimmed pair of glasses and angled it underneath the green shade of his desk light so that he could make out the embossed detail. He looked up, his eyes wide with amazement, his voice halting and for the first time uncertain.

‘Where … what … how did you get this?’ He shook his head in disbelief, the slack skin under his chin tracking his head movements like a small pendulum. ‘This is incredible. It’s impossible.’ His breathing was ragged, his hands trembling slightly as he turned the coin over and over in his fingers as if it was too hot to hold still.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well … it’s a 1933 Double Eagle, of course.’

She shrugged.

‘I’m not a coin expert, Miles.’

‘No, of course not. Sorry. Well, you see, the US government has been minting gold coins since the mid 1790s and twenty dollar coins, or Double Eagles, since the 1849 Gold Rush.’

‘Why Double Eagle? There’s only one eagle on the coin.’

‘Just one of those things, I guess.’ He sniffed. ‘Ten dollar coins were known as Eagles, so when the twenty dollar coins appeared, they were called Double Eagles. Most people can be very unimaginative if they try hard enough.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s all down to the date,’ he said, with a thoughtful look on his face.

‘You mean on the coin? Why, what happened in 1933?’

‘It’s more what didn’t happen in 1933,’ said Baxter, tapping the side of his pink nose enigmatically as the colour began to return to his cheeks and his voice grew more confident. He placed the coin on the desk and sat back in his chair. ‘The interesting thing about a gold coin minted in 1933 is that at the time America was in the grip of the Depression. And as a result, days after assuming the Presidency in March 1933, Roosevelt took the country off the gold standard and banned the production, sale and ownership of gold.’