The Hellfire Club

by Jake Tapper

  “Oh, dear, sweet Strongfellow,” said Street. “None of this is an accident. They’re testing how effective these poisons are. On animals in Utah and on poor folk, whether blacks in Louisiana or whites in Appalachia. No one introduces a product to the market without vigorous testing.”

  “We’ve told General Kinetics to change that,” said Carlin. “They’re moving the testing to Mexico and India.”

  “So the Hellfire Club had Van Waganan killed before he could come forward with any of this, Charlie,” Street said. “He was starting to figure it out. What they didn’t know is that Van Waganan and MacLachlan were working together, and after Van Waganan was killed, Mac kept going.”

  “But didn’t the Puerto Ricans kill Mac?” asked Strongfellow, clearly the most confused person in the room.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Carlin said. “It’s not as if we wanted him dead and got lucky. There’s no such thing as lucky. There’s what we do and what we fail to do.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Charlie.

  Street chuckled. “So, Charlie, let’s imagine that Chairman Carlin is a powerful member of a secret society, an association that includes the FBI director as a member. An FBI director with paid informants everywhere—one who might have inside knowledge of the Puerto Rican nationalists’ plot to shoot up the Capitol ahead of time. And then let’s imagine that in the midst of that shoot-out, a congressman who is a thorn in the side of this secret society, who is threatening to expose a company run by another member of that club, just happens to get shot. And killed.”

  Carlin shook his head admiringly at Street. “I’d have to be some kind of goddamn genius to pull off what you’re insinuating!”

  “See now?” Street said with a smile. “You’re not so modest after all. It’s too bad they don’t give Pulitzers for assassinations.”

  “All the things we do to keep this nation safe from the kinds of Reds who tried to kill Margaret just a few hours ago,” Carlin said. “And still these idiots don’t get it.”

  “We get it,” said Margaret. “But General Kinetics is killing Americans in the process.”

  “Look,” said Carlin, “in retrospect, could our friends at General Kinetics have exercised more caution, spent more money on safety measures and such? I suppose, but it would have slowed down production. Like with the need to rush gas masks to the front lines. As we said—omelets, eggs. You know.”

  “I do indeed,” Charlie said grimly, fists clenched at his sides.

  “And who won the war, Charlie?” asked Carlin.

  “Those of us who actually fought in the war didn’t have this in mind,” Charlie said.

  Carlin frowned theatrically, looking doubtful. “Oh, really?” he said. “Street fought in that war. Strongfellow fought in that war.”

  “You sure about that?” Charlie asked.

  “Aha!” Carlin said, almost pleased. “So you’re not a perfect angel. You read This Is Your Life’s investigation into Strongfellow here! The one you stole from your father!”

  “What?” Strongfellow asked.

  “The file we have on you proving that you never served with the OSS,” Carlin said. “Charlie purloined that from his father. His dad is a lawyer, does work for NBC, and they found out right before your episode of This Is Your Life aired, the one that shared the story of your glorious, if entirely concocted, heroism. They buried it. Charlie’s dad had it. Charlie stole it. And here we are!”

  “You son of a bitch,” Strongfellow said to Charlie. “That true?”

  Charlie winced and turned his head around to look at Strongfellow.

  “I did it for the same reason you’re presumably doing this,” Charlie said. “I thought they had dirt on me. Turns out it was all a setup, that I didn’t do what they told me I’d done. But in any case, yes, I swiped the NBC investigation from my dad’s office.”

  “Ooo-eee,” exclaimed Street. “What does it say?”

  “It goes into detail about how for the entire war, Strongfellow was a machinist. Stateside. There’s a letter from Dulles stating he was never OSS. Letter from the Pentagon saying he was never overseas.”

  Strongfellow appeared to be grinding his teeth.

  “Why’d NBC run the episode, then?” Street asked.

  “You’d have to ask them why they sat on it,” Charlie said. “I assume ratings. Currying favor with Republicans. Are the presidents of the networks in the Hellfire Club?”

  Carlin turned to Street and waved a hand in Charlie’s direction. “We need to wrap this up, Mr. Street.”

  “That’s fine,” said Street, “but I’m not going to clean up any messes.”

  “Of course not,” Carlin said.

  “That’s what Catherine’s henchmen over there are for,” Street said, drawing angry glares again.

  Charlie looked straight ahead at Margaret, her arms bound behind her back, her face a mask of pure panic.

  “At what point does your construction of this Potemkin village start undermining your ability to build the actual village?” Charlie asked. “If your leaders are frauds like Strongfellow and demagogues like McCarthy, at what point do they supplant real leaders? At what point are you killing and hurting more Americans than you’re saving?”

  “Be quiet,” instructed Carlin. “You hold no cards here.”

  “So who else is in the Hellfire Club?” asked Margaret.

  “They’re just stalling, Frank,” Leopold said.

  “Mr. Street?” Carlin said. “Ticktock.”

  Street gripped Strongfellow’s .38 with two hands and began to raise it.

  “Mr. Chairman?” Charlie asked. “Can I at least kiss my wife one last time?”

  “Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” said Leopold. She took a gun out of her jacket pocket. “I’ll shoot him if you need me to.” The two men standing with her took their guns out of their jackets, presumably in case their services were required as well.

  “Go ahead and kiss her, Charlie,” Street said. “Make it quick.”

  Charlie raised his hands in surrender and slowly walked over to Margaret, looking at Carlin for the okay. Carlin nodded. Her eyes were wild with fear and fury. “Charlie!” she said. “They—”

  He lowered his hands and silenced her with a kiss, feeling her angry resistance until he broke away to whisper in her ear.

  She swallowed and nodded.

  They kissed each other again, tenderly.

  Charlie then turned to Street, his hands back up near the sides of his head.

  “Okey-doke, Isaiah,” he said.

  Street nodded. Aimed the gun at Charlie.

  “Okey-doke, Charlie,” Street said.

  “Roger,” Charlie said.

  “Shoot him already,” Carlin said.

  “Three…” said Street.

  “Oh, good Lord,” said Leopold.

  “Two…” Street continued.

  “Love you, honey,” said Margaret.

  “Love you too, baby,” said Charlie.

  “And…” said Street.

  At the last second, Charlie and Margaret dropped to the ground while Street simultaneously turned his aim from Charlie toward the two thugs standing with Leopold. Two shots were fired, and the two thugs dropped to the ground. Leopold gasped; Carlin exclaimed, “What the fuck?” and jumped behind a sculpture of Crispus Attucks a split second before Street turned a hundred and eighty degrees and shot at him.

  Lying on her back on the floor, Margaret pulled the hoop of her bound arms under her rear and her legs to bring her hands in front of her. It was a struggle, given her pregnant belly, but her adrenaline and flexibility made it work.

  Leopold fired at Street. She missed, but she got his attention. He returned fire and Leopold ran behind a statue of Charles Lindbergh holding an America First banner.

  Leopold, using the statue for cover, fired at Street from the far side of the tribute to Lindbergh, and Margaret crawled around the other side. Focused on Street, Leopold didn’t notice Margaret creeping up and looping her arms o
ver her head and around her neck. Margaret pulled back with all her might; Leopold gasped for air and dropped her gun as she struggled to insert her hand between Margaret’s bound wrists and her own neck.

  Charlie ran to Strongfellow and squared up against him, but before he could punch him, Strongfellow kicked him in the groin. Charlie fell on the ground in agony. Strongfellow began kicking him in the gut—his legs very obviously perfectly functioning. The image of Margaret and their baby sprang into Charlie’s head. He lunged for Strongfellow’s legs and knocked him down. Strongfellow’s head hit the floor hard as Street ran over and began kicking him in the stomach.

  “Isaiah!” Charlie yelled.

  Carlin was pushing a statue of General George Custer onto them. Charlie shoved Street out of the way; the statue hit Charlie’s back. Custer’s arm broke off its body and smashed into Strongfellow’s head, knocking him out. Charlie cried out in pain.

  Margaret was still locked in battle with Leopold, her wrists still bound and around Leopold’s neck. Leopold, demonstrating surprising strength as she struggled mightily to free herself, began bucking like a bronco, first pulling Margaret forward and lifting her off her feet, then suddenly running backward and ramming Margaret into a statue of Supreme Court justice Roger Taney. Margaret was terrified but couldn’t let go since her wrists remained bound, and the more Leopold battered Margaret, the tighter Margaret hung on, strangling her.

  Street checked on the two thugs to make sure they were dead, then raced to Charlie’s side to help him, but Charlie, teeth clenched in agony, shook his head. “Go help Margaret!” Street did, but not before slamming his OSS gun into the palm of Charlie’s hand.

  Street turned toward Margaret as Carlin emerged from the crowd of statues, bent down to the base of a figure of Continental Army general Charles Lee, and tried to topple it onto Charlie. Lee teetered, and Charlie managed to push himself out of its way a moment before the stone mass fell onto the space he had just occupied. Hands on his knees, gasping, Charlie found the OSS gun on the ground and aimed it right at Carlin.

  “That’s a single shot, Charlie,” Street called. “You can’t miss!”

  Charlie aimed for Carlin’s head.

  Carlin’s eyes widened. “No,” Carlin said. “Wait, Charlie, listen to me—”

  Charlie fired, but the Liberator was a gun for emergencies, and Charlie reverted to his basic-training mistake of flinching as he anticipated the gun’s recoil. The bullet whizzed past Carlin’s head and hit the statue of Crispus Attucks.

  Carlin jumped forward onto Charlie and grabbed his throat, then tried to shove his thumbs into Charlie’s eyes. Charlie pulled at Carlin’s wrists, trying to stop the pain. Carlin’s obvious desperation seemed to empower him, but he was also much older and weaker than his adversary. Charlie, in pain, kicked Carlin in the groin, then twisted Carlin’s wrist and slammed his forehead into the older man’s nose. Carlin coughed and released his grip; Charlie threw him to his right.

  Carlin grabbed at Charlie’s arm and bit it. Charlie screamed as Carlin’s teeth broke the skin.

  Feeling a white-hot jolt of fury, Charlie grabbed Carlin by his shirt collar and lifted him off the ground, then turned his body to the left and slammed the man’s head into the sharp corner of the base of the Crispus Attucks statue. It might as well have been the edge of an ax.

  The marble edge was now marked with a deep crimson stain as all fight left Carlin’s body. He groaned and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  It was at precisely that moment that Leopold succumbed to Margaret’s bound hands around her neck. She dropped to her knees, then fell onto her face, dragging Margaret along with her.

  Charlie stood, ran to Margaret, extricated her from the death trap she had fastened around Leopold’s neck, and embraced her.

  The room was suddenly still, the only sound Margaret, Charlie, and Street breathing heavily. They were surrounded by their fallen enemies: one unconscious, one dying, three dead.

  “I told you I was on your side,” Street finally said.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Thursday, April 22, 1954—Morning

  Capitol Hill

  Three men in suits, Colt .38s in hand, walked into the storage room. They all looked alike: brown hair, mid-thirties, trim builds, dark suits. Secret Service, maybe, or FBI; their exact affiliation was unclear.

  “Nice timing,” said Street, hands braced on his knees, dripping with sweat and breathing like Jesse Owens after a wind sprint.

  “Is everyone okay?” one of the men asked.

  “We’re fine,” said Charlie, holding Margaret, his hand on her pregnant belly. “Everyone’s good.” Margaret’s face was buried in his chest.

  “You should vamoose,” the third man said to Street. “We’ll take care of it from here.”

  Street nodded and motioned to Charlie and Margaret to follow him. They reached the hallway and paused.

  “Who were they?” Charlie asked.

  “The good guys,” said Street.

  “Do you know the way out?” Margaret asked.

  “Out of the basement? Or this situation?”

  “Either,” she said.

  “Basement, yes.”

  “And the situation here? Three dead bodies and two sitting congressmen knocked out, all in the basement of the U.S. Capitol?”

  Street shook his head. “That one’s a little trickier.”

  Outside, a bright dawn was breaking as if the sun were proud to be seen after days hiding. Charlie heard mourning doves coo and could smell the earthy, loamy scent of spring. A bus drove up Constitution Avenue; the city was starting to stir.

  A red Cadillac Coupe de Ville sat in the Capitol driveway, its engine running.

  Charlie peered in and saw Senator Kefauver behind the wheel, a grim expression on his face. Winston Marder was in the backseat.

  “Get in,” Winston said. “Margaret, honey, you sit up front.”

  “Please hurry,” said Kefauver. “We need to git.”

  “I love it when you pretend you’re a hillbilly,” gruffed Winston.

  The three piled into the Cadillac, and Kefauver hit the gas and took a right out of the Capitol driveway onto Independence Avenue. The atmosphere inside the car was tense; they rode in silence for a few blocks, Kefauver and Charlie scanning the surroundings for a tail. Finally Margaret turned around from the front seat to face the men.

  “That’s all going to be cleaned up?” Margaret asked Winston.

  “Area will be secured and cleaned,” he said.

  “We left behind maybe four dead bodies, including the House Appropriations Committee chairman,” Charlie said.

  “However many you left behind, and whoever they are, it will be taken care of,” said Winston. He turned to Street: “Four dead bodies? Including Carlin?”

  “Yeah, it got ugly,” said Street, who took a few minutes to explain everything that had happened since he last saw Winston a day before in Manhattan. Margaret filled in other blanks, describing Gwinnett’s menacing hunt for her and how Catherine Leopold killed him.

  “Good Christ,” Winston finally said. “I’m so sorry, Margaret. I never wanted you to get caught up in any of this. I never wanted Charlie to get caught up in it.”

  “Then why arrange for me to get the congressional seat?” Charlie asked, a note of irritation in his voice. “Or at the very least, why not tell me about everything that was going on so I could have a better way to protect Margaret and the baby?”

  “We didn’t know, Charlie,” Street said.

  “I can defend myself, Isaiah,” Winston said.

  “I know,” Street said, “but Charlie, you need to understand, we’ve only been about a half step ahead of you. We didn’t even know about the car accident until you told me.”

  “I had no idea you were going to be pulled into any of this when I got Dewey to give you the seat, and I certainly didn’t know you were going to pull that foolish stunt at the comic-book hearing,” Winston said. “That’s what esc
alated everything. Until then, the Hellfire Club thought they had you where they wanted you. And until then, Estes and Isaiah were keeping me abreast of everything. We all were doing everything we could to steer you away from the Hellfire Club.”

  “Except for telling me about it, of course,” Charlie said.

  “You were supposed to just do your job,” Winston said. “You weren’t supposed to take on the whole goddamn system or screw with Carlin. Or steal papers from my goddamn study.”

  “You knew about that?” Charlie asked.

  “After the fact,” Winston said. “Dulles told me. That poor miserable son of a bitch Strongfellow is going to be ruined. Not by me. By the club. Especially now, tied to this mess. Poor sap probably thinks he’s in the clear.”

  “Wait—you’re going to let him loose after he tried to kill me?”

  “That’s how this works, Charlie,” Winston said. “We don’t call the police on one another. We bribe the police to stay out of it. The FBI or Secret Service swoops in and cleans everything up. Our organizations don’t play by the normal rules.”

  “‘We’? What organizations besides the Hellfire Club?” Margaret asked. “Who is ‘we’?”

  “The, ah, loose association that I’m in,” Winston said. “And Isaiah.”

  “What is this ‘loose association’?” Margaret asked. “Central Intelligence? FBI? I don’t understand.”

  “You will soon enough, but I’ve said all I can,” Winston said.

  “Margaret, surely you realize that clandestine services in the U.S. are made up not only of organizations you know about, but also ones you don’t,” Street offered.

  They stopped at a red light.

  No one spoke. The light changed and they drove on in uncomfortable silence.

  “I assume you can tell us about the Hellfire Club at least?” Margaret asked. “Who are they?”

  “We don’t know anything for sure,” Winston said. “We think its monks include Carlin, Hilton, McCarthy, the Dulles boys, Hoover, Ambassador Kennedy, um…Who else?”