by Steve Berry
“He served Hoover, Roosevelt, and Truman. He was really close, though, with Roosevelt. Being crippled, FDR always needed someone to do things for him.”
She got it. Things that should not see the light of day. “We heard the recording, where your father and FDR spoke in the Oval Office.”
“Mr. Davis, yesterday, allowed me to hear it, too. I assume that’s why we’re talking now.”
They sat silent for a moment.
“You were right at the door, Mr. President,” Tipton said. “I didn’t vote for you, either time.”
Danny shrugged. “That’s your call. It doesn’t bother me.”
Tipton smiled. “But I do have to say, you turned out to be a pretty decent guy.”
“My time’s about over.”
“That happens. Presidents come and go.”
“But civil servants stay on, right?”
“It’s what my father used to say.”
“Why didn’t you want to talk at the White House?” Danny asked.
The older man shrugged. “My father told me that if anyone ever wanted to discuss this, do it in private. I doubt anything that goes on at the White House is ever private.”
“It is the proverbial fishbowl.”
“Do you know what happened the day Roosevelt died?” Tipton asked. “April 12, 1945.”
“Just what I’ve read in the history books.”
“There are things you won’t find in those books. Things only the people there that day knew. FDR was in Georgia, at Warm Springs, for a few weeks of rest. My father was with him.”
Mark Tipton watched as Dr. Bruenn finished his daily examination of the president and asked his patient, “How do you feel today?”
“Other than a slightly sore neck, a bit better than usual.”
Roosevelt actually looked better than he had a few days ago. Less fatigued. More color to his pallid hue, which of late stayed sickly, drained of all blood and strength. But the cheeks remained collapsed, the weight loss continuing. He probably topped off at barely 150 pounds.
“I’ll make my usual report to the White House,” Bruenn said.
“Tell them I’m not dead yet.”
And the president added one of his trademark smiles.
But everyone knew FDR was slowly slipping away and no earthly power could stop that. Bruenn, a navy cardiologist, had quietly said yesterday, outside the president’s hearing, that the heart, lungs, and kidneys were all failing. Blood pressure stayed off the charts. A stroke was a near certainty. But still the illusion was maintained. Fatigue was the diagnosis both Roosevelt and the country were told. Nothing that a little rest would not cure. But Tipton knew they were fooling no one, especially Roosevelt. He’d been with the man long enough to notice the telltale signs. Like of late, when the president ventured out, the cordial waves to well-wishers had become uncharacteristically weak. Sometimes they were nonexistent. Never in the past had FDR ignored the public. And on this trip the president had conspicuously avoided heading to the nearby rehabilitation center’s warm pool for a swim, which had always brought him joy.
Bruenn left and Roosevelt reached for a cigarette, slipping it into the holder clenched between his teeth. The president found some matches and lit one, but his hand shook uncontrollably. So much that he was unable to connect the flame to the end. Tipton wanted to help, but knew better. That was not allowed. He watched as Roosevelt slid open the drawer of the desk before him and rested his elbow inside, then partially closed it, which helped secure a firm hold on the hand. The tremors had definitely grown worse.
Another bad sign.
Roosevelt enjoyed a few drags of nicotine. The president wore his Harvard tie and naval cape, ready to sit for a few hours while his portrait was painted. The artist was a friend of Lucy Rutherfurd’s. The two had driven down from South Carolina and Roosevelt seemed glad Lucy was there. They’d known each other a long time, their relationship the reason why the president and Eleanor lived separate lives. Roosevelt had promised in 1919 that the affair would end, but hadn’t kept that pledge. And it was clear to all, Tipton included, that Lucy brought a joy to his life he could not live without.
“Mark, what’s the weather like?” FDR asked.
“Another hot, Georgia spring day.”
“Just what we need, huh? Come closer, I want to show you something.”
The Little White House comprised a simple cottage of white clapboard and hearty Georgia pine. The entire house under roof did not stretch as long as the Pullman railcar that had brought the president south. There were three bedrooms, two small baths, a kitchen, and an entrance foyer, all of which flowed into a central parlor that opened out to a deck. A rustic décor of hooked rugs and knotty-pine furniture dominated. Two separate cottages accommodated guests and servants. Only a single unpaved road led in and out. Roosevelt had personally selected its hilltop location and insisted on the Spartan design, sketching out the layout himself.
On the desk before the president Tipton again saw the dollar bill with red markings, the same one from five years earlier, along with the same crumpled sheet of paper he’d also first seen in 1940. On a pad Roosevelt had been jotting notes. He noticed how the handwriting down the page changed, the script at the top firm and readable, the lower part jagged and crooked, barely legible.
More effects from the tremors.
“Before the ladies arrive for my portrait sitting,” Roosevelt said, “let’s you and I have one of our chats.”
They’d worked on this puzzle off and on since 1940, when Roosevelt first asked for help. Tipton had done what he could, intrigued by Andrew Mellon’s challenge, but history was not his strong suit and the riddle remained unsolved. Mainly because the president would not allow him to enlist the aid of any outsider.
“Slide that coffin closer,” Roosevelt said.
Everyone had noticed more fatalism of late. Lots of talk of death, mostly in jest, but still uncharacteristic. When they’d arrived at Warm Springs two weeks ago a large wooden crate filled with books had come along and Roosevelt had constantly referred to it as a coffin.
“I’ve been doing some reading of those books,” the president said. “We know those letters on the dollar bill form the word Mason. I’ve tried every combination, but it’s the only word those five letters can create. So Mason it is. Could you hand me that top book, there.”
Tipton retrieved the volume from the crate.
The Life of an American Patriot—George Mason.
“It has to be him,” Roosevelt said. “Mellon said this crumpled sheet is a clue from history, from someone who knew a man like me would one day come along. A tyrannical aristocrat. He certainly meant that as an insult, and God knows I took it as one. But he was insistent that this was the starting point. Open up there to the page I marked. Look at what I’ve underlined”
Tipton did.
Mason was one of three delegates to the Constitutional Convention who refused to sign the finished document. He said that the draft, as adopted, conveyed a “dangerous power” that would end “in monarchy or a tyrannical aristocracy.” Mason declared that “he would sooner chop off my right hand than put it to the Constitution as it now stands.”
“And he never signed,” Roosevelt said. “Mason said the Constitution did not protect the individual and he worried about government overreaching. Of course, the Bill of Rights came along later and fixed all that. But like Mason with the founders, Mellon did not approve of my use of power, either. He actually used those exact words. Tyrannical aristocrat. He told me that history and Mason would begin the quest. That’s an awful lot of riddles but, Mark, I think it’s George Mason. That’s who Mellon was referring to.” Roosevelt held up the crumpled sheet of paper. “I’m so glad Missy kept this.”
Twenty-one years Missy LeHand worked as Roosevelt’s private secretary, taking care of everything. Some said she was even more than an employee, another of the president’s many “private acquaintances,” as the Secret Service described them. Sadly, thou
gh, Missy had died the previous July.
“I’m telling you, Mark. We focus on George Mason. He’s the beginning. The coffin there is loaded with books and notes I’ve made. I want you to work on this and keep all this material for me, including this dollar bill and sheet of paper. I’ve held on to it long enough.”
“Sir, might I ask, why is this still so important?”
“It didn’t used to be. Really, not at all. But the war is coming to an end. It’ll all be over soon. The Depression is gone. We’re finally back on a steady footing. So I’ve found myself thinking of the future and what we might make of it. Mellon was so sure that this crumpled paper would be the end of me. He actually said that. The end of me. He wanted me to waste time, chase after it, but I didn’t. With things starting to calm down, now I’m curious. What did the son of a bitch leave for us to find? What’s so important? He said there were two secrets. I want to know what they are. So you keep on this.”
“I will, sir.”
They heard sounds from the living room.
“It seems the ladies have arrived for my portrait sitting. I’m told there’s a picnic later, and a great kettle of Brunswick stew is being prepared.”
“That was supposed to be a surprise.”
Roosevelt chuckled. “I know. So we won’t mention a thing.”
The president finished his cigarette, then adjusted the cape around his shoulders
“Wheel me in. Can’t keep the ladies waiting.”
“Two hours later, a blood vessel burst in his brain and a little while after that Franklin Roosevelt was dead,” Tipton said.
“What was it Mellon left him to find?” Danny said, excitement in his voice. “Those two secrets?”
Stephanie was anxious to know that herself.
“I have no idea. My father never found out. And that crate of books has been here in my house for a long time.”
“No one ever inquired about it?” Danny asked.
Tipton shook his head. “Not a soul, so my dad assumed nobody knew about it but him. The crumpled sheet of paper, though, was another matter. Henry Morgenthau came to my father a few days after they buried FDR. He seemed to know all about what Mellon had done. Apparently the president told him, too.”
She knew her history. Morgenthau had worked as Treasury secretary for nearly the entire twelve years Roosevelt served. He was perhaps the closest friend and adviser Roosevelt had.
“Morgenthau asked about the crumpled sheet. He wanted to know where it might be. So Dad gave it to him. He didn’t ask about the books in the crate or the dollar bill.”
“Can we see that dollar?” Danny asked.
“I thought you might want to, so I got it out.”
Tipton opened the top book in the stack on the side table and handed Danny an old, faded bill.
She saw that it displayed ink lines, forming a six-pointed star, that connected the five letters forming the word Mason.
Similar to the one Danny had created.
“According to my father,” Tipton said, “Mellon himself drew those lines and gave that bill to FDR. You can see that it’s a true 1935 issue. We don’t have bills like that anymore.”
She’d already noticed the biggest difference. No IN GOD WE TRUST was printed above the ONE. That didn’t come until the 1950s.
“Did your father ever find out anything about this bill?” Danny asked. “Any details?”
Tipton shook his head.
“Did he have any thoughts about that crumpled sheet?”
“He told me that what was on it made no sense. Just a few rows of random numbers.”
Stephanie instantly knew. “A code.”
Tipton nodded. “That’s what Roosevelt thought.”
“Why not have a cryptographer break it?” Danny asked.
“FDR wanted no one else involved, except him and my father. At least that’s what he told him. It was only later that Dad realized Morgenthau knew some of it, too.”
“Numbers could mean a substitution cipher,” she said. “They were popular between the time of the two world wars. The numbers represent letters, which form words. But you’d need the key from which the code was assembled. The master document. Without it, there’s little to no chance of breaking a cipher. That’s why they’re so effective.”
“Where’s the coffin?” the president asked.
Tipton pointed. “In the hall closet.”
“Do you have any idea what it is we’re facing?” Danny asked. “Anything?”
Tipton shook his head. “After Roosevelt died and Morgenthau took back the crumpled sheet, my father never dealt with this again. It seemed not to matter anymore. No one ever mentioned a word about it, so Dad just stored the crate away. I’ve held it since he died. Nobody, until yesterday, ever asked about it.”
“I don’t have to say that—”
Tipton held up a hand that halted the president’s warning. “I’ve kept this to myself for a long time, I can keep doing that.”
Stephanie had more questions, but a soft knock from the front door disturbed the silence. One of the agents stationed outside?
Tipton rose and answered.
The first man to enter the house was Edwin Davis, White House chief of staff. He was a tidy man, near her age, dressed in his usual dark suit, face alert and clean-shaven, nothing even hinting that it was the middle of the night. He acknowledged her with a smile and a wink. They’d been through a lot together and were close friends.
Davis faced his boss and said, “He’s here.”
She glanced at the president.
“When I arranged this meeting, I asked Mr. Tipton if we might borrow his den for another talk I need to keep private. He graciously agreed.”
“I’m going to bed, Mr. President,” Tipton said. “Please switch off the lights and lock the door on your way out.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you, again.”
“My father would have wanted nothing less from me.”
The older man headed for a staircase and climbed.
The next man to enter through the front door was in his fifties with Asian features. His thick black hair was long and cut stylishly. He wore a tailored suit—Armani, if she wasn’t mistaken—the jacket buttoned in front, his cordovan shoes polished to a mirror shine.
She knew the face.
Ambassador to the United States.
From the People’s Republic of China.
TWENTY-FIVE
VENICE
Isabella stood just inside the cruise terminal, near the customs stand. Passengers continued to stream out of the building, luggage trailing behind them. She was soaking wet, embarrassed, and angry. Luckily, her cell phone was waterproof, standard issue at Treasury. She’d not caught a look at the man who’d shoved her into the lagoon, only what he was wearing. She didn’t want to make the overseas call but had no choice. The Treasury secretary was waiting for a report, and he’d earlier made clear that success on her end was imperative.
“The documents are gone?” he asked, when she finished talking. “That’s what you’re saying.”
“My guess is we were made and whoever shoved me off that wharf was working with the woman.”
“We don’t even know who she is?”
“She only came into this during the past few hours. But if I had to guess, I’d say she’s working with Anan Wayne Howell.”
She’d read the transcripts from the intercepted phone calls and emails among Larks, Howell, and Kim. Though Kim had used an alias when communicating with both Americans, voice comparisons made at NSA confirmed his identity. Originally, Treasury’s plan had been to use this overseas trip as the perfect way to bring it all to a head since there would be no worries here about constitutional protections. Foreign intelligence operations ran on few to no rules. Just results.
“This is not good, Isabella. You know that, right?”
She hated failure, too. “Larks was killed for a reason. Kim had to have done it. Malone stumbled into this, and Kim tried to take him
out by implicating him in Larks’ death. The good thing is, I don’t think Kim has the documents, either. So he’s probably in a quandary.”
“The documents, Isabella, that’s what we’re after. That’s all we care about. I’m sorry Larks is dead, but he chose to deal with the devil. He got what people get when they do that. We have to retrieve those documents.”
She was the only agent assigned to this mission. Everything rested with her. “I found the trail before, I can find it again.”
Silence filled her ear for a few moments.
“Okay, stay with it. But another agency is about to be involved.”
And she knew who. “The Magellan Billet?”
“That’s right. You’re all Treasury has there, Isabella. This has to be contained. Do what you have to do.”
The call ended.
Damn, she’d screwed up bad. But where before it was just Larks and Kim, now an assortment of new characters had entered the field. Too many for her to know for certain who was who, or what was what. She was flying blind, and that was never a good thing. Perfection. That’s what her boss wanted and that’s what she’d deliver.
Her father and grandfather had both worked for the FBI, her grandfather as one of Hoover’s trusted assistants. Law enforcement coursed through her veins. She could think of nothing she’d rather do with her life. That was one reason why she remained unmarried. Men had never interested her, and she wondered if that might be more significant. But women carried no fascination, either. Work, that was her aphrodisiac. Her record with Treasury stood unblemished, her arrest and conviction rate superb. She’d investigated major bank fraud, embezzlements, government corruption, and countless tax evaders. Many Treasury agents were CPAs and dealt more with accounting. Her training was all law enforcement. The old-fashioned kind. Legwork and brains, working together. That’s what her father taught her.
She was thirty-six, but looked older, which she actually liked. She worked long and hard and had been fortunate. People envied her, that she knew. Since day one she’d felt a pressure to succeed, and the results spoke for themselves. Some of the biggest tax evaders in U.S. history went down thanks to her. A few years ago she gathered most of the damaging evidence in the massive United Bank of Switzerland debacle, which led to sweeping changes in Swiss bank secrecy. No mistakes there. That operation ran perfectly. She hated people who cheated the government. To her tax evasion was a form of treason. Government existed to protect the people, and the people owed their allegiance. To violate that trust, to steal from it, was tantamount to declaring war. Right is right, her grandfather would say. That it was. When he retired, J. Edgar Hoover himself was there to shake her grandfather’s hand. A photo of that moment hung in her office back in DC. One day, when her time was done, a president might congratulate her in the same way.
