The door opened and the orderly let another man into The Room, where Bull Gordon and the Senator sat.

In his trademark white suit, looking every inch a plantation owner from a hundred years ago, Cyrus Clayborn walked inside and nodded to the two men with a casual smile on his ruddy face. Then he squinted and nodded once more. He glanced at the liquor cabinet but didn’t make a move toward it; he was an abstainer, Bull Gordon knew.

“They have any coffee here?” Clayborn asked.

“No.”

“Ah.” Clayborn set his walking stick against the wall near the door and said, “You only ask me here when you need money, and I suspect you’re not after alms today.” He sat heavily. “It’s the other thing, huh?”

“It’s the other thing,” Gordon echoed. “Where’s your man?”

“My bodyguard?” Clayborn cocked his head.

“Right.”

“Outside in the car.”

Relieved that he wouldn’t need his pistol after all – Clayborn’s minder was notoriously dangerous – Gordon called one of the three navy men in an office near the front door and told him to make sure the fellow stayed inside the limo, not to let him into the town house. “Use any force you need to.”

“Yes, sir. With pleasure, sir.”

Gordon hung up and saw the financier chuckling. “Don’t tell me you were thinkin’ it’d come to six-guns, Commander.” When the officer said nothing Clayborn asked, “So. How’d you tip to it?”

“Fellow named Albert Heinsler,” Gordon replied.

“Who?”

“You oughta know,” grumbled the Senator. “He was on the Manhattan because of you.”

Gordon continued. “The Nazis’re smart, sure, but we thought – why would they have a spy on the ship? That seemed bum to me. We knew Heinsler was with the Jersey division of the German-American Bund, so we had Hoover put some pressure on them.”

“Doesn’t that faggot have anything better to do with his time?” Clayborn grumbled.

“We found out you’re a big contributor to the bund.”

“Man’s gotta put his money to work somehow,” he said glibly, making Gordon detest him all the more. The magnate nodded. “Heinsler was his name, huh? Never knew it. He was just on board to keep an eye on Schumann and get a message to Berlin about a Russian being in town. Needed to keep the Huns on alert. Make our little play more credible, you know. All part of the act.”

“How did you know Taggert?”

“Served with me in the War. Promised him some diplomatic postings if he helped me out here.”

The Senator shook his head. “We couldn’t figure out how you got the pass codes.” He laughed and nodded toward Gordon. “At first the commander here thought I was the one sold Schumann out. That’s okay, though. Didn’t ruffle my feathers. But then Bull remembered your companies – you control every telephone and telegraph line on the East Coast. You had somebody listen in when I called the commander and we decided on the codes.”

“That’s baloney. I-”

Gordon said, “One of my men checked your company’s files, Cyrus. You had transcripts of the conversations between the Senator and me. You found out everything.”

Clayborn shrugged, more amused than troubled. Which really rubbed Gordon the wrong way. The commander snapped, “We’ve got it all, Clay-born.” He explained how the original idea to kill Reinhard Ernst had come from the magnate, who suggested it to the Senator. Patriotic duty, he’d said. He’d help fund the assassination. Hell, he’d fund the whole thing. The Senator had gone to certain people high in the administration and they’d approved the operation on the sly. But Clayborn had secretly called Robert Taggert and ordered him to kill Morgan, meet Schumann and help him plot to kill Ernst, then save the German colonel at the last minute. When Gordon had gone to him to ask for the extra thousand bucks, Clayborn had kept up the pretense that it was Morgan, not Taggert, whom Gordon was talking to.

“Why’s it so important to you to keep Hitler happy?” Gordon asked.

Clayborn scoffed. “You’re a fool if you’re ignoring the Jew threat. They’re plotting all over the world. Not to mention the Communists. And, for God’s sake, the coloreds? We can’t let our guard down for a minute.”

Disgusted, Gordon snapped, “So that’s what this’s all about? Jews and Negroes?”

Before the old man could answer, though, the Senator said, “Oh, I’ll betcha there’s something else, Bull… Money, right, Cyrus?”

“Bingo!” the white-haired man whispered. “The Germans owe us billions – all the loans we floated to keep them going over the past fifteen years. We have to keep Hitler and Schacht and the rest of the money boys over there happy so our notes keep getting paid.”

“They’re rearming to start another war,” Gordon growled.

Clayborn said matter-of-factly, “All the better to be on their side then, don’t you think? Bigger market for our arms.” He pointed a finger at the Senator. “Provided you fools in Congress get rid of the Neutrality Act…” Then he frowned. “So what do the Huns think about the Ernst situation?”

“Oh, well, it’s a goddamn mess,” the Senator raged. “Taggert tells them about an assassination but the killer escapes and tries again. Then Taggert disappears. Publicly they’re talking about the Russians hiring an American assassin. But in private they’re wondering if we weren’t behind the whole thing.”

Clayborn grimaced in disgust. “And Taggert?” Then he nodded. “Dead. Sure. And Schumann did it. Well, that’s the way it goes… So, gentlemen, I suppose this is the end of our fine working relationship.”

“Reggie Morgan’s dead because of you… You’re guilty of some pretty bad crimes here, Cyrus.”

The man brushed a white eyebrow. “How ’bout you funding this little outing with private money? Oh, that’d make a nice topic for a congressional hearing, don’tcha think? We have ourselves a standoff here, looks like. So I’m thinking it’s best we both go our separate ways and keep mum. Good night now. Oh, and keep buying stock in my company if you civil servants can afford any. It’s only going to go up.” Clayborn stood slowly. He picked up his cane and headed for the door.

Gordon decided that, whatever the consequences, whatever happened to his own career, he’d make sure Clayborn get didn’t away with this, not after the man had murdered Reginald Morgan and nearly killed Schumann. But larger justice would have to wait. There was only one matter that needed attention at the moment. “I want Schumann’s money,” the commander said.

“What money?”

“The ten thousand you promised him.”

“Oh. He didn’t produce. The Huns suspect us and my man’s dead. Schumann’s outa luck. No dough.”

“You’re not going to chisel him.”

“Sorry,” the businessman said, not looking the least contrite.

“Well, in that case, Cyrus,” the Senator called, “good luck.”

“We’ll keep our fingers crossed for you,” Gordon added.

The businessman stopped, looked back.

“I’m just thinking what might happen if Schumann finds out you not only tried to kill him but you stiffed him too.”

“Knowing his line of work and all,” Gordon chimed in again.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“He’ll be back here in a week, ten days.”

The industrialist sighed. “All right, all right.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a booklet of bank drafts. He tore one out and started to write.

Gordon shook his head. “Nope. You’re going to go dig up some good, old-fashioned scratch right now. Now. Not next week.”

“Sunday night? Ten thousand?”

“Now,” the Senator echoed. “If Paul Schumann wants greenbacks, greenbacks’re what we’re going to give him.”