“with peace and glory ahead”
Harry Bierce had been standing by the main entrance to the soaring Capitol Building in Baton Rouge for over an hour, watching the line of thousands of grieving people, forming a procession more than half a mile long. The Louisiana sun was blistering, but none of the mourners seemed to mind. Silence pervaded except for the occasional sobbing, as the citizens shuffled slowly up to the building and ascended the steps leading to the rotunda—a just-completed monument that Huey Long had built for himself—all for a few moments to see the corpse of the man who had embodied their hopes and dreams, who had promised them so much.
Earlier that morning, Bierce had flashed his badge to the stony-faced state policemen at the entrance, and had been allowed to go to the head of the line. He entered the enormous, echoing rotunda, and had seen the open coffin, set up on a platform on the spot where Senator Long had been shot and surrounded by elaborate floral displays. He stepped up to the coffin and stared down at the peaceful looking body, clothed in a formal tuxedo that, in life, Long would have disdained. Bierce shook his head, marveling how one man with so much energy, so much ambition, had allowed greed to bring him to such an end. Still wondering at the mysteries of mankind, he’d left the rotunda to enter the blinding Louisiana sunlight.
Across the street and near to the line of mourners, sitting on the grass under a shade tree was a black man with a guitar, blind, perhaps from a gas attack during the Great War. Not quite knowing why, Bierce crossed the street and walked over to him. The man was playing a guitar, and although quite good, the upturned cap on the ground in front of him only contained a scattering of change. Standing quite close, Bierce listened to the mournful song the man was singing. He recognized it as the melancholy song that was sweeping the Depressionstricken nation: “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?”
They used to tell me I was building a dream,
and so I followed the mob;
When there was earth to plow or guns to bear,
I was always there, right on the job.
As Bierce listened, he scanned the slow-moving line. He saw white families and black families standling close together, the uneasiness normally shown when whites were forced into close proximity to blacks, was absent.
They used to tell me I was building a dream,
with peace and glory ahead.
Why should I be standing in line,
just waiting for bread?
Bierce noticed a farmer in bibbed overalls in the line with three children under the age of ten clinging to him. The children looked bewildered, even frightened, too young to understand exactly what was going on, but not too young to understand something was badly wrong. No woman stood with this family. Bierce made an educated guess that constant pregnancy and grinding poverty had placed her in an early grave. The farmer himself had a lined face with sad eyes, his skin so roughened and burned by the Louisiana sun that Bierce could not decide whether the man was black or white. Bierce supposed that it did not matter.
Once I built a railroad,
I made it run, made it race against time.
Once I built a railroad, now it’s done,
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Bierce scanned the newsreel crews and their heavy cameras, the crazed equipment of the radio networks with electrical lines wandering over the ground like snakes, the reporters, the photographers. Normally, he despised the newshounds and their conscienceless pursuit of tragedy and sensation, the way that they would serve up to the public the tragedy and the pain of others in order to entertain the curious. For some reason, today they were subdued, even polite. Bierce decided that they realized that something titanic had happened, something that would affect them, as well as the public forever.
Once I built a tower up to the sun,
brick and rivet and lime.
Once I built a tower, now it’s done,
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Out of the corner of his eye, Bierce spotted Russell Long in the line, accompanied by his mother and sister. Russell and his sister showed signs of crying, although no tears flowed now. Their faces had the look of bewildered amazement Bierce had seen numerous times on the faces of soldiers who had just been shot, still conscious yet unable to comprehend that their lives were about to end. Mrs. Long walked steadily on, her face stony. Bierce had heard rumors that Huey saw his wife seldom in the last few years, contenting himself with casual affairs with admiring young women. Yet there was brittleness in the way she walked that indicated to Bierce that she did mourn, for the man she had married, if not the man he had become.
Once in khaki suits, gee, we looked swell,
full of that Yankee Doodly Dum;
Half a million boots went slogging thru Hell,
and I was the kid with the drum.
Bierce now focused on the blind performer, tears from his sightless eyes flowing down past the rim of his dark glasses as he sang the last verse in the voice of an angel.
Say, don’t you remember? They called me ‘Al’;
It was ‘Al’ all the time;
Why don’t you remember? I’m your pal,
Say buddy, can you spare a dime?
Bierce reached into his pocket and extracted a ten-dollar bill. He was about to put the bill into the upturned cap when he realized the blind man, unable to see the denomination, could easily be cheated. Placing the currency in the man’s hand, Bierce murmured, “Just so you will know, this is ten dollars.”
As Bierce straightened, the singer said, “Thanks, sir. It is a sad time, ain’t it?”
Bierce considered saying something blandly comforting, but then decided that would not do justice to the blinded veteran who had already given so much. All men need to hear the truth, but this man at this moment, Bierce thought, deserved it unvarnished and real. “It is, of course, sad. But you, of all people, must know that the ‘Share the Wealth’ plan could not have worked. There’s nowhere near enough rich people to have funded it. Yet Long would have tried to make it work, would have tried to seize enough of the nation’s wealth to make it work. All that would have done, is take from the country the capital necessary to restart the economy. The Depression would have gotten worse, would have gone on indefinitely, with no end in sight. And he would’ve have used any means necessary to accomplish his goals. That’s not the democracy you fought for.”
“Well, sir, you may have the right of it,” responded the man, idly picking a few notes off his guitar. “I know Long was a bit of a crook. Know some of the state money stuck to his fingers and those of his kin. I know that some of his ideas weren’t thought out, were—what’s the word?—utopian. But in spite of his greed for power and money, he cared. He really cared. That made up for a lot, sir. He did give us the roads, the schools, the hospitals, the textbooks. The other high-and-mighty types in Baton Rouge, in New Orleans, they didn’t care, sir. Didn’t care one damn bit for us common folks. Huey did. Can forgive a man a lot because of that.”
Bierce knew there was much truth in what the blind veteran said. “There are others who care, more honest, more capable—President Roosevelt and others. They will make certain that what can be done, will be done. Give them a chance.”
“I pray you’re right, sir.” The man began to strum out a melancholy tune. Bierce turned and, without saying another word, left the man to grieve.
After a short walk, Bierce reached his rented Hudson convertible, got in, and started the powerful engine. Placing it in gear, he roared off, taking the road out of Baton Rouge to the south. He was not headed to New Orleans … not yet anyway. After a relatively short drive, he turned into the entrance of a rural cemetery. Despite the brightness of the sun, there was a deep sense of loss guarded by ancient, spreading trees dripping moss. He spotted a small party in the distance. Driving toward it, he stopped the noisy car at a respectful distance and walked the rest of the way.
A Catholic priest was standing at the head of a coffin, reading something in a monotone. Behind him, at a discrete distance, stood two men in rough clothes smoking cigarettes; presumably these were the gravediggers. At the foot of the coffin stood the towering Judge Benjamin Pavy, one arm wrapped tightly around the shoulders of his sobbing daughter Yvonne, while his wife stood on the other side of him, dry-eyed, stony-faced. Bierce took a position under the shade of one of the massive trees and watched the remainder of the ceremony, removing his hat in respect.
Finally the mumbling priest finished his reading, made some gestures over the coffin, and hurried off, not bothering to stop to speak to the family. The two gravediggers simultaneously threw their cigarettes on the ground, and crushed them with the soles of their boots. They then picked up shovels that had been lying there and sauntered over to the coffin and the pile of fresh earth that lay beside a yawning grave. Putting a heavy arm each around his wife and daughter, Judge Pavy gently turned them in the direction of a distant chapel where their automobile was parked. As he walked by the tree that sheltered Bierce, the Judge noticed the federal agent. Murmuring a few words to his wife, he handed off their daughter to her. While they continued on the way to the chapel, he then walked wearily over to Bierce. Judge Pavy did not offer to shake hands, but nodded a greeting to the agent.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Bierce. As you see, no one else has come, not my other children, not even Carl’s father. They treat us like we have the plague.” Suddenly the old man’s face crumpled like old linen. As a wail of despair came his throat, he buried his face in his hands. He spoke between sobs. “Why, Carl, why? Why’d you leave my baby girl a widow, my grandson fatherless? Why’d you throw away that magnificent mind of yours? Was it because you thought I believed you a Jew, that others too believed the same? That Long was like that thug over in Germany? All that didn’t matter; you had a duty … a duty….”
Pavy descended into continuous sobbing for some minutes, then forced himself to stop, wiping his face with a large handkerchief and straightned his shoulders. He then turned his red-rimmed eyes on Bierce and asked him, “Or was it my fault? Was it because I was always venting my hatred of Huey Long and all of his works that he became obsessed with the need to kill Long? Did I persuade my baby girl’s husband to throw his life away?”
Harry Bierce normally kept his emotions well in check, but he pitied the old man to the bottom of his strange soul. “Judge Pavy, what Dr. Weiss did was murder, pure and simple. But every man must be responsible for his own actions. I am confident that you never once urged him to commit murder for any reason, good or bad. Having said that, I do not believe him to have been an evil man. He killed, not for personal gain, vengeance, or even hatred. He killed because he thought it would save lives. Take what consolation from that you can. When your grandson is of an age to understand these things, make sure that he knows that his father was a good man who took a wrong path. And don’t you give up fighting the corrupt and wicked through the ballot box. You are a good man, too, and America does not have enough like you. You and yours have my condolences. Now, you should go catch up with your family. They will need you more than ever in the coming weeks.”
Harry Bierce extended his small hand. Judge Pavy took it in both of his, shook it, then with a slight nod of his head trudged toward the chapel. Bierce watched him until he disappeared inside. Then Bierce strode purposely toward his Hudson. There was so much to do, and so little time in which to do it.
From behind him came the hollow “thunk, thunk” as the gravediggers threw shovels-full of earth on the coffin of Dr. Carl Weiss.
“So, Huey Long has come a cropper, eh? I knew he would, eventually. Tried to tell your bosses in Berlin that, but they wouldn’t listen. They were in too much of a hurry. Told them ’36 was too soon; told them to wait until ’40, when Roosevelt’s two terms are up.”
Von Papen face held an expression of ill-disguised disgust. He despised traitors—even those who benefited his beloved Germany. The man across from him took a long drag on an unfiltered Camel and blew the noxious smoke in his direction; von Papen did not attempt to hide his coughing response to the cheap American cigarette.
The American smiled, relishing von Papen’s discomfort.
“The Leader is not known for his patience,” replied von Papen dryly. “Besides, he knows that the limitation of two presidential terms is a custom established by your George Washington, not a requirement of your Constitution. He believes that should he live, Roosevelt will run for a third term in 1940. Perhaps even a fourth in 1944. That is what concerns him. He knows that your President hates Germany in general and the Nazi Party in particular. He has plans for the 1940s in Europe, and does not want American interference, like in the Great War.” Von Papen paused to grimace, and then continued. “Having said all that, in my personal opinion I believe you to be correct. Better to be successful in 1940 than fail in 1936.”
“I think you’re someone I can deal with. You’re not like those thick-headed thugs your precious Leader has sent in the past. And don’t worry, I don’t take much persuading to stay out of European affairs. We got into your Great War, and as near as I can see it all we got out of that was a quarter million boys killed. Still, the terms I’ve discussed with you people in the past will have to be changed. Without Huey, I’m all you got, and my price has gone up.”
Von Papen just barely managed to suppress a sneer. “And just what is your price now?”
“First off, you can tell your buddies in New England to go crawl back in their holes. This is a white man’s country, and I’m not sharing it with anyone—least of all those freaks. Second, the money will be twice what I previously said, and all in gold. I’m going to need every ounce of it, especially if Roosevelt tries for a third term.”
“I have no power to agree to your new terms, although I will most certainly relay them to Berlin. Personally, I think the Leader will agree. As you say, you are now all he has.” Von Papen stood, and bowed slightly. “In any event, I must go. My ship leaves New York for Hamburg in fourteen hours, and I must be on it. That requires I take the very next train north. I will find my own way out.” Von Papen clicked his heels, turned, and exited the suite without a backward glance.
Vice President Garner looked thoughtfully at the door, then crushed out his Camel in the ashtray.
Another mercilessly hot day had just ended in Commerce, Oklahoma. In the small bungalow owned by the teacher, she had left all the windows open and kept two electric fans going, but the heat made the air seem almost liquid, made moving about seem like walking through water. The teacher wiped a layer of sweat off her face with a handkerchief, then walked into the dining room
Despite the temperature, she smiled at the sight of her recently adopted daughter, the orphaned child of Constable William Campbell, gunned down by Bonnie Parker last summer. Constable Campbell had no living relations, not even cousins, and there was talk of sending the girl to an orphanage. The teacher had grown up in an orphanage, and had no intention of letting this bright little girl live in a hellish state institution. Instead, she had taken the child in and had not regretted it for one moment since.
The girl did not notice her adoptive mother looking proudly at her. She was writing in a notebook, periodically consulting a high-school level physics textbook, concentrating completely, seemingly impervious to the heat. The teacher was glad that she had formally adopted her, despite the objections raised by her lack of a husband. She had been married in her twenties, but there had been no children before her husband went to the Great War and found a nameless grave in France, and she’d never felt the need to remarry—did not feel the need now. She was certain her late husband would have been proud to be father to the intelligent girl at the dining room table. The smile faded from the teacher’s face with thoughts of the future. The girl had a brilliant mind, but she feared it was destined to be wasted. There was barely enough money for the two of them to survive; nothing left over to save for college. Perhaps there would be some sort of scholarship, but, honestly, the best her daughter could hope for would be to find a good man who would appreciate her mind. Most likely it would be some farmer who would keep her fed and pregnant on some hard-scrabble land for the rest of her life.
Unexpectedly, there was a brisk knock at the screen door. The girl looked up from her work with an expression of terror. It broke her mother’s heart to see how nervous she was. There was really no need. The people in Commerce were friendly and decent, and aside from some violations of the Prohibition laws, not inclined to crime. In fact, people hardly ever locked their doors. But a year ago, the girl had held her father as his life bled from him on a hot, dusty street. The experience had left its cruel mark on her.
Telling the girl in a bright voice not to worry, that she would see who was there, the teacher went to the screen door and turned on the porch light. Seeing nobody at the door, she opened the screen and peered around. She saw nothing but a paper bag at the door. Frowning, she picked it up and took it inside. She told her daughter that it had been some kind of prank, and the girl resumed her studies. The teacher sat herself in a living room chair to examine the contents of the bag, and was barely able to contain a cry of amazement and wonder. Bundles of currency, mainly fifty-and one-hundred-dollar bills, fell into her lap. A folded note also fell out. Opening it, she read the following:
I have looked into your background and find you a fit guardian for the daughter of Constable William Campbell. Enclosed you will find $20,000 for her support and education. There is no need to report this, if the money concerns you. No one has a better right to it than you, and no one will be pressing a claim for it.
There was no address or signature on the note, which had been neatly printed. Tears began to trickle down the teacher’s cheeks. She could not imagine who her benefactor was, but she now knew there was continuing education in her daughter’s future.
Four houses down on the opposite side of the street, a figure looked at the teacher’s bungalow for a long time, then walked to the next block, got in a Hudson convertible, and roared off into the night.
It all seemed unreal to Earl Long. Here he was sitting in Huey’s office behind Huey’s desk, seeing a regular stream of Huey’s friends and supporters. Even Governor King, who had ignored Earl during Huey’s life, was now humbly sitting across from him, asking what he wanted done as to this, that, and the other. It didn’t seem right; Huey had always called the shots, and Earl had never imagined it could be any other way. Still, one could get used to such power, thought Earl guiltily.
“So, Mr. Long, we’re going to need a lot of money—cash, untraceable—to keep our majority in the legislature next year. And I hate to think what a national campaign would cost us.” It was not lost on Earl Long that Governor King was no longer calling him ‘Earl,’ or the occasional ‘Huey’s idiot kid brother.’
“I’ll see what can be done,” replied Earl. “We won’t need as much as you think. With Huey gone, there’s no presidential campaign. We only need money for the Louisiana elections and to help elect some friends of ‘Share the Wealth’ in other states. I’ll run the trap lines and see how much we can expect.”
“Well then, I’ll be getting along,” replied the Governor as he rose from his chair. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Long.” He took his considerable bulk out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Now that he was alone, Earl Long decided to find out just how much was in the deduct box. As he had done on numerous occasions when Huey was alive, he opened up the hiding place and nearly passed out from the shock of seeing it was absolutely empty—no large tin box, no mounds of untraceable cash. Then he noticed it was not entirely empty; there was a small piece of paper in the empty space. With trembling fingers he drew it out. On the paper, in plain block letters, it said:
THE CITIZENS OF THE UNITED STATES SEND THEIR THANKS.
Dropping the paper from his nerveless fingers, Earl Long collapsed back into the large desk chair and passed out.
Mrs. Belasco was at her desk in the library, rushing to finish some important correspondence. Very special guests were due at any moment, and she had no intention of depriving herself of one minute of the . . . unusual entertainments those guests provided. She frowned at a quiet knock on the closed door, and irritably said, “Come in.”
The elderly butler entered, carrying a medium-sized package wrapped in brown paper. “My apologies, Mrs. Belasco, but this just arrived, brought here by a special courier. I thought it must be important.”
“Put it here on my desk and then leave,” she said gruffly. The old man did as he was told, softly closing the door behind him. The moment he was gone, she took her gold-plated letter opener and cut away the paper, only to find a neatly stacked block of currency, made up of carefully bound stacks of tens, twenties, and fifties. Although she would have a precise count done later by one of her accountants, she estimated there was about $50,000 cash in this bundle. There was no letter or note.
Bierce. She leaned back in her chair and gave a silvery, chilling laugh. She wondered how he had come into such a sum, and laughed again. Frankly, she had considered the original amount a gift, never expected to see a penny back from the government-salaried investigator. Well, tonight she was going to have a reason to celebrate.
Again, there was a polite knock at the library door.
“Come in,” she said.
The elderly butler again entered the library, this time with a badly concealed look of disgust, tinged with fear. Belasco found that amusing, considering the varied things the old man had seen in his many years of service to her.
“Mrs. Belasco, your guests have arrived.”
“Show them into the special room in the basement. Tell them I will need several minutes to get prepared.”
Ana Cumpanas stared with hollow eyes at the institutional green walls of the interrogation room that the immigration officer had locked her into, and uttered a vile curse in Roumanian. Despite the promises of Agent Bierce, she had been picked up and processed for deportation back to the barbaric hellhole that General Antonescu had made of her homeland. She knew that today was the day. Any moment, an immigration officer would walk through that door, handcuff her, and take her to the train station for the long trip to New York City, where she would be placed on some rusty steamer for the month-long journey to the land of her birth. She could easily imagine being met at the dock in Varna by men from Antonescu’s Iron Guard. She didn’t want to imagine what would follow.
The door flew open and, to her utter surprise, Harry Bierce entered the room. Before she could utter a word, he said, “I keep my promises, even if it involves some minor corruption. You are free, Mrs. Cumpanas. Come with me.”
She staggered to her feet, and followed Bierce down the corridor and into an elevator. The car opened on the ground floor. Neither of the two guards on duty tried to stop her. They simply gave a nod of recognition to Bierce, then pointedly looked away. Bierce led her out onto the street and down two blocks to where his Hudson convertible was parked. The agent held the passenger door open for her. Still stunned by the change in her circumstances, she gingerly entered the sporty car. Bierce then went around to the driver side and vaulted into the seat without opening the door. He hit the ignition and merged the powerful automobile into downtown Chicago traffic.
Having been silent since Bierce had entered the interrogation room, Cumpanas finally found her voice. “Agent Bierce, I don’t get what’s going on? Where are we going?”
With his free hand Bierce reached into his inside coat pocket, withdrew three envelopes, and tossed them in her lap. “First things first. You are no longer Ana Cumpanas. You’re Helena Klein. You’re still Roumanian, but you were born in Brasov, not Bucharest. One of the envelopes contains your naturalization papers. They will withstand any reasonable scrutiny.”
Her head spinning, she said, “But … but they have ordered my extradition for today. When I don’t show up—”
“That is taken care of,” interrupted Bierce. “As it happens, another Roumanian woman was awaiting extradition. She ran a business that, ah, relieved women of unwanted pregnancies. I have paid her a considerable sum to agree to be you. The same venal official who has provided you with your new papers has altered her records to show her as Ana Cumpanas.”
In her many years as a prostitute, and then a madam, she had seen and heard of many things, but never anything like this. “I don’t know what to say.”
“The second envelope contains a thousand dollars cash,” interrupted Bierce again. “That should support you until you have established your new life. The third envelope contains a first-class train ticket to Los Angeles, and a letter of recommendation to the head of costuming at a major film studio. I once provided a very great service for her, and she will employ you as a favor to me. The skills you demonstrated repairing my clothes in the hospital proved to me you will do well in such a job, which will not provide wealth but will give you more than enough to live on, and is free of taint of the criminal underworld.”
The car roared past a long line of dejected men and women, waiting patiently for their turn at a soup kitchen. Shortly thereafter the train station came into view. Bierce brought the Hudson to a smooth halt before the main entrance.
“What if I just decide to turn in the train ticket for a refund, and start up my business as before?” she said, looking at Bierce speculatively, a slight smile on her lips.
Bierce turned and looked right back at her with an intensity that startled her. “That will be your choice entirely. I believe you have never really had a good choice before you in your life. Now you have one. I hope that you will choose wisely.”
The woman who was now Helena Klein frowned. “Why are you doing all of this for me, really?”
Bierce took a deep breath as a look of profound sadness and devotion passed over his features. “Because you remind me of a woman I once loved.” He swiftly grabbed her face in both hands and planted a deep kiss on her lips. Just as quickly, he broke off the kiss, reached across her and threw open the passenger door. Wordlessly, she stepped out of the Hudson and closed the door. Bierce roared off, never looking back. She then turned to look at the entrance to the train station and took her first steps toward a new life.
Franz von Papen was terrified as he entered Heinrich Himmler’s inner sanctum, but struggled hard to control his fear. When he saw Rheinhard Heydrich was also in the office, standing behind and to the left of the seated secret policeman, it became more of a struggle for him to conceal his terror. Yet somehow, he managed.
Himmler was tapping a file that lay open on his desk with a pen. The expression on his face was bland, as always. He did not invite von Papen to sit. Instead, he launched straight into business.
“The affair with Long has not ended very well, has it? It even appears that Mr. Noyes, our valuable New England contact, committed suicide out of disappointment and chagrin.”
“There is more than meets the eye to the death of Noyes,” replied von Papen in a carefully neutral voice. “His suicide took place before the murder of Senator Long. In any event, I cannot recommend that Germany rely on what is left of his organization. I met certain of his … key people. My recommendation is that they can in no way be trusted.”
Himmler emitted a small, exasperated sigh. “So, we are back to relying on Vice President Garner. I am not sure he can be counted on to support the goals of the Leader.”
“Did you meet with Garner on your way home, as I told you?” asked Heydrich in an icy voice.
“Yes, there I am more hopeful. It is true he does not approve of many of the Leader’s internal policies, but he is a very dedicated isolationist, and wants no involvement in any future European war. He would never agree to be controlled by us, but his foreign policy positions would align with Germany’s long-term interests, should the Leader resort to war. Of course, he is now demanding money, a great deal of money, to support a run for the American Presidency in 1940. He knows we now have no one else to turn to.”
Himmler nodded. “Given that you could not have anticipated Long’s assassination, you have done well enough. I will report that to the Leader. I will also recommend that he appoint you our ambassador to the Vatican. The Pope looks down his long, Catholic nose at the Party and its leadership and does not have good relations with our current representative. Since you are a well-known Catholic from the old aristocracy, you should do much better.”
Von Papen struggled hard to keep his face from showing the relief he felt. “I will be pleased to represent Germany to the Holy Father.”
“One final thing,” said Himmler, “the Leader would like you to apply for membership in the Party. He feels that our representatives abroad should indicate their solidarity with the current regime.”
“I will serve Germany in any honorable way I can, but I will never join the Nazi Party. Never. You may tell the Leader that.” To von Papen’s horror, the words fell from his mouth without conscious thought.
“No matter the costs to yourself and your family?” asked Heydrich in a voice that sounded amused and enraged at the same time.
Von Papen felt as if a pit yawned before him, but it was too late to take back his words. In truth, he did not wish to take them back. “No matter the cost,” he said in a voice near a whisper.
Himmler glanced at Heydrich, then turned his attention back to von Papen, his lips curled in a faint, benign smile. “The Leader thought you would say something like that. He has informed me that it is not mandatory that you join, so long as you continue to serve Germany. Two days from now, you are to meet the Leader to receive your formal commission to Rome. In the meantime, you are dismissed. Go home to your family.”
His body trembling ever so slightly, von Papen bowed to the secret policeman, clicked his heels, and left Himmler’s office, a slight stagger to his walk. After the door closed, Heydrich turned to his master and said, “The Leader is really going to let that ridiculous old aristocrat get away with such insolence?”
“Do not question the Leader’s judgment. He sees that some usefulness can still be garnered from von Papen.”
“And should he cease to be useful at some time in the future?”
“Then he will be yours,” replied Himmler.
Heydrich smiled broadly, showing his white, sharp teeth.
Harry Bierce sat in a wing chair of his DuPont Circle apartment living room, staring moodily at a framed picture over the fireplace. It was of a woman dressed in the style of the 1880s, flanked by two teenagers, a boy and a girl. The woman was tall and erect, the streaks of grey in her long, dark hair adding, instead of detracting, from her exotic beauty. She stared boldly into the camera, a lovely, enigmatic smile gracing her lips. The resemblance to Ana Cumpanas was slight, but it was there. The teenagers also stared directly into the camera. It was hard to say why, but their expressions indicated cheerfully cruel intelligence.
Bierce sighed, then turned his attention to the large tin box that sat on the floor to the left of the fireplace—the famous “deduct box,” the disappearance of which was generating rumors throughout the nation. He felt some shame for having taken it, as he had been raised to regard thievery as strictly dishonorable. Regardless, it would not be possible to return the money to the state employees from whom it had been extorted. And since he would never allow the remnants of the Long political machine to retain it to further their corrupt goals, he had decided to dedicate the money to the benefit of the country.
Now, thoroughly convinced that it was only a matter of time until Germany again was a considerable threat to the United States, Bierce had tried to alert the relevant authorities. Although not long back in Washington, he had already talked to the heads of the Army and Navy Intelligence, who had called him an alarmist. He had talked to Army Chief of Staff Douglas MacArthur, who also dismissed his concerns, although MacArthur’s aide, a middle-aged captain named Eisenhower, had listened with a thoughtful, concerned expression on his face.
Bierce had even obtained an interview with President Roosevelt, who’d been informed by Director Hoover of Bierce’s role in saving his life and expressed his sincere gratitude. But he condescendingly assured Bierce that America could contain the Nazi menace by providing aid to England, France, and Russia.
Bierce was disappointed, but not despairing. Since official Washington would not take him seriously, he would use the money from the deduct box to set up his own, private intelligence service. He would then deliver up priceless information when those in Washington finally awoke to the threat. According to Mrs. Belasco, her brother was already in contact with the Nazi inner circle and, much to Bierce’s surprise, had shown a willingness to inform on their plans. Maybe there was some real humanity there. He would have to find a way to contact him directly without having to go through Mrs. Belasco, though.
There were more immediate things to accomplish. He could hardly leave such huge sums of cash lying about his apartment. He would have to open a number of safe deposit boxes and banking accounts in various names. And before that, he needed to make his final report to Director Hoover. Bierce stood up, placed his fedora neatly on his head, and headed out on the long walk to Bureau headquarters.
Earl Long was at his desk in the office he unofficially occupied in the Capitol, trying to decipher some reports on parish voting patterns, when Governor King burst in, face red with excitement.
“Mr. Long! Mr. Long! I’ve got to talk to you!”
Long frowned at the genial, nonentity that his brother had placed in the governor’s mansion. “Calm down, Governor. What is it?”
“I’ve got the state coroner’s final report on your brother’s death. You got to see it!”
Earl Long rubbed his tired eyes. “I’ve been at these damn papers for too long. Just tell me what it says.”
“Well, in summary it says your brother died when a .32 caliber bullet perforated his kidney and small intestine, causing fatal bleeding.”
“So? We know that bastard Weiss shot Huey with a .32.”
King paused to take several deep breaths before saying, “Mr. Long, the coroner had a ballistics test done on the bullet, just as a matter of routine. Mr. Long, I don’t know how to say this…”
“Spit it out!”
“The bullet … it didn’t come from Weiss’s gun.”
Earl Long stared slack-jawed at the Governor for a moment, then almost shouted, “Of course the goddamned bullet came from that Jew’s gun! It was a .32!”
King vigorously shook his head. “But it wasn’t the gun that fired the bullet that killed Huey.”
“I was there myself. So were you. We saw Weiss fire twice!”
“In this report, they say they did pick up two .32 slugs at the scene. One smashed the watch of a bodyguard next to Huey, breaking his wrist; the other buried itself in the woodwork of a bench.”
Earl Long was silent for a full minute before saying, “It must have been a ricochet from one of the shots fired by the guards. They must have shot Weiss thirty, forty times after his gun jammed. One of the slugs must have gone wild, bounced off the marble floor, and hit Huey.”
Again King shook his head. “The coroner thought of that and checked on the guns of every last one of the guards. They were all .38s or .45s.”
Long and King stared at each other. Finally, the dead senator’s brother asked, “Then who killed Huey?”
“We probably will never know,” replied Governor King, taking out a large handkerchief and mopping his brow. “Mr. Long, this is a goddamned mess! What am I going to tell the press? What am I going to tell the people?”
“You tell them nothing!” snarled Earl Long. “You’re right, we’ll probably never find out who actually fired the bullet. But that doesn’t matter. His political enemies were behind it. We’re going to pound them with responsibility for Huey’s murder, pound them so hard that Huey’s people will stay in power in Louisiana for the next generation! But if there is public doubt as to who fired the bullet, they might be able to wiggle free of the responsibility. We need to bury this, bury it so deep it will never see the light of day. Governor, you take this report back to the coroner and tell him it is unacceptable. He needs to change it to show the bullet that killed Huey came from Weiss’s gun. The coroner and any of his people having knowledge of this report should be told if they tow the line, they will be taken care of. If they don’t, then they will also be taken care of. Just in a different way.”
King visibly gulped. He now knew for certain what he had only suspected: Earl Long was just as hard and ruthless as Huey had been. The governor gingerly took back the report and said, “Yes, Mr. Long.” as he tiptoed out of the office.
Earl Long swiveled his chair to the window and stared out of it blankly for some time. Finally, his voice almost breaking with emotion, he murmured, “Who fired that bullet, big brother? Who killed you?”
“That’s it, then,” said Hoover, tapping a pencil on the final report given to him by Bierce. “Long is dead, the worst of the Midwest bank robbers are dead, the plot against the President’s life … dead. Good job, Agent Bierce.” The words seemed to come unwillingly from Hoover. His mouth looked as if he had been sucking a lemon.
“There is still the matter of the long term threat from the Nazis to this country,” replied Bierce. “I spoke personally to the President on that, but he seems to feel he has it all under control.”
The Director pointed a finger at Bierce like a gun. “Now, that’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. You went over my head to Roosevelt without clearing it with me. I won’t have it! I don’t care how good an agent you are, I won’t have it. In the future, if you ever feel the need to talk to the President or the Attorney General, come to me first. You know me, if you’ve got a good reason, I will grant you permission. But I have the final say on such political contacts. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” responded Bierce, his face blank.
Having delivered his reprimand, Hoover relaxed the expression on his face. “As for the Nazis, I agree with you that they pose as great a potential threat to this country as the Bolsheviks. But as you saw in your talks with the intelligence people, now is not the time to press it. We need more evidence to open their eyes to the threat. I’m establishing a special counter-intelligence unit, and I would like you to be part of it.”
“I would be honored, Director. Would this new unit also be looking into the activities of Noyes organization in New England”
Hoover seemed to mull the notion over for a few moments, then said, “I think that would be a good idea. We’ve had our eye on the late Mr. Noyes for some time, but he was excellent at covering his tracks. Now that we know he was conspiring with potential enemies of this country, the Bureau can pursue his organization with more vigor. You’re going to need to see some highly classified documents on a raid made on a coastal village in Massachusetts in 1928 to understand the … peculiar threat that could come from that organization, and then you will need to make a trip to see some prisoners being kept in the Naval Penitentiary in New Hampshire.”
Hoover looked out his window at the darkening sky. “It’s Friday, and it’s late. Go home and get some rest over the weekend. I will have the files ready for you Monday morning.”
“Thank you, Director.” Bierce rose from his chair, bowed slightly, and left the office.
Hoover sat with a thoughtful look on his face for several minutes. Then, he opened the lower right-hand drawer of his massive desk, and removed a large file with “Bierce, Harry” neatly typed on the cover tab. He flipped past several tabs containing routine personnel documents until he came to one that had only a photographic copy of an old glass-plate picture. Hoover had always taken an interest in the American Civil War, and in his extensive readings he had come across this picture. With some difficulty, he had traced down the original at the Smithsonian, and had it enlarged and photographed.
The photograph was one of many taken in the summer of 1865 during the victory parade in Washington of General William Sherman’s returning army. On the reviewing stand stood grim-faced President Andrew Johnson, inadequate successor to the martyred Abraham Lincoln. To one side of the president stood Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton and Chief of Staff, General Henry Halleck. On the other side, General Ulysses Grant and Sherman himself stood. Between the shoulders of the dignitaries in the front row could be seen some lesser officers in a second row: General Rawlins, the bearded, pale-faced chief of staff to Grant; Colonel Parker, a full-blooded Indian on Grant’s staff, whose Native American features were unmistakable; and a third officer.
The third officer was a small, slight man, dressed in the uniform of a staff lieutenant colonel. His light colored hair was swept back to fall to his shoulders, pale eyes seemed to stare directly into the photographer’s camera through wire-rimmed spectacles. Aside from the length of his hair, the officer bore an uncanny resemblance to Harry Bierce, exactly as he appeared today, even though the photograph had been taken seventy years previously. Hoover had made discrete inquiries among a number of Civil War historians, but none could put a name to this blond officer.
Hoover sighed as he considered the photograph. He supposed it was possible that the officer just happened to have an amazing resemblance to Harry Bierce, perhaps his father or an uncle. Some sort of relative. Still, Hoover did not think so. Something in his gut told him different, and he always listened to his gut. He remained still, studying the picture intently as he had the past several nights.
Harry Bierce had not gone directly to his apartment after his late meeting with Director Hoover. He had wandered the streets of Washington for several hours, deep in thought, ignoring the numerous homeless who shuffled aimlessly along the streets, until he found himself on the bridge between Georgetown and Arlington, staring eastward along the course of the Potomac.
He was now alone, except for the occasional passing car. To his left, he took in the brilliantly illuminated Capitol Dome, completed during the Civil War as a symbol of Abraham Lincoln’s faith that the country would endure. To his right, on the Virginia side of the Potomac, he saw the former home of Robert E. Lee illuminated by spotlights, and the center of a cemetery holding the remains of tens of thousands of young men who had given their lives for the United States. Bierce shook his head solemnly at the thought. So much sacrifice, so much waste, just that America might survive as one. And he knew there was to be more such sacrifice in the near future, much, much more. Not just of lives and treasure, but of principles and honor. He hoped that such sacrifices would not be in vain, that America would continue to be the last, best hope of the world.
He reached into his coat pocket and removed the small Colt .32 automatic he had taken from the Bureau evidence room, the gun that had killed the Mayor of Chicago and that had nearly killed Franklin Roosevelt. It was exactly the same as when he took it, except that now, one cartridge was missing from the magazine. He looked around to make certain he was unobserved, then he hurled the gun far out into the river, where it disappeared with a small plunk. A barely visible ripple spread out from where the gun had disappeared. He turned north and began walking in the direction of his apartment on DuPont Circle. He knew he should try to get a good night’s rest.