by Steve Berry
They walked toward the gangway.
The woman with the black satchel had already boarded. They were about to do the same when two men caught his eye. One was Anan Wayne Howell, the face recognizable from Howell’s website. The other was the American. Malone. Both men were heading onto the vessel.
He and Hana lingered back and sought cover behind a wide support column.
“That raises a multitude of questions,” he muttered.
He saw Hana agreed.
Things had just changed.
The documents and Howell were now again in play.
“Come, my dear. It seems Fate has smiled upon us.”
TWENTY-FOUR
WASHINGTON, DC
STEPHANIE DROVE, WITH DANNY OCCUPYING THE REAR SEAT. HE’D actually wanted to drive himself, but she’d refused. A car with two Secret Service agents tailed just behind. An unusual trip, to say the least, but the commander in chief had left no room for doubt. He was going to see Edward Tipton, and without the normal fanfare that accompanied a presidential motorcade. She knew protocol. Standard procedure required thirteen vehicles, plus three local police cars for traffic control. Two identical presidential limousines were always included, along with armor-plated SUVs for the Secret Service, a military aide, a doctor, a small assault team, a hazardous materials response unit, the press, and communications. An ambulance assumed the rear. The whole entourage formed a long black convoy with flashing lights and plenty of attention. Not here, though. All was quiet in their two-car parade. It helped that it was the middle of the night, the streets devoid of traffic, an easy matter to flee DC into rural Virginia and a quaint neighborhood of older houses.
“The Secret Service loves to tell the story,” Daniels said, “about 1996 and Clinton in Manila. Just before his motorcade was about to leave, agents in one of the cars with some heavy-duty surveillance equipment picked up radio chatter that mentioned wedding and bridge. They thought wedding could be a code word for a terrorist hit, so they changed the route, which had included a bridge. Clinton was angry as hell at the decision, but didn’t override it. Sure enough, when agents arrived at the bridge they found explosives. Clinton dodged a big one. I was reminded of that good fortune earlier.”
“And they still let you come?”
“Ain’t it great. I told ’em I doubted anybody was going to kill a guy who’d be sent out to pasture soon anyway. I like this. Nice and private. I’m going to enjoy retired life.”
“Like hell,” she said. “You’re going to drive everyone crazy.”
“Including you?”
She smiled at the possibility, then asked, “How did you find this son?”
“I did some checking after listening to that recording. The Secret Service had a file on Mark Tipton. He was a good agent. Served with distinction. But he died twenty years ago. His son lives nearby, so we made contact and hit pay dirt.”
She knew what that meant. His chief of staff, Edwin Davis, had done all the checking. “Where is Edwin?”
“Doing me a favor. I’ve worked him pretty hard the past few days.”
“Was he the one who found the recording at Hyde Park?”
“Yep. Can’t draw that hound dog far off the scent.”
“And what favor is he doing for you in the wee hours of the morning?”
“It’s a president thing. He’ll be along soon enough. This with Tipton I have to do alone.”
“Except you’re not alone.”
“I like to include you in the definition of me.”
Only in the privacy of a car, with just the two of them, could words like that be spoken. Never had anything improper occurred between them, but she was looking forward to exploring the possibilities that might lie ahead.
They found the house, downstairs lights burning in several rooms. The man who answered their knock was short with features that clearly belonged to age—gaunt cheeks, coarsened hair, veined hands. But his smile seemed genuine and the eyes were devoid of fatigue.
They introduced themselves.
“I thank you for meeting us at this hour,” the president said. “and on short notice.”
“How often do you have the president of the United States come to your house? It’s an honor.”
“Though you don’t sound overly impressed,” Danny said.
“I’m an old man, Mr. President, who’s seen and heard a lot. My father protected presidents nearly all his life. I don’t impress much anymore. Lucky for you, though, I’ve always been a night person. Never did sleep much. My father was the same.”
Inside, Stephanie caught a warm, homey feel from dark wooden floors, worn furniture, and frayed rugs. Lots of framed photographs adorned the tables and mantel. Not a computer or cell phone in sight, though, only a flat-screen TV. But there were lots of books on shelves and four lay stacked on a table beside Tipton’s recliner. Apparently this man was a bit old-fashioned.
They sat in a dimly lit den.
Tipton crept to his chair with a broken-kneed gait. “When your chief of staff appeared at my doorstep yesterday, I really wasn’t all that shocked. My father said it might happen one day.”
“Your father seems like a smart guy.”
“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, t
he 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, though, 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.”