Chapter 102: Good People Don't Live Long
A few days later, late at night, at the Vice President's residence in Washington, Dawes sat beneath a shaded lamp sorting through the positions various politicians had taken on the Shipbuilding Agreement.
Just as he had expected, the moment most congressmen and political operators heard Jörg's proposal, their eyes lit up. Whether it was because Jörg had somehow struck gold once again, or because they had already smelled the money that would soon be flowing into their own pockets, two days later some of them were even making late night calls to personally guarantee their support.
It was almost funny.
These were the same people who could argue for hours, red faced and frothing, over a single state's health appropriation. Yet now they were linking arms to back the same bill.
So German business was what finally brought bipartisan harmony to America?
Even though Dawes himself supported the agreement, he still could not help finding the whole thing darkly amusing.
Reality was more ironic than a Mark Twain novel.
Of course, where there was support, there was opposition.
The opposition was concentrated mainly among hardline conservatives and a cluster of naval officers.
Those men had written memoranda so long they looked like miniature novels, each of them circling the same point: the danger of allowing the shipbuilding industry to shift toward Germany.
In their view, there was no such thing as win win in military affairs. There were only losses, either yours or everyone's.
They would rather watch American yards rust and decay than give Germany even the slightest chance to revive its shipbuilding strength.
A pack of old fossils.
Dawes shook his head, but the irritation did not leave his face.
He might despise them, yet he could not ignore them. Naval support mattered. If the Navy openly denounced the agreement as harmful to American defense interests, the other branches could easily be dragged into the dispute. Once that happened, the military establishment might close ranks and move to bury the agreement outright.
And that thought alone was enough to make his temple throb.
His pen tapped again and again against a photograph on the desk.
He was thinking about how to deal with the old hardliner who had become the standard bearer of opposition.
At the same time, in the White House study, Coolidge was wrestling with the very same problem.
Ordinarily, he would have sided with the military without hesitation. Preserving harmony with the armed forces would always have been the safer, cleaner choice.
But things were different now.
He needed the Shipbuilding Agreement. He needed it badly.
He needed it not merely for policy, but for politics. He wanted the diplomatic achievement for himself. He wanted it badly enough to throw it straight in Dawes's face and silence the man's smugness once and for all.
He wanted the public to see that he was not some socially stunted figure hiding behind a desk. He wanted them to see that he could handle diplomacy, and handle it better than the vice president who never stopped boasting.
After brooding over it for a long while, Coolidge pulled his crossed legs back beneath the desk and turned to his secretary.
"Compile everything you can on Admiral Krag Dale," he said flatly. "I want it detailed. Factional ties, family connections, everything."
The secretary, who had nearly nodded off from working deep into the night, had just begun to stretch when the President's voice snapped him awake.
"Yes, Mr. President!"
In New York, meanwhile, Morgan was still awake as well.
Inside a suburban villa, the blackboard in his meeting room was crowded with formulas, symbols, and long chains of numbers. Beneath each column were the projected price increases of shipyard stocks once the agreement passed.
And those projections were outrageous.
If the bill went through, the shares he had accumulated at miserable bargain prices could climb fifty fold, perhaps even more.
That meant the ten million dollars he had already moved into the market might swell into five hundred million.
This, in Morgan's eyes, was the true beauty of finance.
No factory, no steel mill, no shipyard, no grimy workshop could match it for speed.
Industry built slowly. Finance devoured the future and spat out fortunes overnight.
And yet the power it granted was no less real.
A man sitting behind a desk could determine the rise and fall of an entire sector with a few instructions. Even presidents did not wield power in such a pure form.
Morgan stared at the blackboard, and in his eyes the shipbuilding sector was no longer just another industry. It was the next pillar of family expansion. Once the market was stirred further, the value of countless other holdings would rise along with it.
Anything could go wrong, but not this.
Not now.
He had just rolled up his sleeves and was about to light a cigar, already savoring the future in his mind, when the door opened a crack and his secretary slipped inside.
"Mr. Morgan, I..."
Morgan cut him off with an impatient wave.
"You've come at the right time, Yohua. Take this order and send it to every major branch and every broker under us."
He thrust a packet of papers across the table.
"Tell them to begin unloading real estate aggressively and shift into blue chips."
But instead of taking the papers, the secretary froze.
"Mr. Morgan," he said cautiously, "there's something you need to know. The agreement... may no longer be certain to pass."
The cigar Morgan had just lit was crushed under his heel before he'd even taken a full draw.
His pupils narrowed.
"What did you say?"
His voice was no longer smooth. It had hardened into something dangerous.
"Haven't we already taken care of the congressmen and the political men who matter? We're giving them a share of the cake. What more do they want?"
"Are they unhappy? Or do they simply want a bigger slice?"
He stood up so abruptly the chair scraped against the floor.
"Fine. Tell them I'll add another two hundred thousand dollars in political donations for each of them. They can disagree over anything they like, but not over money. Not over fucking money."
The secretary swallowed hard and shook his head.
"It isn't that, Mr. Morgan. Most of them are satisfied. Very satisfied, actually. The problem is a handful of Republican hardliners. They refuse to bend, and they insist it has nothing to do with money."
Morgan gave a short, contemptuous laugh.
"Nothing to do with money? There's a fresh joke for the age."
Then his face darkened.
"Who is backing them?"
"The main force behind it is Chief of Naval Operations Krag Dale."
Morgan frowned.
"How have I never heard of him?"
The secretary answered quickly.
"He's not politically active. That's the problem. He rarely attends social gatherings, never mixes in the usual circles, and has lived the same routine for years: home, office, home. He stepped forward only after the previous Chief of Naval Operations retired."
He hesitated, then added, "Our political consultants believe that if the Navy raises the issue of national defense in formal terms, the other military branches may follow. Once that happens, the President could reject the agreement in order to preserve military unity."
Morgan's expression grew colder with each word.
"What does he want?"
"We've tried to make contact, Mr. Morgan. He's like a stone. He fought in the war, personally faced the German Navy, and despises anything that might strengthen Germany. During the Dawes Plan he even gathered several politicians and tried to organize a protest march."
The secretary glanced down at his notes.
"He has no children. His wife died three years ago."
Morgan laughed again, but there was no humor in it.
"I don't care."
He jabbed a finger at the desk.
"Dig into his past. Put men on him day and night. Use the gangs if necessary."
Then, after a beat, the secretary asked the question he had not wanted to ask.
"And if he really is clean?"
Morgan bent forward, his face almost level with the other man's.
"Then start with the people around him. Start with his adjutants, his staff, the officers he favors."
His smile was ugly now.
"Do I really need to teach you how this works?"
"Even if those officers are all war veterans he personally promoted, I don't believe they have no weaknesses. I don't believe every one of them is childless like that stone."
His voice dropped to a furious hiss.
"I don't believe every last one of them is free of desire."
Then he straightened and struck the desk with his fist.
"And even if they are all stones, I want stains on those stones. If there is no evidence, then manufacture it."
His eyes were burning now.
"Do you understand?"
.....
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