Chapter 107: The Oolong
Jörg stood to the side without saying a word.
Watching Krag's hurried departure, and recalling the man's abrupt shift in attitude only moments earlier, a thought quietly surfaced in his mind.
Address. Car. Soldier.
Interesting.
Once the pieces were connected, Jörg lowered his eyes and concealed the deeper meaning in them. He watched Krag disappear into the crowd, then turned toward President Coolidge, who had been about to introduce the Secretary of War.
"Mr. President, do you have any plans after the dinner?"
Coolidge shook his head. "No particular plans. Why, Jörg, is there something else you need? Ah, yes, this is Secretary of War T. John Chicard. He will be discussing the detailed rules of the shipbuilding bill with you, especially the provisions concerning military technology supervision in Germany."
Chicard stepped forward and extended his hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. von Roman."
They exchanged a light handshake.
From the beginning, Jörg had never once raised the issue of military technology supervision. What he wanted was for that part of the arrangement to be quietly blurred, ideally ignored altogether. But unlike Dawes, whose attention was fixed on diplomacy and profit, Coolidge was clearly the type of man who read every line of a document and remembered every word in it. Naturally, he would not overlook so sensitive a matter.
The brief flicker of surprise on Jörg's face did not escape the President.
Coolidge's smile remained, but his eyes became slightly more serious.
Realizing he had exposed a flaw, Jörg did not try to hide it. Instead, he met the moment directly.
"Good evening, Mr. Chicard. To be honest, I had already drafted a set of detailed provisions concerning military technology supervision back at the hotel. I did not expect the President and I to think along such similar lines."
He paused, then continued smoothly, "How about this? Mr. Chicard, Mr. President, once the dinner is over, come to my hotel. We can discuss the matter thoroughly there. Since it has to be dealt with sooner or later, I would rather settle it all at once and avoid needless trouble afterward."
Then, with a faint smile, he added, "And I have been in America for some days now without properly thanking Mr. Coolidge for his hospitality. There is a very good restaurant next to my hotel. Shall we have a late night meal there?"
Coolidge laughed. "No problem, Jörg, but let us forget the restaurant food this once. There is a barbecue place near Third Avenue that serves ribs worth crossing the country for. Since you are the one treating, I shall not be modest."
Jörg inclined his head. "As you wish, Mr. President."
After that, he returned to his role in the banquet as though nothing unusual had happened. He raised glasses with every politician the President introduced, smiled when required, and exchanged courteous words with the practiced ease expected of a diplomat.
But beneath the clink of crystal and the murmur of polite conversation, his thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.
If his suspicion was correct, then this would no longer be merely a banquet, nor even merely a political dispute.
It would become a gift.
A tremendous gift.
After all, if a president were to die unexpectedly, the happiest man in the entire country would almost certainly be the vice president.
Several hours passed.
The sky outside had long since darkened from fading blue into a heavy black, and for Washington, the center of power in America, the true night had only just begun.
Banquets of this sort were for social climbing, not eating. That, in turn, had given the city's late night restaurants a peculiar prosperity. Many French establishments remained open until nearly dawn, waiting for hungry politicians who had spent hours drinking and smiling while never once touching the food laid before them.
At the parking lot outside the White House, the motorcade was ready.
Because it had all been decided at the last minute, Coolidge had no wish to turn the outing into a grand event. More importantly, he often visited that restaurant in private. He therefore rejected the suggestion that the entire street be sealed off and instead had one of his less conspicuous presidential cars brought around, complete with ordinary license plates.
Just as he was about to step into the back seat, Jörg spoke.
"Mr. President, would you mind taking my car instead? I have always wanted to experience the interior of an American presidential automobile."
Coolidge accepted at once.
He had drunk several glasses of champagne. The alcohol had not clouded his judgment entirely, but it had softened the sharpness of it. He simply assumed Jörg had a passing curiosity about the presidential vehicle.
So, without a second thought, he changed places.
Coolidge and Chicard took seats in Jörg's Imperial Eagle.
Jörg, meanwhile, boarded the presidential car instead.
The convoy set off soon afterward.
The black Imperial Eagle rolled out first. Two Ford vehicles filled with security personnel followed behind it, and the presidential car brought up the rear. The four automobiles drove steadily toward Third Avenue under the night sky.
At the same time, on Third Avenue itself, danger was already waiting.
On the first floor of a coffee shop, a bearded man stood by the window, watching the stream of traffic with fixed attention. Beside him, a tall, gaunt man held a newspaper and yawned.
"Are you sure about the address?" he asked.
The long haired man near the door gave a slow nod.
"Absolutely sure. The general sent another confirmation by telegram. Once the dinner ends, that black Imperial Eagle with the diplomatic plates will pass through Third Avenue."
He glanced at the clock and licked his dry lips.
"It is ten o'clock now. The banquet is not going to last until morning. They should be on the road soon. Are the guns loaded?"
The bearded man patted the Thompson hidden inside his coat. "Loaded."
Then he narrowed his eyes.
"Look. Does that not match the description?"
All three men looked toward the street below.
A black Imperial Eagle had come to a stop at the intersection, waiting at the red light. With all its windows shut, no one could see who was inside.
"That has to be it," the long haired man muttered, his voice trembling with excitement. "It came from the White House direction. Do not rush. Wait until it clears the light. We still have time."
The tall man finished the last of his bread and washed it down with coffee. "Are we eating anything else?"
"No," said the long haired one. "And remember this, if we are caught, we stick to the original story. Mr. Krag has been good to us. A man like him should not be dragged down with us."
The bearded man grunted in agreement. "That's right. America still has officers who hate German scum. Men like him are the only reason this country has not gone completely rotten."
Seeing the Imperial Eagle draw closer, all three of them rose at once and dropped money onto the check. Then they stepped out into the crowded street together, their left hands already reaching inside their coats.
On the other side of the city, inside the presidential car, Jörg sat in the front passenger seat rather than in the rear.
That alone was strange enough to make Senna curious. After glancing at him twice, she could no longer suppress the question.
"Commander, is something wrong?"
Jörg did not answer immediately.
Instead, he raised the darkened window a little further and scanned the street ahead through the gap, his eyes moving from one corner to the next. The press of pedestrians and the jumble of vehicles made it hard to distinguish anything clearly.
At first, nothing stood out.
Then his gaze settled.
Those three men.
All in trench coats. All moving with unnatural purpose. All far too attentive to the Imperial Eagle ahead.
His eyes sharpened.
No more doubt.
Without turning his head, he asked quietly, "Senna, do you have a pistol?"
Senna's expression changed at once. She did not waste time asking why. Her hands tightened on the wheel as she slowed the car at the back of the line, just before the red light.
"Yes," she said. "Will a pistol be enough, Commander?"
She reached into her coat and handed it over.
Jörg took the Luger from her, weighed it once in his hand, and gave a slight nod.
"It will be enough."
.....
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