Chapter 109: Draw the Target First
Days passed.
The shooting on Third Avenue did not fade. It spread, fermented, and grew more explosive with each retelling.
The special Imperial Eagle, combined with the police department's suspiciously delayed release of case details, gave the press all the material it needed. Rumors multiplied overnight, and every newspaper in America seemed determined to squeeze the last drop of sensation from the incident.
"Third Avenue Shooting: Victim's Identity Points Directly to German Diplomatic Delegation?" — Washington International Daily
"Shooting? Or Assassination?" — American Entertainment Daily
"Federal Reserve Risk Investigation Team Officially Stations in Miami, Will Soaring Property Prices Become History?" — The Economist
Public opinion followed the media into a frenzy.
Rumors mixed with fragments of truth until no one could tell where one ended and the other began.
Some claimed it was the result of a German political struggle, and that the gunmen were actually extremists from within Germany.
Others insisted the occupants of the Imperial Eagle had not been German diplomats at all. After all, several days had passed, and the German Foreign Ministry still had not released a formal statement, maintaining the same strategic silence as the American government.
A third version spread even faster. It claimed that the true target had been the President, but that the attackers had failed to identify the correct car in the convoy and had mistakenly opened fire on the wrong vehicle.
But among all the speculation, one conclusion had already been accepted by most people.
Whoever had been in that car, it was certainly not some insignificant gangster or businessman.
Inside Washington Military Hospital, Dawes paced back and forth along the corridor.
Three days had passed, and Coolidge still showed no sign of waking.
The doctors had already spoken to him in advance.
Although the surgery had successfully removed the bullets from Coolidge's chest and thigh, the danger of infection remained. Worse still, the President had lost too much blood. If he showed no signs of waking within a week, there was a very real possibility he would never wake again.
Dawes's emotions toward that news were complicated.
He was relieved, because the moment he arrived at the hospital, and in the presence of White House Chief of Staff Mrs. Anbes and Republican Party Whip O'Docaven, he had taken the Bible in accordance with the Constitution and assumed the duties of acting President.
If Coolidge did not wake within a week, then the word acting would effectively disappear. He would truly replace him and complete the remaining term.
It was a grotesque and absurd ending to their months of struggle. Dawes could not help but feel that fate had a particularly vicious sense of humor.
And yet, he also felt a trace of sorrow.
Coolidge had once been his friend. However deep their conflict had grown, however much he had wanted to force him out, Dawes had never wished for it to happen this way.
When he stepped into the ward and saw the unconscious Coolidge on the bed, a strange sense of finality rose in his chest.
Beside the bed sat the President's wife, her posture still upright despite the exhaustion in her face. Young Coolidge, newly entered into middle school, stood nearby in silence, his expression far older than his years.
Dawes said nothing insincere.
He merely reached out and stroked the boy's hair, then handed a business card to the former First Lady.
"I am deeply sorry, Madam. Those thugs took your husband, and America has lost a good President."
He paused, then continued in a quieter tone.
"If Mr. Coolidge does not wake, then whatever difficulties you encounter in the future, whether in life or in politics, contact me. Please. Be sure to contact me."
The First Lady did not break down. Nor did she tear up the card in some moment of dramatic indignation.
As the wife of a President, she had long since learned how to bury weakness.
She understood very well that this card, placed into her hand at this moment, was not merely paper. It was leverage. It was protection. It was a guarantee that whatever happened next, she and her son would still possess a direct line into the center of power.
And for the next four years, that was a card no reasonable woman would throw away.
Dawes waited until he saw her carefully put it away, then quietly withdrew from the room.
As the Vice President who had just stepped into the President's authority, he knew he could not remain by the bedside for too long. Appearances mattered.
The moment he stepped back into the corridor, J. Edgar Hoover, who had rushed there without pause, strode quickly toward him.
The instant he saw Dawes's expression, he realized the situation was far worse than he had hoped.
"Mr. President," Hoover said, lowering his voice instinctively, "we have identified the three attackers. All of them were retired war veterans."
As director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Hoover kept his posture extremely humble.
He had only taken office the previous year and had yet to produce any major achievements. If the new President wanted a scapegoat, he would not need to look far.
Dawes said nothing at first.
He folded his arms over his chest, stared at Hoover for several long seconds, and then his face darkened.
"Have the brains of your entire Bureau been flushed down a toilet?" he said coldly. "Three days. Three whole days, and this is all you have?"
His voice rose without warning.
"The Secretary of War is in the morgue. The President is in a coma. Two security personnel are dead. And you expect me to take these scraps of information to the public and to the government?"
He took a hard step forward.
"Do not forget, Hoover. The failure of early warning is the joint responsibility of White House security and your Bureau. The government spends tens of millions of dollars a year to maintain your people, not to raise a flock of useless idiots!"
Hoover's face turned pale.
Dawes did not stop.
"I'll give you one more week. If I do not see a complete report on my desk by next Monday morning, you and the Washington Police Chief can both clear out your offices."
Hoover knew exactly what was happening.
If he failed to uncover the truth, he would become the vessel into which responsibility was poured. Yet knowing it changed nothing.
He swallowed hard and nodded repeatedly before daring to speak again.
"Mr. President, if we are to continue the investigation, we need access to both the military side and the German diplomatic delegation. Our current authority is insufficient..."
Dawes cut him off with a wave of his hand.
"I will give you authority over the military. As for the diplomatic delegation..."
He glanced at his watch.
"What time is it?"
Hoover immediately pulled back his cuff and checked.
"Nine in the morning, sir."
"Fine."
Dawes turned and began walking.
"You're coming with me to the foreign guest hotel. It is about half an hour from here. Use that time to think about what you actually want to ask."
Then he slowed, glanced sideways at Hoover, and added in a sharp tone:
"Mr. Jörg is also a victim in this matter. You will not use an interrogative tone with him. If you jeopardize the passage of the diplomatic agreement, you will not merely be dismissed. I will make sure the charge used on you is treason."
Meanwhile, at the foreign guest hotel, Jörg sat alone on a sofa facing the bustling stretch of Third Avenue.
The view outside the window was lively enough, but his attention was elsewhere.
He held a newspaper in one hand, coffee in the other, and read the reports one by one beneath the soft daylight spilling through the glass.
Only after finishing the last paper did he finally smile and shake his head, as though he had just read a set of amateur essays rather than the headlines now shaking America.
Senna stepped forward and handed him a cup of fresh coffee.
"Sir, headquarters sent another telegram this morning asking about your safety. President Hindenburg also sent one through the Foreign Ministry. He strongly urges you to return to Germany as soon as possible to avoid any further personal danger."
Jörg blew lightly across the surface of the coffee.
Then he shook his head.
"Reply that I have my own arrangements," he said. "And that I will not return until a formal shipbuilding agreement is reached with the United States."
He paused, then added:
"Send a special telegram to President Hindenburg. Tell him I am deeply grateful for his concern. But please reassure him that I will take care of my safety."
Senna recorded every word exactly as spoken. She had just turned to leave when Jörg spoke again.
"One more thing. Call Lia here."
"Yes, sir."
She answered at once and left to carry out the order.
Left alone again, Jörg lifted his eyes toward the avenue outside.
The newspapers were noisy. The police were blind. The politicians were anxious. The military was restless.
And in the middle of all of it, the shape of the next move was already becoming clear in his mind.
After all, if one wanted to hit the target, it was always easiest to draw it first.
.....
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