Chapter 111: Chess Pieces
Upstairs, Jörg stood by the window and watched the car disappear below.
At that moment, the system's long familiar voice rang out in his ears.
[Congratulations, Host, for significantly altering Calvin Coolidge's fate and slightly altering Gates Dawes' fate. Rewards have been issued.]
He picked up the now cold coffee from the table and felt a surge of technical knowledge flood into his mind.
The Northrop Company P&W R 1820 G3 aircraft engine design.
This engine had once been fitted to the American A 17 attack aircraft that first flew in 1934. In other words, the technology now sitting in his head was roughly five to seven years ahead of the current era's aircraft engine development.
A faint smile touched Jörg's lips.
He had given Dawes a generous gift, and Dawes had returned the favor with one of equal value.
Looking at his own reflection in the glass, Jörg drained the cold coffee, stretched his shoulders, and turned toward the study to unwrap the latest gift fate had delivered to him.
Meanwhile, the gift he had given Dawes had only just begun to reveal itself.
A few days later, in Richmond, the capital of Virginia, in the villa district near the James River, Owen finally returned home after a long day of work.
The moment he saw his young daughter waiting by the door, the stiffness in his face softened. Only his family could temporarily pull him away from the endless pressure of work, and only his family could briefly quiet the guilt gnawing at him ever since he had entangled himself with the Morgan family.
He parked the car in the garage, removed his uniform jacket, slung it casually over one shoulder, and pinched his daughter's plump little cheek with a smile.
But the moment he stepped into the house, the teacups on the table made his heart skip.
Before he could ask whether guests had come, his wife spoke first.
"Owen, why didn't you say anything? You never mentioned that two friends were coming over."
She lowered her voice slightly and added, "And since when do you have friends from the Federal Bureau of Investigation?"
The words Federal Bureau of Investigation made Owen's expression shift at once.
He immediately realized that something had happened.
Still, he forced himself to remain calm. He patted his wife's shoulder in reassurance and asked in an even voice, "Have they left?"
"No. They're still in the study on the second floor. They said they had to wait until you got back."
She hesitated, then added, "Oh, and Vincent sent a telegram home. He says he really likes Harvard's atmosphere. He asked when we'd have time to visit. Aren't you on leave soon? Maybe we could go see him."
But Owen barely heard a word of that.
He nodded absently, then made his way upstairs after gathering himself.
With a hand that felt strangely heavy, he pushed open the study door.
Two unfamiliar faces immediately entered his sight.
Seeing that the man they had been waiting for had finally returned, the two investigators set down their teacups. One of them, a slightly overweight man, rose and quietly shut the door behind him. The other, a slender mixed race woman, stood and extended her hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Owen. We need to ask you a few questions."
Her tone was courteous, almost gentle.
"Don't worry. This has nothing to do with why your son received an invitation to Harvard, nor with the one hundred thousand dollars that recently appeared in your possession."
She paused, then fixed him with a steady gaze.
"This is about your superior, Admiral Krag."
Owen instantly understood.
This was not a conversation. It was a warning.
His hand moved unconsciously toward his waist, only for him to remember he was not carrying his sidearm. His fingers brushed empty cloth.
After a long moment, he let out a low sigh and sat down.
"I understand," he said. "What do you want to know?"
The woman sat opposite him and folded her hands neatly on the table.
"Believe me, Mr. Owen, meeting us is not a bad thing. In fact, it may be a very good thing for you."
She leaned forward slightly.
"But that depends on your willingness to cooperate."
Then she began.
"You are Admiral Krag's adjutant. You must know a great deal about him. Tell me, does he often donate funds to veterans' clubs in different cities?"
Owen nodded.
"Yes. He does."
"And a little over a week ago, did he send tens of thousands of dollars to three veterans in Washington?"
Owen frowned and thought carefully.
"I don't know who the money was sent to," he said at last. "But yes, a sum of money was sent to Washington around that time."
The two investigators exchanged a glance.
The woman nodded once, then clasped her hands together in a small triangle and asked in a more serious tone, "Did he tell you what that money was for?"
Her voice lowered.
"This is a very important question, Mr. Owen. It concerns your career. It concerns your family. I strongly suggest that you think very carefully before you answer."
That day had already become a recurring nightmare in Owen's mind.
After a long silence, he shook his head with unusual firmness.
"No. I don't know."
Then, after a pause, he asked in return, "Why are you asking this? Has something happened to Admiral Krag?"
The woman rose without answering.
"I am sorry, but I cannot answer that."
She pulled on her coat. "We may need to contact you again, Mr. Owen. Goodbye."
The overweight investigator stood as well. Before leaving, he smiled and gave Owen's hand a polite shake, as if this had been nothing more than an ordinary social visit.
From the second floor window, Owen watched them leave.
Then his eyes drifted to the newspaper lying on his desk, the one reporting on the Third Avenue shooting.
A bad feeling began to spread through his chest.
At first, he considered warning Krag.
But after long hesitation, he gave up that thought.
If his suspicions were correct, then for the sake of his own future, the wiser course was to pass the information to someone else.
After making up his mind, he opened the safe and took out a business card, the one the bald man had given him. Then, under the pretense of urgent business, he left the house again and drove straight for the telegraph office.
On the other side of the street, an agent concealed in the shadows quietly watched Owen's car pull away and followed him at a distance.
Half an hour later, after seeing Owen enter the telegraph office and remain there for some time, the agent pushed open the door, flashed his badge, produced a warrant, and asked the manager in a flat voice, "Who did that man just send a telegram to?"
The manager wanted nothing to do with the Bureau. He hurriedly handed over the contents of the telegram.
The chubby agent glanced over it once, then casually crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the trash.
"It was sent to the man who provided that hundred thousand dollars," he said.
His partner, Holly, frowned slightly. "Shouldn't we investigate further?"
He snorted.
"Not if we want to stay alive. Whoever stands behind that money is not someone little people like us should be poking."
Holly had already spent enough years in the system to know he was right.
Whether in the police or the Bureau, there was always an unwritten rule. Investigate only what your superiors tell you to investigate. Chase the wrong trail, and you may never come back from it.
Still, she asked, "At least we know he didn't send a telegram to the target. And now we have a statement from the adjutant too. What do you think, Pete? Will headquarters promote us once this is over?"
Pete shrugged and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets.
"I only know that if you don't finish the report and get it to Washington fast enough, the only promotion you'll see is to garbage supervisor."
He gave her a sideways grin.
"Or maybe you'll end up dancing in some bar. Don't worry. If that happens, I'll definitely come by and support your business."
Holly gave him a particularly expressive downward middle finger.
"Get past your wife first," she said dryly. "Then we can talk."
.....
[If you don't want to wait for the next update, read 50 chapters ahead on P@treon.]
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