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.”
“I don’t have to say that—”
Tipton held up a hand that halted the president’s warning. “I’ve kept this to myself for a long time, I can keep doing that.”
Stephanie had more questions, but a soft knock from the front door disturbed the silence. One of the agents stationed outside?
Tipton rose and answered.
The first man to enter the house was Edwin Davis, White House chief of staff. He was a tidy man, near her age, dressed in his usual dark suit, face alert and clean-shaven, nothing even hinting that it was the middle of the night. He acknowledged her with a smile and a wink. They’d been through a lot together and were close friends.
Davis faced his boss and said, “He’s here.”
She glanced at the president.
“When I arranged this meeting, I asked Mr. Tipton if we might borrow his den for another talk I need to keep private. He graciously agreed.”
“I’m going to bed, Mr. President,” Tipton said. “Please switch off the lights and lock the door on your way out.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you, again.”
“My father would have wanted nothing less from me.”
The older man headed for a staircase and climbed.
The next man to enter through the front door was in his fifties with Asian features. His thick black hair was long and cut stylishly. He wore a tailored suit—Armani, if she wasn’t mistaken—the jacket buttoned in front, his cordovan shoes polished to a mirror shine.
She knew the face.
Ambassador to the United States.
From the People’s Republic of China.
TWENTY-FIVE
VENICE
Isabella stood just inside the cruise terminal, near the customs stand. Passengers continued to stream out of the building, luggage trailing behind them. She was soaking wet, embarrassed, and angry. Luckily, her cell phone was waterproof, standard issue at Treasury. She’d not caught a look at the man who’d shoved her into the lagoon, only what he was wearing. She didn’t want to make the overseas call but had no choice. The Treasury secretary was waiting for a report, and he’d earlier made clear that success on her end was imperative.
“The documents are gone?” he asked, when she finished talking. “That’s what you’re saying.”
“My guess is we were made and whoever shoved me off that wharf was working with the woman.”
“We don’t even know who she is?”