"The United Nations?"
Truman's tone was laced with contempt. He had no idea why John Stillman would bring up the UN, but as John patiently explained, Truman suddenly grasped the meaning.
He fixed his gaze on John and said:
"John, don't take this the wrong way, but this idea doesn't sound like something a businessman like you would come up with. Who whispered this in your ear?"
The notion of forming a UN force was indeed ingenious. It carried the air of the free world's leader rallying allies to stop a red conspiracy. Such framing could easily stir resonance among the free world's people, making them overlook the truth—that it was the United States that had taken the initiative to launch the war.
John Stillman only shrugged.
"The Secretary of State gave us quite a bit of advice."
Truman's pupils widened. If, in the past, his relationship with Leo had been one of President and benefactor bound tightly together, then now, he and Marshall were political allies fastened even closer.
But the fact that Marshall's words came to Truman through John was itself a crack in their unshakable bond of trust.
What unsettled him even more: wasn't Marshall always on Leo's side? When had he crossed over to theirs?
In a low voice, Truman asked the question that gnawed at him:
"Why would Marshall be advising you?"
Faced with Truman, who had already committed himself to their camp, John answered with candor:
"I know what you're thinking, Harry. Marshall hasn't betrayed your pact. To be honest, he strongly disapproves of the war we're initiating.
But as Secretary of State, and as the former Chief of Staff, he clearly foresees that once war breaks out on the peninsula, America will inevitably be dragged in. He simply doesn't want the U.S. to lose."
John's words were mild, but Truman understood their weight. With the war ignited, and the military-industrial complex pushing the gears forward, the first man strapped to the chariot was already here—Marshall, who had never truly been one of them.
And Truman knew, as battles were won and victories piled up, more and more would be bound to the chariot.
This monster… I can't control it at all, he sighed inwardly, thinking of the military-industrial complex swollen to terrifying proportions.
His gloom deepened because he knew: though he had finally shaken off Leo, he had fallen into the grip of something even more greedy and insane.
From one puppet master to another—what joy could there be?
John Stillman, meanwhile, left the White House beaming. The trip had been far smoother than he dared hope. Only days earlier, he and Mr. Samuel had considered the worst-case scenario: Leo and Truman reconciling.
Clearly, Leo had rejected Truman's offer—otherwise Truman wouldn't seethe with such bitterness.
Why Leo would turn down a deal so clearly to his advantage, John couldn't fathom. But their split was undeniably great news for him, who dreamed of defeating Leo to avenge his son.
John's good spirits had another cause: compared to the other factions circling Leo, his side had struck first. They had won over the Secretary of State, then Marshall. For Wall Street's capital group, these were massive windfalls.
Whether carving up Far Eastern spoils or breaking Leo's empire apart, this all but guaranteed them the fattest share.
Just then, his secretary's voice cut through his thoughts:
"President Stillman, here are today's World Journal and New Times. They contain professional analyses by military and international experts. I'm not sure if they'll affect your plans."
She handed him the papers.
"It won't affect anything. This is nothing but Valentino's last struggle."
John smirked. In his mind, with the President and Secretary of State already strapped to the chariot, it was only a matter of time before the American people were as well. He couldn't imagine how Leo could possibly win this round.
No matter how many military experts Leo consulted, no matter how many analyses he published, it wouldn't stop his inevitable downfall. This time, Valentino was doomed.
Relaxed, John picked up the papers, ready to savor Leo's futile flailing.
"America Must Intervene—in the Name of Freedom and Justice"
"The United Nations: America's Best Starting Point"
"Helping the Peninsula Is Helping America"
As John read the headlines, his brows furrowed. With each line, his grip tightened until the paper crumpled.
"That damned bastard!"
He crushed the newspaper into a ball and hurled it at the car window, chest heaving with rage.
Leo's articles were nothing like he expected. Instead of opposing the war, Leo was actually championing it—while laying out, in advance, the very steps John and his allies had planned to take.
It seemed trivial, yet the impact was enormous. Because the work was theirs—but in the eyes of the American people, the vision for the peninsula's future would be seen as Leo's.
"As they prepare their next moves, the public will see Leo's predictions come true, one after another. Subconsciously, they'll credit the strategy to him. After all, he's laid it out so clearly."
What terrified John most: how did Leo know their plans?
Especially the UN force—he had discussed that only this morning with Marshall, who had just told him.
And John prided himself on knowing men well. Marshall wasn't one to change his mind lightly.
But doubt, like a pebble in one's shoe, may not cripple, yet with every step it grows more unbearable, until one must stop and shake it out.
"Faster! Get me back to New York at once. I need to see Mr. Samuel."
John knew that whether it was Leo's articles or the possibility of Marshall drifting away, these were grave matters requiring urgent counsel.
By the time he reached New York, it was already midnight. He didn't head to the Wall Street chapel—at this hour, Samuel would not be there.
Instead, he went to Sleepy Hollow, where Samuel owned a vast estate befitting a magnate whose fortune dated back to the mid-19th century.
After confirming his identity, the old butler ushered John in without hesitation. A midnight visit could only mean urgent business.
John had barely sat in the study when Samuel entered, still in pajamas, stifling a yawn.
"What's the matter, John?"
The measured tone of Samuel's voice calmed John's restless heart.
Collecting his thoughts, John recounted his day in Washington in detail, then produced the World Journal and New Times. He laid out how Leo had stolen their thunder, and voiced his doubts about Marshall's reliability.
Samuel donned his glasses, reading as he listened. When John finished, he set both papers and spectacles aside, and after a moment's silence, said:
"John, this isn't such a big deal. As for taking the credit, if Leo wants it, let him have it. Public opinion is a game we can also play—and win back.
As for Marshall—he was never one of us. Nor will he ever truly be with the military-industrial complex. That's just who he is. I know him.
So don't brood over betrayal. Focus on this: he doesn't want America to lose. That alone ensures, in this matter, he stands with us."
John's eyes lit up. Samuel's clarity swept away his doubts.
"Then, Mr. Samuel, what should our next step be?"
"When does MacArthur plan to move?" Samuel asked.
"He won't say. After his election loss, that arrogant man trusts no American—not even his own brother.
But according to Maxim's sources, it should be around September. By then, he must present a report to the Pentagon and Congress, to be approved by the Commander-in-Chief. So once September comes, we'll know the date."
Samuel glanced at the ornate desk calendar. July 3rd. Less than two months left. Not long, not short.
To secure a rich share of Far Eastern spoils, Leo had to be dragged in beforehand. Once everyone was bound to the war chariot, a tidal wave would form against him, requiring little effort to sweep him away.
"To focus on carving up the Far East later, we must start now—by figuring out how to deal with Leo."
"Yes, sir. I'll reach out to Mr. DuPont and the others who resent Leo, and we'll strike together."
Samuel shot John a withering look.
"You people and your endless meetings, alliances, and coalitions. It looks impressive, but it's nothing but a balloon—overinflated, and ready to burst.
How many times have others tried to take Leo down this way? Every time, he's exploited their flaws and crushed them one by one. Haven't you learned?"
"Sir, I have learned. This time the meeting would just align strategy—so we strike all at once, hitting Leo with our full force."
John's voice carried the edge of a man unwilling to be scolded. He was over sixty—hardly young—and didn't like being lectured.
Samuel shook his head.
"Simultaneous strikes usually mean no one strikes at all—or if they do, no one goes all out. That's when Leo will see you're holding back, and he'll seize the chance."
"Then what do you suggest? We alone can't bring him down. No one knows how many cards he still holds."
Samuel leaned back, voice calm.
"People hesitate because of Leo's myth of invincibility. But anyone with sense knows this war is his greatest crisis—and everyone's greatest chance.
Use their greed, John. Make the first move. Show them Leo can be hurt—or at least that his counterattack isn't as sharp as before. Then they'll swarm, afraid you'll seize the spoils alone.
Tempted by profit, they won't sit back—they'll dive in, eager to take their slice of the pie."
Samuel knew exactly what troubled John: the fear of exhausting himself in a fight, only for others—especially Jews—to swoop in and claim the prize.
You're still so slow to learn, Samuel thought privately. No wonder America has declined under men like you. But I still need you as my pawn.
Outwardly, he continued:
"You've been in business long enough to know—no investment, no return. But with a small stake, you can earn big rewards."
John's eyes lit with excitement. He looked at Samuel expectantly.
"You can toss out a pawn, a sacrificial piece, to test the waters. Let the world see Leo isn't as invincible as he seems—or that his counterattack has lost its bite. Then the vultures will descend.
And you? You can step back, watch from the shore, and wait to pluck the ripest fruit."
At last, John understood. His eyes gleamed.
"Mr. Samuel, I already have just the pawn—no, a boulder to hurl at him. One that will rip a piece of flesh from Valentino."
"Oh? Who?" Samuel asked, intrigued.
"The Oswald of the Cotton family. I promised to help them return to America if successful. And they hate Leo more than anyone."
Samuel nodded slowly. He knew the name.
"Yes. That's a fine piece indeed. Whether they live to come back will depend on their own mettle."
Then, leaning forward, Samuel spoke softly:
"Do this well, John. Mike Kay is not young anymore. Many resent his cautious policies—they say he's too timid, not bold enough for us Jews.
But if you can help us bring down Valentino and secure the Far East, I'll see to it that you're raised to that position."
His meaning was clear: Chairman of the Federal Reserve. The true helmsman of the free world.
John trembled with excitement. Who wouldn't?
"Thank you, Mr. Samuel. I'll give it everything."
Samuel patted his shoulder.
"Do it well."
But in his heart, Samuel sneered: You fool. If you ever take that seat, it will be a curse for us all. You think Oswald is your pawn—but you are mine.
While the two men schemed under the same roof, Leo, too, was awake in his Sleepy Hollow estate.
He drank with Daniel and Desmond—a farewell gathering. Desmond was about to depart for Britain as deputy envoy, Daniel for France in the same post.