At the Jefferson Hotel, the three finally determined who would be the leader. Alfred gained the upper hand, becoming the man who would divide the cake.
Samuel, in the future, would get the second largest slice, while Roland, without the full backing of the Morgan family, had limited influence and had to settle for third place.
"Is it time for Truman to make a statement and end the game?"
Alfred asked.
They already held the advantage. As soon as Truman spoke, they could send agents to arrest Leo by force.
Samuel and Roland both nodded—they, too, thought it was time to end this war.
"Given the strength we've thrown at him, the fact that Leo's lasted this long is… impressive," Roland admitted sincerely.
The other two silently agreed.
The three men left for the White House. But to their surprise, Truman rejected their proposal.
"Don't tell me you're siding with him again, Harry," Alfred said, his tone carrying a clear threat.
Truman shook his head. "Take a look at this—but don't spread it. It's classified. Hoover sent it to me."
He handed over a file.
The three men glanced at it, and their pupils constricted. The report stated that KKK activities in the southern states had increased, many regions were holding rallies, and Confederate flags from the Civil War were reappearing.
Texas had seen frequent independence parades.
California had anti-war protests. Complaints about Washington were growing louder.
The classified document's conclusion: The South is extremely unstable and may develop secessionist tendencies again.
If the South seceded, the West might not hold either.
"Come on. We all know who Hoover answers to," Alfred said. "The South and West have always talked about independence, but right now? Impossible. This is the most profitable period in American history. As long as America exists, we make money easily. Breaking away from it would be insane."
"Exactly," Roland Morgan said. "Trying to use secession as leverage doesn't scare us. As long as the people in those states aren't fools, there's no chance of splitting."
Truman sighed. "He's not using secession to threaten you—he's using it to pressure the government, Congress, and those senators whose districts are in these states. What we can see clearly, others may not.
And if someone stirs up fear, they might switch sides.
If I make a public statement and these politicians defect en masse, we lose.
Besides, Leo's moves aren't limited to North–South tension. Take a look at this."
Truman handed over more files.
They showed that minority groups—Black Americans, Italian-Americans, Irish-Americans—were openly supporting Leo.
"The Italians and Irish don't matter. The key is the Black community," Truman said. "The civil rights movement is rising. Red ideas are spreading at home. Have you considered what happens if we face the outcome we all fear?"
"You mean a revolution?" Samuel's eyes gleamed coldly.
"Exactly. And the main tool to suppress revolution—the gangs—are now under Leo's control."
"Can't we accuse Leo of treason?" Alfred asked.
"He's the world's richest man—the biggest capitalist on the planet. Who's going to believe a man that wealthy turned traitor because he's 'oppressed'?" Roland shot back before Truman could answer.
"Then what do you suggest?" Alfred snapped.
Samuel finally spoke. "I think we're out of options. We've used every move we can. It's time to finish this. And if we don't end it now, MacArthur's going to enter the Far East—then all the political gains will fall into that idiot Douglas's lap.
So here's my proposal: don't be afraid. Bet that Leo doesn't dare to actually break the Union. Even if he wants to, the southern politicians won't follow him. Let Harry issue a condemnation, and we arrest Leo as planned."
The other two thought for a moment. Indeed, there was no better plan.
"Then let's bet on it," Alfred said.
—
Beverly Hills, California.
Leo, freshly returned from the South, received a call from White House Chief of Staff Lewis.
"Leo, Harry's preparing to publicly condemn you. From what I know, they've got two arrest teams ready. Once he speaks, the IRS will move immediately to detain you in Los Angeles."
"Thank you, Lewis," Leo said calmly.
"Still so relaxed, huh? Do you have something up your sleeve?
Your secession play worked for a while, but the politicians in D.C. are waiting to see which way the wind blows. If you've got anything left—any last card—use it now. Otherwise, it'll be too late."
"Maybe I've already played my last card, Lewis. By the way, when does Harry plan to speak?"
Lewis sighed inwardly—he could tell Leo was out of moves. Otherwise, he wouldn't have resorted to the desperate secession gambit.
Across the room, four men watched Lewis closely.
He hadn't called Leo of his own will; Truman had ordered it, wanting to see how Leo would respond.
When they saw Leo's composure fade, their eyes lit up with excitement.
Roland gave Lewis a subtle signal to tell Leo the time.
"Harry will speak on October 19th, in the morning," Lewis said. "Good luck, Leo."
He hung up.
At the White House, Alfred frowned. "Why tell him the time? Shouldn't we hit him by surprise?"
"He's finished," Roland said, eyes burning with hatred. "I told him the time so he can suffer. I've never truly hated anyone in my life—but Leo? He's the first."
—
In Los Angeles, Leo hung up the phone and smiled at the calendar beside him. He didn't need to prepare any defense.
Because soon, his enemies would be engulfed in their own scandal.
He actually admired Truman's choice of date—October 19th, the same day the Chinese Volunteer Army entered Korea.
That was exactly what Leo wanted.
Everything he'd done recently wasn't to defeat the three tycoons—it was to stall, to build public anger, and to wait.
Wait for MacArthur to blunder in the Far East.
When that happened, Leo would strike back with full force.
—
October 19th, morning.
The Oval Office was packed with reporters. Truman was about to address the nation.
At 9:00 a.m., he took his seat and began with lofty words about America and the Free World. Then, he pivoted.
He thanked Leo for supporting him during the election—but stressed that private friendship and public duty were two different things. "Paying taxes," he said, "is a sacred duty for every American citizen."
"With so many public figures and state leaders questioning Mr. Leo's conduct, as President, I must give the American people an answer. Therefore, I will request the IRS to launch a full investigation. I trust Mr. Leo will cooperate—after all, the innocent have nothing to fear."
Flashbulbs popped wildly. Truman was secretly elated: Leo, your good days are over.
But then, his Chief of Staff burst into the room. "Gentlemen, urgent international matter—the President must attend to it immediately. Please leave. Thank you."
The reporters, quick to sense breaking news, cleared out fast.
Truman turned to Secretary of Defense Robert Lovett. "What happened in the Far East?"
"The East has entered the war," Lovett said grimly.
Truman's triumph evaporated. The one thing he'd dreaded most had happened—the other side hadn't chosen negotiation but war.
"Tell MacArthur he must win—for America's sake."
"Yes, Mr. President. MacArthur says he'll drive those farmers back to their fields."
—
Meanwhile, at Washington National Airport, IRS Director Coleman Andrews spoke to his last capable field agent, Gunn Price.
"Don't repeat Finch's mistake. You must bring Leo in, or I can't protect you."
"Relax, Director. Team A will fly straight to L.A.—they're just the decoy.
I'll lead Team B, land in Las Vegas, and drive quietly to L.A. We'll hit him before he knows what's coming."
Learning from past failures, Gunn chose stealth. After landing in Vegas, he drove toward Los Angeles.
Team A, meanwhile, checked into a hotel in L.A., politely delivering a summons instead of barging in. They wanted Leo relaxed before Team B struck.
To keep up the illusion, the IRS publicly announced there was only one arrest team—the one in L.A.
On the highway between Vegas and L.A., Gunn's men checked their weapons.
"It's noon. Should we grab food? There's a gas station ahead—it's got the only diner in this desert," their Vegas liaison said.
Gunn hesitated, but one agent's stomach growled. Ten minutes wouldn't matter, he thought.
At the gas station, he stopped his men. "Stay in the car. You," he told the local agents, "go order and bring it back. Our accents will give us away."
The Vegas agent nodded. "Alright. I'll take the driver with me—it's too much for one person."
The two disappeared into the diner.
"Boss," one of Gunn's men muttered, "you think they figured out what we're doing?"
"They probably guessed—we are headed for L.A.," Gunn said.
Minutes passed. Gunn grew impatient, checking his watch repeatedly. "How long does it take to buy a burger?"
"Yeah, and why haven't they pulled the fuel hose yet?" his teammate added.
The words had barely left his mouth when Gunn's instincts screamed. He flung open the door and jumped out—just as an engine roared.
A black car shot out from behind the gas station. Gunn caught a glimpse of a hand waving from the window—wearing a Las Vegas IRS sleeve.
"Damn—trap!"
BOOM!
A massive explosion engulfed the gas station in fire.
—
Beverly Hills, Valentino Mansion.
"Boss, it's done," said Kent, head of the FBI's Las Vegas office.
Vegas was Leo's turf. He knew everything that happened there—including the IRS team's movements.
He'd seen through their plan immediately and decided to let them walk into the fire.
They wanted two teams? Fine. One would go straight to hell.
Leo just needed to buy a little more time—because the Battle of Ch'ŏngch'ŏn River was about to begin.
And that would be MacArthur's first blunder.
Leo smiled and called his contacts in Britain and France—Desmond and Daniel.
"Get ready," he said. "It's time."
—
October 25th.
The Battle of Ch'ŏngch'ŏn River erupted. The UN troops were stunned by the sudden onslaught of the Chinese Volunteers.
Leo's media empire broadcast real-time updates to the American public.
Americans, used to MacArthur's effortless victories, were shocked. The sudden intensity of the war drew national attention.
Leo's rivals, of course, fought back—bringing in "military experts" to explain that the East was hopelessly outmatched.
Every segment ended the same way: "And our nation's richest man, Mr. Leo, still hasn't been brought to justice."
—
November 4th.
The White House burned with light. Truman was in a fury, shouting as he kicked the Secretary of Defense out of the office.
He stared at the map on the wall—MacArthur's campaign was collapsing. Enraged, Truman hurled his favorite lamp against the wall.
Lewis entered with Alfred, Samuel, and Roland—and trailing behind them, cautiously, was Maxim.
"Harry," Alfred asked in disbelief, "is the situation really as Maxim said? Did Douglas lose?"
Truman sighed. "Yes, Alfred. Douglas is a fool. He underestimated them."
Half a month ago, if anyone had dared call his brother a fool, Maxim would've punched him.
But now? His brother had publicly disgraced himself. Maxim could only grit his teeth and try to persuade the President and financiers to keep supporting his brother's Far East war effort.
Even being called a fool—he had to endure it.