Sunday morning. The Fifth Avenue Baptist Church.
The light filtered through the stained glass, turning the dust motes into gold. The air smelled of beeswax, lilies, and old money.
Jason sat in the Rockefeller pew. Third row, center. The seat of power.
To his left was Alta. She wore a black hat with a veil, her face unreadable. She hadn't spoken to him since the firebombing.
To his right sat Senior. He was asleep, his head bowing rhythmically.
And standing in the aisle, ushering the titans of industry to their seats with a humble smile, was Junior.
Junior looked spotless. His collar was starched stiff. He shook hands with the JP Morgan executives. He nodded to the Vanderbilt heirs. He was the perfect Christian soldier.
He caught Jason's eye.
Junior didn't smile. He stared. It was a look of profound, pitying judgment.
The organ music swelled. The Reverend stood up.
"Today's sermon," the Reverend boomed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling, "is on the Tower of Babel."
Jason stiffened.
"Man, in his arrogance, sought to reach the heavens," the Reverend said, looking directly at the Rockefeller pew. "He built machines. He sought to master forces that belong only to the Almighty. He split the stone and burned the earth."
The congregation shifted uncomfortably. They knew about the Einstein rumors. They knew about the "science fiction" lab in Princeton.
"But God," the Reverend thundered, "struck them down. He confused their language. He turned brother against brother. For there is no sin greater than pride."
Alta's hand moved. She placed her gloved hand over Jason's on the bench. Her grip was tight. Painful.
"Junior wrote that sermon," she whispered, not moving her lips.
"I know," Jason whispered back.
"He's preparing the board. He's painting you as a heretic."
Jason looked at Junior. Junior was singing the hymn now, his eyes closed, looking angelic.
The attack wasn't just physical. It was spiritual. Junior was excommunicating him.
After the service, the family retreated to Kykuit. The Pocantico Hills estate.
It was a fortress of stone and manicured hedges overlooking the Hudson River.
Lunch was tense. Senior ate his milk and crackers. Alta read a report on the Detroit strike.
"Ezra," Junior said softly, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "Walk with me in the garden?"
It wasn't a question.
Jason stood up. "Of course."
They walked out onto the terrace. The air was sweet with the scent of blooming roses. Below them, the Hudson glittered in the sun. It looked peaceful.
It was a lie.
"The firebombing was unfortunate," Junior said, clasping his hands behind his back. "Are you hurt?"
"You tell me, Junior. You told the police to stand down."
Junior stopped by a statue of Aphrodite. He touched the cold marble.
"I cannot interfere with the will of the people, Ezra. If the city is angry, perhaps they have a reason."
"They're angry because a madman is lying to them," Jason said. "Adolf Hitler is a demagogue. And you're letting him run wild because you think he'll only hurt me."
Junior turned. His face was serene.
"Fire cleanses, Ezra. It burns away the rot."
He reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small photograph.
He handed it to Jason.
It was grainy, taken from a distance with a telescopic lens. But the subjects were clear.
Jason. And Gates.
It was from two years ago. Jason was handing a thick envelope of cash to the fixer. The man who later died in a "police raid" to cover up Jason's secrets.
"I have the negative," Junior said softly. "And I have the affidavit from Gates's landlady. She knows you hired him."
Jason looked at the photo. He didn't flinch.
" blackmail? That's a sin, isn't it, Junior?"
"It is justice," Junior corrected. "You are a cancer on this family. You have corrupted my father. You have turned this company into a weapon of war. And now you are funding atheists in Princeton to crack open the very atoms of God's creation."
Junior stepped closer. He smelled of lavender soap.
"Resign," Junior whispered. "Cite health reasons. The stress of the war. Check yourself into a sanitarium in Switzerland. Leave Alta. Leave the company."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I give this photo to the District Attorney. And I give the strike leaders your home address. I will let the fire cleanse you."
Jason looked at the photo again. Then he looked at Junior.
He started to laugh.
It was a dry, cold sound.
"You think you can control the fire, Junior? You think Hitler is going to stop with me? He hates us. All of us. Once he's done with me, he's coming for this house."
"I have faith," Junior said.
"Faith won't stop a Molotov cocktail," Jason said. He tucked the photo into his own pocket. "I'm keeping this."
"It's a copy," Junior smiled.
"I know. But I want to remember the moment you grew a spine."
Jason turned and walked away. He didn't look back.
The safe house on the Lower East Side was dark. Curtains drawn.
Sarah was waiting. She had a map spread out on the table.
"He made his move," Jason said, walking in. He threw his hat on the couch. "Junior is working with the strike. Passively. He's going to let them burn the city until I resign."
"And the blackmail?" Sarah asked.
"He showed me the photo."
Jason walked to the map. It was a map of New York's infrastructure. Pipelines. Rail yards. Coal depots.
"We have to hit back," Jason said. "Tonight."
"How?" Sarah asked. "We can't shoot Junior. And we can't arrest Hitler."
"No," Jason said. "But we can make them regret starting a war."
He pointed to the map.
"Adolf's power comes from the crowds. He packs thousands of men into beer halls and union houses. He needs them angry and together."
Jason looked at Sarah.
"You still have your contacts at the Red Cross? And the Health Department?"
"Yes," Sarah said cautiously. "Why?"
"The Spanish Flu," Jason said. "It's fading, but the fear is still there. I want you to issue a Level One health alert. Tonight. Say there's a new outbreak. A mutation."
"You want me to fake a plague?" Sarah asked, horrified.
"I want you to ban public gatherings," Jason said. "Close the beer halls. Close the union meetings. If Hitler tries to gather a crowd, the police will break it up for 'public safety.' Junior can't stop that. He can't argue with a virus."
Sarah hesitated. She looked at Jason's eyes. They were hard. Desperate.
"It will cause a panic," she said.
"Better panic than a revolution."
Jason picked up the telephone. He dialed a number.
"O'Malley?" Jason said into the receiver.
"Yeah, boss. I'm here."
"Initiate Protocol Black," Jason said.
There was a silence on the other end.
"You sure, boss? That's the nuclear option."
"I want the fuel supply to New York City cut by eighty percent," Jason ordered. "Blame it on the strike in Detroit. Blame it on the rails. I don't care. But by tomorrow morning, I want every gas pump in Manhattan dry."
"The city will stop," O'Malley warned. "No trucks. No heating. No lights."
"Good," Jason said. "Junior thinks fire cleanses? Let's see how much he likes the dark."
He hung up the phone.
He looked at Sarah.
"They want to burn my reputation," Jason said, striking a match to light a cigarette. The flame illuminated his face. "I'm going to freeze theirs."
He blew out the match.
"Let's turn off the lights."