The Titanic Plan (38 page)

“
They’re out to destroy her,” Astor responded absently, not hearing a word of what Vanderbilt had said.

“
Destroy whom?”

“
Madeleine. And what has she ever done? Marry me. The poor girl had the misfortune to fall in love with John Jacob Astor. It’s me they despise because I never fit in with their ridiculous codes of behavior and silly parties. Ava was perfect for them. They fancied her because she was a catty bitch like all the rest of them. But my Madeleine, she’s a sweet, innocent girl. And they hate her for it. Hate her.”

“
It can’t be that bad, Jack.”

“
It’s worse than bad. We go to parties and they barely talk to us. But behind our backs all they do is gossip. They call her a gold digger and me a cradle robber. They’ve made our marriage into the scandal of the decade. Madeleine is in tears every day over the things she hears said about her.”

“
Forget them, Jack. Perhaps if you could get back to work…”

Astor interrupted. “We’re going to Europe to get away from this poisonous atmosphere. A long honeymoon. I’ve got it all planned. First Egypt, then Paris and Rome.”

“
You can’t go to Europe now!” Vanderbilt blurted with more than a hint of desperation in his voice. “Morgan has given us only a few more months to put the project together. Then he wants to meet with all the key people. We’re close, Jack! This project is too important for you to just run off to Europe. It was your idea to begin with. You have a responsibility to it!”

“
If it was my idea, I can go anywhere I damn well please,” Astor said, dragging deeply on his cigarette until it burnt down to a nub, then he lit another on the burning tip of the first one. “My responsibility is to my wife. If you’re so concerned about the project why don’t you take care of everything and then we’ll all meet in Europe.” Astor’s eyebrows suddenly arched upwards. “Yes, that’s it! We’ll escape from all the pressures and find some retreat to work the whole scheme out. What about Italy?”

“
What are you talking about?!” Vanderbilt had to stifle his impulse to scream at Astor. “This is a group of very busy men. They can’t all just run off to Europe on a whim.”

“
No whim, dear boy, but the greatest project they’ll ever be involved in. Besides, I’d think they’d all enjoy a little holiday. You arrange it.” Astor stood up and extended his hand to Vanderbilt. “It’s settled then. Italy.” Astor took Vanderbilt’s hand and shook it for a brief second before swiveling away and turning his back on his partner.

Vanderbilt walked back through one of the old terminal’s claustrophobic tunnels. The afternoon rush was in full swing and the tunnel was crowded with commuters pushing their way through the dank subterranean passageway. Vanderbilt was lost in his thoughts – angry that Astor had abdicated responsibility for the entire project, but in a sense, glad that the fate of the project now rested in his hands. He began pondering how he would approach the other men and convince them to meet in Europe. Enveloped in the anonymity of the bustling tunnel and deep in his thoughts, he didn’t feel being jostled from behind. Nor did he get a sense that his overcoat was being pushed aside and a small hand was reaching into the back pocket of his trousers and slipping out his wallet.

The grimy boy who carried out the swift and skillful picking of Vanderbilt’s pocket had no idea that this was his lucky day and that the wallet he lifted contained two crisp one-hundred dollar bills. All the boy wanted was enough money for a decent meal and a warm bed. His strongest desire that afternoon was to dissolve into a deep sleep so that he might find relief from his fears. He was scared that the police would find him and send him back to
Sing Sing
. Or, worse, that he might be forced to spend the night outside and freeze to death on some unforgiving New York street.

When Henry opened the wallet and found the bills, he allowed himself to feel that maybe his luck was changing. The money guaranteed him a meal, warm bed and more. Perhaps a night’s sleep in a bed would help ease his horrific experience of the last months. Perhaps his dreams could sail him away from the land of fear. Perhaps they might even carry him toward the distant shores of hope.

CHAPTER 4
1

"T
his is insane!” Archie blurted, startling himself. He was sitting alone in the front seat of his new Pope-Hartfort automobile, across the street from the building that housed the Department of Justice. It was one-thirty in the morning, four days after New Year’s day. Washington D.C. was a freezing ghost town. The members of Congress were still away on their Christmas break. Businesses were locked tight and the streets were slick after a freezing rain. Archie wiped the perspiration from his hands on the front of his sport jacket.

The keys to the building were in his pocket. As Chief Military Aide to the President, it wasn’t hard to get them. He crossed the street and walked up to the building’s bronze doors. He replayed the argument for breaking in one more time: that this was a minor moral infraction, overridden by the need to get to the bottom of a murder, Mick Shaughnessy’s murder. He slid the key into the lock. The heavy bronze door opened easily, leading into a cavernous foyer that was dark and freezing cold. Archie took a step in then stopped. Second thoughts flooded through his mind. He could easily turn back and abort this late-night mission.

“
Excuse me,” a clipped voice cut the air. Archie whirled. A young soldier stood at the edge of the foyer, his hand poised near his revolver. “What is your business here?”

“
Official business,” Archie said weakly, like a little boy who was caught sneaking into the candy store.

“
This building is closed.”

“
Yes, I understand that.”

“
Then what are you doing here?”

Archie fumbled. “I could leave and perhaps come back when the building is open in the morning?”

“
That would probably be best,” the soldier said.

Archie seemed relieved. He grasped the door handle, ready to pull it, but didn’t. Instead, he spun and met the young soldier’s gaze. “I have instructions from the President of the United States to access important information. While I can do it tomorrow morning, it would be best for me to accomplish the mission this evening. I am Major Archibald Butt, Chief Military Aide to President Taft. I trust you know of me.”

The soldier stared at Archie, combing the features of his face. Then saluted. “My apologies, Major Butt. I have seen you many times by the President’s side. I didn’t recognize you without your uniform. I was just following procedure.”

Archie saluted back. “And you did well, young man. Now, I shall proceed and we need not bother each other again.”

Archie quickly made his way through the dark corridors to an office near the back of the building. The stencil on the door’s pebbled glass window read:
Director Stanley Finch – Bureau of Investigation.
Archie took a second key from his pocket, unlocked the door and entered. He walked through the outer office into Finch’s inner sanctum. It had been over a year since he had last been in the office. It had grown even more ostentatious. The heavy blue drapes were drawn. There was a couch on one side of the room that was bracketed by end tables on which stood two bronze eagles. Eagles were the overriding motif of the office – sculpted, cast and painted. A line of the stuffed birds was even perched along the top of the large wooden filing cabinet, peering over the office like vigilant sentries.

Archie made his way to that cabinet. He remembered the exact drawer that Finch had taken Mick’s file from – first column, third drawer down. He grabbed the handle and tugged. The drawer didn’t budge. “Damn,” Archie muttered. Then his memory sharpened. He recalled a large key ring with countless keys. He remembered how exacting Finch was in finding the right key then sliding it into the barrel lock.

Maybe the desk, that would be a logical place to keep the keys.
He walked around the large desk, slightly unsettled by the stuffed eagles that seemed to be watching him with their glinting glass eyes. He pulled open the desk’s top drawer. Inside was a neatly arranged set of fountain pens, a stack of paper with Finch’s letterhead splashed across the top in bold letters, and a small, snub-nosed pistol. No keys. Archie rubbed his face and pulled out his pocket watch. 2:15. He rummaged through the drawer again, hoping against hope that maybe he missed something. He didn’t. He was about to close the drawer, but instead, reached for the pistol. The small gun felt light in his hand. He snapped opened the barrel. All the five chambers held bullets. He drew the gun up and examined its pearl handle.

The image of Mick, his gun held high over his head while bursting into the Manila slaughterhouse, came to Archie’s mind. He re-gripped the pistol and walked to the file cabinet. Taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket, Archie wrapped it around the barrel then raised the gun inches from the lock. “This is insane,” Archie said for the second time that early morning while taking dead aim. Without hesitation, he squeezed the trigger. He expected a modest pop from the tiny gun, especially with the handkerchief wrapped around it. But in the still of the night, the gunshot exploded like a cannon. The barrel lock twisted into a lump of metal. Archie tugged the drawer open and peered in, half expecting to find it empty. It wasn’t; it was full of neatly arranged folders labeled with names familiar to him – politicians, civil servants, financiers, businessmen, even foreign ambassadors. One file immediately drew his attention: “John Pierpoint Morgan.” He pulled it out and began reading. The report detailed every bit of nasty gossip and rumor ever spoken about Morgan. Having no desire to learn of Morgan’s many mistresses, he returned the file then continued looking through the drawer, thumbing toward the back for the name he was after. Salinger… Sands… Seely… Seltzer…Shaughnessy. There it was! He lifted out the thick file then quickly moved to Finch’s desk and sat in the leather chair.

Mick’s file contained three folders. In the first folder were his Army records: standard recruitment forms, results of enlistment tests, his induction dates and postings. There was a memo from his basic training Sergeant commending Mick on his “physical prowess and superior intelligence.” The same memo also noted that “Private Shaughnessy has difficulty with authority and despite his excellent soldierly traits, is sometimes deficient in his ability to follow orders.”

Then he saw the picture that Finch had showed him before, of Mick and him together in their dress uniforms. Archie remembered that it was taken on a summer’s evening in Manila. Mick had high hopes of being transferred to a combat unit and suggested they get a picture together “in case either of us make the ultimate sacrifice of a soldier.” Archie told Mick that, as an officer in charge of livestock, it was doubtful he would be in mortal danger. “You never know, Captain,” was Mick’s reply. The next day Archie was kidnapped.

Archie was so caught up in the report he didn’t hear the guard coming into the room. “Sir!” the soldier said.

Startled, Archie looked up. “Yes? What is it?” Archie answered, all the while noticing the soldier taking in the scene, scrutinizing the spread of folders and papers over Finch’s desk.

“
I heard a gunshot,” the soldier said. “I thought there may have been some trouble.”

“
No trouble. You can return to your post, private.”

The soldier’s look wandered to the filing cabinet with the lock blown open.

“
You can return to your post, private!” Archie repeated firmly.

“
Yes, sir,” the soldier answered.

Archie waited for him to step out of the office and listened for his footsteps to recede. He opened the thin second folder. It chronicled Mick’s activities after he left the Army. There was a picture of a wedding party – eight men and a woman, stiffly posed in an old, country church. The names of the people were written over their images in fading black ink:
Mick Shaughnessy, Bridget Murphy, Arthur Griffith, Seamus Deakin, Eamon de Valera, Cathal Brugha, Neal O’Boyal, John Mulholland, Patrick Pearse
.
Written on the back of the picture, in tight, precise handwriting, was a note:
August 24, 1905, Michael Shaughnessy marries Bridget Murphy, daughter of Charles Murphy, in Cork County, Ireland.

A hand written report followed the picture. “Shaughnessy has attached himself to the leadership of Irish agitators and is currently training Irish rebel forces, including members of the Fenian Brotherhood, Gaelic League and the Irish Republican Brotherhood. Shaughnessy is a former U.S. Army officer. His knowledge of military strategies and tactics are considered formidable, as is his dedication to the causes he champions. It is recommended that his activities be held under surveillance.”