© 2009 centennial books

Made by Serif

Riggs Bank would handle the money. It had a well-earned reputation for discretion and deep roots in the capital—”the bank of President Lincoln”—an appellation Elvin was tired of hearing. The German embassy was creatively accommodating, thanks to Herr Schroeder. Nazi cash, funneled through a cutoff account that masked its roots, would credit to the Committee’s account.  Harbinger-Steele had sole access.  

Steele’s retired partner was incorporated into the paper trail.  Edward Harbinger would sign whatever was put in front of him.  Knowledge of the real cash sources would be limited to Elvin and Schroeder.  If pressed, Steele’s cover was that their donors demanded anonymity, lest their commitment to peace put them at odds with powerful Washington interests.  The five percent administrative fee (as Steele told Harbinger) was a nice return to their firm, for minimal effort.  In his own bookkeeping, Elvin would skim another fifteen percent.  His clients in Berlin weren’t going to ask for any audits, and the Committee stooges wouldn’t know enough to ask.

The account was seeded with $50,000, a healthy down payment to prime their peace ministry pump.  The bank assigned an accommodatingly dim vice-presidential drone to work with, whose sole value-add was suggesting ways to move money into the account without tripping any regulatory red flags.  Steele fobbed him off with the same cover story, proving once again that people would believe anything if it was in their own self-interest.     

Madison Square Garden.  The atmosphere was part political rally, part prize fight, with a touch of revival thrown in.  He started out feeling prepared, but the scale of the amphitheater assaulted his composure.  Seated on the platform, waiting for Senator Wheeler to hand off to him, Charlie stared out at the human sea.  Spotlights played back and forth across the crowded rows, oversized flags and “Americans for Peace” banners stirred gently by the rising body heat.  He felt a sudden panic, an urge to bolt the stage.  So he prayed.  Privately, eyes open, mind distant from the arena.  “Father—Abba—give me your strength; your message; your will.”  

Wheeler was closing, whipping them up, pouring it on with a ladle.  “Fellow Americans, join me in welcoming a man tested in war, yet committed to peace.  A scholar and student of God’s word.  Our pastor-patriot, Reverend Charles Adams Trace!”

He rose from the hard backed chair, making his way to the podium.  The Senator’s handshake morphed into an embrace, Wheeler grinning and shouting in his ear: “Give ‘em hell, Charlie!”

“Ready position,” he steeled himself, moving to the microphones.