Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 621: Tyrol’s Shadow

Chapter 621: Tyrol’s Shadow

Franklin Roosevelt stared at the papers on his desk.

It had been less than three months since Bern. Less than three months since he’d walked away from that table certain he’d played a winning hand.

Now the hand lay in front of him, nothing but aces and eights.

Every name his departments had investigated, arrested, even executed on charges of treason and espionage… innocent.

The “evidence” that brought them down? Forged from the start.

He couldn’t admit it. Not to Congress, not to the press, not even to his own cabinet.

It would destroy him. His party. His country.

Bruno had taken the trap meant for him and turned it inside out, using Roosevelt’s own hand to sweep away the last men who could block his quiet takeover of America’s industry, infrastructure, and levers of political power.

Roosevelt knew it. He could even guess at the shell companies and offshore fronts that now held what used to be American assets. But proof? That was the part that killed him. There was none.

His temper was building when a knock came at the door.

“Mr. President… Former President Hughes has a meeting scheduled for ten-thirty. Would you like me to resched—”

A gravelly voice cut the aide off.

“Move aside, boy. I was sitting in this chair eight years before you were born.”

The door swung open, and Charles Evans Hughes strode in, still broad-shouldered despite his seventy-plus years.

He didn’t wait for an invitation, crossing the carpet and dropping into the chair opposite Roosevelt with all the ceremony of a man sitting at his own kitchen table.

“Don’t get up on my account, Franklin.”

Roosevelt’s jaw tightened. Hughes was one of his least favorite predecessors, the man who’d kept America out of the Great War entirely, and, if the archives were to be believed, had been far too cozy with Berlin in the process.

“What do you want, Hughes? Besides an unannounced visit?”

The old man reached for the crystal decanter, poured himself a measure of imported cognac, tasted it, frowned, and swapped it for a pull from the battered Kentucky bourbon flask in his coat.

“I hear you’ve been spending time with my old friend from Tyrol.”

Roosevelt froze. The name wasn’t spoken… it didn’t need to be. Hughes’ eyes said it clearly enough.

And both men knew the Oval Office wasn’t a safe place to say certain things aloud.

“That one…” Hughes leaned back, savoring the bourbon. “Beat me at chess here more times than I care to count. Always ten steps ahead. Makes Newton look like a schoolboy. But it’s not science he lives for, it’s war… and politics.”

Roosevelt slid off his glasses, folding them slowly. “What are you saying?”

Hughes set the flask down, reached into his pocket, and placed a small card on the desk. His voice was almost weary.

“I’m saying if you think you’ve got his king cornered, you’re already in checkmate. You just don’t know it yet.”

He turned and walked out without another word.

Roosevelt stared at the card for a long moment before picking it up.

It is not safe to speak here. The Germans have eyes and ears everywhere. Memorize the address below. Meet me there at midnight. Burn this card when finished.

His first instinct was to toss it in the bin. Hughes was an old man, bitter and theatrical.

But the last words before the door closed came back to him, and a chill settled in his gut.

His gaze drifted to the black rotary phone on his desk. He imagined the line running straight into an office in Berlin.

“No,” he whispered. “It can’t be…”

He memorized the address, struck a match, and watched the paper curl to ash in the tray.

If Hughes was right, then the United States, maybe the entire so-called free world, was already playing the last moves of a game it didn’t know it had lost.

—

The snow lay thick on the pines, muffling the world in a silence that made the old cabin feel as though it were the last inhabited place on earth.

No power lines ran to it. No telephone poles. The only light came from the fire Hughes was feeding, the flames snapping as if impatient for the next log.

Outside, Secret Service men paced the dark perimeter in heavy coats, their breath fogging in the cold air.

Inside, it was just two presidents, one retired, one cornered, and the smell of smoke and raw pine.

Hughes didn’t offer Roosevelt a seat. He simply kept his back to him, poker in hand, pushing coals into place before taking a slow swig from a clear mason jar.

The sharp tang of corn liquor filled the room.

“It’s wired, Roosevelt,” Hughes said finally, without turning around.

Roosevelt’s eyes narrowed. “What is?”

Hughes turned then, the firelight deepening the lines in his weathered face. “All of it. The Oval Office. The Pentagon. The Capitol. Every damn government building from D.C. to the federal courts in California. By the time we figured it out, it was too late.”

He walked over to the table, set down the jar, and leaned on it with both hands.

“The contractors we hired to install the phone lines, the telegraph systems, the secure cables, all owned by him. Or by companies owned by his companies. Shell within shell.”

Roosevelt felt his stomach knot, but he didn’t interrupt.

“Every call you’ve made,” Hughes went on, voice low but steady, “every conversation behind a closed door, every bill discussed in committee, every ruling whispered between judges, it’s all been fed, word for word, straight to Berlin’s intelligence service.” He paused, letting the weight of it hang. “And from there, right to his personal desk in Tyrol.”

The fire cracked loudly in the hearth, but neither man moved.

“They know everything,” Hughes said. “Not just what you’ve done. What you’re going to do. By the time you decide on a move, he’s already seen it, planned for it, and decided how to turn it to his advantage.”

Roosevelt let out a slow breath, the only sign he’d been holding it. “You’re telling me there’s no way to stop it?”

Hughes reached for the jar again, took another swig, and gave a humorless smile.

“You don’t stop it. You work knowing he’s listening. You talk to the man you want him to think you are, and you act like the man he doesn’t see coming. Anything else…” He shrugged.

“You’re just another piece on his board.”

The wind howled outside, rattling the shutters, and for the first time that night, Roosevelt felt the fire’s heat as something distant and useless.