The Titanic Plan (14 page)

People were pouring into the tunnel to provide help. It was mass confusion, which allowed Mick and Archie to walk unnoticed to the next station. “You’re wounded,” Archie said, seeing the side of Mick’s shirt drenched in blood.

“
Just a flesh wound,” Mick grunted. And to show that he wasn’t hurt badly, he hoisted himself onto the platform in one swift motion. Archie followed and they made their way up the stairs into the cold, damp night.

The sidewalks were empty and slick, though the rain had stopped. “Who were they, Mick?” Archie asked.

“
I don’t know,” Mick answered softly.”

“
And you don’t know why they were after you?”

“
I believe I do know,” Mick turned to Archie. His lips were swollen and blood was dripping from inside his mouth. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea to share that information with you. It’s better you not get involved. You were right all along. I’m sorry I got back in touch with you.”

“
They were trying to kill you.”

“
It seems that way.”

“
I can do something about it.”

Mick stopped and placed his hand on Archie’s shoulder. “You’ve done more than I can ever repay. You have no idea the good you’ve brought me. I ask nothing more now than your eternal friendship.”

“
You’ve always had that.”

Mick leaned forward and touched Archie’s shoulder. “I know,” Mick whispered.

They walked the rest of the way to Hells Kitchen in silence, not saying a word until they came to the back entrance of Mick’s tenement basement room. “It’s time for me to disappear again, Captain.”

“
No, Mick…”

“
It will be a lot safer for both of us. Just remember me as a soldier who always tried to do his duty for what he believed was right.”

“
I would prefer to remember you as a soldier who did what he was ordered to do by his superior officer.”

Mick laughed. “Nice try, but I left the army years ago. You are no longer my superior officer.”

“
I will always be your superior officer,” Archie said smiling. “And you will always be the best soldier I’ve ever commanded.”

Mick stood back and saluted Archie. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me.” Mick turned on his heels and disappeared into the basement. Archie stood for a moment, watching his frosted breath dance in the chill night. When he headed back toward the street he passed the basement window and peered in. Mick was barely visible in the dim light. He was sitting with both of his elbows propped on his desk, his chin atop his folded hands. He appeared to be in some sort of deep, meditative trance. Archie flinched as a flash of fire sparked; Mick had struck a match to light the desk’s gas lamp. His face gleamed in the orange glow of the match. He leaned forward, moving the match toward the wick, then paused for an instant and swiveled his head toward the window, seeming to sense someone peering in. It was in that instant that Archie smelled an odd, sweet odor leaking from the closed window.

“
Mick!” he tried calling, but before the single syllable could emerge, a fireball ignited and instantaneously mushroomed into a tremendous explosion, engulfing Mick. Archie hurled his hands in front of his face, protecting himself from the flying glass. The concussive force threw Archie backwards. The basement was in flames. Fire danced on the wood beams that had crashed to the floor. Archie went to the entrance door that had blown out. He tried to enter the basement, but was repelled by the searing heat that radiated from inside.

He watched helplessly as the flames grew. Panicked cries arose from the upstairs floors and, amid the screams and shouts, Archie watched the tenants fight their way to the fire escape. Then, to his utter amazement, he saw Mick walking through the flames.
This is a miracle
. It appeared as though the explosion had not even touched Mick; he was striding easily over the white-hot debris. Archie tried to rush in, but was again repelled by the searing heat. He waited as Mick made his way out. For an instant, in the red glow of the firelight, Mick was the handsome young soldier Archie had always known. But as he grew close, Archie could see that Mick’s face was seared and blackened to his skull. One arm was hanging half off his torso and his chest cavity was open, exposing splintered ribs and burnt lungs.

Archie rushed forward, ignoring the heat and gathered Mick in his arms. Mick looked at him with the one eye that remained in its socket and flapped his jaw, trying to say something. But the only sound that emerged was a labored moan. A half formed word rose from his throat: “SSSSuuuuu…. ssssuuu…”

“
Don’t strain yourself,” Archie said.

Mick grunted, frantically trying to communicate one last thing. “Mmaaaa…”

“
Shhh...save your energy.”

Mick shook, almost angry. His one grisly eye locked onto Archie’s face. A desolate rasp emerged from somewhere deep inside him. “…Mmm….aaa…nnnn….”

“
Man? Mann?” Archie tried to make sense of what Mick was saying. “Sue Mann? Someone’s name, Mick?”

His remaining hand squeezed Archie’s arm.
An affirmation? Or just a desperate attempt to hold onto life as long as possible?

“
Ooo…” Mick cried, then shuttered. His hand went limp, followed by his entire body. The life had left it. Archie hoisted Mick out to the alley, where the distraught people from the tenement were now gathering. Archie had to leave. It was not the place the Military Aide to the President should be. He gently stretched Mick in the only dry spot of the muddy alley. “May I face my own death as you faced your life, soldier. It was an honor to know you.” Archie tenderly touched Mick’s blackened cheek then ran into the night.

CHAPTER 13

O
n Tuesday, January 6, 1910, a new company filed incorporation papers with the New York Franchise Tax Board. The company was to be known as
The American Land Trust Corporation
. Its primary business was real estate and development. Its principal owners were recorded as John Jacob Astor IV, developer, age 45, and George Washington Vanderbilt, businessman, age 47.

During that January, Vanderbilt and Astor frequented every fashionable locale around New York City, formulating their new project. They made an odd duo: Vanderbilt, the literate, aristocratic, cultured builder of palaces; Astor, the quirky, clumsy, socially inept builder of hotels. They were seen together so much that society tongues began to wag. Rumors circulated that they were joining forces to build a hotel to rival the
Taj Mahal
in opulence. It would be called “Astorbilt.”

The rumors were wrong, of course. At
Sherry’s
, over champagne cocktails and Bluepoint oysters, the two men discussed what it would take in men and materials to build the commerce centers. At
Belmont Park
, between the 3rd and 4th race, they pondered how best to raise the vast capital needed for the whole venture. In Astor’s private box at the
Metropolitan Opera House
during a particularly uninspired performance of Wagner’s
Siegfried
, they spread a map of the United States over their laps and pinpointed areas where their centers would strategically monopolize commerce. With every new idea, their passion for the project grew. Neither man had been this excited about anything in decades. There was little disagreement between the two except when it came to one subject: Morgan.

Astor wanted to go back to Morgan once they had finished formulating the project. Both knew that Morgan was the only person in the world who wielded enough power and influence to raise the vast finances for such an enormous undertaking. They constantly argued about the timing to reapproach him.

“
Why should we even waste our time and energy if Morgan isn’t interested?” Astor asked over steaks in a private booth at
Delmonico’s
.

“
Because, Jack, the only way to assure that Morgan would be interested is to make the odds of success so overwhelming that it would be impossible for him to say no,” countered Vanderbilt.

“
But the odds of success
are
overwhelming,” argued Astor, raising his voice. “Besides, it was his idea in the first place. Why would he say no to his idea?”

“
Because he’s J. P. Morgan!” Vanderbilt answered, now raising his own voice. “And he’d say no to Jesus Christ if he wasn’t assured about gaining favorable odds to enter heaven.”

“
Strike when the irons are hot, George!”

“
Get everything into place, Jack!!”

“
Everything is in place, George!!!”

“
Nothing is in place, Jack!!!! Do we have the land? Do we have the building plans? Who is going to design the centers? Who is going to build them? Do we have a team? Personally, I think we need a whole lot of help if we’re going to turn this into reality.”

“
We can’t have any Tom, Dick or Harry involved in this project,” Astor stated.

“
Who said anything about Tom, Dick or Harry? We need to join with people who are as successful as we are. Builders, industrialists, financiers, visionaries.”

“
Too many cooks spoil the soup.”

“
We’ll be selective,” Vanderbilt said, trying to reassure Astor. “But we need people who can accomplish great things and who understand what’s at stake. And we need people who will impress Morgan.”

“
Like who? John Rockefeller?”

“
Why not? We could start there,” Vanderbilt said.

“
But Rockefeller is a mean, dried up prune who would cut both our throats to take over once he understood how great our concept is.”

Vanderbilt smiled. “I take it you don’t trust Rockefeller. Neither do I. So we don’t go to Rockefeller.”

“
Andrew Mellon?” Astor asked.

“
Mmmm…” Vanderbilt contemplated. “A little stodgy for my tastes. But rich as the devil. Maybe.”

With that, the two began throwing out the names of the richest men alive.

“
Carnegie,” Vanderbilt suggested.

“
A midget Scotsman who has suddenly gained a social conscience,” Astor sniffed.

“
So we present it to him as a benevolent gift to mankind. I think he’d be perfect to approach. Besides, he’s looking for places for his money.”

It became a game. Vanderbilt would mention a name and Astor would chime in with some malicious gossip about the person. Or Astor would bring up someone and Vanderbilt would dryly utter a pithy observation. They left
Delmonico’s
and got into Astor’s limousine, still tossing names between them.

“
How do you feel about the Guggenheims?” Vanderbilt asked.

“
Jews…I try to avoid dealing with Jews. You know how they are,” Astor said tightly.

“
But the Guggenheims have the copper market cornered and we will need copper.”

Astor shrugged. “What about steel?”

“
Morgan,” Vanderbilt stated quickly. “If he comes onboard, he’d want to handle the steel. But we’ll need railroad lines built to all the centers. The Harrimans?”

“
I heard they had a falling out with Morgan. What about Charlie Hays?”

“
Hays, I like,” Vanderbilt said. “He gets things done.”

By the time they reached Vanderbilt’s 53rd Street townhouse they had written down the names of 67 of the richest and most powerful men alive on a single sheet of paper and divided them into two columns. In one column were the people to be approached and in the other, those to stay away from.

Over the course of the next month the odd pair began to develop a working rhythm. Their time together would stretch out from late morning to late evening. And while they continued to frequent the exclusive restaurants and private society clubs, the real nuts and bolts of the project began to take shape in Astor’s home office.