Compared to the cool spring breeze of Washington, the summer seemed to arrive much earlier in Columbia, the capital of South Carolina.
James handed his heavy overcoat to an aide, revealing a perfectly tailored suit. His strides carried a sense of power, exuding such overwhelming pressure that those who came to receive him felt it in their bones.
This was the aura of a Washington politician. In the capital, he was a smooth operator; in the provinces, he had to project raw intimidation.
The one most affected was Columbia's mayor, Bo Reed, whose forehead was already beading with sweat. With utmost deference, he pulled open the car door for this party heavyweight.
James didn't even wait for Bo Reed's rear to touch the leather seat before asking,
"Do you still have contact with those fellows in white hoods?"
Bo Reed nearly collapsed onto the seat, not daring to sit straight as he hurried to explain,
"No, sir. Since their forced dissolution under pressure back in 1944, I haven't had any contact with them."
He knew exactly what James was referring to—the Ku Klux Klan, infamous across America yet still commanding a loyal following in the South. Bo Reed was all too aware of the nation's political winds: to admit association with them was political suicide.
"Oh?"
James' half-smile carried a sting as he pointed to the small flag wedged between the front seat and the car door. It was none other than the "Stainless Banner"—the second Confederate battle flag, symbol of the South's defeated army.
Bo Reed silently cursed Chucks Jackson, the local Klan leader who had been mouthing off in his car just the day before. To forget such a thing was beyond careless. This buffoon wanted to unite the Klan and march into Washington? Pathetic.
His face pale, Bo Reed stammered an excuse,
"Sir, you know… this is the South. A man from outside, trying to govern smoothly, inevitably must deal with all sorts of people."
James' smile vanished. He slapped Bo Reed's face lightly but with contempt, saying coldly,
"Bo, my father once said you'd make a loyal dog of the family. Why do I see only a lying stray?"
To most, "loyal dog" would be an insult. But to Bo Reed—who had grown up dirt poor, never tasting soft bread before the age of fifteen—becoming the Roosevelt family's loyal dog was the proudest achievement of his life.
Now, being called a stray was no doubt a warning. Reed's position as mayor rested entirely on the Roosevelt family's support.
"Sir, I was wrong. I did meet Columbia's Klan leader yesterday."
In truth, James had already lost patience with Reed and would rather make him a stray. But the coming scheme required Reed's local connections—and later, he'd need someone to take the blame.
Switching back to a smile, James said,
"As long as you tell the truth, even contact with the Klan is a small problem. If I recall, the leader here is Chucks Jackson. Bring him to me."
It had been too long since James last came south, and he wanted Reed to understand clearly that even from Washington, he knew everything that went on here.
Reed knew well of the Roosevelt family's intelligence network—part machine, part manpower. Tentatively, he asked,
"Sir, the Klan has splintered badly. Their power is much reduced, and worst of all, their stench of infamy. Would it not be risky for you to meet them personally?"
James waved him off.
"Go do it, Bo Reed."
Before long, in Reed's villa, James met Chucks—whose strong body odor filled the room. Chucks, aware of the Klan's precarious state, was overjoyed to be summoned by someone of James' stature.
This southern extremist, a poorly educated farmer by background, tried awkwardly to kiss James' hand, like in some old film.
James pulled back with distaste.
"A handshake will do, Chucks."
They sat, and James' first words nearly made Chucks leap from his chair.
"I hear you want to revive the Klan. I can help you."
Chucks, confused but not stupid, knew there was no reward without cost.
"What would you have me do, sir?"
James slid a photograph onto the table.
"I need you to spark a riot here in Columbia. The riot itself is unimportant. What matters is that this man must die. He is an immigrant, a capitalist, and favored by none other than the Chairman of the Federal Reserve—the most despised Jew in America. Aside from his white skin, everything about him is an offense to the Klan's creed."
Chucks hesitated, asking,
"Sir, how big must this riot be? I would gladly do it, but truthfully, not many here in the state capital would dare take part."
"Not large," James replied. "Keep it limited—just around him."
Hearing it would affect only a few streets, Chucks relaxed.
"Don't underestimate him," James warned. "He looks gentle, but to the Japanese in the Pacific, he was a nightmare. I need your best men at full strength. He is dangerous."
He then recounted how Leo had turned an assassination attempt on its head, killing a CIA sniper—though the details of time, place, and identity were left deliberately vague.
Shocked, Chucks nodded gravely.
"I understand, sir. I'll gather the best of our men—the most faithful Klan believers. But I need to know his location."
James nodded.
"Intelligence support is expected. He stays at the DoubleTree Hotel, but I wouldn't recommend striking there. He frequents the South District—the Black quarter. He's trying to use the President's campaign to court their churches."
"The damned white traitor!" Chucks spat. "The South District… we love stirring trouble there."
Once Chucks departed, James turned to Bo Reed.
"Find a way to make sure he dies in the riot as well."
Meanwhile, Leo truly was in the same city, just as James had said—at that very moment in the South District.
The Evangelicals' most influential Baptist leader's church was there. Thanks to Harris of the Seventh-Day Adventists and repeated nudges from the Ochsner Group, the fifty-year-old religious leader Cade Colby had finally agreed to meet him.
Warm and welcoming, Cade showed no prejudice against Leo for being an Italian Catholic. With just a few words, Leo sensed this seemingly gentle elder was, in fact, a master of human affairs.
In subtle undertones, Cade quickly revealed he already knew Leo's purpose.
"What may I do for God?"
Since the man already understood, Leo was blunt.
"Equality."
"Equality!" Cade declared.
Leo arched a brow. Was this old man truly a saint? He felt irritation—since becoming wealthy, no one had ever asked him for something other than money. And "equality" was the hardest of demands.
But instead of bargaining further, Leo shifted the conversation to Baptist doctrine. Cade did not press, and the two spent days talking, making little real progress.
Compared to blunt enemies like the Cottons, this smiling priest with unshakable principles was even harder to deal with.
One morning, as Leo prepared to meet Cade again, he saw in the local edition of The New Journal:
"Klan thugs seem to be converging on the capital. Citizens, take care."
Leo frowned. His driver, Walter—recently returned from Europe and now steadier than ever—said,
"Boss, things like this happen every year. Just two days ago, a few Blacks were killed, and a small church was burned."
Leo nodded but ordered,
"Tell Joseph to bring in more men. And survey the church grounds again—every detail."
Arriving at the church, Leo embraced Cade, but instantly felt hostile eyes on him. The pews were emptier than usual, with unfamiliar white faces scattered among them. His gaze on Cade grew sharper.
Cade, sensing it, raised the same newspaper and said,
"This is the South, in need of God's watch. I know your thoughts, but believe me, this is not my doing. I can ensure your safety—if you remain inside."
"Thank you, Father. But I never entrust my fate to another. Let us continue yesterday's discussion on doctrine."
Inside, as they sat, Walter moved to step out and contact Joseph, but Leo stopped him. He felt it—he was already inside a trap. Any strategy now was too late. All he could do was trust Joseph was ready.
"Sharp instincts, steady nerves, unshakable confidence," Cade said, impressed. "But clearly, we cannot agree on equality. Let us make a wager: if you can return safely to your hotel, I'll grant further talks. If not—if you retreat to this church—the Baptist Convention will establish a real estate company with your American Realty, but we will hold seventy percent."
Leo glared. Cade's face remained saintly even as he demanded profit cloaked in piety.
"Father," Leo asked darkly, "those strangers outside—truly not your doing?"
"You know I have no need," Cade replied smoothly.
Before more could be said, a man rushed in, shouting,
"Father! The Klan is lynching outside the church!"
Cade's face changed instantly, enraged.
"How dare they?"
For the first time, Leo saw him drop the act. Cade had assumed the intruders were after Leo; now, realizing they threatened the church itself, he was furious. If Klan fanatics committed murder on church grounds, his hard-won influence among Blacks would collapse.
As aides swung open the doors, a stray bullet whizzed past Cade's head, startling him.
"Outrageous!" he muttered. Then quickly: "Close the doors! Call the police chief!"
Leo watched thoughtfully as the doors shut—just as sunlight glinted off glass above the square. He shoved the doors open again.
"Remember your words, Father."
Taking the M1911 from Walter, Leo strode out. He knew now—he had underestimated his enemies. For them to strike again so soon meant one thing: they were desperate.
Bang. The church doors closed behind him. Cade's panic vanished. Calmly, he strolled back to his office, telling aides,
"If they return, let them in."
Outside, chaos reigned. Hooded Klansmen dragged Blacks to gallows. Streets leading to the square had erupted into gunfire between armed Blacks and armed whites.
From a café by the square, Chucks spotted Leo. He pulled out the photo—no doubt. This was the man James wanted dead.
He shouted to his armed men,
"Brothers! The white traitor has appeared. He has only pistols. We have proper weapons. Kill him! For our cause! Thirty thousand each to the survivors—ten thousand to any martyr's family!"
Fueled by hate and greed, these veterans of Europe, scarred by war and abandoned by society, surged out red-eyed.
The most aggressive led the charge, rifle in hand. He aimed for Leo's car as cover, convinced the "traitor" couldn't fight back.
Just as he prepared to fire, dreaming of the payout—
A bullet from behind blew his head apart.