The meeting did not take place in a magnificent New York offices or a Washington D.C. smoke-filled back room. It was held within a small, unassuming suite at the Jefferson Hotel, St. Louis, Missouri. The venue was especially selected by Ezra to be located within his target's hometown, a discreet act of deference.
Senator Harry S. Truman strode into the suite with a no-nonsense step. He was a small, natty man with a well-tailored suit and bowtie, his keen eyes behind thick glasses. He was cautious. As chairman of the Senate's new oversight committee probing defense spending, he already clashed with influential industrialists and Wall Street tycoons. A summons from a man with the name Rockefeller attached to his name, however remote, triggered all his populists' alarm bells. He was bracing himself for a lecture on government encroachment, or even an unsavory bribe offer.
Ezra rose to greet him, his hand extended. "Senator Truman, thank you for making the time. I am Ezra Prentice."
"I know who you are," Truman said, his handshake firm and brief. His flat Missouri drawl was devoid of pleasantry. "Your office said this was a matter of national security. I hope you're not about to waste my time, Mr. Prentice."
"I have no intention of doing so," Ezra replied, gesturing to a comfortable armchair. "Please."
Ezra did not begin by talking about money or politics; he began by offering something far more valuable: information.
"Senator," he said, once they were both seated. "I'm an admirer, y'see. You are canvassing to have a nation's resources not be wasted as a nation re-arms. It's very important work."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, son," Truman interrupted, his eyes narrowed.
"It's not flattery; it's an observation," replied Ezra with a smooth manner. "But I'm here today, however, because I think your committee, with all its valuable work, has a bigger issue to deal with. You are examining wastage during our preparations to meet the previous war. I'm here to offer you intelligence regarding the next one."
During the next hour, Ezra presented a sanitized but completely damning account of the intelligence he had obtained. He talked of Germany's actual industrial capability, a number considerably greater than US government estimates. He had technical information, devoid of any identifier that could be harmful, regarding German synthetic fuel output, demonstrating how they were insulating themselves from a blockade by sea. He detailed, with eerie precision, their new planes and their rocket development program—intelligence that he personally knew to be several years beyond that possessed by the War Department.
"Senator," Ezra summed up, "as our army still gives orders for cavalry horses, the Germans are constructing tank armies that can be directed by radio. As we construct battleships, they are constructing long-distance bombers and rockets to render navies unnecessary. The real wastage isn't a handful of overly expensive contracts in army boots. The real wastage is that our entire military doctrine is perilously, possibly mortally, obsolete."
Truman listened, his initial skepticism melting away, to be refrozen by a hard, focused intensity. He was an old artillery captain; he knew war's bleak math. He could hear the sound of hard facts ringing with truth from Ezra's presentation. This wasn't loose waving-of-the-hand by a Wall Street wheeler-dealer; it was hard, usable intelligence.
"Where did you hear all this?" Truman asked, his voice low.
"I have business interests and contacts throughout Europe," Ezra replied, the answer both true and deeply misleading. "Let's just say I make it my business to understand my competitors."
Having proved his credibility, Ezra switched gears. He spoke of his own supposed origins in the Midwest—an easy falsehood, considering his Connecticut roots, but one to which Truman could identify. He did not speak, nor did he pretend to speak, as a Rockefeller, but as a hard-boiled industrialist who cared about economy, ability, and a strong, independent America. He met Truman halfway with their shared, visceral disdain for bureaucratic feet-dragging and armchair generalship.
"The men in Washington, the ones you fight every day, Senator... they are slow," Ezra said, striking a chord. "They are complacent. They are more concerned with political turf than with national security. You are one of the few voices of reason, and they are trying to bury you."
Only then, after he had established a shared enemy and a common purpose, did Ezra make his move.
"The work that your committee is doing is vital to this country's survival," he said to them. "But I have watched your budget hearings' transcripts. You are underfunded, understaffed, and your political opponents within the isolationist segment would be ecstatic to see you succumb to a lack of resources."
He pulled a plain, unmarked envelope from his briefcase. He pushed it across the table between them.
"This," he said, his voice even, "contains a cashier's check for fifty thousand dollars."
Truman's eyes closed once again. It was here. The bribe.
"It's a personal contribution, my own," declared Ezra hastily, "to a political action committee of your choosing. The 'Committee for Responsive Government,' perhaps, or a re-election campaign fund. Whatever vehicle you care to create. There are no strings attached. No contracts to be provided, no favors to be asked. I just believe your work, your political career within the Senate, represents exactly the very finest way I could invest toward securing American safety and security well into the nation's future."
Truman gazed at the envelope like a coiled snake. Fifty thousand dollars. It was a mind-boggling amount in 1940, enough to support his complete political machine for years to come, enough to provide him with a war chest that would give his opponents nightmares. He recognized what it was. It was the seed money to a relationship of patronage, an association with a man who wielded titanic but shadowy influence. His every fiber as a man of the people urged him to reject it, to hurl this Wall Street money back into the smooth-talking gentleman's face.
But he also recognized that Ezra was correct. His own committee was starving. His war against the isolationists and the profiteers was a losing battle. And what this man knew was worth a king's ransom. He regarded Ezra, attempting to pierce behind his calm, patrician façade. He did not see any ordinary fat cat seeking a margin. He saw a very serious, extremely well-read, and possibly irreplaceable ally. He saw a fellow patriot, although a patriot who waged his war in a manner Truman could scarce understand.
Slowly, deliberately, Senator Harry S. Truman reached out and took the envelope. He did not open it. He simply held it in his hand.
"Mr. Prentice," he said, his voice a flat, unreadable drawl from Missouri. "I appreciate your... patriotism."
The deal was done. The alliance was forged.
Ezra rose from his seat. "I'll be in contact, Senator. I presume I'll be providing more information to you soon."
He departed from the suite, going outside into the fresh St. Louis evening. He had just purchased his most significant asset since his new life began. Not a company, nor a patent, nor a research team. He had just bought himself a rising star within the United States Senate. He commenced his long, patient work to construct his political shield.
He knew, with cold certainty, as a man who already knew what tomorrow would be, that the path he had taken here, tonight, in that small hotel room, could, with deft cultivation and vast resources, go all the way to the White House. He had just planned a third front in his war, and he was already planning his next campaign.