Several months had passed since the dramatic conclusion of the Senate hearings. The political fires had died down, leaving behind only the hard, cooled landscape of a new reality. Ezra Prentice's public persona as a complex, tortured patriot was now solidified, a shield of legend that made him all but untouchable. David Rockefeller, his reputation tarnished, had retreated from the public stage to lick his wounds and plot a new, quieter war. The world, for a moment, seemed to have settled into the new order Ezra had created.
But in the marble halls of the Senate Office Building, a new storm was brewing. The scene shifted to the office of Robert F. Kennedy, the younger brother of the Senator, a man who possessed all the family ambition but with a more pugnacious, street-fighter's intensity. As chief counsel for the Senate Labor Rackets Committee, he had been waging a relentless, public crusade against the influence of organized crime in America's powerful labor unions.
And his crusade had just hit a wall. A wall of granite named Frank Brennan.
Brennan was the president of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters, a union that controlled the lifeblood of the nation's commerce. He was a folk hero to his members and a demon to his enemies. He was a short, powerfully built man with the belligerent charisma of a saloon brawler and the cunning of a Medici prince. He was also, as Bobby Kennedy knew with an absolute, frustrating certainty, fantastically corrupt. But he was untouchable. His union was a fortress, protected by a network of violent enforcers, a legion of high-priced lawyers, and a web of political allies that reached into the highest levels of government.
Bobby paced his office, his tie loosened, a vein pulsing in his forehead. He was in a state of controlled, incandescent fury. Brennan had not just stonewalled his investigation; he had openly mocked it. He had appeared before the committee and invoked the Fifth Amendment dozens of times, a smug, contemptuous smirk on his face. He was making the Kennedys look weak, foolish, and impotent.
Worse, he had started to fight back in the press. He had begun dropping veiled, sinister hints to friendly columnists. Hints that he had "interesting stories" to tell about certain powerful families who had made their fortunes in the "less-than-legal liquor business" during Prohibition. It was a clear, unmistakable threat aimed directly at the patriarch of the Kennedy clan, Joseph P. Kennedy Sr.
Frank Brennan was not just a political problem anymore. He had become an existential threat to the Kennedy dynasty and to Jack's carefully orchestrated path to the presidency.
That weekend, a secret and somber meeting was convened at the family compound in Hyannis Port. The three Kennedy men—the patriarch, Joe Sr., the heir apparent, Jack, and the enforcer, Bobby—gathered in the father's private study.
Bobby laid out the problem with the grim, methodical precision of a field commander reporting a catastrophic defeat. "He's untouchable," Bobby said, his voice tight with frustration. "We can't get to his books. Witnesses are terrified; the ones who do agree to talk recant their testimony or disappear. The politicians he owns in Congress are blocking our every move. And now he's threatening to go after you, Dad. Directly."
Jack Kennedy, the cool, detached strategist, saw the political calculus with chilling clarity. "The Teamsters are a critical voting bloc in Illinois, Pennsylvania, Ohio… states we absolutely have to win in 1960. If Brennan turns them against us, we're finished before we even start. He has a knife to our throat, and he knows it."
Joe Kennedy Sr. listened to his sons, his face a mask of cold, hard pragmatism. He had faced down Wall Street speculators, Hollywood moguls, and Nazi ambassadors. He understood the nature of power in its rawest, most elemental form. He knew that some problems could not be solved with laws or speeches.
"This isn't a legal problem, Bobby," Joe said finally, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You've done your part. You've shown the world he's a menace. But you can't bring a subpoena to a gunfight." He looked from Bobby's righteous anger to Jack's cool calculation. "This is a sanitation problem. We have a rabid dog in our yard, and it needs to be put down. For that, you don't call a lawyer. You call a specialist."
Later that evening, from the privacy of his study, Joe Kennedy Sr. made the call. He used a secure line that was swept for bugs twice a day. The conversation was a masterpiece of coded, elliptical language, a dialogue between two sovereigns who understood that the most important things are never said directly.
"Mr. Prentice," Joe began, his voice cordial, almost friendly. "Joe Kennedy here. I trust you are well."
"Ambassador," Ezra replied, his own voice a smooth, calm baritone. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I was calling to discuss a… labor relations issue that has become a matter of some concern," Joe said. "A certain union president, a Mr. Frank Brennan, has become a significant obstacle to progress. A roadblock on the path to a more efficient and modern American economy." He paused. "My boys have tried the conventional approach. Congressional hearings, legal challenges. But this fellow doesn't seem to play by the established rules. I was hoping, given your vast experience in industrial matters, that you might have some… unconventional insights into how one might resolve such a deadlock."
The message was unmistakable. The Kennedy family was officially, if deniably, asking Ezra Prentice to use his shadow network to take down an American citizen on their behalf. They were activating their new, secret weapon. This was to be his first task, his first great service, as the kingmaker.
Ezra sat in his own study, the telephone receiver cool against his ear. He felt a flicker of grim, profound satisfaction. The great Joe Kennedy, the man who had built an empire, was now coming to him for help, admitting that there were problems that his own vast fortune and political power could not solve. It was the ultimate acknowledgment of Ezra's unique and terrible sovereignty.
"I have followed Mr. Brennan's career with some interest, Ambassador," Ezra replied smoothly, his voice betraying nothing. "He is indeed a formidable man. Perhaps a private consultation on the matter would be beneficial."
"I would appreciate that, Ezra," Joe Kennedy said, a note of genuine relief in his voice. "I would appreciate that very much."
Ezra hung up the phone. A cold, calculating look settled in his eyes. He had just been handed a golden opportunity: a chance to demonstrate his value to the Kennedys in the most dramatic way possible, and in doing so, to indebt them to him for a generation.
He walked to his intercom. "Von Hauser," he said. "To my study."
The Baron arrived minutes later, a silent, elegant wraith. Ezra was standing before his desk, holding a thin, freshly prepared file. Frank Brennan's name was typed neatly on the tab.
"We have a new project," Ezra said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He handed the file to the Baron. "The Kennedy family has a pest they need exterminated. I want you to find me every dirty secret, every financial crime, every personal weakness this man has. I want a complete psychological and operational profile. I want to be able to dismantle him, piece by piece, from the inside out."
Von Hauser took the file, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his face. "A domestic matter," he purred. "How delightfully… intimate. Consider it done, Ezra."
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