Hearst's Invitation

William looked at the young man. In those calm eyes, some kind of flame seemed to burn. He suddenly recalled how, more than ten days ago, in that Treasury Department conference room, this young man had stood before those Wall Street magnates for the first time and silenced Albert with a precise accusation of "Chase Bank insider trading."

He had won that battle.

He had won the Emergency Banking Act.

He had won the idea for the Fireside Chat.

Perhaps—

"Fine."

William suddenly spoke. "Since you're so confident, what's another three months in this position!"

Feilan's eyes lit up.

"But let me make this clear first. Don't expect me to work myself to the bone as I have for the past ten days. I'll only sit in that seat and help you keep things under control."

"That will be enough."

The sedan drove onto N Street in Georgetown.

When they arrived at Feilan's residence,

besides the Secret Service Packard and the waiting driver, another car was parked outside the door.

A Rolls-Royce Phantom II. Beside it stood a middle-aged man with the professionally solemn expression of a servant.

"Know him?"

William turned to glance at Feilan.

Feilan shook his head.

He got out of the car. Seeing him return, the middle-aged man immediately stepped forward and gave a slight bow. "Are you Mr. Feilan Roosevelt?"

"I am."

"I am Mr. William Hearst's private secretary. My name is Carvalho. Mr. Hearst hopes to have a chat with you."

Hearst.

The media tycoon who controlled the largest newspaper empire in America.

The man who had mobilized every newspaper under his command to viciously attack the President after Roosevelt's inauguration.

The man who had lost control of public opinion overnight after the Fireside Chat.

And now he wanted to talk to him?

Feilan narrowed his eyes. "When?"

"If it is convenient, now."

Feilan looked back at William.

William remained seated in the car, watching him through the window. There was a hint of caution in his gaze, along with a hint of curiosity.

Feilan nodded at him, signaling that everything was fine.

Then he turned back to the man. "Lead the way."

Massachusetts Avenue Heights.

One of Washington's oldest wealthy districts.

As early as the end of the nineteenth century, it had been home to political leaders, diplomats, and major industrialists.

The Rolls-Royce stopped before a black wrought-iron gate.

The plaque on the left bore the letters: W.R.H.

William Randolph Hearst.

The gate slid open, and the car slowly drove down a gravel-covered driveway. At last, the estate fully revealed itself before them.

It was a three-story Georgian Revival building, its exterior constructed from pale gray limestone. Massive fan-shaped windows rose overhead, while two Ionic columns stood on either side, grand without being ostentatious.

The car stopped before the front entrance.

Carvalho got out first and opened Feilan's door. "This way, Mr. Feilan."

Carvalho led him through the entry hall and into a sitting room.

"Please wait a moment. Mr. Hearst will be down shortly. Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you."

Carvalho nodded and turned to leave.

Feilan stood in the middle of the sitting room, his gaze slowly sweeping over the surroundings until he noticed the photographs hanging on the walls.

They showed Hearst with Coolidge, Hoover, and a number of congressmen and high-ranking officials.

And in the center was a portrait of Hearst himself.

In the photograph, he wore a suit and stood atop some building, chin slightly raised, his gaze looking down on all below as though the storms of the entire world lay beneath his feet.

Feilan withdrew his gaze and sat down on the sofa.

Several minutes later, footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Feilan rose and turned toward the staircase. Hearst was coming down from the upper floor.

The media tycoon was not dressed as he appeared in newspaper photographs or public appearances.

He wore casual clothes and a pair of soft leather slippers.

He was trying to make himself seem natural, composed, even somewhat relaxed.

But Feilan saw something else.

Fine lines of exhaustion had appeared at the corners of the eyes that controlled America's largest newspaper empire.

His steps were steady and measured, yet they felt like a deliberate declaration of composure to his guest.

Clearly, after angering the Roosevelt administration, having the Fireside Chat pull the rug out from under him, and losing his grip on public opinion, he had not been having an easy time lately.

And since Feilan had risen to his feet, Hearst's eyes had also been quietly studying him.

What mattered most in the media business?

Obtaining information faster, more accurately, and more comprehensively than anyone else.

As America's most powerful media tycoon, Hearst's intelligence network covered every corner of Washington.

He had planted informants in the offices of those Cabinet officials.

At the dinner tables of those congressmen, he had sources on his payroll.

Among the documents passing through government departments, he had clerks he had bribed.

And recently, one name had begun appearing frequently in his sources.

Feilan Roosevelt.

The frequency with which those Cabinet officials mentioned that name in private conversations was astonishing.

People at the Treasury Department and the White House were all talking about him.

Hearst's vigilance had been stirred. He immediately activated his vast intelligence network and began investigating this young man who had appeared out of nowhere.

The results shocked him.

This man called Feilan Roosevelt was twenty-five years old and the son of President Roosevelt's brother.

He was also an illegitimate child who had been marginalized by the Lineage since childhood.

For the first twenty-five years of his life, his record had been mediocre to the point of being dreadful: he had dropped out of Harvard, drank heavily, got into fights, and lived off the allowance from the family trust.

Then, all of a sudden, it was as though he had become a different person.

According to sources within the Treasury Department, though William Woodin had ostensibly led the Emergency Banking Act from the front, the true mastermind behind it might have been Feilan Roosevelt.

White House sources said that the idea for the Fireside Chat had also come from that young man.

Wall Street sources said that during the Treasury Department's closed-door negotiations, the young man named Feilan Roosevelt had pointed at a group of magnates and berated them until they could not lift their heads.

Twenty-five years old.

A twenty-five-year-old had masterminded a national salvation bill, proposed a brilliant idea that changed the political-media landscape, and berated a room full of Wall Street magnates until they could not lift their heads.

What kind of concept was that?

It was like someone telling Hearst that a young man who had just dropped out of law school had designed the Panama Canal all by himself.

Or that some green boy who had never fought a war had commanded the American military to victory in the Spanish-American War.

Absurd. Inconceivable. Completely contrary to common sense.

But information did not lie.

The fragments gathered from different, unrelated channels led to only one conclusion.

This young man was no ordinary person.