At the printing company, Schneider passed the suit case to Heinrich who in turn passed it to his youngest brother, who curtly nodded and disappeared into the plate room to create the plates. Schneider had tried to find a newspaper press, but as Heinrich explained these were rare and more importantly took almost two dozen pressmen to operate. After discussions with Hiro, they had compromised on Heinrich’s small and very discreet press.
Two hours later, the press was running and the first pages were being printed. In reality, it was the last page of the report. As Heinrich explained, they would print the pages in reverse order as this made the collating machine’s job easier.
By eight that evening, the first batch of 5,000 copies was completed. The two middle brothers then left to each steal a car. The two stolen cars appeared 30 minutes later and the five men loaded the first two thousand copies into the back seats of the cars. It was cold and a snow had started to fall, which suited Schneider—fewer pedestrians to watch their nocturnal deliveries.
Schneider bid the brothers farewell and returned to take Louise to dinner.
The cars made their way on the two well-rehearsed routes. At each Catholic church on the route, the rear door opened, and a brother dashed to the front door carrying a bundle of 25 copies in each hand. Each bundle was loosely tied with twine—easy for even the oldest parishioner to open. The brothers dropped bundles at each front door. Once, they were disturbed by a startled priest, who was too shocked to do anything. Completing their church run, the two stolen cars were dumped in a grocery store parking lot. The entire operation had taken under four hours.
Returning to the Majestic, Schneider shaved and showered. He also carefully trimmed his fingernails.
19: The Smell of Burning Rubber
AFTER A LEISURELY BREAKFAST, as the President was pushed in his wheel chair from the residence along the veranda, the Marine Honor Guard snapped to attention. Call it professional bias if you will he thought, but my jarheads are the best: best saluters, best marchers, best uniforms. He allowed himself the indulgence of the pronoun. In reality, he was Commander In Chief of all the armed forces, not just of the Marines.
Rex Tugwell ordered coffee for the Commander In Chief.
“Rex, what is that God-awful stink?”
“Well, Mr. President, from what I understand there has been some sort of fire in Ohio.”
“Ohio, what sort of fire?”
“Some rubber tires, I have been told.”
The President sniffed, “Well, the sooner it burns out the better, but Ohio—that’s hundreds of miles from here.”
“Must have been one hell of a fire, hope the fuckingthingburnsout,” the President chuckled, the last four words sounding as one.
In truth, “the fire” was actually two separate fires in Akron: one at the Goodyear dump and the other 25 miles away at the Goodrich dump.
The “fucking thing” did burn itself, or rather, themselves, out—in February. Yet another of the usual Washington cover-ups followed—an inquisition followed to protect the guilty and torment the innocent, much along the lines of the original one in Spain, and with about the same level of veracity and honesty. The official title was the “Secretary of War’s Review Panel of the Ohio Rubber Fires,” less reverentially referred to as the “Rubbers Report.” The report conjectured that a number of men—“possibly of an Italian or Spanish persuasion”—had surreptitiously entered the two massive dumps and had planted “up to 100” magnesium flares. These flares burn with temperatures approaching the outer surface of the sun. Or as one reader succinctly described it, “very, very fucking hot.”
The fire had destroyed 60% of the U.S. reserve of rubber, and—a little more importantly—the ability of the U.S. to wage war.
But that was the least of the President’s problems.
20: Roosevelt’s Sacred Magisterium
“BAD BUSINESS, THAT TIRE THING,” the President remarked to Rex.
Rex nodded, but looked ragged and nervous.
“What is it, Rex?”
“Sir, I’d rather wait for Mr. Hopkins to join us.”
Roosevelt’s ever-sensitive antennae twitched, “Rex, when you say ‘sir’ and ‘Mr. Hopkins,’ I know something is wrong, so out with it.”
Tugwell looked at the floor hoping for some form—any form—of salvation.
At this moment, salvation did arrive in the shape of Harry Hopkins.
“So, Harry, give me some good news.”
“Well, sir, the Canadians are no longer whining about the fires in Akron.”
“Good, so I hope those no-good, fucking gutless Northern monkeys have stopped their bitching. Have they?”
Saying nothing, Hopkins moved to the President’s desk and laid out the late morning issues of three Toronto morning newspapers.
“United States Plans To Invade Canada!” was the headline in end-of-the-world type; these six words were the front page of each of the dailies.
“What the fuck is this nonsense?” the President asked.
Hopkins took a very deep breath; Tugwell was still staring at the floor, praying he was anywhere but the Oval Office.
“Well. It seems the Canadians have gotten hold of War Plan Red. And so too have the English, and the Australians, and so on, and so on, and so on. And they know all about our proposed poison gas attacks as part of the plan.”
“How the fuck could this happen? WPR is a fucking HyperSecret—that means, Eyes Only, no fucking copies.”
“How the fuck could this happen?” by now Roosevelt was screaming, well beyond merely shouting.
Hopkins quietly said, “It gets worse.”
“Worse, worse, how much fucking worse can it get? Are you fucking joking—worse?”
“Well, the Canadian papers say there is a handwritten note from you to Stimson that is supposed to say, ‘Henry, as we discussed, we need to make these dopey northerners the 49th state ASAP—this cuts across party lines, Franklin.’ And these papers say they have had the hand writing analyzed and it is ah, conclusively, ah, yours, ah, Mr. President.”
Hopkins prayed for an earthquake to swallow up the White House, or at least that he would be struck dead; neither happened.
Roosevelt said nothing, then simply asked—himself more than the other two—“How the fuck did this happen?”
“So, what should we do, Mr. President?” Rex asked feebly having finally summoned the courage to speak.
Roosevelt, the consummate dissembler, reached for a cigarette.
“Do? We do nothing, we do dick, zero, nothing, nada. We don’t need those fucking Canadians cunts. If they whine, fuck them, we will cut off all the milk and honey to Mr. Winston and see who needs whom then.”
Even before finishing this sacred magisterium, Roosevelt’s finely tuned calculus engine was already turning, and he returned to master manipulator politician mode.
“Pour me a drink, and take one yourselves, if you like.” In spite of it being two minutes before 11 in the morning, both did likewise.
“So who does this help? Obviously, Berlin, but also Tokyo. So it must have been one—or both (Roosevelt chuckled at this). I have to say, I thought I was the wiliest cunt in the henhouse until today. But these people make me look like a Hudson River hick.”