On August 20, 1928, hundreds of crystal chandeliers bathed the newly opened screening room at MGM in golden light, each prism reflecting the excitement of Hollywood's elite.
Louis B. Mayer stood upon a gilded podium before a deep red velvet curtain, behind which the title "Broadway Melody" gleamed in gold lettering under the lights. When the spotlight suddenly swept across the room, he instinctively turned, revealing his signature, captivating smile.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Mayer's deep, commanding voice resonated through the acoustically perfect space, "MGM, together with Technicolor, presents a visual revolution that will enthrall audiences worldwide!"
He raised his right hand in a broad gesture, the diamond button on his cuff sparkling brilliantly. Thunderous applause erupted, cameras flashed, and the press section buzzed with activity. A senior Los Angeles Times critic straightened instinctively, ink blotting across the page like sparks igniting the coming revolution in cinema.
This was a defining moment of Hollywood's Golden Age, the first time the Big Five studios formed a formal alliance. That day's Variety front page carried a bold Gothic headline:
"Hollywood's Big Five Unite: Resist Financial Invasion, Protect Industry Sovereignty"
The subheading made no secret of its veiled criticism of Shane's European-style pre-sale bond model. Mayer's fingers brushed the smooth newspaper, his smile widening with satisfaction.
Meanwhile, three thousand miles away, at Morgan Manor in Rhode Island, the grandfather clock struck five in the study. Firelight danced across the sterling silver paper cutter in Morgan's hand, reflecting off his gaunt, stone-like features. A telegram from the West Coast lay carefully sliced open before him.
Late on August 21, Beverly Hills was shrouded in thick, unusual fog. Outside Mayer's Tuscan-style villa, a black Packard limousine glided up the cobblestone driveway. Alfred Grayson, the Morgan family's impeccable butler, clicked his polished Oxford shoes on the stone, straightened his bow tie, and knocked on the oak door with a lion-head brass ring.
The sleepy-eyed valet opened the door. Grayson bowed slightly. "Please convey Mr. Morgan's regards from the East Coast."
The gold-embossed envelope gleamed under the foyer lights. Mayer opened it in his study; the grandfather clock read 2:15. Morgan's elegant handwriting read:
"Dear Louis, Hollywood's prosperity must not be built on lies."
Attached to the letter was a meticulously forged copy of overseas accounting records, each page stamped with a Swiss bank seal. Mayer's hands trembled, the Cuban cigar slipping from his fingers and scorching the Persian carpet. By the time he looked up, the black Packard had vanished into the fog, leaving only faint tire tracks.
On the morning of August 23, a newsboy delivered the latest Variety. The front page now read:
"Pioneer Optics and RCA Reach Strategic Partnership: Ushering a New Era for Cinema Technology"
Mayer remained in his study all day, the servants tiptoeing to avoid disturbing him.
By 10 a.m., August 24, atop the 35th floor of Morgan Tower, Manhattan's skyline shimmered in morning light. Ten lawyers in dark suits hovered over documents, the scratch of Montblanc pens echoing through the room.
Shane sat opposite Morgan Jr., a measured smile on his lips. He pushed forward the patent document for the three-color ribbon process.
"The chemical development portion will be granted under a cross-license from RCA," Shane said, tapping lightly on the page.
Several parameters in the dense technical data had been subtly replaced with "Pioneer coefficients" — dispersion standards redefined via logarithmic calculations, a quiet safeguard against industrial espionage. Morgan's chief engineer adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses repeatedly, checking Shane's calculations.
Shane sipped the Polish mineral water in his crystal glass. "This latest result from our Zurich laboratory improves color reproduction by at least 18%," he said calmly. A shadow from a passing Boeing mail plane briefly fell across the documents, causing the engineer's focus to flicker.
Morgan's piercing gaze lingered on Shane for several seconds before he finally nodded. As the pen made its final stroke on the contract, the conference room seemed to exhale, the tension breaking. Shane's left hand, previously clenched under the table, relaxed; the faint crescent marks on his palm slowly regained color.
By August 25, the New York Harbor was blanketed in gray-white sea fog, curling above Pier B7 in Red Hook. The damp air smelled of salt and diesel, each breath chilling the lungs.
Shane stood at the pier's edge, the hem of his light gray suit lifting in the wind. Two white 1.5-ton armored trucks waited silently, shadows stretching across the mist, while security personnel positioned themselves like sentinels, right index fingers resting lightly on Thompson submachine gun triggers.
A deep whistle cut through the fog — the Olympic had arrived. Its massive hull loomed like a black mountain, slicing through gray waters with a churning white wake. Smoke from its towering funnel confirmed its recent transatlantic voyage.
At the Manhattan customs terminal, Volker and Vic leaned against the railing, observing discreetly. Their dark, tailored suits stood out amid the bustling dockworkers.
"The usual?" Vic asked softly, tapping the railing.
Volker nodded, eyes scanning the checkpoint. "Keep it subtle."
Vic pulled a brown envelope from his coat pocket, slipping it casually into a passing officer's hand. The man didn't pause, merely squeezing the package as a satisfied smile crept across his face.
"Mr. Hansen," Vic said quietly, "perfect day for fishing, isn't it?"
Hansen scoffed, "Let's hope your 'catch' doesn't attract too much attention." He winked at a young inspector nearby. "Marco, help these gentlemen with their… special cargo."
Marco nodded and moved efficiently toward a barge moored to the side. Volker watched, noting the inspector's practiced movements — clearly not his first time.
Passengers began disembarking from the tanker. Volker, accompanied by two attendants, presented his boarding permission and passed through the checkpoint with ease. A final sweep of the pier ensured no suspicious eyes lingered, then he ascended the Olympic's gangway.
Under the thick fog, the handover proceeded flawlessly. Shane remained at the pier, watching as the faint glow of dawn began to creep over the horizon.