On Friday, August 17, 1928, at 3 p.m., under the vaulted glass dome of Pennsylvania Station, Shane checked his Patek Philippe watch. Carterson followed closely, alligator-skin briefcase in hand, eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles scanning the bustling crowd with quiet vigilance. Two security men sent by Volker, dressed in well-tailored but practical suits, kept a measured distance, like living barriers shielding them from prying eyes.
The express train bound for Providence hissed as it pulled into the station, steam coiling upward into the heavy summer air. The scent of coal and hot iron clung to the platform. Shane unbuttoned his gray suit jacket and slid into a first-class window seat, the leather creaking softly. At 5:15 p.m., they made their way to the dining car. Shane ordered a bottle of Saratoga mineral water, Carterson black coffee. They spoke in muted tones, evaluating every possibility for that evening's encounter with John Pierpont Morgan Jr. — equity stakes, patent rights, antitrust clauses — each detail a chess piece on a complex board.
The security personnel at the next table maintained casual appearances, but their hands hovered near their coats, ready to act if needed.
As the train passed Connecticut, the sun began its slow descent. The Atlantic shimmered gray in the distance, stretching into the horizon like molten steel.
Five hours and seventeen minutes later, Shane and his party stepped onto the damp night air of Newport Pier, Rhode Island. The Morgan family's Packard 8 Series waited at the end of the pier. Shane's security detail relaxed only after confirming the Morgan bodyguards wore the prearranged sapphire lapel pins.
The twenty-minute drive along Ocean Avenue brought the scent of salt and brine through the cracked windows. Shane loosened his tie, the anxiety he'd carefully concealed surfacing in small tics as the car rolled over the shell-paved driveway.
When the sedan stopped before the Georgian white façade of Newport Manor, gaslights bathed the mansion in a soft glow. A figure moved behind the blinds of the second-floor study, shadowed and blurred.
At 10:07 p.m., Shane's leather shoes pressed against the damask carpet of the study. The oak door closed silently behind him. Morgan Jr. stood with his back to the French windows, moonlight glinting off the brandy glass in his hand, amber shadows stretching across the Persian rug.
"Sit," Morgan said, not turning. "You're seven minutes late."
Shane glanced at the marine clock above the mantel. "Apologies, Mr. Morgan. The tides in Newport Harbor were four hours ahead of the forecast."
Morgan slowly faced him, the moonlight outlining hawk-like features. His grey eyes, refracted in the brandy, resembled cold, sharp gems.
"The Federal Communications Commission will reorganize the broadcast spectrum in 1930," Morgan began, his voice deep and deliberate. "Back then, oceanography wasn't a topic you'd consider relevant."
He paused, tapping the silver chain of his pocket watch. "How many megahertz do you suppose Hollywood film sets use?"
Shane's fingers tightened subtly on the chair arm. Even Wall Street's most discreet informants hadn't uncovered these details.
"Depends on Bell Labs' carrier breakthroughs," Shane replied, accepting the whiskey the butler offered. "But the experimental station Warner Bros. acquired covers the California coastline—from Los Angeles to San Francisco."
Morgan's wrinkles deepened, a silent acknowledgment of the secret acquisition Shane had mentioned—a feat only Morgan's elite intelligence network had detected.
When the topic shifted to DuPont's improved nitrocellulose process, Morgan's hand, holding his letter opener, reflected the firelight as he lightly stirred ice cubes in his glass. "Delaware Plant 3, last year's explosion—this batch was involved?"
Shane answered with measured precision: "Yes. Improved ignition point: +47%. Cost increase: 1.2 cents per foot." His words revealed information Morgan already had, a calculated chess sacrifice.
Morgan tapped the floor with his ebony cane. The hidden door opened. A thin man with round spectacles entered, carrying documents.
"Whitney confirms you've traced the shell companies," Morgan said, placing the papers on the table. "Did you note the chairmen are brothers-in-law of the Federal Communications vice chairman?"
The study fell into a tense stillness. Shane felt the hairs on his neck rise—Morgan's real game was now revealed. Those shell companies were regulatory moles.
"So a combination of technologies is necessary," Shane said, smiling faintly, "not just to win the race—but to stage a spectacular feint for the Department of Justice."
He gestured toward the moonlit tennis court, letting Morgan perceive the insight—enough to build cautious trust.
"The ethyl cellulose from Nevada…" Shane left the sentence unfinished.
Morgan's eyes fixed on him. "Approved before the Chemicals Safety Law is revised," he replied, precise as a master clockmaker. From his drawer, he produced a gold-embossed document. "And the London shell company… shares held by a British MP's illegitimate son?"
Shane's breath caught slightly. Even the most secretive shareholder was now visible.
He switched the topic. "Phased investment strategy. Swiss lab can manage the chemical component of the three-color ribbon process."
Morgan chuckled softly, a slow, measured sound. He pressed an ivory button; the butler entered with 1921 port, placing a glass in front of Shane.
"Do you know why we chose you?" Morgan asked, the firelight glinting on the glass. "Sarnoff at RCA only looks at specs. You… you've already seen the Senate hearings two years in advance."
By the time Shane left the manor, the eastern sky was tinged with first dawn light. The sea breeze carried morning dew across his jacket. In his pocket lay Morgan's "little gift"—a gold-plated fountain pen. He felt the engraved patterns under his fingers: the Senate Commerce Committeeagenda, confidential, two years in advance.
On the ferry back to New York, Carterson finally whispered, "Are we truly splitting the core patents?"
Shane's gaze lingered on Rhode Island's receding coastline. "No," he said, voice almost drowned by the sea. "We'll add a cross-licensing clause for the ethyl cellulose process with the Swiss lab."
The rising sun illuminated the pen in his pocket. On its side, tiny engraved letters read:
"Only those who foresee the future are qualified to make their moves."