The telegram hit the mahogany desk like a bullet.
Jason stared at the yellow strip of paper. It wasn't a market report. It was a casualty list.
FORD PLANT HALTED. 400 ENGINES DESTROYED. SAND IN GEARBOXES. PRODUCTION ZERO.
Jason looked up at his secretary. "Sand?"
"They poured industrial grit into the crankcases, sir," the secretary stammered. "The assembly line is dead. The workers aren't picketing outside. They've barricaded themselves inside."
Jason stood up, walking to the window. New York was gray and smoggy below him.
This wasn't a wage dispute. You didn't destroy the machines if you just wanted a raise. You destroyed the machines if you wanted to kill the owner.
"They have demands," the secretary added, handing him a flyer.
Jason took it. It was crude, printed on cheap red paper.
LABOR IS THE ONLY CAPITAL.
OWNERSHIP TO THE PEOPLE.
The font was familiar. It was the same typeface used on the pamphlets in Greenwich Village.
"Get me Alta," Jason said.
"She's on the line with the Governor of Michigan," the secretary said. "She wants to send in the National Guard. She's talking about machine guns."
"No," Jason snapped. "Tell her to hold. If we shoot workers in Detroit, we lose the country. This isn't a strike. It's an infection."
He grabbed his coat.
"Where are you going, sir?"
"To see the patient zero."
The basement bar in Greenwich Village smelled of stale beer, unwashed wool, and rage.
It was a speakeasy, but nobody was whispering.
Jason walked down the stairs. He wore a heavy coat and a flat cap, trying to look like a foreman, not a tycoon.
The room was packed. Men stood on tables. The air was thick with smoke.
At the far end, sitting at a table like a king in exile, was Adolf.
He looked different again. The artist was gone. The awkward student was gone. He wore a dark suit that was slightly too large, but he wore it with the confidence of a general.
He was surrounded by burly Irishmen—dockworkers Jason recognized. Men who used to work for Standard Oil security.
Jason pushed through the crowd. He sat down opposite Adolf.
The conversation in the room died. Silence rippled out from their table like a shockwave.
Adolf looked up. His blue eyes were electric. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Herr Prentice," Adolf said. "You are far from your tower."
"I see you've been busy, Adolf," Jason said, nodding at the men. "Ford. Detroit. Did you order the sand?"
"I ordered nothing," Adolf said, leaning back. "The workers decided the machines were tired. They needed a rest."
"I pay for this room," Jason said, his voice low. "I pay for your apartment. I pay for your paint."
Adolf laughed. It was a sharp, barking sound.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled dollar bills. He threw them on the table.
"Keep your charity," Adolf said. "The Union pays my dues now."
"You think these men care about your theories?" Jason asked. "They want higher wages. I can give them that. I can double their pay tomorrow."
Adolf leaned forward. His face was inches from Jason's.
"You think money is everything. That is your disease. You buy Germany. You buy the peace. You think you can buy history."
Jason froze. Germany. How did he know?
"I read the foreign papers, Herr Prentice. I know what you did at Versailles. You enslaved my homeland to your banks. You made Germany a subsidiary of Standard Oil."
Adolf stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"You are a parasite," Adolf announced, his voice rising so the whole room could hear. "You feed on the blood of nations. But the host is waking up."
The men around them grumbled in agreement. Hands moved to pockets. Knives. Pipes.
"We are marching on Broadway on Tuesday," Adolf said. "We will take back what you stole."
Jason stood up slowly. He realized his mistake.
He had tried to domesticate a wolf. He thought feeding it would make it loyal. Instead, the protein just made it stronger.
"You're making a mistake," Jason said.
"Get out," Adolf said.
Jason walked up the stairs, his back tense, waiting for a knife.
He burst out onto the street. The cool night air hit him. He needed to think. He needed to call O'Malley. He needed to—
Crash.
A glass bottle smashed against the side of his waiting car.
Whoosh.
Flames erupted.
The gasoline inside the bottle ignited instantly, engulfing the passenger door.
"Get back!" someone screamed.
Jason stumbled backward, shielding his face from the heat. The driver scrambled out the other side, rolling on the pavement.
Jason looked up at the rooftop across the street.
A shadow stood there. Watching.
"Mr. Prentice!"
A hand grabbed Jason's collar. He spun around, fist raised.
It was a giant of a man. Red hair, broken nose. O'Malley. The head of the dockworker counter-intel unit Jason had formed during the war.
"Move, boss!" O'Malley grunted.
He dragged Jason into an alleyway as a second bottle shattered on the sidewalk where Jason had been standing.
They ran. Down the alley, through a backyard, and onto the next street.
Jason leaned against a brick wall, coughing. The smell of burning rubber and gasoline filled his nose.
His expensive coat was singed. His hands were black with soot.
O'Malley peered around the corner, a revolver in his hand.
"They're gone," O'Malley said. He spat on the ground. "Amateurs. But lucky."
Jason wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"That wasn't a strike," Jason said, breathing hard. "That was an assassination attempt."
"It's the kid," O'Malley said grimly. " The Austrian. He's got them riled up, boss. He's telling them you're the devil. He says you started the war just to sell the oil."
Jason looked at the smoke rising above the buildings.
He had changed history.
In the original timeline, Hitler joined the German Workers' Party in Munich. He blamed the Jews and the Communists.
Here, Jason had brought him to New York. He had isolated him from German nationalism.
So Hitler found a new enemy. The closest, biggest target he could find.
Standard Oil.
Adolf Hitler was now the leader of the American radical left. And he was using the exact same tactics—violence, rhetoric, scapegoating—against Jason.
"Boss," O'Malley said, holstering his gun. "The city is gone. The cops won't touch 'em. Junior has been talking to the Police Commissioner, telling him to stand down. Let you take the heat."
Jason straightened his coat. The fear was fading, replaced by a cold, hard anger.
"Junior wants to let them burn me," Jason said. "He thinks if he lets the mob attack, I'll resign."
"If you don't hit back, you're dead by Tuesday," O'Malley said. "What do we do? Do we kill the kid?"
Jason shook his head. "No. If we kill him, he becomes a martyr. The riots will never stop."
He looked at the burning car in the distance.
"They used gasoline," Jason whispered. "My gasoline."
He turned to O'Malley.
"Get the car. We're going to the refinery."
"The refinery? Why?"
"Adolf wants a war against the oil barons?" Jason's eyes were dark. "Fine. Let's see how brave his army is when the city goes dark. I'm going to turn off the tap."