The car was a Packard Deluxe Eight of 1930, a land yacht of black gleaming steel and chrome that glided with a low hum across the crushed limestone driveway. It was a vainglorious car of power, a rolling fortress against the external world. Through the clear glass, Jason watched the grounds of the Kykuit estate go by.
It was rather a kingdom than a home. Long lawns, emerald-green in mid-October, were strewn with large statues. Fountains, dormant for the time being, sat in the centers of carefully marshaled Italianate gardens. He tallied score after score of groundskeepers, men in humble work clothes, raking leaves and trimming hedges with subdued industry. In a country where a fourth of its men were without work, where bread lines circuited a city block or more, this place was an island of impossible, insulated luxury. A bubble.
He did not feel guilt. He did not feel envy. He felt a chill, professional assessment. That was where his strength was. That was where his power was. That was where his capital, his influence, his legacy were. His heart began to thump, not from a remnant fear of man out of time, but from a growing, predatory enthusiasm he used to have before a massive trade, before he knew he was going to get out there and control a marketplace and blow his competition away.
He offered his arm to step down from for Alta as they disembarked, and a liveried man flung wide monolithic oak doors to the main building. If the grounds were a kingdom, this was its palace. The air inside was cold and still, with a scent of beeswax and old money. Sweeping, vaulted ceilings soared above a broad entry room with marble flooring. Irreplaceable tapestries and oil paintings from Old Masters hung on walls. Everything sparkled. It was meant to dazzle, to overawe, to remind anyone who visited of their relative obscurity.
They were brought not to a dining room, but into a large salon where family members and some VIP guests were gathered for cocktails. The room buzzed with muted elite conversation. Jason's experienced eyes, trained to scan trading floors and executive suites for the nexus of power, zeroed in on him right away.
John Davison Rockefeller Jr.
He stood next to a massive stone fireplace, a glass of what looked like mineral water in his hand. He was a very tall man, well tailored, with an air of immense, indomitable gravity about him. He was not a showman like his father had been. He was a man burdened with moral correctness, obsessed with his duties owed as a result of his wealth. He was deep in conversation with a stout, balding man—presumably a head of a university or of a foundation—jabbing his finger as he talked about civic responsibility and his class's moral duty.
And this, Jason knew, was his true enemy. The gatekeeper. The man who held the keys to the empire and who would like to see it become an international charity.
Junior concluded his talk as they approached, a formal but polite smile on his face. His greeting for his sister, Alta, was truly warm, a quick kiss on the cheek. His eyes, though, went to Ezra, and the warmth instantly vanished, to be taken over by a chill, professional courtesy.
"Ezra," stated Junior, his tone low and smooth. "Good of you to attend. Hope you're keeping your head above water amidst this economy? Law must be a challenging practice with so many clients declaring bankruptcy."
It was a gracious jab, well tossed. A reminder of Ezra's station—not a man of business, not exactly, but a mere purveyor, a far cry from those Rockefellers who operated on a national stage. Old Ezra would've given a humble, non-committal answer. Jason Underwood, however, wasn't the old Ezra.
He stared at Junior without flinching, his lips set with a slight, measuring smile. "Just the opposite, Junior," he said, his voice calm and level. "Bankruptcy isn't an end, but a change of ownership. It is precisely that point where actual possession of goods is decided upon. For a man with clear understanding, it is a moment of great clarity."
Junior's polite smile froze almost undetectably at his jaw. He raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback at the unexpected harsh, almost feral, response. Not the type of repartee he would get from his quiet, intellectual brother-in-law. Before he could frame an answer, a disconcerting, heavy quiet fell over the salon.
Everything became silent. Everything that had been raised in glasses was poised in mid-air. Every head in the room, as if on a string, turned instantly to a pair of great oak doors at the far end of the salon.
The doors swung open, pushed by two inconspicuous male nurses. They moved with professional deference, as if they bore a holy relic. Between them, they eased a stooped, wrinkled old man into a great, thronelike armchair that had clearly been brought in for this specific purpose.
John Davison Rockefeller Sr.
The room air grew thick, heavy with his presence. He was a man of legend, a monster of a more savage epoch. Shrunk with age, his skin was as thin as parchment, stretched tight over bony angles of his face. Yet his frailty of frame was a deception. The man was in his eyes. Deep-set, a pale, chill blue, they were vitally alive, not missing a detail. They moved with a slow, deliberate glance that seemed to weigh and count each presence in the room.
Jason felt a primal shock, a room static electricity he recognized instantly. He'd only felt it once before in his life: once in front of a legendary, mythical hedge fund legend, once in front of a ruthless Chinese billionaire who'd started his life in poverty. It was a recognizably unmistakable sense of being at the top of the food chain.
Junior stepped forward, his posture relaxing into that of a dutiful son. "Father," he began, his voice respectful. "We are ever so happy you could attend. I was right in the process of briefing President Angell about the improvements on the—"
A bony finger protruded from the arm of the chair. It was a delicate, almost frail gesture, but it carried the unmistakable authority of a scepter. Junior's words froze on his tongue. Even quiet enough, the room grew ominously quiet.
The patriarch's eagle eyes scanned past his son, past the grandchildren who looked at him with a mixture of awe and terror. The eyes traversed their slow, deliberate pace around the room, passing judgment on all whom they touched, until they settled, with disconcerting precision, directly on Ezra.
It was not a glance. It was a physical energy, an inquisitive gaze that seemed to rip away each false front, each barrier constructed deliberately. Jason was spread naked, his 21st-century mind naked and susceptible to the scrutiny of the 19th century's worst monster. He held the gaze, his heart racing a panicked pace against his side. Looking away would be defeat.
The silence endured for five seconds, then ten. It felt an eternity. The whole Rockefeller family, the richest family in the cosmos, was simultaneously taking a deep breath as its members' eyes darted from gaunt old man to man he was aiming for.
And then came a voice, as harsh as withered autumn leaves, but as sharp as splintered glass, to cut short the still quiet. A voice that once commanded empires, defeated rivals, and reshaped the world.
"Ezra."
The name hung in the air, a single, ringing tone.
"You are quiet tonight."