“Francis, why don’t you give everyone an overview of the bill’s framework first?” Francis nodded and stepped forward two paces, his gaze sweeping across every face in the room.
“Gentlemen, thank you all for coming today.
Over the next few days, I’ll be drafting a piece of legislation.” “It will be called the Emergency Banking Act.” Those final three words made Hugh and the others’ hearts skip a beat.
“Its core framework is as follows.
First, the President will declare a nationwide bank holiday lasting four days to one week, suspending all banking operations.” “Second, the Treasury Department will classify every bank in the country.
Sound banks will reopen immediately.
Troubled banks will receive government capital and be reorganized.
Insolvent banks will be liquidated or placed under government receivership.” “Third, the Treasury Department will be authorized to examine the books of every bank and issue reopening licenses.” “Fourth…” Francis spoke at an unhurried pace, yet his logic was frighteningly clear.
For every provision, he briefly explained both its purpose and how it would be implemented.
The conference room grew quieter and quieter.
Hugh’s pen stopped moving across his notebook.
He had forgotten to keep taking notes.
Several bankers around the table, men famous for their composure, gripped their fountain pens so tightly that their knuckles turned white.
When Francis finished outlining the final provision, the room fell into a deathly silence.
More than ten seconds passed.
No one spoke.
Then Hugh finally broke the silence.
“Mr.
Francis, forgive my bluntness, but what you’ve described isn’t merely a rescue plan.
It’s…
it’s a complete restructuring of the banking system.” “And having the government enter banks, take seats on their boards, and inspect every set of books…
that will provoke an all-out backlash from Wall Street.
I’m afraid…” Hugh didn’t finish his sentence.
But everyone understood the words he left unsaid.
This could very well start a war.
“Yes, Mr.
Hugh.” Francis looked around at everyone in the room.
“This is a war.” “And we are the ones drafting the declaration of war.” Silence once again filled the conference room.
Hugh’s gaze grew thoughtful.
He recalled the line from Roosevelt’s inaugural address that had sent chills through everyone who heard it: “The emergency powers of wartime should be as great as the power that would be given to me if we were in fact invaded by a foreign foe.” Now he finally understood what that sword looked like.
And he also knew that the young man who had drawn its blueprint was standing right before him.
“Gentlemen, if anyone is afraid, you may leave now.
The door is right there.
No one will stop you, and no one will hold it against you.
All you have to do is stand up, walk out, return to your old life, and pretend you were never here today.” “But…” Francis’s voice suddenly dropped.
“If you stay…
if you stand with me and see this through to the end, your names will be carved into this nation’s history as the heroes who stepped forward in its darkest hour.” Heroes of the nation.
Those words struck with undeniable force.
Many people in the room felt their blood begin to boil.
“What do you need me to do?” Hugh was the first to speak.
He genuinely wanted to see the country recover.
As for war?
He had fought across the battlefields of France in 1918.
He had seen more war than everyone else in this room combined.
Francis looked him in the eye and nodded.
“Mr.
Hugh, I want you to draft the bill’s executive authorization provisions.
Not vague grants of authority, but clear, specific provisions that can withstand congressional scrutiny while giving the Treasury Department enough power to intervene in bank operations.
You were a soldier—you know what it means for orders to be clear and execution to remain flexible.” “No problem.” Francis turned to Ballantine.
“Mr.
Ballantine, you’ll be responsible for designing the bank classification system.
The standards for determining whether a bank is sound, troubled, or insolvent must be clear, practical, and able to withstand rigorous scrutiny.
The Treasury will have only four days to complete a preliminary review of every bank in the country.
Your criteria will determine who survives…
and who doesn’t.” “Leave it to me.” Ballantine took a deep breath and nodded firmly.
Francis’s gaze shifted again, settling on the lawyer wearing gold-rimmed glasses.
“Mr.
Smith, I need you to review every existing statute.
Determine which laws remain usable, which need to be amended, and which must be repealed.
This bill cannot conflict with the current legal framework, but neither can it be shackled by it.
You have two days.
I want a complete assessment of the legal landscape.” “Two days may not be enough…” Smith looked genuinely troubled.
“Then sleep less.” “All right…” Francis continued calling names and assigning responsibilities.
Each person’s expertise, background, and potential contribution was put to use with remarkable precision.
Some were assigned the provisions governing bank reorganizations.
Others took charge of the regulations on gold controls, the coordination mechanism with the Federal Reserve, or the public communication strategy that would accompany the plan.
Half an hour later, everyone had received a detailed list of their assignments.
At first, a few people voiced doubts.
But by the end, no one complained anymore.
No one questioned him anymore, either.
Because they had all realized that the young man standing before them not only knew exactly what he was doing—he knew exactly what every one of them was capable of.
His assignments weren’t arbitrary.
They were based on a thorough understanding of each person’s background, a comprehensive grasp of the bill’s overall structure, and a meticulous calculation of how to squeeze every possible result out of the limited time they had.
Hugh and the others kept exchanging glances.
Every look carried the same unspoken thought.
This young man is terrifying…
“Gentlemen.” Francis rapped his knuckles against the table, drawing everyone’s attention back to him.
“Before the 8th, every last detail of this bill must be finished.
Not should be—must be.
Is that understood?” “Understood.” “Then let’s get to work.” …
Washington, D.C., K Street.
In front of an otherwise unremarkable townhouse, more than a dozen luxury automobiles were parked.
Inside the drawing room, Jack Morgan sat in an armchair beside the fireplace, an unlit cigar resting between his fingers, his brow deeply furrowed.
Beside him sat John D.
Rockefeller Jr., Pierre du Pont, and others…
Every face in the room represented one of the greatest fortunes in the nation.
Yet at this moment, they all wore the same expression.
Confusion mixed with unease.
The door opened.
A middle-aged man hurried in.
He was the Morgan family’s private secretary, the liaison responsible for maintaining communications with Washington.
“We’ve just received word from the White House.
The President has urgent matters that require his immediate attention and is unable to meet.
Furthermore…
the White House is not prepared to offer any explanation or comment regarding the contents of the inaugural address at this time.” “What does that mean?!” John Jr.’s normally aristocratic composure had been twisted by anger.
“No comment?
He’s the President!
He stood before the entire country and mocked us as ‘money changers,’ and now he won’t even offer a single explanation?!” No one answered Pierre du Pont.
But everyone in the room already understood.
The danger was no longer a matter of speculation.
It was coming.