Washington D.C. didn't smell like money; it smelled like swamp water and ambition.
The chauffeur navigated the black Packard through the muddy streets, past rows of brick townhouses that seemed to lean in conspiratorially. In New York, the buildings scraped the sky, screaming of power and commerce. Here, everything was low to the ground, heavy, and watchful.
Jason looked out the window. To his right, the massive dome of a new government building was under construction. It was encased in a spiderweb of scaffolding, looking less like a monument and more like a cage being built around the sky.
"They hate us here," Alta said from beside him. She wasn't looking out the window. She was staring straight ahead, her gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap.
She was right. As the car slowed for a crossing, a newsboy waved a paper at the window. The headline screamed in bold, angry type: ROOSEVELT VOWS TO SLAY THE OCTOPUS.
Passersby glared at the luxury automobile. In New York, wealth drew envy. Here, it drew judgment. They weren't kings entering their domain; they were defendants arriving for trial.
They reached the Willard Hotel, the unofficial heart of the city's political machine. Their lobbyist, a sweating, frantic man named Higgins, was waiting for them in their suite. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
"Mr. Prentice, Mrs. Prentice," Higgins stammered, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. "I... I didn't expect you so soon."
"The situation," Jason said, tossing his coat onto a chair, "required urgency. Where do we stand?"
Higgins loosened his collar. "It's bad. Worse than I've ever seen. The President is on a warpath. He refuses to even meet with Rockefeller Sr.'s representatives. He calls your father-in-law a 'malefactor of great wealth' in every speech."
He paced the room nervously. "The public is baying for blood. The midterm elections are coming up, and hating Standard Oil is the most popular platform in town. I can't buy a vote. I can't even buy a lunch meeting."
Jason walked to the window and looked out at the distant white columns of the White House. It looked like a fortress.
"The old rules don't apply," Jason said quietly. "In New York, money buys silence. Here, Roosevelt is using noise to buy votes. This isn't a business deal. It's a theater production."
Alta stood up, her patience snapping. The loss of control was visibly eating at her.
"Father expects this to go away," she said sharply, her voice cutting through Higgins's stammering. "He pays you to fix problems, Mr. Higgins. Not to describe them."
She turned her icy gaze to Jason. "Make it go away."
Jason turned from the window. His expression was grim. "We can't make it go away, Alta. The wave is too high."
He looked at the fortress down the street. "We have to change the narrative."
An hour later, Jason sat in a leather booth at the back of the Cosmos Club. Across from him sat Senator Aldrich, the man known as the "General Manager of the Nation," and a long-time ally of the Rockefeller family.
Usually, Aldrich was a titan—confident, jovial, untouchable. Today, he looked small.
A thick cloud of cigar smoke drifted from his mouth, blown directly into Jason's face. It was an aggressive gesture, the act of a man who felt cornered.
"I can't stop the hearings," Aldrich said, his voice rough with whiskey. It was only noon. "Teddy has the votes. He has the people. If I stand up for Standard Oil now, on the floor of the Senate, I lose my seat. The tide has turned, Prentice."
Jason watched him. The political shield that Standard Oil had bought and paid for over three decades was crumbling into dust.
"We've supported you for twenty years, Senator," Jason reminded him gently.
"And I've delivered for twenty years!" Aldrich snapped, slamming his glass down. "But I can't stop a hurricane with a paper umbrella. Roosevelt wants blood."
"What does he want? Really?" Jason pressed. "Does he want lower prices? Does he want competition?"
Aldrich laughed. It was a bitter, ugly sound.
"He doesn't give a damn about prices," the Senator sneered. "He wants a trophy. He wants to hang your father-in-law's scalp on the White House wall to show he's tougher than the trusts. He wants to be the hero who slew the dragon."
Jason sat back. The pieces were falling into place. It wasn't about economics. It was about ego. It was about the story.
"So fighting the breakup is a losing battle," Jason murmured.
"It's already lost," Aldrich said, finishing his drink. "The Supreme Court will rule against you. The company will be dissolved. Tell John to pray."
Jason stood up. He buttoned his jacket.
"Prayer won't save us, Senator," he muttered to himself. "Math will."
He left the Senator alone with his bottle and walked out into the humid D.C. afternoon.
Back at the hotel suite, Jason cleared the large dining table. He took a map of the United States and spread it out, weighing down the corners with silver candlesticks.
He took a thick red marker from his pocket.
Alta entered the room. She stopped, watching him.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
Jason didn't look up. He drew a harsh red line down the Mississippi River. Then another across the Mason-Dixon line. Then another, carving California away from the rest of the West.
"I'm preparing for the execution," he said.
Alta walked over and looked at the map. She saw the Standard Oil empire, the monolith her father had built, sliced into seven distinct, bleeding pieces.
"Standard of New Jersey," Jason pointed. "Standard of New York. Standard of California. Standard of Indiana."
Alta's face went pale. "You're carving up the company," she whispered, horror dawning in her eyes. "You're doing Roosevelt's work for him! This is surrender!"
She grabbed his arm. "Father will never agree to this. It's his life's work!"
Jason pulled away gently but firmly. He looked her in the eye.
"Alta, listen to me. Really listen."
He tapped the map. "Right now, the company is valued as a clumsy, hated monopoly. It is under constant attack. Its stock is depressed by fear, by lawsuits, by the threat of regulation."
He took a breath. This was the gamble. This was the insight that only a man from the future could have.
"But if we break it up..." He traced the red lines. "If we separate the drilling from the refining, the refining from the transport... each piece becomes its own entity. A lean, hungry tiger instead of a slow, fat cow."
He grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled some numbers.
"The combined value of these independent companies," he said, shoving the paper toward her, "will be triple the value of the monopoly. Triple, Alta."
She looked at the numbers. She looked at the map. The horror in her eyes began to fade, replaced by a flicker of calculation.
"We stop fighting the breakup," Jason said, his voice intense. "We engineer it. We write the terms of our own execution. We let Roosevelt declare victory. We let the public think the dragon is dead."
He smiled, a cold, sharp expression that matched the ambition in his eyes.
"And while they're celebrating, we rise from the dead richer than God."
Alta stared at the map. The gears were turning in her mind. She looked at him, eyes wide.
"You want to surrender to win," she said.
"I want to let Roosevelt chop the hydra's head off," Jason replied, "so two more can grow in its place."