New York, Fifth Avenue mansion, study.
The late autumn sun streamed through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, casting several bright streaks of light on the floor.
Felix sat calmly behind his oak desk, in front of him the encrypted telegram from the War Department in Washington.
Secretary Stanton's wording, though formal, clearly conveyed both trust and pressure between the lines.
"They need an answer."
Felix put down the telegram and looked at Frost, who was standing opposite him.
"Then give them an answer."
There was no anger on his face from being slandered, only the calm and focus of a chess player before making a move.
This sudden storm of public opinion, while disrupting some of his plans, also provided an opportunity to drag hidden enemies into the spotlight.
"Edward, immediately, in my name, send invitations to all mainstream newspapers in New York, including The Herald, The Tribune, The Times, and even the tabloids that published false reports—don't miss a single one."
"Invite them to a press conference."
"Set the time for 10 AM the day after tomorrow. The location… will be the Argyle Bank's ground floor hall. It's spacious enough and respectable enough."
Frost quickly took notes. "And the theme of the press conference, Boss?"
"Theme?" Felix smiled, "Let's call it 'The Truth About the Nebraska Conflict'."
He then turned to Miller, who had been waiting by the side.
"Miller, Rambo's side, the people should be under control by now?"
"Yes, Boss. Rambo sent back a confirmation telegram yesterday. The target, Thomas Durant, has been successfully 'invited back' to Sawmill Camp. Cartwright's signed confession and other relevant documents have also been secured."
"Very good." Felix's gaze sharpened.
"I need these two men to appear, unharmed, in the Argyle Bank hall before 10 AM the day after tomorrow."
This command made both Frost and Miller pause.
"Boss," Miller hesitated, "Bring them to New York for a public appearance? This… the risk is too great. The Union Pacific Railroad Company people, and Omaha over there…"
"That's exactly what I want them to see." Felix interrupted him, "I want everyone to see with their own eyes who orchestrated this attack behind the scenes, and who is trying to cover up the truth with lies."
"Miller," he looked at his most trusted commander of armed forces, "You are personally responsible for this. Use all available forces from the Action Department, take the most covert route. I don't care if you use trains, carriages, or steamboats. I only want the result. Ensure both of them arrive at the press conference on time and safely."
"Yes, Boss." Miller asked no further questions; he knew his Boss's mind was made up.
"Frost," Felix then turned to his assistant, "Besides inviting reporters, also send an invitation in my name to Archbishop Hughes, Mr. Tweed, the Mayor, and… all bankers and business leaders with whom we have cooperative relationships. Invite them to attend this press conference."
"We need to set a stage large enough, and invite enough audience." Felix's lips curved into a slight smile, "So that this drama about the truth can be seen by as many people as possible."
"Then… regarding those rumors targeting Miss Catherine…" Frost asked cautiously.
The smile vanished from Felix's face, and a cold glint flashed in his eyes.
"Those flies, ignore them for now. Once we expose the mastermind behind the scenes, these dirty rumors will naturally collapse. For now, focus on the main conflict."
…Over the next two days, the entire media and high society of New York were stirred up by Felix Argyle' strongly worded, suspenseful invitation.
"The Truth About the Nebraska Conflict? What does he want to do? Publicly confess?"
In The Herald's editor's office, a veteran reporter speculated.
"Impossible."
Another reporter, who covered Wall Street news, shook his head.
"I know Argyle; he never does anything without confidence. Daring to hold a press conference at this critical juncture means he must have a trump card to turn the tables."
"A trump card? What trump card could be more fatal than an accusation of massacring two hundred people?"
"Just wait and see. This young 'miracle boy' always manages to do something unexpected."
Meanwhile, the prominent figures who received invitations had various thoughts. Archbishop Hughes unhesitatingly accepted the invitation, stating he would personally attend to support "a generous philanthropist clearing his name."
Tweed, after much hesitation, also replied that he would send a representative. He neither wanted to offend Argyle nor get involved too early in this murky situation that might affect the Union Pacific Railroad Company.
Most Wall Street bankers chose to observe, with only Templeton's old friend, Vice President Henry of the New York Commercial Bank, accepting the invitation out of curiosity and trust in Templeton… At 9:50 AM the day after tomorrow, the originally spacious and bright ground floor hall of the Argyle Bank in New York had been transformed into a temporary press conference venue.
Dozens of reporters and sketch artists from various newspapers crowded the reserved area, pens and sketchpads ready. The air was filled with excitement, anticipation, and a tense, pre-storm atmosphere.
On one side of the hall, a small podium draped with dark velvet curtains had been temporarily set up.
A row of chairs was placed in front of the podium for the prominent guests. Archbishop Hughes had arrived early; he sat quietly in the first row, eyes closed in contemplation, seemingly unconcerned by the impending storm.
At exactly 10 AM, the press conference began on time.
Felix Argyle, dressed in a well-tailored black suit, walked steadily onto the podium alone, amidst the rapid-fire questions from reporters.
"Ladies and gentlemen, good morning."
He nodded to the dense crowd below, his voice, amplified by a simple device, clearly reaching every corner of the hall.
"Thank you all for taking the time to attend today's press conference."
"I know that in the past few days, there have been many false reports and malicious speculations about me and my company."
"Some newspapers have accused my exploration team of massacring over two hundred ranch workers in Nebraska, even implying that I am a butcher with blood on my hands."
He paused, his gaze slowly sweeping over the reporters below, who held pens and sketchpads.
"Today, I stand here to tell you all…"
His voice suddenly rose, filled with power.
"That it's all a lie."
He did not immediately present evidence but first told a story.
A story about how his employee, Tommy O'Donnell, and his team disappeared while conducting legitimate land surveys in Nebraska, and how he dispatched a rescue team to find the truth.
Then, he changed his tone.
"My rescue team did not find the missing employees. But they found this."
He gestured. Miller personally walked onto the stage and held up a burned, deformed pocket watch remnant, wrapped in an evidence bag, for everyone to see.
"This is a relic of my missing employee. Near the last location where he sent a signal, we found a burned camp, and… two different calibers of shell casings."
"Subsequently, my rescue team was ambushed by over three hundred armed individuals at their temporary camp. These people were well-equipped, clearly not ordinary ranch workers."
"Facing this premeditated attack," he looked at the reporters below, "my security personnel engaged in legal and necessary self-defense."
"As for the 'massacre' mentioned in the newspapers…" He sneered, "The truth is, after the opponents suffered heavy losses and dispersed, not a single person in my team was killed, and only three sustained minor injuries."
This astonishing contrast elicited gasps from the audience.
"So, who is lying? And who, behind the scenes, orchestrated all of this?"
Felix's voice was like a heavy hammer, striking everyone's nerves.
"Fortunately, we captured two key figures. They might be able to unravel this mystery for us."
He gestured again.
The two large doors on the side of the hall slowly opened.
Under the "escort" of four tall, stern-faced Action Department members, two men, looking haggard and with vacant eyes, were brought to the front of the podium.
In the ground floor lobby of Argyle Bank in New York, all eyes were focused on the two men who had been escorted to the podium.
Felix pointed at the two men and loudly addressed the crowd below.
"Ladies and gentlemen, these two men are the rancher who ordered over three hundred thugs to attack my exploration team, and the local representative of the Union Pacific Railroad Company who collaborated with him."
Ben Cartwright, the old rancher who had been like an emperor in Nebraska for decades, now had disheveled hair and a vacant look in his eyes, as if he had aged twenty years overnight.
And the man next to him, wearing pajamas and a coat, was none other than Dr. Thomas Durant, the influential head of the Union Pacific Railroad Company in the Omaha area.
What… what exactly was going on? The reporters and the crowd were all a bit confused.
Argyle not only denied the accusations of massacre but also directly presented the victims and a senior executive of a railroad company, like trophies, before all the media?
Felix Argyle stood calmly behind the podium, allowing the murmurs from below to continue for a few seconds. This was the effect he wanted—a visual impact powerful enough to overturn all preconceived narratives.
"I know you all have many questions."
Felix's voice, amplified, once again clearly filled the hall, drawing everyone's attention back to him.
"These two gentlemen, perhaps, can provide us with some answers."
He did not immediately question Durant but first turned his gaze to the old rancher who had completely collapsed.
"Mr. Cartwright, please tell all the reporters present. A few days ago, who gathered over three hundred armed individuals and launched a surprise attack at dawn on our Sonne Mineral Company's temporary exploration camp, which only had a hundred people?"
Cartwright looked up, his cloudy eyes filled with fear.
He glanced at the several black-clad guards standing silently like statues beside him, then at the reporters below, waiting like hungry wolves for a scoop.
"It… it was me," he said in a hoarse voice, "I gathered the people…"
"Why?" Felix pressed.
"Because… because…"
Cartwright glanced at Durant next to him, his eyes filled with resentment.
"Because someone told me that they… they were unwelcome people who would disrupt… the local order…"
"Who told you?" Felix pushed further.
Cartwright looked at Durant again, his lips moved a few times, but he still didn't state it directly. After all, Durant hadn't told him outright, only hinted.
Felix did not press further; he gestured. Frost stepped forward and held up a document, displaying it to all the reporters.
"This is Mr. Cartwright's confession, signed by his own hand."
"It details how he was prompted and incited by Mr. Thomas Durant, the head of the Union Pacific Railroad Company in the Omaha area, to first cooperate in handling the 'accident' scene of our company's missing employees.
Then, upon discovering our rescue team, how he decided to gather armed forces in an attempt to 'clear them out'—the entire process."
Frost began to read key passages from the confession, each word like a heavy hammer, striking the silent hall and striking Durant's already cold heart.
Durant suddenly looked up, his face drained of color.
"Slander. This is slander," he shrieked, his voice becoming sharp with fear.
"It was him… he coveted the land himself, he acted on his own. It has nothing to do with me, nothing to do with the Union Pacific Railroad Company."
"Is that so, Dr. Durant?"
Felix slowly walked in front of him, looking down at him.
"Then, how do you explain this?"
He gestured to Miller. Miller stepped forward and opened another evidence bag. It contained not a weapon, but an ordinary-looking black-covered notebook.
"This was found in your office safe."
Felix's voice was soft, yet it carried a cold penetrative power.
"Your private telegram codebook. And," he picked up another thick stack of ledgers next to it, "detailed records of all financial transactions between you and certain special security consultants, such as Mr. Jack Slade."
Durant's body trembled violently. He looked at the codebook and ledgers as if he had seen a judgment from hell.
He knew he was finished. Completely finished.
"No… this isn't mine…" He was still making his last futile struggles.
"Enough," Felix interrupted him, his tone filled with disgust.
"The truth, I believe, will be fairly decided by everyone present, and by the investigative committee in Washington."
He returned to the center of the podium, his gaze sweeping over the reporters below, who were now completely agitated by the successive bombshells.
"Now, to answer your biggest question."
Felix's voice grew louder, "Regarding the so-called 'Nebraska Massacre.'"
"The fact is, my security team engaged in legitimate self-defense when faced with an attack by over three hundred armed thugs. We used advanced weapons, this is true. But the purpose was not to massacre, but to stop the violence with the least cost and to protect ourselves."
"The newspaper reports of over two hundred deaths are pure fabrication."
"After defeating the enemy's attack, my team captured nearly eighty wounded. We provided them with necessary humanitarian treatment and handed them all over to the federal army investigation team that arrived later. All records are verifiable."
"As for the speculation that the weapons came from Militech. I do not need to deny it, because it is my company.
And the weapons developed by Militech are primarily for the defense of the States. But when faced with illegal attacks by thugs, it will also become the strongest shield to protect our legitimate rights and interests."
Felix paused, his gaze sweeping over the reporters from the newspapers that had published false reports.
"I understand your desire for breaking news. But I hope that in the future, when reporting on major events involving lives and reputations, you will seek more verification and less conjecture and incitement. Otherwise, my legal team would be very happy to have an in-depth discussion with you on the legal definition of 'defamation.'"
Finally, he addressed the rumors targeting Catherine.
"As for certain low-grade tabloids attempting to divert attention and confuse the public with despicable acts of attacking an outstanding female executive."
"I don't even bother to refute it."
"Miss Catherine O'Brien's talent and contributions, Umbrella Corporation's achievements, and the well-being she has brought to this city are evident to all. Those petty individuals hiding in dark corners, attempting to tarnish her with sexism and scandalous lies, their names do not even deserve to appear at today's press conference."
He looked at the audience, delivering his final summary.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Today I stand here, not to gain sympathy, nor to show off military might."
"But to tell you all a simple truth."
"I, Felix Argyle, and all that I represent, went to the West to build, not to destroy. To seek cooperation, not to provoke conflict."
"But if anyone tries to use violence and lies to hinder our progress, to harm my employees, to tarnish my reputation…"
"Then, we will surely retaliate with a hundredfold strength."
He bowed slightly to the audience.
"That is all I have to say. The relevant evidence, including Mr. Cartwright's confession, Mr. Durant's ledgers and codebook, and the physical evidence from the conflict scene, will all be submitted in full to the investigative committee jointly formed by Congress and the War Department. I believe the law will deliver the final just verdict."
"Now, the press conference is over…"
Before he finished speaking, the audience instantly erupted like a boiling pot.
Countless arms shot up, and countless questions surged towards the podium like a tide.
"Mr. Argyle. Will you sue the Union Pacific Railroad Company?"
"Was Mr. Durant's abduction legal?"
"Will those new weapons be sold to the civilian market?"
"What do you think of…"
Felix did not answer any questions. Escorted by Miller and several Action Department members, he calmly left the hall through the crowded reporters.
He left behind a huge mystery, a nationwide public opinion storm, and a message that forced all potential opponents to re-evaluate.
This young tycoon from New York, his fangs were far sharper than anyone had imagined.
The press conference in the Argyle Bank's first-floor lobby, after Felix Argyle calmly departed, ignited like a fuse, instantly exploding the public opinion in New York and indeed across the entire United States.
Reporters, like sharks smelling blood, frantically rushed to the telegraph office, sending their dispatches to their respective newspaper headquarters at the fastest possible speed.
A few quick-thinking artists, meanwhile, rapidly sketched the disheveled portraits of Cartwright and Durant on-site, preparing them for tomorrow's front page.
Within a few hours, this "trial" in New York's financial center, through the nationwide telegraph network and urgently printed newspaper extras, spread to the ports of Boston, the factories of Philadelphia, the exchanges of Chicago, and even Washington and Richmond.
"My heavens. Argyle actually apprehended someone directly in New York, and it was a supervisor for the Union Pacific Railroad."
In a Boston cafe crowded with merchants and captains, a cotton merchant who had just finished reading the extra exclaimed in disbelief.
"Kidnapping. This is simply lawless kidnapping."
His companion next to him, a seemingly more conservative banker, frowned and retorted.
"Even if that Durant is guilty, he should be judged by the law. Who does he think he is? A Sheriff from the wild west?"
"But the newspaper says the other party attacked his camp first and even killed his men," a third person interjected.
"More than three hundred people besieged one hundred, and they ended up getting routed. What kind of monsters does that fellow Argyle have under his command?"
"Monsters? I see them as heroes of the Union."
In a worker's pub in Philadelphia, the atmosphere was entirely different. An Irish steelworker, just off work, raised his beer mug and declared loudly.
"That Cartwright in the newspaper is just a bully who oppresses his compatriots. Mr. Argyle is exercising divine power on behalf of God, getting justice for us poor people who have been bullied our whole lives."
"Exactly, that's how it should be done."
His fellow workers nearby echoed, "Let those self-important railroad company bosses see that we Irish are not to be trifled with."
Meanwhile, in the trading hall of the Chicago exchange, discussions about the incident focused more on the commercial aspect.
"The Union Pacific Railroad is in big trouble this time," a grain futures broker whispered to his client, analyzing, "The ledgers and codebooks have been taken. God knows how many illicit transactions are hidden inside. Their stock price… will probably plummet tomorrow."
"Is that good or bad for us?" the client asked nervously.
"Hard to say," the broker shook his head. "Argyle is too unpredictable. Does he really want to bring down Union Pacific, or just extort a sum, or… perhaps take the opportunity to acquire their shares at a low price? After all, he's done this before."
All sorts of speculations, discussions, anger, and worries, like countless invisible streams, converged from all corners of America, ultimately pointing to the center of the same vortex, the headquarters of the Union Pacific Railroad Company… In the boardroom of the Union Pacific Railroad Company headquarters, around a priceless mahogany table, sat a dozen influential figures who controlled the destiny of this steel artery.
Among them were white-haired, highly respected bankers, sharp-eyed, tough industrial magnates, and a few arrogant politicians representing the interests of Capitol Hill.
But at this moment, a cloud of gloom hung over all their faces.
The Chairman of the Board, Oliver Ames, a slightly plump, old-fashioned banker with a perpetually gentle demeanor, gently pushed several almost identical newspapers to the center of the table.
"Gentlemen, I believe you are all aware of what transpired this morning."
His voice was gentle, but those familiar with him knew the anger hidden beneath that gentleness.
The boardroom was silent. No one spoke, only the rustling of papers and a few suppressed coughs.
"An hour ago, Secretary Seward's office made an informal inquiry to me. Secretary Stanton of the War Department also sent a stern memorandum via Colonel Dale. They both demand that we immediately provide a reasonable explanation for the 'Nebraska conflict' incident."
"Explanation?" A director representing the interests of the Boston consortium scoffed.
"What explanation can we have? People were kidnapped, confidential documents were stolen. That damned Argyle, he's nothing but a lawless bandit."
"The question is, how did he succeed?" another director, closely connected to the military, asked with a frown.
"Security at the Omaha office is always very tight. To silently infiltrate, control everyone, then leave with a living person and several boxes of documents unscathed? That sounds… unlike ordinary business tactics."
Everyone's gaze instinctively turned to an empty seat at the far end of the table.
That was John Crane's seat.
"Where is Crane?"
Chairman Ames asked, a hint of impatience already in his tone.
"He's responsible for the Nebraska section of the business, and Durant is his man. With such a major incident, shouldn't he be here to give us an account?"
"I… I can't reach him, Mr. Chairman," Ames's secretary whispered in reply. "His office said he was unwell today and didn't come to the company. No one answered at his home either."
"Unwell?" Ames sneered. "I think he's feeling guilty."
He turned his gaze to a sharp-eyed, tough director sitting opposite him, Cornelius Durant (a distant relative of Thomas Durant, and also a core founder and Vice Chairman of the railroad company).
"Cornelius, regarding that Thomas Durant… how much do you know? What personal grudge is there between him and Argyle? Or, has he done something foolish behind our backs?"
Cornelius Durant was silent for a moment.
He certainly knew about Thomas Durant's illicit methods in Nebraska, and in some matters, he had even given tacit approval.
But he would never admit it at this time.
"Thomas is a very capable manager," he replied cautiously.
"Of course, sometimes to advance the construction of the railroad, he might employ some… rather aggressive methods. But I don't believe he would be foolish enough to actively provoke someone like Argyle."
"As for him and Argyle…" He shook his head. "To my knowledge, they had no direct business dealings or personal grudges before this. The only point of conflict, perhaps, is that land in the Platte River Valley."
"Land…" Chairman Ames's gaze deepened.
Just then, there was a knock on the boardroom door. The secretary entered and handed a new telegram to Ames.
Ames's face grew even grimmer after reading the telegram, and he passed it to the director beside him.
"This is news we just received. Durant's subordinate, Slade, was found dead outside a pub, shot eight times."
A collective gasp filled the room, as everyone clearly understood who was responsible.
"What does he want?" a director couldn't help but ask.
"Perhaps he's warning us that actions have consequences," Ames's voice was somewhat displeased.
Clearly, Felix Argyle was issuing an ultimatum to the Union Pacific Railroad Company.
He looked around, observing the rare panic and solemnity on the faces of these usually high-and-mighty figures.
"Gentlemen, we must find a way to quell this uproar immediately. The reputation of the Union Pacific Railroad must not be tarnished by this incident. Our stock price cannot continue to fall."
"Since Argyle brought the person to New York and held a press conference, it indicates that he doesn't intend to completely escalate the matter for now. What he likely wants is an explanation, one that allows him to save face and secure his interests in Nebraska."
Everyone looked at the empty seat.
"Since this matter arose because of Crane, then he must also be the one to resolve it."
Ames turned to the secretary, his face cold. "Send someone to find him immediately. No matter where he is, 'invite' him here."
"We need to have a good talk with him about how he should bear this responsibility for the company, and for himself."
New York, Wall Street. 11:00 AM sharp.
On the second floor of Morgan & Co., Morgan's secretary knocked and entered, followed by three impeccably dressed, distinguished middle-aged gentlemen.
The one leading them was Henry Ashworth, a senior representative from Baring Bank in London. He had a reserved demeanor, carrying the characteristic prudence of an old English financial family.
Next to him, the slightly more lively man with a meticulously groomed mustache was Émile Leroy, the representative from the Rothschild family bank in Paris.
The last one, tall and stern-faced, was Van der Bergh from Hope & Co. Bank in Amsterdam.
These men were all potential allies carefully introduced by Morgan's father, Junius Spencer Morgan, leveraging his connections in the European financial world.
They represented the most formidable capital forces of the Old World, and at this moment, they were scrutinizing with curious eyes this young up-and-comer who had made a name for himself on Wall Street.
"Gentlemen, welcome."
Morgan stood up, a perfectly appropriate smile on his face.
"Please have a seat and try the new coffee I got from Jamaica."
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, the conversation quickly turned to the main topic.
Mr. Ashworth from London spoke first, his English carrying a pure London accent.
"John, your father mentioned in his letter that you believe there's an… interesting investment opportunity in the current stock of Union Pacific Railroad Company?"
"That's right, sir."
Morgan nodded, pushing several newspapers, all with headlines reporting the "Nebraska Massacre," to the center of the table.
"As you can see, Union Pacific Railroad Company is currently embroiled in a not-so-small… public relations crisis. Its stock price has fallen by nearly five percent in the past twenty-four hours."
Mr. Leroy from Paris picked up a copy of the New York Herald, looking with interest at the scene depicted by the artist.
"Oh, this Argyle, I've heard of him. A very energetic young man. I heard he's even selling weapons to the Prussians?"
"Yes, that's no big secret in New York," Morgan said noncommittally.
"But now, it seems he himself is in trouble. The newspapers accuse his company of massacring ranch workers in the West. This is not good news for a railroad company that relies on congressional appropriations and public image."
"So, you mean," Mr. Van der Bergh from Amsterdam finally spoke, his voice low and slow, "Argyle and Union Pacific Railroad Company will attack each other, and then we will capitalize on the market panic to acquire Union Pacific stock at a low price?"
"Uh-huh… That's right. The Union Pacific Railroad is a great transcontinental project authorized by Congress. Its value is beyond doubt.
The current stock price drop is merely a fluctuation in market sentiment triggered by temporary negative news. Once the storm subsides, its stock price will inevitably rebound.
This is an excellent opportunity to achieve substantial returns in the short term."
The three European representatives exchanged glances, a hint of excitement in their eyes. Buying low and selling high—this is the eternal rule of the capital game.
However, just then, Morgan's secretary knocked and re-entered. His face carried a subtle, peculiar expression.
He quietly reported to Morgan, "Sir, we just received word from our source inside Union Pacific Railroad Company… Their board of directors seems to have found a way to resolve this crisis."
"Oh?" Morgan's eyebrow twitched slightly.
"It's Mr. John Crane," the secretary continued.
"Their board has decided to shift all responsibility for the Nebraska incident onto him and the missing Durant. They plan to reach a private settlement with Mr. Argyle and… have already sent someone to bring Mr. Crane back to the company to discuss the relevant matters."
This news immediately changed the interested expressions of the three European representatives.
"A settlement?"
Mr. Leroy from Paris was the first to frown.
"So, this storm will subside very soon? Wouldn't buying in now mean we're buying right on the eve of a rebound?"
"Exactly."
Mr. Ashworth from London also agreed, his tone becoming cautious again.
"John, if Union Pacific and Argyle reach a settlement, the market will immediately regain confidence. The stock price will likely rebound within a few days. Our intervention now carries too much risk."
Although Mr. Van der Bergh from Amsterdam did not speak, he also nodded gently.
They were all experienced, seasoned bankers who would never engage in a speculative venture with an uncertain outcome on the eve of a situation becoming clear.
Morgan looked at their retreating expressions, yet showed no surprise on his face. He seemed to have anticipated this news and their reaction.
He slowly stood up, "Gentlemen, do you think a settlement is really that easy to achieve?"
"Why not?" Leroy retorted.
"Sacrificing an inconsequential contractor for the stability of the entire railroad company. For the Union Pacific directors, it's a bargain that couldn't be better.
As for Argyle… he has already salvaged his reputation through that press conference. Since the Union Pacific Railroad Company is now willing to give him an explanation, there's no need for him to get further entangled. Continuing his business is the wisest choice."
"Wisest?"
Morgan gave a knowing smile, "Gentlemen, you seem… not to understand Mr. Argyle very well."
"He might be a shrewd businessman, but at heart, he's more like a lion that has just claimed new territory. Someone just killed his cubs and tried to pin the blame on him. Do you think merely handing over an inconsequential minion will appease his wrath?"
"What's more…" His gaze swept over the three European representatives, "Do you really believe, gentlemen, that this ignited storm will simply die down so easily just because a scapegoat appears?"
Ashworth, Leroy, and Van der Bergh were all stunned. They detected an unusual meaning in Morgan's calm tone.
"John, what do you mean by that?" Ashworth pressed.
"Nothing, sir."
Morgan sat back down, picking up the cup of coffee that had long gone cold.
"I just think this drama might have only just reached its climax."
He looked at the three European bankers, who still harbored doubts.
"Gentlemen, I understand your caution. But please believe me, a true settlement between Union Pacific Railroad Company and Mr. Argyle is absolutely impossible. At least not for now."
"Give me three days."
Confidence gleamed in Morgan's eyes.
"Within three days, I will show you why I say now is the best time to buy Union Pacific stock."
"I have a way to make it so that neither side… can back down."
Second floor of Morgan Mercantile Firm.
Wall Street outside the window was still bustling, but the atmosphere inside the room was a bit subtle.
Three senior bankers from Europe looked at the young man in front of them again.
"John, how can we believe your guarantee?"
Henry Ashworth of Baring Bank in London spoke first, tapping the armrest with his fingertips, breaking the silence.
"After all, we are not gamblers."
"Henry is right."
Emile Leroy of the Rothschild family in Paris took over, his usually lively eyes now serious.
"Union Pacific's board of directors is not foolish. Sacrificing a John Crane to quell Felix Argyle's anger and stabilize the company's stock price is the most standard and reasonable way to handle a crisis."
Van der Berg of Amsterdam also summarized in his deep, slow tone.
"Once they announce a private settlement with Argyle."
"Then the market will immediately interpret it as good news, and the stock price will quickly rebound within twenty-four hours. Our entry now is not the right time."
Their meaning was clear.
This storm was about to be quelled as quickly as possible, the window for speculation had closed, and a mere guarantee from a young man was useless.
Morgan listened to their analysis quietly, without the slightest anxiety on his face.
He slowly stood up and took his exquisitely crafted top hat and cane from the coat rack.
"Gentlemen, you are using European logic to analyze a commercial war happening in America. You believe that all conflicts will eventually return to the balance and compromise on the ledger."
"But you seem to have forgotten," he looked out the window, "this is the New World. The rules here are still being written."
"John, what do you mean by that?" Ashworth frowned.
Morgan turned around and put on his hat. His posture was calm, as if he was just going to a regular lunch appointment.
"Mr. Argyle thinks that by holding a successful press conference and controlling all the evidence, he can determine the direction of this war. Union Pacific's directors think that by throwing out a scapegoat, they can make the market forget this scandal."
"But they are all wrong."
"And they all forgot," Morgan's lips curved into a cold arc, "what truly determines market confidence is not facts, nor evidence. It is... panic."
He walked to the door, "Gentlemen, your analysis is very reasonable. But your analysis is missing a key variable."
"What variable?" Emile Leroy asked curiously.
"Me."
Morgan pulled open the office door and looked back at the three still-confused European bankers.
"Please wait patiently at the hotel. As I said, within three days. I will prove to you why Union Pacific's stock price will not only not rebound, but instead... will fall even more drastically."
He offered no further explanation, just leaving a room full of doubts and cigar smoke, disappearing down the corridor... An hour later, the editor-in-chief's office of the New York World.
This place was messier than the offices of The Herald or The Times, but also more vibrant.
Editor-in-chief Martin Slevin was an energetic and ambitious middle-aged man.
He founded this newspaper and had always longed for a major exclusive story that would allow his newspaper to surpass its old rivals.
"Oh wow, isn't this Mr. Morgan?"
Seeing this Wall Street rising star at his door, Slevin had his secretary clear the stacks of manuscripts from his desk.
"What a rare visitor. What brings you here? Is your esteemed father planning to release some new financial developments in London through us?"
"No, Mr. Slevin."
Morgan sat down. He didn't touch the coffee the secretary brought, but instead took out a newspaper clipping from his pocket.
It was a crudely printed local tabloid, featuring the scandalous story about Catherine O'Brien.
Slevin glanced at it and scoffed dismissively.
"John, this kind of trash doesn't fit The World's style. Mr. Argyle already denounced these things as lies at his press conference yesterday. Now all of New York knows this is malicious slander against her."
"Is that so?" Morgan's tone was playful, "But what if behind these 'lies' lies a more terrifying truth?"
Slevin froze, "What do you mean?"
"Mr. Argyle denounced these rumors about his private life, and that was that."
"He didn't directly address the more crucial question."
"How can a young lady with no medical background, who reportedly can't even understand chemical formulas, become the president of a pharmaceutical company that controls the federal army's critical drug supply?"
Slevin's breathing hitched.
The keen nose of a news hound made him realize there seemed to be a story behind this.
"I'm not talking about gossip, Slevin."
Morgan leaned forward slightly, his voice lowered.
"I'm talking about dereliction of duty, I'm talking about... national security."
"I have a source." He threw out an irresistible bait.
"A source from the War Department's Quartermaster Department. He told me that the 'iodoglycerol' supplied by Umbrella Corporation is unstable in quality, yet exorbitantly priced. I hear there have long been complaints within the military, but perhaps due to Secretary Stanton's relationship with Mr. Argyle, these complaints have all been suppressed."
He continued to add, "And it is said that some senior chemists within Umbrella Corporation are also very dissatisfied with Miss O'Brien's amateur leadership. They worry that the company is siphoning huge profits from drug research and development, redirecting them into Mr. Argyle's highly risky ventures... such as private adventures to seize territory in Nebraska."
"These..."
Slevin felt his heart begin to pound.
"Are these... all true? Do you have proof?"
"Of course there's no proof, sir." Morgan shook his head frankly.
"I am just a banker who heard some rumors."
"But you are different, you have the city's sharpest reporters. Your people can interview some of the wounded soldiers returning from the front, ask them if the medicines they used were truly effective.
You can also 'accidentally' meet a few chemists leaving Umbrella Corporation's factory and chat with them about the company's internal management."
"Mr. Argyle just used accusations of massacre to attack Union Pacific Railroad Company. So if The World can expose that his own pharmaceutical empire is using soldiers' lives and taxpayers' money to satisfy his personal desires and... private affairs..."
Morgan didn't finish his sentence, but his cold gaze said it all.
"Right now, all of New York's attention is focused on the conflict between Argyle and Union Pacific. No one will expect that a sharper knife will stab into Argyle's heart from the most unexpected flank."
He gently placed a five-hundred-dollar bank draft on the table as payment for this meeting.
"Mr. Slevin, this is a story that can make The World famous overnight. A story about patriotism, greed, sex, and federal security. Whether you can seize it is up to you."
Slevin looked at the bank draft, then at Morgan's emotionless eyes. He had no reason to refuse.
"Of course, I'll send my best reporters to investigate."
"I have no doubt." Morgan put on his hat and turned to leave... Meanwhile, at the other end of Wall Street, at the headquarters of Union Pacific Railroad Company.
John Crane, accompanied by two company security personnel, walked into the boardroom he had once been so familiar with.
Chairman Oliver Ames and several other key directors were sitting there, their expressions serious.
"John," Chairman Ames spoke first, his voice betraying no emotion, "sit down. I imagine you've seen the morning papers."
Crane's body stiffened, and under the gaze of those blade-like eyes, he sat down with difficulty.
"Mr. Chairman... I..."
"Mr. Argyle's press conference was very successful." Ames interrupted him, speaking to himself.
"He has witnesses and physical evidence. Now, all of Washington is waiting for us to give an account. The reputation of the States and the company's stock price are all related to this matter."
He paused, turning his gaze to Crane.
"John," his voice softened a bit, yet became even more chilling, "you have served the company for ten years, and have always been the most capable contractor. We all trust you."
"Therefore, we believe that those... unfortunate incidents in Nebraska, including Durant's foolish and reckless actions, were all his personal decisions. That you were completely unaware and misled by him, right?"
Crane's heart leaped with joy; he understood the subtext of Ames's words.
This was giving him a chance. A chance to push all responsibility onto the missing Durant, to portray himself as a misled victim.
"Yes... yes, Mr. Chairman."
Crane grasped this lifeline, his voice trembling as he replied.
"I... I had no idea Durant would do such a thing. I was just fulfilling my contract..."
"Of course, we all understand."
Ames nodded, a satisfied expression on his face.
"So, John."
After a pause, he made his real demand.
"The company now needs you to represent the board and have a private conversation with Mr. Argyle. To express our apologies to him, and our willingness to offer reasonable compensation for his losses."
"You... you're asking me to..." Crane couldn't believe his ears.
"Yes." Ames's gaze turned cold.
"Go, John, go appease his anger. This is your only chance, as a loyal partner of the company, to make amends for all of this."
"And, the only chance for you, and for Union Pacific Railroad Company, to completely disassociate yourselves."
Crane looked at Ames's unquestionable gaze, feeling like a gladiator pushed into an arena.
But he knew very well that he had no choice.
New York, Five Points.
Night fell like a heavy, soaked black wool blanket, pressing down on this land full of suffering and struggle.
The cold autumn rain seeped in through the crumbling walls of the cheap apartment buildings, intensifying the acrid smell of cheap gin, boiled cabbage, and disease, making it more pungent and suffocating.
On the top floor of an unnamed apartment building near Paradise Square, in a dimly lit attic, Seamus O'Malley was curled up on a musty straw mat, his body trembling uncontrollably from violent coughing.
Each breath brought a tearing pain.
He pressed a dirty cloth to his mouth, and when he removed it, a dark red stain had appeared.
His wife, Mary, sat on the only wooden stool, using the faint street light filtering through the window to mend a child's coat that had several layers of patches.
Her two children, a boy and a girl, both under six years old, huddled at their mother's feet, wrapped in an equally ragged blanket, shivering from the cold.
"Cough... cough cough..."
Another violent fit of coughing from Seamus made Mary stop her needlework.
She turned her head, and a flicker of despair crossed her eyes, which were hollow from years of labor and worry.
"Drink some water, Seamus."
Her voice was low, like a whisper in the wind.
Seamus shook his head.
He knew he was dying.
The doctor told him last week that his lungs were already ruined.
Dockworker's lung, most of the Irishmen who spent years carrying heavy loads on cold, damp docks died from this.
He used to be a strong man, able to carry two hundred pounds of flour by himself.
But now, he didn't even have the strength to feed his wife and children.
He even started to envy those lucky ones who could work on Mr. Argyle' construction site.
And he, because of this damned illness, didn't even qualify to sign up for work.
Just then, a soft knock came from the thin wooden door of the attic.
"Knock, knock knock."
The sound was not loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the silence of the early morning.
Seamus and Mary's bodies tensed simultaneously.
So late, who could it be?
The landlord collecting rent? Or... something worse?
"Who is it?"
Seamus struggled to sit up, grabbing a short wooden stick by the bed that served as a weapon.
"A friend."
A man's voice, without any discernible accent, came from outside the door.
"Someone... who can bring help."
Seamus and Mary exchanged glances, and Mary held her two children tightly in her arms.
"I don't need help here," Seamus growled, "Go away."
Silence fell outside the door for a moment.
Then, the voice spoke again, "I have come for Mr. Argyle."
Argyle.
This name, like a flash of lightning, cut through the darkness and despair in the attic.
Seamus's hand, holding the wooden stick, loosened slightly.
"...What proof do you have?"
"The proof is in my hand," the voice replied, "Open the door, Mr. O'Malley.
I bring something that can make your family better."
Seamus hesitated for a long time, but finally, dragging his sick body, he moved to the door and unlatched the fragile lock.
The door was pushed open.
A man in an inconspicuous gray suit stood at the doorway.
Medium height, ordinary face, wearing a fedora with the brim pulled low.
He looked like a bank clerk, or an assistant at a law firm.
The only thing different, perhaps, were his eyes—calm, cold, like two bottomless wells.
"Mr. O'Malley."
The man entered the room and took off his hat.
He ignored the stench and mess in the room, focusing his gaze only on the two children whose eyes were wide with fear.
He introduced himself, "My name is Bowen, one of Mr. Flynn's men."
Flynn.
That name was more effective in Five Points than the chief of police.
Seamus completely dropped his guard.
"You... what do you want with me?"
Seamus's voice held a hint of respect and a touch of confusion.
He didn't understand why a big shot like Mr. Argyle would send someone to find a... dying invalid like him.
Bowen didn't answer immediately.
He walked over to Mary, pulled an envelope from his pocket, and placed it next to the patched coat.
"Here is a thousand dollars, Mrs. O'Malley."
Mary's hand trembled violently, and the needle pricked her fingertip.
She looked at the thick envelope in disbelief.
A thousand dollars, that was an immense sum she couldn't even imagine in her lifetime.
"Sir... you... what do you mean by this?" Seamus was also stunned.
"This is a down payment."
Bowen turned and looked at Seamus.
Then he pulled over the only wooden stool, gestured for Mary to attend to the children, and leaned against the damp wall himself, preparing to speak to Seamus alone.
"Seamus O'Malley, thirty-four years old.
Former dockworker.
Suffers from severe lung disease.
Wife Mary, two children, one six years old attending Argyle School, one four years old.
Unable to pay rent, you will be evicted by your landlord next Monday and thrown onto the streets."
"Mr. Argyle knows your predicament."
"And is willing to help you, but he now... also needs your help."
"My help?"
Seamus let out a bitter, self-mocking laugh.
"For God's sake, sir.
I need to lean on the wall just to stand up, who can I help?"
"You can."
Bowen's gaze fell on Seamus's hands, which were gnarled from years of labor.
"You can help him eliminate a common enemy.
A venomous snake that not only wants to destroy Mr. Argyle, but also wants to destroy the hope of all us Irishmen."
He placed a newspaper in front of Seamus.
It was a local New York tabloid, featuring the salacious article maliciously slandering Catherine O'Brien.
"Do you know this lady?" Bowen asked.
"Miss O'Brien..."
Seamus certainly knew her.
She was also a legend of Five Points, the pride of all Irishmen.
"Just yesterday, someone paid to have all the newspapers in New York publish these dirty lies.
They slandered her, saying she became president not by talent, but by... beauty."
"They also said," Bowen continued, "that Mr. Argyle is an executioner who massacred civilians in Nebraska."
"Bullshit!"
Seamus roared excitedly, triggering a violent fit of coughing.
"That's right, those are lies.
Lies fabricated by those big shots who are jealous of our compatriots living good lives." Bowen looked at him.
"We have already found out that the mastermind behind this conspiracy is a board member of the Union Pacific Railroad Company.
A bastard named John Crane.
It was he who ordered the killing of Mr. Argyle' employees in the West.
Now he wants to use ink to tarnish Miss O'Brien's reputation."
"And my Boss, he cannot tolerate such... attacks against those he values."
"He wants that man named Crane... to pay the price."
Seamus's heart pounded, and he finally understood the other party's intention.
"You... you want me to..."
"Yes."
Bowen looked at him, his eyes unruffled.
"Crane must disappear.
But this news must not be linked to Mr. Argyle in any way.
Otherwise, those politicians and newspapers will devour my Boss alive."
"We need a... martyr." Bowen's voice dropped even lower.
"An Irishman who holds Mr. Argyle and Miss O'Brien in high esteem, and who, unable to bear their slander, chooses to... privately punish that villain."
He looked at Seamus's face, pale from illness.
"You are dying, Seamus."
He stated a cruel fact, "There's no difference between dying on the street and dying in the enemy's blood.
But for your family, there is."
"A thousand dollars, given to you now.
Enough to keep you from suffering from illness in your final days."
Then he placed a document and a small photograph on top of the envelope.
"Here is a photograph of John Crane, and his upcoming itinerary.
This is a revolver.
You just need to pull the trigger at the right time and place.
And then..."
"To ensure your family's absolute safety, and to completely cut off this lead.
You must... use the last bullet to end yourself."
Seamus felt his blood freeze.
Suicide! This was a grave sin against church doctrine.
"I know what you're thinking."
Bowen seemed to read his mind, "God will forgive a man who sacrifices himself to protect his family and the honor of his compatriots."
He threw out the final, and undeniable, condition, "Your family, Mary and your two children.
The day after you complete it, we will secretly send them to Europe.
Switzerland, or France.
Away from everything here."
He pointed to another small envelope on the table.
"In this envelope is the second payment.
A bank draft for ten thousand dollars.
It will arrive in Europe with your family.
Enough for them to buy a small farm there and live a decent, prosperous life.
Your children will receive the best education there."
"A painless death, in exchange for your wife and children's lifelong prosperity and peace."
"Seamus O'Malley, this is your only... and last, chance to make a choice for your family in this life."
Seamus looked at the ten-thousand-dollar bank draft, then at the thick envelope filled with a thousand dollars in cash next to it.
Finally, his gaze fell on the two children huddled in their mother's arms, shivering from cold and fear.
Slowly, two lines of tears streamed down his eyes, which were clouded by illness.
After a long time, he reached out and picked up the heavy revolver from the table.
"Okay," he said hoarsely, "I'll do it."
New York, Five Points.
The wooden door of the attic was gently closed, cutting off the draft in the stairwell, a mix of cold wind and the smell of urine.
Bowen's steady, rhythmic footsteps gradually faded on the decaying wooden stairs, finally disappearing into the din of the street below.
The room fell into a silence heavier than poverty.
Mary O'Malley still stood frozen, her hollow eyes, worn from years of mending and weeping, stared directly at the thick envelope on the table.
One thousand dollars.
This money, sitting on their table made of broken crates, exuded an unreal aura. She didn't even dare to touch it.
"Seamus…"
Her voice was like a feather falling to the ground, so light it was almost inaudible.
"What… what exactly did he make you do?"
Seamus did not answer.
He slowly walked to the only straw mat, bent down, and with his hand, which had become like a withered branch due to illness, gently tucked the corner of the quilt more tightly.
Beneath the quilt, his two young children, six-year-old Liam and four-year-old Bridget, were nestled together in sleep. Their cheeks were pale from prolonged hunger, but their breathing was steady, oblivious to everything that had just happened.
Seamus stood there, watching for a long time.
As if to engrave their sleeping forms into his mind forever.
"Cough… cough, cough…"
A fit of uncontrollable, violent coughing made him stoop over. He desperately covered his mouth with a dirty cloth, trying not to make too much noise, so as not to wake the children.
When he spread his palm, there was another glaring dark red stain on the cloth.
He knew his time was running out.
"Mary."
He finally spoke, his voice hoarse, yet with an unprecedented calmness.
"Do you remember? When we first came to New York from County Cork… you told me this was a place where gold was everywhere."
Mary's tears fell silently; of course, she remembered.
At that time, they were both young, full of hope, believing that with hard work, they could make something of themselves in this new land.
"I… I couldn't give you a good life."
Seamus slowly walked to her side, and with his rough hand, awkwardly wiped away the tears from her face.
"I made you follow me… to starve and freeze in this hell, watching our children get sick without money to buy even a single quinine tablet."
"No, Seamus, don't say that…" Mary sobbed, shaking her head.
"But now, now, I have a chance." Seamus's gaze fell on the envelope on the table.
He held Mary tightly in his arms, his chin resting on her dry, malnourished hair.
"He… that gentleman."
Seamus's voice was very low, as if he were talking to himself, or perhaps praying.
"He gave me a… chance for atonement."
"To do a righteous thing. To punish a villain who tried to ruin the reputation of Felix Argyle and Miss O'Brien. A… powerful figure who is also oppressing us Irish."
"Mary." He closed his eyes, as if he could see that elusive future.
"You and the children will leave here, you will take a big ship to Europe. To a place called Switzerland. There is clean air there, and lakes and snowy mountains like a painting."
"You will have a small farm, with cows, with sheep."
He used all his strength to describe the dream built upon ten thousand dollars.
"Liam and Bridget, they will go to school there. They will read and write. They will forget everything here. They… will live decent lives."
"What about you?"
Mary trembled violently in his arms; she finally understood something.
"What about you, Seamus?"
"Me?"
Seamus smiled, a smile filled with endless weariness and a sense of relief.
"My illness is incurable. Rather than cough myself to death on this broken straw mat… it's better… better to use this last bit of strength to buy you all a future."
Releasing his wife, he walked to the table, picked up the cold revolver. Then he picked up the itinerary with John Crane's photo printed on it.
"This is God's will, Mary."
He said softly, carefully hiding the gun in his embrace.
"He sent Felix Argyle to save us. Now, he sends me to… clear the obstacles for Felix Argyle."
Seamus knew he was lying.
He knew what he was about to do would send him to hell, forever unforgiven by God.
But for his children, he was willing… Four in the morning, New York, Gramercy Park.
This private park, enclosed by iron fences, was one of New York's premier gathering places for the elite.
In stark contrast to the dirt and chaos of Five Points, the streets here were clean and tidy, gas lamps emitted bright and soft light, and magnificent brownstone buildings stood silently in the night, like sleeping giants.
Bowen, the man who had just completed a soul-bargain in an attic in Five Points, now stood in the study of a mansion.
His inconspicuous gray suit was out of place in the luxurious surroundings of mahogany bookshelves, French tapestries, and Italian marble fireplaces.
John Pierpont Morgan stood with his back to him, at the giant bay window, overlooking the quiet private park below, which belonged to his class.
He wasn't wearing pajamas; a well-tailored silk dressing gown made him look like an aristocrat about to attend a dinner party. He seemed never to have slept.
"Sir."
Bowen spoke softly, breaking the silence in the room.
"Is everything settled?" Morgan did not turn, his voice calm.
"Yes, sir."
"Seamus O'Malley has accepted the mission. He is a perfect martyr, indebted to Felix Argyle, extremely indignant about the tabloid rumors, and… terminally ill, desperately needing a large sum for his family."
"The deposit has been paid. Crane's itinerary, photo, and necessary tools have all been delivered."
"He believes it's Felix Argyle's order?" Morgan asked.
"Yes, sir, he firmly believes it. He thinks he is fighting for the honor of the Irish."
"That's good, isn't it? What about the 'suicide note'?"
"It's ready."
Bowen took a folded piece of paper from his pocket.
"It imitates his handwriting. The letter is full of reverence for Felix Argyle and Miss O'Brien, and hatred for Crane, the 'mastermind behind the scenes.'
Before the operation, this letter will be mailed to The Irishman Newspaper's headquarters in Dublin. Of course, this letter will never reach there. It will be 'accidentally' discovered by the police at an 'appropriate' time."
"What about his family?"
"Everything has been arranged, sir."
"Regardless of whether Seamus O'Malley succeeds or fails, the day after the operation, his wife and children will be secretly put on a ship to Liverpool by our people. The ten-thousand-dollar Swiss bank draft will also be handed to them there."
"Perfect."
Morgan finally turned around, a look of satisfaction flashing in his sharp gray eyes.
"Ensure all clues clearly point in one direction. But at the same time, we must also fulfill our promise. We are bankers, Saul, not bandits. Credibility is our most important asset."
Yes, it was clear that Bowen was not his real name; his real name was Saul.
"I understand, sir." Saul bowed.
Morgan walked to his desk, where a new analysis report on Union Pacific Railroad Company stock was already laid out.
"I truly look forward to the coming storm."
He looked out the window at the gray sky, about to be brightened by dawn, a smile on his face.
"Yesterday's newspaper was just an appetizer."
"Those rumors about Catherine O'Brien, though malicious, were merely rumors. They could anger Felix Argyle, but they were not enough to spark a life-and-death war between him and Union Pacific Railroad Company."
"But an assassination, of a director of Union Pacific Railroad Company, at the height of a controversy, by an Irishman who believes in Felix Argyle. What do you think will happen, Saul?"
"An irreconcilable war."
Saul's answer was devoid of emotion.
"Exactly."
Morgan's eyes gleamed with fanaticism.
"Union Pacific Railroad's board, no matter how much they doubt internally, no matter how much Chairman Ames wants to keep the peace. For the company's face, to appease their enraged political allies and investors, they must, and can only, publicly declare war on Felix Argyle."
"And Felix Argyle, that proud parvenu. When he finds himself framed as the 'mastermind of murder,' what will he do? Will he bow his head and reconcile?"
"No, sir. He will refute, but he will also strike back, with all his might."
"That's right."
Morgan walked back to the window, watching the first ray of morning light illuminate the spires of Wall Street.
"A war between two industrial giants. All capital, political, and public opinion power will be used to destroy the other. At that time, Union Pacific Railroad Company's stock price will plummet, and its bonds will be worthless."
Morgan looked at the golden morning light, as if he could already see the future landscape of gold everywhere.
"And I will quietly begin acquisitions on that ruin."
___________________
Almost posted a Warcraft chapter here instead lol