The night was deep.
Thomas Edison's carriage stopped in front of his house.
It was a detached wooden residence located in the suburbs, with few neighbors around.
Edison pushed open the carriage door and walked toward the porch, stepping on the fallen leaves that covered the ground.
He had been in an extremely irritable mood for the past two days.
His boss's words from a few days ago were like a knife stabbing into his self-esteem.
"A madman, a gambler. Only fit to stay in the laboratory."
Edison cursed under his breath as he pulled out his keys.
"Good evening, Mr. Edison."
A deep baritone suddenly came from the shadows of the porch.
Startled, Edison took a sudden step back, his hand instinctively reaching into his coat pocket to grip his snub-nosed Vanguard revolver for self-defense.
"Who's there?" Edison asked sharply.
A man wearing a pitch-black English trench coat and a silk top hat stepped out from the shadows.
He held a silver-headed cane in his hand.
The dim moonlight shone on his face, revealing a typical Anglo-Saxon countenance with high cheekbones and sharp eyes.
"Please relax, I mean no harm."
The man took off his top hat and bowed slightly.
"My name is Clive Cavendish, from London. I have been waiting for you for a long time."
"I don't know you. What does someone from London want with me?"
Edison did not lower his guard, his finger still on the trigger.
Cavendish smiled meaningfully.
"You indeed do not know me, but I believe you must know my employer, Mr. Junius Morgan."
Hearing that name, Edison's pupils contracted. Old Morgan.
That man had a grudge against his boss and was a European financial giant who had teamed up with several European capital groups a few months ago to target his boss on Wall Street, though they ultimately failed.
However, Edison didn't think much of it and only sneered.
"Are you joking? This is Argyle Family territory. Someone from Morgan's side dares to come here to find me? Are you joking, or are you tired of living?"
"Ha... Mr. Argyle' security team is indeed very tight. But in the darkness, there are always gaps."
Cavendish pointed at the door, his words laden with meaning.
"The wind is a bit strong outside, Mr. Edison. Regarding what happened to you on the top floor of the Empire State Building two days ago, wouldn't you like someone to talk to about it?"
Edison was stunned.
It had only been a few days since he went to see Felix; how did this Englishman find out so quickly?
"Are you spying on me? Or do you have people in the company?"
"Oh, we don't have that much power. We're just keeping an eye on the movements of North America's greatest genius," Cavendish said calmly.
"Why don't we go inside to talk? I promise that what I've brought is much more substantial than the empty promises Mr. Argyle has been feeding you."
Edison hesitated for a moment before letting go of the pistol in his pocket and inserting the key into the lock.
The two walked into the living room.
Edison did not turn on the lights, clearly not wanting outsiders to notice there was a guest in the house.
Even though there weren't many people living nearby.
"Speak, what do you want?"
Edison sat down on the sofa.
Cavendish stood by the window, looking out at the night.
"Mr. Morgan is very concerned about the electrical monopoly Argyle has established in North America. This concern isn't just limited to the financial level. General Electric is hitching the entire American industry to its war chariot."
Cavendish turned around.
"Mr. Morgan has joined forces with several consortia in Paris and Berlin to raise a vast amount of capital. We are prepared to establish a brand-new electrical company. The name has already been decided. It's called 'Westinghouse Electric'."
"Westinghouse?" Edison frowned.
"George Westinghouse? That mechanic who made a fortune inventing the train air brake?"
"Precisely him. He has excellent mechanical manufacturing capabilities and factories, but he lacks core technology in the electrical field."
Cavendish walked to the coffee table and looked at Edison with burning eyes.
"Every great company needs a soul. A helmsman who understands technology, has ambition, and knows how to turn technology into cash. Westinghouse has the factories, Morgan has the money. We lack a general manager."
Cavendish paused and emphasized his tone.
"A real general manager, not just a laboratory supervisor who gets bossed around."
This sentence accurately struck Edison's weak spot.
It had only been two days since Felix had ruthlessly rejected him for the same position.
"You want to poach me?"
Edison gave a dry laugh.
"Mr. Cavendish, you might have misunderstood something. I've signed a non-compete agreement. Moreover, the patent rights for all the technology I've developed belong to Mr. Argyle. And none of them are in the field of electricity. Besides, if I leave, I can't take anything with me. I won't even be able to use the light bulb and Carbon Transmitter I invented."
"It doesn't matter. Patents are dead, but people are alive."
Cavendish pulled over a chair and sat down.
"Argyle took your past patents, but he can't take the future inside your head. Didn't you say you wanted to work on Alternating Current?"
Edison snapped his head up.
"How do you know?"
"I told you, we are watching you at all times," Cavendish said with a slight smile.
"General Electric's power grid is Direct Current. Direct Current has short transmission distances and large losses. It can only be used within cities. Mr. Morgan had experts evaluate your Alternating Current concept. If the voltage can be stepped up through a transformer, Alternating Current can be transmitted hundreds of miles. That is the real future."
Cavendish took a document from the inside of his coat and placed it on the coffee table.
"This is an offer letter, Mr. Edison. As long as you nod, you will be the first general manager of the American branch of Westinghouse Electric. You will have absolute personnel authority and R&D decision-making power. No German nerd named White will block your purchase orders."
"In addition to a generous annual salary, Mr. Morgan promises to give you ten percent of the independent original shares of Westinghouse Electric."
"Ten percent of the shares."
Edison's breathing quickened.
At General Electric, he only received a high salary, project bonuses, and dividends.
He was just a high-level employee.
But ten percent of the shares meant he would become a real boss, a player at the capital table.
"What about the liquidated damages and the non-compete lawsuit?" Edison asked.
He knew that Pierce, the patent lawyer under Felix, was a villain who could sue a living person until only ashes remained.
"Westinghouse Electric will assemble the top legal team in America for you. All liquidated damages will be paid in full by Mr. Morgan. Even if the lawsuit lasts for ten years, your laboratory will not stop working for a single day," Cavendish guaranteed.
Edison stared at the document; every word on it seemed like a devil full of temptation.
He hated Felix's autocracy.
He hated White's rigidity even more.
Edison wanted to prove that he wasn't just a madman who tinkered with jars and cans in a lab.
But he was equally wary of Felix's methods.
The bloodbath that man had stirred up on Wall Street and in Pittsburgh made him feel an instinctive fear.
Betraying Argyle could lead to a very miserable end.
"I need time to consider."
Edison closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.
"This involves many things; I can't give you an answer right now."
"Of course. A career move of this level indeed requires careful consideration."
Cavendish stood up and put on his top hat. Then he took out a business card and pressed it onto the offer letter.
"I'm staying at the St. Regis Hotel on Fifth Avenue under the alias Charles Smith. I'll be staying in New York for a week. In a week's time, I hope to see you come to me with ambition, rather than going back to scrape soot off kerosene lamp chimneys."
Cavendish turned and walked toward the door.
The door closed.
Edison sat alone in the dark living room.
He picked up the business card, his fingers rubbing the edges forcefully.
Between loyalty and ambition, the scales began to tilt.
While Old Morgan was trying to recruit Edison, major events were also unfolding far away in Europe.
In the dining room of the Chancellor's residence on Wilhelm Street in Berlin, Otto von Bismarck sat at one end of the dining table.
Before him sat a plate of roast veal that had already gone cold.
Seated on both sides of the table were Moltke, the Chief of the Prussian General Staff, and Roon, the Minister of War.
But none of the three Prussian rulers had any appetite.
The Chancellor's adjutant, Heinrich Abeken, walked quickly into the dining room, holding an urgent telegram just sent from Bad Ems.
"Your Excellency, a telegram from His Majesty the King."
Abeken handed the telegram to Bismarck with both hands.
Bismarck took the telegram; it was sent by King Wilhelm I of Prussia.
The telegram detailed the King's meeting with the French Ambassador, Vincent Benedetti, at Bad Ems.
The French Ambassador's attitude was arrogant, demanding that the King of Prussia make a commitment to permanently renounce the candidacy for the Spanish throne.
Although Wilhelm I rejected this unreasonable demand, his words remained diplomatically polite and restrained, stating that the negotiations ended there.
Bismarck quickly scanned the contents of the telegram, his brow furrowing deeply.
"His Majesty is too kind."
Bismarck threw the telegram onto the dining table.
"This kind of wording, filled with the sense of compromise, simply cannot provoke the French. If the French don't fire the first shot, we won't be able to occupy the moral high ground in European public opinion."
Moltke put down his knife and fork and sighed.
"Otto, if we can't start the war this summer, our mobilization plan will be disrupted. If we fight after winter begins, the pressure on logistics and supplies will multiply. Moreover, the batch of Smokeless Powder weapons that Argyle shipped from America has already been distributed to the frontline troops. The soldiers need actual combat to familiarize themselves with them."
Bismarck stared at the telegram, countless political scenarios flashing through his mind.
Suddenly, he reached out and picked up the dip pen on the table.
"Abeken," Bismarck looked at his adjutant.
"The telegram says His Majesty has authorized me to release a communiqué of this meeting to the press, correct?"
"Yes, Your Excellency. His Majesty allows you to decide the scope of the announcement yourself."
So Bismarck immediately pulled the telegram paper in front of him.
The tip of the pen touched the paper, like a scalpel cutting through flesh.
He crossed out the long, polite explanations in the telegram.
He deleted all of Wilhelm I's concessions and mild tone, drastically reducing the original telegram of over two hundred words to just over twenty.
After finishing this, Bismarck picked up the edited telegram and read it aloud:
"The French Ambassador made a demand to His Majesty at Ems, requesting authorization to telegraph Paris that His Majesty pledged never to consent to the Hohenzollern family's candidacy for the Spanish throne. His Majesty subsequently refused to receive the French Ambassador again and informed him through the adjutant on duty that His Majesty had nothing more to say."
Silence fell over the dining room.
Moltke and Roon looked at each other, a terrifying light erupting in both their eyes simultaneously.
The originally polite refusal, after Bismarck's editing, instantly turned into a harsh slap to the face of the French Empire.
The brief text was full of Prussian arrogance and contempt for the French Ambassador.
"Splendid, Otto."
A smile appeared on Moltke's gaunt face.
"What originally sounded like a retreat for peace now sounds like a bugle call for an attack!"
Roon also stood up abruptly.
"I guarantee that once this telegram is published in the Paris newspapers, that Gallic rooster will go mad. If Napoleon III does not declare war, he will surely be ousted by the Parisian mobs."
Bismarck threw the pen on the table and handed the modified telegram to Abeken.
"Send it to the major newspapers immediately. At the same time, notify our embassies throughout Europe. By tomorrow morning, I want all of Europe to know that the French have been humiliated."
"Yes, Your Excellency!" Abeken turned and ran out of the dining room.
The wheels of history, at this moment, veered off their original track and hurtled toward the abyss.
A few days later, Paris, France.
The edited 'Ems Dispatch' appeared in the newspapers.
All of Paris fell into a frenzy of rage.
The streets were crowded with marching citizens, waving tricolor flags and singing 'La Marseillaise'.
In all the taverns, cafes, and squares, only one voice echoed.
"On to Berlin! Teach the Prussian barbarians a lesson!"
Inside the Tuileries Palace.
Under the strong demand of the Minister of War, Leboeuf, Napoleon III, with a trembling hand, signed his name on the declaration of war against Prussia.
The French Parliament passed the war appropriations by an overwhelming majority.
The telegraph lines, like a neural network, spread this fateful news across Europe, through the Atlantic undersea cables, and directly to the North American continent.
Wall Street, New York, USA.
The trading floor on the ground level of the Empire State Building.
The stock tickers suddenly began to operate like mad. Endless paper tapes spewed from the brass outlets.
"Fuck, war has broken out! France has declared war on Prussia!"
A trader shouted at the top of his lungs.
The hall instantly erupted in chaos.
The originally calm market was instantly swept by a colossal wave.
French government bonds plummeted in response, and Prussian bonds took a sharp dive. Meanwhile, data from the Chicago Board of Trade showed that futures prices for wheat and corn were skyrocketing vertically.
The top-floor office.
Tom Hayes didn't even knock, pulling open the heavy oak door directly.
He clutched a length of paper tape in his hand, breathless from running.
"Boss, they've really started fighting!"
Hayes's voice cracked with extreme excitement.
"Napoleon III has declared war; the front lines are already engaged."
Felix was standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the view.
He didn't look back upon hearing Hayes's report, for he knew this was a historical inevitability.
The chess game planned for months had finally reached its final step.
The merchant ships of the Metropolitan Trading Company, loaded with canned food and morphine, were already sailing toward the Atlantic.
Lex Steel's armories were producing Gatling guns day and night.
The massive amounts of grain stockpiled in Chicago had now become a hard currency more expensive than gold.
The French government bonds sold off before the war had been successfully offloaded onto greedy British retail investors.
The flames of war in Europe ignited the furnace of America.
Felix raised his wine glass, giving a slight nod to his own reflection in the glass window.
He tilted his head back and drained the pungent spirits in the glass in one gulp.
A burning sensation flowed down his throat, spreading throughout his body.
"Listen, Tom."
Felix turned around and looked at Hayes.
A cold and greedy curve curled at the corners of his mouth.
"The money printing press has started."
Felix set down the black tea in his hand after saying this.
The bottom of the cup hit the desk, letting out a dull thud.
Tom Hayes stood before the office desk, holding a stack of transcripts just sent up from the trading floor downstairs.
"Boss, the market has gone crazy."
Hayes read out the numbers on the transcripts.
"The Chicago Board of Trade. For the winter wheat futures contracts delivering in September, the price jumped directly from eighty cents to one dollar and twenty cents per bushel within the first half hour of opening. The price of corn has even doubled, and the purchase price for live hogs at those meatpacking plants is still surging upward."
Felix sat back in his leather chair.
"That's normal. How is the sell-off progressing?"
"This... according to feedback from our agents in London and Frankfurt, at the moment before the news of the war broke, all the French short-term and long-term government bonds in our hands had been completely liquidated." Hayes turned a page.
"British retail investors and investment funds took over the positions; they firmly believe that Napoleon III will conquer Berlin within a month. Half an hour ago, the price of French government bonds plummeted by forty percent. Several established underwriting firms in London have directly declared bankruptcy."
Hayes looked up, his eyes filled with fanaticism.
"We have already recovered the cash. According to your instructions, the funds did not linger. The agents rushed directly into the London gold market. We pushed the London spot gold price up by two points. Six million dollars worth of physical gold bars are being packed. In three days, they will return to New York aboard the Metropolitan Trading Company's cargo ships."
"What about the Prussian government bonds?" Felix asked.
"We've bought them up," Hayes closed the transcripts.
"Before the war, Prussian bonds were of no interest to anyone. We swept up the entire floating supply on the market at thirty percent of their face value. Now, as the Prussian army begins to mobilize, the capital in London has discovered that the French are not as invincible as imagined, and the price of Prussian bonds has begun to rebound. We have a floating profit of fifty percent."
"Do not touch the Prussian bonds; lock them in the account," Felix issued the command.
"On the day Bismarck signs the treaty at the Palace of Versailles, these bonds will be redeemed at face value. That will be a three hundred percent profit."
Hayes pulled over a chair and sat down.
"But boss, we hold more than a sixty percent share of the grain in Chicago. European buyers will soon be knocking on our door with British pounds. When do we release the goods?"
"Wait," Felix uttered only a single word.
"Wait until the French granaries run dry, and wait until the Prussian trains drag their logistics to a collapse. When a loaf of bread in Paris sells for ten francs, that's when we'll open our warehouses."
There was a knock on the office door. Two light, one heavy.
"Enter," Felix said.
The door pushed open, and a young man wearing a black double-breasted suit walked in.
It was Timmy, who was already twenty-five years old this year.
Ten years ago, he was a street urchin in New York, shining Felix's shoes and gathering intelligence.
Now, he was the head of the Argyle Family's Intelligence Department.
As for the former head, Flynn, after the Pinkerton Detective Agency incident, he had taken half the personnel and joined the federal intelligence agency established by President Ulysses S. Grant last month.
Felix had Timmy take over the family's internal shadow network.
Timmy did not have Flynn's steadiness; he carried a sense of ruthlessness and efficiency forged on the streets.
There was a very faint scar on his originally unblemished left cheek.
"Boss, Mr. Hayes."
Timmy walked to the desk and bowed slightly.
Hayes knew that the matters Timmy handled could not see the light of day, so he stood up.
"Boss, then I'll head downstairs to keep an eye on the market. I'll report back if there are any fluctuations in grain prices."
After Hayes left, the door was closed tightly again.
Timmy pulled a kraft paper envelope from his inner pocket and placed it in front of Felix.
"Boss, a problem has arisen. It's on the New Jersey side," Timmy said, keeping his voice as low as possible.
Felix did not open the envelope.
"Who?"
"Thomas Edison," Timmy replied.
"You previously rejected his request to serve as the general manager of General Electric. The night before last, someone went to his house on the outskirts of the city."
Felix leaned back against the chair.
"Name."
"Clive Cavendish," Timmy spoke very quickly.
"He's an Englishman in disguise who lives in London year-round. His overt identity is a timber import-export merchant, but our informants checked his telegraph communication lines through Western Union. He reports directly to 22 Broad Street. He is likely Junius Morgan's private agent."
Felix's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What is Old Morgan's man doing at Edison's house?"
Timmy opened the envelope and poured out several black-and-white photos.
The photos were taken at night and were somewhat blurry.
They showed a man wearing a top hat walking onto the porch of Edison's house.
"We bribed the maid in Edison's house, and she overheard part of the conversation while hiding in the kitchen," Timmy pointed at the photos.
"Cavendish represents Morgan and several European syndicates. They are preparing to establish a new electrical company called 'Westinghouse Electric.' They've recruited George Westinghouse and offered terms to Edison: the position of general manager for the American branch of Westinghouse Electric, plus ten percent independent shares."
Felix looked at the photos, lost in thought.
"Did Edison agree?"
"He didn't agree immediately, saying he needed time to consider," Timmy put away the photos.
"But he must be tempted. The maid reported that after Cavendish left, Edison sat in the living room all night. When he went to the lab the next day, his attitude toward Manager White became very perfunctory. He also stopped his research on the Telephone Switchboard and let his assistant Arthur do it, while he stayed in his office all day drawing blueprints. He wasn't drawing Direct Current. The eyes we planted in the lab saw it; he seems to be drawing sketches for a High-voltage AC Transformer."
Felix's fingers tapped on the desk.
"It seems Old Morgan also wants to get into the electrical business and even understands its direction. He knows Direct Current can only be confined within cities. He wants to use Alternating Current to defeat General Electric in long-distance transmission."
Timmy leaned forward, his hands pressing on the edge of the desk.
"Boss, Edison is a madman. If he defects to Morgan with those ideas, it could be a massive threat to General Electric."
Timmy touched the snub-nosed revolver at his waist.
"His house in New Jersey is very secluded, and there's a stretch of his commute that has no streetlights. Tonight, I will arrange for three men to stage a robbery-homicide. Or I can tamper with the axle of his carriage, letting him and the carriage flip into the Hudson River. After dawn, the police will only fish out a body that accidentally drowned."
Timmy looked into Felix's eyes.
"Get rid of him and nip Morgan's plan in the bud."
Felix picked up the whiskey on the side table and took a sip.
"Timmy, you're being a bit extreme," Felix's voice held a hint of helplessness.
Timmy was stunned for a moment.
"Boss, are you... thinking of letting him go? But the things in his head..."