Paris, Tuileries Palace.
The light from the crystal chandeliers reflected in dazzling patches on the floor. The guards on both sides stood tall, holding Chassepot rifles fitted with bayonets.
Victor Dubois handed his silk top hat to the attendant at the door.
He straightened the hem of his suit and stepped into the drawing room filled with the scent of perfume.
As the Director of the European Affairs Department of the Standard Oil Company.
A shrewd lobbyist with French ancestry who had spent ten years grinding on Wall Street, he had his own methods.
On the sofa in the center of the room, Napoleon III was covering his mouth with a handkerchief, letting out a fit of violent coughing.
His face was sallow, and his forehead was covered in cold sweat.
The pain of kidney stones was slowly draining the Emperor's energy.
Standing beside the Emperor was General Charles Frossard.
He was a tactical expert in the French army and one of the Emperor's most trusted military advisors.
"Your Majesty."
Dubois walked to within three paces of the sofa, stopped, and bowed deeply.
Napoleon III waved his handkerchief, signaling him to rise.
"Mr. Dubois, Baron de Valois recommended you highly to me. He said you have what the French army needs most right now," the Emperor's voice was weak.
Dubois stood up straight.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I come on behalf of the Argyle Executive Committee."
Dubois was carrying a black briefcase.
"I hear that France's railway system is operating at full capacity. You need to transport hundreds of thousands of troops and artillery to Alsace and Lorraine."
General Frossard stepped forward.
"There are no issues with our railway dispatch; French train wheels are much faster than Prussian legs."
Frossard said with a hint of arrogance.
Dubois did not argue but placed the briefcase on the coffee table and opened it.
Inside were bottles of sealed transparent liquid and a set of medical instruments wrapped in tin foil.
"General, railways need fuel. Locomotives need lubrication. And when loading and unloading troops at night, your platforms need lighting."
Dubois picked up the bottle of transparent liquid.
"Standard Oil Company's premium kerosene is better than what's on the market. Not to mention the grease you're currently using, and it leaves no residue to clog the wicks when burning. The Prussians have already ordered one hundred thousand barrels at the Port of Hamburg."
Napoleon III's eyes flickered slightly.
"The Prussians bought it?" the Emperor asked.
"Yes, Your Majesty. They paid in gold. Their logistics officers value the efficiency of night marches very highly."
Dubois put down the kerosene bottle and picked up the tin foil package.
He tore open the packaging, revealing the first-aid kits produced by the Umbrella Corporation.
"Your Majesty, war is not just about marching; it's also about bloodshed."
Dubois took out a glass ampoule filled with liquid.
"Purified morphine injection. It can be injected subcutaneously and takes effect within three minutes. It can stop a soldier whose leg has been blown off by a shell from screaming."
Dubois's gaze fell on Napoleon III's abdomen, which was slightly hunched due to pain.
"Of course, it can also be used to relieve any extreme physiological pain. Its purity is something current pharmacists on the market cannot refine. It is absolutely safe and has no side effects."
Napoleon III stared at the small glass bottle.
He knew all too well that feeling of wishing for death when the pain flared up.
"Frossard, does our medical department have anything like this?"
General Frossard shook his head.
"Your Majesty, we usually use laudanum or large amounts of low-quality brandy to anesthetize the wounded. Our pharmaceutical factories have not yet mass-produced this kind of pure, injectable medication."
The Emperor leaned back against the sofa.
"How much stock did you bring?"
"Two hundred thousand barrels of kerosene, one hundred and fifty thousand first-aid kits. Additionally, there are five hundred thousand cans of military oatmeal and meat produced in Chicago," Dubois stated the numbers.
"All are docked in warehouses at the Port of Le Havre. As soon as the agreement is signed, they can be loaded and sent to Paris this afternoon."
General Frossard frowned.
"Mr. Dubois, you are profiting from war. You're even hedging your bets between Prussia and France."
"General, I am a businessman. I sell supplies, not allegiances," Dubois spread his hands.
"If I don't sell these to you, they will be loaded onto ships for Hamburg tomorrow. This is free trade."
"Enough, tell me the price."
Napoleon III interrupted Frossard's questioning.
"Kerosene is ten dollars a barrel, first-aid kits are five dollars each, and canned food is twenty cents a can."
Dubois stated the prices without hesitation.
General Frossard gasped.
"This is double the market price! You are extorting the French Empire!" The General's hand rested on the hilt of the sword at his waist.
Dubois remained unfazed.
"General, the market price is a peacetime price. We are on the eve of war. These supplies were brought here by us braving the storms and pirates of the Atlantic Ocean. And this is spot goods; spot goods are worth this price."
Napoleon III waved his hand, stopping Frossard's outburst.
"We will buy all the supplies."
The Emperor's voice carried a sense of desperate resolve.
He needed a victory in this war so badly to consolidate his crumbling imperial power that he had to get anything that could increase his chances.
"But..." The Emperor looked at Dubois.
"The gold currently in the French treasury is needed to pay the frontline soldiers and buy horses from the British. We cannot settle this payment entirely in gold."
Dubois was prepared for this.
Before coming, he had received strict orders from Felix in New York.
"Your Majesty, Mr. Argyle understands France's situation very well," Dubois bowed slightly.
"We accept partial payment in bonds, but there are conditions."
"What conditions?"
"Thirty percent of the payment must be settled in physical gold or British pound sterling drafts. For the remaining seventy percent, we accept short-term war bonds issued by the French government. The term is six months, with an annualized interest rate of eight percent."
Dubois proposed the plan.
General Frossard laughed in anger.
"An eight percent interest rate? A term of only six months? Are you joking? Since when has France's credit become so cheap!"
"But General, in six months, won't you already be holding a victory parade in Berlin?"
Dubois silenced Frossard with a clever compliment.
"If France wins, this debt will be a drop in the bucket for you. If you lose..."
Dubois did not finish the sentence.
Napoleon III was silent for a moment as the sharp pain in his abdomen struck again. He glanced at the morphine on the table.
"Draft the contract."
The Emperor closed his eyes and gave the order.
"Frossard, have the Treasury Department handle it. I want to see these supplies sent to the front line by tomorrow morning."
"Your Majesty..." Frossard still wanted to dissuade him.
"Execute the order!"
The Emperor suddenly opened his eyes and let out a roar.
Frossard lowered his head and left the room.
Dubois picked up the briefcase and left it on the coffee table.
"Then this case of samples is left for Your Majesty's use."
Dubois bowed deeply and turned to exit the drawing room.
Walking out of the gates of the Tuileries Palace.
The Parisian sunlight was dazzling.
The cafes along the Seine were filled with citizens talking loudly, with slogans of "On to Berlin" everywhere.
Dubois got into the carriage waiting in the square.
"To the telegraph office," Dubois said to the driver.
In the carriage, he took out his codebook and quickly drafted a telegram.
"Contract signed, seventy percent in short-term government bonds. Internal chaos among the French, the Emperor is seriously ill, and the army is blindly confident. They are like a leaking ship. — Dubois."
The gears of the telegraph machine spun rapidly, and a white paper tape spat out from the exit.
Tom Hayes stood by the machine, tore off the tape, and quickly scanned the decoded cipher text.
Hayes grabbed the tape, pushed open the office door, and strode toward the supervisor's office at the end of the hallway.
After knocking and receiving permission, Hayes pushed the door open and entered.
Felix was standing by the window, holding a cup of black coffee in his hand.
George Templeton, President of the Imperial Bank, sat on the sofa, leafing through a thick ledger.
"Boss, a telegram from Paris."
Hayes walked to the desk and flattened the paper tape.
"Dubois has settled it; the French have bought all the inventory. They paid thirty percent in gold. The remaining seventy percent is paid with six-month short-term war bonds at an interest rate of eight percent."
Templeton closed the ledger.
"Eight percent for short-term bonds; the French Treasury Department has gone mad. They are drinking poison to quench their thirst, which shows their treasury simply doesn't have enough cash to support this war."
Felix turned around, walked to the desk, and glanced at the tape.
"What about Berlin?" Felix asked.
"A message from Bowen yesterday," Hayes replied.
"The Prussians paid in full with gold for the canned food, kerosene, and first-aid kits. As for that ironclad, the 'poseidon', Richter is still haggling with Bismarck. But they refuse to use any bonds."
Felix placed his coffee cup on the coaster.
"The cards of both sides are on the table."
Felix walked to the blackboard by the wall and picked up a piece of chalk.
He wrote "Prussia" and "France" on the blackboard.
"The Prussians are using cash to buy their lives; they are scraping together everything to arm themselves to the teeth with weapons and supplies. This is long-term logistical preparation."
Felix drew a line under Prussia.
Then, his chalk moved under France.
"The French use bonds to buy supplies. Their Emperor is gravely ill, their generals are arrogant, and the public is blindly optimistic. Their railway system even relies on buying our high-priced spot kerosene."
Felix threw away the chalk and turned to look at Hayes and Templeton.
"The French are going to lose, and they will lose miserably. They will collapse across the board within a few months."
Templeton pushed up his glasses.
"Then Boss, if the French lose, those short-term bonds we hold will become scrap paper. If the Second French Empire falls, the new government will absolutely not recognize the war debts issued by Napoleon III."
Hayes also realized the gravity of the problem.
"We just acquired millions of dollars' worth of French bonds. If we're stuck with them, all our profits from the supplies will be wiped out!"
"Who said we're going to be stuck with them?"
Felix walked behind the desk and sat down, his eyes as calm as an ancient well.
"Tom, what is the current public opinion on this war in the financial markets of Wall Street and London?" Felix asked.
Hayes recalled this morning's newspapers and the exchange's opening prices.
"Everyone is bullish on France; they have the largest standing army in Europe. Napoleon III's prestige remains. British bankers are even buying up French long-term bonds in bulk, believing that after the war, France will receive massive reparations from Prussia. The price of French bonds has been rising for several days."
"See... these are the suckers we're looking for."
Felix tapped his fingers on the desk.
"Since everyone in the market thinks France will win, we'll sell them the French bonds we're holding."
"Tom, you immediately return to the Patriot Investment Company," Felix ordered.
"Take these French short-term bonds Dubois just signed, along with all the French long-term bonds we previously absorbed in the market, and package them. Split them into small-denomination notes and dump them into the market through our agents in London and Frankfurt."
"Sell them quickly, but don't cause a panic. While French bond prices are still high, liquidate them all. Don't leave a single cent of French currency on our books."
Hayes picked up his notebook and recorded rapidly.
"Sell them to those British retail investors and bankers who are full of illusions about France. Let them bear the cost of the French Empire's collapse," Felix continued.
Templeton asked from the side.
"Boss, what should we do with the funds recovered from selling the bonds? Deposit them in the vault?"
"No," Felix refused flatly.
"Both the franc and the pound will depreciate during the war; only two things retain their value best amidst the gunfire."
Felix held up two fingers.
"First, physical gold. Go to the London gold market, exchange all the recovered cash for gold bars, and ship them back to the underground vault in New York."
"Second, Prussian government bonds."
Hayes stopped writing and looked up.
"Buy Prussian bonds? Boss, because the market is so bullish on France, the price of Prussian bonds has been suppressed to rock bottom. No one wants to buy them."
"If no one is buying, we will."
A bloodthirsty smile curled at the corners of Felix's mouth.
"I believe Prussia will not only win but will also establish a unified German Empire. They might even march into Paris and extort an astronomical sum of war reparations from France. Those reparations will be used to pay off Prussia's debts."
"Now is the cheapest time for Prussian bonds. Go buy the dip. Absorb all the Prussian bonds available on the market. Use the Frenchmen's money to buy the Prussians' debt."
Felix stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the streets of Wall Street.
"When the news of Napoleon III's surrender at Sedan reaches Wall Street, those holding French bonds will be lining up to jump off buildings."
"And the price of the Prussian bonds in our hands will triple."
Hayes closed his notebook, feeling his blood boiling in his veins.
"This isn't just business; this is a setup."
"Using a war that changes the world's structure to complete an unprecedented plunder of wealth."
Given the scale of the Argyle Family, even if they lost the gamble, it wouldn't be a crippling blow. Besides, Vanguard Arms has been consistently supplying weapons to Berlin for payment, so this is entirely feasible.
"I'll go arrange the traders immediately, twenty-four-hour shifts," Hayes strode toward the door.
"Remember, Tom," Felix called out from behind him.
"Keep the movements discreet; don't act directly in the name of the Patriot Investment Company. Operate through shell companies in neutral countries. I don't want those British people to notice anything."
"Understood, Boss. I'll spread the transactions across accounts in Holland and Switzerland," Hayes said as he left.
Only Felix and Templeton remained in the office.
Templeton walked to the desk.
"Boss, if your prediction of the war is accurate, the Prussians will definitely buy that ironclad, the 'poseidon', sailing to Europe. They need it to deter the French Navy."
Felix turned around.
"Then go prepare the London accounts, George. Six million dollars in gold. Once Richter signs, have the captain swap the flag for the Prussian Black Eagle flag. Let the Europeans see how America's steel crushes wood on the sea."
Inside the factory affiliated with the General Electric laboratory, Thomas Edison slammed a wrench onto a nearby wooden crate with a look of annoyance.
He wiped the grease from his face with his hand and strode toward the manager's office.
Without even knocking, he pushed the door open and walked right in.
Heinrich White was sitting behind the desk. Glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, and he held a red and blue pencil, checking the procurement details in a ledger.
"Hey... White."
Edison leaned forward, bracing his hands on the desk.
"Why was the procurement order I submitted for red copper wire sent back by the finance department?"
White didn't look up, his gaze continuing to drift among the numbers.
"Because the purity you requested is 99.9 percent. You should know that the price list from the Anaconda Copper Mine clearly states that red copper wire of this purity costs forty dollars more per ton than standard industrial purity."
"But standard industrial purity contains impurities!" Edison raised his voice.
"We are conducting long-distance transmission tests for the city's power grid; impurities increase resistance. Resistance generates heat, which wastes a massive amount of electrical energy. You're making a joke out of the entire grid's efficiency."
White closed the ledger, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Tom. We aren't laying a test line in a laboratory. This is a power grid covering all of Manhattan, do you understand? It's hundreds of miles of wiring. If we use the ultra-high purity red copper you're demanding for everything, the installation costs will exceed the budget by three hundred thousand dollars."
White looked at Edison, feeling a bit of a headache coming on.
"That's three hundred thousand dollars; we'd need to sell three million kilowatt-hours of electricity just to recover that cost. General Electric is a commercial company, not a scientific research institute. What we pursue is 'usable,' not 'perfect.'"
"'Usable' means line loss will cause the voltage at the end to drop. The light bulbs will grow dim!" Edison retorted.
"Then build a few more transformer stations."
White didn't back down an inch; after all, he was the head of General Electric.
"The cost of building transformer stations is cheaper than buying top-grade red copper; this has been calculated. The procurement order cannot be approved; we must purchase according to standard specifications."
Edison glared at White, feeling as though his punch had landed on a bale of cotton.
"You used to be a researcher too, White. How did you end up like a mere bookkeeper? I see you don't understand the future of electricity at all." Edison straightened his back.
"I'm going to see the boss."
Edison turned and walked out of the office.
In the afternoon, on the top floor of the Empire State Building.
Felix sat on the sofa with a cup of black tea in his hand, looking across from him with an expressionless face.
Edison sat there, looking a bit flustered under the gaze.
By now, he had changed out of his work clothes and into a reasonably neat suit, though his tie was still slightly crooked.
"Boss, General Electric needs a new general manager."
Edison hesitated for a long time before finally speaking.
Felix took a sip of tea and placed the cup on the coffee table.
"Oh? Give me a reason."
"White is a German nerd who only stares at the numbers in the ledger now. He has no vision."
Seeing that Felix didn't voice any objection, Edison hurried to continue.
"He's managing General Electric like a screw factory. To save a few cents on material costs, he's sacrificing the technical ceiling of the entire system. Boss, do you know how many new ideas I have in my head? I want to develop an alternating current system, build larger transformers, and even stretch power lines to the West Coast. But every time I hand him a proposal, he kills it with a cost-benefit analysis."
Edison looked at Felix with an expectant expression.
"Boss, let me manage General Electric. I understand every part of the machinery. I also know how to sell electricity to those factory owners. I could easily double the scale of General Electric."
Felix glanced at him without saying a word. He picked up the cigar box on the table, pulled out a cigar, struck a match, and slowly lit it.
Blue smoke rose.
"Tom, do you know why I gave General Electric to White instead of you? Why I didn't even let you into the electrical department before?" Felix exhaled a smoke ring.
Edison frowned.
"Because he worked at Siemens? Because he understands the management processes of large factories?"
"Of course not." Felix leaned back against the sofa.
"It's because he is honest, obedient, and rigorous."
Felix extended a finger, pointing vaguely in Edison's direction.
"You are a genius, Tom. Your head is full of sparks that can change the world. But you are also a madman. And a gambler through and through."
"Last month, to snatch a patent for a carbon powder formula, you sent people to break down the door of an independent laboratory in Brooklyn. If Pierce from the legal department hadn't spent money to settle it with the police, you'd still be in the detention center. And last week, you actually promised a visiting railroad tycoon that we could build electric locomotives by next year."
"Hmph~ ridiculous. You haven't even solved the overheating problem of the motors, yet you dare to use something that doesn't even exist to paint grand illusions."
Edison shifted his body somewhat awkwardly.
"That's called business strategy, Boss. Secure the client first; we can always build it eventually."
"That's called fraud." Felix's voice turned cold.
"Tom. In the lab, you can make as many mistakes as you want. If you blow up ten boilers or burn out twenty coils, I don't care. That's R&D cost. But in business management, General Electric cannot afford to make mistakes."
Felix stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
"General Electric now holds the lifeblood of thousands of factories. What it needs is stability and precision. Every cent of expenditure and income must be crystal clear. It cannot gamble."
"You resent White for blocking your procurement orders, but that's because I issued a standing order. General Electric's profit margin must be maintained at over forty percent. When he cuts your top-grade red copper, he is executing my will."
Edison stood up, his face flushed.
"But Boss! This could very well allow others to catch up to General Electric's technology!"
"Catch up by whom? That Bell in Boston?"
Felix turned around, looking at him coldly.
"I pay for your brain so you can deal with Bell and invent new things. Not so you can sit in an office discussing wholesale prices with suppliers."
Felix walked up to Edison and patted his shoulder; the pats were heavy.
"Go back to your research, Tom. The general manager's seat doesn't suit you. As long as you get the telephone switchboard working, I'll give you a bonus you can't spend in a lifetime. Do not overstep."
These words completely shut down Edison's aspirations.
Edison gritted his teeth.
He knew Felix's character; once a decision was made, there was no possibility of change.
"I understand, Boss."
Edison lowered his eyes, masking the resentment and disappointment deep within.
He turned and walked out of the office.
The moment the door closed, Edison felt like a beast locked in a golden cage.
Possessing sharp claws and teeth for nothing, he could only bite the designated prey according to his master's orders, never able to become the master of the cage.