The British Empire, London.
Whitehall, the Foreign Office building.
Heavy oak doors shut out the bustle of the corridor, and a fireplace burned in the spacious office. A massive portrait of Queen Victoria hung on the wall.
Dressed in a black morning coat, the British Foreign Secretary, Earl Granville, stood by the window with a cup of hot tea, looking out at the grey River Thames.
At this moment, Old Morgan sat on the leather sofa in the reception area.
His hands rested on his sterling silver cane as he leaned forward slightly.
"Your Lordship, William I's coronation at the Palace of Versailles is not just an insult to France; it is a blatant provocation to the European balance of power maintained by the British Empire."
Morgan's voice echoed in the quiet office.
Earl Granville turned around, his expression somber.
"I know, Mr. Morgan. The Cabinet discussed it all night yesterday. Prussia has now become the German Empire. They not only possess the most powerful army in Europe, but the coal and iron industries of the Ruhr Region are also operating at high speed. Meanwhile, it will take France at least twenty years to recover its strength. The balance on the European continent has completely collapsed."
The Earl walked to the sofa, sat down, and set his teacup aside.
"However, I am quite puzzled. What does this have to do with your visit today, Mr. Morgan? You are a banker. Your concerns should be bonds and interest rates. The troubles of the Foreign Office should not be your concern."
The corner of Morgan's mouth twitched slightly.
"Geopolitics is the biggest business of all, Your Lordship."
Morgan looked directly at the powerful official who controlled the Empire's foreign policy.
"The rise of the German Empire means that British goods will face unprecedented tariff barriers and industrial competition on the European continent. Bismarck will not tolerate British textiles and steel continuing to be dumped in Europe. The British Empire's factories need to find new and larger markets for their products."
Morgan raised his cane and pointed toward the west.
"America—it is a vast market with a population of forty million. Since the end of the Civil War, their railroads have been expanding frantically, and their cities are being rebuilt. It is the perfect dumping ground for the British Empire's industrial goods."
Earl Granville could not help but let out a cold laugh.
"What? America? They are practicing trade protectionism. Those congressmen in Washington have raised tariffs extremely high."
"Tariffs are one thing, but what is even more fatal is monopoly," Morgan said, cutting to the chase.
"Your Lordship, several companies I have invested in in North America are currently facing an extremely brutal strangulation. A young man named Allen Argyle is attempting to seize all of North America's infrastructure for himself."
Morgan began to present the threat of Argyle to Earl Granville.
"He controls General Electric and holds the rights to lay the Direct Current power grid. He also controls the Metropolitan Trading Company, which connects various regions, and more than half of the railroads, mastering both coastal and inland logistics. He is also acquiring cotton fields in the South and steel mills in the North."
Morgan leaned forward.
"Your Lordship, if Argyle is allowed to complete this kind of vertical monopoly, even if the British Empire's goods pay the tariffs and arrive in New York, they will not find a single railroad to transport them inland, nor a single department store willing to sell them. This is because all channels will be blocked by the Argyle Family."
"The German Empire has erected national borders in Europe, while Argyle is erecting a commercial wall in America. If the British Empire loses both the European and North American markets simultaneously, the textile mills of Manchester and the steel mills of Sheffield might very well see worker riots tomorrow due to unsold products."
Earl Granville's expression changed.
He was a politician, and he knew very well how devastating unemployment rates could be to the Cabinet's votes.
"Does this Argyle you speak of truly have such great power?"
The Earl frowned, somewhat skeptical that such a formidable person could exist.
"He is more dangerous than you imagine; he even just made a war fortune from the siege of Paris. He holds France's gold in his hands. Now, he is using that money to try and destroy the Free Trade Alliance I established in North America."
Morgan made no attempt to hide his own selfish motives but skillfully packaged them as the national interests of the British Empire.
The Earl was silent for a moment.
"But Mr. Morgan, America is a sovereign nation. We cannot directly interfere in their domestic commercial competition diplomatically. That would cause a strong backlash from Washington."
"There is no need for direct interference, Your Lordship."
Morgan pulled back his cane with a smile.
"The British Empire has plenty of economic leverage. The largest holders of bonds for many American railroad companies are several commercial banks in London. The American Treasury Department also relies on London's discount market to maintain the exchange rate of the greenback."
Morgan proposed his suggestion.
"I believe the Foreign Office can send a clear signal to Washington. The British Empire is extremely concerned about the increasingly serious 'trend of commercial monopoly' within America. If the American government allows such monopolies to sever free trade, the British Empire will re-evaluate the ratings of American railroad bonds and may tighten London's credit line to Washington."
Earl Granville leaned back in his chair.
This proposal was very ruthless; it was using Britain's financial hegemony to blackmail the American government.
"President Ulysses S. Grant is a former military man. He is very stubborn. Will he fall for this?"
The Earl could not help but ask with some concern.
"President Grant is a soldier and a nationalist. He hates nothing more than threats to the authority of the Federal Government," Morgan said with a cunning smile.
"However... Argyle now has his own private telegraph network, his own armed security teams, and even enough cash flow to influence the votes of state legislators. To some extent, he is becoming a'state within a state' independent of Washington."
"We do not need to pressure Grant directly. We only need to pass this theory of a'state within a state' threat to his desk through diplomatic channels. Grant himself will feel the fear. A strong president will never allow a businessman's power to surpass that of the White House, even if they were once allies!"
Morgan stood up and straightened his suit.
"Your Lordship, I have the best lobbyists in Washington. They have already prepared the materials. All it takes is a push from the British Empire, for the sake of the British Empire's free trade."
Earl Granville looked at Morgan.
He knew he was being used as a tool, but in this era where interests were paramount, as long as the goals were aligned, it did not matter who was the tool.
"I will discuss this with the Chancellor of the Exchequer."
The Earl stood up and extended his hand.
"The Foreign Office will express the British Empire's 'deep concern' to the American Secretary of State through our Ambassador to the United States. I hope your lobbyists in the White House have silver tongues, Mr. Morgan."
Washington D.C., the White House.
Inside the President's private oval study on the second floor, smoke swirled in the air.
The eighteenth President of the United States of America, Ulysses S. Grant, sat behind a large mahogany desk, biting down on a cigar.
However, Grant's expression was not a pleasant one at the moment.
The inflation caused by the devaluation of greenbacks and the constant stream of corruption scandals within his cabinet made this general, invincible on the battlefield, feel exhausted in the political quagmire.
The door to the study was pushed open.
Roscoe Conkling, the federal Senator from New York, strode inside.
Conkling was a powerful figure within the Republican Party and an important ally for Grant in Congress.
Following behind Conkling was Clive Cavendish, dressed in a sophisticated British suit.
Grant took the cigar from his mouth, glanced at Conkling, and then shifted his gaze to the unfamiliar Englishman.
"Roscoe. I told you, I'm not seeing any railroad lobbyists this afternoon. I'm still reviewing the Treasury Department's reports."
There was a hint of impatience in Grant's tone.
Conkling walked to the desk, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
"Apologies... Mr. President, this gentleman is not a railroad lobbyist. Mr. Clive Cavendish represents the United Trust Consortium in Europe, as well as several important figures in London," Conkling introduced with an apologetic look.
Grant's brow furrowed even deeper.
"An Englishman? What is an Englishman doing in the White House? Is it about the Alabama claims? The Secretary of State is still haggling with them over that."
Cavendish took a step forward and bowed slightly.
"No, Mr. President. The British Empire has always maintained respect for the internal affairs of America. I am here today on behalf of London investors to express concern regarding the free market environment within the United States. This directly relates to the confidence of European capital in investing in America."
Cavendish didn't beat around the bush and placed a folder directly onto Grant's desk.
Grant didn't flip through the folder; instead, he put the cigar back in his mouth and took a deep drag.
"Speak plainly, Mr. Cavendish. I don't like guessing games."
"It's about Mr. Argyle of New York."
Cavendish's tone became extremely serious.
Grant's eyes flickered slightly.
Is it Felix?
When he was running for president, Felix's Patriot Investment Company had secretly provided a large amount of campaign funds.
After the Pinkerton Detective Agency incident, he had even transferred some of his elite intelligence personnel to the Federal Government.
Grant had always viewed Felix as a secret ally on Wall Street.
"You mean Felix? He's a legitimate businessman. His arsenal provided the Federal Army with the best rifles during the Civil War," Grant said in his defense.
"He is indeed an excellent businessman, but he is now more than just a businessman."
Cavendish pointed at the folder, his meaning clear.
"Mr. President, you can look at the investigation report inside. It was issued by an independent third party. Currently, the General Electric Company controls the power transmission network on the East Coast. And the newly formed AT&T is also laying down monopolistic telephone lines, which means he controls an information channel faster than the Federal Post Office."
Cavendish lowered his voice, each word striking a nerve with Grant, the federalist.
"Not only that, the Metropolitan Trading Company and its various railroad subsidiaries control logistics and transportation. The Imperial Bank's cash reserves even exceed the treasuries of many countries. Crucially, he also possesses a well-equipped private armed force."
Cavendish looked at Grant.
"Mr. President, Argyle has his own post (telephone), his own vault (bank), his own transportation lines, and even his own army. He spends money freely in the legislatures of New York and Pennsylvania, bribing politicians to sign bans that suppress his competitors."
"Inside the United States of America, he has established a'state within a state' that doesn't need to pay taxes to the White House or follow orders from Congress. If this deformed monopoly continues to expand, I ask you: in this country, will the laws of the United States have the final say, or will it be the telegrams from that Empire State Building in New York?"
Grant's fingers, holding the cigar, froze in mid-air.
These words seemed to strike deep into Grant's heart.
As the commander who won the Civil War, what Grant could least tolerate was any power attempting to divide the Union or place itself above the Federal Government.
Southern slave owners were not allowed, and neither were the capital titans of Wall Street.
"You're just speculating wildly, Cavendish."
Grant snorted coldly, but his gaze involuntarily drifted toward the folder.
"Argyle is a businessman; he makes money. He has no political ambitions."
Conkling chimed in at the right moment.
"Mr. President, a businessman's ambition expands along with his profits. Yesterday morning, the British Ambassador to the United States submitted an informal memorandum to the Secretary of State. London stated that if the American government cannot stop this malicious monopoly that destroys free competition, British commercial banks will completely suspend the underwriting of bonds for several important interstate railroads in America."
Conkling emphasized his tone.
"Once the British cut off the funding, our railroad construction in the West will come to a standstill. Tens of thousands of railroad workers will lose their jobs. This will trigger a nationwide economic recession, and we will suffer a crushing defeat in next year's congressional midterm elections."
Grant suddenly pressed his cigar into the ashtray, crushing it forcefully.
External financial blackmail, coupled with the panic of internal power being bypassed.
The political web woven by Old Morgan finally took effect in the White House study.
"Then what do you want me to do?"
Grant looked up, his eyes staring at Cavendish like torches.
"London does not require you to take extreme measures, Mr. President," Cavendish said, knowing the timing was right.
"We only hope that the Federal Government can intervene. Request the Department of Justice to launch an antitrust investigation into Argyle' companies. Limit the malicious expansion of his interstate business and give Westinghouse Electric and other competitors a fair space to survive."
"As soon as the investigation begins, European capital will immediately restore its confidence in America. United Trust Bank will subscribe to the next batch of greenbacks issued by the Federal Treasury."
Cavendish threw out the final bait.
Grant remained silent for a long time.
He opened a drawer and took out a new cigar but did not light it.
He turned his head and looked out the window.
By the distant Potomac River, the unfinished obelisk of the Washington Monument stood lonely in the cold wind.
The authority of the Union required money to maintain, but it also required suppressing those lords who had grown too powerful.
"I understand, Roscoe. Mr. Cavendish, you may leave."
Grant's voice returned to its general-like solemnity.
"Regarding the proposal for an antitrust investigation, I will have the Attorney General submit an assessment report."
"Remember, in this country, only the seal of the White House is legal."
Cavendish and Conkling exchanged a glance; they had achieved their goal.
The two bowed and exited the study.
After the door closed.
Grant picked up a match and lit his cigar.
He looked at the black folder on the desk.
The scales had already tipped in the President's heart.
That ally in New York was growing too fast and becoming too massive.
He had warned Felix before, but he didn't seem to have listened.
Perhaps...
It was time to use the federal blade to prune those overgrown branches.
The next morning.
The wind blowing from the Hudson River still carried a bone-chilling cold.
The gas street lamps on both sides of the street had just gone out, and the milkman's carriage made a monotonous "clatter" on the stone pavement.
Beside the freight passage on the ground floor of the building, a man wearing deep blue canvas overalls and carrying a heavy toolkit stopped in his tracks.
He pulled down his worn-out peaked cap and scanned the surroundings vigilantly.
After confirming there were no patrolmen or loiterers, he walked to the inconspicuous cast-iron door and knocked with a specific rhythm: two heavy, three light, a one-second pause, then one more heavy.
Soon, the iron door opened a crack from the inside.
Two men with bulging waists stared at him.
"Repairing the basement boiler pipes, introduced by Metropolitan Trading Company," the man whispered the code.
The security team member's eyes flashed, and he stepped aside to let the man in, then quickly locked the iron door.
Ten minutes later, the man appeared outside the top-floor office.
Timmy, the head of the Intelligence Department, personally searched him. After confirming he carried no weapons, he pushed open the heavy walnut door.
Felix, who had just arrived, sat behind the desk, leisurely holding a cup of scalding Black coffee.
Several liquidation reports about the Chicago Board of Trade were scattered on the desk.
"Boss, Mr. Flynn's man."
Timmy brought the man to the desk and stepped aside.
The man took off his peaked cap, revealing an extremely ordinary face that would be impossible to pick out in a crowd.
He bowed slightly.
"Mr. Argyle, my name is Black. Director Flynn sent me here by train from Washington overnight. To avoid the informants hired by United Trust Bank along the railway, I transferred to freight trains twice in Philadelphia."
Black's voice was flat, possessing the typical stiffness of a professional intelligence officer.
Felix put down his coffee cup and looked at the man.
Flynn.
The shadow supervisor who had once built the intelligence network for him single-handedly.
Since the Pinkerton Detective Agency was destroyed, Flynn, under Felix's instructions, took half of the Intelligence Department's elite personnel and accepted President Grant's recruitment, becoming a core figure in the newly established federal intelligence system.
But obviously...
Flynn knew very well where his roots were.
His pension and his family's trust accounts were all in the vaults of the Imperial Bank.
"What message did Flynn ask you to bring?" Felix asked, looking at Black.
Black stood straight and reported rapidly.
"Yesterday afternoon, New York State Senator Roscoe Conkling, along with a British man named Clive Cavendish, secretly entered the President's private study on the second floor of the White House. They bypassed the regular visitor registration records. However, Director Flynn had planted personnel in the White House internal service department, and the conversation in the study was recorded in full."
Felix's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Conkling. That fellow took tens of thousands of dollars in political funds from me, and then turned around to lead Old Morgan's dog to see the President. These politicians' appetites are truly never-ending," Felix sneered.
"What did Cavendish say to Grant?"
"The British man submitted a comprehensive monopoly assessment report on General Electric, the Metropolitan Trading Company, and the Imperial Bank to the President. He accused you of establishing a'state within a state' inside America."
Black repeated word for word.
"And... Cavendish used the complete cessation of underwriting American railway bonds by British commercial banks as a threat. At the same time, he promised that as long as the Federal Government launched an anti-monopoly investigation against you, the United Trust Bank would subscribe to the next batch of Federal Greenbacks."
Timmy listened from the side, his face turning ashen.
"Boss, they are using the nation's financial lifeblood to force his hand. How did President Grant respond?" Timmy couldn't help but interject.
"President Grant did not agree to the British man's terms on the spot," Black said, looking at Timmy.
"But he didn't refuse either. After the conversation, the President immediately summoned Attorney General Amos Akerman. The President issued a verbal instruction, requiring the Department of Justice to secretly draft a monopoly harm assessment report regarding the interstate business activities under the Argyle Family's name. And he wanted Akerman to verify if General Electric truly possessed the capability to cut off East Coast communications and logistics."
The office fell into a dead silence.
Only the brass desk clock on the wall made a "tick, tick" sound.
Felix leaned back in his leather chair, his fingers lightly stroking his chin.
"OK, I understand, Black. You've done an excellent job. Go back and tell Flynn that his eyes in Washington are sharper than before. Go to Timmy and collect a thousand-dollar errand fee. Rest in New York for two days before heading back."
Felix waved his hand.
Black bowed.
"Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Argyle."
He followed Timmy out of the office.
A few minutes later, Timmy returned and shut the door tightly.
"Boss, it seems the wind in Washington has changed."
Timmy walked to the desk, his tone carrying unconcealable anxiety.
"President Grant asking the Department of Justice to do an assessment report is equivalent to him having already pressed the start button for the investigation in his mind. As soon as Akerman submits the report, a White House subpoena could be delivered to the Empire State Building at any time."
Timmy gritted his teeth, deeply hating Grant's act of betraying an ally.
"You know, during the election, you spent millions of dollars to support him! If it weren't for your and vice president Clark's political maneuvering, he would still be smoking cheap cigars on a farm in Illinois. Should we..."
"In this country, the least valuable thing is a politician's gratitude."
Felix picked up the cup of coffee, which had already cooled a bit, and took a sip, not responding to Timmy's meaningful, unfinished suggestion.
However, his eyes grew deep.
In his mind, he quickly dissected Ulysses S. Grant's psychology.
"Ulysses is a soldier, Timmy. You must understand him with a soldier's mindset. He won the Civil War and maintained the unity of the Union. What is the thing he fears and hates most in his life?"
Felix looked at Timmy, guiding him.
"It's division! It's regional secession that isn't controlled by Washington."
Felix stood up and walked to the huge map of the entire United States.
"Look at what we've done these past few years: increased railway expansion, laid power lines. Recently, we even built the most advanced telephone switchboard. Metropolitan's cargo ships are sailing on two oceans. The Imperial Bank's vaults are piled with enough gold to buy a small country. We even have a legal armed force like Vanguard Armaments."
Felix's finger couldn't help but draw a huge circle on the map, enclosing New York, Pennsylvania, and all of New England.
"Perhaps in Grant's eyes now, we aren't just doing business. Instead, we've built an empire on his territory that can operate without his approval. Old Morgan's lobbyist, Cavendish, is an extremely clever viper. This man guessed Grant's most vulnerable nerve—the fear of federal authority being bypassed."
Timmy gasped; this was a heavy accusation.
The current Argyle Family couldn't withstand it.
"Then what should we do now, Boss? Should we go to Washington immediately to explain clearly to the President in person? Or have the PR department issue a statement saying that all the family's business is conducted within the framework of federal law?"
"Explain?"
Felix turned around as if he had heard a joke.
The corners of his mouth curved into an extremely arrogant arc.
"Shit! Why should I explain to him? Go to the White House, sit at his desk, bow my head and admit I'm wrong, and then tell him I'm just an honest businessman?"
Felix walked back to the desk step by step.
"Timmy, remember this. The Argyle Family and the White House have never been in a subordinate relationship. We are allies. Half of that presidential chair was bought with money from me and Thomas Clark; we sawed the wood, hammered the nails, and then personally pushed him into it."
Felix leaned his hands on the desk, looking down at the intelligence chief.
"If I lower my head and go to Washington today, tomorrow the prosecutors from the Department of Justice will be like hyenas smelling blood, tearing General Electric and the Metropolitan Trading Company into eight pieces. In this capitalistic dog-eat-dog game, once you show your soft underbelly, they will hollow out your internal organs."
"I won't go to Washington this time. I don't need to prove to him that I have no ambition to split the country. I only need to make him understand one truth."
A glint flashed in Felix's eyes.
"Without the Argyle Family's money and channels, he, Grant, won't even survive next year's Congressional midterm elections. If the British Empire can threaten his railway bonds, I can cut off the campaign funds of all his supporters."
"Go call the telegraph operator and bring the codebook. I want to send a letter to K Street."