As the last footsteps faded away in the corridor.
The composure and arrogance on Old Morgan's face peeled away instantly, like a torn mask.
He collapsed onto the sofa, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders trembling violently.
That perfect performance just now had drained his last ounce of energy.
Hughes, Cole, and Bates, the three branch managers, stood trembling before the coffee table, not daring to even breathe loudly.
After a long while, Old Morgan finally lowered his hands.
But his eyes, usually filled with authority, now held nothing but bloodshot exhaustion and the madness of a dead end.
"Report!"
Old Morgan gritted his teeth and stared at his three subordinates, his voice hoarse and terrifying.
"How much usable cash can we scrape together from the vaults downstairs right now!"
Hughes swallowed nervously and took out the ledger.
"Boss, I've already checked. Currently, between the four branches and the head office vault, all the pound sterling cash combined... only amounts to about 550,000 pounds."
"Only 550,000?!"
Hearing this, Old Morgan stood up abruptly, looking extremely displeased.
"We've taken in so much money from depositors, how could there only be 500,000 left!"
Cole, the supervisor in charge of large investments, quickly explained.
"Boss, you've forgotten. Previously, to help the Thiers Government in France raise funds for the Franco-Prussian War reparations, we bought a large amount of long-term French Third Republic government bonds in Paris. That money tied up nearly 3 million in liquid funds. Plus the massive sum you ordered to be transferred through secret channels to Philadelphia, America..."
Cole's voice grew quieter and quieter.
"We originally thought we could rely on daily cash flow for turnover. But once that report came out this morning, the run on the bank by the common people was terrifying."
Bates also added from the side.
"And, Boss. You just promised Mr. Gable a withdrawal of 50,000 pounds. If he doesn't get the money this afternoon, he will immediately leak the news at the exchange. If that happens..."
Before he could finish, Old Morgan closed his eyes in despair.
He was, of course, aware of the accounts.
He had dared to use depositors' money to invest in America, betting that Argyle could never instantly crush the steel and pharmaceutical companies.
And as long as they officially entered the American real industry, those profits would flow back to London continuously, filling the holes in the accounts.
But he never dreamed that.
Argyle would use brutal, physical means to blow all his investments into scrap paper.
Not only that, he also precisely identified their weakness, choosing to let the London media break the news, and then trigger a run on the bank.
The common people are the easiest to be swayed by public opinion; this will never change in any era.
"550,000 pounds. Just covering the daily commercial notes that must be settled will barely last two days. If those poor wretches outside continue the run..."
Morgan paced back and forth in the reception room, his mind racing to find a way to break the deadlock.
"Go sell the French government bonds, find a buyer at the exchange immediately!"
Morgan thought for a moment, then issued the order.
"But Boss, it's too late!" Cole said anxiously.
"A sell-off of government bonds of this volume must be reviewed by the Parliament's Finance Committee, and it will take at least two weeks to complete the process. Moreover, a large-scale sell-off will immediately signal to the market that we are short on cash, and the price will be driven down to an extremely low level."
Distant water cannot quench a present thirst.
Old Morgan was completely plunged into confusion.
He walked to the window and watched the fog outside gradually dissipate. Can I not even withstand a casual counterattack from Argyle? Should I just give up on revenge like this?
No... Absolutely not!
Old Morgan turned around abruptly.
"Oliver!" he shouted.
The butler pushed the door open and entered immediately.
"Prepare the carriage. Use the fastest horses to send someone to the country estate, and go quickly to invite Mr. George Peabody."
Hearing this name, the three branch managers were stunned.
George Peabody, that old man revered as the father of modern philanthropy.
He was the original founder and true owner of this bank. Although he had retired a few years ago due to health reasons, handing over actual control of the bank to Morgan, and changing the name to Peabody-Morgan Company.
However.
In this era, the British banking industry did not operate under any limited liability company system.
Their kind of private partnership bank operated under an unlimited joint and several liability system!
This meant that if Morgan Bank declared bankruptcy due to the bank run.
Then not only would Junius Morgan's entire net worth be liquidated, but even all the private estates, stocks, and even the charitable funds under the name of George Peabody, who was hiding in the countryside for his retirement, would have to be taken out to pay off the debts and fill the holes!
They were two grasshoppers on the same rope.
"Go tell Peabody."
Old Morgan said in a difficult tone, his expression somewhat pained.
"Just say that the company's investments in America have had an accident, and a bank run has occurred in London. His connections are wider than mine, so ask him to come forward and seek a loan from the Bank of England to tide us over this crisis."
Oliver accepted the order and hurried away.
A few hours later.
An extremely luxurious yet incredibly heavy carriage stopped in front of the Morgan residence.
The carriage door opened.
Two strong servants lifted the old man sitting in a wheelchair down.
George Peabody was already over seventy years old.
His body was somewhat weak, and his legs could no longer walk due to severe rheumatism. But those eyes still shone with the shrewdness and anger of a businessman.
Peabody was pushed into the reception room.
"Bang!"
The inner door had just closed.
Peabody picked up the walnut cane resting on his legs and, using all his strength, smashed it fiercely against Old Morgan's leg.
"You damn fool!"
Peabody let out a hoarse roar, coughing violently from the agitation.
Old Morgan did not dodge, taking the cane strike head-on, and let out a muffled grunt.
"Is this how you run the company I handed over to you? Why go to America and provoke that Argyle!"
Peabody had already read the newspaper on the way here and had also coaxed the truth of the matter out of Oliver.
"That is a monster growing savagely; isn't it better to comfortably earn commissions in London? Why misappropriate depositors' money to fight that useless war of attrition against him! You stuffed the reputation our two families accumulated over decades into that son-of-a-bitch meat grinder!"
Old Morgan gritted his teeth, looking at his old partner in the wheelchair.
"George, cursing me now is useless. Junior is dead; my only son died at his hands. So I must have my revenge."
"Revenge? You used my money to get revenge?!" Peabody was trembling with rage.
"Now there is a mob outside wanting to withdraw their money, yet the company only has 500,000 in cash. Tell me, how do we fill this hole!"
"Borrow it." Morgan looked directly at Peabody.
"George, your connections in London circles are deeper than mine. Otherwise, go find Rothschild, or find Baring, or even find the Chancellor of the Exchequer. As long as we can borrow one million pounds to tide us over this week, I can offload the French government bonds. Then we can return the principal and interest to them. If we can't borrow it, we will have no choice but to go to court and file for bankruptcy protection in a couple of days."
Peabody stared fixedly at Morgan.
He knew that this partner of his had become reckless and disregarded everything else for the sake of revenge.
"Fine... I will go borrow it."
Peabody closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"But you must guarantee this. This is the last time. After getting through this crisis, withdraw completely from the American market. Never provoke that devil named Argyle again. And I will also sell off the remaining shares I have and withdraw from the company entirely."
Just as Peabody was preparing to have his servant push him to the Bank of England, Branch Manager Hughes rushed into the conference room, his face full of terror.
"Boss, Mr. Peabody. Something terrible has happened!"
Hughes was panting heavily.
"The situation outside has changed, Lloyds Bank... the people from Lloyds Bank have made their move!"
"Lloyds Bank? What have they done?"
Morgan's heart skipped a beat, and an extremely ominous premonition surged into his mind.
Hughes leaned against the doorframe, reporting with a trembling voice.
"Just half an hour ago, in front of that Lloyds Bank branch less than two blocks from our first branch. They unfurled banners and sent several loud-voiced employees to stand on wooden crates and call out to the civilians on the street."
Hughes swallowed hard.
"They said that in view of Morgan Bank's current 'liquidity difficulties,' and to show compassion for the livelihood of London citizens, Lloyds Bank is willing to provide funds to purchase all deposit certificates and passbooks stamped with the Morgan Bank seal directly with cash at 80% of their face value!"
Hearing this.
Peabody, in his wheelchair, gasped, his entire body collapsing powerlessly against the backrest.
"80% cash purchase... This is cutting off our roots..."
Peabody muttered in despair.
Old Morgan's face turned deathly gray in an instant.
He grabbed Hughes's shoulder, his fingers almost digging into the man's flesh.
"What did you say? 80%? Are they crazy! How much cash flow would that require!"
Hughes nodded painfully.
"It's not just the 80% cash purchase, Boss. They also offered an even more vicious condition."
Hughes continued.
"The people from Lloyds announced on the street that if those civilians holding Morgan deposit slips do not choose to take the cash directly, but instead choose to transfer the money directly into a Lloyds Bank account, then they are willing to perform a book exchange at 90% of the value, and start calculating interest immediately!"
"Fuck you, you sons of bitches at Lloyds!"
Peabody angrily struck the floor hard with his cane.
"This is a classic financial strangulation. They don't need to bring out much real cash at all. As long as those panicked civilians see that 90% of their money is safe on the books, the vast majority will choose to transfer! Lloyds just used a pile of book figures to try and completely swallow our liabilities!"
Morgan let go of Hughes, his whole body swaying unsteadily.
He knew all too well what this meant.
On the streets of London.
Those civilians who were originally blocking the entrance of Morgan Bank and had fallen into despair because of the "ten-pound limit."
For workers who relied on a few shillings a day to scrape by, the tens or hundreds of pounds they had deposited in Morgan Bank were their entire life savings.
Now Morgan Bank was limiting withdrawals.
In their eyes, this kind of delay was equivalent to the bank not having much money, and that their own deposited money would likely not be recovered.
At this moment, Lloyds Bank stood up, willing to give them 80% in cash or 90% via transfer.
To these civilians, panicked to the extreme, this was simply an emissary sent by God.
"It doesn't matter if I lose a little; it's better than it turning into waste paper."
This mentality would spread through the crowd like a plague.
Sure enough...
On the street outside.
"Lloyds Bank is accepting deposit slips, 90% transfer!"
This news spread throughout the entire block in just ten minutes. The crowd that had originally been cursing at the entrance of Morgan Bank instantly receded like a tide.
Clutching their deposit slips, they ran desperately towards Lloyds Bank down the street.
The doors of Lloyds Bank were wide open.
Because they were well-prepared, the counters were staffed by employees working overtime. Chests of pounds were deliberately placed in the most conspicuous positions behind the counters, emitting an enticing glow.
"Name? Deposit slip amount: fifty pounds."
The Lloyds teller looked at the ragged baker in front of him with a smile.
"Sir. Would you choose to withdraw forty pounds in cash, or transfer forty-five pounds into our account at Lloyds?" the teller asked in an extremely gentle tone.
The baker looked at the gold coins, then looked at the useless paper in his hand stamped with the Morgan seal.
He made his choice without hesitation and handed it to the teller.
"Transfer! Please deposit it into your bank for me, forty-five pounds will do."
"Very well, sir. This is your new passbook. Thank you for trusting Lloyds."
Just like that, amidst the frenzied queuing and signing.
Except for a very small number of people who were so stubborn they didn't trust any bank and chose to take the 80% cash.
The vast majority of civilians chose the 90% transfer to minimize their losses.
On the books of Lloyds Bank, the deposit figures were soaring rapidly.
Of course, the deposit slips regarding Morgan Bank were also accumulating.
Meanwhile, in the reception room at 22 Broad Street, Old Morgan stood before the window like a stone statue.
There was no need to send anyone to check the street; he could imagine the bustling scene at the entrance of Lloyds Bank.
"This is not some panic run at all."
Old Morgan's voice was hoarse; he had seen through Felix's plan.
That Lloyds Bank could react so quickly and have countermeasures in place, it was clearly prepared.
Even those newspapers might have been fed the information by them.
"This is premeditated. From the factory explosion in America, to the headlines in the London newspapers, and then to Lloyds Bank's precise 80% acquisition."
Old Morgan turned his head to look at Peabody.
"George, it's useless for you to go borrow money now."
Peabody closed his eyes, a line of turbid tears sliding from the old man's eye corner.
"Yes, it's useless. Lloyds Bank has bought up the deposit slips in the hands of those civilians. According to the law."
Peabody gave a miserable laugh.
"They are now the creditors of our company."
This was the goal of the Lloyds family.
Lloyds Bank used an extremely low cost to collect all the scattered Morgan deposit slips on the market.
Once these deposit slips were concentrated, forming a huge debt worth over a million pounds.
Perhaps in two days, Jonathan Lloyds or Samuel Lloyds would bring lawyers and these deposit slips to rightfully knock on the door of 22 Broad Street, demanding a full cash payment at once.
If Old Morgan could not produce this sum of cash.
Then, Lloyds would directly apply to the London court for bankruptcy liquidation of the Peabody-Morgan company.
By then, those French government bonds that Old Morgan was locked into, and those high-quality railway bonds, would all be used as collateral assets and legally swallowed by Lloyds Bank at an extremely cheap price.
"Not only do they want to destroy my career in America, but they also want to chew my bones to pieces here in London."
Old Morgan's body trembled slightly. He finally realized the blow he faced after angering a true American tyrant.
No extra nonsense, not giving the opponent any time to catch their breath.
From the explosion to the run on the bank, from the acquisition to the liquidation.
One link after another, fast enough to be suffocating.
"Oliver."
Old Morgan called out to the butler who was still standing at the door, trembling.
"Go. Pack all the cash in the mansion, as well as the ladies' jewelry, into crates. Send them to France overnight through secret channels."
Morgan turned his head to look at his old partner, Peabody, who was already slumped in his wheelchair waiting for death.
"George, I've implicated you this time. Rest assured, I will take all the responsibility upon myself."
A final flash of madness flickered in Morgan's eyes.
"But Argyle will definitely not live long either; there are already people on their way to take his head."
Peabody's expression changed drastically upon hearing Old Morgan's words, and he hurriedly pressed for an answer.
"Junius, what did you mean by that just now?"
Facing the questioning, Old Morgan replied with a grim face.
"Exactly what I said."
It's over...
Confirming that he hadn't misheard, Peabody's already ugly expression turned anxious.
"Why? Junius. Why do something like this? Why be so extreme?"
Old Morgan, upon hearing his words, actually calmed down.
"George, you know. I only had one son, Junior, but he died..."
"Then have you ever thought that, regardless of success or failure, the other side will definitely retaliate against you!"
Peabody was genuinely worried for him, but Old Morgan's resolve did not waver.
"If I dare to do it, I'm not afraid of his retaliation!"
"But what if they don't just retaliate against you? You have to realize you still have three daughters and sons-in-law; aren't you afraid?"
...
"I'm not afraid!"
Timmy stood before Felix with red eyes, making a vow.
"Sir, please just let me go..."
Returning to half an hour ago, in the president's office on the top floor of the Empire Bank Building, the ticking of the brass telegraph machines sounded almost like a continuous, dense downpour of rain.
Ever since the gunfire at the Fifth Avenue intersection subsided, the telegraph lines spanning America had fallen into a state of overloaded congestion.
Every line was frantically transmitting electrical currents toward New York.
Edward Frost stood by the desk, clutching a large handful of freshly decoded paper strips. By now, his tie had been loosened, and beads of sweat hung on his forehead.
Frost picked up the top strip.
"Boss, this is a dedicated line telegram from Mr. Miller. He is asking whether he needs to dispatch the Operations Department into New York to directly take over the security of Manhattan's districts."
Felix sat calmly in his leather chair, holding a glass of whiskey without ice. It was as if the person who had been riddled with rifle fire on the street a few hours ago was not him at all.
"Reply to him, tell him to just manage the affairs in the West well. Manhattan has a police department; if the Argyle Family sends people to openly take over the districts, those politicians in Washington will seize the handle and say we are trying to engage in armed separatism. Let him focus on developing things over there."
Felix took a sip of his drink, his voice tinged with some helplessness.
"Understood."
Frost put down the paper strip and picked up the next one.
"This one is from Mr. Bill at the Metropolitan Trading Company. He states that he has ordered all ironclad ships in the harbor to stop unloading, and all sailors have been issued weapons and are standing by on deck. He asks if it is necessary to cut off the freight connections of the New York Central Railroad to prevent the assassins from escaping along the railway."
"Tell Bill to put the weapons away; freight connections cannot stop." Felix frowned.
"Every hour of downtime costs hundreds of thousands of dollars in hard cash. Those gunmen are just street scum working for money, not an army. Let the Metropolitan fleet operate as usual. Send a unified response to all the presidents who sent telegrams. I haven't lost a single hair; tell them to stay in their offices and make their quarterly financial reports look good for me. That is the greatest concern they can show me."
"Understood, Boss."
Frost walked quickly to the telegraph operator's desk nearby and began dictating the reply.
Just then, the heavy oak door of the office was pushed open violently.
"Bang!"
The door panel slammed against the wall, making a loud noise.
Timmy rushed in like a gale of wind.
This head of the Intelligence Department currently lacked any of his usual coldness and composure.
His eyes were swollen like two overripe walnuts, and his eyeballs were covered in terrifying bloodshot veins.
His face was as pale as paper, and his breathing was as rapid as a seriously ill patient who had just finished a marathon.
Seeing Felix sitting upright in the leather chair, Timmy's legs suddenly went weak.
He did not walk forward but instead knelt on one knee directly in front of the desk. His shoulders were trembling violently, and a sound of extremely suppressed whimpering, like that of a wounded beast, came from his throat.
"Sir..."
Timmy's voice was so hoarse it was almost unintelligible.
Felix put down his glass and looked at Timmy on the floor, his brows slightly furrowed.
"Stand up, Timmy. What does this look like?"
Felix's tone carried a hint of reproach.
"No... it's my fault, it's all my fault!"
Timmy jerked his head up, two lines of tears rolling down from his red, swollen eyes. He gritted his teeth hard, the muscles on his face twisting from extreme self-reproach.
"I failed in my duty; the Intelligence Department actually didn't detect this group of gunmen entering New York in advance! You gave me the greatest trust, letting me hold a vast network of secret agents in my hands. Yet I actually let those bastards with Winchester rifles ambush you at the street corner of Fifth Avenue!"
Timmy slapped himself hard across the face, the crisp sound echoing in the office.
"If your carriage hadn't been fitted with steel plates. If you today... Sir, I dare not think... I really dare not think!"
Watching this intelligence chief, who usually killed without blinking, crying like a broken child, Felix sighed helplessly in his heart.
He could understand Timmy's reaction.
To Timmy, he, Felix Argyle, was more than just a boss.
"Alright, stop shedding tears on my carpet."
Felix stood up, walked around the desk to Timmy, grabbed his arm, and pulled him up forcefully.
"Sir, I..." Timmy still wanted to speak.
"Shut up! Listen to me."
Felix pressed him into the chair opposite.
Looking at Timmy, Felix knew this little vagrant who once lived in the streets and alleys of New York slums, scraping by by shining shoes and selling cheap little bits of information—if he hadn't met him back then, he might have died in some gutter one day.
It was Felix who took him away, taught him to read and write, and to learn various skills.
He watched him grow into adulthood and step by step take over part of the core power of the Argyle Family.
Even his beautiful, gentle, and kind Irish wife, Effie, was someone Felix had personally stepped forward to vouch for and introduce in the parish.
Now, they even had the fruit of their love, Titch.
In Timmy's worldview, Felix was the sky.
If the sky collapsed, everything he had would be destroyed too.
"Hey... buddy, take a good look at me."
Felix opened his arms and turned a circle in front of Timmy, his tone carrying a teasing note.
"Do you see any bullet holes on me? Am I bleeding?"
Timmy shook his head, but the tears still wouldn't stop.
He, of course, knew the Sir was fine, but he just couldn't shake the fear.
"That's right, I'm alive and well. Acting like you're attending my funeral, don't be like that, buddy. You know, Timmy, this is bad luck."
Felix returned to his leather chair and sat down.
"Put away your self-reproach; those gunmen were desperadoes who drifted over from the West. In a port city like New York, where tens of thousands of people come and go every day, a few gunmen mixing in with scattered firearms—no intelligence network can achieve one hundred percent interception. This is not your fault, is it, buddy."
Timmy wiped his face messily with his sleeve.
"But Sir, someone is buying an assassination of you. This is a blatant provocation against the Intelligence Department."
"Of course it's a provocation, which is why we must find the person who paid for it." Felix looked at Timmy.
Timmy took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down for a moment; his reason as an intelligence chief began to return.
"Boss, I've roughly looked over the confessions of the survivors. Twenty thousand dollars in cash, dead drop transaction. This kind of crude but effective method, combined with this kind of desperate madness."
Timmy stared into Felix's eyes, his tone extremely certain.
"It is absolutely impossible for Washington to have done this. Even if Grant is a fool, he is still the President of the country. He is currently on a speaking tour, with his mind full of reelection votes and retirement funds. At such a sensitive time, sending a few third-rate gunmen to carry out an assassination on the streets of New York? If it fails, or leaves any clues pointing to The White House, his political life would be completely over. Grant would not take such a brainless risk."
"Your analysis is very correct, continue." Felix nodded approvingly.
"Then there is only one person who has the motive, and also this kind of mad dog temper of dragging others down with them in a desperate situation."
Timmy gritted his back teeth and said the name with disgust.
"That bastard Junius Morgan."
As he spoke, a bloodthirsty murderous intent flashed in his eyes.
"His dead son loved to play these assassination games, and this father is the same. His assets in America were all destroyed by you, and he even tried political poisoning. Knowing he has no chips left on the front battlefield, he can only dump all his remaining pounds into the black market. He wants to use your life to get revenge."
Felix picked up his glass, gently swirling the amber liquid inside.
"So, what do you plan to do?"
Upon hearing the inquiry, Timmy stood up from his chair in excitement. His muscles were tensed, and his eyes were filled with bloodlust and fanaticism.
"Sir, let me go to Europe."
Timmy's voice was terrifyingly low.
"I will personally lead a top-tier twenty-man strike team. We'll take the next Metropolitan clipper to London. Since Old Morgan dares to reach his hands into Fifth Avenue, I will show him what a real assassination is. I don't need any complicated plans; I will sneak directly into his villa at 22 Broad Street. I'll cut that old thing's head off, put it in a box, and bring it back to you."
"Not just him. Also those branch managers he left in London, and those partners who advise him from behind the scenes. I want their corpses to float in the River Thames in the City of London every single day!"
Felix listened quietly to Timmy's murderous expedition plan.
He offered no praise, nor did he immediately object.
He just watched his confidant, who was blinded by anger, in front of him.
Suddenly, without warning, Felix grabbed the heavy crystal ashtray on the desk and smashed it hard onto the carpet.
"Bang!"
With a dull thud, crystal shards scattered everywhere.
Timmy was stunned; he had never seen his master this angry.
"You fool, have you lost your mind!"
Felix stood up abruptly and pointed at Timmy's nose, his voice exploding in the office.
"Taking twenty people to London to conduct an assassination? Do you think that's some rundown town in the Wild West? That is the capital of the British Empire! That is the most tightly guarded financial and political center in the world! You're taking twenty gun-toting Americans across the Atlantic Ocean to kill a banker?"
Felix reprimanded his close-as-a-brother subordinate with extreme severity.
"The moment you fire a single shot in London, Scotland Yard, the Intelligence Department, or even the Guards stationed in London will lock down the entire district. You won't even make it to the docks of the River Thames before you're riddled with bullets! Is this revenge, or is it a suicide mission?!"
"I'm not afraid!"
Timmy said, neck stiff and face turning red.
"You're taking people to assassinate someone, have you thought about Effie and little Titch? Huh?! You brainless fool! I won't allow it!"
Looking at the angry Felix, Timmy lowered his head.
"I... I just can't swallow this. He sent people to attack you in New York; this score cannot just be settled like this."
"Of course it can't, but it's not up to you, a man with a wife and child in New York, to risk your life!"
Felix walked around the desk and stood in front of Timmy.
"Timmy, use your brain. You are now the Chief of the Argyle Family Intelligence Department. You are no longer that kid on the street from back then! Effie is waiting for you to have dinner at home every day, and Titch has his second birthday next week. If you die in London, how could I have the face to see them!"
Hearing his wife and son's names, the fanaticism in Timmy's eyes finally faded, replaced by guilt. His fists unclenched.
"I'm sorry, sir. I lost control just now." Timmy admitted his mistake in a low voice.
"Sigh~ Remember your position. Your battlefield is in America, in the intelligence coordination behind the scenes."
Felix sighed and patted his shoulder, letting him sit back down. He then walked back to his own seat, his eyes deep and thoughtful.
"Of course, an assassination must be carried out. Since Old Morgan insists on taking this dead end, we will send him to hell in the way he likes best. But this job cannot be done by you bringing in unfamiliar faces."
"Go send a telegram. Use the highest-level codebook and contact 'Echo' in Europe directly."
"Echo has been operating in Europe for so many years; they have plenty of French veterans and Eastern European killers willing to risk their lives for francs and pounds. Let them do it locally in London. Even if they fail, it won't be traced back to New York; it can only be traced to those mercenaries."
Timmy nodded and took out a small notebook to start recording.
"Understood. I will have Echo arrange it immediately, with the target locked on Old Morgan."
"No... not just Old Morgan."
Felix's voice suddenly dropped to freezing point, and Timmy looked up at his boss with some confusion.
"How much trouble has Old Morgan brought me?"
Felix looked out the window, as if stating a truth.
"I've been learning Chinese recently; they have an ancient philosophy. It's called 'If you cut the grass without removing the roots, the spring breeze will make it grow again.' It roughly means that if you cut down a poisonous weed in a vegetable garden but leave its root system, by the second year of spring, it will still grow new poisonous thorns."
Felix turned his head and stared at Timmy.
"Although Old Morgan has lost his son, he still has three daughters. Juliet, Mary, and Flora."
"These three women, although they are not currently handling the core business of Morgan Bank, their husbands are all European merchants. Most importantly, Old Morgan must have left them an inheritance in private trust funds."
"If Old Morgan dies, these three women with their inheritance, as well as the families behind their husbands, might just view the Argyle Family as enemies. Maybe ten years, maybe twenty. As long as we show even a slight sign of fatigue, they will use the money Old Morgan left behind to deal us a fatal blow from the shadows."
"I absolutely will not allow such a long-term hidden danger to exist."
Felix tapped his finger on the desk three times heavily.
"Tell Echo in the telegram. Besides Junius Morgan, add the names of his three daughters and sons-in-law to the list."
"Since he wants me dead, then let his Morgan Family lineage be completely severed. A family should be reunited properly in the afterlife. Don't save money for me. Tell Echo that I want to see at least seven new tombstones added to the Morgan Family graveyard."
Timmy's hand holding the pen paused slightly, his expression remaining normal.
Then he steadily wrote those names very neatly in the notebook.
Hmph~ It's just a few more crickets dying. He even felt it wasn't enough.
That's right, Echo must also eliminate those who have followed Old Morgan for a long time; even if it's just a dog, it must hit the road with Old Morgan. Sir is right, a family should be together. Even if it's going to hell, they should be together!
Right, those sons-in-law's families must also be cleaned up. Otherwise, if we only eliminate the sons-in-law, what if their families want to help take revenge? Hmm, it must be done properly. It was decided happily just like that; after figuring it out, Timmy felt a sense of clarity. Anyway, anyone who has a very good relationship with the Old Morgan Family must go to hell.
"Rest assured, sir. I will have Echo do a clean job, and absolutely leave no living soul who can breathe."
Watching Timmy's back, Felix leaned back in his chair with a look of relief.
"Hmm~ As expected, this silly kid Timmy is still very steady and reliable when he calms down..."
"The news of my assassination attempt should have reached that guy Grant's ears by now. What will he do?"
On the presidential train stopped in Indiana.
The president that Felix was thinking about, President Ulysses S. Grant, was currently sitting on a sofa, holding a copy of a telegram that had just been urgently delivered through the station.
"Fifth Avenue... the street in broad daylight... rifle fire..."
As he read, an expression of disbelief appeared on Grant's face.
"Bang!"
After roughly scanning the content, Grant slammed the telegram onto the table, turned his head, and roared at his Chief of Staff, Howard Marshall, who was standing to the side.
"Howard, what on earth is going on? Explain this clearly!"
"Why was Felix assassinated in New York!"
Not feeling satisfied after saying that, Grant stood up and grabbed Marshall by the collar, his spit nearly spraying onto Marshall's face.
"I only ordered the suspension of Flynn's duties the night before last, and just sent people to New York to secretly monitor the high-level members of the Argyle Family. This morning, Felix was assassinated!"
"Tell me, is there such a coincidence in this world!"
Grant shook his Chief of Staff vigorously.
"If you were Felix. Having just been stripped of intelligence control by The White House, only to be ambushed at your own doorstep immediately after. What would you think? Who would you think did it!"
Marshall was shaken until he was dizzy; he understood what Grant was worried about.
Although Grant had indeed ordered the suppression of Argyle's intelligence network within the government in order to gain leverage.
But he absolutely had no intention of truly falling out with that plutocrat; he just wanted to give that arrogant young man a warning.
To let him know that in this country, the president is the greatest.
What he wanted was political balance, not a bloody shootout.
But now...
To use an old Eastern saying, this sudden assassination pushed The White House into a situation where, if mud falls into your pants, even if it isn't shit, it's treated as shit.
Argyle has ninety-nine reasons to suspect that this group of gunmen was sent by Washington.
Once that oligarch, who controls America's economic lifeline and half of the congressmen, concludes that the president wants to kill him.
Then the subsequent retaliation will absolutely be at a cataclysmic level.
"Mr. President! Calm down, please calm down!"
Marshall desperately broke free from Grant's hands.
"How do you expect me to calm down!"
Grant pointed at Marshall's nose.
"Speak! Did you tamper with my orders without authorization? Did you change the surveillance of Felix into an assassination? Do you think I don't have enough trouble already!"
Facing this black pot that fell from the sky, Marshall was completely bewildered and retreated repeatedly.
Seriously, man, what do you mean!
Are you in such a rush to push me out to take the blame?
"NONONO~ God is my witness! Mr. President, I absolutely did not tamper with any of your orders."
Marshall defended himself urgently; he had no choice but to be urgent.
If he were any slower, he was truly afraid that Grant would have someone drag him out to take the fall; he was too weak to carry such a big pot!
Although he was extremely unhappy with Argyle's arrogance in his heart, and indeed had accepted that $500,000 to sow discord.
But he wasn't stupid enough to have someone assassinate Argyle.
"Mr. President, think about it. If I really had someone assassinate him, in a place like New York, if they failed and were caught alive. Not only would your political life be completely over, I, Howard Marshall, would be the first to be unable to escape, and would be hanged on the gallows in Washington. What reason would I have to do such a stupid thing!"
Marshall's words seemed to make sense.
After listening, the anger in Grant's eyes subsided slightly, but the lingering fear in the depths of his eyes did not diminish in the slightest.
"But if it wasn't you, then who could it be?"
Grant sat back on the sofa dejectedly.
"Who would dare to touch that monster at this extremely sensitive time? Isn't this clearly trying to splash this dirty water onto The White House?"
Marshall straightened his clothes, his brain working at high speed.
He knew he had to provide a reasonable deduction at this moment to completely remove himself from this matter.
"How about this, Mr. President. Think about who in this world hates Mr. Argyle the most? And~ that person seems to have just suffered an extremely heavy loss in America."
Grant raised his head and looked at Marshall.
"Oh~ you mean... that Morgan in London?"
"I think besides him, there is no one else."
Marshall said extremely confidently; after all, he had already spent money to have himself sow discord between the presidential government and Argyle.
So he surely wouldn't mind spending money to hire gunmen for an assassination.
"Junius Morgan, his industries in America were destroyed by Argyle using extremely violent means. And I heard... I mean I heard his son also died at the hands of Mr. Argyle. I think this is not just revenge, but also an attempt to use this method to completely sever the possibility of reconciliation between Argyle and The White House."
Marshall analyzed it logically by working backward.
"Perhaps Old Morgan has people in the government he is on good terms with, who knew you had just taken action against Argyle. So by hiring gunmen at this time, Argyle will definitely blame you. Oh my God~ this is simply the most vicious thing; he will go to hell!"
He certainly deserves to go to hell, almost making him take the blame.
That Old Morgan, he's too evil!
After hearing this analysis, Grant's face became even uglier. Marshall was likely right.
But even if he knew the truth, so what?
Would Felix listen to his explanation?
I'm afraid that in that guy's eyes, The White House and assassination were already synonymous at this moment.
"Regardless of who did it, Howard. Our current situation is a bit dangerous."
Grant rubbed his throbbing temples.
"We must take action immediately to show goodwill to New York. We absolutely cannot let him think it was us. If he really joins forces with Thomas to attack me in Congress, then my reelection will be completely finished."
Marshall looked at the flustered president and knew that his opportunity to shine had come again.
"Mr. President, I have a suggestion. A suggestion that can allow us to withdraw from this matter extremely naturally, and reconcile with Mr. Argyle."
"Speak quickly!" Grant urged anxiously.
"Now that such a vicious incident as an assassination has occurred, I think the situation in New York must be very tense. The Argyle Family must have entered the highest level of alert. If the people we sent to monitor their high-level members are discovered by them at this time, that will only be more troublesome."
Marshall threw out his exit plan, which he thought was quite good.
"So... I think you should immediately issue an order to revoke all secret surveillance against the Argyle Family in New York."
"And also the investigation regarding Flynn and those former employees of the intelligence agency."
Marshall glanced at the other few telegrams on the table.
"This morning, vice president Thomas Clark had already clearly raised objections in Congress. He demanded that the Department of Justice give an explanation for this groundless suspension, and many senators in the Senate are echoing him."
Marshall paved a fairly perfect way out for Grant.
"Mr. President, since Mr. Clark has already spoken out in Congress, why don't we take advantage of the situation and go along with his wishes? Just say that this suspension of the intelligence agency was merely a 'routine security background check' conducted to cope with election security."
"Now that the check is finished, no problems have been found. Immediately restore Deputy Director Flynn and all relevant personnel to their posts. Hand the authority back to them."
Marshall looked at Grant.
"We will use Congress's opposition as an excuse to cancel all suppression actions. This will both preserve The White House's dignity and send a clear signal to New York. That is, the assassination has nothing to do with us, and The White House is still the most solid ally of the Argyle Family."
Grant listened to this suggestion, and after a moment of silence, looked at him faintly and said.
"But I seem to remember that's not what you said before; the night before last, it was you who said..."
"Ahem... well, I didn't know this kind of thing would happen."
Marshall was slightly embarrassed, but still shamelessly indicated that it wasn't his problem.
Grant also understood that this wasn't the time to think about such things. The most important thing right now was to appease Felix's side, otherwise, it would really be troublesome.
He knew that this was tantamount to bowing his head to that kid.
The leverage he had originally wanted to hold was, at this moment, all forced onto the poker table. But facing the possible political destruction, he had no choice.
"Fine, let's do as you say."
Grant waved his hand wearily.
"Send a telegram to the Department of Justice immediately to restore Flynn and the others to their posts, and then withdraw all surveillance personnel. Handle this matter cleanly."
"As you command, Mr. President."