The Southern Fleet headquarters in Anjer was, on the surface, a model of imperial efficiency once more. The initial panic following the sinking of the TianjinPride had subsided, replaced by a grim, visible show of force. Qing marine patrols on the docks were doubled. Naval gunboats made conspicuous, slow passes across the harbor entrance. Order, of a sort, had been restored.
But in his office, Admiral Meng Tian felt no sense of victory. He stood staring at a map of the region, but he wasn't seeing the shipping lanes or naval dispositions. He was seeing the face of a broken man in the dim light of a warehouse. He was hearing the echo of his own voice giving an order that would haunt his sleep for years to come. He had restored order with the tools of a tyrant, and the price was a piece of his own honor.
Captain Dai entered the office, his back ramrod straight, his expression imbued with a new, proprietary loyalty. He and the Admiral now shared a dark secret, a bond forged in blood and expediency. It made Dai feel important, essential.
"Admiral," he reported, his voice crisp. "The Dutchman's body was discovered by local fishermen this morning, caught in the channel nets. As you ordered, the port authorities have officially ruled his death the result of a drunken brawl with smugglers. The British consulate has filed a minor, pro-forma protest about the lack of safety for its citizens but has not pursued the matter. The incident is considered closed."
Meng Tian nodded, his face impassive. "And the merchants?"
"Your new strategy is working," Dai said, a note of admiration in his voice. "Word of the Dutchman's 'unfortunate accident' has spread like wildfire through the European community and the Nanyang back channels. Two more planned acts of sabotage were canceled overnight, their conspirators scattering to the wind. Our informants report a sudden and profound panic among the remaining Dutch loyalists. Fear has restored order where courtesy failed, Admiral."
A grim satisfaction settled in Meng Tian's gut, but it was a cold and bitter feeling. He had proven that he could be as ruthless as Yuan Shikai when necessary. It was a victory that felt like a defeat. His satisfaction, however, was short-lived. A communications officer entered, his face pale with urgency. He carried a decoded telegraph message.
"An urgent dispatch from the Sea Dragon, sir. Highest priority."
Meng Tian took the flimsy sheet of paper. His eyes scanned the message, and the cold satisfaction in his gut turned to ice. It was from Li, his agent aboard the British spy ship.
TARGET (FINCH) HAS ALTERED TRANSMISSION PROTOCOL. NOW USING NEW EMERGENCY CIPHER KEY. UNABLE TO DECODE. REPEAT, AM BLIND. SUSPECT HE HAS BEEN ALERTED. AWAITING INSTRUCTIONS. LI.
Meng Tian's blood ran cold. He had been outmaneuvered. He had assumed Van der Meer's knowledge of Finch was a secret, a drunken slip of the tongue by the agent Clog. He had been wrong. The British were not that sloppy. They had sacrificed their man in Batavia, their "Clog," knowing he was compromised. They had allowed Meng Tian to capture and eliminate him, using the event as a signal to alert their true asset, Finch. The Dutchman's death had not been a surprise to them; it was the confirmation they were waiting for.
His entire counter-intelligence operation, his "private listening post," the web he had so carefully constructed, was now useless. He was flying blind against an enemy who knew, with absolute certainty, that he was being watched.
Before he could even begin to process the strategic implications of this failure, the communications officer returned, holding another dispatch. This one bore the seal of the Grand Council. It was from the Forbidden City itself.
ADMIRAL MENG TIAN, the message read, its formal language carrying the unyielding weight of imperial command. YOU WILL RETURN TO THE CAPITAL IMMEDIATELY FOR STRATEGIC REASSIGNMENT. YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED FOR THE PLANNING OF THE NORTHERN CAMPAIGN. TRANSFER TEMPORARY COMMAND OF THE SOUTHERN FLEET AND ALL PACIFICATION OPERATIONS TO YOUR DESIGNATED SUBORDINATE. AN IMPERIAL TRANSPORT AWAITS YOU IN SINGAPORE. DEPART AT ONCE.
A wave of cold dread washed over Meng Tian. He was being recalled. Pulled from his command at the most critical, chaotic moment imaginable. "Strategic reassignment"… the phrase was a classic piece of courtly doublespeak. It could be an honor, or it could be a prelude to an investigation, a polite way of placing him under arrest.
Did the Emperor know? Had Yuan Shikai's agents in the south somehow learned of his secret interrogation, of the quiet murder in Warehouse Four? Was this his reward for compromising his honor—a summons to his own trial?
Far away, in a secret chamber in the heart of the Forbidden City, Qin Shi Huang sat upon his throne. The only other person in the room was his Spymaster, Shen Ke.
"My agents in the south report a curious situation, Your Majesty," Shen Ke said, his voice a low, dispassionate whisper. "Admiral Meng has successfully quelled the sabotage attempts, a feat his official reports attribute to 'enhanced naval patrols.' Yet my sources on the ground speak of a different story. They speak of fear, of disappearances in the night, of unofficial interrogations. His official reports to the throne are models of efficiency, but they are… opaque. They lack detail. They do not match the level of chaos my agents are witnessing."
Qin Shi Huang listened, his long fingers tapping a silent, rhythmic beat on the dragon-carved armrest of his throne. The seeds of suspicion planted after the "miraculous" victory at Sunda Strait had been watered by these new reports. A commander who was ruthlessly efficient, yes, but also one who was not entirely truthful with his Emperor. A commander who operated with a level of autonomy that bordered on secrecy. A commander who was building his own power base, his own network of loyalties, half a world away from the throne.
"I have summoned him back," Qin Shi Huang said, his voice dangerously quiet. "It is time I looked this honorable general in the eye myself. We will see if his loyalty is as pristine as the paper on which he writes his reports."
He gestured with his chin toward an empty, high-backed chair that had been placed directly before the throne. It was a position of great honor, but it was also a position of absolute scrutiny, directly under the Emperor's unblinking gaze.
"I am preparing a new position for him," the Emperor continued, a cold, strategic light in his eyes. "He will be appointed as the Head of Planning for the coming Siberian campaign. A great honor, one befitting the Hero of the Sunda Strait. It will also place him here, in Beijing, directly under my gaze, far from his private fleet and his network of Nanyang loyalists. It is always wise to keep your most effective swords in a scabbard where you can see them."
The scene ended on the image of the empty chair. It was not a seat of honor. It was a gilded cage, polished and waiting. It was a symbol of an Emperor's paranoia, a trap being laid for a general whose greatest crime may have been being too successful, too far from his master's sight.