The office of the Secretary of State was a bastion of old-world diplomacy. The air was still and smelled of beeswax, old leather, and the faint, sweet aroma of John Hay's Turkish cigarettes. Sunlight, softened by heavy velvet curtains, streamed in, illuminating the rich mahogany of the furniture and the stoic, oil-painted faces of past secretaries of state who gazed down from the walls. It was a room designed for calm, measured conversation between gentlemen.
Yuan Shikai entered this chamber expecting a storm. He had been summoned from St. Louis with an unnerving abruptness. He had spent the entire train journey preparing himself for the inevitable confrontation. The Americans would lay their cards on the table. They would present him with Riley's confession. They would threaten him, blackmail him, and attempt to break him. He was prepared for a fight, for a brutal negotiation where his life and his nation's honor were the stakes.
Instead, the atmosphere that greeted him was one of impeccable, almost surreal, civility.
Secretary of State John Hay, a man of frail health but immense dignity, rose to greet him with a warm, welcoming smile. "Minister Yuan," Hay said, his voice a gentle, patrician murmur. "Welcome to Washington. I trust your tour of our nation's industrial marvels was… illuminating."
Yuan, an expert in the art of the unreadable facade, returned the smile with his own polite, formal greeting. His eyes, however, were constantly scanning, assessing. He saw the other men in the room: his own watchdog, the sullen and silent Lord Zailan, and the formidable American Secretary of War, Elihu Root, who sat in an armchair, his hands steepled, his expression one of quiet, intellectual observation.
The meeting began, and it was a masterpiece of diplomatic misdirection. Yuan was braced for an attack, but none came. Instead, Secretary Hay guided the conversation through a labyrinth of trivialities. They discussed trade tariffs on silk and porcelain. They spoke of the cultural successes of the St. Louis World's Fair. They touched upon the need for international cooperation to ensure the stability of global shipping lanes.
It was all a polite, meaningless fiction. The true subject of the meeting, the ghost of Corporal Riley, was never mentioned by name, but his presence haunted every pause, every carefully chosen word.
"It is a challenging era for all great nations, Minister," Hay said at one point, his gaze distant. "The world changes so quickly. We often face the… unfortunate challenge of controlling rogue nationals who act outside the bounds of their government's intentions."
It was a delicate, perfectly aimed probe. Yuan simply nodded. "Indeed, Mr. Secretary. The maintenance of internal order is the first duty of any sovereign state."
They danced like this for nearly an hour, two master diplomats speaking entirely in subtext, the immense, unspoken threat lying just beneath the surface of their polite conversation. Yuan's tension grew with every passing minute. This calm was more unnerving than any open aggression. What was their game?
It was Elihu Root who finally changed the tempo. He had been silent until now, a looming, thoughtful presence. He leaned forward in his chair, his gaze fixed not on Hay, but directly on Yuan Shikai. He spoke not as a diplomat, but as one pragmatist to another, a man cutting through the formal nonsense to get to the heart of the matter.
"Minister Yuan," Root began, his voice calm but carrying an immense weight of authority. "The United States is a young nation, but we are not a naive one. We understand that established empires such as your own often have… complex internal dynamics. We understand that in the pursuit of national interest, leaders are sometimes forced to take unofficial actions, to operate in the gray spaces between declared policies."
Yuan's heart began to pound. This was it. The accusation was coming.
But it was not an accusation. It was something far more strange, and far more dangerous.
"We also understand," Root continued, his voice dropping slightly, "that Manchuria is a land of immense potential. Its development will require vast resources, modern machinery, and a stable political environment. The United States has a keen interest in the peaceful and profitable development of this region."
He paused, letting his words sink in. He then laid out the secret proposal, a masterpiece of veiled language. "A forward-thinking Chinese leader, a man of vision and pragmatism, who could ensure that American corporations are granted favorable and exclusive contracts for the development of railways and industries in the region… such a man would find that the United States government has a very long and very grateful memory for its friends."
He leaned back, his eyes locked on Yuan's. "And, of course, a corresponding disposition toward forgetting any past… unfortunate misunderstandings… that might have occurred between our two great nations."
Yuan Shikai was floored. He had come to this room prepared for a battle of threats and blackmail. He had not, in his wildest calculations, been prepared for a business proposition. He understood the brilliant, venomous trap they had laid for him in an instant.
It was not a threat; it was a choice. If he refused their offer, they would leak Riley's confession, and the Emperor would destroy him. A quick, certain death. But if he agreed, he would be committing a new, deeper, and ongoing act of treason. He would be selling out his country's most valuable future resources to the very men he had been trying to drive out of China. He would be making himself wholly and permanently dependent on their silence for his survival. They were offering him a choice between a swift execution and a slow-acting, lifelong poison.
Lord Zailan, the Manchu watchdog, who had been struggling to follow the nuanced English conversation, understood none of this subtext. He heard only the Americans offering a potentially profitable business deal and Yuan Shikai, his great rival, listening with rapt attention.
Yuan, acutely aware that Zailan was watching him, that his every word would be reported back to the Emperor, composed his response with the skill of a master artist. He could not appear too eager, nor could he refuse.
He turned his gaze from Root to Hay, a thoughtful, statesmanlike expression on his face. "A most intriguing proposal, Mr. Secretaries," he said, his voice smooth and measured. "The industrial development of Manchuria is, of course, a primary goal of my Emperor. Any partnership that would accelerate that goal is worthy of serious consideration." He paused, choosing his next words with infinite care. "Such a grand undertaking would, of course, require an immense display of trust and commitment from both sides. It would certainly depend on certain… reciprocal gestures of goodwill from your government to lay the foundation for such a partnership."
He had not said yes. But he had not said no. He had signaled his willingness to play their game. He had opened the door to treason.
The meeting concluded shortly after. As the men rose, Elihu Root and Yuan Shikai looked at each other across the polished mahogany table. There was a moment of perfect, silent understanding between them. They were two master manipulators, two men who understood the brutal mechanics of power, and they now knew, without a single explicit word having been spoken, that they were to be partners in a grand, secret, and mutually beneficial act of betrayal. A partnership that could either save Yuan Shikai's life, or tear his entire country apart.