The Olympic military exhibitions were a display of raw, undisguised national power, a far more honest form of diplomacy than the polite fictions of the reception hall. In the grandstands overlooking the sun-baked field, the various international delegations sat in a carefully ordered VIP box, a seating arrangement that was in itself a complex political statement. President Theodore Roosevelt sat at the center, a picture of robust, confident authority. To his right was the honored guest, General Meng Tian. To his left sat the shrewd Japanese minister, Baron Komura. Further down the line, conspicuously separated from the military men, sat Yuan Shikai and his delegation.
On the field below, a platoon of U.S. Marines was demonstrating the awesome power and precision of their new standard-issue rifle, the M1903 Springfield. The rifle was a masterpiece of industrial warfare, bolt-action, clip-fed, and incredibly accurate. The Marines, their movements a symphony of disciplined precision, were firing in disciplined volleys at targets set up hundreds of yards away, the sharp crack of the rifles echoing across the stadium. With each volley, another set of distant targets disintegrated into splinters, to the impressed applause of the crowd.
Meng Tian watched the demonstration with the keen, professional eye of a master. He was not impressed by the noise or the spectacle, but by the logistics. He noted the speed of the clip-reloading, the consistency of the groupings, the sheer, industrialized efficiency of the killing system. He made a mental note: the Qing army's new rifles were good, but this was a generation ahead.
Yuan Shikai, however, was not watching the demonstration. His mind was on a different, far more subtle maneuver. He was here to deliver his first "good faith" payment to his new, secret British partners, and to simultaneously create a crisis that would serve his own ends. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a pair of fine, kid leather gloves. As he made a show of putting them on, he "accidentally" fumbled one, letting it drop to the floor of the viewing box.
A man seated in the row behind him, a minor, forgettable attaché from the British embassy, immediately bent to retrieve it. "Your glove, Minister," the man said politely in English.
"Ah, thank you. How clumsy of me," Yuan replied.
As the glove was passed back, a small, thick, and heavily sealed envelope was transferred from Yuan's hand to the British agent's with a speed and subtlety that was invisible to the onlookers, who were all focused on the rifle display. The exchange took less than two seconds. It was a perfect, classic dead drop. The envelope contained Yuan's first intelligence report: a detailed, damning, and slightly embellished analysis of Meng Tian's "heretical" tactics, his "unstable" nature, and the strange, supernatural events that seemed to follow him.
The first part of his plan was complete. Now, for the second.
Yuan had decided that his best path forward, his only way to escape the crushing leverage of the Americans, was to throw their perfectly ordered plans into absolute chaos. He needed to prove to his new British partners that the Americans were incompetent, that their control over the situation was an illusion. And he needed to disrupt the carefully staged negotiations that were designed to break him. He had given a secret order that morning to his most trusted asset, the scarred assassin from Tianjin, who was now positioned, not in the VIP box, but hidden amongst the teeming, anonymous crowds in the upper stands.
The assassin's target had been chosen with a strategist's cold precision. It was not President Roosevelt; an attack on a head of state would be an act of open war and would bring the full, wrathful power of the American government down on everyone. It was not Meng Tian or Yuan himself, as their deaths would not serve his larger purpose. The target was the true architect of the American strategy. The cool, brilliant, pragmatic mind who had outmaneuvered him in Washington. The man whose removal would throw the entire American plan into disarray. Secretary of War, Elihu Root.
Root was not seated in the main box, but was standing near the edge of the VIP section, speaking with a group of army generals. He was exposed, his profile clear.
The assassin in the stands raised a pair of binoculars, confirming his target. He then put the binoculars down and reached into a large popcorn box resting on his lap. His hand emerged with a small, custom-made pistol, fitted with a primitive but effective suppressor. He waited, his breathing slow and steady, his nerves cold as ice. He needed to time the shot perfectly, to hide the soft cough of his suppressed pistol in the loud roar of the military rifles.
On the field, the Marine drill sergeant bellowed an order. "Ready! Aim! FIRE!"
A massive volley of thirty rifles fired as one, the roar echoing like a thunderclap across the stadium.
In that exact instant, the assassin fired.
In the VIP box, Elihu Root suddenly stumbled, a look of shocked surprise on his face. He took a half-step forward, his hand flying to his left shoulder. A dark, crimson stain blossomed on the white fabric of his linen suit. He swayed for a moment, and then, with a quiet sigh, he collapsed to the ground.
For a split second, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then, pandemonium erupted.
Secret Service agents, their faces masks of grim panic, instantly swarmed around a shocked President Roosevelt, forming a human wall, their hands reaching inside their coats for their weapons. Army generals shouted orders, trying to restore a semblance of control. The crowd, sensing the panic, seeing the fallen figure, began to scream and surge toward the exits.
In the chaos, the assassin in the upper stands simply dropped his pistol back into the popcorn box, put on a hat, and melted into the stampeding mob, a ghost disappearing back into the chaos he had created.
Amidst the pandemonium in the VIP box, Meng Tian's reaction was instantaneous and unique. The moment Root fell, before anyone else had even processed what had happened, his Battle Sense screamed at him. This was not a stray bullet. This was not an accident. The timing, the location, the choice of target—it was all perfect. It was a professional's work. It was a decapitation strike, aimed not at the king, but at the king's most important general.
His head, and the head of Captain MacArthur, who was standing beside him, snapped in the same direction at the same time. Their eyes instantly sought out the one person on the stage who benefited most from this precise and targeted act of chaos.
Yuan Shikai.
The Supreme Overseer stood amidst the shouting and the panic, his hand on Lord Zailan's shoulder as if to steady the frightened old man. His face was a perfect, flawless mask of shock and grave concern. But his eyes, for a fraction of a second, as they met Meng Tian's, held a flicker of something else. A glint of cold, triumphant fire.
The unseen war had just turned hot on American soil. And Yuan Shikai, the Emperor's traitor, had just made his first, bloody move as a secret, and now proven, asset of the British Empire.