By the dawn of 1786, the winds over Europe carried two distinct scents — the perfume of power and the stench of deceit. In Versailles, beneath the frescoed ceilings and the perpetual fragrance of lilies, Queen Marie Antoinette sighed. Her court whispered about the swelling curve of her belly — not with scandal this time, but with a weary kind of respect. She had already given France two robust sons; her duty, at least in the eyes of the dynasty, was fulfilled. And yet, her mood mirrored the winter sky — heavy, unpredictable, and prone to sudden storms.
Far from her gilded world, across the Channel, another form of gestation was underway — not of flesh and blood, but of shadow and influence. In London, the Ghost Cell's quiet operation had begun to bear fruit. Their invisible war was not fought with cannons or treaties, but with paper, promises, and poisoned favors.
Jeremy Walsh was, to all appearances, an ordinary bureaucrat. He had spent three decades buried in memoranda and naval inventories, his life consumed by the rhythm of ink and stamps. Once, he had been an idealist — a man who believed in the majesty of empire, in the power of organization, in the glory of the sea. But thirty years of clerical drudgery had stripped him of all illusions. The Admiralty no longer seemed majestic; it was a labyrinth of egos and hypocrisy. The navy, once his dream, had become an institution of endless forms and forgotten men.
So when a polite, continental businessman — known simply as Mr. Delacroix — approached him with the air of one extending opportunity rather than temptation, Walsh listened. The offer was not crude. There was no mention of bribes, no whispered talk of treason. It was couched instead in the language of ambition — of partnerships, investments, and foresight.
"Britain expands," said Delacroix over a dinner of roast pheasant and Madeira wine at the Somerset Club. "The Crown looks outward, toward the Pacific. The age of mere merchants is over. It will soon belong to men of vision — men who understand supply, logistics, and need."
Walsh, flattered and disarmed, nodded along. He was tired of being a man in service. The idea of being a man of business — of shaping decisions instead of merely recording them — sparked something dormant in him. Within a week, he had accepted a modest portfolio of shares in the New South Wales Provisioning Company. The documents bore all the marks of legitimacy; the ink, the seal, the ledger entries. What he did not know was that the entire company was a phantom — one of many corporate veils woven by the Ghost Cell.
His first contribution came easily. The company requested "guidance" — a harmless word — on how best to anticipate the timing and structure of upcoming supply contracts for the First Fleet, the grand expedition meant to found a penal colony on the far side of the world. Walsh obliged.
In the privacy of his home in Deptford, under the weak glow of a whale-oil lamp, he copied timetables and draft budgets. He rationalized it to himself as "consulting." After all, he wasn't leaking military secrets, merely sharing bureaucratic schedules. But his "consulting" was the key that opened the vault. The Ghost Cell now knew exactly when bids would be solicited, who would evaluate them, and how much margin could be built into their false quotations.
Encouraged by his own usefulness, Walsh began to advise further. He suggested subtle adjustments to the technical specifications of supply requests — small details that seemed trivial but had profound consequences.
"Specify a wide-headed nail," he murmured to a colleague over brandy, "they last longer in the salt air." In truth, only a single forge in Liège — one controlled by the Cell — produced that particular design. Similarly, a new requirement for a certain biscuit size conveniently matched the surplus stock purchased months earlier from a Dutch intermediary.
The corruption was invisible, buried beneath layers of paperwork and procedural correctness. The Admiralty, priding itself on its scrutiny, never suspected that its own clerks had authored their deception.
Where Walsh was seduced by pride, Edgar Thorne was captured by desperation. Young, sharp, and perpetually indebted, he lived beyond his means in every conceivable way. His coat was tailored finer than his salary could justify, his boots too polished, his taste in wine too ambitious. He was the son of a minor barrister and had climbed the bureaucratic ladder not through privilege but through charm — the sort that could open doors, but not accounts.
It was during a night of cards at the White Hart Club that his downfall began. The game was arranged, though Thorne never knew it. Among the gentlemen at the table sat a tall, polite man with a faint French accent who introduced himself as Mr. Vandenberg — an "importer of naval goods." Over several rounds, the young clerk's luck turned miraculous. His pile of coins grew, and his confidence with it. When dawn broke, he had won enough to clear half his debts.
"You play with the favor of fortune," said Vandenberg, smiling. "But fortune, as you know, favors the brave — and those with friends in commerce."
Thorne laughed nervously, pocketing his winnings.
A week later, when he found himself short again, a discreet note arrived at his flat: If you require a friend once more, I am at your service. – V.
The "friendship" evolved quickly into dependency. Vandenberg offered him a loan — no interest, no deadlines, merely the occasional favor in return. The favors began as innocuous: confirming whether certain supply reports had reached the Home Office, clarifying the dates of committee meetings. But gradually, they deepened.
Soon, Thorne was relaying whispers about interdepartmental rivalries — the quiet animosities between the Admiralty and the Home Office. "The Navy wants control of provisioning," he once said in confidence, "but the Home Office claims jurisdiction over convict transport. They despise each other, and the First Fleet sits in the crossfire."
For the Ghost Cell, it was invaluable intelligence. They could now navigate the machinery of government like surgeons, inserting influence where it mattered, avoiding the ministers whose scrutiny could destroy them.
When Thorne hesitated, Vandenberg's tone shifted — from amiable to coldly persuasive. "You owe me no allegiance," he said once, his smile gone. "Only gratitude. And gratitude, Mr. Thorne, is best expressed through discretion."
By March, Thorne was hopelessly entangled. His debts were settled, but his conscience mortgaged. He became not just a source but a servant — the Cell's informant within the corridors of Whitehall.
From their discreet offices in Soho, "051" — the enigmatic agent at the center of the operation — watched as the plan unfolded with mathematical precision. Each document, each signature, each misdirected letter was a step toward the invisible conquest.
Through Walsh, they guided the technical framework of contracts; through Thorne, they navigated the political landscape that decided them. An influential barrister was quietly paid to champion the NSWPC before Parliament, portraying it as a bold British venture — a private initiative that embodied national vigor in contrast to the sluggish bureaucracy of Crown suppliers. The irony was delicious: the company that promised to strengthen the Empire was, in truth, designed to bleed it.
By the end of March 1785, the first tendrils of corruption had rooted themselves deep within the English administration. No gunfire had been exchanged, no soldier had marched. And yet, a foreign intelligence had seized control of a colonial artery from within.
Back in Versailles, the Queen's third child stirred restlessly beneath silken layers, unaware that across the sea, another birth — darker, subtler — had already taken place. One that would, in time, alter the balance of empires.