The office of the President of Argyle & Co. Foods.
A financial warfare meeting was being held under the leadership of Argyle.
Catherine, Miller, Jones, Flynn, and Tom Hayes, who had been called from Wall Street, were all present.
"Gentlemen, the target has been identified as Knickerbocker Bank. Hayes, please brief us on the known situation."
"Yes, Boss."
Hayes stood up and calmly relayed the information he had gathered.
"Bank President Sterling of Knickerbocker Bank is a gambler. He uses depositors' money as his own chips, investing in many high-risk, high-return projects, such as cotton speculation in the South and silver mine exploration in the West."
"And now," Hayes continued, "the war has cut off his cotton trade. As for those silver mines, according to my sources, most haven't even yielded an ounce of silver yet. So, I conclude that Sterling is now sitting on a volcano built of bad debts and lies, ready to erupt at any moment."
"This is our opportunity," Hayes summarized. "But, Boss, you're right. 'Feeling' and 'hearing' don't kill people on Wall Street. We need evidence that can deliver a fatal blow."
"And the evidence, according to my investigation, is in the bank's ledgers."
Argyle nodded, then asked, "So, who has access to the ledgers?"
"It's the Chief Loan Officer," Hayes replied, "a man named Peterson. An old-timer who's been at the bank for twenty years. He's said to be timid, cautious, and resistant to Sterling's speculative behavior, but he doesn't dare openly oppose it. He's the most conflicted and tormented person in this bank."
"Very good."
Argyle's gaze turned to his newly appointed Head of Intelligence.
"Flynn."
"Present, Boss."
Flynn, a man forged in the fires of Chicago, stood ramrod straight.
"Your first official mission has arrived," Argyle said. "This man named Peterson, I need everything about him."
"I need to know where he lives, which tavern he drinks at, which church he prays in. I need to know about his family, his friends, all his habits."
Argyle looked at him, enunciating each word carefully.
"More importantly, I need to know what his weaknesses are."
"Yes, Boss!"
Flynn acknowledged the order, turned, and left the office with a crisp, decisive movement.
A silent intelligence war concerning the bank had begun.
Miller's security team was responsible for the outer physical surveillance. Like ghosts, they monitored Peterson's every move, twenty-four hours a day, in shifts.
Meanwhile, Flynn and his pervasive 'little rats' were responsible for deeper community infiltration.
Shoe shine stands, newsstands, and grocery store entrances—these most inconspicuous information hubs all became intelligence stations.
Three days later, a report so detailed it would make Peterson himself shudder was placed on Argyle's desk.
Argyle sat in his chair, smoking a cigar and sipping black tea, without looking at the report.
"Just tell me directly."
So Flynn began to describe the report's contents directly.
"...Target Peterson. His life appears extremely regular, almost rigid. His only hobby is collecting stamps."
"No mistresses, no gambling debts, no stains that could be used for blackmail."
"However, we discovered his one and most fatal weakness."
"Continue."
"His son. His only son," Flynn said, "a fifteen-year-old boy named Thomas, suffers from a very severe lung disease. New York doctors have determined that if he remains in this damp and cold place, he won't live past next spring."
"The only advice given by the doctors is to send him to the West immediately. To a dry and warm place like Arizona for long-term recuperation. That way, there might still be a glimmer of hope."
"And this expense," Flynn concluded, "whether for the journey or the recuperation, is an astronomical sum that an eighty-dollar-a-year bank clerk cannot afford."
"Timmy got word from a bank employee," Flynn added. "Peterson had applied to the bank for an advance on his salary, but Sterling ruthlessly rejected him."
The office was silent.
A flicker of unbearable sadness crossed Catherine's eyes.
After a brief silence, Argyle slowly spoke.
"Catherine."
"Present, Boss."
"This matter requires you to personally assist Flynn in handling it," Argyle said. "This matter doesn't require threats, but a softer power."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Go set up a charity fund."
Argyle's answer stunned everyone.
"In the name of our company. No, in the name of my mother. Establish an 'Orianna Argyle Health Foundation'."
"Then, you, as the representative of this foundation," Argyle continued, "go approach Peterson's wife, Mary Peterson."
"Tell her that you heard about her son's misfortune through the church's charity network. Our foundation is willing to fully fund all of her son's treatment and recuperation expenses."
"From a first-class train compartment to Arizona, to the best sanatorium and doctors there. All expenses will be borne by us."
Catherine looked at Argyle. She understood his idea—what an exquisite and yet cruel move it was.
He hadn't used any despicable means.
He merely presented the 'salvation' that the man most desired, yet could never obtain, as a gift directly to his family.
What he wanted to buy was not Peterson's secrets.
It was Peterson's soul.
Two days later, in a fabric store in the Upper East Side.
Catherine "coincidentally" met Mary Peterson, who was picking out winter clothes for her family.
"Mrs. Peterson? Hello."
Catherine's face held the warmest and most sincere smile.
"Please forgive my presumption. My name is Catherine O'Brien, a representative of the Orianna Argyle Health Foundation. We heard..."
She then laid out the entire plan that had been discussed earlier.
When Mary Peterson finished listening to Catherine's heavenly proposal, this mother, already exhausted by her son's illness, immediately burst into tears.
She held Catherine's hand, repeating "Thank you" over and over again, as if Catherine were a true angel sent by God.
That evening, when Peterson dragged his weary body back to his home, which had been shrouded in sorrow for so long, he was greeted by his wife's long-unseen face, tear-streaked but filled with joy and hope.
"My dear, he's saved! Thomas, he's saved!"
After Peterson listened to his wife's excited, broken account, he was stunned, then became excited himself.
Argyle!
He, of course, knew what that surname represented.
This was New York's hottest business genius and magnate.
After his excitement subsided, he regained some rationality and knew that pies never fell from the sky.
Especially not on the head of a small person like him.
He could feel that this charity was definitely not simple, yet it was an invaluable favor he could not refuse.
Just as he was in a state of confusion and helplessness, the doorbell rang.
A well-dressed messenger delivered an unsigned letter.
Peterson seemed to anticipate something and tremblingly tore open the letter.
The letter contained only one cold, typed sentence.
"Mr. Peterson. I believe we share a common pursuit in 'the rigor of accounts.' I look forward to the opportunity to speak with you privately."
Inside Felix's office, Flynn, who had reported the arrival of the letters, respectfully withdrew from the office.
After Flynn left, Felix looked at Catherine, who had been by his side.
"Catherine, do you think he'll go?" he asked.
"Isn't it obvious? I mean, of course, because if he wants his child to continue living, then he must rely on us, mustn't he? So the initiative is in our hands."
Catherine answered without hesitation. In her opinion, the other party couldn't possibly give up his child, so he would definitely keep the appointment.
Catherine also felt no guilt; after all, from another perspective, it could even save the child's life.
"It seems you've grown again, Catherine."
Felix's tone was somewhat emotion. Before, Catherine's heart would have been largely filled with benevolence.
But now, it seemed she prioritized the company's interests.
"My identity is too conspicuous. You'll go and talk to him then, since you've already appeared before his family as a representative of the 'Charity Foundation.' In their eyes, you're an angel. An angel who brings salvation and hope."
"No one guards against an angel, do they?"
"So," Felix concluded, "you, this angel, will go and offer him a devil's contract. The psychological pressure brought by such an extreme contrast is something no one can resist."
Catherine looked at Felix, understanding that this was a brand new test for her.
"I understand, Felix," she nodded.
That evening, in the private room of the French restaurant known for its privacy.
Catherine was already waiting there.
There was no wine in front of her, only a pot of fragrant black tea.
At exactly eight o'clock in the evening, there was a punctual knock on the door.
Mr. Peterson, the Chief Loan Officer of Knickerbocker Bank, walked in, his expression a little flustered.
"Good evening, Miss O'Brien."
His voice sounded a bit dry due to nervousness.
"Good evening, Mr. Peterson."
Catherine had an impeccable smile on her face. She gestured to the chair opposite, "Please sit."
"Miss O'Brien." After Peterson sat down, he immediately wanted to express his gratitude, "I... I don't know how to thank you and the foundation. My wife told me about your generosity..."
"Mr. Peterson," Catherine gently interrupted him, "Your son's health is our shared hope. My Boss, Mr. Argyle, has always believed that a man can only contribute better to his career after his family is stable."
This sentence was like a key, inadvertently opening the door to the main topic.
"So," Catherine continued, "after resolving your family's worries, I hope to discuss some issues regarding your career with you."
"My career?"
"Yes."
Catherine pushed a prepared list of documents in front of Peterson.
"For example, the fifty-thousand-dollar loan provided by Knickerbocker Bank to 'Nevada Silver Exploration Company.'"
Peterson's face instantly paled a bit.
"And for example, the 'Southern Cotton Export Fund' totaling eighty thousand dollars."
Catherine's tone remained gentle, as if stating the weather, "My Boss is very interested in these 'imaginative' financial innovations."
"It's just that he doesn't quite understand." Catherine looked at him, "Why would you, a Chief Loan Officer renowned for your integrity, sign your name on these documents that are destined to become bad debts?"
Peterson was speechless.
"Indeed, what... what exactly do you want to do?" he asked, trembling.
"We don't want to do anything, Mr. Peterson." Catherine smiled, her tone gentle.
"It's my Boss, Mr. Argyle, who is preparing to conduct a public 'financial review' of your bank's management level on Wall Street."
"To make this review more objective and fair, he needs some factual basis."
She pushed the list further forward.
"He needs these problematic loan documents. And your personal internal reports in which you raised risk warnings to Mr. Sterling."
"No... this is impossible!"
Peterson stood up agitatedly.
"This is a crime! I'll go to jail!"
Catherine's expression remained unchanged, her tone still calm, with a hint of Felix's demeanor.
"Mr. Peterson, please calm down. How about we analyze your current situation?"
"Aren't you already on your way to prison?"
"When these loans inevitably explode into crisis. When the bank collapses. The first thing your Boss, Mr. Sterling, will do is push all the blame onto you."
"And you will be his perfect scapegoat. To face all the angry depositors and the judgment of the law."
Subsequently, Catherine painted a completely different path for him.
"And my Boss will detonate all of this beforehand. He is preparing to attract all the firepower onto Sterling alone. And you..."
"You will be the 'hero' behind this financial fraud case. A person who bravely exposes the dark side."
"Your name will be cleared, your family will be preserved, and your son will grow up healthy under the Arizona sun."
"On one side is prison and destruction, on the other is freedom and new life."
Catherine stood up, looking down at the man who had completely collapsed.
"My Boss, Mr. Argyle, is simply offering you a wiser choice."
Peterson slumped in his chair, asking in a voice like a mosquito.
"When... when do you need..."
"Preferably tomorrow night," Catherine replied. "My colleague will handle the handover with you, and everything will be very discreet."
"We have arranged everything for you."
On a starless night, in a secluded alley behind an inconspicuous church in Greenwich Village.
Sergeant Miller, like a statue merged with the darkness, leaned silently in the shadows against the wall, his eyes vigilantly scanning every corner of the surroundings.
The midnight chimes had just rung.
A tall, slender figure, heavily bundled in a thick overcoat, hat, and scarf, appeared at the alley's entrance.
It was Peterson.
"Is that you?"
He asked, his voice trembling, towards the shadow where Miller stood.
Miller stepped out of the shadows.
"Did you bring the things?"
Peterson said nothing, merely handing over a heavy leather briefcase.
Miller took it, opened it, and quickly glanced inside by the faint light of a distant gas lamp. It contained neatly stacked internal bank ledgers and documents.
"Very good." Miller nodded, pointing to the other end of the alley. "A carriage is waiting for you there. Your wife and son are already inside."
"Someone will safely take you to Grand Central Station. These are first-class sleeper tickets to Arizona, and the first payment of five hundred dollars from the foundation for your son's recuperation."
Peterson's body trembled violently, and a tear, whether of remorse or gratitude, slipped from the corner of his eye.
"Thank you, truly, thank you very much…" he said hoarsely.
"Don't mention it." Miller's tone was devoid of emotion. "Go, Mr. Peterson. Leave this city and never return. This is my final advice to you."
Peterson looked back, taking a deep, lingering gaze at the city where he had lived for half his life.
Then he turned and disappeared into the night.
Miller, carrying the heavy briefcase — enough to sentence a century-old bank to death — also vanished into the shadows at the other end.
Half an hour later.
The offices of Patriot Investment Company were brightly lit.
Felix, Catherine, and Tom Hayes were all waiting.
When Miller placed the briefcase on the table, all three pairs of eyes focused on it.
"Boss." Miller reported. "The items are secured, and the target is on his way."
"You've worked hard." Felix nodded. "You can return to the factory. Raise the security level to maximum tonight."
"Yes."
When only the three of them remained in the office.
Felix personally opened that Pandora's Box.
Over the next few hours, this small office transformed into a meticulous financial crime forensic analysis room.
"Oh shit, my God…"
Hayes, a veteran who had seen all the dirty dealings on Wall Street, couldn't help but exclaim after reading the first ledger.
"This… this isn't just risky anymore. This is outright fraud! That bastard Sterling, he's practically treated depositors' savings as his own private vault!"
"Look here." He pointed to a loan record.
"Nevada Silver Exploration Company. The collateral for this fifty-thousand-dollar loan is merely an exploration report issued by an obscure geologist! And this geologist, I happen to know, is a notorious drunk and swindler!"
"And here." Catherine also found a document and spoke.
"Southern Cotton Export Fund. This document shows that after the Federal Navy had already announced a complete blockade of southern ports, Sterling actually approved an additional loan of thirty thousand dollars! He's using new depositors' money to fill the huge hole from his previous failed investments!"
Felix pulled out a thin, almost overlooked memo from a pile of documents.
"And this will be the final straw that breaks him."
It was a internal risk warning, personally written by Peterson.
It detailed the immense run risk the bank faced due to excessive speculation.
And at the bottom of the memo was Sterling's arrogant, flamboyant annotation.
"Your caution is commendable, but I am not wrong. We must show our confidence."
"He knew." Hayes said softly. "He knew from beginning to end what he was doing."
"Yes." Felix placed that memo alongside several of the most crucial loan documents.
"Now, we have all the bullets we need."
Hayes looked at Felix, his eyes gleaming with bloodlust. "Boss, how do we start this war? Should we just hand these things over to the newspaper?"
"No." Felix shook his head. "That's too slow. And it will cause unnecessary market panic. Our target is Sterling and his bank, not the entire New York financial system."
"Our attack cannot be expanded; that would be very serious."
"Tom."
"Starting tomorrow's opening, I need you to set aside one hundred thousand dollars, and then use three hundred thousand dollars of capital and all trading channels to quietly build a short position against Knickerbocker Bank stock in the market for me."
"Three hundred thousand?" Hayes's heart involuntarily twitched.
"Yes." Felix's tone was unequivocal. "But I'm only giving you two days. I need all the arrangements completed before Thursday's market close."
"Then, Boss, what's the trigger point?" Hayes asked. "When do we launch the general offensive?"
"The general offensive will be launched by Catherine." Felix's gaze turned to her.
"Catherine, I need you to compile these pieces of evidence we have into a clear, well-organized anonymous report."
"Then," he said slowly, "at exactly nine o'clock on Friday morning, have someone deliver it to the office of the Director of the New York State Banking Regulatory Commission, and send a copy to the New York Daily as well."
Hayes understood instantly.
A smile filled with awe and admiration appeared on his face.
"Boss… you… you are truly a genius." He praised sincerely. "We lay the dynamite in the dark, and then let the government light the fuse for us with their own hands."
"The moment the news breaks that the Banking Regulatory Commission is investigating Knickerbocker Bank, its stock price will become worthless in a second."
"If they've been bribed, then once the New York Daily exposes it, they will have no choice but to act."
"And we will not get a single drop of dirty blood on our hands."
"We might even become 'unsung heroes' assisting the government in rooting out financial parasites."
Felix didn't respond, merely picking up the memo with Sterling's annotation.
"I am merely executing a long-overdue judgment."
"Of course, the premise is that it doesn't affect my ability to make money."