In the master bedroom, the flickering light of the fireplace cast the overlapping silhouettes of the two onto the expensive silk wall coverings.
Facing Catherine's meaningful gaze and the warm touch from her fingertips, Felix let out a low chuckle.
Then, without hesitation, he rolled over, firmly pinning the female CEO, who spent her days giving orders, beneath him.
"My dear.
You are an extremely intelligent woman, but in some respects, your memory seems clearly lacking."
Felix clamped one hand over her wrists, pinning them to either side of the pillow, his eyes burning with an aggressive fire.
"The canary in that villa on Fifth Avenue is, in the end, just an ornament locked in a cage.
But you..."
Felix lowered his head and kissed her lips with extreme dominance.
"Are the main cannon on my war chariot.
Whether you have the strength or not, you can verify it yourself right now."
This late-night discussion regarding the "Human Life Evolution Project" began in this manor on Long Island.
There was no deceit or treachery of the business negotiation table, only the most primitive conquest of strength and the communion of souls.
And just as the King of New York was immersed in his own power and nest of tenderness.
At the other end of this vast country.
In the American South, in a remote and muddy reconstruction town on the edge of Mississippi, ripples of unrest arrived.
This place was far from the clamor of Northern industry, and the scars left by the Civil War were still clearly visible.
Dilapidated wooden houses, muddy streets, and the unemployed poor with numb eyes wandering street corners formed the entire backdrop of this Southern town.
The night was deep.
On the edge of town, in an underground tavern called "Headless Valley," kerosene lamps emitted a dim and flickering light.
The tavern door was pushed open one after another.
Batch after batch of men wearing dust-covered tweed trench coats and wide-brimmed hats walked in silently.
They did not make loud noises like ordinary drunks; after entering, each person tacitly occupied the blind spots and window-side seats of the tavern.
These men carried an aura of ruthlessness.
Heavy revolvers hung unreservedly at their waists, and sawed-off shotguns could even be vaguely seen beneath the hems of their trench coats.
They were all outlaws from the West.
A total of over a hundred men, divided into seven or eight groups, had converged on this remote Southern town over the past two days via various secret routes.
Behind the tavern bar, in an extremely hidden storage room.
The leader of this group, a man named Cole, sat boldly beside a dilapidated wooden table.
On the left side of Cole's face was a terrifying scar extending from the corner of his eye to his chin, and his right hand was missing a little finger—the price paid years ago while prospecting for gold in Nevada.
Cole skillfully toyed with a silver coin using his missing-fingered hand.
Opposite the wooden table stood a man dressed decently but appearing out of place in this environment.
His name was Dawson, the contact person hired on the dark web to post the bounty mission.
"I have brought everyone."
Cole stopped spinning the silver coin and slapped it onto the table with a "snap." He raised those eyes, which were like those of a starving wolf, and stared at Dawson.
"One hundred and twenty brothers, all experts who have licked blood in Texas and Colorado.
We ate sand for a whole week on the road just to get to this godforsaken South.
Now, lay out the mission and the target.
Once we take the deposit, we start working tonight."
Dawson licked his lips.
Facing this Western desperado radiating killing intent, this agent, accustomed to drinking coffee in a Philadelphia office, felt a trace of undeniable fear.
"OK, Mr.Cole.
Your efficiency is admirable."
Dawson feigned composure, took a reasonably detailed military and commercial map of the Southern states from his briefcase, and spread it out on the wooden table.
Dawson picked up a pencil and drew circles around several red dots on the map.
"Your mission, gentlemen, is very simple.
Split into several groups and head to Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi.
Do you see these circles?"
Cole and the two trusted lieutenants standing behind him leaned forward.
Dawson's pencil tip pointed heavily at those red circles.
"Your target is to destroy the plantations in these places.
Go burn all their cotton warehouses and smash the processing plants.
If you encounter resistance on the plantations, feel free to open fire.
The employer specifically instructed that if you can kill the senior management personnel of these plantations, there is an extra reward of five thousand dollars for each."
Dawson's pencil tip continued to move along the railway lines on the map.
"And here, the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company currently under construction.
They are connecting the sections across the states.
Go blow up the tracks they have already laid and burn the sleepers.
Go intimidate those road-building workers so they dare not come to work."
Dawson looked up, his eyes revealing a venomous glint.
"Anyway, the employer's requirement is to spare no cost and destroy all the foundations this company has developed in the South.
Make every inch of their land in the South turn into a bloody ruin."
Cole listened to Dawson's explanation, his brow gradually furrowing.
He was an outlaw who took money to do jobs, true, but he wasn't a fool.
This kind of serial sabotage spanning three states and targeting an extremely large and organized industry was definitely not just ordinary revenge.
Cole lowered his head and carefully looked at the markings of those plantations and railway lines on the map.
Beside the names of those railway lines and plantations, there was an emblem of a bald eagle clutching rice ears and lightning.
Cole's pupils constricted sharply.
He grabbed Dawson by the collar and dragged this decent-looking agent directly in front of him.
"Fuck! You son of a bitch, you liar!"
Cole's voice carried repressed rage, and even a hint of panic.
He pointed at that emblem on the map.
"This is the Southern Development Company, right? Mississippi and Eastern Railroad? Do you take me for some illiterate simpleton from the West!"
Cole shoved Dawson away and casually drew the revolver from his waist, slamming it heavily onto the table.
"At the time, on the bounty notice, you only said to come South to deal with a common syndicate of plantation owners! You didn't say, damn it, that we were going to deal with the Argyle Family!"
When Cole's two trusted lieutenants heard the words "Argyle Family," their expressions changed instantly, and their hands moved instinctively toward the grips of their guns at their waists.
"Mr.Cole! Calm down!"
Dawson backed away in fear.
"So what if it's the Argyle Family? You are over a hundred armed-to-the-teeth sharpshooters! Are you afraid of a few cotton-planting merchants and railway-building laborers?"
"Afraid?"
Cole seemed to have heard a huge joke; he let out a series of cold laughs, looking at Dawson as if he were looking at a dead man.
"Do you think the South is some pushover that can be slaughtered at will? Do you think I don't know that in recent years, the Southern Development Company under the Argyle Family has long managed these few states like an iron barrel! Not only have they bought off the local sheriffs, but they even possess their own legally armed militia and security teams!"
Cole braced his hands on the table, staring fixedly at Dawson.
"A one-million-dollar bounty does sound like a lot.
But you want me to take these hundred-odd brothers to directly challenge the Argyle Family's security network head-on? You're sending us to our deaths, damn it!"
In the storage room, a Colt revolver lay quietly on the wooden table.
Dawson pressed against the wall, his breathing ragged.
He tried to salvage the situation with a hefty bounty.
"Mr.Cole! Even with a security team, you are in the shadows.
As long as you cause the destruction and leave, they won't be able to catch you at all.
One million dollars! After this job, all of you can go to South America, buy a large estate, and live the rest of your lives in comfort."
"Oh fuck, I really want to shove the barrel into your bitch mouth and blow it wide open."
Cole's deputy, the bearded Zane, couldn't help but curse out loud.
He stepped forward and grabbed Dawson by the tie.
"You idiot who only knows how to sit in an office and read newspapers! Don't think that just because we operate in the West, we don't know how terrifying the Argyle Family actually is!"
Zane turned his head and looked at Cole.
"Boss, we can't take this job.
We traveled all this way here; if we had known it was to deal with the Argyle Family, only a ghost would accept this hot potato!"
Dawson broke free from Zane's hand, straightened his tie, and looked extremely puzzled.
"Why? You even dared to rob the Federal Cavalry in Colorado; why are you so scared just hearing the name Argyle? The Southern Development Company is just a company!"
"A company?"
Cole sat back down in his chair, picked up the revolver, and toyed with it in his hand.
He looked at Dawson as if looking at an idiot who didn't know how to die.
"Dawson, it seems your employer has protected you too well.
You have no idea what kind of monsters the Argyle Family are in the West."
Cole's voice became extremely low, as if recalling some terrifying scene.
"Have you heard of Vanguard Military Industry and Cygnus Mining?"
Dawson nodded as a matter of course; how could the Morgan Family not know?
"I've heard of them; they are also companies of the Argyle Family."
"Then you must also know that the president of both companies is that devil named Miller."
A flash of uncontrollable fear crossed Cole's eyes.
"In the last two years, that guy named Miller has been aggressively seizing land in the West with his 'Operations Department.' They have monopolized countless mineral resources from Nevada to Colorado and even forcibly occupied a lot of wasteland that no one knows what to do with."
Cole leaned closer to Dawson, lowered his voice, and recounted the bloody legend that made people in the West tremble with fear.
"In the West, fighting over territory is a very normal thing.
Some short-sighted local mine owners and large gangs tried to block Cygnus Mining's convoys or resist their forced acquisitions."
"And the result?" Cole sneered.
"That madman Miller doesn't negotiate with you at all.
Instead, he directly uses Vanguard Military Industry's train cars to bring in an entire battalion's worth of equipment! If they encounter a town or gang camp that dares to resist, they don't even say a word; they just start by shelling with field artillery.
Then, they use Gatling Guns mounted on carriages to sweep the area at close range!"
Thinking of that scene, Cole swallowed hard.
"I saw with my own eyes how they wiped out the largest 'Grizzly Gang' in Colorado.
Over two hundred hardened bandits were turned into meat paste by Gatling Guns in less than half an hour.
Even the hill they were hiding on was flattened by artillery.
In the West, Vanguard Military Industry's 'Operations Department' is synonymous with the Grim Reaper.
That Miller's reputation is even more fearsome; even the local federal garrison wouldn't dare meddle in their affairs!"
Cole poked the muzzle of the gun heavily into Dawson's chest.
"Do you understand now? You are asking us to deal with the Argyle Family's industries.
It is tantamount to plucking the whiskers of a man-eating beast.
Once things escalate, Miller will definitely bring his Gatling Guns and artillery, killing his way down the railway line to the South! At that time, do you think our hundred or so men can withstand that level of military-grade slaughter?"
After hearing Cole's account, Dawson's face turned extremely pale.
He finally understood why these fearless Western desperadoes felt such deep fear toward a commercial family.
Those weren't security guards; they were a private army armed to the teeth.
"Then...
then what do you mean? Do you want to break the contract?" Dawson asked, trembling.
"You have already taken the deposit."
"Break the contract? I traveled over a thousand miles, just to go back empty-handed?" Cole put away his gun.
"The job can be done, but one million cannot buy my brothers' lives."
Cole held up three fingers, half of which were missing.
"You need to add more money..."
Cole stared at Dawson, opening his mouth like a lion.
"Three million dollars.
One dollar less, and I won't do this job.
Furthermore, the rules must be set by me."
"Three million?!" Dawson exclaimed.
"That's impossible, the authority the employer gave me..."
"Authority is your own business; you can also choose to walk out that door right now.
But I guarantee you won't live until tomorrow morning." Cole's tone was extremely cold.
Dawson looked at the several pairs of murderous eyes in the room, and he knew he had no way out.
Fortunately, Old Morgan had authorized in the telegram that as long as the Argyle Family's southern foundation could be completely destroyed, the remaining funds of over one million pounds could be fully utilized.
Converted, three million dollars could be fully paid.
"Fine, three million it is." Dawson gritted his teeth and agreed.
Greed flashed in Cole's eyes.
With this huge sum of money, it would be worth taking any risk.
"Also, listen up." Cole began to set the iron rules for the operation.
"All operations, whether burning warehouses or blowing up railways, are best done at night.
My brothers must be masked and cannot reveal their faces to anyone from the Argyle Family.
I don't want anyone taking portraits to the West to hunt us down afterward."
"That's no problem; we only want the results.
You decide the process yourselves." Dawson nodded quickly in agreement; he was also afraid of death.
"Regarding the money, how will it be paid?" Zane asked vigilantly from the side.
"We don't accept paper notes, nor do we accept settlement after the fact."
Dawson took a special document from the inner pocket of his briefcase and handed it to Cole.
"The money has already been fully remitted and deposited into the 'Western Bounty Alliance's' underground neutral bank according to the rules.
This is the voucher number and cipher they issued." Dawson explained.
"As long as you complete the mission and see the news published in the newspaper about the Southern Development Company being heavily sabotaged or the railway shutting down, you can take this voucher to any stronghold of the Bounty Alliance and withdraw the gold worth three million dollars that belongs to you.
This money is locked, and even I cannot withdraw it.
This is enough to prove our sincerity."
Cole took the voucher and carefully checked the watermark and cipher symbols on it.
After confirming everything was correct, he carefully tucked the voucher away close to his body.
Under a heavy reward, there must be brave men.
Especially for a group of desperadoes who already had their heads on their belts.
The Argyle Family is very terrifying.
But as long as they aren't recognized, the danger is completely minimized.
"Very good, Mr.Dawson.
The deal is done." Cole stood up and extended his hand to Dawson.
"Just wait for the good news.
Within half a month, the entire South will be set ablaze with fire directed at the Argyle Family."
Dawson didn't shake his hand; he just wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, picked up his briefcase, and fled from this murder-filled storage room as if escaping.
Watching Dawson's retreating back, Cole's eyes became cold and focused.
He turned his head and looked at Zane and the other confidants who had walked in.
"Did you all hear that? Three million dollars."
Cole's voice was very low in the storage room.
"Call the small team leaders in for me.
Bring the maps.
We are going to start assigning the routes for the job.
Perhaps this will be the craziest job we have ever done."
In the storage room of the underground tavern, a tattered map was pinned tightly to a wooden table by several daggers.
Cole and his five trusted lieutenants gathered around the table, the swaying kerosene lamp overhead casting flickering light on their ferocious faces.
After confirming the three-million-dollar bounty, fear had vanished from the blood of these Western outlaws, leaving only pure madness.
"Listen carefully, all of you."
Cole used his right hand, missing a finger, to draw three black lines on the map.
"Our one hundred and twenty brothers will split into three groups."
Cole pointed to the spot on the left side of the map near the Mississippi River.
"Zane.
You take forty brothers to Mississippi.
Your target is the cross-river bridge currently being built by the Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company and the supply dispatch stations along the line."
Cole looked up at the bearded Zane.
"I want you to gather the explosives.
Creep in at night and burn all their piles of railroad ties.
If you encounter track inspectors or security teams, do not engage in a positional battle! Fire a couple of shots and retreat.
Once you've lured them away, blow up the most critical sections of the track.
As long as the tracks are broken, they won't be able to transport supplies, and the construction will have to grind to a halt."
Zane grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth.
"Don't worry, Boss.
We're more used to blowing up tracks than eating back in Colorado.
I guarantee their locomotives will go straight into the river for a bath."
Cole nodded with satisfaction, his finger moving to the border of Georgia and Alabama on the right side of the map.
"Dutchman.
You take forty brothers to Georgia.
That's where the Southern Development Company has some of its largest cotton plantations.
At this time of year, the warehouses must be packed with cotton bales ready to be shipped to the northern textile mills."
The lieutenant called "Dutchman" was a thin, white man with a vicious gaze.
"Cotton is best burned," Dutchman sneered.
"One fire is all it takes to burn it to ash along with the warehouse.
No one will be able to save it."
"Not only must you burn the warehouses, but remember the employer's words."
Cole's eyes became cruel.
"The management executives on the plantations, and those white-gloved accountants.
Five thousand dollars extra for every one you kill.
You can sneak into their office buildings at night; keep it clean.
Once you've killed them, set the fire and burn the ledgers and land deeds to ash."
Dutchman made a throat-slitting gesture to indicate he understood.
Finally, Cole's finger jabbed heavily into the very center of the map, at an important transportation hub city in Alabama.
"The rest of you, come with me to Alabama.
This is an important command center and logistics hub for the Southern Development Company.
According to the employer's intelligence, the Southern Development Company has a huge farm implement warehouse and a large cotton gin there."
Cole pulled the dagger out of the map.
"Security here will definitely be the tightest, so bring the old-fashioned rifled cannon we bought on the black market.
If you're discovered, use the cannon to blast open their gates.
Once you've fired all your ammunition, break up into small groups and retreat."
Cole looked around at his five trusted lieutenants, delivering his final pre-battle mobilization and warning in an extremely stern tone.
"Listen, boys, this three million dollars isn't easy to get.
Argyle is not someone to be trifled with, and I'll emphasize the rules one more time!"
Cole slammed his dagger into the table.
"All operations must be carried out at midnight, and you must wear masks! If anyone shows their face and gets seen, Argyle won't have to lift a finger—I'll blow your brains out myself!"
"Also, run as soon as you're done.
Absolutely no delays.
We aren't familiar with the terrain in the South; once we're surrounded by their militia, we'll be turned into Swiss cheese.
After completing the sabotage targets, immediately follow the retreat route and disperse toward Texas."
"Do you understand!"
The five lieutenants lowered their voices in unison.
"Understood, Boss."
"That's good.
Go get your gear ready.
Take your men out early tonight, and strike within half a month," Cole waved his hand.
The outlaws dispersed.
A series of terror-filled acts of sabotage targeting the Argyle Family's southern foundation began to spread silently through the southern night, like a dark, poisonous fire.
And just as the conspiracy in this remote town began to unfold.
The scene shifts to the North, in Indianapolis, Indiana.
The campaign tour for the presidential midterm elections was in full swing.
The train station was brightly lit at night.
A luxury private train, decorated with a giant Stars and Stripes and the national emblem, was parked at the platform.
President Ulysses had just finished a passionate two-hour speech in the city center square.
Wearing his familiar black formal suit, he boarded the private train, exhausted, surrounded by local dignitaries and security personnel.
The moment the carriage door closed, the noise was finally shut out.
Grant tore off his tie and threw it carelessly onto the sofa.
He walked over to the liquor cabinet, picked up the half-empty bottle of Kentucky Bourbon, and took a large gulp, tilting his head back without even using a glass.
"These Midwest farmers have so many damn questions."
Grant wiped his mouth and complained to his Chief of Staff, Howard Marshall, who had followed him in.
"They actually asked me if the retirement foundation would increase taxes on people like them who don't live off the government.
These hicks who only know how to grow corn!"
Marshall hurried forward to take the coat the President had removed and hung it on the coat rack.
"Mr.President, your speech was very successful.
The people we planted in the crowd did a great job leading the applause.
Tomorrow's The Tribune will surely use its front page to praise your concern for the common people.
The newspapers under Argyle' name are at least diligent in this regard."
Hearing Felix's name, Grant's expression sank instantly.
The shadow of that one-million-dollar political poisoning from a few days ago still lingered in the mind of this naturally suspicious President.
"Diligent? That's for the sake of the Imperial Bank's interests! That arrogant Irish kid thinks he can control me with a few newspapers?"
Grant snorted coldly and sat down in the leather chair.
"Howard.
Any news from the person I sent to contact the informant inside the Democratic Party? Have you figured out what the Democratic Party intends to do with that million dollars?"
Marshall's expression became extremely unnatural, and he cast a noticeable glance at the two security guards standing in the carriage.
"You two go outside and guard the door.
No one is allowed to get near," Marshall said to the security guards.
The two security guards immediately saluted, exited the carriage, and closed the wooden door tightly.
Only Grant and Marshall were left in the carriage.
Marshall walked over to Grant, his face pale, even sweating a fine layer of cold sweat on his forehead.
"Mr.President."
Marshall swallowed hard, his voice lowered to a whisper, as if he were afraid of eavesdroppers.
"The informant has sent word back.
But...
the way things are heading is completely different from what we expected."
Grant's hand, holding the liquor bottle, froze in mid-air.
He looked at Marshall's terrified expression, and his brow furrowed deeply.
"What's the problem? Did the Democratic Party embezzle the money?"
"No."
Marshall took a deep breath and leaned into Grant's ear to whisper a sentence.
The moment he heard this sentence.
Grant's pupils contracted violently to the point of pinpricks.
The expensive bottle of Bourbon in his hand slipped and fell, hitting the carpet with a "bang," splashing brown liquor everywhere and soaking his leather shoes.
This federal general, who hadn't changed his expression even when facing cannon fire during the Civil War, now sprang up from his leather chair like a furious lion whose tail had been stepped on.
He grabbed Marshall by the collar, his eyes bloodshot, and roared.
"What did you say?!"
The night wind of Indianapolis battered the glass windows of the presidential train, and the air inside the carriage instantly froze due to President Ulysses's deafening roar.
The bottle of Bourbon whiskey smashed onto the carpet rolled into the corner, the brown liquid seeping into the expensive Persian rug and emitting a pungent smell of alcohol.
Chief of Staff Howard Marshall was gripped tightly by the collar by President Ulysses, his body forced to lean forward.
Facing this President of the United States who had once commanded a million troops during the Civil War and was currently on the verge of extreme rage, Marshall's eyes appeared obscure and unreadable.
He did not struggle, merely lowering his voice cautiously.
"Mr.President, please let go first.
There are security personnel outside the carriage."
Marshall's tone maintained the composure expected of a staff member, even carrying a hint of imperceptible admonition.
President Ulysses stared fixedly at Marshall, panting heavily, his chest heaving violently.
After a full ten seconds, he suddenly let go, forcefully pushing Marshall back onto the sofa.
"Speak!"
President Ulysses paced back and forth in the narrow carriage, his leather shoes crunching on the broken glass with a tooth-aching sound.
"Tell me everything those informants in Washington heard, completely! What exactly has Argyle been doing behind my back?"
Marshall straightened his rumpled collar and sat up straight.
"Mr.President, the intelligence is highly reliable."
Marshall looked at President Ulysses with a serious expression.
"It is said that Argyle already knows.
Yes, he knows about the plan you discussed with us.
He knows you intend to use the administrative power of the Federal Government after your reelection in the midterm elections to support other local commercial forces to suppress him."
President Ulysses stopped abruptly and turned his head.
"Why? How could he know? That was a closed-door meeting!"
"There has never been a truly closed-door meeting in this world, has there? Mr.President." Marshall sighed.
"Argyle's dollars can pry open any door.
But that is not the key; the most critical part is his counterattack."
Marshall leaned forward, his voice lowered even further.
"Our informants confirmed that shortly after that money was sent, the head of the intelligence organization under Argyle, that guy named Timmy, secretly contacted several core bigwigs of the Democratic Party."
"And that's not all."
Marshall paused, observing President Ulysses's expression.
"He also secretly visited someone late at night."
"Who?"
President Ulysses's intuition made him feel uneasy.
"It was the vice president, Thomas Clark."
As soon as this name was spoken, President Ulysses felt as if his brain had been struck hard by a heavy hammer.
He took two steps back and slumped into the leather chair, the muscles on his face twisting from extreme shock and anger.
"Thomas?"
President Ulysses gritted his teeth, squeezing these words out from between them.
"What do they want to do?"
"Isn't it obvious? Mr.President."
Marshall looked helpless and spread his hands.
"Clearly, Argyle intends to unite with the Democratic Party, along with those in the Republican Party who belong to Clark's faction, to weave a web in the dark.
Perhaps their ultimate goal is, at the right moment, to drive you from this position.
And then, support Mr.Clark to ascend to the presidency."
In the carriage, only the rumbling sound of train wheels hitting the tracks remained.
President Ulysses leaned back against the chair, feeling terrible, even finding it difficult to breathe.
Thomas Clark.
That old man who was always smiling in The White House, looking as if he had no worldly ambitions.
President Ulysses knew Clark's political weight all too well.
In the eyes of the general public, Clark might just be a deputy.
But in Washington's bureaucratic system, Clark's prestige was even higher than his as president.
Clark had served as Secretary of the Treasury and Secretary of the Interior, and now he was the vice president of the United States of America and concurrently the President of the Senate.
He was a well-deserved veteran bigwig within the Republican Party.
At least one-third of the members on Capitol Hill had either been promoted by Clark or had received political contributions from the Argyle Family.
As long as Argyle was willing to pay, and Thomas Clark was willing to step forward.
If these two teamed up, it was entirely possible for them to initiate impeachment in Congress, or in the next party primary, to sweep him, Ulysses, right out the door.
"That son of a bitch!"
President Ulysses slammed his fist onto the table, the solid wood surface emitting a dull thud.
"What did I give him? I gave him the railway franchise spanning America.
I also gave him federal procurement orders for Vanguard Military Industry, and I tolerated him issuing orders in New York like a local emperor!"
President Ulysses roared, pouring out his grievances and anger.
"Why? I only wanted to slightly balance the domestic situation after my reelection! I am the president of America; I cannot sit idly by and watch one family swallow up the entire nation's economic lifeline! I intended to support others, to support those coal and iron bosses.
But I never thought about completely destroying him! The Argyle Family could have continued to be their kings of New York."
President Ulysses felt more aggrieved the more he spoke.
In his view, his actions were entirely legitimate means adopted by a mature politician for the sake of national balance.
"But what about him? He stabbed me in the back and even dared to collude with the vice president to usurp power!"
Marshall listened quietly to President Ulysses's roar.
He knew very well that this way of thinking by President Ulysses was selfish and hypocritical.
The president could suppress capital, but capital would never sit still and wait for death.
If President Ulysses himself were in Felix Argyle's position, facing the impending suppression from The White House, he would certainly have launched a counterattack without hesitation.
This is the game of power; there is no warmth to speak of.
President Ulysses calmed down a little after venting.
He casually picked up the half-smoked cigar on the table, struck a match to light it, took a deep puff, and a contradictory suspicion flashed through his mind.
"But Howard, this logic doesn't hold up."
President Ulysses frowned, staring at Marshall.
"If Argyle has already decided to join forces with Clark to drive me from office, then why does he still have the newspapers under the News Media Company, distributed everywhere, singing my praises on the front page every day? He could easily use that retirement fund bill right now to incite the public against me in the newspapers.
Why would he help me get votes?"
Suspicion flickered in President Ulysses's eyes.
"And even if he wants to drive me from office, that would be after the midterm elections, or even two years from now.
Isn't he worried that in the next two years, I will use all the power of The White House to cause trouble for him and Clark?"
President Ulysses exhaled smoke from his mouth.
"Or is it that he, Argyle, has become so arrogant to this extent? That he thinks I, the president of the United States, cannot bring him any substantial trouble at all?"
This question struck at the core.
Although President Ulysses was an impulsive person, he was not dull in his political sense.
He instinctively felt that there was a sense of dissonance in this explanation.
Facing President Ulysses's question, Marshall's expression did not change in the slightest.
Instead, he sighed heavily and looked straight into the president's eyes.
"Mr.President, you are still looking at that Wall Street oligarch through the lens of traditional politics."
There was a chill in Marshall's voice.
"Why did he let the newspapers continue to promote you? Perhaps because this is his hedging strategy.
He doesn't necessarily want to make a move to force you out of office right now.
Only after you are re-elected can the retirement fund bill involving hundreds of thousands of public servants be successfully implemented.
Only then can the Imperial Bank legitimately obtain that massive federal trust fund."
Marshall began to fabricate a reasonable logic for Felix Argyle's behavior.
"After all, Argyle is a businessman, and profit is always his top priority.
Before he gets the treasury's money, he won't tear off the mask with you.
As for whether you will cause trouble for him two years from now?"
Marshall sneered.
"Mr.President, you just said it yourself.
He has become arrogant to the extreme.
With Thomas Clark shielding him in the Senate, do you think you can pass any antitrust bill against him? He doesn't care at all about you throwing a tantrum in The White House.
He just treats you as a tool for signing bills.
Once he has earned enough money and Clark's prestige has reached its peak, he might just kick you away like a piece of dirty rag."
President Ulysses's fingers holding the cigar turned slightly white.
Marshall's explanation perfectly fit the image of Felix Argyle as an arrogant, profit-driven capitalist.
Seeing President Ulysses's face turn gloomy, Marshall knew the time was ripe.
It was time to throw that most lethal bomb.
"And, Mr.President."
Marshall's voice suddenly became extremely low, even carrying a hint of trembling warning.
"You just asked if he isn't worried about you causing him trouble?"
"Do you really think that if he and Clark wanted to seize power, they would be stupid enough to engage in a long-drawn-out political war of attrition with you in Congress?"
President Ulysses was stunned, looking at Marshall.
"Howard, what exactly are you trying to say?"
Marshall did not answer directly, but instead brought up another seemingly unrelated department.
"Mr.President, think about the current Federal Intelligence Department.
That core agency responsible for national internal security and providing eyes and ears for you."
Marshall swallowed his saliva.
"The current deputy director of the Federal Intelligence Department, Flynn.
Who was he before? He was the head of the Argyle Family's Intelligence Department! Back then, in order to deal with the remnants of the Southern forces, you personally agreed to let Argyle incorporate half of his Intelligence Department's personnel into the Federal Intelligence Department."
President Ulysses's heart skipped a beat, as if he had grasped something.
"Now, in the entire federal intelligence sector, more than half of the mid-to-high-level agents are former employees of the Argyle Family! They are drawing federal salaries, but their old boss is still sitting in the Empire Bank Building!"
Marshall's speech speed increased, like striking an alarm bell.
"Mr.President.
No one knows how many people in the current Federal Intelligence Department are loyal to you, and how many are working for the Argyle Family.
Your itinerary and visitor records, even how much whiskey you drank in this carriage tonight.
With just one word from Timmy, the people in the Intelligence Department can deliver the news to New York within half an hour! Otherwise, how would Argyle have known about your plan?"
Cold sweat instantly seeped from President Ulysses's back; he finally understood what Marshall meant.
"You mean..."
President Ulysses's voice was a bit hoarse.
"Mr.President, you must be careful."
Marshall's eyes became deep.
"Have you forgotten President Lincoln?"
"In 1865, that assassin named Booth."
These words broke through President Ulysses's psychological defense.
"You know, when President Lincoln was assassinated back then.
Although he luckily escaped because of the bulletproof carriage that Argyle sent.
But you know better than I do how dangerous that assassination attempt was."
As he spoke, Marshall stared fixedly at President Ulysses.
"If you are really prepared to use the power of The White House to deal with Argyle, and he happens to need vice president Clark to take over supreme power in a logical way..."
Marshall did not finish his sentence.
But politically, what is the fastest and most legitimate way for a vice president to succeed a president?
The president dies accidentally!
President Ulysses's hand holding the cigar began to tremble violently.
A piece of hot ash fell onto his suit trousers, but he was completely unaware.
He was a soldier who had seen life and death on the battlefield, not afraid of charging into artillery fire on the front lines.
But he feared this kind of assassination that hid in the dark, coming from within.
Especially when this potential assassin held the largest intelligence network in all of America and had already infiltrated his own security system.
Of course...
Looking at President Ulysses's expression of mixed fear and shock, Howard Marshall, standing on the side, actually knew clearly in his heart.
Felix Argyle was an extremely rational oligarch; it was absolutely impossible for him to do something as thankless and messy as assassinating the president of the United States.
This kind of extreme physical elimination did not fit the commercial logic of maximizing the interests of the Argyle Family at all.
But he, Marshall, had to say it.
In his mind, a scene from a few days ago in Washington flashed by.
That mysterious person pushed a black briefcase filled with bearer bonds and cash in front of him.
Worth five hundred thousand dollars.
The mysterious person's request was very simple: he only needed to plant the seeds of doubt in the ear of President Ulysses.
To make him develop an unbridgeable estrangement and fear toward the Argyle Family.
Marshall had accepted the money.
After all, for a White House Chief of Staff in Washington who earned a fixed salary of twenty thousand dollars a year, five hundred thousand dollars was enough for him to buy an estate in Europe and live like an aristocrat.
What he was doing now was just taking money to do a job.
Using the most vicious logic and the shadows of history, he successfully cultivated that evil flower named "suspicion" in President Ulysses's heart.
"Howard."
President Ulysses's voice had completely lost the composure of a president, leaving only the ruthlessness necessary to strike first for survival.
He crushed the cigar in his hand into the ashtray.
"You are right; I cannot risk my life to test the mercy of a capitalist."
President Ulysses stood up, pressing his hands on the desktop.
Although the current situation between the two sides had not reached the point of tearing off the mask and resorting to assassination.
But, who could guarantee that?
Who would dare to gamble on the real thoughts of an oligarch who controlled the national intelligence network?
President Ulysses did not want to gamble.
"Marshall, go send a telegram."
President Ulysses issued the order in an icy tone.
"Under the highest executive order of The White House, send a telegram to the Department of Justice and the Department of the Interior.
Right now! Immediately!"
Grant stared at Marshall.
"First, suspend Flynn from his position as Deputy Director of the Federal Intelligence Agency! Make him hand over his service weapon and credentials, and subject him to an internal investigation.
Within the Federal Intelligence Agency, all senior positions previously held by those with a background in the Metropolis Security Team are to be temporarily suspended.
Replace them with reliable personnel brought in from the military."
"Second, send people to New York, to Long Island."
A sinister glint flashed in Grant's eyes.
"Go and monitor the important figures of the Argyle Family.
Felix Argyle, Catherine, and other company heads.
Report to me immediately if there is any situation."
Grant gritted his teeth.
"Want to treat me like a blind and deaf man? I will gouge out his eyes first!"
The air in the carriage became oppressive due to the orders Grant had issued.
"As you command, Mr.President."
Marshall did not show any unnecessary emotion; he accepted the order with extreme decisiveness.
He picked up the overcoat draped over the back of the sofa, bowed slightly, and then turned and walked out of the presidential private carriage, which was filled with the smell of whiskey and cigars.
Pulling open the carriage door, a cold wind mixed with coal dust blew in.
Marshall walked along the narrow corridor toward the temporary communications carriage connected to the middle of the train.
The Secret Service security personnel stationed along the way stood straight and saluted when they saw the Chief of Staff approaching.
Marshall just nodded expressionlessly.
Deep inside, a complex sense of excitement was churning.
With just a few carefully woven lies, he had easily leveraged the highest power of the United States.
He seemed to see a huge storm sweeping through Washington and New York, slowly taking shape under his instigation.
Pushing open the iron door of the communications carriage, inside was a massive, state-of-the-art telegraph machine made of brass and walnut.
The telegraph operator sitting in front of the machine, O'Brien, was a young man in his early twenties.
Seeing the Chief of Staff walk in late at night, he immediately stood up from his chair and took off the monitoring headset.
"Mr.Marshall, are there any urgent instructions?"
O'Brien asked nervously.
"Sit down and prepare to send a telegram.
Highest-level encrypted line, direct to the Department of Justice in Washington."
Marshall walked to the telegraph machine and took out the codebook he carried with him from his pocket.
Then he picked up the pencil on the table and scribbled down the extremely harsh executive orders that Grant had just issued on a blank telegram form.
After writing, he pushed the slip of paper in front of O'Brien.
"Send it out."
O'Brien lowered his head, his eyes scanning the content on the slip of paper.
When he saw the words "suspend Deputy Director Flynn from his position," "suspend all former Argyle Family employees," and "monitor the Argyle Family," the young telegraph operator's hands trembled involuntarily.
In Washington, anyone with even a little political sense knew.
What Flynn represented, and what the Argyle Family represented.
Once this telegram was sent out, it meant that The White House and that massive business empire in New York were gradually tearing off the mask of civility.
"Mr....
Mr.Marshall."
O'Brien confirmed stammeringly.
"Are you sure this...
is this personally authorized by Mr.President? A purge against the Federal Intelligence Agency..."
"Yes, soldier."
Marshall's eyes instantly turned like knives.
"Start executing the order.
If you say one more word in this carriage, this time tomorrow, you will be facing charges of treason in a military prison."
O'Brien was scared pale.
He dared not say anything more, immediately put on his headset, and placed his trembling fingers on the telegraph key.
"Tick...
tick-tick-tick..."
The crisp and rapid sound of the telegraph rang out in the small carriage.
Each character sent represented an order for a purge.
In the distant Department of Justice building in Washington.
After the duty officer received this top-secret telegram sent from the presidential private train, the entire building was instantly awakened.
Several teams of fully armed federal agents set out overnight; they knocked on the door of Flynn's apartment in Washington D.C.
to inform him of his suspension.
Facing these former colleagues, this security chief who once killed without blinking an eye just looked coldly at the leader of the group, and then handed over his service weapon and credentials without a word.
Immediately after, in various departments of the Federal Intelligence Agency.
Those senior executives who had once drawn a salary from the Argyle Family and were later incorporated into the government were all awakened from their sleep and told to immediately cease all duties and prepare to undergo internal investigation.
A surveillance net, personally ordered by the President, also began to spread in the dark.
Dozens of the most capable trusted agents boarded a train to New York overnight.
Their targets were clear: Argyle Manor in Long Island, the Empire Bank Building in Manhattan, and other company heads.
Meanwhile, in the communications carriage of the presidential train.
O'Brien let out a long sigh after translating the received telegram and tore off the stub of the paper tape.
"Mr.Marshall, the telegram has been received.
Washington replied that the instructions have begun to be executed."
Marshall nodded.
He picked up the paper tape stub, struck a match, and watched the flames swallow the words that could cause turmoil.
Afterward, he threw the burning paper into the iron wastebasket nearby.
Marshall walked to the carriage window.
Outside the window was the pitch-black wilderness of Indiana, with occasional sporadic lights flickering in the far distance.
Starting tonight, the political landscape of America will face an earthquake.
Although Grant's order was decisive, in Marshall's view, it was more like an acute stress reaction after being cornered by fear.
And in his opinion, once Grant completely calmed down, he would definitely choose to repair the relationship between the two parties.
After all, it hasn't reached that point yet, and what he said was just a fantasy.
But it didn't matter; his mission was accomplished anyway.
Old Morgan's five hundred thousand dollars were well spent.
It not only cut off Felix Argyle' most capable intelligence tentacles within the Federal Government but also established an unbreakable line of defense between the President and the oligarch.
That's right, Marshall could guess whose people sent him the money.
After all, who in the entire America doesn't know that Argyle is currently strangling the Morgan Family.
Marshall looked at his own obscure face reflected in the carriage window glass.
He remembered an occasion at a high-end dinner party in Washington where Argyle displayed that attitude of not taking him seriously, holding everything in his grasp.
"Do you think you can buy the whole world with money?"
The corners of Marshall's mouth curled into a sneer full of mockery and malice.
Looking at the night outside the window, he whispered in a voice only he could hear.
"Argyle, you are too arrogant."
The windows of the Westinghouse Electric laboratory in Pittsburgh were tightly covered with thick black cloth.
Inside, blinding blue electric arcs flashed from time to time, accompanied by the teeth-grinding hiss of electric current.
Thomas Edison held a pair of insulated pliers, hunched over a crude generator model.
His hands were covered in machine oil and copper rust, and his hair was as messy as a bird's nest.
"Damn it, why is the resistance of this coil set still wrong!"
Edison threw the insulated pliers heavily onto the wooden table, letting out an irritated curse.
"George! I told you long ago, using this purity of copper simply won't achieve the required magnetic field strength.
When exactly will that batch of high-purity copper wire we need be delivered?"
George Westinghouse, standing not far away, looked up.
Compared to Edison's irritability, this engineer, who was equally gifted in the fields of mechanics and pneumatics, appeared much calmer.
"Heh heh...
Thomas, calm down.
The railway freight in Philadelphia is a mess right now.
I heard from people at the freight station that there was a major accident at the Federal Steel Company plant, and the scheduling for several surrounding railway lines is in total chaos."
Westinghouse picked up a rag to wipe his hands and walked over to Edison to take a look at the scorched coil set.
"We have to learn to use the existing materials to test the frequency limit of the Alternating Current.
You can't always expect perfect parts for every experiment.
That's a scientist's fantasy; we are engineers, OK?"
Edison snorted coldly and grabbed the half-cup of cold coffee on the table, downing it in one gulp.
"Old friend, we aren't taking money from Wall Street.
That old man Morgan sitting in London gives us tens of thousands of dollars in funding every month.
If we can't produce a stable model that can make a light bulb shine, who knows if he will pull the funding directly."
Just as the two were arguing about the progress of the experiment, the heavy iron door of the laboratory was knocked on forcefully from the outside.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Westinghouse frowned and turned to look at the door.
"Who's out there? We said we wouldn't accept any visitors during the experiment!" Westinghouse shouted.
"Open up! Mr.Westinghouse! It's me, Miller!"
A somewhat urgent voice came from outside the door.
Miller was the financial agent Cavendish had left in Pennsylvania, specifically responsible for supervising and coordinating the funding operations of this laboratory.
Westinghouse walked over and pulled back the door bolt.
As soon as the iron door was opened a crack, Miller squeezed in like a stray dog chased by wild dogs.
His originally decent suit was wrinkled, his leather shoes were covered in mud, and his face was terrifyingly pale.
"What happened? Miller."
Edison walked over, still holding a piece of copper in his hand.
"Did Mr.Morgan decide to cut our budget for next month?"
"Cut the budget? Oh, God.
Are you still worried about that?"
Miller leaned against the door panel, panting, and looked at the two inventors immersed in wires with a speechless expression.
He swallowed, pulled a telegram copy stamped with a wax seal from his briefcase, and slapped it directly onto the nearby experimental table.
"Listen, guys! Stop all the experiments in your hands! Immediately!"
Miller's voice echoed in the empty warehouse.
"Stop the experiment?"
Edison widened his eyes, looking at Miller as if he were a madman.
"Has your brain been flooded with water? The rotor model of the Alternating Current motor is undergoing fatigue testing.
If we stop now, our experimental data from the past two months will be completely wasted!"
"We can't care about your data now." Miller almost roared.
"This is an order sent directly by Mr.Morgan from London.
It's not a budget cut, it's an evacuation! Evacuate America!"
This sentence stunned both Westinghouse and Edison at the same time.
"Evacuate America?"
Westinghouse picked up the telegram copy, quickly scanned the content, and frowned deeply.
"Miller, are you sure this isn't written wrong? It tells us to pack up all experimental data, blueprints, and those removable core equipment within three days.
Then immediately take a train to New York Harbor and board the next British passenger ship to London?"
"Yes! It must be completed within three days!"
Miller paced anxiously in place.
Edison snatched the telegram, took one look, and then crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it on the ground.
"Bullshit! This is absolute nonsense!"
Edison's temper completely exploded.
"Go to London? That broken island where it rains and is foggy for three hundred days a year? What about our experimental environment? How are we supposed to move the high-voltage test bench that we worked so hard to build here? That thing weighs two tons!"
Edison pointed at the massive iron lump in the corner.
"I'm not going, I'm an American! America has the best rubber and the best craftsmen, as well as the most tolerant experimental grounds.
Run to work under the noses of those arrogant British nobles in London? They can't even tell the difference between a generator and a spinning machine.
What exactly is Mr.Morgan thinking!"
Facing Edison's resistance, Miller showed a bitter smile.
"Thomas.
Do you think Mr.Morgan wants you to move? To tell you the truth, America is no longer safe." Miller lowered his voice.
"You only know how to tinker with inventions here; you have no idea what's happening outside.
All of Mr.Morgan's heavy industrial investments in America—steel mills, pharmaceutical companies—are completely ruined.
A few mornings ago, they were turned into scrap metal by someone's methods.
Mr.Cavendish is already terrified and is hiding in Philadelphia, not even daring to step out the door."
Westinghouse's eyes changed.
Although he didn't care about commercial infighting, this scale of destruction was definitely not ordinary commercial competition.
"Who did it?" Westinghouse asked.
"Felix Argyle." Miller spat out the name.
"That's right, it's that tyrant who controls New York and half of the American railway network.
Now, Morgan Bank's assets in America are like meat on a chopping block."
Miller pointed to the experimental tables scattered with blueprints.
"Although your laboratory is very secret and hasn't produced any commercial profit, it is taking money from Morgan Bank! If Argyle's people find this place, do you think he will let it go? He will burn your blueprints and generators to the ground!"
These words made Edison shut his mouth.
Although he was irritable, he wasn't stupid.
As a former employee of the Argyle Family, he knew all too well the power of the Argyle Family in America.
"Therefore, the partners in Europe have strongly demanded it.
Westinghouse Electric must move to London immediately.
Continue research and development under the protection of the British government." Miller looked at the two.
"The employment contract clearly states that technical patents belong to the investors.
If you don't leave, Morgan Bank will immediately cut off all funding.
You won't get a single cent, and all your hard work will be wasted."
Westinghouse took a deep breath, knowing they had no choice.
Without financial support, conducting this kind of cutting-edge electrical research was simply a pipe dream.
"OK, I understand."
Westinghouse turned to look at the research assistants who were still in a daze.
"What are you all standing around for? Didn't you hear! Go find wooden crates and moisture-proof cloth! Prioritize packing all notebooks with data! Forget those heavy cast-iron bases; only dismantle the core copper coils and rotors!"
Edison gritted his teeth and kicked the iron bucket next to him hard.
"Damn it, one day I will be my own boss!"
Cursing aside, Edison still picked up a wrench and began to dismantle the generator model he treasured as if it were a treasure.
The laboratory fell into a state of busyness.
The sounds of wooden boards being hammered and blueprints fluttering intertwined.
However, across the street from this abandoned warehouse.
On a dilapidated coal carriage parked in a dark alley, a man wearing a tattered worker's jacket was staring intently at the gate of the laboratory through the gap in the carriage boards, holding a monocular telescope in his hand.
Watching the assistants who were starting to move empty wooden crates out, he curled his lips into a cold sneer.
He slowly put down the telescope, took a small notebook from his bosom, and wrote a line of text on it with a charcoal pencil:
"The target seems to have started evacuating; requesting instructions."
On the top floor of the Empire Bank Building, telegraph paper tape was piled high on the desk.
Felix leaned back in his leather chair, holding a cup of black tea.
Chief Secretary Edward Frost stood before the desk, holding intelligence from the City of London that had just been compiled by the cryptographer.
This intelligence had been gathered and transmitted back at top speed by agents lurking locally in London.
"Boss, the situation in London has been sorted out." Frost opened the file.
"In the current City of London, there are four main competitors that can rival Morgan Bank in size and have conflicting business interests.
They are the London branch of the Rothschild Family, Baring Brothers Bank, Hambro Bank, and the Lloyd family, which has been rising very rapidly in recent years."
Felix took a sip of tea with a calm expression.
"Give me the details.
I am looking for the most suitable knife, not a tiger that will bite back."
Frost nodded and began to analyze them one by one.
"First, there are Rothschild and Baring Brothers; these two are true veteran giants.
Their foundations are too deep, and they are inextricably linked with cabinet officials on Downing Street.
If we hand the intelligence to them, they might find the profit insufficient and could even turn around and sell it to Old Morgan to trade for concessions from Morgan Bank in Europe.
These veteran families are too difficult to control."
"What about Hambro Bank?" Felix asked.
"Hambro's main business is in Northern Europe and the Scandinavian Peninsula.
They don't have much conflict with Morgan Bank in North America, so they lack the motivation to launch an active attack."
Frost pulled out the final document and pushed it in front of Felix.
"Therefore, the best recommendation from the secretary's office is the Lloyd family."
Felix picked up the document and carefully examined the data on it.
"Lloyd Bank started in the circles of blacksmiths and merchants in Birmingham and has been expanding wildly in London over the past few years.
Their business focus is also on international trade settlement and railway bond underwriting, which highly overlaps with the core business of Morgan Bank."
A shrewd light flickered in Frost's eyes.
"More importantly, the Lloyd family has always been ostracized by those veteran aristocrats in London's upper society.
They are extremely eager to swallow a powerful opponent to prove themselves.
They have ambition and execution.
Furthermore, their size doesn't compare to Rothschild, which means that to take over Morgan's business, they must highly rely on the intelligence we provide.
Therefore, they wouldn't dare to turn against us easily."
Felix put the file down and tapped his fingertips gently on the desktop.
"The analysis is thorough; Lloyd is indeed the perfect choice.
Not only can they help do the dirty work, but their size is moderate, so we don't have to worry about being backlashed."
Felix thought for a moment, then raised his head to issue an order.
"Then go check, who is the business representative of the Lloyd family in New York?"
"I have already checked, Boss."
Clearly, Frost was well-prepared.
"Lloyd Bank has set up an office on Wall Street.
Their North American regional manager is named Jonathan Lloyd.
He is a peripheral member of that family, mainly responsible for helping them buy cotton and grain futures in London."
"Contact him and have him come to see me this afternoon."
An hour later.
In the private underground passage of the Empire State Building, a carriage quietly drove in.
Jonathan Lloyd, a British businessman with thick sideburns who appeared somewhat uneasy, walked into the reception room under the guidance of security personnel.
When he saw Felix sitting on the sofa, he could hardly believe his eyes.
After all, the invitation he received was issued by the Imperial Bank, and he thought it was for some business cooperation.
He did not expect that the person wanting to see him was actually this King of New York.
"Mr.Argyle, you wanted to see me?"
Jonathan took off his hat, appearing somewhat reserved.
Felix pointed to the chair opposite him.
"Sit down, Mr.Jonathan.
Everyone's time is precious; I like to talk business directly."
Felix watched as Jonathan sat down, and without any preamble, he threw out his idea directly.
"Your Lloyd Bank has always wanted to replace Morgan Bank's position in London.
Is that correct?"
Jonathan was stunned, then immediately tried to cover it up with vigilance.
"Mr.Argyle, we have a normal peer relationship with Morgan Bank.
We both serve the trade of the British Empire."
"Alright, put away those hypocritical diplomatic platitudes."
Felix interrupted him mercilessly.
"I invited you here today not to listen to you recite bank bylaws.
On the contrary, I am here to give your Lloyd family a big gift."
Felix threw a thick copy of a ledger onto the coffee table.
"Take a look at this."
Jonathan hesitated as he picked up the document.
When he opened the first page and saw the items listed, his expression changed instantly.
"This...
what is this?"
"This is a list of all the capital flows and losses Old Morgan has incurred in America over the past few months."
Felix leaned back on the sofa, stating the terrifying figures in a conversational tone.
"With the run on the New York United Credit Bank, he lost over a million pounds.
With the total paralysis of the Boston pharmaceutical factory and the Ohio steel mill, he poured in nearly another million pounds."
Felix stared at Jonathan's eyes, which were gradually widening.
"Old Morgan's Morgan Bank has already burned through at least 2.5 million pounds in America.
And it has all turned into bad debts that can never be recovered."
Jonathan's fingers began to tremble.
2.5 million pounds!
This was a huge sum of money sufficient to severely hurt the foundations of any multinational bank.
"Mr.Argyle, although this is a huge sum, given the foundation Morgan Bank still has in London, I'm afraid these losses are not enough to bankrupt them." Jonathan tried to remain rational.
"Foolish."
"Do you really think that the few million pounds Old Morgan squandered in America were all his own capital?"
Felix leaned forward, his voice low and full of temptation.
"You are all in the finance game; you should know very well about bank leverage.
How many deposits from aristocrats and merchants has Morgan Bank absorbed in London? In order to fight this war of attrition against me in America, Old Morgan long ago crossed the red line.
He has definitely not just used the money of those partners, but also the deposits of Morgan Bank's underlying savers!"
This sentence struck a chord with Jonathan.
It seemed so!
A net loss of 2.5 million pounds.
Even if half of it belonged to partners, Old Morgan simply couldn't scrape together the remaining funds from his own assets.
"You mean..."
Thinking of this, Jonathan swallowed hard.
"My meaning is very simple." Felix leaned back into the chair.
"I will provide this definitive ledger of losses to your Lloyd family for free.
You can use London's newspapers or the salons in the City of London to spread the news that Old Morgan used depositors' funds for high-risk industrial investments in America and lost it all."
Felix described the scene that was about to come.
"In London, where there is no deposit insurance, as long as the spark of panic ignites, perhaps by tomorrow morning, the door of Morgan Bank on Broad Street will be crowded with depositors demanding to withdraw their pounds.
Once a run occurs, and Old Morgan cannot produce the liquid funds burned in America, his bank will not last three days."
"And your Lloyd Bank only needs to be well-prepared and open its doors wide to receive those high-quality clients fleeing in panic from Morgan Bank.
Isn't this a very good takeover battle? After all, I heard your bank is the closest one."
Jonathan bowed his head and thought for a moment.
This didn't require them to fight Morgan head-on in a direct battle; they only needed to use the depositors' panic to easily destroy Morgan Bank.
"But, I don't understand..."