Provisional Office of Neva Technical Solutions, Saint Petersburg. September 3, 1910.
The saboteur had turned out to be a junior mechanic with gambling debts, recruited by an intermediary at the port who paid with pounds sterling deposited in an anonymous account in Stockholm. The Okhrana, motivated by the Tsarevich's cold anger, had 'interrogated' him with the usual enthusiasm of tsarist police. Before breaking completely, the man confessed that his instructions came indirectly from a British import firm: a phantom subsidiary as it turned out.
Professor Stanislav was pale as he read the interrogation transcript. The reality of physical violence had shattered his academic bubble.
"Your Highness, this is... dangerous," Stanislav murmured, placing the paper on the table as if it were contaminated. "They've tried to burn a military installation. It's treason. It's technically an act of war."
"It's an aggressive business act," Alexei corrected, seated in the professor's swivel chair, swinging his feet that barely touched the floor. "And it requires immediate corporate restructuring."
Alexei stood up and walked toward the large map of the Russian Empire hanging on the wall.
"Centralizing is a mistake, Professor," Alexei said, tracing an imaginary line with his finger. "Having all the engineers, all the blueprints, and all the prototypes in one place, here in Saint Petersburg or in Gatchina, makes us vulnerable. A well-placed fire, an anarchist bomb, and Neva Technical Solutions disappears in one night."
"What do you suggest then?"
"The Hydra Strategy: total decentralization," Alexei pronounced. "We're going to divide the operation into independent cells. Heavy engine design moves to the Urals, to the Demidov family foundries, where distance protects us. Explosives and fuel chemistry goes to Kazan University. Aeronautics stays in Gatchina, yes, but under heavy military guard from the Preobrazhensky Regiment (Преображенский полк)."
"That will make communication very slow, Your Highness. Innovation requires collaboration."
"Not if we use encrypted telegraph. And not if we use the compartmentalization system I'm designing." Alexei pulled out a sheet of graph paper filled with flow diagrams. "We're going to create watertight compartments. The chemists in Kazan won't know what fuselage the Gatchina engineers are working on. Only the central office, us, will have the complete picture. If someone manages to infiltrate a cell, they'll only compromise a fraction of the project, not the whole."
Stanislav looked at the diagram. Although he didn't know it, this was the scheme of a modern intelligence organization.
"It's brilliant, Your Highness. But defensive. We're still waiting for them to hit us."
"You're right," Alexei admitted with a wolfish smile. "That's why we need an offensive insurance policy. Something that makes the cost of attacking us unacceptable."
Alexei wrote a name in the paper's margin: Nobel.
"The Nobels?" Stanislav asked, surprised. "The ones who were the Oil Kings of Baku?"
"Yes. Emanuel Nobel hates the British consortiums and the American Standard Oil trying to steal the Russian oil market from him. And he has something we desperately need: a fleet of river and maritime oil tankers, and a global distribution network."
"Why do we want oil tankers, Your Highness? We make engines, we don't sell crude."
"To export the revolution, Professor," Alexei said. "Others are focusing on buying the future, but we're going to flood the market with the present. Prepare your best suit, Stanislav. We're going to make the Oil King an offer he can't refuse."
. . . . . . .
Two days later.
Emanuel Nobel's residence, Saint Petersburg.
Emanuel Nobel's office was a monument to industrial capitalism: dark mahogany, Persian carpets, and the smell of expensive cigars mixed with the phantom aroma of crude oil.
Nobel, a corpulent man with a graying beard and shrewd eyes, looked at the child seated before him with skepticism.
"Tsarevich," Nobel said, bowing his head slightly. "It's an honor. But my time is limited. I have ships stalled on the Volga and the British from Shell breathing down my neck."
"Exactly, Mr. Nobel," Alexei said, accepting the tea a servant poured for him. "The British want your market. They want to strangle Baku to control global prices. And they have the technology to do it."
"And what does a Court child know about oil refining?"
"I know you lose 40% of your crude in heavy residues because your refineries use simple distillation," Alexei said, putting down the cup. "And I know Neva Technical Solutions has the design for a thermal cracking process that can convert that residue into high-quality diesel and aviation gasoline. Doubling your production without extracting a single extra barrel from the ground."
Nobel remained motionless. Thermal cracking was the Holy Grail of the oil industry in 1910. Burton would patent it in the United States years later, but Alexei had the chemical principles in his head now.
"Efficient thermal cracking?" Nobel asked, his voice losing its arrogance. "Does it work?"
"Stanislav has the laboratory data," Alexei said, pointing to the professor, who handed him a thick folder. "We can build the fractionating towers in six months."
Nobel reviewed the documents quickly. His hands trembled slightly. It was liquid gold.
"How much do you want?" the magnate asked, pulling out his checkbook. "One million rubles? Two?"
"I don't want your money, Mr. Nobel," Alexei said. "I want an alliance. I'll give you the exclusive license for this technology for the Russian Empire. You'll crush British and American competition. You'll be the undisputed King of energy in Eurasia."
"In exchange for what?"
"In exchange for logistical protection. You'll use your ships and trains to move our materials without anyone asking questions. And you'll accept a special clause in the contract."
Alexei slid a prepared contract across the desk. He pointed to the final paragraph, marked in red.
[Poison Pill Clause]
Nobel read the text. His eyes opened wide.
"This is... this is madness, Your Highness. It says here that if Neva Technical Solutions or Nobel Brothers suffer a financial blockade, physical sabotage, or 'undue interference' from foreign entities... the cracking process patent is automatically released to the worldwide public domain."
"Exactly," Alexei confirmed coldly. "If someone attacks us, or attacks you for helping us, we publish the blueprints in the New York Times, Le Figaro, and The Times of London the next day. Free. For everyone."
"That would destroy the market!" Nobel exclaimed, horrified. "If anyone can refine cheaply, the oil price will plummet. My reserves would lose half their value. Rockefeller's too. It would be worldwide chaos!"
"It would be the largest value destruction in history," Alexei nodded. "A certain British firm that has been expanding occasionally this last time has massive investments in oil wells and technology. If we release the knowledge, their assets become garbage. They'd lose hundreds of millions."
Alexei leaned forward.
"It's a gun pointed at the world economy's head, Mr. Nobel. And my finger is on the trigger. Nobody will dare touch us if they know that, by doing so, they destroy their own fortune."
Nobel looked at the child. He saw the absence of fear.
"You're a monster, little one," Nobel said, with a mixture of repulsion and profound admiration.
"I'm necessary," Alexei responded. "Sign, Mr. Nobel. And let's build an Empire."
Emanuel Nobel took his gold fountain pen. His hand didn't tremble this time. He signed.
Russia had just acquired its shield.