Chapter 126: The Spark That Ignites the World (3)
Meanwhile, in London, England, in the reception room of the Rothschild family estate.
Lensenna held his teacup in both hands, his eyes resting on the exquisite five arrow emblem engraved along the rim, its golden lines gleaming beneath the crystal chandelier overhead.
On the wall hung a lifelike oil portrait of the family's founder, Mayer Amschel Rothschild. Beneath it was the family motto, embroidered in black and red wool:
"When gold coins clink upon the king's table, all problems cease to be problems."
A few minutes later, a middle aged man in a tailored suit entered the room. A golden five arrow pin gleamed on his chest. He stepped forward, extended his hand, and smiled.
"Mr. Lensenna. How many years has it been since we last met? You have grown much thinner."
"Nathan."
Lensenna rose at once and clasped his hand.
"You look exactly as you did several years ago. I have come this time to discuss a great undertaking with the Rothschild family."
After a few brief pleasantries, Lensenna did not waste time circling the matter.
"I have heard enough already," Nathan said calmly. "The Rothschild family is willing to assist, provided the situation is truly as you describe. If one intends to bring down a high ranking military officer, then the gentlemen in Parliament must first be made to feel a real and immediate threat."
He paused, then added with meaning,
"And even then, it will require considerable effort."
Nathan raised a hand, dismissing the attendants stationed at either side of the room. Once they had withdrawn, he poured a fresh cup of coffee for Lensenna, then picked up a knife and fork, cut himself a small piece of Napoleon cake, and placed it into his mouth with leisurely precision.
Lensenna understood at once. Nathan was not merely offering help. He intended to take his share of the carcass as well.
Smiling faintly, Lensenna took a sip of coffee and presented the price he had prepared long in advance.
"Once Cardolan Investment Company is secured, Imperial Eagle will be yours."
Nathan shook his head.
With the silver knife in hand, he cut himself a larger piece of cake.
"You want that officer removed because he is obstructing Germany's financial liberalization, yes? A single automobile company is nowhere near enough." He looked up at Lensenna and said evenly, "I want thirty percent of Cardolan Investment Company's shares."
Lensenna nodded without much hesitation. The figure remained within the range the club had already deemed acceptable.
He extended his hand.
"No problem. But I do have one question, Mr. Nathan. How exactly do you intend to influence the government?"
Nathan dabbed the cream from the corner of his lips with a napkin.
"That officer may have pushed through several useful diplomatic agreements, but not everyone in Britain is pleased to see a German growing so close to the Americans."
A faint smile appeared on his face.
"I need only stir the embers. Once that is done, the fire will rise on its own."
...
A week later, every corner of England was thick with rumor.
Because the police had truly slapped a reporter in public, the matter had instantly ceased to be a mere incident and become a cause. For journalists of the same profession, the affair was no longer about facts alone. It had become a question of dignity, of professional pride, and of whether the press could tolerate such humiliation without response.
The major British newspapers seized the matter at once.
Article after article began by denouncing police brutality, but very soon the reports grew sharper, broader, and far less restrained. Opinion slipped into speculation, speculation hardened into accusation, and accusation became a public narrative of its own.
Unlike the newspapers financed by Germany, British papers had no need to fear foreign supervision. They wrote freely, and when freedom mixed with profit and political intent, imagination expanded faster than truth could follow.
At first, it was merely said that a courageous reporter had uncovered an evil government's secret rearmament plan.
A few days later, the story had already swelled into claims that the German Army was preparing forces in Hamburg for an armed landing on London itself.
The pubs became breeding grounds for the rumors.
Every half drunk conversation gave them new shape. Every patriotic speech made them more poisonous. The faint winds of peace that had begun to stir across Britain over the past year were snuffed out almost overnight by the resurrection of the German threat.
The Rothschild family moved with practiced precision.
Politicians under their patronage began spreading alarm through drawing rooms, clubs, and dinner circles. Men with influence whispered to men with titles. Editors spoke to financiers. Backbenchers spoke to local organizers. At the same time, street gangs funded through hidden channels marched beneath the banner of opposing war, turning agitation into spectacle and spectacle into pressure.
In London, at Downing Street.
After reading reports sent in from various regions, Baldwin lifted his head and asked the director of MI6,
"Is any of it true?"
The director answered with careful honesty.
"Not necessarily. There was indeed a motor chase, but we handed the photographs over to Mr. Dahlen from the Army Survey Office, and he gave me a very clear reply."
Baldwin remained silent, so the man continued.
"The artillery pieces in those photographs are not the so called new weapons. Some are Czech K series guns. Others are obvious fabrications. The tanks the papers are calling German armored innovations are, in fact, French Renault FT 17s."
He gave a dry smile.
"Mr. Dahlen was quite confident. He said the photographs have absolutely nothing to do with new weapons."
Then his expression grew more thoughtful.
"Even so, I believe diplomatic pressure can still be applied to Germany. Something of importance may indeed have been caught on that detective's camera. If not proof of rearmament, then perhaps proof of something worth leveraging."
Baldwin offered no immediate reply.
He merely gestured for the man to leave, then crossed his legs and sat alone in contemplation, weighing Britain's position.
Whether the allegations were true or false meant very little to him now.
The first point was that Britain could no longer afford to remain neutral. Public opinion had already been stirred too deeply. The government had to offer the country an explanation, or at least the appearance of decisive action.
The second point was far more important.
According to reports from the Foreign Office, as well as his own assessment of Deputy Commander in Chief Jörg von Roman's stance on disputed territories and his increasingly formidable diplomatic ability, Baldwin understood one thing clearly: a man like that could not be allowed to slip away once he had finally shown a weakness.
And there was more.
The American shipbuilding agreement had been orchestrated by Jörg himself. Now Germany's shipbuilders, armed with lower costs and aggressive pricing, had begun swallowing large portions of Britain's market. The competition had forced wage cuts at home, and the resulting discontent among British shipyard workers had grown harder to suppress with each passing month.
That, too, could be used.
The ideal course, Baldwin thought, was not to destroy German shipbuilding outright. That would be foolish. The entire enterprise was too closely entangled with American interests. Britain could not afford to offend Washington unnecessarily.
No, the better outcome was simpler and more profitable.
A joint investigation under the banner of war crimes could be launched against Jörg. With that as leverage, Britain could pressure Germany into surrendering a portion of its shipbuilding profits. Once that was done, the government could pour new investment into the Royal Navy while presenting the matter at home as both justice and national defense.
Yes.
That was the proper shape of it.
Not destruction, but extraction.
Not war, but pressure.
Thinking thus, Baldwin reached for the telephone, dialed a number, and said only,
"Austin. Draft a diplomatic condemnation."
...
Two months later, German news had become a gathering storm over the United States.
Britain's diplomatic condemnation had exploded across the American press and seized the front pages. Reports that Deputy Commander in Chief Jörg von Roman was now under systematic investigation by foreign powers spread rapidly through financial circles, political clubs, and industrial boardrooms alike.
The effect was immediate.
At the New York Stock Exchange, the roaring momentum of the market faltered for the first time in months. Traders who had confidently predicted a fifteen percent rise by the closing bell watched in disbelief as the market climbed by less than five.
It was still an increase.
But it was no longer euphoria.
It was hesitation.
And hesitation, in such a market, was more dangerous than panic.
On his sickbed, Benjamin stared at the bold British diplomatic condemnation printed across the newspaper in his hands. Then he looked at the closing figures for the day and understood the truth at once.
Jörg, or rather Germany itself, had become tied to the American stock market far more deeply than most people realized.
So deeply that troubles in Berlin could shake confidence on Wall Street.
If Germany failed to act, if it failed to calm the situation by offering up some form of scapegoat or at least signaling that the country still remained a safe and stable environment for business, then the market could very well tumble into fear.
And that was not the worst of it.
What this slowdown truly revealed was something far more sinister.
The prosperity of the American market was resting not merely on profit, but on confidence in Germany, and on the delirious optimism of speculators drunk on endless growth.
Now that confidence had cracked.
And once trust cracked, prices could fall.
Once prices fell, fear would spread.
And once fear spread, the whole structure might come down far faster than it had risen.
Benjamin's face changed.
Ignoring the weakness of his body, he pushed himself upright and reached for the telephone. But before his hand could complete the motion, a sudden, savage pain clenched around his heart.
Meanwhile, in a high rise apartment in New York, Jack Morgan and Rockefeller sat facing one another in silence.
The question before them was simple.
Should they protect Jörg?
The answer arrived almost at the same moment for both men.
Their lips curved downward with cold unanimity.
No.
Neither of them had any wish to pour vast resources into salvaging his reputation.
As for friendship, what value did friendship have in the world they lived in?
More importantly, until now, they had possessed no leverage over Jörg. So long as that remained the case, Cardolan Investment Company in his hands could only be treated as a partner.
But now...
Now, everything was different.
.....
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