Chapter 211: A Hasty Agreement
At the same time, in London.
News that Germany had conquered Poland in less than three weeks spread through the streets like a winter plague.
The British public reacted with chaos.
Some cursed Jörg as a war criminal and a liar, claiming that he had buried the truth beneath a carefully constructed lie, and that the Germans, like the Jews in the old prejudiced rhetoric of Europe, were a cancer gnawing at the continent.
Others believed Poland had brought the disaster upon itself. Britain, they argued, had no need to make military preparations for a war that did not concern it.
There were also those who openly defended Germany, declaring that the British Navy should sail toward France instead, carve up France, and finally end the grudge that had lasted for more than a century.
Amid this confusion, the impeachment against Chamberlain unexpectedly failed.
At the very least, he remained Prime Minister of Britain, and before the Christmas election later that year, he still possessed considerable power.
In a private residence on the outskirts of London, William Sempill was expressing his opinion at a cocktail party heavy with political undertones.
"To launch an attack against Germany is complete nonsense," Sempill said, holding a glass in one hand. "Why should we attack a country that has never made any dangerous statement toward us?"
His voice grew firmer.
"If we risk our entire national fortune and countless lives to fight the Germans until both sides are ruined, what then? The Russians could launch a great invasion, hang us from lampposts, drag the King's family into some basement, and machine-gun them just as the Romanovs were murdered."
As a baron, Sempill's words resonated deeply with the nobles present.
Compared with grand international affairs, they cared more about whether the crowns on their heads and the titles before their names would survive the coming age.
Even if Jörg was a liar and a war criminal, he was still part of the European royal system, and a distant cousin of the current King.
Falling into his hands was still better than falling into the hands of the Russians.
Just as Sempill's speech was reaching its climax, a maid gently tugged at the sleeve of his expensive suit.
"My Lord Baron, there is someone at the door looking for you. He brought a bouquet of... flowers."
When Sempill saw the beautiful bouquet of cornflowers, he immediately understood who had come.
After apologizing to his guests, he quietly left through the back door.
"Step aside," Sempill told the guard. "Mr. Piccolo's flower shop is the best in London. Open your eyes a little. You don't even know Mr. Piccolo, yet countless ladies, nobles, and politicians in London buy flowers from him."
After signaling the guards to move away, Sempill led Piccolo, a man with a gentle smile and refined bearing like an old-school noble, quickly into the wine cellar.
Sempill spoke first.
"Exposed? I heard several spies you planted were captured by MI6. I have already prepared passports and military orders for you. With them, you can..."
Piccolo shook his head.
"They will get nothing from those people. They are all insignificant pieces."
His voice remained calm and elegant.
"Rest assured, Mr. Sempill, I will not expose the evidence of your cooperation with the Japanese. My colleagues in the Navy Department still wish for me to thank you for the carrier aircraft and aircraft carrier technology you provided earlier."
He smiled.
"By the way, we have also arranged an award ceremony for you. If you have time, you should fly to Berlin. The Führer will personally decorate you."
Sempill smiled faintly.
During this period, he had obtained many benefits from the Germans. He had to admit that the terms offered by Germany were far superior to those offered by Japan.
"You did not come here merely to... thank me, did you?"
"Of course not, Mr. Sempill. I have a small matter to trouble you with."
Piccolo lowered his voice.
"Your payment will be in the warehouse at the harbor tomorrow. A warehouse full of penicillin."
Sempill, of course, knew what that meant.
As the situation in Europe grew increasingly tense, Germany had reduced its drug exports. Penicillin prices had already been inflated through the joint efforts of several nobles and merchants, and a warehouse full of it would earn him a considerable amount of pounds.
Naturally, his cooperation with Germany was not merely for money.
It was also an alternative path.
If Britain fell, he could still continue living as he did now.
If Germany failed and MI6 uncovered his dealings, that would not matter either.
Japan would become his other option.
"Tell me your small request, Mr. Piccolo."
Sempill accepted the warehouse key.
"I heard Britain is organizing a breakthrough in penicillin mass production technology. I would like you to help me investigate someone."
"Who?"
Piccolo pulled an issue of The Lancet International Weekly from his waist and handed it over.
A name had been circled in prominent red ink.
Alexander Fleming.
The published article beneath it bore an equally conspicuous title.
"Further Discussion on Penicillin Research."
On the other side of London, in Churchill's private apartment, Daladier, who had already been waiting for a week, sat on the sofa while scanning a newspaper printed with photographs of German soldiers raising flags in Poland.
A few minutes later, the door was pushed open.
Churchill, who had been rushing through London for an entire week, removed his top hat and delivered his support to Daladier.
"Mr. Daladier, on behalf of Britain, I fully support your counterattack against Germany in order to preserve the legitimacy of the military agreement between Poland, France, and Italy."
Daladier looked at him coldly.
"How can I be certain you are not deceiving me, Mr. Churchill? And you do not have the authority to represent Britain, do you? I read in the newspaper that the impeachment against Mr. Chamberlain has been suspended."
"He will not remain in that position after Christmas."
Churchill's voice was full of confidence.
"The Army, along with a large number of anti-German officials, politicians, and parliamentarians, all support my campaign. I have just returned from Buckingham Palace, and the Royal Family has also expressed support for us."
"What I say now can already represent Britain itself."
Under the light, Churchill's slightly plump face appeared especially resolute.
But only he himself knew the truth.
From the Royal Family, he had received only the support of Arthur George, Prince George.
Although King Edward V was under increasing scrutiny due to his emotional affairs, and his abdication had already been placed on the agenda, logically speaking, at least for now, Edward V remained the true representative of the Royal Family.
As for the Army, Churchill had not lied.
The overwhelming majority of high-ranking officers supported his decision. The issue of military spending had made many officers completely indifferent to Chamberlain.
But politically, he had told a very large lie.
Only slightly more than half of the politicians agreed to attack Germany.
Public opinion toward Chamberlain was also ambiguous. According to the latest poll, Chamberlain's approval rating had rebounded to thirty-five percent.
That meant Churchill had not yet fully secured the premiership.
All of his promises depended on him becoming Prime Minister.
If something unexpected happened, every word he had just spoken would become worthless paper.
"Are you certain, Mr. Churchill?"
Daladier's voice lowered.
"France will give everything to resist Germany. And France can also cut off the heads of traitors."
It sounded like a threat.
But in truth, Daladier himself was not confident.
Britain's support was essential to him.
"I promise you, Mr. Daladier," Churchill said solemnly. "As long as France launches an attack, Britain will fully support you. British soldiers will cross the English Channel and rush to the front lines the very next day."
Having received this promise, Daladier nodded slightly and quickly walked toward the door.
Watching his retreating figure disappear, an aide who had been waiting nearby asked, "Mr. Churchill, what if we do not win?"
Churchill lit a cigar and looked out toward Big Ben.
His eyes narrowed into thin slits.
"Ken, you do not understand."
Smoke drifted slowly from his lips.
"The moment the Army supported me, I had already won."
He gave a faint smile.
"You did not think I went to the Army merely to ask for support, did you?"
.....
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