Reborn in America, I am a legendary short seller on Wall Street.

Chapter 229 A Secret Plan
October 4th, Thursday.

The air in London was damp and cold, and fog clung to the spires of the Gothic building of the Imperial Glory private club.

Inside, the fire in the fireplace burned fiercely, but it couldn't dispel Cecil Rhodes' inner anxiety.

He had just finished a tasteless dinner and was now sitting in front of a glass of brandy, listening to his British financier friend make a final plea to stay.

“Cecil, the New York newspapers are nothing but inflammatory clowns. Why bother with them? Your business is in Africa, in Congress, not in the mudslinging of those American nouveau riche,” his friend said slowly, sipping his port.

Rhodes' jaw tightened, and his light-colored eyes flashed with a sense of offense.

“You don’t understand, Arthur,” Rhodes’ voice was low. “This isn’t a war of words, it’s a challenge. A challenge from… the gutter. They’re not criticizing me, they’re trying to deny everything about me: my achievements, my methods, my authority. I have to go and crush this worm myself, and show everyone what happens when you challenge Cecil Rhodes.”

There was no anger in Cecil Rhodes's tone, only a cold, absolute certainty.

Once he's made a decision, no one can change it.

However, Rhodes did not notice that behind the oak columns in the distance of the club's reading room, a figure seemed overly focused on the Times in his hand.

This was an ordinary-looking, well-dressed, and unremarkable man.

His gaze never left Rhodes, and his ears caught every word drifting from the fireplace.

When Cecil Rhodes suddenly stood up and resolutely declared, "The ticket is booked, and I'll be departing from Southampton tomorrow morning,"

The man reading the newspaper also folded it almost simultaneously and imperceptibly, disappearing quietly into the shadows of the club.

An hour later, at the General Post Office on St. Martin in London, an encrypted telegram, sent in commercial code, crossed the vast Atlantic Ocean, bound for New York.

Content of the message:

"The prey has been provoked and has confirmed its departure. It is traveling on the White Star Line, the 'Ocean,' and is expected to arrive in New York Harbor in six days. First class. Be prepared to receive the 'cargo.'"

An hour later, in a secluded room in the backyard of a run-down Irish-owned bar in New York's Lower East Side.

The cheap cigars emitted pale blue smoke.

The air in the small, cramped room was stuffy. Three people sat around a kerosene lamp.

The leader had only half a cigar left in his hand. He had just finished translating a telegram from London and handed it to the middle-aged man next to him before stuffing the cigar back into his mouth.

The middle-aged man had black hair, wore a suit and a blue tie. He took the telegram, glanced at it, and smiled warmly. He then turned to the leader and said...

"Gentlemen, our British friend seems to be thoroughly enraged. He is on his way here in a furious rage. Our employer hopes... to silence him forever before he causes any more trouble."

The leader didn't speak immediately. Instead, he stared at the cigar in his hand for a while, then looked up at the third person opposite him before finally speaking.

“The information is accurate! Shi Mozi. Ship, schedule, cabin. We have people among the customs officers at the port who know his exact disembarkation time and route. The question is how to proceed, and how to escape afterwards.” The man named Shi Mozi was a young man in his twenties, with a composure and competence far beyond his years. At this moment, he was silently wiping a Colt M1873 “Peacemaker” single-action pistol with an oilcloth.

The gun was cold to the touch, gleaming blue in the dim light.

Shi Mozi's voice was calm, as if discussing the weather: "The port is crowded, it's the best place to make a move. Mix in with the dockworkers, close range, two shots, one to the chest and one to the head. Throw the gun into the sea, swim out from under the pier in the chaos, someone will be there to meet you in Brooklyn."

He pulled back the hammer, making a clear "click," and continued, "Or, we can do it on the street when he gets in the car. It'll be further away, but easier to escape."

The leader pondered for a moment: "It can't be like a street feud; it has to be like an 'accident' or a robbery. The quieter the better."

Shi Mozi nodded, pondered for a moment, and then said, "This is the best opportunity. Once he reunites with his people, he'll have too many bodyguards, and we'll need to increase our manpower as well, and it might not even be enough. 'Lawyer,' what kind of help can your employer provide?"

The middle-aged man, the "lawyer," smiled at the two men and continued, "My employer is deeply sympathetic to your cause. Mr. Rhodes' business tactics... also displease many American businessmen. Therefore, he is willing to provide all necessary intelligence and logistical support to help you complete your 'patriotic operation.'"

The leader's voice was deep, "What exactly does your employer want? We Boers seek revenge, not to be used as pawns by some American millionaire."

“My employer only wants one outcome: Cecil Rhodes to disappear from this world. Ideally, it should look like a failed robbery, leaving absolutely no evidence and certainly not suggesting any business rivalry. But, gentlemen, with all due respect, he will not admit to anything related to your operation. If you are caught, the Boer’s deep-seated hatred will become a point of sympathy for the world. This is the perfect cover for both of us.” The lawyer stared intently at the leader and Smith.

The leader was unsure how to say it, but Shi Mozi smiled.
"A perfect arrangement. You provide the stage and the precise itinerary of the objective, while we provide the motivation and execution. Once it's done, all the clues will naturally point to Transvaal, and your employer can rest assured... filling a certain market gap."

The lawyer shrugged. "For your republic, and two hundred thousand dollars!"

"We don't lack money, but thank you for your cooperation." Shi Mozi tapped his fingers on the table, a smile appearing on his face, and continued.
“Our men will take action at the dock, firing two shots at close range to ensure success. Afterward, he will dismantle the weapon and sink it underwater in the harbor. We need your men to create some chaos—for example, overturn a baggage cart or startle a horse…and we also need to arrange a small, unlit boat at Pier 3 for backup.”

The lawyer listened carefully, then nodded in satisfaction.

"We'll handle the chaos and the backup. The clothes, passes, and keys to the small boat will be delivered here tomorrow. As for the money, why not take it? Doesn't that make sense?" As he spoke, the lawyer stood up and picked up his hat and cane.

As he was leaving, the lawyer turned back to the two men and said, "Gentlemen, good luck. My employer expects to read that heartbreaking news in the paper in a week."

After saying that, he nodded slightly, as if he had completed a routine business negotiation, and turned to disappear through the door of the secret room.

The secret room was completely silent.

The leader looked at Shi Mozi, his tone very complicated.
"Yang, we're making a deal with the devil."

Shimozi's gaze was fixed on the telegram, his voice cold and stern, "No, Van der Meier. We are using one devil to kill another, even greater devil. For the future of the Boers, we can hold anyone's hand, even if it is stained with blood."

At this moment, in the shadows of the secret room, a person finally finished inspecting the firearms and chambered a bullet with a "click".

The cold, metallic clanging sound was particularly jarring in the silent room.

(End of this chapter)