The Twilight of Empire: Starting from Dunkirk

Chapter 128 Long Time No See, Old Deng

June 9, 1940, 00:15, London, Mayfair district, Dorchester Hotel, Lancaster Ballroom.

Brigadier General Arthur Sterling stood at the edge of the dance floor, his body in a restrained position.

A continuous feeling of pressure came from my left arm.

That's Jeanne.

She wasn't wearing gloves. Her fingers were rough, with calluses on her knuckles from years of operating tank controls. Through Arthur's heavy officer's coat, she gripped his biceps tightly. Her nails pointed straight down, almost digging into the wool fibers.

This is a warning. It's also a defense.

A completely different sensation came from my right arm.

That was Charlotte Parker's arm. She was wearing a white silk evening gown. The fabric was smooth and warm. Her side was pressed against Arthur's right rib. With each breath, her breasts shifted at the gold button.

This is temptation. This is possession.

The air was filled with a complex chemical composition. To the left were gun oil and diesel fuel, along with a faint, almost imperceptible, murderous odor. That was the smell of additives. To the right were acetaldehyde, jasmine, and cosmetics. That was the smell of London's high society. In the middle was the lingering scent of smoke and sweat on Arthur.

Arthur didn't move. His neck remained straight. His gaze was level, looking straight ahead.

In the upper right corner of his retina, a blue RTS interface was running.

[Area Scan: Complete]

[Host targets marked: 12 people]

[Neutral target: 108 people]

[Friendly unit location: Assembling in the lobby]

Charlotte Parker looked up, her chin almost touching Arthur's shoulder.

"Lord Sterling," Charlotte's voice was soft, her vocal cords vibrating, the air rushing against Arthur's ear, "I don't like that woman in uniform. Her hands are dirty."

This was actually said to Jeanne.

Jeanne turned her head, her pupils grayish-blue, and looked at the diamond necklace around Charlotte's neck.

"Miss Parker," Jeanne whispered in French first, then switched to broken English when she realized the other person didn't understand, "if you don't let go, I'll break your wrist."

Jeanne's gaze fell on Charlotte's slender wrist joints.

"Ulna and radius. Comminuted fracture. It only took two seconds."

Charlotte Parker instinctively looked up and met Jeanne's gaze.

Those grey-blue eyes held no emotion, no anger, and certainly no jealousy. Only assessment. Like a butcher assessing where to strike most quickly.

Charlotte's heart skipped a beat. She had never seen that look in her eyes at the London ball. It was the look of someone who had killed many people.

Fear is a pure biological instinct. In that instant, she instinctively released Arthur's arm and took a step back.

Two seconds later, her senses returned, and Charlotte's cheeks flushed red instantly.

That's shameful.

She was actually frightened by a maid in a coarse cloth uniform, in front of everyone. Anger surged within her, and Charlotte instinctively raised her right hand, palm facing outwards. She instinctively wanted to slap the woman across the face.

Charlotte had only raised her hand halfway when she saw her father standing not far away. Sir Reginald Parker was looking in their direction.

She remembered the task her father had given her in the car: "No matter what happens, we have to win him over. Sterling is key. Don't mess it up."

Charlotte's hand froze in mid-air.

If she slapped him, tonight's mission would be a failure. She bit her lower lip and took a deep breath. She slowly lowered her hand. The anger on her face vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced by resentment. Her eyes filled with tears.

This is a well-trained social performance.

"Lord Sterling—" Charlotte looked at Arthur, her voice trembling with tears. Women are always adept at using tears as a tool against men. "Aren't you going to do anything about it? Your servant—she tried to kill me."

Arthur didn't look at Charlotte. He turned his head slightly to the left, his gaze meeting Jeanne's. He didn't speak, only exchanged a glance.

Jeanne understood. She looked at Charlotte, let out a short, cold snort, and then retreated into the shadows behind Arthur, fifty centimeters away from his back—a standard guard distance.

Charlotte witnessed this, and the fear of being stared at by a wild beast vanished. The adrenaline subsided, replaced by a surge of dopamine from a social victory. The savage woman had backed down, which meant she had won this battle for territory.

She straightened her skirt, straightened her back, and pressed her body against him again.

Just then, the crowd parted. Sir Horace Wilson walked over.

hotel lobby.

Major Ryder stood in the center of the hall. He wasn't wearing the peaked cap that symbolized his rank, but rather an M1917 steel helmet. The helmet was coated with anti-reflective granular paint. Beneath the brim were a pair of alert eyes.

Thomas, the receptionist, was sorting through the bills when he heard footsteps. It wasn't the sound of leather shoes, but the sound of military boots with iron cleats striking the marble floor.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

This frequency reminded him of a military parade.

Thomas looked up and saw at least thirty soldiers. They were wearing Cold Creek Guards combat uniforms: khaki uniforms, canvas ammunition belts hanging in front of their chests, the primers of their bullets glowing bronze in the light. They carried Lee-Enfield No. 4 rifles, bolts cocked, bayonets mounted on the muzzles, each 43 centimeters long.

Thomas opened his mouth, and Major Ryder had already walked up to the counter.

Ryder placed one hand on the marble tabletop.

"The phone," Ryder said.

The side door was pushed open, and a gust of cold wind rushed in, instantly lowering the temperature in the lobby. Two elderly people walked in.

The person walking on the left was very fat, wearing a black three-piece suit, and his bowler hat was pulled low.

Although only his profile was visible, Thomas's pupils instantly contracted to the size of pinpoints.

Winston Churchill.

Thomas nearly stopped breathing. The current prime minister was at a property controlled by the former prime minister's family, accompanied by fully armed soldiers. Even a fool knew what this meant; this couldn't be a place for leisure.

Purges, coups—blood will soon flow here.

Thomas had to warn those upstairs, and he had to inform Sir Horace Wilson upstairs.

Thomas didn't reach for the phone with his right hand; that would be too slow. Instead, he reached under the counter. There was a red mute button there, leading directly to the security room in the second-floor banquet hall.

As soon as you press the button, the people upstairs will know something is wrong.

My finger touched the edge of the button.

A dark shadow blocked the light.

Major Ryder didn't speak or warn anyone. He simply raised the Webley revolver in his hand, held it upside down, and with a contraction of his arm muscles, swung it in one fluid motion.

Bang. A dull thud.

The hardwood gun butt slammed into Thomas's groin, splitting his skin and making a cracking sound. Thomas didn't even have time to scream before his mind went blank, and he collapsed behind the counter, blood splattering onto the registration book.

Churchill glanced casually at Thomas, who was slumped behind the counter, then turned to look at Major Ryder.

His eyes held a questioning look.

Ryder holstered his pistol, then had two soldiers drag the wounded man away before straightening his cuffs and smiling at Churchill, saying, "Sorry, Prime Minister."

"It's a habit I picked up in France. If I see someone making a fuss, I instinctively take action."

Churchill didn't speak; he took a lighter from his pocket. Click. He lit the cigar in his mouth.

"Good habit," Churchill said.

The communications soldier walked over, drew his tactical knife, and cut the telephone line.

"The blockade is complete," Ryder ordered.

Four soldiers pulled down the shutters on the main door, two soldiers cut off the power to the elevator, and a Bren light machine gun was set up at the top of the stairs, its black barrel pointing upwards.

Churchill glanced at the Patek Philippe gold watch on his wrist.

"Three minutes."

"Yes," replied Earl Sterling behind him.

The two stepped onto the marble floor and headed towards the stairs.

The music was very loud, and the high notes of the saxophone were somewhat shrill.

Sir Horace Wilson stands beside the champagne tower.

He was wearing a grey fine wool suit and thick, gold-rimmed glasses. He held a glass of Scotch whisky in his hand, without ice.

Sir Reginald Parker stood beside him, a cigar dangling from his lips.

The two walked through the crowd, and the surrounding guests automatically made way for them. They stood two meters away from Arthur.

Harold Sterling followed behind them, a broad smile on his face.

“Young Master Sterling,” Wilson began, raising his glass, “look around you.” Wilson’s arm traced a semi-circle. “These people are all here for you. Bankers, congressmen, shipping magnates. They’re all watching you.”

Arthur looked at Wilson. The pain in his left arm was still there, but his right arm was very warm, and Charlotte was clinging to him tightly.

But Arthur's facial muscles changed.

The zygomaticus major muscle contracts, the corners of the mouth turn up 15 degrees, and the orbicularis oculi muscle tightens slightly.

This is a standard, upper-class social smile.

There was no stiffness, no hesitation.

He had practiced this expression countless times at Eton College; it was the best camouflage, more effective than any disguise oil applied to the face.

"That would be my honor, Sir Horace," Arthur said, his voice relaxed, his tone steady and elegant. He nodded slightly in return to the toasts of the crowd around him, his movements fluid, proper, and impeccable.

In that instant, the smell of gunpowder on Arthur seemed to disappear.

He was no longer the commander who had just crawled out of a pile of corpses; he had reverted to the playboy who frequented the Mayfair district, the Sterling family's dandy, seamlessly integrating into this circle filled with perfume, alcohol, and lies.

The wariness in Wilson's eyes disappeared.

He saw what he wanted to see: a well-behaved young man and someone he could work with.

Charlotte Parker sensed Arthur's change, and her smugness deepened. She believed it was her charm at work, so she first glanced at her father as if seeking praise, and then pressed herself even closer.

Only Na sensed something was wrong.

Her fingers instinctively slipped into her pocket and gripped the gun handle. She glanced at Arthur's profile; his smile was perfect, yet it sent a chill down her spine. She knew it well: when Arthur, this chameleon, changed color, the hunt began.

"Very good." Wilson nodded in satisfaction and stepped aside to make way for him.

"We have someone who wants to see you," Wilson said. "She's the most important guest tonight."

A woman sits on a velvet sofa.

She wore a deep purple dress and a pearl necklace; her hair was gray and neatly combed.

Mrs. Anne Chamberlain was at the heart of this circle and a symbol of appeasement.

Arthur walked over, and Charlotte had to let go and step back.

Arthur stood before Mrs. Chamberlain, bowing slightly in greeting.

Mrs. Chamberlain looked up, her eyes filled with kindness, like those of a grandmother.

"Arthur," she said softly, "Harold told me you've suffered a lot."

"It's a soldier's duty, madam," Arthur replied.

Mrs. Chamberlain sighed.

“Neville hasn’t been sleeping these past few days. He’s worried about the children in France.” She reached out her hand, a hand clad in a lace glove, and took Arthur’s hand. “Arthur. You are a hero. Your words carry weight in the British Empire.” Lady Chamberlain looked into Arthur’s eyes. “Tell everyone. This war was a mistake. We need to end it. For the mothers. For the children. We need this generation to survive.”

This is a moral trap.

Using "life" and "motherly love" as weapons, they forced Arthur to surrender.

Wilson, standing nearby, promptly added, as if rehearsed beforehand, "The Germans have already sent a message through the Swedish ambassador. As long as we recognize their position in Europe, they will retain the British Empire's overseas colonies. And—the Sterling family will receive all of the Royal Navy's shipbuilding orders for the next fifty years."

Sir Parker nodded in agreement, taking a puff of his cigar. "Yes. As for the Coldstream Guard, we know they've returned."

"We will arrange for them to rest and recuperate in the rear. We will provide them with military supply depots in the central region or training camps in Scotland."

"There was no bombing. No fighting. They could even be sent home on leave."

"We assure you that we will never send them to fill the gaps in the defenses again. This is the respect due to heroes."

Seeing the two knights describing it so vividly to the lady, Harold chimed in, not wanting to be outdone, "Arthur, listen to this. It's a win-win situation." Harold's voice was excited. "You saved the soldiers. You didn't send them to their deaths. The family made money. The country gained peace. Even the lady herself spoke up."

All eyes were on Arthur, awaiting his answer.

On the RTS interface, all exits display: [Blocking in progress].

Arthur looked at Mrs. Chamberlain, at Wilson, and at Harold.

Due to muscle control, Arthur's facial expression changed, resulting in a smile that appeared genuine.

“You’re right, madam,” said Arthur. “Peace is precious.” Arthur turned to Wilson. “This proposal sounds very—reasonable.”

The air in the hall loosened.

Sir Horace Wilson smiled, his facial muscles completely relaxed, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes smoothed out.

He glanced at Mrs. Chamberlain sitting on the sofa, nodded slightly, and said, "Mission accomplished."

If Arthur's statement is published on the front page of tomorrow's Times, Churchill's war cabinet will collapse within 24 hours, the hawks will be purged, and Wilson will once again become the behind-the-scenes manipulator of 10 Downing Street.

There is no need for elections or debates; power will naturally return to his hands.

Sir Reginald Parker took a deep drag on his cigar, the smoke obscuring his pupils that had dilated for a moment.

He calculated that Sterling Heavy Industries' Clydebank shipyard, plus Parker Group's steel quota and the Royal Navy's new destroyer order, would total more than 50,000 tons.

Based on a profit margin of 15%, at 9:00 AM tomorrow, when the London Stock Exchange opens, Parker Group's share price will surge, and the red deficit on the balance sheet will turn into a black profit overnight.

Charlotte Parker didn't understand any of this, but she saw the satisfied look on her father's face, and she felt that she had won, and that wild woman in the coarse cloth uniform had lost.

Charlotte took another step forward, bringing the distance to zero. Her body pressed tightly against Arthur's right arm, the warmth of her body beneath the silk evening gown flowing freely between them.

She looked up at Arthur's handsome profile, the future Earl of Stirling, and she was the future Countess, the pinnacle of London's social circles.

Harold burst into excited laughter, his vocal cords vibrating violently, the sound echoing throughout the hall.

He looked at the Sterling Heavy Industries board members standing around him, his eyes filled with pride. Arthur was the first in line to the throne and a war hero; Arthur's statement was a weathervane.

Harold had already calculated in his mind that with Arthur's support and his own shares held on behalf of others, his total voting rights would exceed 51%, rendering the old Earl's remote control in Scotland ineffective. At tomorrow's board meeting, Harold would no longer be the "executive director," but would become the true helmsman.

Control of Sterling Heavy Industries will be completely in his hands.

"I knew it! I knew Arthur was a smart man!"

Harold turned and beckoned to the waiter.

"Champagne! A glass of champagne for everyone!"

The waiters came over with trays, and Harold picked up a glass of wine and handed it to Arthur.

"Come! To peace! To the Sterling family! To the British Empire!" Harold raised his glass. "To Mrs. Chamberlain!"

Arthur took the glass, the golden liquid swirled within, bubbles rose, and the surrounding guests raised their glasses.

"For peace!" someone shouted, the atmosphere was lively, and everyone was laughing.

Arthur looked at the wine glass in his hand, and in the upper right corner of his retina, the RTS interface refreshed.

[Area Lockdown: Complete]

[Hostile targets: All locked]

Arthur did not drink.

He looked at Wilson, who was smiling, a smile that reminded Arthur of the seagulls gnawing on corpses on Calais Beach.

"Sir Wilson," Arthur's voice rang out abruptly, piercing through the cheers, his tone suddenly turning cold, "before the celebration, I have a question."

The hall fell silent as everyone looked at Arthur, assuming he was about to give a toast.

"The peace you speak of," Arthur stared at Wilson, "is it the £500,000 that was wired last Wednesday through account number 304 at Credit Suisse in Zurich to Rheinmetall in Germany?"

Wilson's smile froze on his face, and Mrs. Chamberlain's hand trembled, spilling champagne onto her dress.

Arthur turned his head again and looked at Parker.

"Sir Parker. You spoke of the soldiers."

"This refers to your ocean-going fleet. Transporting Malaysian rubber and Swedish tungsten ore through neutral ports in Spain."

Was it transferred to the Blohm & Voss shipyard in Hamburg?

Parker's cigar fell to the ground, sparks flying.

"You—what are you saying—" Parker's voice trembled. "This is slander—"

Arthur ignored him and spoke faster.

"Tungsten ore is used to make the core of armor-piercing projectiles."

""

"Rubber is used to make tires for military trucks."

95

"That remittance was used to purchase precision machine tools."

Arthur took a step forward, closing in on Wilson.

"You're drinking 1928 Bordeaux wine here."

"You're eating Black Sea caviar here."

"You're here talking about stock prices. Talking about how to sell this country for a good price."

Arthur lifted his right foot, the sole of his boot landing on the carpet. It was a pair of black military ammunition boots, which, though polished, gleamed under the light.

But there were several deep scratches on the toes of the shoes, marks left by barbed wire, and the heels were badly worn. These shoes were completely out of place with his brand-new, custom-made Savile Row brigadier uniform.

Arthur pointed to his boots.

"In the afternoon, I changed my clothes."

"But I didn't change to this one."

Arthur looked at the black leather.

"Four hours ago. It was covered with Calais soil. Red clay."

"It contains the brain matter of Sergeant Jack from the 2nd Battalion of the Cold Creek Guards, which is our battalion."

"That was from German 105mm howitzers," Arthur said, staring at Parker. "And the tungsten ore used to make the shells was transported there by your fleet."

The hall was deathly silent. The ladies covered their mouths, and someone made a gagging sound. Mrs. Chamberlain was pale and slumped on the sofa.

"You ask me what the front lines are like?" Arthur raised his champagne glass. "The front lines are like this: when a Stuka bomber dives, a person's eyeballs will burst out of their sockets due to the change in air pressure."

"When a wound becomes infected with gangrene, the flesh turns black and emits a rotten, sweet smell."

"My soldiers are drinking muddy water from puddles. And you—"

Arthur looked at the golden liquid in the glass. "You're using this horse urine to celebrate your surrender."

Harold walked over, trembling, and tried to cover Arthur's mouth.

"Arthur! Shut up! You're insane! This is Mrs. Chamberlain!"

Arthur sidestepped Harold.

He raised his glass.

"You like to drink," Arthur said. "Then drink your fill."

Arthur loosened his grip, and the crystal glass fell to the ground under the influence of gravity, all eyes fixed on it.

Snapped.

The glass hit the ground, shattering into pieces, and golden liquid splattered everywhere.

Signal confirmed.

The banquet hall doors made a loud noise.

boom-!

Two heavy oak doors were smashed open at the same time, the locks broke, and wood chips flew everywhere.

Major Ryder was the first to rush in.

He pointed the Webley revolver at the ceiling.

Bang! A burst of fire shot from the muzzle as the bullet struck the plaster decoration on the ceiling, sending dust flying.

"Everyone! Get down!" Ryder roared.

A dozen soldiers rushed into the hall. Instead of moving in a straight line, they spread out and formed a tactical encirclement. The butts of their rifles smashed into the bodyguards who tried to stop them, producing dull thuds, the sound of bones breaking, and screams of agony.

The ladies and young women were screaming.

"This is a coup!" Horace Wilson roared.

But he was the fastest runner.

"I'm a government official! You can't arrest me!"

He pushed open the side door, only to be blocked by two Cold Creek Guard soldiers.

The door was made of oak and was not soundproof. The soldiers heard every word spoken in the hall just now—about rubber, about tungsten ore, about the betrayed 2nd Battalion.

The soldier looked at Wilson, his gaze fixed on his face, offering no salute, no warning, only anger.

A soldier held the Enfield rifle upside down and thrust it forward, the hardwood butt slamming heavily into Wilson's stomach with a dull thud—the sound of a blunt object striking soft tissue.

Wilson's transverse colon was jolted, his stomach spasmed violently, his body contorted like a shrimp, his mouth gaped open, and yellow bile mixed with the whiskey he had just drunk sprayed onto the carpet.

The soldier grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back to the center of the hall like a dead dog.

Reginald Parker tried to hide behind the table, but Major Ryder walked over and kicked the table away, causing it to roll and shatter the bottles on it.

Ryder pressed the muzzle of the gun against Parker's forehead.

"Move even once," Ryder said, "and I'll blow your head off."

Parker raised his hands, his whole body trembling.

As the smoke and dust cleared at the gate, two figures walked in.

Winston Churchill walked at the very front.

His footsteps were heavy, his leather shoes crunching on the broken glass.

He ignored the soldiers on either side and walked straight toward Wilson.

Wilson knelt on the ground, looked up, and saw Churchill.

"Prime Minister—" Wilson's voice was filled with terror, "You—you should be in Dover—"

Churchill stopped, took the cigar out of his mouth, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

"I'm back," Churchill said in a hoarse voice. "To clean the sewers."

Churchill pulled a stack of documents from his pocket; they were the evidence Arthur had compiled on the train.

Churchill threw the document at Wilson's face, the papers scattering and covering Wilson's face.

"MI5 has confirmed every single word," Churchill said. "Collusion. Treason."

Churchill turned and looked at the entire room.

Those bulldog-like eyes scanned everyone.

"Listen," Churchill shouted, "I don't care how much money you have, or how many titles you hold."

"If anyone still wants to surrender, or tries to pull some tricks behind our backs," Churchill said, pointing to Wilson lying on the ground like a rag doll. "This is their fate."

Churchill looked at Lord Stirling beside him.

"Old friend," Churchill said, pointing to Harold sprawled on the floor, "that's yours."

Lord Stirling, leaning on his cane, walked up to Harold.

Harold knelt on the ground, his trousers wet with urine mixed with red wine.

"Big brother—" Harold cried out, "I did it for the family—I was lied to—"

The count looked at Harold as if he were a piece of garbage.

"For the family," the Earl repeated. "The Sterling family shed blood in Crimea. Blood in the Somme. Blood at Waterloo." The Earl raised his cane. "But never the blood of a traitor."

*Smack!* The cane struck Harold's face hard, splitting his skin.

Harold screamed.

*Smack!* The second time. *Smack!* The third time.

The count withdrew his cane, slightly out of breath.

"According to clan rules, you are stripped of all your shares," the Earl said. "Get out of London. Go back to Scotland."

"If I see you in London before dawn," the Earl said, glancing at Major Ryder, "execute you on the spot."

Two soldiers came over, lifted Harold up, and dragged him out the gate. The rest of the people were also taken away one by one.

The hall fell silent again, leaving only Arthur standing in the center of the dance floor.

The count turned around.

The father and son looked at each other.

Separated by broken glass, red wine stains, and scattered documents.

Arthur walked down the steps.

His military boots were dirty again, and his overcoat was stained with alcohol.

But he stood very straight.

Arthur looked at his father, the old man who had once controlled everything, but now he seemed to be just an ordinary old man.

Arthur smiled.

He straightened his collar, raised his right hand, and ran his fingers along his brow bone.

The movements were casual and not standard.

"Long time no see," said Arthur. "Old Deng."

>