Hong Kong variety show: The mastermind behind the scenes is emerging.

5 p.m., Fleet Street, London.

This is the heart of British journalism, where the air is perpetually thick with the smells of ink, coffee, and cheap cigarettes. Countless earth-shattering headlines have flown from here to the world, and countless politicians have had their reputations either elevated to godlike status or crushed in the mud here.

The Times headquarters building, editor-in-chief's office.

The overcast sky forced the lights to be turned on earlier than usual. Editor-in-Chief Thomas Evans, irritably loosening his tie, expressed his dissatisfaction to the reporter on the other end of the phone: "I want an exclusive! Inside the story of the Prime Minister's failed negotiations, not this rubbish about the Queen's corgi getting sick!"

"Bang!"

He hung up the phone, picked up his now-cold coffee, and took a sip. Just then, his secretary knocked and came in, carrying a brown paper package.

"Sir, there is an urgent document that is addressed to you personally," the secretary said cautiously. "The sender did not leave a name, but said it was about... the fire at 38 Bishop Gate."

"Fire?"

Thomas frowned. He knew about the fire at Standard Chartered Bank's headquarters that afternoon, of course, but according to the official report, it was just a common fire caused by aging circuits, and there were no casualties. This kind of news would at most be relegated to a corner of the third page.

But his intuition as a seasoned journalist led him to accept the package.

The package was very heavy.

They tore open the seal, but there was no bomb or ransom note inside.

There was only a thick stack of clearly printed black and white photographs and a few rolls of microfilm.

Thomas picked up the top photo at random.

The next second, his pupils contracted sharply, and he was thrown up from his chair as if he had been struck by an electric current.

"This...this is..."

The photo shows a copy of a bank transfer record.

Transferor: Standard Chartered Bank Cayman Islands Branch Offshore Account.

Recipient: General Monto, the military dictator of a certain Central African country, in his private Swiss account.

Amount: 15 million US dollars.

Note: Arms procurement commission / Blood diamond cleaning fee.

Thomas's hands began to tremble. He quickly flipped through the photos below.

A series of shocking documents were laid out before him: bank statements showing how to launder money for Middle Eastern drug lords, financial chains that funded armed groups that staged coups in the Middle East, and even several secret memoranda signed by top Standard Chartered Bank executives on how to circumvent international sanctions.

Every single document is a nuclear bomb capable of shaking the entire City of London!

"My God..."

Thomas felt his throat go dry. This was a real depth charge! If this were launched, Standard Chartered Bank's century-old reputation would be ruined, and even Downing Street would be shaken to its core!

His brain was working at lightning speed.

Press it down?

This is Standard Chartered Bank, a financial giant. If you take these documents to them for negotiations, you might get millions of pounds in hush money, or even a longer-term political exchange...

Just as the thought of greed arose, a white card fell out of the pile of photos.

Thomas picked up the card; a line of cold, impersonal English text was printed on it:

[Dear Mr. Evans: I have sent the same gift to The Guardian, The Daily Telegraph, and The Sun. Who will get tomorrow's front page headline depends on your speed. Good luck. —A concerned citizen]

"Damn it!!"

Upon reading this sentence, all of Thomas's previous greed and scheming vanished instantly, replaced by an overwhelming sense of urgency.

If its arch-rival The Guardian or The Sun, which only publishes pictures of nude women, were to publish it first, regardless of whether Standard Chartered's reputation would be ruined, The Times would definitely be laughed at.

"Quick! Notify the printing press!!" Thomas roared from his office into the editing room, his voice trembling. "Stop all the machines! Take down tomorrow's front page! No matter what the news is, take it all down!"

"We're going to publish a special edition! Right now! Immediately! Right now!"

"Give me the title in the largest font size: 'Blood Diamonds and Black Gold: The Sordid Secrets of Standard Chartered Bank!'"

……

At the same time.

38 Bishop Gate, outside the Standard Chartered Bank headquarters building.

The rain gradually subsided, and the fire inside the building had been extinguished, but the air still smelled of burning. A long yellow police cordon was set up outside the building, and several police cars and fire trucks were parked on the roadside, their red and blue lights flashing alternately on the flooded road.

"The fire started in the ventilation duct on the third floor," a Scotland Yard forensic expert, wearing gloves, said to the deputy chief beside him, pointing to a piece of black residue extracted from the ventilation duct. "It's solid magnesium-aluminum incendiary agent, military grade. This is definitely not an accident; it was arson."

Arson?

The deputy director frowned. Attacking the headquarters of a top bank at this sensitive time? Could it be the Irish Republican Army (IRA)?

Just then, a commotion broke out.

"Get out of the way! I need to see the police!"

Two medical staff members helped a man covered in blood and staggering over. It was the security supervisor who had been knocked unconscious by Tian Yangsheng's chop to the neck.

He had just woken up and was still a little dazed, but the terror in his eyes was impossible to hide.

"Down...in the basement..."

The security supervisor grabbed the deputy director's arm and roared hoarsely, "Get to the basement! The vault... the vault has been opened by those firefighters!"

"What firefighters?" The deputy director was taken aback. "Only that team went in to put out the fire just now..."

"It's not real! They're fake!" The security supervisor was nearly in tears. "They knocked me unconscious! They definitely started the fire! It was all to get into the vault!"

"Buzz—"

The deputy director's mind went blank.

As a high-ranking officer in the London police force, he certainly knew what was in Standard Chartered's underground vault. It wasn't money stored there; it was the dirty underwear of Standard Chartered and even the British Empire—including his own.

"Where's the fire department?!" The deputy director turned his head sharply to look at the actual fire commander beside him.

The bearded commander was also stunned, sweat dripping down his beard: "They...they said they were from the Canning Town branch's special operations team...their equipment looked so professional, and their vehicles were new..."

"The Canning Town Precinct doesn't have a special operations team!" the deputy chief roared. "Those are thieves! A bunch of ruthless, specially trained criminals!"

"Seale off! Seal off the entire city immediately!" the deputy director roared into the walkie-talkie. "Set up roadblocks at all exits from the city, the airport, and the docks! The target is a heavy foam fire truck! They stole state secrets!"

However, a full hour had passed since Tian Yangsheng and the others left.

The fire truck had long since been pushed to the bottom of the Thames, disappearing with the river water and erasing all traces of it.

Those confidential documents, enough to cause an earthquake in London, were lying by the fireplace in the Kensington safe house, being casually browsed by Lu Chen as if flipping through a magazine.

……

The search operation lasted all night.

Scotland Yard deployed thousands of police officers to set up checkpoints and conduct searches throughout London, and even used MI5's connections to blockade the airport and docks.

However, that mysterious team of "firefighters" vanished completely into the rainy London night, like a drop of water merging into the ocean, leaving no trace whatsoever.

The next day, early in the morning.

When Londoners woke up and habitually picked up their newspapers, the entire British Isles were in an uproar.

Whether it's the serious Times and Daily Telegraph, or the gossipy Sun and Daily Mirror, today's front-page headlines are remarkably consistent.

Those shocking transaction records, those strings of blood-stained numbers, those infamous dictators' names, are in starkly linked to the gentlemanly brand of "Standard Chartered Bank".

The Times: Blood Diamonds and Black Gold: Standard Chartered Bank's Sordid Secrets

The Guardian: Bloody Capital: Unveiling the Sinister Deals Behind the Bishop Gate!

The Sun: Standard Chartered Bank – ATM for African warlords?

Public opinion was in uproar.

Angry people began gathering in front of Standard Chartered Bank branches to protest.

And at the London Stock Exchange.

The opening bell has just rung.

Standard Chartered's stock price plummeted like a kite with a broken string, opening sharply lower and instantly dropping 15%! And it continues to fall uncontrollably!

In stark contrast, the customer service phone rang incessantly.

But these calls weren't for handling business; they were for holding people accountable.

……

Kensington, the private residence of the Chairman of Standard Chartered Bank.

John Stuart sat behind that priceless antique desk, looking as if he had aged ten years overnight.

Her once meticulously combed hair was now a mess, and her eyes, which always held an arrogant expression, were now bloodshot and filled with fear.

"Ring ring ring—"

The three telephones on the table rang in turn, like death knells.

"Mr. Chairman! This is Barroso... What's going on in the newspapers?! Are our accounts safe?! You must give me a reasonable explanation! Otherwise, I cannot guarantee the safety of your branch in Bogotá!"

"Stuart! You bastard! General Montgomery is furious! Because of your leak, the opposition is using it to attack him! If you can't resolve this perfectly, you'll be skinned alive!"

"John... I'm Downing Street's secretary... The Prime Minister requests your immediate presence at the official residence... This matter is extremely serious; the Royal Family is very displeased..."

Every phone call represents a force he cannot afford to offend.

Drug lords, warlords, politicians, royalty.

These were once Standard Chartered Bank's most valued "underground clients," but now they've all turned into deadly demons.

Every phone call is a death knell.

Their secret being exposed means that John Stuart will not only face imprisonment, but also be hunted down by the global underworld.

"Snapped!"

John unplugged the telephone and slammed the receiver to the ground.

The world is finally peaceful.

But his heart was completely broken.

The black box was stolen. It represented Standard Chartered Bank's century-old foundation, its talisman, and also its death knell.

who is it?

Who exactly has such great ability?

Just then.

"Knock knock knock".

The secretary nervously pushed open the door, holding a white envelope in her hand.

"Sir... a flower deliveryman just said someone insisted on giving these to you..."

John suddenly looked up and snatched the envelope.

The envelope was ordinary and unsigned.

I tore open the envelope, and inside was only a thin sheet of paper and a photograph.

The photo shows the scene from yesterday afternoon when the group of "firefighters" were carrying documents from the underground vault. Although they were wearing masks, John could sense the mockery in their expressions.

On the letter paper was a line of text printed by a printer:

Sir Stuart:

Were you satisfied with last night's fireworks display?

I imagine that right now, your "special clients" are probably lining up to call you, right?

Don't worry, what's published in the newspapers is only one percent of the information we have. There's much more fascinating content right now on my desk—about the royal family, members of parliament, and your personal private accounts in the Cayman Islands.

We are reasonable people.

One hundred million pounds.

Cash, old banknotes, not consecutive serial numbers.

Use it to exchange for these things that will send you and Standard Chartered Bank to hell.

I will contact you again regarding the specific time and location of the transaction. In the meantime, if I see any police intervention or hear any bad news about myself... then the next document will be sent directly to prosecutorial agencies worldwide.

—A friend who hopes you can get through this difficult time.