World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

Asquith nodded without speaking. He got into the prepared car—not a Rolls-Royce or Daimler, but a Dongfeng brand car produced in Lanfang. The interior was simply decorated, with no wine cabinet, no cigar box, and even the seat cushions were made of ordinary velvet.

The convoy drove towards the hotel. The streets along the route were under martial law, but there were no onlookers; only military and police stood with their backs to the convoy, facing outwards. The entire city was unusually quiet, as if a deliberately created vacuum had been created.

Balfour looked out the window and muttered, "They can't even be bothered to pretend to welcome us."

"Because they don't need it," Asquith said calmly. "We need them—we need those two battlecruisers, we need their rubber and tin, and we might even need their tank technology. And they... at least for now, don't really need us."

The car drove into the "Gulf Hotel". It is the best hotel in Dubai, but the so-called "best" is only six floors, marble floors, crystal chandeliers - in London, it would be at most upper-middle level.

The room was on the third floor, with windows facing the harbor and offering a view of the two warships about to be handed over. Asquith entered the suite and glanced around: a living room, bedroom, and study, all furnished but lacking personality, like a standard hotel room. There were no welcome flowers, no fruit platter, and no handwritten welcome card as usual when the prime minister visited.

"It's like living in a military camp," Balfour couldn't help but complain.

Asquith walked to the window and looked towards the harbor: "He's telling us: now he has the leverage, so he sets the rules. If you want to be comfortable, go back to London."

He turned to his secretary and said, "Send a telegram to London saying that you have arrived safely and everything is normal. Do not mention the details of the reception."

"Prime Minister, this..."

"Do as instructed." Asquith took off his coat. "Also, contact Consul General Gerald. I need to know Chen Feng's public schedule and statements over the past three days."

After the secretary left, Balfour closed the door and lowered his voice: "Herbert, are you really going to swallow this? He's insulting the British Empire."

"Humiliation?" Asquith sat down, rubbing his temples, which ached from the long voyage. "Arthur, do you know what real humiliation is? It's when we lose five thousand men every day on the Somme and only advance fifty yards. It's when German submarines sink three hundred thousand tons of our merchant ships every month. It's when the national gold reserves are dwindling at a rate of one million pounds per week."

He raised his eyes: "By comparison, what is this humiliation—the cold reception, the lack of flowers, the lack of cheers from the crowd? It's not even a problem."

Balfour remained silent. He knew the Prime Minister was right. In the third year of the war, the Empire's dignity had given way to the need for survival.

"About Holdesa..."

"I'll ask him that in person during the meeting later," Asquith said, standing up and washing his face with cold water in the restroom. "But we have to be careful how we do it. We can't push him to the Germans' side—at least not now."

He looked at himself in the mirror: sixty-four years old, with completely white hair, deep eye bags, and wrinkles at the corners of his mouth that looked etched into his skin. Three years ago, when the war had just broken out, he was full of vigor and believed the war would be over before Christmas. Now…

He wiped his face dry and straightened his tie.

At 9:30, Wang Wenwu knocked on the door: "Your Excellency, the President requests your presence in the reception room for a meeting before the handover ceremony."

"Just the two of us?"

"Yes, just you and the President, plus a translator and a recorder."

Asquith nodded. He knew the real battle was about to begin.

The reception room was at the far end of the second floor of the hotel. It was very small, no more than twenty square meters. There was a mahogany tea table, two high-backed chairs, and a map of Lanfang hanging on the wall. That was all.

Chen Feng was already there. He was still wearing the same white naval uniform he wore that morning, sitting in a chair with a cup of tea in front of him. When he saw Asquith enter, he stood up, shook hands, and then sat down again.

The translator and recorder sat at a small table in the corner, trying to keep their presence as inconspicuous as possible.

"Your Excellency, Prime Minister, you must be tired from your journey," Chen Feng said in English, though with an accent, it was fluent. "How is the Dubai climate?"

Asquith also chose English, skipping the translation step: "Hotter than London, but bearable. Thank you for the President's... hospitality."

They both smiled, but the smiles didn't reach their eyes.

"Well then, let's get straight to the point." Chen Feng leaned forward slightly. "I know the Prime Minister came in person not just to attend the handover ceremony. Please feel free to ask any questions you may have."

Asquith liked this directness. He stopped beating around the bush: "Your Excellency, I'll be frank—your garrison in Hurdlesa violates the consensus we reached in Cairo. You said Lanfang would not intervene in the European war."

Chen Feng did not answer immediately. He picked up his teacup, blew on it, took a small sip, and then said, "Mr. Prime Minister, I would like to confirm: where is Hurdlesa?"

Asquith frowned: "Mesopotamia, on the northwestern shore of the Persian Gulf."

"Be more specific."

"...the Arabian Peninsula."

To which continent does the Arabian Peninsula belong?

"Asia." Asquith already knew what the other person was going to say.

"Then," Chen Feng put down his teacup, "Lanfang's army is stationed on Asian soil. How can that be considered 'intervention in the European war'? Our soldiers have not set foot on European soil, have not fired on the armies of any European country, and—according to the agreement—have not even crossed the boundary of the concession zone."

Asquith's face darkened: "You know what I mean. Hurdsa is only fifty kilometers from the Sinai Peninsula, within our operational direction."

"But that's your operational direction, not ours," Chen Feng calmly retorted. "All our deployments face inland, and all fortifications are built to the east. If the British army attacks the Ottomans to the north, we won't intervene; but if—"

He took a map from the coffee table drawer, spread it out, and clearly marked it with red lines: "--If the British army moves east and enters the area within this red line, that's a different story."

Asquith stared at the map. The area marked by the red line was larger than he had imagined, covering almost the entire Basra province and half of the northern coast of the Persian Gulf.

"This is the 'concession zone' you signed with the Ottomans?"

"Yes. It's all in black and white, approved by the Sultan himself—completely legal." Chen Feng's finger moved across the map. "We station troops within the red line to protect our legitimate rights—exploration rights, mining rights, and construction rights. If we can't even protect our own investments, who would dare do business in the Middle East?"

"Protection?" Asquith sneered. "With 18,000 fully armed soldiers? With 36 105mm howitzers? Your Excellency, this is a military presence, not a security force."

Chen Feng smiled: "Prime Minister, have you ever gone hunting?"