World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"All these debts are denominated in US dollars, underwritten by the Miracare financial institutions, and held by Miracare investors. They constitute a vital part of the Miracare financial market." Asquith looked directly into Wilson's eyes. "If, and I mean if, the Allied Powers were defeated, would the German-led New European Order recognize these debts? Would it continue to pay interest? Would it repay the principal in gold or other valuables?"

Wilson didn't answer immediately. He picked up the thin document and flipped through it page by page. Sunlight shone on his profile, revealing the veins near his temples throbbing slightly. The office was so quiet that the occasional crackling of the charcoal in the fireplace could be heard.

"You're... implying a worst-case scenario," Wilson finally spoke, his voice even lower than before.

"I'm stating a realistic possibility, Mr. President." Asquith leaned back on the sofa, trying to appear more relaxed. "The Germans have openly declared that one of their objectives in waging war is to break the Anglo-Saxon monopoly on world finance. If they win militarily, do you think they will respect the existing financial order dominated by London and New York?"

Belfort then interjected: "More specifically, Mr. President, the German Ministry of Finance and the Reichsbank have already discussed postwar plans internally. One of the core proposals is to declare all 'enemy debts' invalid and, in turn, seek reparations from the defeated nations in the form of 'war reparations'."

"Do they have that authority?" Wilson asked.

"The victors have all the power." Asquith's answer was simple and brutal. "In 1871, Germany demanded 5 billion francs in reparations from France after the Franco-Prussian War and received the full amount. If they win this time, the amount they demand will not be 5 billion, but perhaps 50 billion, or even 100 billion. And those who will pay these reparations will be a devastated France, Britain, and... the investors in the Merleau-based bonds of these countries."

Wilson placed the documents back on the table. He stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and turned his back to the room. Outside, on the South Lawn of the White House, bare trees swayed in the winter wind. Further away, the spire of the Washington Monument stood against the gray sky.

"You're asking for the beautiful card," Wilson said without turning around, "to send the country's young people to the battlefield to protect the interests of some bankers and investors."

“No.” Asquith also stood up, walked to Wilson’s side, and looked out the window alongside him. “I’m reminding Miracar that modern warfare is no longer a contest between armies. It’s a contest of industry, an economic contest, a full-scale confrontation of the power of entire nations. In this contest, there is no true neutrality—either you stand on one side, using your factories, your resources, your capital to influence the outcome; or you stand on the other side, watching your investments become worthless, watching your economy be dragged into the abyss.”

He paused, letting his words settle.

"I am not asking Miraca to send troops, Mr. President." Asquith's voice became softer but firmer. "At least not yet. I am simply asking you, asking Miraca, to use all non-military means—more loans, more supplies, a firmer diplomatic stance—to ensure that the $2.19 billion already invested does not become an expensive illusion."

Wilson turned around. His face was expressionless, but something was churning deep in his eyes. It was the struggle of an idealist facing harsh reality, the tremor of a scholar discovering cracks in his carefully constructed theoretical system.

"I need time to consider this," the president finally said. "These... are very serious allegations, and they require more data to verify."

"Of course." Asquith bowed slightly. "We have prepared complete materials that you can leave for your economic advisory team. In addition, if you permit, our Ambassador to the United States, Sir Spring Rice, can arrange some... informal meetings to exchange views with leaders in the financial and business sectors. Purely information exchange, with no commitments made."

Wilson stared at Asquith for a long time. His scholarly eyes had become as sharp as a politician's, as if he were assessing, calculating, and weighing options.

"Okay," he finally said, "but it must be genuinely informal. I don't want to see headlines like 'President conspires with British bankers' in the newspapers."

"Absolutely confidential, Mr. President," Asquith promised. "Just like today's meeting, there will be no record of it."

A waiter knocked and entered, indicating that lunch was ready. The first phase of the talks had concluded.

As they walked toward the restaurant, Balfour whispered in Asquith's ear, in a voice only the two of them could hear, "How much do you think he actually listened to?"

Asquith looked straight ahead, maintaining a polite smile on his face.

"Enough for the seed to take root," he replied softly. "Now, we need to water it."

8 p.m., 2125 Massachusetts Avenue.

From the outside, it's just an ordinary five-story brick building with deep red walls and white window frames, not much different from the other mansions around it. The only difference is that it has no address number, the black wrought iron gate is tightly closed, and there are no signs at the entrance. Only those in the know understand that this is the "Albimal Club"—one of Washington's oldest and most exclusive private clubs, with membership always limited to less than two hundred people.

Tonight, the main banquet hall on the third floor of the club is brightly lit.

Asquith changed into a deep blue velvet tuxedo and stood by the fireplace, a glass of sherry in his hand. Around him stood seven or eight men, all over fifty, dressed in impeccably tailored suits with French double cufflinks peeking out from the cuffs, and understated dark silk ties. These men spoke softly, their laughter restrained, and their demeanor exuded a composure born of generations of accumulated wealth.

"Mr. Prime Minister, please allow me to express my admiration once again for your country's courage."

The speaker was John Pierpont Morgan, the undisputed king of the financial world. The seventy-nine-year-old had completely white hair, but was still robust, and his voice was booming. Tonight, he wasn't in a wheelchair—his usual public appearance in recent months—but stood leaning on an ebony cane, as if deliberately displaying his still inexhaustible strength.

"Thank you, Mr. Morgan," Asquith raised his glass in a toast. "But courage cannot fill a soldier's stomach, nor can it make cannonballs. In the end, war is a contest of steel, coal, and... money."

"It's always money." Morgan smiled, a smile tinged with a weariness born of worldly wisdom. "My father often said that in war, the first to fall is the truth, but the last to fall is always gold."

A polite chuckle rippled through the crowd. These men understood the weight of those words—their family fortunes, more or less, were built upon the demands of war. The Crimean War, the Mexican-American Civil War, the Spanish-American War… each conflict created new giants and made the old ones even stronger.