World War: Battleship Arms Dealers

"Speaking of gold," said another man, younger, about sixty years old, with meticulously combed hair, "Prime Minister, how did your meeting with the President go today...?"

Asquith recognized the face. Jacob Schiff, head of Kuhn-Loeb & Co., and Morgan's biggest rival on Wall Street. Unlike Morgan's flamboyant American style, Schiff was more reserved and cautious, possessing the meticulousness characteristic of German-Jewish bankers.

"President Wilson is a man of principle," Asquith carefully chose his words. "He understands the difficulties we face, but he also insists on Maryka's neutrality. However, he showed... a reasonable interest in the economic data."

"Interest won't win a war." A third voice joined the conversation. This time it was a younger man, not yet fifty, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a handsome face of Swedish descent. Bernard Baruch, a self-taught financial prodigy, one of President Wilson's informal economic advisors. "The president needs to be persuaded, and persuasion requires evidence—not military evidence, but evidence that voters can understand."

Asquith looked at Baruch. This man was crucial. He wasn't from a traditional Eastern aristocratic family; he had carved out his own niche on Wall Street through his talent, which gave him a better understanding of the mindset of ordinary American Americans. More importantly, he had a good personal relationship with Wilson.

"What suggestions do you have, Mr. Baruch?"

The waiter silently approached and refilled everyone's glasses. Baruch waited until the waiter left before lowering his voice and saying:

"The people of Mecca don't care about territorial changes in Europe, who rules Alsace-Lorraine, or even the difference between 'monarchy' and 'republic.' But they care about two things: first, their own wallets; second, moral justice."

He took a sip of his drink and continued:

"You've already shown the president the economic data. Those numbers are important, but they only work for bankers, businessmen, and members of Congress. Ordinary people can't understand balance sheets, but they can understand newspaper headlines."

"What do you mean?"

“A story.” Baruch’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “People need stories. A simple, clear story that evokes anger and compassion. What did the Germans do? Not occupy factories, not mobilize troops—those are too abstract. They slaughtered civilians, raped women, and burned churches. They were utter barbarians, while England and France were on the front lines defending civilization.”

The firewood in the fireplace crackled. The temperature in the room seemed to have risen a few degrees.

"However," Asquith said cautiously, "these accusations require evidence. The Germans did engage in violent acts in Belgium, but mass killings..."

“Evidence can be found, or…presented.” The speaker was Cecil Spring-Rice, the British Ambassador to the United States. The 57-year-old veteran diplomat, who had been quietly standing in a corner all evening, stepped forward now. “We intercepted some German military communications, which contained… disturbing information. There were also testimonies from Belgian refugees. Of course, some editing and organization are needed to make the stories more compelling.”

Morgan tapped the floor lightly with his cane.

"Sir Spring-Rice, when will these 'materials' you mentioned be available to the media?"

"Within a week," the ambassador replied. "I've already contacted Adolph Oaks, publisher of The New York Times, and he's very interested. The Chicago Tribune, the Los Angeles Times… the key is to release it simultaneously, creating a nationwide media frenzy."

"Ochs is a cautious man," Schiff commented. "He won't publish unverified information."

"So we need to 'confirm' it," Baruch continued. "We can send some 'independent journalists'—actually British intelligence agents—to Belgium to 'cover the ground' and bring back 'first-hand reports.' At the same time, we can have some prestigious public figures, such as former President Roosevelt, publicly condemn Germany's 'atrocities.' Teddy has always wanted to go to war, and he would be happy to help."

Asquith listened to these conversations, feeling somewhat dazed. This was another side of modern warfare—not pulling triggers in trenches, but in luxurious clubs, sipping wine, calmly plotting how to manipulate the minds of millions. This kind of battle has no gunpowder, but it is just as deadly.

"There's another problem." Morgan's voice brought Asquith back to reality. "Even if public opinion shifts, even if people begin to sympathize with the Allies, a more direct reason is needed for Congress to pass a declaration of war. A reason that threatens the security of the Merika homeland."

The room fell silent. Everyone knew what Morgan was talking about—the need for a "Pearl Harbor attack," even though the metaphor wouldn't be coined until more than twenty years later.

Spring Rice cleared her throat.

"In fact," he said, lowering his voice, "we recently intercepted...a very interesting diplomatic communication. It came from the German Foreign Ministry and was sent to their legation in Mexico City. It concerned that if Mexico showed a clear pro-Allied stance, Germany would propose a military alliance with Mexico. In return, Germany would support Mexico in 'reclaiming' the territories lost in the Mexican-American War—Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona."

A deathly silence.

Baruch was the first to react: "Is this telegram...reliable?"

"We are certain it is genuine," Spring-Rice said. "But it is still in transit, being encrypted and forwarded through Swedish diplomatic channels. It is expected to arrive in Mexico City in about a week."

Morgan's eyes narrowed. The old banker's mind was racing, calculating the value of this intelligence and how to use it.

"If the contents of this telegram are made public..." Schiff said slowly.

"That will change everything," Baruch finished for him. "No American, whether East Coast or West Coast, Republican or Democrat, can tolerate foreign powers plotting to divide our land. This is the perfect reason to declare war."

“But timing is crucial.” Morgan pointed his cane at Spring Rice. “Sir, can you control when this telegram is ‘discovered’?”

The ambassador smiled: "We've already made the arrangements. The telegram will be intercepted and decrypted by our intelligence personnel at a... opportune moment. Then, it will be leaked to the media through 'appropriate channels'."

Asquith felt a chill. Not because of the plans themselves—as Prime Minister, he was used to the intrigues and calculations of politics—but because of the calmness with which these people discussed them. It was as if they were discussing a business deal, an investment plan. Human lives, the fate of nations, had become manipulable variables in their words.

"Mr. Prime Minister?" Morgan noticed his silence. "Do you have any concerns?"