"Ten million!" The brown-eyed man was stunned as if his brain couldn't process such a large number.
After a mont, he suddenly burst out laughing. "Haha, I get it! You must be talking about the king, right?"
Marat imdiately shook his head. "No, Vals, you're wrong."
Ever since Marat had access to governnt financial data, he knew that even if the king wanted to, he couldn't embezzle millions. In fact, most of the ti, it was the king who had to subsidize the treasury.
"It's Necker," Marat said solemnly. "Jacques Necker."
Vals froze, then laughed even harder. "Mr. Necker? Haha, you're saying Mr. Necker is corrupt?
"Don't joke around, Marat! He's the finance minister who cares the most about the poor! He hardly even raised taxes while he was in office."
Necker had spent years in France building an image of himself as a friend of the poor, fighting against the monarchy on their behalf. His efforts were quite successful in this regard.
"He didn't raise taxes," Marat nodded. "But that might be because he couldn't directly pocket any of the tax revenue."
Before Vals could argue, Marat continued, "Not long after he took office, he signed a loan agreent with a Swiss bank for 5 million livres, claiming it was to 'fill a budget gap.' The interest rate was 23%.
"At the sa ti, many banks offered loans at much lower interest rates. I even saw docunts showing that in the sa month, the city hall of Brittany secured a loan with an interest rate of 19%.
"Necker's excuse was that 'the Swiss bank had a more reliable reputation.' But why would the bank need to worry about the governnt's reliability?"
Marat glanced out the window at a worker taking down posters from Fashion Week. "While you were enjoying the Fashion Week festivities, I went to Switzerland and found out that the bank providing that 5 million loan was owned by a friend of Necker's. Oh, and they used to jointly import grain from England.
"And that's just the first suspicious loan I've investigated. During Necker's seven years as Director-General of Finance, the French governnt borrowed over a billion livres from various banks and nobles. I suspect most of these loans were similarly questionable."
Vals frowned. "You're saying Mr. Necker took kickbacks from these shady loans?"
"That's how it seems. Even if he took just 1% as a kickback, that would amount to over ten million livres!"
"No, that's impossible!" Vals shook his head, muttering, "Mr. Necker would never..."
Marat, prepared for this reaction, pulled so papers from his coat pocket and spread them on the table. "These are copies of the docunts related to that 5 million loan. Take a look for yourself. And if you still don't believe , I can show you the originals."
Vals hesitantly picked up the docunts and glanced at them. After a few monts, it was as if he had been bitten by a snake—he quickly dropped the papers and spoke in a low, defeated tone, "Why are you telling this?"
"You were once the most renowned journalist in finance and trade, and you have many contacts in the financial system. Maybe you can provide with so useful information about Necker."
Vals thought for a few seconds, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I think you'll be disappointed. I only ever paid attention to the positive stories about Necker, so I really don't have anything valuable to offer."
"Anything at all would help."
"There really isn't anything..." Vals trailed off, then suddenly stopped and looked at Marat. "Wait, there's soone who might have what you need!"
"Who?"
"Calonne, the previous finance minister," Vals said. "He had significant conflicts with Necker. It's rumored that Necker was involved in his dismissal.
"Calonne once publicly said, in response to Necker criticizing his tax policies, 'Don't think I don't know what you've been up to.' As they say, your enemies often know you best."
"Calonne," Marat repeated, nodding thoughtfully. "Where is he now?"
"You've forgotten? He was exiled to Lorraine."
"Thank you so much!" Marat gave the middle-aged journalist a firm pat on the back, grabbed his hat, and rushed out the door.
…
In the office of the Royal Armory southeast of Versailles, Joseph rubbed his temples in exhaustion after finishing another "production managent" lesson. He glanced at a few docunts in front of him.
Nearby, a middle-aged man with a sharp chin pointed to the docunts and said, "Your Highness, this one is the routine work report. This is a special investigation report on the officials involved in Fashion Week. This is the special investigation report from the Police Departnt. And this is Mr. Marat's request to increase manpower…"
As Joseph flipped through the docunts, signing them one by one, he asked casually, "Thank you for the summary, Mr. Closs. Oh, by the way, why didn't Mr. Marat co today?"
This task of delivering docunts was usually handled by Marat himself, and it had never been assigned to anyone else. After all, these later Jacobins tended to be sowhat hostile to the royal family.
Closs replied, "Mr. Marat had an urgent matter and left for Lorraine last night."
"Lorraine?" Joseph paused his writing. "Did he say what it was about?"
"It seems to be related to the official he's investigating."
Necker? Joseph frowned. This was a big deal, and Marat hadn't even ntioned it to him.
"How many people did he take?"
"You know how short-staffed the Bureau of Fair Investigation is—only he and Mr. Evans went."
Joseph imdiately sensed sothing was wrong—Marat was underestimating how ruthless these capitalists could be. Perhaps because Necker had always managed to present himself as a genteel and kind man, people had subconsciously lowered their guard around him.
He quickly turned to the count standing nearby. "Count Émanc, please notify Fouché imdiately. Have him send people to find Mr. Marat and ensure his safety."
"Yes, Your Highness."
…
Philadelphia, United States.
On the west bank of the Delaware River.
Outside Benjamin Franklin's estate, Thomas Jefferson watched as the French envoy limped out of his carriage. Jefferson couldn't help but frown slightly—it seed a bit disrespectful for France to send such an obscure and physically disabled envoy to Arica.
However, as a diplomat from a small country, he knew exactly how to conduct himself. He imdiately suppressed his displeasure, stepped forward with a smile, and greeted, "Welco to Philadelphia, Your Excellency Archbishop Talleyrand."
Jefferson had served as an ambassador to France for a long ti, and his French was excellent.
The elderly man in the wheelchair next to Jefferson seed too frail to even raise his hand properly. He only managed a weak wave. "Envoy, welco. When I was in Paris..."
Talleyrand rely nodded in acknowledgnt to Jefferson, then smiled warmly at the man in the wheelchair.
"You look quite well, Mr. Franklin. May the Lord bless you. Oh, I often heard your na ntioned while I was in Paris. You were quite the celebrity back then. A friend of mine even has a portrait of you hanging in his ho."
Talleyrand knew full well that this elderly man, now over 80 years old, was the person most capable of influencing Arican policy. If it weren't for his tireless efforts last year, the Arican Constitutional Convention might not have even taken place.
Not long after, inside the brick-red three-story mansion on the east side of Franklin's estate, Jefferson bead with delight as he spoke to Talleyrand. "You're saying the French governnt is going to take action against the Barbary pirates?"
Talleyrand straightened up confidently. "Indeed. Our king is deeply sympathetic to the troubles Arica faces in the diterranean. To prevent further slaughter of your rchant ships, he has decided—despite the opposition of several ministers—to completely eradicate those villains!"
End of Chapter
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