Blackwell made a face like a hanged man rolling his eyes: "The Count learned the news during lunch and almost used a caviar spoon to stab the ssenger’s neck. His exact words were: ’Tell Arthur, even if you have to stuff Eckett into a hearse to bring him back, don’t let that bastard appear in the Tsar’s telescope with a reporter from The Tis.’"
Arthur paced to the frost-covered bay window, the street scene of Moscow resembling an unfinished pencil sketch. Serfs collecting firewood were picking up scattered kindling with frozen hands, while the golden dos of the Kremlin glowed a sickly yellow under the dark clouds in the distance.
"What did Captain Hutter’s secret report say?"
Blackwell pulled a rolled-up letter from his boot: "Your bloodhound indeed has a keen sense of sll. Richard Hutter disguised himself as a Tatar horse trader to infiltrate the camp of Dagestan Imam Shamil, where he t Daud Bey, alias Sir David Eckett. According to Captain Hutter, Sir David was there wrapped in a sheepskin robe, lecturing the local mountain people on the Great Charter. Even more remarkable..."
He lowered his voice: "He also taught the Chechens how to make explosives from sulfuric acid and sugar."
Upon hearing this, Arthur sneered: "Does he think that without such antics, no one would know he once attended military school in France? A little Napoleon of the Caucasus, what a grand title, and he’s British too. Ha! Unfortunately, I already have such a friend; I don’t need a replica."
Arthur picked up the letter on the table and tossed it into the fireplace, letting it burn to ashes: "Has the Earl of Dalmo arranged things over at the Royal Post?"
"The Count has already written to the Royal Post, requesting them to scrutinize all recent letters sent to Fleet Street."
"That’s not secure enough."
Arthur turned and instructed: "Later, I will write a letter that you must dispatch urgently through diplomatic channels to London, ensuring it’s delivered to Mr. Lionel Rothschild as quickly as possible, asking him to audit his postal business and check all mail going to Fleet Street. Also, several letters should be sent to Chief Inspector Laidley King of the London Police Intelligence Bureau, Inspector Thomas Plunkett, and Chief Inspector Tom Flannigans of the Scotland Yard Criminal Investigation Center, and these letters must also be delivered swiftly."
"Understood, sir." Blackwell hesitated to speak: "But... if I may, I think Sir David might foresee this. He’s soone who’s worked at foreign embassies for many years and understands the basics of communication security. If I were Sir David, I would probably ask a friend to carry the letter for , rather than use postal services."
"Exactly, which is why I need to write to Scotland Yard," Arthur remarked casually, "They know the ho addresses of all the Fleet Street editors, and with any luck, it’s still possible to intercept them."
"You..." Blackwell’s eyes widened: "In London, could you really resort to open robbery?"
"Henry." Arthur glanced at his secretary: "What kind of mind do you have to co up with the idea of police committing robbery?"
"Oh..." Blackwell’s tense heart eased a little: "I knew it... this..."
However, before he could finish speaking, Arthur added: "The robbery will be executed by more professional personnel."
The pine logs in the fireplace crackled, and the cream cheese scones on the table exuded a sweet, cloying heat.
Blackwell dared not ask another question, using a silver fork to pierce the golden crust: "So you and the Earl of Dalmo agree on letting Eckett rot in the mountains?"
"Though those eleven articles might be intercepted, Sir David’s actions have already clearly expressed his personal will to us." Arthur’s boots pressed softly against the Persian carpet, making gentle footsteps: "Even if those articles are not sent out, he can still create trouble to threaten the Foreign Office from other angles. Given this, simply appeasing Sir David or hoping he will obediently keep silent will not solve any problems."
"You an... eliminate him?" Blackwell, having anticipated this outco long ago, still felt a twinge of sympathy at the idea of assassinating a colleague: "Alright, since you also support this plan, I’ll return to St. Petersburg today to report your opinion to the Earl of Dalmo."
"Assassination? No, Henry, why would you think that?"
"Then what do you an?"
"On the contrary, we should elevate him to beco the Byron of our ti." Arthur pulled out a gilded collection of poems from beneath the pillow, with "Child Harold’s Travels" prominently printed on the title page: "Tomorrow, you will contact the Chronicle Morning Paper, saying that a certain unnad British gentleman is funding a freedom struggle in the Caucasus—rember to imply that he might be the illegitimate son of a Duke."
Blackwell’s fork paused mid-air: "Wouldn’t this make the Russians more eager to hang him?"
"That’s why you also need to send an anonymous letter to the Third Bureau," Arthur dipped his pen in tea and started drawing a relationship chart on the tablecloth: "Saying that Eckett is actually a provocateur hired by the French Orleans Party, intending to disrupt the internal order of the Holy Alliance and the stability of the Anglo-Russian Alliance—don’t forget to include forged Paris Bank bills of exchange. I’ll direct you to contact professionals for the forgery later."
His secretary’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down: "So you an to muddy the waters? Instead of letting Eckett implode, we preemptively release a barrage of information to seize the initiative?"
The fire suddenly crackled loudly, casting their shadows on the frost-laden window glass.
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