Chapter 461: If the British Army Moves East into This Red‑Line Zone, It

Asquith nodded, saying nothing. He sat into the prepared sedan—not a Rolls‑Royce or Daimler, but Lanfang's own "Dongfeng" brand sedan. The interior was simple, with no wine cabinet, no cigar box, and even the seat cushions were ordinary velvet.

The convoy drove toward the hotel. Along the way the streets were under curfew, but there were no onlookers, only military police standing with their backs to the convoy, facing outward on guard. The whole city was unusually quiet, as if a deliberate vacuum had been created.

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

"Because they don't need to," Asquith said calmly. "We have a request of them—we need those two war‑cruisers, we need their rubber and tin, and perhaps even their tank technology. And they… at least for now, don't really need us."

The sedan entered the "Bay Hotel". It is Dubai's finest hotel, but the so‑called "finest" is only six stories, marble floors, crystal chandeliers—if placed in London, at best it would be mid‑to‑upper‑range.

The rooms were on the third floor, windows facing the harbor, with a view of the two warships about to be handed over. Asquith entered the suite and glanced around: a living room, bedroom, study, fully furnished but utterly lacking character, like a standardized hotel room. No welcome flowers on the table, no fruit platter, no handwritten welcome card as is customary when the Prime Minister visits.

"It's like staying in a barracks," Belfort couldn't help but complain.

Asquith walked to the window and looked toward the harbor: "He's telling us: now he holds the chips, so he sets the rules. Want comfort? Go back to London."

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

"Prime Minister, this…"

"Do as instructed." Asquith removed his coat. "Also, contact Consul General Gerard; I want to know Chen Feng's public itinerary and statements for the past three days."

After the secretary left, Belfort closed the door and lowered his voice: "Herbert, are you really prepared to swallow this insult? He's humiliating the British Empire."

"Humiliation?" Asquith sat down, rubbing the temples that a long voyage had made sore. "Arthur, do you know what real humiliation is? It's us losing five thousand men a day on the Somme and only gaining fifty meters. It's German submarines sinking three hundred thousand tons of our merchant ships each month. It's the treasury's gold reserves dwindling by a hundred thousand pounds a week."

He lifted his eyes: "In comparison, a cold reception, no flowers, no cheering crowds… what is that, a humiliation? It's not even a trouble."

Belfort fell silent. He knew the Prime Minister was right. After three years of war, the Empire's dignity had already yielded to the need for survival.

"Then the Hordesa matter…"

"When we talk later, I'll ask him in person." Asquith stood, went to the restroom and splashed cold water on his face. "But we must be diplomatic. We cannot force him toward the Germans—at least not now."

He looked at himself in the mirror: sixty‑four, hair completely white, deep eye bags, wrinkles at the corners of his mouth as if carved. Three years ago, when the war first broke out, he was full of vigor, believing the war could end before Christmas. Now…

He dried his face and readjusted his tie.

At 9:30, Wang Wenwu knocked on the door: "Prime Minister, the President wishes to see you in the reception room for a pre‑handover discussion."

"Just the two of us?"

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

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

The reception room was at the far end of the hotel's second floor, very small, no more than twenty square metres. A red‑wood coffee table, two high‑back chairs, and a map of Lanfang on the wall—nothing else.

Chen Feng was already there. He was still in his white navy uniform from the morning, seated, a cup of clear tea before him. Seeing Asquith enter, he stood, shook hands, then sat down again.

The translator and recorder sat at a small table in the corner, trying to minimize their presence.

"Prime Minister, you've had a hard journey," Chen Feng began, speaking in English, accented but fluent. "Are you adapting to Dubai's climate?"

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

Both smiled, but the smiles never reached their eyes.

"Then let's get straight to the point." Chen Feng leaned slightly forward, "I know you, Prime Minister, are here in person not just for the handover ceremony. Ask any question you like."

Asquith liked this directness. He didn't beat around the bush: "President, I'll be blunt—your troops in Hordesa violate the consensus we reached in Cairo. You said Lanfang would not intervene in the European war."

Chen Feng did not answer immediately. He lifted his tea cup, blew on it, took a small sip, then said, "Prime Minister, I'd like to confirm: where is Hordesa?"

Asquith frowned: "Mesopotamia, northwest coast of the Persian Gulf."

"More specifically."

"…the Arabian Peninsula."

"Which continent does the Arabian Peninsula belong to?"

"Asia." Asquith had already guessed what he was about to say.

"Then," Chen Feng set down his cup, "Lanfang's troops are stationed on Asian soil—how does that count as 'intervening in the European war'? Our soldiers have never set foot on European ground, never fired on any European army, and even—according to the agreement—won't cross the charter zone boundary even a step."

Asquith's complexion darkened: "You know what I mean. Hordesa is only fifty kilometres from the Sinai Peninsula, directly in our line of operation."

"But that is your line of operation, not ours," Chen Feng replied calmly. "All our deployments face inland, all fortifications built eastward. If the British Army attacks northward into Ottoman territory, we won't intervene; but if—"

He pulled a map from the coffee‑table drawer, spread it, and with a red pen drew a line: "—if the British Army moves east into this red‑line area, that's a different matter."

Asquith stared at the map. The red‑line zone was larger than he had imagined, covering almost the entire Basra Province and half of the northern Persian Gulf coast.

"Is this the 'Charter Zone' you signed with the Ottomans?"

"Yes. White paper on black ink, approved by the Sultan, completely legal." Chen Feng's finger traced the map, "We station troops inside the red line to protect our legitimate rights—exploration rights, mining rights, construction rights. If we can't even protect our own investment, who dares do business in the Middle East?"

"Protect?" Asquith sneered, "With eighteen thousand fully armed soldiers? With thirty‑six 105‑mm howitzers? President, this is a military presence, not a security guard squad."

Chen Feng laughed, "Prime Minister, have you ever hunted?"