Chapter 512: The Golden‑Age Dinner

"All these debts are denominated in dollars, underwritten by Meilika financial institutions and held by Meilika investors. They constitute an important component of the Meilika financial market." Asikuisi stared into Wilson's eyes, "If—if I may say if—the Allies lose, will the German‑led new European order recognize these debts? Will they continue to pay interest? Will they repay the principal in gold or in kind?"

Wilson did not answer immediately. He picked up the thin document and flipped through it page by page. Sunlight fell on his profile, and the veins near his temples pulsed faintly. The office was quiet enough to hear the occasional crackle of charcoal in the fireplace.

"You're… implying the worst‑case scenario," Wilson finally said, his voice lower than before.

"I am stating a realistic possibility, Mr. President," Asikuisi leaned back in the sofa, making himself look more relaxed, "the Germans have publicly declared that one of their war aims 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?"

"To be more specific, Mr. President, the Deguo Ministry of Finance and the Imperial Bank have already discussed post‑war plans internally. One core proposal is to declare all 'enemy nation debts' null and, in the form of 'war reparations,' to claim compensation from the defeated nations."

"Do they have that authority?" Wilson asked.

"The victor possesses all authority," Asikuisi replied simply and cruelly. "In 1871, after the Franco‑Prussian War, Deguo demanded and received five billion francs from France. If they win this time, the sum demanded could be not five billion but five hundred billion, perhaps one hundred billion. And the payers of those reparations will be a shattered France, Yingguo, and… the Meilika investors holding those nations' bonds."

Wilson placed the document back on the desk. He rose, walked to the floor‑to‑ceiling window, his back to the room. Outside was the White House South Lawn, leafless trees swaying in the winter wind. Farther away, the spire of the Washington Monument rose against the gray sky.

"You're asking Meilika," Wilson said without turning, "to protect the interests of some bankers and investors by sending this nation's youth to the battlefield."

"No." Asikuisi also stood, walked to Wilson's side, and stood shoulder to shoulder looking out, "I am reminding Meilika that modern war is no longer a clash of armies. It is a clash of industry, of economy, of a nation's total power. In this confrontation there is no true neutrality—either you stand on one side, using your factories, resources, capital to sway the outcome; or you stand on the other, watching your investments turn to waste, your economy dragged into the abyss."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"I am not asking Meilika to send troops, Mr. President," Asikuisi's voice grew softer yet more resolute, "at least not yet. I am merely asking you, asking Meilika, to use every non‑military means—more loans, more supplies, a firmer diplomatic stance—to ensure that the already committed $2.19 billion does not become an expensive illusion."

Wilson turned. No expression crossed his face, but something churned deep in his eyes. It was the struggle of an idealist confronting harsh reality, the tremor of a scholar discovering cracks in a carefully built theoretical framework.

"I need time to consider," the President finally said, "these… are serious accusations and require more data verification."

"Of course." Asikuisi bowed slightly, "We have prepared comprehensive materials that can be given to your economic advisory team. Moreover, with your permission, our ambassador to the United States, Sir Si Pulin‑Laisi, can arrange some… informal meetings to exchange views with leaders of finance and industry. Pure information exchange, no commitments."

Wilson stared at Asikuisi for a long time. The scholar's eyes now became as sharp as a politician's, assessing, calculating, weighing.

"Fine," he finally said, "but it must be truly informal. I don't want to see headlines like 'President Conspires with Yingguo Bankers.'"

"Absolute confidentiality, Mr. President," Asikuisi promised, "just like today's meeting, leaving no record."

A servant knocked and entered, indicating lunch was ready. The first phase of the talks ended.

As they walked toward the dining room, Bei Erfu whispered in Asikuisi's ear, voice audible only to the two of them, "How much do you think he took in?"

Asikuisi looked straight ahead, maintaining a courteous smile.

"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 appeared as an ordinary five‑story brick building, deep‑red façade, white window frames, hardly distinguishable from the surrounding mansions. Its only peculiarity was the lack of a street number; the black wrought‑iron gate was shut, and no sign marked the entrance. Only those in the know realized this was the "Albi Ma Er Club"—one of Washington's oldest and most exclusive private clubs, its membership forever capped at two hundred.

Tonight, the main banquet hall on the club's third floor burned brightly.

Asikuisi donned a deep‑blue velvet tuxedo, stood by the fireplace, a glass of sherry in hand. Around him stood seven or eight men, all over fifty, wearing impeccably tailored suits, French‑style double‑cuff links visible, ties of understated dark silk. Their voices were low, laughter restrained, their bearing exuded the composure earned from generations of accumulated wealth.

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

Speaking was John Pierpont Morgan, the undisputed king of Meilika finance. The seventy‑nine‑year‑old man, hair completely white, still robust, his voice booming like a bell. Tonight he was not seated in a wheelchair—a fixture of his public appearances in recent months—but leaned on an ebony cane, as if deliberately displaying his undiminished vigor.

"Thank you, Mr. Morgan," Asikuisi raised his glass, "but courage cannot fill a soldier's stomach, nor forge Shells. Ultimately, war contests steel, coal, and… money."

"Always money," Morgan laughed, a weariness of world‑weary insight in his smile, "my father used to say that the first casualty of war is truth, but the last to fall is always gold."

Polite chuckles rippled around. These men all grasped the weight of the remark—their family fortunes, to varying degrees, were built on the demands war creates. The Crimean War, the Meilika Civil War, the American‑Spanish War… each conflict forged new titans and made the old ones stronger.