AWB Chapter 92 Beware of the Russians
Chapter 92 Beware of the Russians
Wang Wenwu also sat down: "General, learning is a two-way street. We also want to learn about submarines from Germany." (They have the technical specifications for submarines, but that doesn't mean Lanfang can build them.)
"We can talk," Tirpitz said, "but I need a guarantee from you."
"Speaking."
"Müller's personal safety must be guaranteed during his time in Dubai. Whatever he sees, hears, or even does, he must not be harmed. If there are problems, deport him, but do not use force."
Wang Wenwu smiled: "General, Lanfang is a country ruled by law. As long as Major General Muller abides by our laws and does not engage in espionage, he will be a welcome guest."
"Espionage..." Tirpitz repeated the word, then laughed. "The definition is too vague. Does visiting a factory count? Does chatting with a technician count? Does buying a few publicly available technical manuals count?"
"As long as it's within the legal scope, it's considered normal communication."
The two looked at each other and understood what the other meant.
Tirpitz wanted a guarantee of security, which Wang Wenwu provided—but with the condition that he "obey the law." An unspoken understanding.
"There's one more thing." Tirpitz pulled a small notebook from his pocket, tore off a page, and wrote down a number. "This is my private phone number at the Admiralty. If... if Mr. Chen Feng is willing to discuss the oil-fired boilers, please call me anytime. The price is negotiable." (Did they have international calls back then? Comrades, please explain.)
Wang Wenwu took the note: "I will pass it on."
Tirpitz stood up, walked to the door, and then stopped. "Mr. Wang," he said, "I meant what I said yesterday. Technological dependence is poison; Germany can't buy ships forever. Sooner or later, we'll build better ones ourselves. At that time, I hope we'll still be friends, not rivals."
"Lanfang will always be willing to be a friend of countries that respect us."
"Respect..." Tirpitz nodded, opened the door, and left.
Wang Wenwu stood by the window, watching the motorcade below. William's imperial carriage had arrived, and the emperor was going to personally escort him to the train station—the highest honor.
Li Mingyuan knocked on the door and came in: "Minister, the luggage is packed. The special train to Paris departs in an hour."
"What are the arrangements in France?"
"The French ambassador is waiting at the station and will accompany us directly to Paris. We've been arranged to stay at the Hotel Crelium. We'll meet with the Foreign Minister tomorrow morning and possibly the President in the afternoon."
"And Russia?"
"Count Arshavin, the Russian ambassador to Germany, sent a message hoping to 'bump into' you at the station and have a chat."
Wang Wenwu raised an eyebrow: "Shall we talk at Berlin Station?"
"He said it was a personal greeting, not an official statement." Li Mingyuan paused, "But I checked, Arshavin went all the way from Berlin to Potsdam and will arrive early this morning. He's waiting for us."
"The Tsar can't wait any longer..." Wang Wenwu glanced at his pocket watch. "Let's go, don't keep the Emperor waiting."
As he descended the stairs, he took one last look at the Berlin skyline. Church spires, factory chimneys—the city radiated power under the June sun.
Germans want the world.
The British wanted to preserve the world.
The French want a piece of the pie.
Lanfang only wanted a small piece of land so that Chinese people who had been separated from their homes for a hundred years could return home.
This world is really interesting.
William was already there when I got into the carriage. He had changed back into his military uniform and was sitting upright.
"Mr. Wang, one last question," William said as the carriage started to move, "If...if one day Germany and Britain really go to war, whose side will you be on?"
The problem is frighteningly direct.
Wang Wenwu remained silent for three seconds before giving the answer Chen Feng had already prepared:
"Your Majesty, Lanfang's stance is very clear—we stand only on the side of the Chinese. The war in Europe is a European affair. Our warships will only be deployed to protect our compatriots."
William stared at him, then suddenly burst into laughter:
"Good! That's a good answer! Much better than those ambiguous diplomatic statements!"
He patted Wang Wenwu on the shoulder:
"Then it's settled. If you don't help the British, Germany will always be your friend."
The carriage headed towards the station.
Outside the car window, Berlin receded. The rising imperial capital, a city brimming with ambition and power.
Wang Wenwu leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
He wondered what Chen Feng was doing in Dubai right now. Was he checking on the construction progress of the "Fuxing" high-speed train? Was he listening to Uncle Wang's report on the situation of the nineteen Dutchmen in the mining area? Or was he planning his next step—his return journey to Southeast Asia?
The morning mist had not yet dissipated at Berlin Zoo Station.
Wang Wenwu stood at the door of the special train carriage, watching Wilhelm II wave from the platform. The emperor had drunk too much the night before; his eyes were a little swollen, but he was as excited as if he were about to go to war. A dozen or so high-ranking German officials stood behind him, their uniforms impeccably tailored, their expressions varied.
"Mr. Wang!" William stepped forward one last time, grasping Wang Wenwu's hand. "Remember our agreement! The 'Kaiser-class' must be delivered as quickly as possible, and in the best possible condition! Germany will not let its friends down!"
"Lanfang will keep its promise," Wang Wenwu smiled. "And please remember, Your Majesty, that the technical team from the Special Steel Plant will be departing next month."
"Don't worry! Krupp's best engineers!" William patted his chest. "Alfred, you guarantee it!"
Tirpitz stood at the edge of the crowd, nodding slightly, his face expressionless. After their final conversation in the hotel room last night, the naval commander seemed to have accepted reality—at least outwardly so.
The whistle sounded.
Wang Wenwu boarded the train and closed the door. Through the glass window, he saw William still waving until the train slowly started moving and the platform slid backward.
The carriage was quiet. Li Mingyuan was organizing documents, while the other members of his entourage were either catching up on sleep or gazing out the window. Seven days from London to Berlin, four formal negotiations, and several banquets—everyone was exhausted.
As soon as Wang Wenwu sat down, Li Mingyuan handed him a stack of telegrams.
"Just received it. News from back home." He lowered his voice. "The main gun turret of the 'Fuxing' high-speed train has been installed and outfitting has begun."
Wang Wenwu quickly glanced at the screen: "What about the mining area?"
"Of the nineteen Dutchmen, two died." Li Mingyuan's expression was a bit strange. "It wasn't abuse, it was... they brought it on themselves. One tried to escape and jumped off the cliff in the mine, breaking his neck. The other tried to steal iron ore to kill the overseer, but when he was discovered, he suffered cardiac arrest during the struggle."
"What about the remaining seventeen?"
"They're much more obedient now. Wang Tieshan said they do whatever they're told to do now, and their eyes have changed."
Wang Wenwu paused for a moment, then said, "Dispose of the body and notify the Dutch consulate. Say it was a 'mining accident.' Keep a record of it; you might need it later."
"Yes."
The train pulled out of Berlin, and the scenery outside the window transformed into the countryside. The German countryside in June is beautiful; the fields are a vibrant green, dotted with red-tiled farmhouses. But Wang Wenwu wasn't in the mood to admire the view. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes to rest.
There's still talk in Paris. The French want follow-up orders for the Courbet-class and also want to discuss more advanced designs. Chen Feng's bottom line is: he's willing to sell the ships and offer limited technology transfer, but not the latest oil-fired boiler systems.
"Minister," Li Mingyuan's voice pulled him back to reality, "there's also a telegram... a private one."
Wang Wenwu opened his eyes: "Who sent this?"
"The signature is 'Old Friend.' The content..." Li Mingyuan handed over the translator's paper.
The paper contained only one line: "The Russians are watching you. Beware of Arshavin."
There was no signature, but Wang Wenwu knew who it was—Tirpitz. The use of such a clandestine channel to pass a message indicated that something was amiss.
"Russians..." he murmured.