AWB Chapter 85 The London Game: The Probing Under the Crown
Chapter 85 The London Game: The Probing Under the Crown
I won't write about Gibraltar; they're all pretty much the same, and if I do, my comrades will say I'm just padding the post!
The "Recovery" anchored ten nautical miles off the coast of Portsmouth.
A British naval pilot circled the giant ship three times, the officer on board looking up at the four main gun turrets, his binoculars lingering in his hand for a long time. Finally, he approached and handed over a document.
"Mr. Wang, Captain Li." The pilot was a veteran navy officer in his fifties, speaking with a heavy Scottish accent. "According to the Navy Department's order, the 'Guangfu' must anchor at this designated spot. The harbor's depth is insufficient to accommodate your ship's draft."
Li Te took the document, glanced at it, and smiled: "Major, the main channel of Portsmouth is twelve meters deep, and my ship has a draft of eleven and a half meters. It can get in."
"This is...for security reasons." The pilot avoided his gaze. "In addition, your personnel will need to use the transport boats arranged by us to disembark. The ship's cannons must be in the secure locking position and will be checked by our personnel."
"Inspection?" Li Te raised an eyebrow. "You mean, let British soldiers board Lanfang's warships and inspect our weapons?"
"This is the usual practice—"
"This is not our usual practice," Li Te interrupted him, his voice turning cold. "Major, please inform your superiors: The 'Restoration' will remain anchored here on high alert. Our personnel will disembark via their own transport boats. If your side insists on boarding for inspection, it will be considered a hostile act, and our ship has the right to defend itself."
The water-drawing official's face turned pale.
Wang Wenwu interjected at the opportune moment, his tone more conciliatory: "Major, we understand your security concerns. How about this—we may allow an unarmed British observer to board the ship and tour the designated area, but he/she must not touch any equipment or enter any compartments. At the same time, you must guarantee the safe passage of our transport boats within Portsmouth Harbor."
The water diversion officer hesitated for a few seconds, then nodded: "I need to ask for permission."
"Please go ahead."
Half an hour later, a small boat arrived carrying a British naval lieutenant commander. He was very young, not yet forty, and his shoulder insignia belonged to the General Staff. As he boarded the HMS Reconstruction, his eyes never stopped scanning, as if trying to memorize every detail.
Li Te personally received him, but only took him for a tour of the foredeck.
"What is the title of a lieutenant colonel?"
"Robert Hopkins, Strategic Planning Division, Navy Department." The lieutenant commander spoke quickly, with an Oxford accent, "Captain Lee, your ship's...size is impressive."
"It's alright," Li Te said casually. "The main consideration is the stability of long-distance ocean voyages."
"I heard it can reach speeds of 30 knots?"
"Test data." Li Te didn't answer directly. "Is the lieutenant colonel interested in the technical specifications?"
Hopkins chuckled twice. "Just curious. By the way, what's the caliber of the main gun...?"
"Standard configuration." Lieutenant Colonel Lee continued, dodging the question. "It's time for your tour, Lieutenant Colonel. Please."
After seeing Hopkins off, Wang Wenwu stepped down from the bridge: "What did you figure out?"
"The eyes and ears of the Navy," Little said. "The fact that the people from the Strategic Planning Office came in person shows that Fisher is anxious. He wants to know exactly how far ahead we are."
"Then let him know a little." Wang Wenwu pulled out the white-covered document from his briefcase. "Before tomorrow's negotiations, I 'accidentally' dropped a few sheets of paper."
The special train bound for London was a Victorian-era antique, but the carriages were luxuriously decorated. Mahogany paneling, leather seats, silver tea sets, and the English countryside outside the windows glowed green in the May sun.
Wang Wenwu sat by the window, opposite Li Mingyuan—his deputy this time, a thirty-year-old Singaporean-born Chinese, a graduate of Oxford University's law department, and an expert in international law.
"Minister," Li Mingyuan lowered his voice, "I just received news that the negotiations are scheduled to take place at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building, and the British delegation has been announced."
He handed over the list.
Wang Wenwu glanced at them and laughed: "This is quite a grand affair. The Foreign Minister, the Navy Minister, the Chairman of the Trade Commission, the Minister of Indian Affairs... they've brought half the cabinet."
"And this," Li Mingyuan pulled out another piece of paper, "a map showing the distribution of listening devices in our hotel rooms. There are at least six behind the bedside lamps, telephones, and fireplace mantles."
"As expected." Wang Wenwu folded the paper and put it away. "Remember, only say what needs to be said in the room. For truly important matters, go to the bathroom and turn on the tap."
"clear."
As the train passed Windsor Castle, Wang Wenwu gazed out the window at the thousand-year-old fortress and suddenly asked, "Mingyuan, what kind of treatment did the Ming Dynasty envoys receive when they came to England three hundred years ago?"
Li Mingyuan thought for a moment: "In 1645, the Southern Ming envoys did come, wanting to unite with England against the Manchus. At that time, England was in the midst of a civil war, and Charles I was too busy to help himself. The delegation didn't even get to see the king and was sent away after three months."
"Three hundred years," Wang Wenwu repeated softly. "Three hundred years later, the Chinese came again. This time, they have to hold a cabinet meeting to discuss it."
At 3 p.m., the train pulled into Paddington Station.
The platform had been cleared, leaving only a dozen or so agents in black and a Ministry of Foreign Affairs official. He was a middle-aged man, bald, with an expression that looked like he was wearing a mask.
"Mr. Wang, welcome to London. I am George Wilson, Deputy Director of the Far Eastern Division of the Foreign Office. I am here to receive your delegation."
Shake hands, exchange pleasantries, get in the car.
The convoy headed towards the Clarridge Hotel in Mayfair. Along the way, it passed Trafalgar Square, where the Nelson Monument stood tall, its stone lions silently gazing at the streets of London.
"That was General Nelson," Wilson explained. "He defeated the combined French and Spanish fleet in 1805, establishing British naval supremacy."
"I know." Wang Wenwu looked out the window. "That naval battle used sailing warships. Less than a hundred years later, we're already in the era of steam-powered ironclad ships."
Wilson glanced at him but didn't reply.
The hotel had reserved the entire top floor. The first thing Wang Wenwu did upon entering the room was to walk to the window and draw back the curtains.
It faces Hyde Park directly. It was a sunny afternoon in May, and people were riding horses and taking walks. In the distance, the spires of Kensington Palace peeked out from the treetops, revealing a hint of gold.
It's too peaceful.
It was as calm as the calm before a storm.
The next morning at nine o'clock, at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building.
The conference room was unusually long, with a dark oak table that could seat thirty people. On the walls were portraits of past foreign ministers, the oldest of whom wore a wig and looked down arrogantly at the visitors from the 21st century.
The British staff arrived five minutes early and sat down at one side of the table. They were all dressed in black morning suits, white shirts, and starched collars that were as stiff as cardboard.
When Wang Wenwu and his men entered, all eyes turned to them.
They wore dark gray Zhongshan suits with stand-up collars and five buttons. No ties, no top hats—simple to the point of being austere. Yet, everyone stood tall and walked with a steady gait.
"Mr. Wang, please have a seat." Foreign Minister Marquis Longston rose to gesture, his movements textbook perfect. He was around sixty years old, his gray hair meticulously combed, and his face possessed the gentle aloofness characteristic of generations of nobility.