Chapter 78 – Pompeii Report

Let's turn back the clock for a moment.

The United States, shortly after the 'Baring Scandal' broke out in the UK.

"Damn it, is this for real?"

"My money!! My money was swept away by those damn British bankers?!"

"What the hell is D.C. doing? Declare war on those British imperialist bastards right now! This is a declaration of war through finance!"

American public opinion quickly ignited a fierce wave of anti-British sentiment.

The Argentine coup, the collapse of Barings Bank, and the resulting London Panic of 1890.

This inevitably dealt a severe blow to the U.S. economy, which was closely tied to the UK, and eventually led to the Panic of 1893.

Bank runs followed, foreign investors sold off U.S. bonds, unemployment rose, and agriculture was devastated by deflation.

Simple math showed that over 600 banks went bankrupt, and strikes by miners and railroad workers spread.

Naturally, public sentiment turned grim. And amid this chaos, the 'Baring Scandal' from London made its way across the Atlantic.

Oddly enough, the Republican Party, which had lost the 1892 presidential election, was thrilled.

"This is our chance!!"

"Cleveland, that fat president, is a well-known Anglophile! It worked in 1888, and it will work again this time!"

"Let's spread the word and blame it all on the British."

"We may have lost the presidential election, but we must win the midterms!"

A ruined economy.

Hurricane damage is more painful than usual.

Sudden anti-British sentiment.

If beating the British would solve the problem, even the ruling Democrats might have joined in.

But how could the still-developing United States take on the British Empire, the world's top naval power?

Amid this strange, rapidly changing atmosphere, President Grover Cleveland, who had barely begun his second term as the 24th president after serving as the 22nd, tore at his hair and shouted,

"God damn it! What the hell did I do wrong to deserve this?"

Fortunately, the situation was somewhat alleviated when the London Stock Exchange cleared up the misunderstanding with the British Bank and issued a not-guilty verdict.

And it was also fortunate that the financial mogul from Manhattan stepped in to prevent the U.S. from defaulting.

To refill the empty Treasury, John Pierpont Morgan, together with international financial firms, raised a rescue fund worth a staggering 100 million dollars in gold.

A truly astronomical amount.

In the end, Cleveland was able to catch his breath.

"Thank you, Morgan! You are truly my saviour!!"

"No need to thank me so much, Mr. President. It's only natural for a patriot to step up in a time of national crisis."

Patriot, my foot. He'd sell out the country in a heartbeat if it suited him.

That's what Cleveland thought.

In reality, Morgan pocketed about 5 million dollars in profit from this mediation. Compared to 100 million, it was a drop in the bucket, but it was still no small sum.

However, being in a position of gratitude, Cleveland couldn't say much. He wasn't foolish enough to criticize a creditor as a debtor.

Instead, he drew a clear line.

"What do you want? Tell me, and I'll grant it as long as it's within my power."

"Then, would you take a look at this first?"

Morgan took out a sealed document from his coat. Cleveland, curious, broke the seal and opened it.

"What is this?"

"It's something sent from the London Stock Exchange as an apology, but they call it... the Pompeii Report."

Pompeii? A tourism development project?

Cleveland thought for a moment, but after reading its contents for several minutes, he couldn't afford to think so casually.

"What on earth is this?"

"It's dynamite."

The kind that, if mishandled, could blow up not just a mine, but an entire nation's economy.

That's how Morgan defined it. In a time before nuclear bombs, it was the best analogy he could offer.

"Mr. President, I am what people call a robber baron. I'm at the very top of the aristocracy, so you could say I'm akin to a grand duke."

Morgan spoke with a blend of pride and humour, though it was a modest understatement compared to his nickname, the financial king.

"But because of that, I don't want the economy of this country that I feed off to be toyed with by such schemes. What I want is an economy that competes freely within the bounds of law and order."

"... Hmm."

Cleveland nodded.

Of course, he didn't fully agree with Morgan.

After all, Morgan was still a man who would suck the American economy dry like a leech.

But at least he couldn't equate someone who wanted to kill the host with someone who intended to coexist with it.

"Alright. So what help do you need from me?"

"This incident has shown us just how vulnerable we are in this area. Given that, wouldn't it be prudent to establish a police force specializing in financial crimes?"

"That's difficult. Imagine if my party proposed something like that. Who would support it?"

The opposition Republicans would, of course.

Morgan chuckled and nodded. After all, the United States prided itself on being a nation of individualists who thumb their noses at anything the federal government tries to do.

"Instead, I'll lend you the Mint Police."

"Can't we use the Secret Service (Secret Service: a counterfeit prevention intelligence agency under the Treasury)?"

"If I did that, I'd be branded a traitor by the ruling Democrats. Absolutely not."

Why was the Secret Service established in the first place? It was an agency created by Lincoln during the Civil War to prevent the Confederacy from printing counterfeit Northern currency. Naturally, the Democrats, who inherited the Confederate legacy, couldn't help but view the Secret Service as a thorn in their side.

Morgan shrugged and said, "Fine, then let's go with that."

"Let's do it. But... may I ask you one question?"

"Go ahead."

"This Pompeii Report... was it written by some economist blessed by the devil? Or perhaps a notorious criminal who repented after hearing an angel's whisper?"

"Ah."

Morgan couldn't help but smile bitterly at that.

Analysts at his company, JPMorgan Chase & Co., as well as professors from business schools like Harvard and Yale, had said similar things.

"They say it's written by a novelist."

"... A novelist?"

What kind of novelist could write such... no, no, wait.

"In that case, it might be worth recruiting him. Writing is hard work, so if we offer him some money, it should be easy to bring him on board."

"I wish it were that easy."

"Excuse me?"

"If it were possible, I would have hired him first."

After all, there's no way scribbling words could earn more than working in this field, right? What could be so difficult?

But in response to his words, the financial king in front of him gave a bitter smile and replied, "His name is Hanslow Jin."

"Ah... that author. I've heard of him."

At that, Cleveland could only let out a groan.

He was someone who had recently been raking in more money than anyone, so it wasn't surprising.

"I can't even begin to estimate how much it would cost to bring someone like that on board."

'And on top of that, those Rothschilds, they've already partnered with him.'

It was something Morgan had heard in passing from the Rothschilds when they were forming the syndicate this time.

To be precise, it was the head of the British branch, but when Morgan learned that he was managing the accounts of the charitable foundation Hanslow Jin had established, he was astonished.

'Those damned Jews, daring to secure such a blue-chip investment?!'

Of course, he hadn't paid any attention when Jin was just writing for magazines.

After all, he was someone who cared more about the numbers in his bank account than a line of literary dialogue.

But the moment he saw the Pompeii Report, he knew.

There was something extraordinary in the economic insight Jin displayed.

It was a feeling reminiscent of what was sensed in France during the Franco-Prussian War, when everyone believed that France would declare a moratorium.

In simple terms, it was the 'smell of money,' and that instinct was emanating strongly from the Pompeii Report.

'Of course, I can't be sure yet.'

As Morgan walked out of his meeting with Cleveland and through the White House corridors, he thought to himself.

His operations were now too large to be based on instinct alone. Besides, this wasn't just any prey—it already had an owner.

In that case, he would wait for the right moment.

And if it turned out that it was indeed worth it...

'I'll take it by any means necessary. Even if I have to wrest it away.'

People often called him a robber baron. But he preferred the term "concrete jungle."

In the jungle, it was survival of the fittest.

The strongest predator devoured everything in a lawless land.

And in that lawless land, he was the jaguar of the concrete jungle. He was the anaconda, the crocodile.

Even if the opponent was the Rothschilds, if the prey was worth it, he would go to war for it.

That was how Morgan thought, and that thought solidified into reality when, not long after, some upstart in Texas followed the investment strategies outlined in the report and was caught exactly as described.

As a financial king who loved free competition, Morgan couldn't stand by and watch Rothschild eat such a juicy piece of meat alone.

If the opportunity arose, he wouldn't let it slip.

"Whatever it takes, I'll eat it."

***

"So, are you going to America?"

"Am I out of my mind?"

I scoffed and shook my head at Mr. Miller's suggestion.

America? It would be nice to visit for a short trip, sure. It's a place brimming with a certain romanticism, isn't it? New York, Brooklyn, Broadway...

But now? Right after coming to France under the pretense of being ill?

Of course, France is fine. Considering London's dreary weather, I can always use the excuse of convalescence.

But America? That's a bit much. In an era where airplanes haven't even been developed yet, crossing the Atlantic for 'recovery'?

It doesn't make sense.

"Well, I might go to America someday, but not now."

"Hmm, then what should we do?"

"Morgan just wants to express his gratitude, doesn't he? If it were something important, he would have come himself or sent someone else. We can probably take it lightly, don't you think?"

What could a titan of the business world like him possibly want with me?

Sure, the information I sent was helpful, but in the end, he was the one who took action and handled it, right? He is quite the person. No wonder people write biographies about him.

So, I...

"Shall we head to the Champs-Élysées today?"

It was time to resume my delightful tour of Paris.

I enjoyed delicious food, took photos at scenic spots, visited Notre-Dame Cathedral and the Paris Exposition, attended a play at the Comédie-Française by invitation from Sarah Bernhardt, and toured the Louvre Museum.

Ah, it was my first time seeing the real Mona Lisa, and it truly had a certain something.

I was surprised by how small it was, but on the bright side, there were no glass barriers, so I could admire the details up close.

By the time we were about to leave Paris, even Maggie, who had been sulking about missing work, was smiling again, and both Monty and Mary seemed satisfied and happy.

Well, with warm and pleasant weather like this, it's hard not to feel good.

"So, Hanslow, are we going home now?"

"Not just yet. There's one last person I need to meet."

"In Paris?"

"No, on the way back."

130 kilometers north of Paris, in a small town near the Somme River—Amiens.

Honestly, I didn't know much about the city. I probably read about it more in novels than heard about it before. So, I didn't know it had the Amiens Cathedral, a Gothic structure much larger than Notre Dame, or that it was famous for its textile industry.

But now, I've come to know.

Because...

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm here on the recommendation of Mr. Eiffel."

"Come in. I've been waiting a long time... Hanslow Jin."

The father of science fiction.

Jules Verne was looking at me with deep, piercing blue eyes, as if seeing right through me.