The room at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, was designed to disarm. There were no bare bulbs or stone walls. It was a comfortable officer's study, furnished with a thick carpet, leather armchairs, and shelves of leather-bound books on law and military history. A window looked out onto a manicured parade ground where soldiers drilled with a peaceful, rhythmic precision. Corporal Riley had been given a fresh uniform, a hot meal, and a full night's sleep, the first he'd had in months. He had been treated not by a gaoler, but by a calm, professional army doctor who had tended to the graze on his side. It was a civilized, gentlemanly confinement, and it was more psychologically unnerving than any prison cell.
The architect of this civilized cage now entered the room. Secretary of War Elihu Root moved with a quiet, deliberate authority. He was not a physically imposing man, but his presence seemed to fill the room. He carried a single, thin file and a carafe of water, which he placed on the small table between the two armchairs. He was alone. There were no guards, no stenographers. His demeanor was that of a patient, understanding, but utterly unyielding lawyer preparing for a deposition.
"Corporal," Root began, his voice calm and even as he poured them both a glass of water. "You have had a difficult ordeal. I want you to understand that while you are here, you are safe. No one can reach you. All we require from you is the truth."
Riley, who had been a hair's breadth from death in the streets of St. Louis, finally felt a measure of safety, but it was the safety of a specimen in a jar. He looked at the powerful, intelligent man before him and knew this was his last and only chance at salvation. He nodded, his throat tight.
"Good," Root said. "Let us begin at the beginning. Tell me about Minister Yuan Shikai."
And so, the story poured out of Riley. In the quiet, sunlit room, he unburdened his soul. He confessed everything, the words tumbling out in a torrent of guilt, fear, and a desperate need to be understood. He detailed his recruitment in Tianjin, not by Yuan himself, but by the cold and ruthlessly efficient Madame Song. He described the psychological manipulation, the way they had used his patriotism and his disillusionment to turn him into their weapon.
He recounted, with a chilling, technical precision, the construction of the bomb that had caused the Appalachian Fire. He described the unique chemical signature of the plastic explosive, the sophisticated timing mechanism, and the meticulous planning that had gone into the attack.
"He is a genius, sir," Riley said, his voice a low, haunted whisper. "Yuan… he thinks on a different level. He is paranoid, deeply so. He believes the Emperor is moving against him, that the old Manchu court wants him dead. He sees conspiracies everywhere. But his ambition… it's a force of nature. He doesn't just want power in China. He believes he is the only man capable of making China the most powerful nation on earth, and he will burn down the rest of the world to prove it."
Root listened patiently, his face impassive, his sharp legal mind absorbing and cataloging every detail, every nuance. He did not interrupt. He let Riley talk, understanding that a full confession was a form of catharsis, and the more Riley unburdened himself, the more pliable he would become.
When Riley finally fell silent, exhausted, Root began his own quiet interrogation. His questions were precise, surgical. He was not interested in emotion; he was interested in capabilities.
"You said Yuan has a private network, a 'ghost army.' Describe it. What are its capabilities?"
"It's not an army in the traditional sense," Riley explained. "It's a network of cells. His enforcers are mostly ex-military, loyal only to him. But his real strength is industrial. He has secret workshops, private laboratories, all hidden within his vast corporate empire. He can produce weapons and equipment that are superior to the official Qing military's."
Root leaned forward, his interest sharpening. "What kind of weapons?"
This was the critical line of questioning. Riley, eager to prove his value, revealed a new and vital piece of intelligence. "He's obsessed with surpassing Western technology, sir. He had teams of his own engineers—smart men, Western-trained—working around the clock. I saw the manuals they were using. They were trying to reverse-engineer the breech mechanism of the new British 12-inch naval gun. They were analyzing the chemical composition of German smokeless powder. He wasn't just stockpiling weapons; he was trying to leapfrog a generation of military technology."
This was the confirmation Root had been seeking. Yuan Shikai was not just a political traitor playing a game of thrones. He was a rogue industrial power, building a technologically advanced private military force, beholden to no one, a modern warlord in a business suit. This made him infinitely more dangerous, and potentially, infinitely more useful.
After hours of this quiet, relentless questioning, Root closed his file. He had everything he needed. He looked at Riley, who sat slumped in his chair, a hollowed-out shell of a man.
"You have been very helpful, Corporal," Root said. "Your testimony will be of great service to your country." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "You are, of course, a traitor. You have committed an act of war against the United States. Under military law, the penalty for that is death."
Riley flinched, his face ashen.
"However," Root continued smoothly, "your government is prepared to offer you a different path. A chance to serve your country one last time, to atone, in some small way, for your crimes."
He laid out the offer. It was not freedom. It was a different kind of servitude. "You will remain here, at Fort Leavenworth, in comfortable but secure confinement. You will write down everything you have told me in a formal, signed confession. At a time of my choosing, you will be brought to Washington. There, you will confront your former master, Yuan Shikai, directly. You will be our 'speaking stick,' Corporal. The living, breathing proof of his treachery. Your life depends on your performance."
Riley looked out the window at the distant, drilling soldiers, a perfect picture of the life of honor and duty he had lost forever. He had no other options. Death, or this.
"I'll do it," he whispered. "I agree."
Root stood up, the meeting concluded. "A wise decision, Corporal."
He left the room, leaving Riley alone with his ghosts and his new, terrible purpose. In his hand, Root held the keys to the entire crisis: Riley's imminent confession, the full, detailed story of Yuan Shikai's treason, confirmed from the mouth of the man who had pulled the trigger. The question was no longer what he knew. The question was how, and when, he would choose to use this devastating, perfectly crafted weapon.