The conference room at the War Department was a place of quiet, serious power. The walls were paneled in dark, rich oak, and the only decoration was a large, detailed map of the world, with the territories of the United States and its interests marked in a bold, confident red. The air was still, and the silence was thick with the weight of unspoken history and future conflict.
Yuan Shikai sat on one side of the long, polished table, a lone, composed figure of Eastern silk in a world of Western wool and steel. He had agreed, in principle, to Elihu Root's audacious proposal. Now, the American Secretary of War had invoked the "reciprocal gesture of goodwill" he had promised: the chance for Yuan to confront his accuser directly, and then, to take custody of the man. Yuan had entered the room believing this was his opportunity, his moment to psychologically dominate the broken Corporal Riley, to discredit him, and then to take possession of his pet traitor to be silenced permanently. He believed he was here to tie up a loose end.
Secretary of War Elihu Root sat opposite him, his face as impassive and as unyielding as a judge's gavel. He knew that what was about to happen was not the tying of a loose end, but the final, brutal act of breaking Yuan Shikai's will.
"Bring him in," Root said, his voice calm.
The door opened, and two uniformed military guards escorted Corporal Riley into the room. He was no longer the haggard, terrified fugitive from the streets of St. Louis. He had been cleaned up, fed, and given a fresh, crisp Marine uniform. The haunted, desperate look was gone from his eyes, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. He had been given a new mission by Root, a final duty to the country he had betrayed. He was no longer a man; he was a weapon, aimed at the heart of his former master.
Riley was seated at the table. He did not look at Yuan. He looked directly at Elihu Root.
The air in the room was thick with a toxic mixture of hatred and betrayal. Yuan Shikai looked at the face of the ghost who had brought him to this point of ruin, and he decided to strike first. He leaned forward, and in a low, conspiratorial tone, began to speak to Riley in flawless, cutting Mandarin, a language he knew the American guards would not understand, a private battlefield for a final psychological assault.
"So, this is what you have become, Corporal," Yuan hissed, his voice a silken weapon. "A coward. A traitor twice over. You failed me, and now you betray your own country by selling them these… fantasies. Did they threaten your family? Did they offer you a deal to save your pathetic, worthless life? Tell me, what is the price of a man's soul in America these days?"
He was attempting to shatter Riley's composure, to paint him as a weak, coerced liar before he had a chance to speak, to assert his old dominance one last time.
Riley did not flinch. He did not respond. He had been warned by Root's men that Yuan would do this. He simply kept his gaze locked on the Secretary of War, waiting.
"Corporal Riley," Root said, his English cutting through Yuan's Mandarin poison. "You may begin your statement."
Riley took a deep breath. And in a clear, steady voice, devoid of emotion, he began his testimony. It was not the rambling, guilt-ridden confession of a broken man. It was the cold, precise, and methodical after-action report of a professional soldier.
"My recruitment was handled by an operative known as Madame Song, on the direct authority of Minister Yuan Shikai," he began, his voice even. "My mission was to conduct a campaign of industrial and psychological warfare against the United States, codenamed Operation Pandora. The primary objective was to create domestic chaos and disrupt the American economy to force a de-escalation of American naval presence in the Pacific."
Yuan's face, which had been a mask of contemptuous control, began to tighten. This was not what he had expected.
Riley continued, his recitation flawless. "The explosive used in the Appalachian pipeline attack was a proprietary compound developed in a private laboratory in the western district of Tianjin. Its chemical composition is a stable nitrated cyclotrimethylene-trinitramine base, plasticized with a polyisobutylene binder. It is designed to be undetectable by conventional chemical sniffers and to burn at a temperature high enough to compromise industrial-grade steel."
He was not just confessing; he was providing a detailed, verifiable, and actionable intelligence report. He was gutting Yuan's entire secret network for the benefit of the American Secretary of War.
"Minister Yuan's covert operations included a number of other projects," Riley went on, his memory perfect. "His workshops were staffed by German-educated engineers. I observed them in the process of attempting to reverse-engineer the hydraulic recoil mechanism of the British Mark IX 12-inch naval gun, using technical manuals acquired through an asset in the British embassy in Berlin. They were also attempting to replicate the German process for producing ballistite, a form of smokeless powder, to improve the range and accuracy of their own privately manufactured artillery."
Yuan Shikai was stunned into a horrified silence. This was a catastrophe. Riley was not just confirming his treason against the Emperor; he was exposing his secret industrial espionage against the other great powers of the world. He was methodically revealing every single card Yuan had been hiding up his sleeve.
Elihu Root listened impassively, his face betraying nothing, but his mind was alight. He had won. This was more than he had ever hoped for. The scope of Yuan's ambition and the sophistication of his private operations were staggering.
"That is all, sir," Riley finished, his testimony complete. He had performed his final duty.
Root gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. "Thank you, Corporal. You have served your country." The two military guards, who had been standing at parade rest by the door, stepped forward. They flanked Riley, who stood, gave a final, stiff salute to Root, and was escorted from the room without a single glance at the pale, silent man he had just destroyed.
The door clicked shut, leaving Root and Yuan alone in the heavy silence.
Root let the silence stretch for a long, painful moment. Then, he turned to the pale, sweat-beaded Yuan Shikai.
"As you can see, Minister Yuan," Root said, his voice still perfectly calm, "the matter is far more complex than a simple misunderstanding between our nations."
He reached into his briefcase and produced a document, a preliminary draft of the Manchurian industrial and railway contract. He slid it across the polished table. It stopped directly in front of Yuan.
"However," Root continued, his voice now a low, reasonable murmur, "the United States is still prepared to be… discreet. We are, above all, a pragmatic people. We believe in stable, profitable partnerships."
He gestured to the contract. "The choice, as always, is yours."
Yuan Shikai stared at the document. It was not a contract. It was a confession. It was the price of his survival. It was the instrument of his enslavement. His desperate gambit, his brilliant lies, his entire secret empire—it had all been brought to ruin by a single, speaking ghost. He had been completely, utterly, and permanently outmaneuvered. There was no choice at all.