Chapter 308: Infiltration
London, England.
In a small snack shop on a street corner in London's wealthy district—an establishment called "Indian Flavors"—a handsome man dressed like a British gentleman steps inside. The moment he appears, he draws many gazes. With his high nose, deep-set eyes, and thick blond hair, his style doesn't quite match that of the current younger generation in Britain.
Although his face looks quite young—around seventeen or eighteen—every gesture imitates that of an old British gentleman, precise and elegant to an extreme. Some of the young ladies dining there sigh at the pity of it: he's so handsome, yet every movement seems so old-fashioned, as if seeing their own father suddenly appear. It completely extinguishes any daydreams of a sweet romantic fling.
Ignoring the ladies' attention, the young man walks straight to the counter, his cane tapping rhythmically on the wooden floor. He politely asks the attendant, "Sir, do you sell Stargazy Pie here?"
The attendant is fairly young, with a bit of a pretty-boy appearance. He claims to be from India, but his East Asian features prove he's lying. The customers don't care. One reason people come here is that the "Indian" food is supposedly very "authentic," especially the famous "Soul-Stirring Crispy Balls." Topped with cheese, cream, and honey, even the British say they're wonderful. Another reason is that this "Indian" restaurant is distinctive: it's said that most of the ingredients come directly from India, especially the secret spices, very rich in flavor. They even claim to have water shipped from the Ganges River, which, according to the restaurant staff, is akin to holy water that can cleanse the soul and help British people ascend to heaven after death. There's no insult intended; for British Puritans, being so devout means deserving such blessings.
Finally, most of the patrons here are wealthy young people from the neighborhood, especially those from wealthy families who enjoy indulging. Compared to oily British chefs, the staff here is generally more attractive—mostly good-looking young men of various Eastern and Western backgrounds. It's novel and eye-catching.
"Very sorry, we're an Indian restaurant," the attendant replies.
"That's a shame. Then there's no curry stew with chicken either?"
"For the curry chicken, do you want it sweet or salty?"
"I want it clean and hygienic."
They banter back and forth at the counter, and a small slip of paper is discreetly slipped into the young gentleman's pocket.
"Enjoy your meal!"
"Thank you!"
…
Evening, No. 214 Thames Street, London.
The man who appeared in the restaurant during the day is now talking with another man—the owner of "Indian Flavors."
"Mr. Charlede, this is the summary of the English Parliament's December proceedings this year. It's mainly focused on the wars involving Prussia and France, Austria and Italy. Besides that, Ireland is considered half an internal issue for Britain, since it's never actually been independent," the snack shop owner says as he hands over a large stack of documents.
He continues, "In the British government's internal meetings this year, the focus of colonial work remains South America, and the Suez Canal was also mentioned. Apart from that, there's hardly any significant attention on Africa."
The man referred to as "Richard" asks, "Is your source reliable?"
"We bribed a member of Parliament from the Abergavenny area, who is close friends with the current minister of the 'Doesn't Care' Department. So he's very familiar with Britain's internal affairs."
"You didn't leave any loose ends, did you?"
"Don't worry. We hired a Frenchman under the identity of American businessmen. Our people claimed they wanted to explore the British market, so they're interested in British government policies."
"A Frenchman? Is he trustworthy?"
"We never treated him as one of our own, so we've kept it strictly one-way contact. He doesn't know our real identity."
"Still, be careful not to raise his suspicions. After all, he's a Frenchman in Britain—if he suddenly decides to betray us, it could get messy."
"Heh, that won't happen. We know his situation completely. When he was young, his father brought him to Britain from France. His father married an English stepmother, but shortly afterward, the father suddenly died. The stepmother and another man seized the family property and kicked him out. He became a 'waif of the fog,' mixing with gangs since childhood, so he really hates the British. Later, with our grooming, he's posing as a nouveau riche American, socializing with aristocrats to steal information about the British government. By now, he can't leave this lavish life. If he leaves us, he's back on the streets."
"Good. Still, we can't let our guard down. He's not one of ours, so we should be wary." "Richard" says.
He then sits on the sofa and starts flipping through the papers. The entire living room falls silent, and only the ticking of the second hand can be heard on the clock.
Time passes until late at night, and "Richard" finally puts down the documents.
As though no one else were present, he grabs a small brazier, tosses the documents in, and lights them with a candle. The room, in the cold London winter, is instantly illuminated, and the flames bring some warmth.
"Richard" speaks: "Continue to keep a close watch on the British government, and pay attention to the newspapers and public opinion. If there's any mention of the Kingdom, report immediately."
"Understood. Don't worry. Some of our people have already infiltrated several small newspapers, and one even made it to an editor's position at The Times. If anything relevant appears, we'll get word right away."
"Excellent. Right now, the Kingdom needs a stable environment to develop in peace, so we must avoid attention from other nations—especially from people here. We can't intervene in government matters at the moment, but we absolutely must control public opinion. Even if it costs more money, we can't let the workers in London's slums find out there's an East African Kingdom. Better to hire some hacks to make Africa sound as terrifying as possible, so Londoners think Africa is a rotten place no one would visit. Spread stories about horrible diseases, even rumors of the Black Death."
Public opinion can indeed be manipulated—especially in capitalist countries—because all you need is money to guide the narrative. The government of East Africa is willing to spend big so that the British think Africa is worthless and stay away.
Although the workers and lower classes in London can't directly decide Britain's affairs, in recent years the labor movements and strikes have forced the government to make changes. In 1867, they even granted voting rights to the working class.
That means public opinion will matter more and more, influencing the votes the members of Parliament rely on. This opens the way for further infiltration by the East African government. In a "free" country, capital controls public opinion, public opinion involves votes, and that in turn affects politics. Whichever capital is most powerful can run rampant in the "free" world. That's why, in a previous era, American capital could always find allies in any "capitalist" country.
For now, history hasn't progressed that far, since there hasn't been a rival ideology to sharpen it. That allows a state entity like East Africa to operate relatively unhindered in Britain, America, and France—it's taking advantage of the times.
Of course, one should never underestimate the power of workers and common people. The British still need them to fight in wars, so it's best to promote the notion that Africa has a harsh climate. Subtly let them know that they shouldn't let the British government trick them. Going to Africa is basically marching to your own doom. You can beat the natives, but can you beat disease? That'll teach Britain's future recruitment efforts a lesson!
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