Chapter 1138: Those Who Dislike the Tsar
The icy spring rain of Saint Petersburg drummed relentlessly against Fox’s carriage. Each rhythmic patter against the roof only served to sharpen the irritation simmering within him.
His assistant, unable to endure the oppressive silence any longer, ventured to speak in a cautious tone. "My lord, our trip was not entirely without merit. For instance, we have learned that the Russians are mobilizing vast quantities of supplies..."
Fox cut him off with a dark scowl. "They are preparing for war with the Ottomans. Every Tsar does that. Do you truly expect me to report that to the Prime Minister as a meaningful achievement?"
The assistant ducked his head, not daring to utter another word.
Just then, the carriage began to slow. An attendant riding alongside the vehicle rapped on the window, pointing toward a black carriage visible through the curtain of rain. "My lord, there is someone there who insists on seeing you."
A moment later, as the figure outside collapsed his umbrella, Fox’s expression shifted to one of genuine shock. "Count Zubov? Oh, please, come inside quickly."
He shot a meaningful look at his assistant, who hastily scrambled out of the carriage to make room.
The carriage lurched back into motion.
Fox pushed a cup of hot tea toward Zubov. "It is quite a surprise to encounter you here."
"In return, allow me to share a piece of information with you."
Fox knew that if Zubov had braved the rain on the outskirts of Saint Petersburg, he must have something significant to say. He leaned forward slightly. "I am most eager to hear it."
"Do you know where the oats, tents, and gunpowder from Moscow and Novgorod have been shipped over these past few months?"
Fox shook his head.
"Orenburg," Zubov whispered urgently. "The Tsar’s special envoy is currently engaged in peace talks with Ali Shah. In reality, they are preparing to forge a strategic alliance."
Fox’s expression turned grim in an instant.
After confirming that Russian influence had withdrawn from Transcaucasia, Britain had immediately halted its aid to Persia. He had not expected the Russians to move so swiftly to fill that strategic vacuum.
Combined with the stockpiling of supplies in Orenburg, it was blatantly obvious that Russia intended to use Persia as a corridor to launch an offensive into Afghanistan.
Once the Russian army occupied Kabul, their next objective required no guesswork.
At that moment, Fox suspected that the Tsar’s recent erratic behavior might have been a calculated facade designed to lull Britain into a false sense of security while he quietly gathered the strength to strike at India.
"Is your information reliable?"
"Certainly. I would swear it before God," Zubov said, leaning in closer while clutching the warm tea. "General Nikolai Bakhov has already mustered over twenty thousand Cossack cavalry. They will move within three months. The entire campaign is being personally overseen by Count Kutaisov."
Fox was stunned, but his eyes soon narrowed with suspicion. "And why, exactly, are you telling me this?"
Zubov let out a dry, mirthless chuckle. "Because you are my dearest friend, are you not?"
Of course, there was no real friendship between him and Fox. He was here today because he was drowning in a political crisis.
Paul I’s withdrawal from Persia had rendered all of his brother’s military achievements moot, but that was only the beginning of his troubles.
As the peace negotiations between Russia and Persia progressed, Valerian Zubov—who had once slaughtered Persian troops without mercy—had become the greatest obstacle to diplomacy.
To appease the Persians, he was likely to be dismissed from his post.
In truth, Paul I had long been irritated by Zubov, this 'stepfather' figure who was younger than the Tsar himself. This was a perfect opportunity to ruthlessly dismantle the influence of the Zubov family.
Previously, Zubov had tried to unite military heavyweights like Suvorov to pressure Paul I, but the Tsar had simply banished Suvorov back to his remote estate in Konchanskoye.
Now, the visit of the British Foreign Secretary offered Zubov a final shred of hope.
"Indeed, we are the best of friends," Fox replied, playing the veteran diplomat as he nodded sincerely. He looked at Zubov. "So, do you believe my country should resume its support for Persia?"
A smile touched the corners of Zubov’s mouth. "I have heard that you are lobbying the Emperor to turn his attention westward. If that is the case, you must completely block his unrealistic ambitions in the Far East."
"And what is your suggestion?"
"General Bakhov will pass through Khiva and enter Afghanistan along northern Persia. He certainly won't be on high alert during the march."
"If a Persian army were to launch a sudden raid, he would be forced to retreat."
"Subsequently, the Persian forces could strike at Georgia. As you know, the defenses in Transcaucasia are currently hollow. They would achieve an easy victory."
"You wouldn't even need to provide the Persians with much support. You only need to persuade them to take action."
Zubov’s motive was transparent: he wanted the entire Russian establishment to see that once his brother’s troops were withdrawn, the situation in the Caucasus would collapse into chaos.
When that happened, he would stir up public sentiment—invoking the 'security of the Black Sea' or 'washing away the Persian insult'—and Valerian Zubov would almost certainly be reinstated to lead the war against the Persians once more.
Fox was now beaming. "Your friendship is the most precious thing I have found in Saint Petersburg."
For once, he spoke from the heart. Zubov’s appearance meant his mission to Saint Petersburg would not be a failure after all.
...
Paris.
The Crown Prince’s carriage stopped before an inconspicuous courtyard on the eastern side of the Saint-Antoine district. Upon seeing the emblem of the golden fleur-de-lis and the dolphin, the owner of the estate scrambled outside with all his servants and staff to greet the royal visitor.
Joseph stepped down from the carriage, still issuing instructions to Le Roy, the President of the French Academy of Sciences. "Bring every piece of equipment necessary—complete sets of chemical apparatus, printing presses, telescopes, everything. I will have the Navy allocate two transport ships specifically for your use. If that is insufficient, report to me immediately."
"Understood, Your Highness. I guarantee the scientific equipment will be most comprehensive," Le Roy said, bowing. He then added in a hesitant whisper, "Is there truly so much worth studying there? I mean... the records describe Egypt as nothing more than an uncivilized wilderness."
"No, no, you must not succumb to prejudice," Joseph said with a shake of his head. "Egypt possesses a magnificent history, a wealth of practical craftsmanship, and most importantly..."
Le Roy quickly interjected, "Geological surveying. I will recruit the top experts from the University of Paris’s School of Geology, Your Highness."
Seeing that Le Roy still seemed somewhat skeptical, Joseph smiled. "Are you familiar with 'Egyptian Blue'?"
"I... I’m afraid I haven't heard of it, Your Highness."
"It is a dye extracted from water lilies. The hue is exquisite, yet the production cost is incredibly low. The profit from just a fraction of such a discovery would be enough to cover the entire cost of your expedition."
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