By early September, the machinery of deceit was turning perfectly. Funds flowed through Geneva and into London, hidden behind a maze of letters of exchange and false accounts. The merchants believed they were investing in British expansion; in truth, they were bankrolling their own decline.
It was then that Agent Lestrac — a quiet scholar from the "unit 141"— produced his report for Dupri. It was not written in the fiery rhetoric of revolution or espionage, but with the detached precision of an economist dissecting a patient's pulse.
"The objective," the report began, "is neither political nor military, but systemic. By introducing inefficiencies into the supply chain — from production to shipment — the British colonial structure will begin to hemorrhage. No gunfire, no rebellion, no traceable act of war. Only the invisible arithmetic of decay."
He detailed how each falsified order and each defective shipment would multiply losses through the British Admiralty's contracts. The report predicted a 20% increase in replacement costs within three years, escalating exponentially as replacements failed in the field. Within a decade, the Empire would have spent millions to sustain a colony that produced nothing but failure.
Dupri read it in silence, his lips tightening at the brilliance of its cruelty.
When he handed it to the Dauphin, the young prince read the final line twice before speaking.
"If numbers can wage war, then let us become their generals."
A few nights later, Louis-Joseph took up his quill and signed the most consequential document of his clandestine career.
It bore no royal seal, no flourish of gold, only a coded phrase in his own hand:
"Projet Nid de Coucou — Approbation pour la Couvée."
(Cuckoo's Nest Project — Approval for the Brood.)
With that signature, the operation passed from theory into sanctioned reality. Funds were authorized for the next phase — infiltration and corruption of the British colonial administration. But more than that, the act itself marked a transformation for the Dauphin. The idealistic soldier of France was gone. In his place stood an architect of empire, one who believed that control over history required mastery of its smallest details — trade, seed, metal, rumor.
He placed the signed parchment into a sealed coffer, to be opened only by Dupri. No record would exist within the archives of Versailles.
In the margin, he wrote three words:
"The war begins quietly."
By the end of September 1785, the Ghost Cell was a living organism — invisible, disciplined, and unstoppable.
In London, 051 maintained his guise as a Belgian merchant, now deeply enmeshed in the trade circles of the City. His letters continued to reach Versailles disguised as wine invoices.
In Liège, Maréchal oversaw the final shipments, each crate marked with symbols of false provenance.
In Geneva, the bankers of the Société Générale d'Approvisionnement Colonial watched the numbers grow and never questioned their origin.
And in Versailles, the Dauphin waited — not for news of war, but for silence. Silence meant success. Silence meant that the British had not yet realized they were bleeding.
One night, he and Dupri stood on the balcony overlooking the gardens. The moonlight reflected off the fountains, silver and calm.
"How long before they notice?" Dupri asked.
"Years," Louis-Joseph said. "Perhaps a decade, if they ever do. The colony will fail slowly, like a candle suffocating in its own wax."
"And if someone traces it back to us?"
The Dauphin smiled faintly. "Then they will find only honest merchants, farmers, and accountants. The perfect camouflage for treason."
Below them, Versailles slept. Above, the stars shimmered indifferently — the same stars that would soon watch over ships carrying death disguised as progress.
By dawn, the first of those ships would be nearing Portsmouth, its cargo damp and poisoned with meticulous care. Somewhere in London, Alistair Finch would congratulate himself on another profitable contract. In Geneva, a banker would approve another transfer. And in the Dauphin's study, a boy-prince would lift his quill again, already sketching plans for the following— the infiltration.
The Ghost Cell had completed its metamorphosis.
The cuckoo is layig its egg.
And somewhere across the sea, the British Empire unknowingly began to feed its own destroyer.