The day after Felix and Catherine returned from Washington, a silent war, orchestrated by his command, officially commenced from the unassuming office of the intelligence department.
On the desk of Flynn, the taciturn head of intelligence, lay stacks of damning reports. "Timmy," he said, handing a file to his now-seasoned assistant.
"Has the cross-verification of the Storm Operation report been completed?"
"It has been completed, Supervisor." Timmy's answer was crisp. "In January 1862, the Pennsylvania Railroad Company, desperate to meet a deadline, forced over three hundred Irish laborers to continue building the road through an approaching blizzard in the Allegheny Mountains. The result: seventeen men lost limbs to severe frostbite, and two died."
"And the compensation?" Flynn asked, expressionless.
"The Eastern Railroad Alliance suppressed the incident via local contractors. They paid the deceased families twenty dollars each. The laborers who lost limbs received nothing more than a free train ticket back to New York."
Flynn nodded. "Encrypt this report. Bundle it with the internal investigation on the 'unexplained loss of military rations at the Pittsburgh transfer station,' and the three cases detailing their malicious suppression of small farmers. Send all five files to Mr. Fowler in Chicago by the fastest means."
"Inform Mr. Fowler the Boss requires widespread dissemination. He is to contact neutral newspapers in every major city immediately."
Two days later in Chicago, the office of The Daily Truth, a space perpetually smelling of ink and cheap whiskey, was galvanized. Reporter Fowler, usually tipsy, now burned with the fierce flame of a man about to deliver justice.
The encrypted files from New York lay scattered across his desk. "Gentlemen," he announced to the equally shocked reporters and editors, "the opportunity we've been waiting for has arrived."
He picked up a manuscript sheet for his new column, "Truth Under the Tracks." He penned the first title: "The Seventeen Hands and Feet Frozen by the Blizzard, and the Fire in Mr. Sloan's Fireplace."
Fowler's prose was sharp, yet devastatingly calm. He didn't use flowery words, instead listing the facts provided by Flynn: the deaths, the meager compensation, sharply contrasted against the menu of a luxurious dinner enjoyed by the Eastern Railroad Alliance directors.
His conclusion hit hard: "...As Mr. Sloan calculated the extra profits he made by not stopping operations in front of his warm fireplace, seventeen men who laid his tracks were losing their fingers and feet, and their last shred of human dignity, in cold tents..."
The article was a bombshell. Knowing The Daily Truth's reach was insufficient to shake a behemoth like Sloan, Fowler followed instructions. He sent copies of the piece, along with a significant information procurement fee funded by Argyle Bank, via telegraph to neutral newspapers in Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New York, papers with no direct ties to the Railroad Alliance.
A meticulously planned nationwide public opinion storm had officially begun.
Two more days passed. In an ordinary Boston tavern, several factory workers, fresh off their shifts, huddled around a copy of the Boston Globe, voices raised in outrage.
"My God, have you seen this? These railroad bosses are devils! Made workers toil in a blizzard! I hear the Military Committee is planning a hearing on the Eastern Railroad Alliance."
"Damn right, they deserve it." Another worker pointed to a different article. "Look here, half our military rations rotted in their stations due to mismanagement! Our brothers are starving at the front while they profit from the national crisis!"
Anger, raw and potent, spread like wildfire across the populace.
In the usually serene office of the Union League Club, Sloan felt genuinely troubled for the first time. His desk was littered with newspapers from multiple cities, all bearing different front-page headlines but telling the same, damaging story.
"This isn't news, Charles," Sloan said to his deputy. "This is a counterattack, a war fought with ink. Argyle found our old scars and is using newspapers to rub salt in them."
"Deny it?" Sloan sneered. "How can we deny it? Most of these damned things are true! If we step out now, we'll only attract more reporters, like flies, to dig up deeper dirt."
"He's building momentum for next week's hearing," a cold glint flashed in Sloan's eyes. "He wants to nail us to the pillar of shame in the eyes of the public and Congress before the hearing even begins. A very clever tactic." Sloan admitted. "Argyle knows he can't beat us in the state legislature, so he chose to go directly to Congress, using the press for a brilliant flanking attack. We can't effectively counterattack in public opinion."
A knock on the door interrupted him. Sloan's chief secretary entered, looking grim. "Sir, news from the stock exchange. Affected by these stories, the stocks of Pennsylvania Railroad and our Central Railroad have experienced a slight decline." Sloan's brow furrowed. The ink war was drawing blood in the ledger.
On Wall Street, inside the Patriot Investment Company office, Tom Hayes watched the ticking stock ticker tape. The subtle dip in prices registered on his lips as a slight smile.
"New York Central Railroad, down one-eighth of a dollar. Pennsylvania Railroad, down one-quarter of a dollar."
"The wind has changed," he murmured. He picked up a blank trading slip and, without hesitation, wrote the instruction: "Buy Pennsylvania Railroad, five hundred shares." He handed the slip to his assistant, Johnny. "Go, tell our people it's time to cast the net."
The three-pronged, three-dimensional attack, political, public opinion, and financial, orchestrated by Felix, was now fully operational.