The War Room in Berlin was a chaotic mess of maps, telegraph strips, and half-eaten meals.
Napoleon stood over the main table, staring at the Iberian Peninsula. He looked like a wolf deciding which sheep to eat first.
"Portugal," Napoleon muttered. "A sliver of land on the edge of the ocean. Why is it so important?"
"It's a funnel," I said.
I sat in my wheelchair, the digitalis buzzing in my veins. My heart beat with a frantic, artificial strength.
"British ships dock in Lisbon," I explained, tracing the route with my cane. "They unload cotton, tea, and guns. Smugglers carry them across the border into Spain. From Spain, they flow into France. The Blockade is leaking, Napoleon. We are bailing water with a sieve."
"So we invade," Napoleon said, slamming his hand on Lisbon. "I send Junot with 20,000 men. We march through Spain, seize Lisbon, and close the port."
"Spain is the problem," Charles said from the corner. He was decoding a fresh telegraph strip. "Spain is neutral-aligned, but they are technically our ally. We can't just march an army through their territory without permission."
"Then ask for permission," Napoleon shrugged.
"Godoy won't give it," Charles said. "Manuel Godoy. The Prime Minister of Spain. He is corrupt, greedy, and playing both sides. He takes British bribes to look the other way."
I looked at the name. Godoy. The "Prince of Peace." The man who slept with the Queen of Spain while the King collected clocks.
"Every man has a price," I said. "Or a fear."
I turned to the telegraph operator.
"Open a channel to our Ambassador in Madrid."
"What do we offer him?" Napoleon asked. "Territory? We can promise him a slice of Portugal. He wants to be a Prince in his own right."
"Land is expensive," I said. "Information is cheap."
I dictated the message.
To Manuel Godoy. Prime Minister of Spain.
Request Military Access for 25,000 French Troops. Transit to Portugal.
In exchange, I offer silence.
I have the letters you wrote to the British Ambassador. I know about the gold in the Cadiz vaults. And I know the Queen is pregnant again.
Open the border, Godoy. Or the King reads the letters.
"Blackmail," Napoleon grinned. "You missed your calling as a pirate, Alex."
"It's diplomacy," I said. "Just... accelerated."
Ten minutes later, the machine clicked.
ACCESS GRANTED. SUPPLY DEPOTS OPEN. WELCOME TO SPAIN.
"He folded," Charles said.
"He wants to survive," I said. "He knows the French Army is dangerous, but a jealous King is lethal."
I looked at Napoleon.
"Move the Eagles. March to Lisbon. Close the port. I want the Union Jack gone from the continent."
Napoleon nodded. He grabbed his hat.
"I will be in Lisbon by Christmas. The British won't know what hit them."
He strode out of the room. The energy of the march followed him.
I stayed behind.
The easy part was over. The hard part was the math.
"Charles," I said. "The logistical reports from Spain."
Charles handed me a file.
"The Spanish people are... unhappy," Charles said. "They don't like Godoy. They hate the British because they are heretics, but they hate us because we are atheists. It's a lose-lose."
"As long as they sell us grain, I don't care who they pray to," I said.
I looked at the telegraph reports coming in from the coast.
Code 99: Hamburg Closed.
Code 99: Amsterdam Closed.
Code 99: Brest Closed.
The walls were going up. Europe was turning into a fortress.
But a fortress is also a prison.
"We are squeezing them," I whispered. "The pressure in London must be immense."
"Or the pressure is building here," Charles warned.
He pointed to a report from Paris.
Riots in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. Coffee Shortage. Sugar Price up 400%.
"People are angry," Charles said. "They love glory, Father. But they love sugar more."
"They will adapt," I said dismissively.
Then, a courier walked in.
He wasn't French. He wore a grey coat. No uniform.
"Package for the Administrator," he said. "From London."
The guards stepped forward, muskets raised.
"Let him pass," I said.
The courier placed a small wooden box on the table. Then he bowed and left.
I looked at the box.
"A bomb?" Charles asked.
"Rothschild isn't that crude anymore," I said. "He prefers psychological warfare."
I opened the lid.
Inside lay a single object.
A brown bean.
A coffee bean.
Rich. Aromatic. The smell filled the room, overpowering the scent of stale ink and damp wool.
Under the bean was a note.
To the Administrator,
You can stop the ships. You can burn the warehouses. You can shoot the smugglers.
But can you stop the desire?
The people want their coffee, Alex. They want their sugar in the morning. They want their tobacco in the evening.
You aren't fighting me. You are fighting Human Nature.
And Human Nature always wins.
- J.R.
I picked up the bean.
It was small. Hard. Insignificant.
But Rothschild was right.
I looked out the window at the Berlin street below.
A group of French soldiers was standing on a corner. They weren't patrolling. They were huddled around a merchant.
One soldier handed over a silver coin. The merchant handed him a small pouch.
Tobacco.
My own men. My "Customs Army." They were buying contraband because they wanted to smoke.
If the army wouldn't obey the blockade, who would?
"He's right," I whispered. "We can't fight addiction with bayonets."
"So we lift the blockade?" Charles asked.
"No," I said. "If we lift it, British gold floods back in, and they buy another coalition. We have to keep the door shut."
I crushed the coffee bean between my fingers. It crumbled into dust.
"If we can't import it," I said, "we have to make it."
"Make coffee?" Charles looked confused. "Coffee grows in the tropics. We are in Europe. It's impossible."
"Nothing is impossible," I said. "Just inefficient."
I turned my wheelchair.
"Get me the scientists," I ordered. "Chaptal. Berthollet. The chemists."
"What for?"
"Ersatz," I said. "Substitutes."
My mind raced back to the history books. The World Wars. Germany under blockade. What did they do?
"Beets," I said.
"Beets?"
"Sugar beets," I said. "German chemists found a way to extract sugar from white beets. We are going to industrialize it. We will turn the fields of Prussia into sugar factories."
"And coffee?"
"Chicory," I said. "Roasted chicory root. It tastes like coffee. Close enough to fool a tired soldier."
"It tastes like dirt," Charles grimaced.
"It tastes like freedom," I corrected.
I grabbed a piece of paper. I started sketching. A factory. A press. A chemical vat.
"We are going to launch a new front," I said. "The War of Science. If Rothschild thinks he can starve us, he's wrong. We will invent our way out of the hunger."
Charles looked at the sketch.
"This will take years," he said. "And millions of Francs."
"We have the gold from Frankfurt," I said. "Invest it. All of it. Build the factories. Subsidize the farmers."
I looked at the telegraph.
"Tell Napoleon to close the ports tight. I want a hermetic seal. Let the British merchandise rot on the docks in London."
I picked up the crumbled coffee dust.
"Human Nature wants luxury," I said. "I will give them a substitute. And I will make them like it."
Three Weeks Later.
The telegraph clicked.
Code 88: Lisbon.
Code 99: Union Jack Lowered.
Code 99: Tricolor Raised.
"Napoleon took the city," Charles announced. "The British fleet fled. The Royal Family of Portugal escaped to Brazil."
"Good," I said. "The door is closed."
I rolled to the huge map of Europe on the wall.
It was almost entirely Blue.
France. Italy. The Rhine. Prussia. And now, Portugal.
A massive, continental empire. A fortress of trade barriers and tariffs.
But in the center of the blue mass, there was a jagged red line.
Spain.
The reports from the supply lines were bad.
Convoy Ambushed near Burgos.
Courier Throat Slit near Madrid.
Locals Hostile.
The Spanish people weren't accepting the "friendship" of the French Army. They saw us as invaders. Godoy had sold them out, and they knew it.
"The Ulcer," I whispered.
Napoleon called it the Spanish Ulcer. A wound that never healed. A bleeding drain on men and money.
"We need to stabilize Spain," Charles said. "Godoy is losing control. The King is weak. Maybe we should replace them."
"Replace them with who?"
"A Bonaparte," Charles suggested. "Joseph? Murat? Someone loyal."
I stared at the map.
Regime change. Nation-building.
It was a trap. I knew it from history. Vietnam. Afghanistan. Spain in 1808.
But what choice did I have? If Spain fell into chaos, the British would land there. They would open a new front in our backyard.
"Not yet," I said. "We stick to the plan. Audit the books. Build the factories. Keep the blockade tight."
I looked at my swollen ankles. The edema was worse. I couldn't wear boots anymore. I lived in slippers and the wheelchair.
The digitalis kept my heart beating, but I felt the toxicity building. A yellow tint to my vision. Nausea.
I was dying.
But the map was turning Blue.
"Just a little longer," I whispered to the empty room. "Just until London breaks."
I signaled the operator.
"Send a message to Fouché."
"Yes, Administrator?"
"The Smugglers," I said. "Jean Chouan and his 'Admiral of the Rats'."
"What about them?"
"They are getting greedy," I said. "I see British wool in the markets of Paris. They are skimming off the top."
"Shall I arrest them?"
"No," I said. "We need them. But we need to remind them who is in charge."
I smiled. A cold, tired smile.
"Tell Fouché to find Chouan's favorite ship. And sink it. Make it look like a British mine."
Charles looked at me.
"That is... ruthless."
"It's management," I said. "Fear keeps the rats in line."
I turned back to the map.
The Blue Empire. The Golden Cage.
I had built a prison for Europe. Now I just had to make sure I wasn't the one locked inside.