Chapter 572: This Is Your Order
That day, Charles and Deoka talked late into the evening before finally returning home.
Deoka had no objections to the choice of Joseph as the man to send to America to expand their arms business. Joseph's competence and loyalty had long been proven through his work at the tractor factory.
Joseph had a reputation for being approachable and fair with his subordinates. He ran the factory with meticulous efficiency. Most notably, he had excellent social skills—he always knew how to interact with people of different backgrounds and temperaments, likely a product of his years serving as a butler. It was said he could size up a person's character and preferences with just one look.
Deoka's only remaining concern was with the broader strategy—setting up a weapons business in America. While he had decided to trust Charles, the scale of the move still left him uneasy.
As they rode home together in the car that evening, Charles finally gave him a glimpse of his reasoning:
"Father, you've probably heard about the recent proposal from Wilhelm II for 'peace talks,' right?"
"Yes," Deoka replied, flicking the wiper blade as he took a quick glance at Charles.
"But what does that have to do with America's arms industry?"
"Public support for negotiations is growing," Charles said. "But both the French and British parliaments rejected it outright."
"That's true," Deoka nodded, turning the wheel.
"People are tired of the war. But the government thinks the Germans are just stalling for time."
Some even believed that Germany wanted to secure a peace on the Western Front in order to concentrate on defeating Russia, then swing back to crush Britain and France afterward.
"It was the Americans who blocked it," Charles said flatly.
"They don't want the war to end."
Deoka was so startled his hand twitched on the steering wheel, causing the car to jolt briefly.
"Because of the loans, Father," Charles explained.
"If Germany isn't completely defeated and forced to pay reparations, the Americans won't get their money back."
Deoka was silent for a moment, then slowly nodded.
"So America will enter the war?"
"Yes." Charles pulled his greatcoat tighter against the cold.
"They'll never allow the Allies to lose. If Russia collapses, or if it even looks like Germany might win, America will join the war."
He paused, then added:
"One American financier told the president:
'If this European money we've lent turns into bad debt, even God won't be able to save your presidency.'"
In short: if the money didn't come back, the president would go down with it.
So, the U.S. president had no choice. He had to join the financial powers in convincing the public that war was necessary—and send American soldiers to a battlefield that, by all logic, had nothing to do with them.
Deoka said nothing.
He was only now realizing just how far ahead Charles was thinking. His son didn't just see the present—he saw the direction the future was heading in. And terrifyingly, it all made sense.
…
When their car pulled up to the house, Deoka held the umbrella to shield Charles as they hurried through the rain.
But the moment they walked inside, they were surprised to find Camille in animated conversation with a young woman.
Charles took one look and froze—it was Lucia.
Then it hit him: today was the meet the parents dinner.
Camille glared at him playfully.
"I told you to come back early. You completely forgot, didn't you?"
Lucia stepped forward graciously and shook hands with Deoka.
"Good evening, sir. I'm Lucia."
"Good evening," Deoka replied, giving her a quick, appraising look. Then he turned and nodded at Charles, as if to say, good taste.
Camille brought out dinner from the kitchen—roast turkey, smoked fish, and white bean stew with beef.
As she placed the dishes on the table, she made sure to point something out to Charles:
"The white bean beef stew was made by Lucia. Want to try it?"
Charles felt a twinge of emotion. He glanced at Lucia.
That dish… used to be one of his favorites.
How did she know?
He wondered briefly if it was just a coincidence—or if Camille had prepared it and Lucia had simply helped out.
But what happened next made him more suspicious.
"See these earrings?" Camille said to Deoka as she sat down, tilting her head to show them off.
"They're almost identical to the ones I lost years ago. It's uncanny."
"Uncle," Lucia said, taking out a box from her purse and reaching across the table to hand it to Deoka.
"This is for you."
"Thank you," Deoka replied, politely opening the box.
Inside was a pocket watch.
He stared at it in surprise.
"How strange. You won't believe it—but mine just broke a few days ago. I've been so busy I haven't had time to replace it."
"Really?" Lucia said with a smile. "What a coincidence."
Charles quietly put down his knife and fork. The cutlery clinked loudly against the plate.
"What's wrong?" Camille asked, puzzled.
Deoka looked over as well, confused.
Lucia paused, sensing something was off—but quickly resumed her composure.
"Nothing," Charles said. "I'm just tired."
Dinner became awkward—at least for Charles.
Lucia chatted comfortably with Camille and Deoka, matching their personalities with uncanny precision. She even seemed to understand Charles better than Charles himself was ready to admit.
And Charles realized what that meant.
…
The rain tapped steadily on the windshield. A chilly wind drifted through the air.
After dinner, Charles drove Lucia back to Paris. They didn't speak the entire way.
Lucia sat in the passenger seat, watching the rain slide down the windows. Now and then she reached out to catch a drop with her finger, softly humming a tune to herself.
"You seem rather pleased with yourself," Charles said coldly.
"Oh?" Lucia replied, still facing the window. "You didn't like how I performed tonight?"
"You used the same tricks you'd use against an enemy. On my family."
Lucia was silent for a moment. Then she chuckled, the sound sharp with irony.
"You seem to have forgotten, General—this was your order."
"My order?" Charles blinked.
"Yes," Lucia said. "You chose: mission, not personal."
She turned and looked straight at him.
"And if it's a mission—shouldn't I do whatever it takes to succeed?"
"I needed to know what they liked, so I could gain their approval. Otherwise, that's called failing the mission, isn't it?"
Charles had no reply. He realized he hadn't thought this far ahead.
"From now on," he said, "don't gather intel on them without my permission."
"Yes, General," Lucia replied.
Then she turned back toward the window and resumed her humming.
The melody was light, pleasant—but somehow filled with an unspoken sadness.
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