Oak Barrels Thud-Thud-Thud-Thud-Thud
May 22, 1777, France, National Intelligence Agency facility near Mont Blanc. As the maturity date for the Great Qing trade promissory note bonds drew near, agents of the French National Intelligence Agency—formerly the King's Shadow—scurried about in a frenzy. They were making the vagrants registered as presidents of ghost companies "disappear" or handling them as "accidents." But they couldn't afford to get exposed too soon, so they stationed proxies to deal with the creditors. Until the operation day itself, August 1, 1777, everything had to go smoothly. They processed countless people as "missing."
"Bordeaux, for disappearances, nothing beats oak barrels. Toss 'em in the Aarve River, and they sink straight to the bottom—done! How the hell did His Majesty come up with this stuff?"
"Ugh... my arms ache. Brandenburg, quit yapping and help mix this."
They were using the "construction material" formula Louis XVI had passed down to dispose of the missing persons. Mixing lime, sand, and gravel in a 1:3:6 ratio with water to create sturdy construction material—concrete. Of course, it was packed with "special construction material" to make it extra solid.
"Mmmph!!! Mmph! Mmmphhh!!!!"
The "special construction material" inside the 228L Bordeaux oak barrel—purchased with MEPO bills, naturally—thrashed about alive, but there was no escaping that barrel.
"Stabbing them with spears to prevent resurrection, huh? His Majesty sure knows his stuff."
"Brandenburg, resurrection's just a figure of speech. Remember last time? We skipped the stabbing, dumped it, and the damn thing floated back up."
"I know, I know. But did he have to phrase it like that?"
"Fair point. Kinda feels like I'm Longinus now."
Stab!
"Mmph! Grrk... grrrk..."
Squelch—squelch—
Still-wet construction material—concrete—churned as Bordeaux and Brandenburg chatted idly.
"Isn't this that Roman stuff from way back, the caementicium or whatever?"
Squelch—
"Roman era? What century are you living in, man? The British already built lighthouses with it. Hydraulic concrete. You didn't know?"
"Oh, right?"
Squelch—
"That oughta do it. Whew. This op's almost wrapped up."
"So, Bordeaux, how's your side shaping up?"
The man called Brandenburg jabbed at the cement with his spear and turned to Bordeaux.
"Smooth sailing. The tax farmers took their cut from the development fund and cake money, so they let it slide."
"What about the French interest payments?"
"Us? We covered it by issuing more bills."
"Won't that tank our credit rating?"
"It's not my company anyway."
Louis XVI's orders were clear: "Acquire as much hard assets and cash as possible." To follow them, they resorted to every trick in the book—mass-issuing ghost company bills, forging documents. For instance, agents like Bordeaux and his French ops counterpart paid off massive bill interest by issuing even more bills. When holders of thousand-livre bills came for their interest, they'd say, "We're aggressively investing right now—no cash on hand. But take these bills instead, worth way more than the interest." And hand over extras.
Investors snapped it up. Few turned down reinvesting principal at 60% instead of 20% cash. They'd come for 200-300 livres interest and leave with 500-600 in bills. Persistent cash hounds got into tussles, and sometimes they paid real interest—but in a room stacked with bullion and gold coins. Creditors glimpsed the vault and instantly regretted passing on the rollover. Backing out now would shred their pride. They'd force a smile, leave, stew for days, then return to snap up bills big-time. By next year's payout, they'd all opted for bill rollovers.
That snowball effect filled Mont Blanc's secret vaults with gold and silver from across Europe and the Americas. Ducats—3.5 grams of gold each—formed veritable mountains; pounds, schillings, rubles piled endlessly. All high-purity.
Logically, with this much coin hoarded in one spot amid wartime currency shortages, the global economy should've contracted.
"Hey, what's this? Ducat notes? Who the hell uses paper like that?"
"We've got months left. You know how heavy a thousand gold coins are?"
But Europe's powers thought differently. No physical money? Print fiduciary currency!
"Don't dump paper in the vault. What, gonna fold paper cranes?"
Britain, Austria, Italy's principalities—all cranked out banknotes to flood the market. In a sane economy, hyperinflation would've triggered probes into who absorbed the liquidity. But this was the 18th century. There was "Qing China."
No one batted an eye at vanishing specie. Qing embodied mercantilism's extreme—trade deficits as routine as sunrise. Even digging, leaders would pin it on "Great Qing trade deficits." It was happening, after all. On paper, Europe's wealth funneled perfectly to China. So MEPO ops flew under radar; surface-level, Qing was the big winner. Data said so.
Thus, heads of state recirculated sucked-up precious metals via coinage. But knowing it'd loop back through Ottomans someday, they issued notes to preempt inflation shocks. In normal times, best- or second-best policy. But we know it's the worst.
"Concrete's fully set. Let's dump it in the river. Kick the barrel like last time and break your ankle—I mean it."
"Yes, sir. Got it."
Sploosh—
National Intelligence Agency agents rolled concrete-packed oak barrels to some spot on the Aarve and heaved them in.
"Missing persons cleanup's nearly done. Gather all the notes—His Majesty wants 'em."
"Last phase already? Can't wait."
With "disappearances" wrapped, Mont Blanc agents swept bills from the warehouse into wagons. Nearing quitting time, they tossed them in haphazardly. Some fluttered to the dirt, torn. But they focused on loading.
Another agent, "Saxony," passing by, warned them. "You're kicking up dust—slow down."
"Yessir. Yessir."
Brandenburg mumbled half-heartedly, stuffing the wagon full.
"That's enough. No more bills."
"Whew, ease up on printing. That last load was like 200 billion ducats, right?"
"Who knows? Mix of high and low denominations. Man, once this op ends, I want a long vacation. Corsica's supposed to be a sight."
"His Majesty's painting the finale—we're stuck with post-op cleanup. Still tons to do. Gotta turn rookies into bourgeois with the leftover notes."
Bordeaux stretched, heading to the bill warehouse. "True that. Damn, work never ends. Brandenburg, grab a shovel? Digging by hand'll take till tomorrow."
August 1, 1777, France, Tuileries Palace. Three years, four months, and ten days since becoming Louis XVI. What'd I accomplish? Honestly, jack squat. Alienated entrenched powers, lost all political leverage. Lit de justice decrees? Ignored. Total figurehead king.
At least pro-commoner policies and rhetoric won top public support of any French king. Plus, military and police control. Old generals and officers? Reform fans deep down. Conservative brass griped about uniform colors—not blue—but all my loyalists anyway. Officers and NCOs? Swapped for ideologically vetted volunteers from the American Revolution. Grunts? Mostly Third Estate. They'd blame the victim if I punched a guy in the street.
"Yes, sir. We'll set expiration for September 21."
No more figurehead. The long humiliation ends now. I want just one thing. Everything.