1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 211 The Art of Lying with "Honesty"

The palace’s small flower hall has been transformed into a private banquet hall.

There are no grand, opulent scenes here, only a few small round tables covered with pristine white tablecloths, on which are placed exquisite silver cutlery and crystal vases filled with fresh white roses. The frescoes on the dome depict scenes of ancient Greek gods feasting, and soft lighting shines from behind the frescoes, making the atmosphere of the entire flower hall classical and harmonious.

There is only one guest tonight.

Major Lionel Harrison, the British "eyes" in the Greek intelligence service.

He wore a crisply pressed black tailcoat, and behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes held an intellectual superiority. Just as Constantine had predicted, his speech and manner were filled with flattery of ancient Greek culture and an undisguised sense of condescension toward a "young and vibrant" modern Greece.

He took a sip of the red wine in his glass, closed his eyes, and looked completely absorbed.

"Your Highness, this wine is truly a gift from God. It reminds me of the sunshine and sea of ​​Crete. It's hard to imagine what shadow could possibly fall upon such a beautiful land."

His words were impeccable. He praised the fine wine, subtly pointed out that Greece's territory was not yet fully unified (Crete was still legally part of the Ottoman Empire), and at the same time, steered the conversation toward the direction he wanted to explore—the shadows.

Constantine, seated at the head of the table, gracefully set down his knife and fork, which clinked softly against the porcelain plate. His face wore a perfectly measured air of annoyance, as if troubled by trivial matters.

"Major, there is always shadow under the light. Just like even the most beautiful rose, there are bound to be worms at its roots."

He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth.

"Recently, the workers in the port of Piraeus have been plagued by a specter from the East. Opium is eroding the health of my people and shaking the foundations of our industrialization. The children of the farmers who have just been allocated land and are full of hope for the future may be dragged into the abyss by this devil's creation."

opium.

As soon as Constantine uttered the word, Major Harrison's eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly, and his eyes behind his glasses brightened, like a hunter catching the scent of his prey.

"Opium?" His tone took on a serious tinge. "It is indeed a malignant tumor. Our British Empire has learned painful lessons and has a wealth of... experience in fighting against it."

His wording was very "British," full of sophisticated self-deprecation and an unquestionable sense of authority. In this area, the British Empire naturally held the upper hand.

What Constantine wanted was this self-righteous sense of authority.

Just as Harrison was about to launch into a long discourse on the topic, highlighting the "experience" of the British Empire, Sophia, sitting next to Constantine, joined the conversation in a melancholy, soft tone.

"Major Harrison, I don't understand politics, nor do I understand those complex national interests."

Her voice, as melodious as a cello, softened the slightly sharp political atmosphere at the dinner table.

"But I just visited the working-class community in the port of Piraeus last week, where new housing is being built for the workers expanding the shipyard. I saw with my own eyes what those families, destroyed by opium, look like. A man, once the shipyard's best riveter, is now emaciated, hiding in a corner puffing away on a cigarette. His wife, a model mother on our charity's list, can only hold their two children and weep. I saw the empty eyes of those children; they should be attending the new school funded by the royal family, but now they can only huddle in a dirty corner, inhaling that stench."

Her bright blue eyes reddened slightly, as if she were recalling that tragic scene.

"His Highness has not slept well for several nights because of this matter. He always sits in his study, looking at the reports from the port of Piraeus, until dawn."

Sofia's words, like a gentle hand, skillfully transformed the cold and grand issues of national interest into concrete and relatable family tragedies, and the hard work a "benevolent" crown prince had put in for them.

This imbues the entire event with a human touch, and makes Constantine's frustration seem more real and believable.

Harrison looked at Constantine, a hint of inquiry in his eyes.

Constantine sighed heavily, moved by his wife's sentimentality but also unable to suppress his anger. He picked up his wine glass and downed the red wine in one gulp.

"What infuriates me most," he put down his glass, his voice tinged with suppressed anger, "is that intelligence indicates certain Ottoman border posts are turning a blind eye to these drug trafficking operations. They're even... facilitating them."

He raised his head, looked directly into Major Harrison's eyes, and said, word by word:

"After all, a weak neighbor is always easier to deal with than a strong one, isn't it?"

This statement was like a precise scalpel, accurately dissecting Major Harrison's thought process.

Great power rivalry, a process of mutual weakening. This was the world rule he was familiar with. A powerful, industrialized Greece was not entirely in the interest of the British Empire. But a Greece ravaged by Ottoman opium was even less in the British Empire's interest.

Because that would mean the Ottoman Empire was using a low-cost, high-efficiency method to disrupt the balance of power in the Balkans. And this balance must be maintained by London, not Istanbul!

Constantine successfully transformed the "Greek problem" into a "British threat" with a single, incisive statement.

Beneath the pristine tablecloth, Constantine gently placed his hand on Sophia's hand—a signal only the two of them could understand.

The first move has been made steadily.

Lionel Harrison has transformed from a guest who came to savor fine wine into a hungry hunter who has caught the scent of prey and believes that the prey is threatening his territory.

He looked at the young royal couple before him—a patriotic and somewhat impulsive husband, and a sentimental and kind-hearted wife.

A brilliant script began to form automatically in his mind. He, Lionel Harrison, would become the director of this play, guiding the young prince onto the right path, one that served the interests of Great Britain. He had even already decided on the title of the telegram he would send back to London the next day: "On the Possibility and Controllability of a Repeat of the Opium War in the Balkans."