World War II: Starting with the defeat of the Desert Fox

In Cairo, the Egyptian capital, on the verdant Zamalek Island in the heart of the Nile River, McLaudre opens the curtains of his private villa at dawn.

He casually put the lit pipe into his mouth and leisurely watched several Egyptian plovers fly across the river, leaving behind a few clear and melodious calls.

(The red circle in the image above is Zamalek Island, which is Cairo's wealthiest, safest, and most scenic upscale neighborhood. The blue circle is Garden City, the location of Alexandria's Middle East Command.)

(The image above shows the Egyptian plovers, a common bird in the desert. This bird is characterized by wetting its feathers and sprinkling water on its eggs when the daytime temperature is too high, in order to cool the eggs and prevent them from being baked.)

"Nothing could be better." McLeod enjoyed the moment of peace before work.

"Sir," the butler Cabot reported, pushing a cart with breakfast, "Mr. Anderson called earlier to say that our acquisition plan for the Alexander Coulomb has failed."

McLeod grunted and frowned, turning to look at the butler: "What's the reason?"

"I'm not quite sure," the butler replied. "Mr. Anderson is waiting on the phone."

"Take the phone," McLeod ordered.

He then turned his gaze back to the open river outside the window, hoping to calm himself down while waiting for the call.

But he failed.

"Fuck it." He took the pipe out of his mouth and cursed as he walked toward the phone.

As the general manager of Shell's Egyptian branch, he hadn't heard the word "failure" in a long time.

But in the last two weeks, I have received a series of bad news.

First, the acquisition of Red Sea Oil Company failed.

Not only did they fail, but they also got involved with spies.

This is the biggest crisis the company has faced in its 30-plus years of history: once identified as collaborating with spies or even the enemy, Shell, which had always supported art students and had business dealings with Germany before the war, could no longer prevent the National Security Agency from scrutinizing it.

McLeod managed to escape with great difficulty.

Now, even the acquisition of an insignificant Alexandria barrel factory has failed!

Just then, the phone rang. McLeod grabbed the receiver with one hand and waved his still-smoking pipe in the air with the other, unleashing a torrent of abuse:

"Don't tell me it's a funding issue. I told you, no matter the cost, we have to get it."

"Even so, you still failed. Is there anyone in this world more incompetent than you?"

"Give me a reason why I should keep you around."

Anderson answered nervously on the other end of the phone:

"It's not a funding issue, sir, nor is it our problem."

"I think Wells got something on them."

"Because they ultimately agreed to pay £10, they rejected our £30 offer!"

"Incrimination?" McLeod didn't believe this excuse:

"Don't try to fool me, Anderson."

"I know what kind of person Wells is; he's hardly ever left Hurghada in all these years!"

"You're telling me someone like that can find dirt on others?"

Anderson struggled to explain, his voice trembling with fear: "No, no, it wasn't Wells, sir. We think it was Thorne!"

"Thorn?" McLean looked confused, the name sounding familiar. "You mean... Wells' son?"

McLean laughed; the lies were getting more and more outrageous.

Everyone knew that Wells' son was either living a life of debauchery or spending money like water to imitate others' extravagance.

Of course, Thorne had people from Shell around him, and his so-called "friends" would occasionally add fuel to the fire and give him a little provocation, so that the competitive Thorne would try his best to create an economic crisis for Wells.

This included hiring a prostitute to fake a pregnancy, extorting a large sum of money from Wells while simultaneously damaging the reputation of the Red Sea Oil Company.

However, these fools were completely unaware of this.

"No, no, sir," Anderson replied, "It is indeed him, but Thorne is different now."

McLeod laughed. "You mean his alcohol tolerance has improved?"

Anderson fell silent, seemingly knowing that no matter what he said, the boss wouldn't believe him.

Suddenly, he said, "You must have heard about something, sir. A few days ago, a captain led about twenty maintenance men and buried a German armored regiment."

“Yes, of course,” McLeod replied. “Everyone’s talking about it, but what are you trying to say?”

Anderson then asked, "Do you remember this captain's name?"

McLeod casually picked up the newspaper lying next to him and easily found the captain's name on the front page.

"His name is Thorne," McLeod said.

The next second he was shocked: "You mean, this captain is Wells' son?"

"Yes, sir," Anderson replied.

"That's impossible! You must be mistaken!"

"Absolutely true, sir."

"When did he become a captain? I've never heard of him serving in the military. And he doesn't need to serve!"

"I guess this is what the military does. Thorne did these things first, and then the military gave him the rank of captain."

……

McLeod was stunned.

He could never reconcile this "Captain Thorne" with the "spendthrift" he remembered.

Before this, Thorne didn't even deserve a name in McLeod's mind; he was merely an appendage of Wells.

but now……

"How could one person change so much?" McLeod muttered to himself. "Are they the same person?"

"No doubt about it, sir," Anderson replied. "I've confirmed it; it's him."

"Alright," McLeod said, softening his tone, "tell me, what did he do?"

Anderson's anxiety was finally relieved.

"He became the military's industrial liaison, which is simply the interface between the military and businesses."

"I have reason to believe that he could easily obtain some trade secrets in this position."

"The level of detail even surpasses ours!"

McLeod gave a sullen "hmm".

The Industrial Liaison Bureau is an agency with military intelligence backing, and its level of expertise is unmatched by any single company, not even Shell.

"so……"

The rest is self-explanatory.

Thorne found a weakness in the barrel factory and eventually completed the deal for a low price of £10.

Just as McLeod was thinking of other possible solutions, the butler knocked twice on the door and entered without permission.

"Sir," the butler said, "your secretary Evelyn is waiting for you downstairs. She said the military has decided to copy the German-style oil drums, and she thinks you should go to the Middle East Command as soon as possible."

"A replica of a German-style oil drum?" McLeod jumped up as if he'd been pricked by a needle.

He certainly knew what that meant.

The profit from the oil drums themselves is a minor issue; the key point is that if the military's transportation no longer involves "necessary waste," Shell's fuel sales will instantly drop by 30%.

Could this be another one of Thorne's doing?