The approach to Walsh was a masterpiece of psychological choreography. 051 understood that direct bribery would repulse a man like him. Instead, he offered dignity — or rather, the illusion of it.
Through Finch, the nominal president of the New South Wales Provisioning Company, 051 arranged an introduction. Walsh was invited to dine at Brooks's, a gentleman's club that prided itself on exclusivity and decorum. The invitation bore Finch's name, though Finch himself was merely a pawn who believed he was cultivating allies for his "growing enterprise."
When Walsh arrived, he found not Finch but Deleval — the courteous "Belgian investor" with impeccable manners and a vague continental accent.
Over claret and roast pheasant, the conversation drifted from trade winds to maritime provisioning. Deleval spoke with humble admiration for Britain's "administrative genius," lamenting that few understood how much skill it took to manage fleets and colonies. Walsh, unused to such flattery, warmed instantly.
Then came the bait — an opportunity rather than a bribe. Deleval explained that his consortium sought "advisors familiar with Admiralty procedures," offering shares in the NSW Provisioning Company as tokens of gratitude. It was framed as recognition, not corruption — a gentleman's invitation to partake in future prosperity.
Walsh hesitated, then smiled. "A man's experience, after all, ought not to die with him," he murmured.
The hook was set.
Within a month, small parcels began arriving at his home: dividend notices, invitations to meetings, reports of profits — all fiction, all designed to convince him of his new importance. He began forwarding trivial memoranda to Deleval, innocuous details about procurement schedules and budgetary priorities. Each piece of paper crossed the Channel disguised as cargo invoices, coded and reassembled by Leblanc's accountants in Versailles.
Thorne's recruitment required no elegance — only temptation.
It began in a smoke-filled gambling room off Fleet Street, where Thorne was already half-drunk on desperation. One of 051's associates, posing as a jovial Dutch trader, joined the table. The game was Faro, and the stakes were ruinous. Thorne lost steadily until his final coin vanished. Then, with a smile, the Dutchman offered a new hand — and arranged for Thorne to win.
By the end of the evening, the young clerk's pockets were filled with gold guineas, his pride restored. The Dutchman clapped him on the shoulder. "A lucky night, my friend! Perhaps the tide turns for us both. Should you ever need another stroke of fortune, I trade in information as much as I do in tobacco."
Two days later, Thorne received a letter sealed in wax: A friend of your luck would value your advice on upcoming procurement orders. Attached was a small loan — no interest, no deadline. The only request was "timely intelligence" on the scheduling of Admiralty contracts.
Thorne hesitated at first, but gambling debts spoke louder than conscience. One memo became two, two became a pattern. Within weeks, his correspondence became a silent tributary feeding the Ghost Cell's intelligence stream. He justified it as harmless — "only logistics, only paperwork."
In reality, he had opened a backdoor to the empire's core.
By November 1785, the Ghost Cell's London arm functioned with surgical precision. Walsh's memoranda guided the timing of forged bids submitted by Finch's company. Thorne's notes confirmed the sequence of Home Office authorizations. The two men never met, never suspected that their actions were mirrored and exploited.
Leblanc coordinated the finances through Geneva, ensuring that every payment appeared as an innocent dividend or loan. Maréchal, back in the Continent, adjusted production schedules in Liège to align with the information gleaned from London. Every tool, every seed, every barrel of salted meat bound for the colonies was now subtly sabotaged by design.
In December, Finch's company won a modest Admiralty contract to supply provisions for transport ships. It was the first tangible success of the operation. The Ghost Cell celebrated not with wine, but with silence — the only victory toast permitted in their creed.
Winter settled over London like a curtain of soot and frost. The streets reeked of coal and fog; the Thames rolled black beneath the bridges. In Soho, 051 worked late by candlelight, drafting invisible wars.
One evening, he received a ciphered dispatch via Geneva. It bore the wax seal of Versailles and only four words in French:
"Le Nid couve bien." — The Nest broods well.
He allowed himself the faintest smile. The operation had entered its second phase. Soon, young men will cross the channel unseen till they become english. And yet, the true power of their work lay not in sabotage, but in invisibility.
He closed the message, melted the wax into the fire, and returned to his ledgers. Outside, the bells of St. Martin's tolled midnight. Across the Channel, in the quiet halls of Versailles, another candle flickered in the Dauphin's study — its light synchronized with the shadow burning here in Soho.
The first seeds of empire's decay had been planted.
And like all seeds, they would grow unseen until the harvest.