The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1465: Chapter 233: Russian-Style Bureaucracy

The Vice Dean’s emaciated fingers still pressed on the dossier, his gaze darting between the military lieutenant opposite him and the sword on the table.

The air was thick with tension, like the smell of gunpowder; the gray-coated soldiers stood stiffly, resembling the marble pillars in front of the Parthenon, without a hint of expression.

The Vice Dean narrowed his eyes slightly and slowly removed his glasses, pushing the wax-sealed dossier forward.

”All of Nikolai Ogarev’s documents are here; you can take them.”

The military lieutenant reached out his hand, intending to take the documents, but in a flash, the Vice Dean pulled them back again, almost deliberately teasing the group of soldiers: ”However, if the Constitutional Guard Headquarters wants to access the files, they must sign in the transfer logs of the Moscow Court first. This is standard procedure; you presumably have no objections to that?”

”Sign?” The lieutenant frowned slightly, clearly unwilling, while the oppressive atmosphere in the office suggested that a single spark could ignite this place into an inferno.

As a spectator, Arthur, following the principle of enjoying the spectacle, was delighted to witness firsthand a fierce clash between the Russian judicial system and the Third Bureau.

This was not the first time he had seen such a scene; previously, he was often sent by Minister Rowan in London to negotiate with the Treasury or Home Office for budgets or expand temporary law enforcement powers for Scotland Yard, thereby staging colorful and lively discussions with the gentlemen on Whitehall Street.

How might one describe those meetings?

In short, these meetings were usually manifested in fake smiles, with sarcasm underscoring their essential meaning, typically ending in a discordant breakup.

Whenever Arthur dared to propose even a penny increase in Scotland Yard’s budget, the Treasury would immediately throw out a slew of ostensibly well-founded data—as if every copper penny could cause the Bank of England to ”collapse,” bringing the Sun Never Sets Empire, spanning five continents and four oceans, into an unwelcome decline.

The Treasury’s most cultivated gentlemen would point somberly at the ”fiscal deficit” behind the tables, warning Arthur not to let future generations describe this unexpected expenditure as a ”financial disaster,” hinting he shouldn’t give future commentators any reason to loudly proclaim—the British Empire perished at Arthur Hastings’s behest.

Yet, the dramatic aspect was that although everyone wanted to ruin each other, they had to maintain perfect etiquette, with smiles that seemed to earnestly wish everyone well.

Visible was their sipping from dainty teacups, while their eyes covertly searched for any handle they could exploit.

Once finding even a tiny loophole, they would mercilessly expose it at the next public meeting.

If the exposed person was left speechless on the spot, others would hastily jot down this ”unlucky fellow’s” disgrace in their notebooks, ready to spread it into more ears later.

They could vehemently debate over an irrelevant report for three hours, yet before adjourning, they would still exchange exaggerated farewells as dictated by protocol, sometimes even acknowledging each other as ”my esteemed colleague” while shaking hands.

At times, you couldn’t discern whether they truly intended to implement stringent review protocols or merely added a line in the Treasury’s meeting minutes—indicating that relevant topics had been thoroughly discussed.

After all, the gentlemanly facade had to be presented first, rendering the backroom bickering all the more nuanced.

If they openly clashed, behaving like Yorkshire pig farmers, that would be terribly unbecoming of the nobility.

The military lieutenant’s expression seemed to adopt an icy shell as he glanced at the stack of files on the table with furrowed brows: ”Sign? Nikolai Sergeyevich, do you have to insist on these formalities?”

”Formalities?”

The Vice Dean donned a polite yet slightly mocking smile: ”The judicial system values formalities and procedures. Didn’t your Third Bureau’s report to the Emperor two years ago indicate that Russia’s judicial system had outdated procedures, lacking basic fairness and justice, with case handling still stuck in the late 18th century? As you can see, we’ve rectified according to the Third Bureau’s report, and now we’re into the 19th century. The greatest advancement in the 19th-century Russian judicial system is the strict implementation of procedural justice.”

Pressing the files with one hand and pointing to the soldier with the other, the Vice Dean said, ”Without a signature, don’t expect to take anything out today.”

The lieutenant snorted, retorting: ”Really? Am I so fortunate to have encountered the Moscow Court where the archival signing system and signature pen were invented?”

The Vice Dean calmly picked up his teacup: ”My deepest apologies, you’ve merely come across our invention of the archival signing system, but regrettably, we haven’t yet invented the signature pen here, nor do we have ink. As you can see, the Russian judicial system has just entered the early stages of the 19th century, far from reaching the levels of the 1830s.”

Detecting the sarcasm in the Vice Dean’s words, the military lieutenant’s complexion darkened.

He walked two steps indoors with a sullen face, pondering whether to maintain the stance of the Third Bureau by continuing to exert pressure, or to settle for less, avoiding a stalemate.

Ultimately, he halted his steps, paused briefly, then redirecting his gaze to the dossier: ”No pen for signing, nor any ink. Does that mean I can only leave a handprint?”

The Vice Dean didn’t even rise from his chair: ”A handprint shall suffice; after all, this is Moscow, not St. Petersburg. Of course, the prerequisite is that you don’t mind letting all of Russia hear—it’s quite novel for the Third Bureau’s requisition of judicial documents to bear a handprint.”