Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1403 The Compromise is Reached

"Okay, I agree."

Hillary Clinton ultimately chose to back down, her voice sounding unusually tired, lacking her previous toughness.

"However, we must make him hand over all the original evidence!"

He paused, then asked, "And what about Horizon Group?"

“I will handle it personally. You are also familiar with their CEO, Angel; she is from the Nancy family. I think she is a smart girl and will listen to advice.”

Hillary gave a bitter smile: "So this is a deal within a deal."

“Politics is a series of deals, Rodham. You know that better than anyone.”

The piano music stopped.

Applause came from downstairs, probably because her husband Bill had just told a joke.

The fundraising dinner is about to officially begin, the goal of eight million dollars awaits final achievement, votes in swing states await to be won, and the historic opportunity for America's first female president awaits to be realized.

All of this hinges on a pardon document she has never seen before.

"Does the pardon require my signature?" she asked.

"A digital signature is sufficient. The document has already been sent to your secure server."

Hillary walked to her desk and opened her encrypted laptop.

The screen lights up, requiring both iris and fingerprint verification.

Ten seconds later, she saw the document: a full twenty-three pages of legal jargon, the core content condensed into the third paragraph: "Based on national security considerations, and to avoid irreversible damage to the continued operation of the government..."

As a Yale Law School PhD graduate, she knew very well that she only needed to look at the key clauses.

Scroll to the last page.

There are already two names in the signature field.

One is Barack Obama.

The other is the Attorney General.

The third space is the blinking cursor.

The pearl necklace was heated up by her handling.

“If I sign it,” she said into the phone, “this will never be made public, right?”

“Never,” Obama said. “Horizon will pull the announcement and release a statement saying, ‘Based on further verification, the release of related materials is temporarily suspended.’ Song Heping will be pardoned, hand over the materials, get the weapons he needs, and then I will arrange for someone to win him over and turn him into one of ours. You can continue to campaign in peace, talking about the economy, education, healthcare, and everything that all voters really care about.”

"And what about the impact of those documents that have already been made public?"

"It will become fodder for conspiracy theorists, but without further evidence, the mainstream media will move on to the next news cycle within two weeks." Obama paused: "Time heals all wounds. It always does."

Hillary looked out the window.

The car lights continued to move, and more guests arrived.

The country’s richest and most influential people are waiting in her living room for her to appear, to take a photo with her, and to hear her tell a story about hope and resilience.

She picked up the stylus.

“For the sake of the Democrats,” she whispered, unsure whether she was speaking to Obama or to herself, “so that everything we cherish doesn’t fall into the hands of people who don’t understand us at all.”

The pen tip landed on the screen.

But there was one more thing she kept hidden in her heart that she didn't say.

For his own ambition.

The signing process took only three seconds.

The electronic ink outlined her familiar handwriting.

Fluent, powerful, and unquestionable.

Like the thousands of documents she signed.

Appropriations bill, diplomatic notes, personnel appointments.

This time, however, signing the document meant forgiving a compromise with a mercenary leader, and sacrificing a part of one's principles on the altar of realpolitik.

“It’s done,” she said.

A barely audible sigh came from the other end of the phone.

Is it relief, or guilt?

Hillary can't tell the difference.

"Thank you, Rodham. Now go to the dinner party. Ask Bill to tell a few more jokes, and remember to take a picture with that CEO of JPMorgan Chase; his wife's family has a huge influence in Florida."

The call has ended.

Hillary put down the phone and stood in the deepening twilight.

The woman in the mirror was still perfect, her makeup flawless, her expression calm as still water.

Only she knew that something had just changed forever.

It wasn't on her face, but in some imperceptible corner of her soul.

She took one last look at the computer screen.

The pardon documents are being encrypted and transmitted back to the White House.

History will not record this moment, the media will not report this exchange, and voters will never know that while they were discussing healthcare plans and employment data, a deal concerning national security and moral bottom lines had just been struck in the Virginia twilight.

Taking a deep breath, Hillary turned and walked toward the door.

She paused for a moment as she placed her hand on the brass doorknob, adjusting the curve of her lips to make her smile both confident and friendly, firm and warm.

Then she pushed open the door, walked downstairs, and stepped into the applause and lights.

Washington, D.C., 5:33 p.m.

Barack Obama put down the red encrypted phone and leaned back in his leather chair.

The silence of the Oval Office now carried weight, pressing down on his shoulders and chest.

He sat alone, with the main light off, only the green-shaded table lamp on the corner of the table and the wall lamps on either side of the portrait of George Washington above the fireplace casting a warm but limited glow in the late autumn twilight.

Four minutes.

He gave himself four minutes before the next phone call, the next crisis, or the next decision he had to make.

His gaze swept across the office.

Everything here carries the weight of history: Kennedy's desk, Franklin Roosevelt's fireplace where he listened to fireside conversations, and a replica of the chair Lincoln sat in when he signed the Emancipation Proclamation.

Every president has sat here, faced dilemmas that only this position can see, and made choices that only this position can make.

Today, he just persuaded a former Secretary of State, and a possible next president, to set aside her arrogance and compromise with a University of Tokyo student in exchange for electoral victory and the continuation of her party.

This was a disgrace to the Onsa nobles, but they had no other choice at the moment.

"For greater interests."

He muttered to himself, his voice barely audible in the empty office.

interest.

This is what's most important for a politician.

The clock on the fireplace ticked away, time was passing.

Four minutes have passed.

Obama sat up straight and sat on the smooth surface of Kennedy's desk.

Then he pressed the internal communication key: "Let Lucas in."

5:42 p.m., Roosevelt Room, White House.

Press secretary Lucas stood in the doorway, holding three folders in his hand.

There were more than a dozen people in the room: the chief of staff, legal counsel, national security advisor, communications director, and everyone was standing, and no one spoke.

The air smelled of coffee and sweat, mixed with a unique, static-like tension that only appears in times of crisis.

Obama walked into the room, and everyone straightened up.

"Is your speech ready?" he asked, his voice steady, his gaze sweeping over each face.

Lucas stepped forward: “Three drafts are available, Mr. President. The tough version condemns the leak, vows to investigate to the end, and emphasizes that national security is non-negotiable; the appeasement version expresses concern for those involved, promises a transparent investigation, and calls for unity; the balanced version is somewhere in between, combining determination with empathy.”

"Give me the shortest one."

Obama's gaze fell on the portrait of Theodore Roosevelt above the fireplace.

The leader who established the modern presidential system was known for his "gentle words and sharp stick."

"No explanations, no details. Just say three things."

He held up his finger:
“We will tell the public that, firstly, we are investigating the truth of the matter with the utmost seriousness, and all facts will be handled according to appropriate procedures.”

"Second, the United States’ commitment to protecting all its personnel overseas, whether they are military personnel, diplomats or contractors, remains unwavering."

"Third, any attack on or endangerment of the safety of U.S. military and intelligence personnel will have corresponding consequences."

The room was completely silent.

The legal advisor opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but ultimately remained silent.

Lucas quickly took notes on the tablet.

"That's all? Mr. President, isn't that a bit too... concise? The media will press for details, and the opposition will accuse us of concealing something—"

Write it as I say.

Obama straightened the cuffs of his dark blue suit, a gesture that signaled the end of the discussion.

"In five minutes, I will be addressing the nation from here. Make sure all three major news networks are broadcasting it live. Contact Horizon News and tell them that the White House will be issuing a major statement in an hour, and suggest they 'reconsider' their reporting schedule for tonight."

"Yes, Mr. President."

Lucas turned and left the room, and the others quickly followed suit, leaving only National Security Advisor Susan Rice.

Rice took a step closer and lowered her voice: "Are you sure you want to contact Angel personally? We can have the Attorney General or the FBI Director—"

“No, this needs to be handled at the highest level,” Obama said. “Put the phone in. This must be resolved before I speak.”

Rice nodded, a hint of worry flashing in her eyes, but it was quickly concealed by her professional demeanor.

"Do you need me to be there?"

"No need. Let me talk to him alone."

After Rice left, Roosevelt Room returned to silence.

Obama walked to the window and looked at the south lawn.

As dusk deepened, the outline lights of the White House came on, illuminating the neoclassical building with a solemn and solitary glow.

The Washington Monument stands in the distance, its top flashing red lights, like the nation's undying ambition.

The red phone on the table rang.

5:47 PM.

“Angel”.

Obama answered the phone, his voice deliberately balanced between friendliness and authority. "Mr. President."

Angel's voice came through the receiver, accompanied by some background noise, which seemed to be typical of a newsroom.

The sounds of keyboard typing, telephone ringing, and distant television broadcasts.

"This is a pleasant surprise. I suppose it's not about discussing my tax return?"

Humorous, but with a hint of probing.

Typical Angell style.

The CEO of Horizon News Corporation is known for her audacity, and her media empire is built on the motto of "always pursuing the truth," from exposing political scandals to revealing corporate secrets.

Of course, this "truth" must generate amazing viewership and clicks.

"We need to talk about the report you previewed tonight."

Obama got straight to the point, skipping all pleasantries.

The background noise on the other end of the phone suddenly decreased, indicating that Angel had moved to a more private space.

"Oh, that. 'Game-changing material,' our tagline was pretty good, wasn't it? The buzz on social media has already broken records."

“Angel, I know you are known for your outspokenness. I also respect freedom of the press. You know I have never prosecuted or investigated any journalists or media outlets during my tenure, even though some reports were based on illegally obtained materials.”

Obama paused, allowing the other party to process the subtext of his words.

"But there are some boundaries that even the most steadfast journalists should be careful to cross."

"Mr. President, if you mean national security? We certainly have. All materials have undergone legal review. Horizon's legal team includes three former Justice Department prosecutors who ensured that our reporting fully complies with First Amendment and relevant information freedom legal standards."

"Legal standards and moral responsibility are not always the same thing."

Obama's tone remained calm, but the weight of each word increased.

"Especially when reports could endanger personnel still on duty or undermine our intelligence cooperation with allies. Not to mention, the disclosure of certain materials could directly violate the Espionage Act."

A brief silence.

Obama could imagine Angel's expression at that moment.

Those sharp eyes were assessing the risks, and the brain was calculating the gains and losses.

Is it better to insist on releasing the Pulitzer Prize-winning film and its peak ratings, or to make concessions in exchange for some kind of compromise from the White House?
"Mr. President, let me be frank."

Angel finally responded, and the ease in his voice vanished.

"We obtained these materials by chance. The sources provide compelling evidence that the government has violated laws and ethical standards in multiple overseas operations. The American people have the right to know what their tax money is being used for and what kind of wars are being waged in their name."

“War is never clean, Angel. You know that better than I do. You’ve been a war correspondent, you’ve been to Iligo, you should know what’s going on there, you’ve seen the gray areas of the battlefield firsthand.”

"It is precisely because I have seen it that I have more faith in transparency."

Angel's voice suddenly rose.

“I’ve seen weddings ruined by faulty intelligence, and children lose entire families due to collateral damage. If we don’t report these things, who will?”

Obama closed his eyes.

This was also the question he pondered when he couldn't sleep at night.

Balance, the eternal balance: security and freedom, secrecy and transparency, reality and ideals.

“If I told you,” he said slowly, “that we are already prepared to take action to correct the problems you mentioned, what would you do?”

“Empty promises, Mr. President. We’ve heard too many of them,” Angel said.

"It's not just empty talk."

Obama pointed to his back, shifted his position, and adjusted his posture.

"Following this incident, I will initiate a comprehensive review of the intelligence contractor oversight mechanism, revise the overseas operations authorization procedures, and conduct an independent investigation into any past actions that may have crossed the line."

He paused, letting his words settle.

“But these things take time, Angel. If you release those materials tonight, the resulting political tsunami could drown out any real change. The Elephant Party will use it to win the election, and the first thing they'll do is bury all these reforms. You know what that opposing candidate, that nasty real estate tycoon, will do—he'll make a mess of our country! Your family is also a traditional supporter of the Donald Party. Do you want to see that happen?”

There was only the sound of breathing on the other end of the phone.

“You’re asking me to suppress the news,” Angel finally said, in a very soft voice.

“I’m asking you to consider the bigger picture.” Obama corrected, “Sometimes, when faced with the choice between the truth and the bigger picture, it’s wiser to choose the bigger picture.”

"What about my origins? I promised him protection, but I also promised to bring the truth to light."

The moment has arrived.

Obama took a deep breath.

He knew all too well that this was the most crucial part.

The source of the information behind it.

Ha ha.

It's just Song Heping!
"Regarding your source, let's call him 'Mr. Song.' I can tell you that the government is ready to reach an understanding with him, agree to all his demands, and someone will contact him soon to arrange everything procedurally. He can get what he wants without detonating an intelligence bomb that could harm the country."

The sound of a chair moving came from the other end of the phone; Angel had clearly stood up.

How did you know—

“I know a lot of things, Angel. I know who you came from, I know why he did it, I know what else he has. And if I want to know more, you have no secrets from me.”

Obama's tone remained calm, but every word was as precise as a scalpel.

silence.

A silence that lasted fifteen seconds.

"Is this a threat, Mr. President?" Angel's voice was icy.

“This is a reminder, Miss Angel,” Obama said. “It’s a reminder that we all live in a complex world, a reminder that every choice has consequences, and a reminder that sometimes, temporary restraint can lead to greater progress.”

He paused, picked up his coffee from the table, took a sip, and then continued, "Tell your source that the pardon documents are ready. He just needs to wait, and soon there will be a result that satisfies both sides."

Outside the window, the fountains on the South Lawn of the White House were lit up.

The water jets danced in the colorful lights, beautiful but fleeting.

“What if I refuse?” Angel asked.

"So at 7 p.m. tonight, you release your materials. Tomorrow morning at 8 a.m., the Department of Justice will announce an investigation into Horizon News Corporation for allegedly receiving and disseminating state secrets. The SEC will re-examine the financial records of your companies. The IRS will request all accounts from the past seven years."

Obama's voice was calm, but the threat was as sharp as a knife.

“Angel. This is the inevitable consequence if you insist on proceeding, the law and procedures will have to be initiated.”

A longer silence.

Obama could hear faint breathing sounds on the other end of the phone.

“I need to discuss this with my team,” Angel finally said.

"You have no choice, there's no need for discussion, you can only do as I say. As the president, I'm not calling you personally to negotiate with you as the CEO of a media group, I'm here to convey a message through you, understand?"

Obama glanced at the clock.

“Angel, let me say one last thing: Freedom of the press is the cornerstone of democracy in books, but in reality, there is no true freedom. All freedom is subject to rules and restrictions. Use it with caution, and don’t be too naive.”

After saying that, he hung up the phone.

5:52 PM.

Obama stood alone in the center of Roosevelt Hall.

With eight minutes to go, he will face the nation's cameras and deliver a brief statement of only three points.

Behind the statement lies a painful nine-minute deal with Hillary Clinton, a dangerous five-minute game with Angell, and the accumulation of countless similar choices during his eight-year presidential term.

He recalled his first inauguration day, January 20, 2009. It was cold but sunny, and two million people gathered on the National Mall, their faces stretching like a sea to the Washington Monument.

He placed his hand on the Bible that Lincoln had used and swore to “preserve, protect and defend the U.S. Constitution.”

At that time, he believed that upholding the Constitution meant always adhering to transparency, the rule of law, and principles.

Eight years later, he realized that he was a complete joke back then.

The chief of staff knocked gently on the door: "Mr. President, you have three minutes left. The speech has been simplified as you requested."

Obama took the slip of paper.

The above consists of only three sentences, which are concise, direct, and leave enough room for interpretation.

Perfect political language.

Every word is carefully chosen, every phrase is meticulously crafted, yet it is also empty enough to be filled with any desired meaning.

"Is the live stream ready?"

"The three major news networks, all cable news channels, and major online streaming platforms. The audience is expected to be between 60 million and 80 million."

Sixty to eighty million pairs of eyes await his explanations of the inexplicable, his promises of the unfulfillable, and his attempts to appease the unappeasable.

He straightened his tie and took a deep breath.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor as staff took their positions, cameras began warming up, and history awaited to be told or rather, shaped.

“Mr. President?” the chief of staff whispered a reminder.

Obama glanced at his speech one last time, then folded it up and put it in his pocket.

"let's go."

He walked out of Roosevelt Hall and into the corridor.

The flashes of light had already begun in the distance, like lightning before a thunderstorm.

He strode forward, his face calm, his eyes resolute, ready to present a carefully crafted version of the "truth" to a nation.

Meanwhile, at her Virginia estate, Hillary Clinton raises a glass and smiles at donors; in a New York newsroom, Angell texts Song Heping, relaying everything Obama asked him to tell her; in a secluded command post outside Mosul, Song Heping awaits the fulfillment of his promises; and in the living rooms of millions of American homes, people prepare to watch the evening news, completely unaware of the deals, compromises, and ugliness that are about to unfold.

This is how history is written.

Not in the clear chapters of a textbook, but in a phone call at dusk, behind a closed door, in a choice that must be made.

Those choices were rationalized, explained, and defended, but were eventually buried by time, leaving only the results for posterity to judge.

5:59 PM.

Obama stood behind the podium in the White House press briefing room and adjusted the microphone. The red light came on, and the live broadcast began.

He raised his head, facing the camera, facing the nation, facing history.

"Good evening, my fellow Americans..."

His voice was steady, and his eyes were firm.

A president is prepared to tell a story, and at its core, the story is about justice and light.

Those deals, threats, compromises, and pardons, the sins of the past, will forever remain hidden beneath the truth known only to him and a select few.

Because beneath the foundation of the empire lies eternal darkness, evil, and a forest of white bones.

the truth?

who cares!
　Please vote for me! Please vote for me!

　　
　
(End of this chapter)