Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1407 The Mysterious Invitation

The following day, in western Mosul.

The abandoned textile factory warehouse is located next to Riverside Road. The three-story concrete structure survived the street fighting in 2015, with a corner of the roof torn off by artillery fire, exposing twisted steel bars.

At this moment, the warehouse has been temporarily converted into a meeting place, and the 10th Division's most elite sniper team has been in position for twelve hours on the high ground three blocks around it.

Their scopes swept across every window, every pile of rubble, every possible sniping spot.

At the entrance to the street, two T-72 tanks blocked the road at an angle, their turrets slowly rotating, the shadow of their 125mm smoothbore guns sending chills down one's spine.

Behind the checkpoint built of sandbags, the soldiers stood alert, their fingers on the trigger guards, ready to respond to any unexpected situation.

In the air, three modified civilian drones hovered at an altitude of 300 meters, with cameras transmitting real-time footage.

"They're here."

The sound of the observation post came through the communicator.

Samir stood behind a broken window on the second floor of the warehouse and raised his binoculars.

Three black Chevrolet Suburban SUVs slowly drove along the riverside road.

The convoy kicked up a cloud of dust, standing out starkly against the backdrop of the dilapidated city.

“Confirm identity,” Samir said into the walkie-talkie.

"The license plate matches."

Samir put down his binoculars and turned to look inside the warehouse.

The space was simply partitioned, the original textile machinery had been cleared out, and a long wooden table moved from a nearby school was placed in the center, with chalk marks still on the tabletop.

Song Heping sat in a chair by the window, relaxed, but his eyes were always fixed on the direction in which the convoy was approaching.

Are you sure they won't try anything funny?

Samir walked to the table and asked in a low voice.

"Simon's personal presence shows that they want to end this matter gracefully."

Song Heping calmly stated, "The CIA director will not personally enter the war zone unless the agreement has been essentially finalized. His presence itself is a guarantee."

“The only truth I learned in Mosul was to never trust any guarantees,” Samir said in a low voice. “Especially the Americans.”

Song Heping looked up at him and said, "So today we not only need to get the documents, but also the leverage to make them fulfill their promises."

The convoy stopped 30 meters outside the warehouse.

The SUV door opened, and Simon was the first to get out.

There were only five people accompanying him: two assistants carrying briefcases and three security guards scanning the surroundings warily. As agreed, they did not carry long weapons, only pistols at their waists.

Samir made a gesture, and the warehouse door slowly opened.

Simon walked in, and it took him a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

His gaze quickly swept across the warehouse interior, finally settling on Song Heping.

"Song." Simon nodded in acknowledgment, but did not shake hands, and walked directly to the other side of the table to sit down.

His assistant placed the briefcase on the table, making a slight clicking sound.

Sunlight streamed in obliquely through the high windows, and dust swirled in the beams of light, like a miniature battlefield.

"document."

Simon got straight to the point, gesturing for his assistant to open the briefcase.

Three folders were taken out and pushed to the center of the table.

Song Heping reached out and took the paper, beginning to read it carefully. The sound of the pages turning was exceptionally clear in the empty warehouse.

The first document is a State Department authorization agreement, which is formally formatted and carefully worded, authorizing the CIA to "reach temporary understandings with local actors under special circumstances."

The second document is a CIA operation confirmation letter, which details the entire operation to capture Mesour and the decision to terminate it "based on strategic adjustments."

The third document is an additional statement from National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice, confirming that the agreement "is in line with the long-standing interests of the United States in Iligo."

Song Heping read very slowly, pausing for at least a minute on each page.

He would sometimes frown, and sometimes trace a line of text with his fingertip.

Simon waited patiently, but the rhythmic tapping of his right fingertips on the table betrayed his inner anxiety.

Ten minutes later, Song Heping neatly stacked the three documents in front of him, looked up and stared directly at Simon: "Okay. But I need a supplementary clause."

Simon frowned: "Song, we have reached an agreement in the communications."

"The wording regarding the disposal of military equipment is too vague."

Song Heping pushed the document to the center of the table and pointed to a passage on the third page.

"It says here that it will be handled according to the remaining materials procedure, but there is no clear timetable, handover location, or acceptance criteria. In Mosul, a vague agreement is equivalent to no agreement at all."

Simon's assistant leaned forward to explain, "Mr. Song, a transfer of supplies of this scale takes time. The inventory at the six bases needs to be inventoried and assessed, and transportation routes need to be coordinated. This involves complex—"

“Three months.” Song Heping interrupted her, his voice calm but unquestionable: “Starting today, complete all handovers within ninety days. Also, what I need is not ‘remaining supplies,’ but a complete list, including the batch of Javelin anti-tank missiles and Stinger air defense systems that you intended to ‘accidentally overlook.’”

As he spoke, a sly smile appeared on his face.

“I remember Duke talking to me before he died about these good things in that batch of weapons. Don’t forget that.”

The air inside the warehouse suddenly froze.

Simon's expression remained unchanged, but a hint of surprise flashed in his eyes: "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Alpha Base, Warehouse No. 3, Second Basement Level."

Song Heping reported a series of coordinates.

“Last week’s satellite images showed special transport vehicles coming and going. Simon, we’re old friends, you should know my style. If I have my eye on something, if it belongs to me, I won’t leave it uninvestigated, especially in Iligo, where my information network is still very efficient.”

Simon exchanged a glance with his assistant.

The assistant whispered something, and Simon shook his head slightly, looking back at Song Heping: "Sixty days. We can provide transportation assistance, but the list needs to be adjusted. Some equipment is too sensitive and cannot remain in Iligo."

"Seventy-five days, and we will be responsible for the transportation."

Song Heping leaned forward and placed his hands crossed on the table.

"In exchange, the U.S. provided technical manuals, maintenance records, and a complete inventory list for all the equipment, including those 'sensitive equipment.' I can guarantee that they will not appear on the battlefield against the United States."

How can you guarantee that?

“Just like your promise not to pursue legal action,” Song Heping smiled slightly. “We all understand that the value of an agreement lies not in the words themselves, but in the consequences of breaching it. If my people use those weapons to attack American targets, you will have a reason to tear up the agreement and re-intervene, which will not benefit me at all. The reverse is also true.”

Simon remained silent for a long time. Suddenly, a gust of wind came from outside the warehouse, stirring up sand and dust that rushed in through the broken door.

The dust particles in the beam of light swirled even more violently.

“I need to ask for permission,” Simon finally said.

“Go ahead.” Song Heping gestured. “But I need an answer before sunset. Mosul is not safe at night; even the CIA director shouldn’t spend the night here.”

Simon stood up and walked with his assistant to a corner of the warehouse.

Samir took the opportunity to lower his voice and ask Song Heping, "Those missiles are good stuff, are they really there?"

“Of course.” Song Heping replied in a low voice as well: “When the US military withdraws, it always ‘forgets’ some high-value weapons, which saves on transportation costs and also makes local allies owe them a favor. It’s just that this time, the one who owes them that favor is me.”

Samir nodded thoughtfully, then turned his gaze back to Simon.

The director was communicating with Washington via encrypted satellite phone, and although the content was unclear, his body language suggested the conversation was not relaxed.

Twenty minutes later, Simon returned to the table. "Seventy-five days. The list includes all the equipment, but the technical manuals for sensitive weapons cannot be given. That's the bottom line."

“Sure,” Song Heping readily agreed.

Simon gestured to his assistant to prepare to modify the document.

The scratching sound of the metal pen nib across the paper was particularly clear in the empty warehouse. Additional terms were handwritten at the end of each document, specifying the exact seventy-five-day timeframe and the scope of the list.

Just as the last document was signed and stamped, the call to prayer from the distant minaret could be heard outside the warehouse.

A long, desolate sound echoed over the ruins of Mosul.

"It's a pleasure working with you, Song."

Simon put his own document into the briefcase but did not get up immediately.

He looked at Song Heping, his eyes filled with complex emotions: "Where are the things?"

Song Heping took a sealed waterproof bag out of the inner pocket of his tactical vest.

Instead of handing it over directly, he placed it on the table and gently pushed it across the center line with his index finger.

"The USB drive that Duke entrusted to me before he died contained all the original files, experimental data, and funding details of the 'Sower' project."

He pointed to another external hard drive: "And there's the chain of evidence that Maisul has collected over the years—photos, recordings, soil sample analysis reports."

Simon's assistant put on gloves and carefully opened the waterproof bag.

Inside was a military-grade encrypted hard drive stained with dark brown dirt and a small glass vial with a label.

The bottle contained a small amount of grayish-brown soil, as well as a stack of memory cards and microfilm wrapped in a waterproof membrane.

Simon stared at the items, remaining silent for a long time.

“Duke is an old fogey,” Simon finally spoke, his voice tinged with a sigh. “He shouldn’t have died like that.”

“Few people can choose how they die in war.” Song Heping stood up: “The documents are signed, the things are handed over. We’re even.”

Samir also stood up, ready to see the guest out.

But Simon gestured for his assistant and security personnel to retreat to the warehouse entrance first.

"Song, let's talk in private."

Simon lowered his voice slightly.

Song Heping raised an eyebrow, but still followed Simon to the corner of the warehouse behind a thick concrete pillar.

This place is far enough away from other people that conversations will be drowned out by the generator noise.

Simon took a small, silver electronic jammer from his inside suit pocket and pressed the switch.

The indicator light glowed a faint red light.

"Anti-eavesdropping?" Song Heping laughed: "This is probably the first time this thing has been used in enemy-controlled territory during your tenure as CIA director."

“Not the enemy,” Simon corrected, his tone serious. “We are not enemies in the strict sense.”

He paused, as if considering his words: "Someone wants to see you."

The smile on Song Heping's face faded: "Many people want to see me. Most of them want to see me die."

“This time it’s different.” Simon lowered his voice even further: “The invitation came from Washington. Not an official invitation, but a private…meeting.”

Song Heping stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed: "Let me guess, go to America, and then one day 'accidentally die' in a hotel room or on the street? Or, to be more elegant, have a permanently reserved private room in Guantanamo?"

“The person who wants to see you has the capability to ensure this doesn’t happen,” Simon said. “In fact, if he wanted you to disappear, the previous bombing wouldn’t have been canceled.”

"Then why didn't I die?"

“Because he thinks you are more valuable alive, and your death would do them no good.” Simon looked around again: “Song, you got the White House to sign an agreement they didn’t want to sign, got more than two billion dollars worth of arms, and can still stay in Iligo and live a carefree life. In the past twenty years, there have been very few people who could do either of these things.”

"So this is a retaliatory invitation? To make me accept the humiliation of the victor?"

"Quite the opposite," Simon shook his head. "He thinks you're a talent. The kind of talent that chaotic times need."

A gust of wind came from outside the warehouse, carrying sand that slapped against the warehouse's metal sheeting, making a fine rustling sound.

"Who is it?" Song Heping asked.

Instead of answering directly, Simon took out a folded note from another inner pocket of his suit and handed it to Song Heping.

There were no words on the paper, only a hand-drawn badge design.

The design features an oval outline with a simple line drawing of an eagle and a shield in the center.

图案下方用铅笔写着一个日期：11月5日，以及一个坐标：38°53'52“N 77°02'11“W。

Song Heping stared at the paper.

He recognized the coordinates.

1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

“He finds you very interesting.” Simon’s voice was almost a whisper: “He said that such a person is either the most dangerous enemy or… the rarest mirror.”

"Mirror?"

“A mirror that shows our own limitations.” Simon retracted the jammer, and the indicator light went out. “He read all your files, from Africa to the Middle East. He said you have your own philosophy of war, and that philosophy… in some ways, is closer to reality than the Pentagon’s staff.”

Song Heping folded the note in half and didn't return it immediately: "What if I don't go?"

“Then I won’t go.” Simon shrugged. “An invitation is not an order. But he asked me to pass on a message to you: ‘A true chess player will never be content with the sidelines forever.’”

When the two returned to the table, Samir gave them an inquiring look.

Song Heping gently shook his head, indicating that nothing was wrong.

Simon met up with his assistant and security personnel and headed towards the warehouse door.

He stopped at the threshold and looked back at Song Heping one last time.

“The list will arrive on time in seventy-five days,” he said. “As for the invitation… you have two weeks to consider it. No more waiting.”

As the convoy drove away, the dust it kicked up shimmered with a golden-red hue in the setting sun.

Inside the warehouse, Samir walked up to Song Heping: "What did he say last?"

"Some trivial matters."

Song Heping quietly slipped the note into the hidden pocket of his tactical pants.

Washington, D.C. The White House. A private meeting.

He touched the notepad in the hidden pocket; the edge of the paper was slightly rough to the touch.

The hand-drawn oval badge came to mind clearly.

It's not an official presidential seal, but rather some kind of more private mark.

"A true chess player will never be content with the corners forever."

That sounds really interesting...

The new game has indeed started.

Meanwhile, the chess players are moving their pieces on their respective chessboards.

Some games are played on the ruins of Mosul, and some are played in more distant places.

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(End of this chapter)