He paused for a mont, then, under the focused gaze of Isis, slowly and unmistakably raised three fingers.
"First," the index finger stood upright, like a drawn dagger, "Money. Not small money. It's money enough to support the operation of the entire training system, purchase new equipnt, pay soldiers generous enough salaries to risk their lives, and maintain the expenses of a large team of instructors. Continuous flow of funds."
"Second," the middle finger followed suit, with undeniable force.
"Still money. This sum is the commission for my 'Musician' defense service. The training director is not a goodwill ambassador. My people need to eat, guns need maintenance, intelligence networks need to operate, risks... need compensation. The price, according to the highest international standards for PMC (Private Military Company), will be increased by fifty percent. Forty percent of the total annual amount will be prepaid in a lump sum."
"Third."
The ring finger was raised last, three fingers standing together, like a trident in the dim light, exuding a chilling coldness.
"Still money. This sum is a guarantee, or rather… collateral. Deposited in a third country (Switzerland or Dubai) in a bank designated by us, jointly supervised by both sides. This money will not be used, but it must be there. It ensures that during the training period, and for so ti after the training is completed, the Sena Governnt will not, for any reason or any ans, try to discard us after use, or… default or shortchange the previous two sums of money."
His gaze was like a cold probe, staring directly at Isis, "You should understand what I an. Trust is a luxury, especially in Africa. I need substantial guarantees."
Three conditions, three ntions of "money," like three heavy gold bricks, thudding onto the table covered with a white tablecloth with silent impact.
The muscles on Isis's face twitched imperceptibly.
The room fell into a brief silence, only the cigar burning quietly. The light from the wall lamp cast shadows in Isis's deep-set eye sockets.
He smoked the cigar silently, the cool smoke seeming to numb the nerves briefly.
Three fingers, three ntions of "money," like three cold daggers, precisely piercing the vital point of his newly stabilized yet still riddled treasury.
These terms were harsh to the point of plunder.
However, he knew better the value of the man in front of him and the consequences that refusal might bring.
The rebellion in Lumar had just cald, the influence and residual forces of the Duer Governnt still lingered, and the annihilation of the SAS was a silent warning; the British would definitely not swallow this bitter pill and choose to let it go.
After a long while, Isis finally extinguished the nearly consud cigar in the crystal ashtray.
He raised his eyes, and in those sharp Hawkeye eyes, there was no longer hesitation, only a hero-like decisiveness and a trace of barely noticeable pain.
"Song."
Isis's voice regained steadiness, even carrying a hint of deliberately crafted bravado, "Problems that money can solve are not problems. Sena's mineral resources are like a river of gold flowing underground."
He extended his hand, received a prepared, heavy docunt with the coat of arms of the Sen Republic printed on the cover from his secretary next to him, and pushed it across the table to Song Heping.
On the title page of the docunt, a line of bold English title was exceptionally striking: "morandum on the Mining Rights and Revenue Distribution of the Northern Mubala Diamond Mine."
"The reserves of the Mubala Mine, newly discovered, far exceed expectations."
Isis's finger pointed heavily on the docunt, "The mining rights, exclusively granted to the 'Musician' Defense Company. For twenty years. Revenue distribution… sixty-forty. You sixty, the governnt forty. Is this enough to cover your three ntions of 'money'?"
He stared at Song Heping and added, "This is the utmost sincerity I can offer. Enough to support you in building an elite force that sweeps across West Africa, and enough to make your company as wealthy as a nation."
Song Heping's gaze swept over the docunt without imdiately flipping it open. The wealth represented by those numbers was enough to make anyone's heart race.
His face still showed no expression, he raised the already lukewarm coffee, and took another sip.
The bitter liquid slid down his throat.
"Very generous, Mr. President."
Song Heping put down the cup, his voice still flat, "It seems, your desire for a stable regi is very urgent."
Isis leaned back in his chair, revealing a wry smile: "Pacifying internal strife must co before repelling external threats. A strong, loyal army is the foundation of my reform, the safeguard of Sena's future. Without it, no amount of mineral resources would be anything more than bait for jackals."
He shifted the topic, with a hint of probing and concern in his tone, "However, Song, the British… they suffered such a big loss in Sena, with the SAS's damage… they will definitely not let it go. The retaliation from London is probably already underway. This poses a huge threat to our forthcoming cooperation."
"Retaliation?"
Song Heping's lips finally curled into a curve.
It was not a smile, but more like the cold curve when a hungry wolf bares its fangs on the snowy plains.
He picked up the cigar cutter, specially designed with a blade flashing with cold light, used to clip the cigar, and his fingers gently brushed over the blade as sharp as a knife.
"Ding," a light sound, he casually closed the cutter, producing a clear tallic clink.
"Let them co."
Song Heping's voice was not loud, yet it carried a bone-chilling resolve and disdain, "The gentlen of London, accustod to playing with power and betrayal in the shadows, will soon understand a truth..."
He raised his eyes, his gaze penetrating the thick cigar smoke, as if already seeing the stern intelligence fortress on the banks of the Thas River, seeing Mrs. M sitting atop the pinnacle of power.
His eyes were like a blade hardened in fire, cold, sharp.
"In this world, so rules are not written by parliantary bills and gentlemanly conduct."
Song Heping stated each word with emphasis, each syllable landing like ice beads on an iron plate.
"To play with them, we must break their rules and play by our own rules."
He released the cigar cutter, letting it fall on the heavy "Mubara Diamond Mine mo" docunt, making a dull thud.
That sound was very much like the prelude to the fall of a guillotine.
User Comments
0 comments from readers