Song Heping is truly formidable.
Jackson's reactions are exactly as Song Heping anticipated.
Everything is unfolding according to the predetermined script.
He pretended to ponder deeply for a mont, tapping his fingers on the table as if engaging in a difficult strategic calculation.
"The risk still exists..."
Simon slowly muttered to himself, his gaze sweeping over Jackson and the analyst.
"Song Heping is not so easily fooled. But... this opportunity is indeed rare. Jackson, since you're so confident, you'll take full responsibility. Rember, success is the only option, failure is not allowed. This might be our best and only chance in the short term."
"Yes, sir!"
Jackson imdiately responded with fervor, as if injected with adrenaline: "I won't let you down! I'll arrange it right away!"
Watching Jackson and the analyst disappear in a hurry, Simon leaned back in his chair and exhaled deeply. The office returned to silence, leaving him alone.
He walked to the window, gazing at the neatly trimd lawns of Langley Headquarters and the lush, distant forests outside.
Song Heping...
What exactly are you planning?
Using yourself as bait to lure Jackson into action...
Trying to create the narrative and impact of an assassination?
Just for this?
Is it useful?
Or is there a deeper plot?
Simon felt a chill.
He realized that even though he was part of the plan, he still couldn't see all of Song Heping's layout.
This opponent is truly dangerous.
He now only hopes that this dangerous ga won't backfire.
The next day, Damascus, safe house.
The afternoon sunlight began to slant, casting a golden glow over this war-torn city, but it couldn't dispel the tension gradually accumulating inside the safe house.
4:30 PM.
President Hafez's convoy, escorted by several armored cars, arrived punctually at the clearing outside the safe house.
Song Heping and the chef personally welcod them at the door, and the three warmly shook hands and exchanged greetings before walking into Song Heping's office, the heavy door closing behind them.
No one knew exactly what these three figures, deciding the fate of northern Siria, discussed inside.
In stark contrast was the kitchen.
The kitchen at this mont was as busy as a pot about to boil, but the atmosphere was driven not by culinary enthusiasm, but by a kind of anxious waiting.
The local chef, a slightly overweight middle-aged man, had beads of sweat covering his forehead, pulling out his phone for the umpteenth ti and yelling into the receiver in Arabic, his voice lowered yet unable to hide his anger:
"Where are you?! Ti is running out! The president is already here! If the dinner is ruined because of your delay, neither of us can bear this responsibility!"
The person on the other end seed to be trying to soothe and reassure him, but the chef's expression beca increasingly grim.
He was enticed by a price far below market rate and the promise of "absolute authenticity," bypassing the usual partners—safe but expensive—and choosing this suddenly erged "efficient supplier."
Now, he felt like a fish on a hook, with no choice but to hope the supplier keeps their word.
"What's going on?"
A loud voice, carrying an undeniable authority, sounded at the kitchen door.
The chef shuddered, almost dropping his phone.
He hurriedly turned around, only to see Yevgeny's shiny bald head at the door, his rugged face showing a questioning expression.
As one of the security chiefs here and the actual chef for tonight's banquet, Yevgeny was extrely concerned about the preparation status of the banquet.
"N-nothing, Mr. Yevgeny."
The chef stamred in response, "The ingredients... are mostly ready and being prepared."
"What about the caviar?"
Yevgeny's piercing gaze imdiately shifted to the storage shelves.
"The caviar I specially asked for, is it here? It's the main highlight tonight, President Hafez and Mr. Song are looking forward to it."
The chef's back instantly beca soaked with cold sweat, he tried to remain calm: "It's... ugh, almost here! The supplier is already on the way, they said it's the last batch, reserved just for us, absolute top quality!"
Yevgeny squinted his eyes, staring at the chef for a few seconds, his gaze seed able to penetrate hearts.
The chef felt like he was about to suffocate.
Fortunately, Yevgeny didn't delve further, just snorted: "It better be! I'm warning you, if there's a ss-up or I find anyone daring to sneak a spoonful..."
He patted the gun at his side.
"I'll blow their brains out! Keep a close watch, I'll be back in twenty minutes to start preparing the appetizers!"
With that, Yevgeny turned and left, the sound of his heavy military boots fading away.
The chef let out a long breath, wiped his forehead, feeling the sweat.
He picked up the phone again, almost begging the supplier to hurry.
Minutes ticked by, the clock's hands relentlessly pointing to 5 PM.
The dinner was scheduled to start at 6:30, and cooking a top-tier caviar dish required ti, ti was now exceedingly tight.
Just when the chef was on the verge of despair, his phone finally rang.
It was the supplier!
"Here! Here! At the back door! Co quickly to receive the goods!"
"I'm coming right away!"
The chef didn't care about his composure, almost stumbling as he rushed to the back door.
The back door of the safe house was equally heavily guarded.
Several ard guards stopped the delivery man—a middle-aged man dressed like a regular local rchant, carrying a silver thermal box.
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