Three days later, Song Heping appeared on the streets of Beirut.
Regarding this transaction, Ferrari was actually against it.
Although after multiple rounds of verification, that guy with the codena "Black Snake" seed to have no issues. He even provided additional background information on the fallen mbers of the Black-Clad Squad.
After professional vetting by Henry, the data was deed flawless—absolutely genuine.
Which ant that "Black Snake" might truly possess so internal intel on the "Satan" ard organization.
For Song Heping, who was already in dire straits, he needed to find a breakthrough urgently.
The Persians could shelter him, but Avanti had already discussed things with him. Even if Song Heping chose to serve Persia soday, he would have to live under an anonymous identity.
At present, anti-terrorism asures worldwide are rising with full political backing—it's beco an issue of political correctness.
Anyone even remotely tied to terrorist elents would find themselves shunned, even treated like a rat in the street.
Even countries like Persia and Venezuela, typically at odds with Arica, wouldn't dare openly shelter Song Heping. If the U.S. leveraged political clout to push Song Heping onto the UN terrorism list, it would strip away his legal identity as a normal person. From then on, he'd only survive in a shadowed world, hidden forever.
The path to breaking through? It had to involve risk.
"Even if this guy turns out to be bait, it's clear he holds genuine intel on the 'Satan' ard organization—that's our only shot at breaking through."
Song Heping's statent left Ferrari speechless.
At this mont, the "Musician" Defense Company was essentially half-crippled.
Although Venezuela's Special Soldier School still operated, returning there to lie low was not an option for Song Heping.
Otherwise, the U.S.—already quick to criticize Venezuela on various fronts—might use Song Heping's situation as a pretext to impose even greater risk and pressure upon the Venezuelan governnt.
Song Heping was acutely aware of this, so he decided not to return to Venezuela and add trouble for Ramas and others.
Anyway, the school was registered under General Ramas's son's na, so the U.S. wouldn't have a justification to target it based on that matter.
Another option was returning to his holand.
But that was out of the question too.
The logic was similar to his reasons for avoiding Venezuela.
If he went ho, would his country detain him or not? Hand him over or not?
Why drag his holand into unnecessary trouble?
This road was dismissed by Song Heping as well.
Going to Russia to seek refuge with 'Kaftan' would involve similar challenges.
Though UN lacks significant authoritative power, its influence is massive—especially with manipulation by the U.S.—no nation would openly dare to harbor him.
The sa reasoning applied to Persia: despite the protection from Avanti, anonymity was all he could hope for.
All of this ant losing every normal aspect of a normal life.
Which was a compromise Song Heping absolutely could not accept.
He decided to head to Beirut.
Fortunately, this wasn't particularly difficult.
Avanti tapped into his connections in Siria, arranging for soone to smuggle Song Heping from the Northern Border into Siria. From there, he traveled south, entering Liben.
With little effort, Song Heping seamlessly crossed the border.
Now, he was a "Black Man."
Here, he had no entry records—only a Persian passport. But the passport details were authentic.
"Black Snake" kept in touch with Russia's Ferrari. All Song Heping needed was to reach Liben, settle down in Beirut, and wait for "Black Snake" to provide the eting thod and location within two days.
Liben was often called the "Little Paris of the East."
Various sects held sway here, making it a region deeply influenced by European culture while retaining strong ties to the traditional religious heritage of the East.
The Northern areas were relatively prosperous and stable, whereas the Southern Border—adjoining Daishe Bird Country and steeped in historical tensions—was consistently controlled by the Pearl Party, locked in hostility with the Daishe Bird forces, occasionally erupting in skirmishes. UN peacekeeping forces had been deployed there, with tensions remaining palpable.
But in Beirut, Song Heping didn't sense that pervasive nervousness perated by war fus.
Yet he knew deep down that Beirut, situated at the crossroads of Europe and Asia, was where intelligence agencies loved to converge. Many clandestine intelligence outposts lurked here, including Mossad.
Beneath the surface's calm, the city remained unstable.
Song Heping found a quiet private guesthouse to stay.
Beirut, nestled by the sea, serves as a vacation haven—a magnet for both wealthy Europeans and affluent Middle Eastern elites to bask in sumr sunlight.
On his first day of arrival, Song Heping sent his information to Ferrari, then began awaiting "Black Snake's" reply.
Bored during downti, Song Heping didn't stay holed up in his room. Instead, he stood before a mirror, pulling out an entire makeup toolkit. After ticulous grooming, a backpacker appeared on Beirut's streets—roughly forty years old, donning a loose floral Hawaiian shirt, straw hat, and a faded, worn-out backpack.
He blended in perfectly with the average tourist.
Song Heping strolled the streets leisurely, wandering aimlessly.
From dawn till dusk, he road without stopping.
Beirut isn't particularly large. By evening, he had walked through most of the city.
Holding a tourist map, he marked each place he visited heavily with pencil notations.
As twilight descended, his phone suddenly buzzed.
Taking it out, he glanced at the incoming ssage.
Without hesitation, he flagged a taxi by the street, heading straight to the Hamra District.
By the ti he exited the car, the sun had turned a deep crimson—like blood suspended above the distant sea, seemingly ready to plunge and cede the night to darkness.
Dusk, akin to honey mixed with rust, flowed gently amidst the broken ruins of Hamra District.
Song Heping strode down the street slowly, his gaze occasionally darting to the addresses on buildings.
Reaching an old, decaying building, he noticed an Ottoman-style relief sculpture riddled with bullet holes. His pupils glinted—it was the signal "Black Snake" had provided.
Surveying his surroundings, the copper scales of spice vendors swayed in the fading light, while saffron and dried tea powder dust cascaded through his fingers.
Inside his canvas bag lay a Persian-made satellite signal jamr. Avanti had given this to him before departure, saying it could jam signals within a five-hundred-ter radius when needed—potentially disrupting enemy communications.
But this device consud significant power, running solely on battery. Its capacity maxed out at twenty minutes. Beyond that? Survival depended on his own ingenuity.
The sun finally sank beneath sea level, leaving only a long reddish glow across the water's surface. As night encroached, the flickering interplay between darkness and light rendered every street scene—and passerby—particularly suspicious.
The neon sign outside a Greek café flickered to life across the opposing street corner. Its black-robed woman proprietor began arranging tables outdoors, adorning each with a vase newly furnished with vibrant pogranate flowers.
"Would you care to try so freshly harvested lemon verbena, sir?"
A robe-clad, goat-bearded vendor by the road abruptly addressed him with a faint Algerian accent.
Having learned functional French from Ferrari, Song Heping deciphered the greeting effortlessly.
It was the code signal!
He turned to the vendor, responding in French, "If the lemon verbena doesn't feel fresh, I'd rather smoke Marlboro cigarettes."
This response was also a code.
The signals matched.
"Are you Song?"
"Are you 'Black Snake'?"
"Yes, I've been waiting for you a long ti."
While saying this, an eerie glint passed through the vendor's eyes.
Sensitive as ever, Song Heping caught this slight peculiarity instantly. A chill ran down his spine—sothing was definitely wrong!
Out of nowhere, Song Heping realized that the passersby in the alley seed to have vanished entirely—it had beco deathly silent.
The few local residents visible monts earlier seed to have disappeared as if evaporated, leaving the alley eerily deserted, save for himself and the vendor opposite.
Wait!
No.
The café across the street was still open. That black-robed woman proprietor remained busy arranging items on her table.
Yet shortly after the goat-bearded vendor confird identities during dialogue with Song, the woman accidentally dropped a coffee cup while setting the table. The dark liquid spread across cobblestones, eerily resembling the Arabic word for "death."
Realizing the mounting danger instantly, Song Heping's hand reached for the strap of his canvas backpack, activating a small switch—wires linked the backpack to the jamming device inside. Once triggered, power coursed through the jamr and it began operational interference.
A stray alley cat darted out of a garbage bin, flipping over a clay vessel filled with chickpea paste. Montarily distracted, Song Heping glanced at the animal but swiftly recognized the handle of a CZ-75 pistol protruding from beneath the black robe of the café's woman proprietor.
User Comments
0 comments from readers