"It's ."
A familiar voice ca from outside the door.
"Yevgeny."
Upon hearing this voice, Song Heping secretly breathed a sigh of relief.
It's the chef.
He glanced at the peephole.
Outside the door stood a tall bald man, his face as smooth as a shaved winter lon, dressed in an elegant dark gray three-piece suit, with a diamond-studded tie clip sparkling under the hallway lights.
No mistake.
It's definitely that chef.
Only then did Song Heping tuck the pistol back to his waist and reach out to open the door.
"Dressed so formally, whose wedding are you attending?"
Song Heping laughed, letting his old friend into the room.
In fact, he already had questions in his mind.
Why didn't the chef call before coming to him?
Suddenly appearing was definitely not coincidence.
There must be sothing special going on.
Yevgeny grinned: "I'm inviting you to my restaurant for drinks tonight."
As the chef entered the room, Song Heping noticed two hefty n in black coats standing at the end of the corridor, hands always in their pockets.
Obviously, these were the chef's followers.
The chef was no longer who he used to be.
After leaving Illiguo for Moscow, he started in haute cuisine, using his connections to et influential figures in Russian politics, over the years becoming more than just a simple restaurant owner, also owning a large rcenary company called "Wagner".
Earlier, he managed to dispatch GRU groups into Romania to help him out, showing that his military connections were equally formidable.
"Quick, change your clothes, and co with now."
The chef retained that commanding deanor, entering the room and imdiately urging Song Heping without giving him a chance to speak.
"I'm waiting for you here."
"Really?"
Song Heping's suspicions deepened.
Having a al doesn't require such fanfare.
There must be sothing else.
"Before we go, tell , what kind of banquet is it? Just you and or are there others? Should I call Ferrari?"
"No, no, Ferrari is not needed." The chef shook his head. "He returned from Romania quite weak. Let him rest for a while. You just co along, tonight's gathering has many prestigious figures; networking will be beneficial for your future business."
With that, he patted Song Heping's arm.
"Quickly now, don't dawdle, change your clothes and follow ."
"I don't have formal wear..."
Song Heping made an excuse on purpose.
He vaguely felt he shouldn't go.
But out of respect for the chef, he couldn't outright refuse.
"I knew you'd say that."
The chef smiled aningfully, turned to the door, and snapped his fingers outside.
"Bring the items here."
Soon, under Song Heping's astonished gaze, urgent footsteps echoed from the corridor.
Several bodyguard-like n walked in, each carrying a suit, forming a line in front of Song Heping.
"Pick one; they're all tailored to your size, shoes, tie, tie clip, cufflinks... everything is prepared for you."
The chef wore a satisfied expression, as if everything was under control.
He understood Song Heping well.
Knew that it wasn't easy to get him to co over.
Song Heping wasn't soone who enjoyed socializing.
Especially for tonight's banquet, he definitely wasn't fond of it.
To get him to go, he must leave him no excuses, unable to decline.
"Hurry, don't keep waiting, choose!"
The chef returned to his seat, sitting cross-legged.
Seeing this, Song Heping realized he had no choice but to go.
"Okay."
He walked to the bodyguards, casually picked a dark blue suit with a black turtleneck underneath – this was the Moscow elite circle's standard attire.
Ten minutes later, Song Heping erged from the restroom.
The chef looked him over, nodded in satisfaction: "You look like a legit businessman."
"I'm no businessman." Song Heping laughed, "I'm on the UN's KB list."
"Bollocks!"
The chef dismissed with a wave.
"UN's nothing! Song, you're a businessman now, and quite a successful one. You know, you're recognized here among Moscow's high-level circles. They all know you and are happy to hear you're coming tonight."
"Really?"
Song Heping feigned surprise, though his heart was pounding.
Recognize ?
Seems like I've caught their attention?
He instinctively tugged at his suit sleeves.
Can't deny, this suit fits perfectly, neither too long nor too short.
The chef didn't know his height or clothing size, even though they'd been through life and death together.
Such information is gathered through intelligence.
It seems tonight's banquet has complex motives.
"Let's go, let's go!"
The chef checked his watch, eagerly hurrying him: "We're going to be late!"
The two exited the apartnt building, Moscow's evening drizzling lightly.
A black rcedes-Maybach quietly parked roadside, its bulletproof windows reflecting a distinctive blue-grey sheen.
Two bodyguards in black were already standing by the car, opening the door as soon as they saw them co out.
"Your setup is getting grander."
Song Heping bent to get into the car, the leather seats emitting a faint cedar aroma.
"Last ti I visited, you were only driving a BMW."
The chef laughed heartily, his gold teeth flashing under the interior lights: "Back then, I had just returned, and the restaurant investnt took most of my savings, leaving little US Dollars left; every penny was wisely spent, of course it wasn't lavish, but now?"
He tapped the window.
"Even these windows withstand RPGs, much better than the bulletproof Lincoln we bought in Illiguo back then."
The car smoothly traveled down Tver Street, the sunset painting Saint Basil's Cathedral's colorful onion dos in golden-red hues.
Song Heping noticed in the rearview mirror a gray BMW following with precision three-car distance.
"Seems tonight's guests are important?" Song Heping casually asked.
The chef retrieved crystal glasses from the car's minibar, pouring two amber brandies: "Anatoly Serdyukov." he handed over a glass, "Deputy Minister of Defense, overseeing overseas special operations."
Song Heping paused slightly as he received the glass.
This na wasn't unfamiliar — it was this General who supported the Wagner Group, enabling Russia's military activities in Syria, Central Africa, via "unofficial" channels.
"I, a small contractor, might not captivate the General's attention."
Song Heping lightly swirled his glass, observing the chef's reaction.
"Ha!" The chef suddenly leaned closer, the mixed scent of cologne and vodka enveloping him.
"In Sudan, you have a rcenary group consisting of several hundred forr Special Forces mbers; in South Arica, you run a Special Soldier training base, controlling 70% of the underground transport network, and manage 60% of Colombia's underground arms trade, with over a dozen shell companies and hundreds of overseas accounts."
He smiled, showing cold glint on his white teeth.
"That's called a small contractor?"
Cold sweat trickled down Song Heping's back.
This information was supposed to be top-secret, never revealed to the chef.
How did he know so much detail?
It appears Wagner's intelligence network is more extensive than imagined.
The car passed the Kremlin's red walls, the sunset casting lengthy shadows from Lenin Library's columns.
The chef suddenly lowered his voice: "The Aricans are targeting Gaddafi."
Song Heping's heart skipped a beat, maintaining a calm face: "So?"
"Thus, North Africa is about to reshuffle, and the Arabic Spring has affected the Middle East, especially Syria, whose current dostic situation isn't optimistic."
The chef pointed outside, the opposite bank of the Moscow River illuminated by newly constructed high-rise complexes, "Like these buildings, old ones need demolition, new ones need construction—reliable partners are needed."
Song Heping followed his gesture, seeing the Moscow River's water reflecting neon lights, like countless shards of broken blades.
He suddenly realized tonight's banquet's true aim — Russians are entering Africa and the Middle East, seeing him as a pawn.
"Here we are."
The chef suddenly patted his shoulder.
The car turned into a tree-lined avenue, ending at a neo-classical building with intricately carved grapevine patterns on the porch pillars.
Song Heping noticed a uniform line-up of governnt plates in the parking lot, most conspicuous was a black Aurus luxury sedan bearing a Ministry of Defense pass.
In Russia, those who ride in such cars hold no insignificant position.
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