Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1090: Entering the Pass
Upon returning to the safe house in Tehran, Song Heping immediately contacted his transportation contractor, Jackson, via an encrypted line.

The phone rang for a long time before being answered. Loud music and a woman's laughter could be heard in the background, suggesting that it was in an entertainment venue.

"Hey! My dear friend Song! I haven't heard from you in a while. I heard you've been making quite a stir in the Middle East?"

Jackson's voice was slurred with intoxication and carried his usual exaggerated manner.

"Jackson, to make a long story short, I need help." Song Heping had no time for pleasantries.

"Oh? What kind of in-demand item is needed now? Sam? Javelin? Or..."

The music and laughter seemed to fade away slowly.

Clearly, Jackson was a man of action. He realized that Song Heping wanted to talk about serious matters rather than idle chatter, so he quickly found a quiet corner to listen to the phone call.

“No, this isn’t buying, it’s selling,” Song Heping interrupted him. “I have a shipment of goods worth one hundred million US dollars that I need to find a buyer and ship out.”

"One hundred million?! Is that in US dollars?"

Jackson's slightly drunken voice instantly sobered up considerably: "What kind of goods? Diamonds? Gold? Or...?"

“Crude oil,” Song Heping uttered, then added, “Genuine Persian crude oil.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

A dozen seconds later, Jackson gasped, "Hiss... Persian crude oil? Song, you always manage to surprise me! This stuff is a hot potato right now, the Americans are watching it more closely than anything else!"

“I know the risks. That’s why I’m asking you. Do you have a solution?” Song Heping asked directly.

Jackson hesitated for a moment: "To be honest, my main business is transporting weapons and 'special goods.' The oil business is too murky, the rules are different, and I generally don't touch it. However..."

He changed the subject, saying, "I do know a guy who does this kind of thing. His name is Zayed, a cunning old fox from the White Elephant Country. He has a lot of connections, especially when it comes to dealing with these... um... 'sensitive' energy products. I can give you his contact information, just say I introduced you. But whether it works out, and how you negotiate, is entirely up to you."

"That's enough. Thank you. I owe you a favor."

Song Heping wrote down the string of numbers that Jackson had given him.

"Good luck, Song. But I must warn you, be extra careful when dealing with Zayed. Also, whatever you do, don't let the CIA know you're involved in this, or we're all doomed."

Jackson gave a half-joking, half-serious warning and then hung up the phone.

After obtaining the number, Song Heping did not hesitate at all and immediately used the hotel phone to dial Zayed's number through an encrypted adapter.

The phone rang for a long time before being answered. A lazy voice with a heavy Indian accent came through: "Who is it?"

“Mr. Zayed? I was introduced by Jackson. My surname is Song,” Song Heping said in English.

"Jackson?" The other person's voice rose slightly, seemingly showing some interest. "That arms mule? He introduced you to me. What's the matter?"

“I have a batch of crude oil that I need to sell. It’s worth about one hundred million US dollars,” Song Heping said bluntly.

"One hundred million?" Zayed's languid tone vanished instantly, replaced by a shrewd sharpness. "Where is the oil from? What's the quality? When can we pick it up?"

“Light crude oil from the Persian Gulf. Top quality. You can pick it up anytime with my documents,” Song Heping replied.

However, upon hearing the word "Persian," the enthusiasm on the other end of the phone seemed to be doused with ice water.

Zayed paused for a moment, then spoke again, his tone becoming extremely cautious, even somewhat distant: "Persian oil... my friend, this business is probably not easy. The winds are very strong right now; the American fleet and satellites are watching every drop of oil leaving the Persian Gulf like vultures, especially from Persia. The risks are too high, although the profits are considerable, but I have to be responsible for my entire network."

Song Heping did not give up: "Risk and reward are proportional. Jackson said you are the best, and there is no channel you cannot reach."

"Hmph, that Jackson guy is always causing me trouble."

Zayed snorted, but his tone seemed to soften a bit.

Few people know his number; those who do are close acquaintances. The fact that Jackson gave the number directly to Song Heping shows that Song Heping's background is not simple, and he must be a wealthy client.

Money!

Who thinks it's too much?
Nobody wants to turn down money.

The only thing to worry about is safety.

What I fear most is having money but not being alive to enjoy it.

"Well then... Mr. Song. If you really want to do this business, and prove that you're not setting me up or that you're serious, then you need to show your sincerity."

What kind of sincerity?

“Leave Persia and come to see me in the Land of the White Elephant,” Zayed said. “We’ll talk in a neutral place. The Land of the White Elephant, Goa. The climate there is nice, and… chaotic enough for people like us to meet. If you can come, we can discuss the details in person. If you don’t dare to come, then there’s no need to waste each other’s time.”

Going abroad?

Go to an unfamiliar place that may be full of traps?

Song Heping's heart sank.

This means he will leave the relatively safe Persian-controlled area and be exposed to international scrutiny.

The CIA has probably already put him on a priority list, as leaving the country would pose an extremely high risk.

"I need to think about it." Song Heping did not agree immediately.

“Of course. Think it through and decide to come, then contact this number. Remember, I'll only wait three days.” Zayed finished speaking and hung up the phone decisively.

A deathly silence fell over the room. Song Heping put down the phone, walked to the window, and looked at the twinkling lights of Tehran in the night view.

This guy!
Song Heping stood there, stunned, holding the satellite phone.

He was even more arrogant than me, hanging up the phone without warning.

He even gave me three days to go see him?

Hey!
To go or not to go?

A $100 million oil license is just a pile of worthless paper if it cannot be converted into cash.

The camp has thousands of people starving for food, and future operations will require huge amounts of funding.

Otherwise, I'll have to make up for it with my own money.

One hundred million US dollars is only a temporary start-up fund.

To build a powerful militia organization later on, this hundred million dollars is just a drop in the bucket.

If you break the rules and put in your own money to get started, you'll probably have to cover all the future funding yourself.

Although they may receive some compensation after regaining control of the oil fields in northwestern Syria.

But who knows what the future holds?

Moreover, since Afanti wants to build the Shia Crescent, I can't be a sucker and take the risk to pay for his work.

This deal can't be done this way.

Now, the opportunity is right in front of us, but the risks are also enormous enough to be fatal.

Song Heping turned his gaze away from the window, becoming unusually calm and resolute.

Risks are everywhere, but opportunities are fleeting.

Some risks are necessary to take!
He turned around, picked up the satellite phone, and contacted Afanti: "Prepare a completely new, absolutely clean identity for me. A Chinese person from a Southeast Asian country, for business purposes. Route... transiting through Dubai to Goa. Quickly."

Afanti's efficiency is pretty good.

Less than 24 hours later, an officer from the Revolutionary Guard came to the door and delivered a sealed document bag.

Upon opening it, there was a brand new fake passport inside.

Forty-eight hours later, Song Heping, using the identity of "Li Xin'an" and a forged passport that was almost flawless, successfully landed at Dapolin Airport in Goa via Dubai.

The warm, humid tropical air rushed in, a stark contrast to the chill of the Persian Plateau.

The airport is small and has a relaxed, vacation-like atmosphere.

Tourists from all over the world thronged the area, and the air was filled with the smells of sunscreen, perfume, and sweat.

Song Heping lowered the brim of his hat, his gaze quickly sweeping across the arrival hall behind his sunglasses. After confirming that no one was paying attention to him, he slowly followed the flow of people through customs.

When it came time to stamp the passport, the customs officer from Baixiangguo, who was wearing a headscarf, opened the passport that Song Heping handed over, looked at the photo on it, glanced at Song Heping a few more times, and hesitated to stamp it.

Song Heping's heart skipped a beat.

I am!

Could there be something wrong with my passport?

Isn't it said that officials in the White Elephant Kingdom are very abstract in their work?

So meticulous?

With such keen eyesight?
If my identity is exposed here, I'm doomed.

"Sir, there's something wrong with your passport."

The White Elephant customs officer, speaking with a thick accent of Hindi English, placed his passport aside, crossed his two brown hands on the table, wrung them tightly, and said with a stern expression, "You need to come with me."

Even though Song Heping was used to big scenes, he couldn't help but gasp inwardly at this moment.

This is crazy...

Did we really suffer a setback?
That scoundrel Nasreddin.

Such a national-level forgery operation, they can't even forge a passport properly?
Persians are unreliable after all!
He even started planning how to escape the airport later.

But in this situation...

Hey!
The chances are really slim.

　Asking for a monthly ticket! Asking for a monthly ticket!

　　
　
(End of this chapter)