Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 868 Invitation to the Banquet

"it's me."

A familiar voice came from outside the door.

"Yevgeny."

Upon hearing this voice, Song Heping secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

He's a cook.

He glanced at the cat's eye.

Standing outside the door was a burly, bald man with a face as clean-shaven as a winter melon. He wore an elegant dark gray three-piece suit, and the diamonds embedded in his tie clip sparkled under the corridor lights.

That's right.

It really was that cook.

Song Heping then tucked the pistol back into his waistband and reached out to open the door.

"You're dressed so formally, whose wedding are you going to?"

Song Heping smiled and ushered his old friend into the room.

In fact, he already had doubts in his heart.

Why didn't the chef call first if he wanted to find him?

Its sudden appearance was by no means accidental.

Something special must have happened.

Yevgeny grinned. "I'll treat you to drinks at my restaurant tonight."

When the cook entered the room, Song Heping noticed two burly men in black trench coats standing at the end of the corridor, their hands always in their pockets.

Clearly, this is the cook's attendant.

Chefs today are not what they used to be.

After leaving Ilig and returning to Moscow, he started in the high-end catering industry and used his connections to befriend important figures in Russian politics. Over the years, he has become more than just a restaurant owner; he also owns a large mercenary company called "Wagner".

The fact that he was able to mobilize a GRU detachment to enter Romania to help him escape his predicament shows that his connections within the military are also considerable.

"Hurry up and change your clothes, then come with me now."

The cook, as always, had the same domineering attitude. As soon as he entered the house, he began urging Song Heping to hurry up without saying a word.

"I'll wait for you here."

"As for it?"

Song Heping's suspicions deepened.

There's no need to make such a big deal out of a simple meal.

There must be something else going on.

"Tell me before you go, what kind of banquet is it? Is it just the two of us, or are there other people? Should I call Ferrari?"

"No, no, no, we don't need to call him Ferrari." The cook shook his head and said, "He's very weak after returning from Romania. Let him rest for a while. You can come with me. Tonight is a dinner party with many important people. Making connections will benefit your future business."

After saying that, he reached out and patted Song Heping's arm.

"Hurry up, stop dawdling, change your clothes and come with me."

"I don't have a suit..."

Song Heping deliberately made up an excuse.

He had a vague feeling that he shouldn't have gone.

But out of consideration for the chef, I couldn't just say it directly.

"I knew you would say that."

The cook gave a meaningful smile, turned around, walked to the door, opened it, and snapped his fingers outside.

"Bring the stuff over here."

Soon, to Song Heping's astonishment, hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor outside the door.

Several men who looked like bodyguards walked in, each carrying a suit, and lined up in front of Song Heping.

“Pick one set, and it will all be custom-made to your size. Shoes, tie, tie clip, cuffs... everything will be provided for you.”

The cook's face was full of smug satisfaction, as if he had everything under control.

He understands Song Heping.

I know it won't be easy to get him to come over.

Song Heping is not a person who enjoys socializing.

He definitely didn't like tonight's banquet, especially.

If you're going to make him go, you have to make sure he has no excuse and can't save face.

"Hurry up, don't keep me waiting, pick one!"

The cook went back to his seat and crossed his legs.

Seeing this, Song Heping knew that he had no choice but to go.

"Ok."

He walked up to the bodyguards, casually picked out a dark blue suit, and paired it with a black turtleneck sweater—the standard attire for Moscow's elite circles. Ten minutes later, Song Heping emerged from the restroom.

The cook glanced at him and nodded with satisfaction: "He seems like a respectable businessman now."

“I’m not a businessman,” Song Heping said with a smile. “I’m on the UN’s list of terrorists.”

"Shit!"

The cook waved his hand dismissively.

“The UN is nothing! Song, you’re a businessman now, and a pretty big one at that. You know that all the high-ranking officials in Moscow know you. They were all very happy to hear you were coming tonight.”

"is it?"

Song Heping feigned surprise, but inwardly he was already feeling uneasy.

Do you know yourself?
Looks like they've got their eyes on me.
He subconsciously tugged at the cuff of his suit jacket.

I must say, this suit fits perfectly; any longer and it would be too long, any shorter and it would be too short.

A cook doesn't know his own height or clothing size, even if he's been through thick and thin with someone for a while.

This is information that can only be obtained through intelligence gathering.

It seems that the purpose of tonight's banquet is not simple.

"let's go!"

Seeing that he had changed his clothes, the cook, glancing at his watch, urged impatiently, "We're going to be late!"

The two walked out of the apartment building; a light rain was falling in Moscow at dusk.

A black Mercedes-Maybach was parked quietly on the side of the road, its windows gleaming with the distinctive bluish-gray sheen of bulletproof material.

Two bodyguards in black were already standing beside the car, and immediately opened the car door when they saw them get out.

"Your entourage is getting bigger and bigger."

Song Heping bent down and crawled into the car. The leather seats emitted a faint scent of cedar.

"The last time I came, you were only driving a BMW."

The chef laughed heartily, his gold teeth gleaming in the car's interior lights: "Back then, I had only been back a short time, and the restaurant had already invested so much money that I didn't have many dollars left. Every penny you gave me was used wisely, so of course I wasn't lavish. But now?"

He reached out and knocked on the car window.

"Even this glass can stop RPGs; it's even better than the Lincoln armored car we bought back in Iligo."

The car drove smoothly along Tverskaya Street, the setting sun painting the colorful onion domes of St. Basil's Cathedral in a golden-red hue.

Song Heping noticed a gray BMW following him in the rearview mirror, maintaining a precise three-car distance.

"It seems our guest tonight is very important?" Song Heping asked, seemingly casually.

The cook took crystal glasses from the car's wine cabinet and poured two glasses of amber brandy: "Anatoly Serdyukov." He handed over the glasses. "Deputy Minister of Defense, in charge of special overseas operations."

Song Heping paused slightly as he took the wine glass.

He was familiar with the name – it was this general who had single-handedly supported the Wagner Group, giving Russia “unofficial” channels for military operations in Syria, the Central African Republic, and other regions.

"A small contractor like me probably wouldn't catch the general's eye."

Song Heping gently swirled his wine glass, observing the cook's reaction.

"Ha!" The cook suddenly leaned closer, and the strong scent of cologne mixed with vodka hit him.

"You currently have a mercenary force of several hundred former special forces members in Sudan, a special forces training base in South America, control 70% of the entire underground transportation network in South America, control 60% of the underground arms trading network in Colombia, and have more than a dozen shell companies and hundreds of overseas accounts."

His smile revealed a set of white teeth that gleamed coldly.

"Is this what you call a small contractor?"

Song Heping broke out in a cold sweat.

This information should have been top secret, and he hadn't revealed it to the cook.

How did he know so many details?

It seems that Wagner's intelligence network is larger than he imagined.

As the car drove past the Kremlin's red walls, the setting sun cast long shadows on the columns of the Lenin Library.

The cook suddenly lowered his voice: "The Americans are going to take action against Gaddafi."

Song Heping's heart skipped a beat, but his face remained impassive: "So?"

"Therefore, North Africa needs a reshuffling, and this Arab Spring has already spread to the Middle East, especially Syria, where the situation is currently very dire."

The cook pointed out the window, where the brightly lit skyscrapers under construction across the Moscow River were a testament to the ongoing construction. "Like these buildings," he said, "the old ones are being demolished, the new ones are being built—we need reliable partners."

Song Heping looked in the direction he was pointing, and saw the Moscow River reflecting neon lights, like countless broken blades.

He suddenly realized the true purpose of the dinner party—the Russians wanted to get involved in Africa and the Middle East, and he had become a pawn in their eyes.

"arrive."

The cook suddenly patted him on the shoulder.

The car turned onto a tree-lined avenue, at the end of which stood a neoclassical building with exquisite grapevine patterns carved on the porch pillars.

Song Heping noticed that the parking lot was full of government license plates, the most conspicuous being the black Aurus luxury car with a Ministry of National Defense pass.

In Russia, people who can ride in luxury cars of this brand are of high status.

(End of this chapter)