Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 903 The Qualification to Be at the Table

"Mr. Song."

When Ms. M spoke again, her voice had regained its professional composure, "I propose that we meet in Butare at 3 pm two days from now to discuss in detail the distribution of interests among all parties. The UK is willing to act as an impartial mediator."

“It would be my pleasure.” Song Heping hung up the phone and looked at Lumar, whose face was ashen. “General, can we now talk about the three mining areas you owe me?”

Lumar's right hand quietly moved towards the pistol at his waist.

Song Heping glanced at him and sneered, "General, I suggest you don't do that."

Song Heping stood up, still smiling, but his eyes had become sharp as knives: "Unless you want these photos to appear online or on the front page of major television networks."

As he spoke, his gaze fell on the file.

"This is just a backup. The original is in my friend's hands, currently in Darfur. Unless you cross the border and attack Sudan right now, you won't get that thing."

A commotion suddenly broke out outside the tent, followed by the roar of an engine.

Song Heping's satellite phone vibrated, and the screen displayed the name "Ferrari".

"Answer the phone, General."

He handed over the satellite phone.

“Turn on the speaker.”

Lumar's trembling fingers pressed the answer button.

"Song!"

The sound of a Ferrari accompanied by the whistling wind could be heard.

"We have secured all target areas as planned. Additionally, radar detected two MiG-23s taking off from the direction of the capital and heading towards the Semor Mountains; they are expected to enter firing range in five minutes."

A cold smile curled at the corner of Song Heping's lips: "Let them enter the air defense identification zone before opening fire. Remember to record the entire process of shooting them down."

“Understood!” Ferrari’s voice was filled with excitement. “By the way, Noel’s video has been uploaded to seven different cloud servers, and the scheduled release is set up. If our password isn’t updated every twelve hours, the video will be automatically sent to major media outlets.”

Song Heping nodded in satisfaction and looked at Lumar, saying, "General, were you just planning to send those two MiGs to bomb my mining area?"

Large beads of sweat appeared on Lumar's forehead. He opened his mouth, but couldn't utter a single word.

Outside the tent, the sun had fully risen, turning the barren land of the Republic of Seine into a blood-red hue.

Song Heping stood up and holstered his Glock 17 pistol. "General," he said, "we'll meet again at 3 PM two days from now. Remember to tell President Touré that if he dares to be absent, those tapes will be on the French president's breakfast table."

He strode out of the tent, squinting in the glaring sunlight.

The phone vibrated again.

This time, a message came in.

Song Heping opened the message; it was from Ferrari—the target had been destroyed, the pilot had ejected, and the recorded video was very clear, absolutely proving that they had broken into our defense zone first with the intention of bombing us!
"here you go."

Song Heping quickly replied with a message.

Only three words.

He is now as calm as an old dog.

At least for now, I have absolute control.

Just as Song Heping couldn't suppress the smug smile on his face, behind him came Lumar's hysterical roar and the sound of soldiers running around in panic.

Song Heping did not turn around. He knew that the real war had just begun—not on the battlefield where guns roared, but in the red-carpeted conference room, behind the hypocritical smiles of the diplomats in suits.

Two days later, at 2:30 PM.

The dome of the Butare Parliament Building gleamed blindingly white under the blazing sun.

Song Heping stood in front of the fountain, squinting as he examined the magnificent building left over from the colonial era.

Beneath the portico supported by twelve Roman columns, guards dressed in military uniforms from various countries patrolled back and forth, among whom several white faces were clearly not from Seine.

"Squad leader, security check complete."

Jiang Feng strode in through the side entrance of the building, lowering his voice to say, "There are at least twenty British SAS and French DGSE agents inside, all disguised as security personnel."

Song Heping straightened his suit collar—it was a Zegna custom-made suit he had specially bought for today.

The outline of the bulletproof vest is faintly visible beneath the dark gray fabric.

This suit was flown in from London, England. It was ordered two days ago and arrived this morning.

Including the shoes, this outfit cost a total of 5 euros.

Money makes things easier.

Each suit is made to a unique pattern, taking up to 40 hours to complete, with 95% of the work done by hand.

But Song Heping paid more.

There's nothing that money can't buy; if it can't be done, then it's not a matter of money.

"Has Ms. M arrived?" Song Heping asked.

“Half an hour earlier than us.” Jiang Feng handed over a miniature earpiece: “Ferrari sent word from Darfur that the mining area's defenses are complete. He assured you.”

"Keep in touch with him and have him keep a close eye on things with the hunters. The closer we get to the successful signing of the agreement, the more likely something bad will happen."

As Song Heping took the earphone and put it into his right ear, he gave Jiang Feng some instructions.

On the other side of the fountain, three black Mercedes-Benz cars with French flags slowly came to a stop, and several white men in suits got out of the cars.

The bald man at the head of the group glanced at Song Heping, his gaze behind his gold-rimmed glasses as sharp as a scalpel.

"Jacques Reynolds, Director-General of the African Department of the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

Jiang Feng quickly identified the man: "The guy on his left is the Africa president of the mining giant, Ehrmann Group."

A cold smile curled at the corner of Song Heping's lips.

The presence of representatives from French mining giants at a mineral allocation meeting was hardly an honorable display of their greed.

justice?

democracy?

It's all fucking bullshit!

He straightened his tie one last time and walked towards the steps.

The air conditioning in the conference room was on full blast, but it couldn't dispel the tense atmosphere.

A dozen people were already seated around the oval mahogany negotiation table. Song Heping's seat was arranged at the very end—an ordinary chair without a national nameplate.

Directly opposite him, Ms. M was elegantly sipping her black tea, seemingly unaware of his arrival.

This woman... she's really good at pretending.

He knew exactly what Ms. M was thinking.

In this situation, she would definitely pretend not to know him.

After all, his identity was extremely sensitive.

He now sees himself as nothing more than a mercenary leader hired by the opposition army to assist in the coup—a claim that would be made by the British and French if the Americans were to investigate, insisting that he had nothing to do with it and that it was all the personal act of the opposition's Touré and Lumar.

Those cunning old Europeans!

Song Heping laughed secretly in his heart.

“Everyone.”

Touré tapped his glass; beads of sweat glistened on the forehead of the newly elected President Seina under the chandelier. "First, I thank the representatives from various countries."

"Let's get straight to the point, Mr. President."

French representative Renault impatiently interrupted, "Our time is very precious."

Duer cleared his throat awkwardly and gestured for his assistant to start playing the slideshow.

When the geological exploration map of the northern mining area was projected onto the screen, Song Heping noticed that at least six pairs of eyes immediately turned toward his location.

"According to the latest exploration data, the proven rare earth reserves in the Seymour Mountains are worth approximately US$120 billion."

"Durr's voice trembled slightly, 'Uranium reserves.'"

"We know all of this."

An elderly man wearing a single pair of glasses in the British delegation suddenly spoke up, "The problem is the allocation plan. Our country believes that, given the technical support we provided during the coup..."

"Technical support?" the French oil company president scoffed. "You mean that batch of secondhand rifles stuck in the port of Djibouti?"

The conference room erupted in chaos.

The old man on the British side immediately changed color, took off his monocle, and retorted sarcastically, "At least we didn't send a foreign legion into Seine..."

This is a satire of the French, who still lost the contest even though they sent extra-French troops.

Song Heping leaned back in his chair, observing the dog-eat-dog farce with great interest.

He noticed that several times, Dur and Lumar tried to speak, but were drowned out by the even louder argument.

The representative of the Seine government forces—a one-eyed old general—stared at the ceiling the entire time, as if the fate of the country was written there.

"boom!"

Renault suddenly slammed his fist on the table, making the crystal glasses clink: "At least we didn't deploy anti-aircraft missiles in the Sena!"

He abruptly turned to Song Heping, "Speaking of which, sir mercenary, what qualifications do you have to participate in resource allocation?"

More than twenty pairs of eyes pierced towards them simultaneously.

Song Heping calmly took out a tablet computer from his briefcase, entered the password, and pushed it to the center of the table.

A high-definition video begins playing on the screen: two MiG-23s turn into fireballs over the Semur Mountains, and the contrails of SAM-6 missiles draw deadly arcs across the blue sky.

"Just because of this."

Song Heping's voice wasn't loud, but it instantly silenced the entire conference hall.

"besides."

He clicked on the tablet, and the screen switched to an aerial view of more than two thousand armed men building fortifications in the mining area.

“My two thousand mercenaries are currently in the mining area. If Mr. Renault feels uncomfortable, he can send your outlaws to eliminate us.”

jingle——

Ms. M gently tapped her teacup on the saucer.

Song Heping knew she understood the subtext—don't make a big deal out of it.

"Gentlemen."

The one-eyed general, who had been silent all along, suddenly spoke, his voice heavy as if weighed down by lead: "Before we argue about who should take how much, shouldn't we ask who owns these minerals?"

There was an awkward silence.

Renault pretended to adjust his tie, and the British old man with the monocle suddenly became very interested in the documents.

"Of course, it belongs to the people of Seine."

Song Heping continued, while simultaneously pressing another video on the tablet—an image of Noel, captured, weeping and confessing how he colluded with the French oil company.

"Just as this country belongs to its people."

This time, Renault's face looked as if it had been smeared with excrement.

"Song, what do you mean?!"

"It doesn't mean anything. I'm not a good person either. I also want to get what I deserve."

He looked at Renault and gave a disdainful sneer.

"But I don't eat as badly as you French people."

“Enough!” Ms. M finally put down her teacup. “Mr. Song is right. I propose establishing a multi-party oversight committee to ensure the fair distribution of mineral revenues.”

She gave the Frenchman a meaningful look.

Renault remained silent, then turned and whispered to the mining tycoon beside him.

The meeting lasted for three hours in an eerie harmony.

When the final agreement was printed, Song Heping's "Musician" defense company obtained exclusive mining rights to three mining areas in the northern mining region, as well as a 99-year lease on two plots of land in the Saimoer Mountains.

It was dusk when the meeting ended.

Song Heping was stopped by Lumar at the corner of the corridor; the latter reeked of whiskey.

“You win, you bastard,” the opposition general said angrily. “But don’t think this is over. The French won’t.”

“General,” Song Heping reached out to straighten his crooked medal, “what you should be worried about is whether the British will continue to support you. After all…”

He lowered his voice: "I made many copies of those transfer records."

After saying that, he gently patted Lumar's chest, turned around and walked out of the parliament building, the evening wind carrying the heat of Africa hitting him.

Jiang Feng emerged from the shadows and handed over a satellite phone: "A Russian named Utkin called you, saying it's urgent."

(End of this chapter)