Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 950 Their Own Conspiracies

In Butare, the capital of the Republic of Seine, a secret conversation with a completely different atmosphere is taking place behind the heavy oak doors of the presidential palace.

Outside the window, the neatly trimmed lawn basked in the dazzling afternoon sun, and the fountain shimmered with a false sense of tranquility, creating a stark contrast to the oppressive undercurrents inside.

President Touré sat behind an excessively large desk. He was a burly man in a crisp olive-green military uniform, his chest adorned with medals, but a barely perceptible anxiety lurked deep in his eyes.

Opposite him sat Weber, the "senior economic advisor" sent by Her Majesty the Queen's government to the Republic of Seine.

Weber wore a perfectly tailored light gray suit, and behind his gold-rimmed glasses were a pair of calm, almost cold, blue eyes. He leaned back in his chair with a relaxed posture, his fingertips unconsciously tapping lightly on the smooth wooden armrests, the rhythm as steady as a fine clock.

"Your Excellency the President."

Weber spoke, his voice gentle, with a standard Oxford accent, yet as precise as a scalpel.

"The presence of 'Musician' Defense in three mining areas in the north of your country has become a huge obstacle to the complete return of Seine's economic sovereignty. Their company has expanded too rapidly, essentially becoming a state within a state. If they don't withdraw from Seine, they will pose a significant security threat to you. Just imagine, if someone coveting your power were to collude with them, your position..."

He leaned slightly forward, his sharp gaze behind his glasses fixed on Toul: "My boss, Ms. M, is deeply concerned about this. It's not just about economic interests; it's about the prestige and independent image of the new Seine government."

Duer tapped the table with his thick knuckles, making a dull sound.

“Mr. Weber, those 'musicians' gang of outlaws are not to be trifled with. Especially that Song Heping…”

Upon hearing the name, a flicker of apprehension crossed Duer's eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a suppressed greed.

"...Although he is said to have died in the desert of Syria, the people he left behind are well-equipped and well-trained. Forcibly expelling them would likely trigger a fierce armed conflict and cause unnecessary international repercussions."

He emphasized the words "international influence," glancing at Weber as he probed the British's bottom line and the level of support they could offer.

Weber's lips curled into an almost imperceptible smile, a knowing smile that came from understanding the other's thoughts.

"conflict?"

He chuckled softly, his tone carrying a perfectly measured hint of contempt: "Your Excellency, clearing illegal armed groups from sovereign territory and upholding the dignity of the national law is the indisputable right of any legitimate government. The international community will only see the new Sena government's determination to uphold the rule of law. As for armed conflict..."

He paused, leaned back in his chair, and became more relaxed, as if he were talking about an insignificant hunt.

"That would be a perfect opportunity to demonstrate the combat capabilities of your country's newly formed 'rapid reaction force,' wouldn't it? General Lumar is quite confident about it."

He picked up the bone china teacup on the table, took an elegant sip, and set it down with a crisp, light sound as the bottom of the cup hit the saucer.

"Besides..."

Webber lowered his voice, his tone carrying a devilish allure as he continued, "Once we successfully reclaim the mining area and expel those mercenaries from 'Musician' Defence, the mining rights and subsequent profits of those rich mineral deposits will belong entirely to the Republic of Seine, to your new government. We only need to ensure that British companies have a fair and preferential opportunity to participate in future developments. This is crucial for Seine to attract international investment and reshape its economic structure."

“Fair and priority participation opportunities…”

Duer repeated these words, the greedy gleam in his eyes no longer concealed.

Enormous profits coiled around his heart like a venomous snake.

He needs money, a lot of money, to consolidate his power, win people's hearts, and satisfy his personal desires.

The British offered not only the possibility of military support, but also a ticket to a wealthy empire.

"Lumaar!"

Duer slammed down the communicator button on the table, his voice carrying a ruthless, desperate tone.

The side door of the office opened in response, and General Lumar, the newly appointed Chief of the General Staff of the Army of the Republic of Seine, walked in.

"president!"

Lumar glanced at Weber, seemingly guessing that the topic of today's conversation was no small matter.

"Order!"

Duer's voice was firm and unwavering: "First, starting today, secretly mobilize the 2nd and 5th Mechanized Infantry Battalions, the 3rd Armored Company, and part of the Mountain Special Assault Battalion to their designated assembly point on the outskirts of the northern mining area. The operation must be highly secretive, conducted at night, and radio silence maintained! All unit commanders will only receive direct orders from you! Understand?"

"Understood, Your Excellency!"

A flicker of excitement crossed Lumar's eyes.

The intention behind this military move is as clear as a louse on a bald man's head—it seems the president is going to take action against those mercenaries.

"second."

Duer turned to Weber, seeking confirmation: "Weber's advisors will provide you with the latest deployment maps of 'Musician' defenses at the northern base and mining area, as well as their main patrol routes and possible escape routes. Your men, like hunters hunting their prey, need to keep a tight grip on the bag!"

"The deployment map will be delivered to the general tonight."

Weber nodded slightly, his tone calm, as if handing over an ordinary document: "As for accuracy, you can rest assured. Those are the latest images we obtained through high-precision spy satellites."

"third."

Duer abruptly stood up, his hands gripping the table, leaning forward with an imposing air: "Once the assembly is complete, you will personally issue an ultimatum to 'Musician' Defense! They must disarm and evacuate all mining areas and military bases within 48 hours! Surrender all illegally possessed heavy weapons and equipment! If…"

A fierce glint appeared in Duer's eyes. "If they dare to resist, even if it's just one shot! I authorize you, General Lumar, to use all necessary force to completely annihilate them! Leave no survivors! I want everyone to know who the true ruler is on the land of Sena!"

"Yes, Your Excellency! Annihilate them completely! Leave no survivors!"

Lumar's voice was strong and clear, carrying the coldness unique to soldiers and the excitement of impending slaughter.

"But it takes time to assemble so many troops."

"How long?" Duer asked.

Lumar thought for a moment and gave a timeframe: "Four days, it will take four days!"

"Alright, four days it is. In four days, I want to see all the troops who were just called out have arrived at their designated positions!"

He stood at attention and saluted again, then turned and strode out of the office to carry out the blood-stained order.

"Yes! President!"

Lumar answered with great confidence: "I guarantee I will arrive at the designated location on time!"

When you're done, turn around and leave.

Silence returned to the office, broken only by Duer's heavy breathing and the reassuring rhythm of Weber's fingertips.

"Mr. Weber."

Duer sat down again, his voice tinged with a barely perceptible guiltyness: "I hope your 'eyes' are still on my side. I don't want any surprises."

"Your Excellency, please rest assured."

Weber adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, a fleeting blue light flashing behind the lenses. "We are a top-tier intelligence agency. Every move 'The Musician' makes is under our watchful eye. You'll be informed of any developments immediately." He stood up, straightened the hem of his perfectly pressed suit jacket, and then smiled. "Victory will surely belong to Sena, and to you."

Almost simultaneously with Lumar's menacing departure from the presidential office, across the ocean, in Langley, Virginia, on the top floor of the CIA headquarters building.

The newly appointed deputy director, Simon, stood in front of Director Vincent's large desk, trying to make his expression appear calm and professional, but his slightly clenched knuckles and slightly rapid speech concealed his inner tension.

"Director, this is the latest update compiled by our Africa branch."

Simon gently placed a thin, “confidential” briefing document on the smooth table in front of Vincent.

"Based on a combination of signals intelligence (SIGINT) and limited human intelligence (HUMINT), it is clear that the new president of the Republic of Seine, Touré, is secretly mobilizing his elite troops to the northern mining area controlled by the 'Musician' defenses, under the direction of MI6 senior advisor Weber. Moreover, this mobilization is quite large, involving special forces, and the operation is highly covert."

Vincent leaned back slightly in the wide leather chair, his hands clasped over his stomach, without immediately turning to the document.

His sharp gray eyes stared calmly at Simon, as if weighing the weight of his words.

"Have the British finally lost their patience?"

Vincent's voice was deep and steady, revealing no emotion.

"Trying to pluck the ripe peach of 'musician'? The legacy left behind by the supposedly deceased Song Heping?"

"Yes, Director."

Simon quickly chimed in, his tone carrying a deliberate analytical undertone: "The British clearly believe that with Song Heping's death, 'The Musician's' defense has fallen into a state of leaderlessness, and now is the best time to strike. They want to use Duer to completely eliminate 'The Musician's' influence in Seine and monopolize the economic benefits of Seine's mines. Duer also wants to use this opportunity to establish his authority and consolidate the position he just gained through the coup."

He paused, observing Vincent's reaction, then cautiously added, "Interestingly, the 'Musician' defenses seem to have sensed the danger as well. We've detected unusual activity at several secret supply depots near the borders of North Darfur and Seine, with frequent personnel movements, seemingly reinforcing fortifications and stockpiling supplies. It looks like a head-on conflict between the two sides is inevitable."

Vincent tapped his fingers lightly twice on the armrest, a habitual gesture he made when he was thinking.

After a few seconds of silence, he slowly began to speak: "The grudge between the British... and a group of mercenaries."

The corners of his mouth seemed to twitch slightly upwards, forming a mocking arc: "Simon, do you think we should get involved?"

Simon's heart skipped a beat, and a barely perceptible glint of joy flashed in his eyes.

This is exactly the question he's been waiting for.

"Director, I personally believe that this is unnecessary."

He answered decisively, making his explanation sound thoughtful: "First, this is essentially a private feud between the British and the 'Musicians' defense, and an internal affair of the new Seine government. Our forceful intervention lacks legal and moral basis and could easily provoke international controversy, especially a strong backlash from London. Second..."

He deliberately emphasized his words.

"Letting them fight it out isn't necessarily a bad thing for us."

Vincent smiled with satisfaction.

Simon seized upon this shift and immediately pressed his advantage: "The British have been using the remaining influence of the Commonwealth to frequently make moves in Africa, especially West Africa, in recent years, attempting to rebuild their sphere of influence. This in itself poses a potential challenge to our interests in Africa. If they stumble on the 'Musician' issue this time, suffering losses and even exposing their shortcomings in intelligence and operational capabilities in Africa... that will provide us with an excellent opportunity. We can intervene in the Senegal situation under more legitimate reasons such as 'maintaining regional stability,' 'preventing humanitarian crises,' 'combating illegal armed groups,' and 'combating terrorism,' thus legitimately increasing our investment and expanding our influence in Senegal and throughout West Africa. This is far more worthwhile and more respectable than directly intervening in a conflict that has little to do with our core interests."

Vincent listened quietly, his face expressionless.

After Simon finished speaking, the office fell into a brief silence once again.

"Ah."

Finally, Vincent uttered a short syllable.

He picked up the briefing on the table, casually flipped through a couple of pages, then closed it and pushed it aside.

"Your analysis makes sense. Then let's continue to monitor the situation, especially its development and international response after the outbreak of the conflict. As for the rest..."

He raised his eyes, his gaze returning to Simon's face, a gaze that seemed to pierce through to the heart. "...Let them fight it out. We'll wait and see."

"Yes, Chief! I will keep a close eye on it."

Simon suppressed his elation and relief, and answered respectfully, trying to make his voice sound calm and even.

He turned and walked steadily out of the director's office.

As the heavy, soundproof door closed silently behind him, a cold smile eagerly crept onto Simon's face.

He made the right bet.

Vincent chose to stand by and watch, happy to see the British suffer a setback.

This means that he has suppressed the enormous risk of the shocking secret that Song Heping is still alive, and is temporarily safe.

As long as the British are unaware that Song Heping is still alive, and as long as Toure and Lumar follow the script to attack the "Musician" defense, which they believe has lost its leader, then all the chaos, failures, and accusations after the outbreak of the conflict will be the result of the incompetence of the British and the Sena government, and have nothing to do with him.

He had even laid the groundwork for the statement that "intelligence indicates both sides are mobilizing troops, and conflict is unavoidable."

He strode to his office, closed the door, immediately picked up an encrypted satellite phone, and his fingers flew across the keyboard, typing a short message—

"The 'package'... has been safely delivered to the 'North Darfur Station.' The recipient has confirmed it's correct. Tell the 'customer' that a storm is coming, and to proceed as planned. Our 'audience' is in place and is happy to see the 'protagonist' make a fool of himself."

The "protagonist" refers to the British.

After sending the text message, Simon returned to his desk, sat down, picked up the coffee his secretary had just brewed and placed there, and took a sip.

A moment later, the phone screen lit up, and a message came in—

"Understood. The station has confirmed the package is intact and in excellent condition. The eye of the storm... is forming."

Simon smiled smugly after reading the message.

He walked to the huge floor-to-ceiling window and looked down at the lush woods outside the Langley headquarters.

In the dry and desolate land of North Darfur, the phase array jammer and ultra-high frequency broadband listening equipment that he sent through secret channels, which were leaked from the CIA's most advanced laboratory, should have already reached the hands of that mysterious figure codenamed "Jiang Feng".

Those were the "eyes" and "ears" that Song Heping specifically requested.

Meanwhile, Director Vincent, the cunning fox, was comfortably sitting in his office, ready to enjoy a good show of the British getting humiliated.

He could never have imagined that the new deputy director he trusted had secretly handed a deadly weapon to his most unexpected enemy.

This storm has long since exceeded his script.

Everyone was making their moves, each thinking they were the player.

Little did they know that deep within a dark cannery on the banks of the Lori River in southern Seine, a man who had returned from hell was redefining the boundaries of the chessboard with his icy fingers.

(End of this chapter)