Middle Eastern tyrants

Chapter 198 Two Good Shows
Shuangzhi, Riyadh.

The king's funeral will end within a day, followed by several days of mourning, during which the whole country will be immersed in grief.

However, according to tradition, a “committee” composed of all the princes of the royal family is about to convene to formally elect the next king.

On the surface, the conservative princes still hold a majority of seats on the committee, but it is clear to everyone that the outcome of this contest is still uncertain.

On the one hand, Muhammad's son, Amir bin Muhammad, is currently leading the Arab coalition forces on the front lines with unstoppable momentum. His remarkable achievements are undoubtedly a valuable asset. On the other hand, the Sudri faction has been in power in the country for decades and is deeply entrenched. No one knows exactly how much support Muhammad has garnered in the shadows.

The final outcome will likely only be determined at a committee meeting attended by all the princes.

At roughly the time agreed upon with Prince Alwaleed, Prince Mohammed got into his black bulletproof limousine, which quickly drove away from the palace and through the increasingly sparse traffic in Riyadh.

Where should the meeting be held?

As Muhammad gazed at the rapidly receding street scene outside the window, he casually asked a question.

Aziz glanced at the prince through the rearview mirror and replied, "The city defense command headquarters, Your Highness, is all our people there. It's absolutely safe."

Muhammad nodded slightly and said nothing more.

However, at that moment, the scene outside the car window suddenly changed. Several military jeeps equipped with heavy-duty explosion-proof grilles appeared out of nowhere and gradually approached them from the front, rear, left, and right, forming an oppressive protective posture.

Aziz explained, “Don’t be nervous. These are all sent by the city’s defense forces to protect your convoy and ensure your absolute safety during the meeting.”

Prince Mohammed's gaze remained fixed on the window, watching the fully armed soldiers in the jeeps.

This looks more like an escort mission than a guard duty mission.
Muhammad simply gave a soft "hmm".

Aziz observed his boss's expression through the rearview mirror but did not notice any change in the other's expression.

He increased the pressure on his foot, and the black bulletproof sedan began to accelerate, while the military jeep behind him kept close behind, maintaining a distance of two or three car lengths.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

City Defense and Garrison Command.

The convoy drove smoothly into the air in front of the command headquarters, and then the heavy iron gates slowly closed behind the vehicles.

Through the tinted car windows, Prince Mohammed could see the rows of figures standing in the square, dressed in city guard uniforms, each holding a heavy, intimidating baton.

The jeeps that had been "escorting" the way blocked the only gate exit, completely sealing off any way out.

The car glided smoothly and finally came to a stop in front of Prince Walid.

The third in line of the crown prince was waiting there in person, as if he had already been certain of his prey's arrival.

"Your Highness, we have arrived," Aziz's voice came from the front seat. "Please alight."

Prince Mohammed remained motionless, his deep gaze sweeping calmly over the meticulously arranged scene outside the car window.

The air seemed to freeze, filled with a silent killing intent.

Aziz said no more. He got out of the car, went around to the back seat, and opened the door for his prince.

Almost simultaneously, Prince Walid stepped forward and met Mohammed's gaze inside the car.

The city's garrison commander also appeared at this moment, following closely behind him with a respectful expression.

A faint smile appeared on Walid's aged face as he looked down at Muhammad, who was still sitting in the car, with the air of a victor: "Get out, Muhammad, or I'll have someone ask you to get out."

Upon hearing this, Prince Mohammed steadily alighted from the carriage, his posture still upright.

His gaze swept over Walid and finally landed on his most trusted secretary.

At this point, Aziz had retreated behind Prince Walid, standing shoulder to shoulder with the garrison commander.

At this moment, Prince Walid completely dropped his pretense, looking as if he had aged several years. He smiled at Muhammad and said, "You Sudri faction controls the country's army, domestic affairs, foreign affairs, and vast oil wealth. But to win this game, I only need to control two people—the garrison commander in charge of the palace's security, and your closest secretary. Isn't this ending ironic?"

Prince Muhammad withdrew his gaze, not looking at Aziz again, and simply asked, "So, what do you intend to do?"

Walid's smile gradually faded, replaced by regret: "I'm telling you, Muhammad, I don't want to kill you. You are so capable, even more so than your brother. But I have to do it. You are too much of a threat to me."

After saying that, he turned to look at Aziz behind him and patted the latter on the shoulder: "Go and see your superior off on his final journey."

A soldier nearby promptly handed Aziz a heavy baton.

Prince Mohammed calmly asked, "Just like how you dealt with Mursad back then?"

Aziz gripped his baton, nodded, and said, "This process might be a little tough, so please bear with it."

Before he finished speaking, he took a step back. His arm muscles tensed, and the baton whistled as it swung down sharply towards Prince Mohammed's head.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Damascus, a temporary command post.

Lu Lin picked up the receiver, and a deep, steady male voice came from the other end, with the crispness and decisiveness characteristic of a soldier:
"I am Yukustov."

This was the first time Lu Lin had heard his opponent's voice. He sounded like a composed middle-aged man who spoke Arabic exceptionally fluently, with almost no accent.

“I heard you’re going to surrender,” Lu Lin said bluntly. “Didn’t you say you wanted to talk in person?”

"Please forgive my change of heart,"

Lieutenant General Yukustov's voice carried a hint of helplessness, "I have to consider my personal safety. Otherwise, once we meet, I'm afraid I'll be completely at your mercy."

Lu Lin scoffed, "Since you're so insincere, I don't see any point in us continuing this discussion."

“We are not children anymore, Your Highness Amir,”

Yukustov sighed, a hint of weariness in his voice. "These provocations won't work on me. I can admit, I've lost to you. You can proudly proclaim that you've defeated another Zion general and liberated Damascus."

He changed the subject, his tone becoming heavy: "But you must also understand that you are still far from completely defeating us. Every minute you delay, a dozen innocent people may fall. Perhaps you will only achieve a Pyrrhic victory after sacrificing the lives of thousands of soldiers and tens of thousands of civilians. But now, with just one word from me, all of this can end."

"Then what do you want?" Lu Lin asked directly.

Yukustov's answer was clear: "I accepted the suggestion of UN Special Envoy Elanderson. I am willing to testify against certain decisions made by the Tel Aviv side and become a tainted witness."

The condition is that you must guarantee my personal safety and, after my soldiers surrender, you must not indiscriminately slaughter or mistreat them.

Lu Lin looked out the window. The battle was still going on, with gunfire and sporadic artillery fire still echoing from within the city. He said, "Why don't you have your soldiers lay down their weapons first? Everything is negotiable."

“Your Highness Amir, you know this is impossible.”

Yukustov said seriously, “I don’t feel any sincerity in your words.”

“Alright,” Lu Lin thought for a moment, “I can give you a hundred spots. I guarantee the safety of these hundred Zion soldiers. But the rest of you can only hope for the best.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the radio.

One hundred spots?

Keep in mind that there are still at least 10,000 Zion soldiers fighting inside and outside the city!

Lieutenant General Yukustov even doubted whether he had misheard, as the other party had slashed the price to one percent!

"This is impossible."

"Listen carefully."

Lu Lin abruptly interrupted him, his tone resolute: "I am not a businessman who haggles, nor a politician who flatters and deceives; I am a general who leads troops into battle! I only understand one principle, and that is blood for blood!"

His voice, transmitted over the radio, reached Lieutenant General Yukustov's ears: "Think about it, how many people have you Zionists killed on Arab soil? How many families have been torn apart, how many people have been displaced? Now, you think you can just say 'we're done fighting' and surrender unscathed, hoping for protection under so-called international law? Dream on!"

He paused, then continued, “One hundred men, no more, no less. You only have this many spots. I set this number simply to reduce casualties among my soldiers and to end the suffering of this long-suffering city as soon as possible. This is your last chance. If you don’t agree, we will fight to the bitter end, until the last Zion soldier falls.”

Yukustov retorted, "That's absurd. Do you expect me to order the garrison outside the city to surrender and then wait for the Arabs to retaliate?"

Lu Lin's reply was icy: "Surrender always takes more courage than suicide, General. I think you know that better than I do."

Silence fell again on the other end of the radio. After a moment, Yukustov replied in a hoarse voice, “Alright. But a hundred men are far too few. I just need your guarantee that you won’t massacre the troops who have been bravely defending me near my headquarters. In exchange, I will order the entire city to surrender.”

Lu Lin paused for a few seconds, then nodded and said, "Deal."

Yukustov seemed relieved, but immediately added, "Furthermore, I need UN Special Envoy Mr. Elanderson to provide an immediate written guarantee clarifying the security treatment and prisoner-of-war rights of myself and my designated troops. And I want the surrender process to be monitored by UN observers throughout to ensure the agreement is implemented."

“Okay,” Lu Lin agreed. “I will have Envoy Elanderson confirm the details with you as soon as possible.”

The call ended immediately, and Lu Lin put down the receiver and waited. After a while, Lieutenant General Yukustov gave the order for all Zion soldiers to surrender, which came over the public radio channel.

A moment later, a call came in from headquarters. Ibrahim asked, "Is it all over?"

"No,"

Looking at the twilight sky that seemed to be burning, Lu Lin replied, "It's almost over. This war isn't over yet."

(End of this chapter)