My teacher is Bruce Lee, who dominated Hollywood.

Chapter 190 Business is Business

Not long after, footsteps approached from outside the gate, and Alexei walked back in.

"Mr. Qin." He walked to the coffee table, his tone now tinged with a cautious respect. "I just contacted Mr. Onassis. Your proposal—is quite unexpected, even shocking."

"It's shocking, but it's a good deal for you, isn't it?" Qin Han looked directly at the other person.

Alexei did not deny it: "Mr. Onassis has developed an extremely strong interest in you. He was originally in Paris dealing with some family matters, but decided to cut his trip short for this business deal."

The old assistant clasped his hands in front of him: "His Excellency the Shipping Magnatee will arrive in Athens in forty-eight hours. He requests to see you in person to discuss all the details of this deal."

"For the next two days, I have arranged for you and your team to stay at the Grand Brittany Hotel in downtown Athens."

That was the most luxurious residence in all of Greece, and all expenses would be borne by the Onassis family.

"Forty-eight hours." Qin Han glanced at his watch, stood up, and said, "Mr. Onassis's time is precious, and so is mine. Please tell him that I hope to reach a mutually satisfactory contract with him by this time in two days."

Alexei turned to the side and made a guiding gesture: "Please follow me, the convoy is already waiting downstairs."

The Grand Brittany Hotel next to Syntagma Square in Athens.

This century-old classical building exudes old-fashioned European luxury.

Qin Han was arranged to stay in the royal suite on the top floor. He opened the window and saw the Parthenon on the Acropolis in the distance, looking solemn and majestic in the afterglow of the setting sun.

"Boss, this is like walking a tightrope!" Michael paced back and forth anxiously, unable to contain his panic any longer. He waved his hands, "That's twelve supertankers! Even considering the two to three-month delivery period, and factoring in scrap steel prices and port berthing fees, this astronomical sum is not something we can raise immediately!"

"Michael, don't be so anxious. 'American Graffiti' is coming out next week, and that will be another money-printing machine for us."

"Han's Film Company will not go bankrupt. Although we are short of funds, since I dared to make a deal with Alexei, I will definitely earn the money into the account on time."

He turned around and called out to Rona, who was sitting on the velvet sofa flipping through a European fashion magazine: "Rona."

Lorna looked up from the magazine and took off her cat-eye sunglasses. "Looks like our producer is finally going to assign me a task. So, what is it?"

Qin Han sat down next to her: "How many media connections do you have here? I mean, the kind that can get news directly to the print media."

"In Hollywood, I can get any star on the front page. In Europe—" she thought for a moment, "I have many old friends on Fleet Street in London and at several media groups in Paris."

"After all, back in the day, I paid them a fair share of the spoilers to dig up scandals involving European royalty and old aristocrats. Oh, and that friend who reported on the Vietnam War peace agreement—he'd be happy to help."

Qin Han snapped his fingers: "Very good. I need you to contact them and get some rumors in the European newspapers within the next forty-eight hours."

"The message is simple: several major oil-producing countries in the Middle East are secretly contacting large Western energy companies, preparing to significantly increase crude oil production next month; or, Arab countries and Israel are engaged in some kind of covert peace talks."

The room fell silent instantly.

Michael, holding a whiskey, froze on the spot, his brain racing, trying to understand the business logic behind those words.

Lorna tossed the magazine aside, her voice filled with barely concealed shock: "Are you kidding me? You're going to manipulate oil prices? Qin, are you crazy! You really want to get into the oil business?"

Crude oil is the lifeblood of the entire industrial world, a forbidden zone that only super oligarchs who control the national machinery and the top financial giants on Wall Street dare to touch.

A Hollywood producer actually wanted to manipulate the prices of the world's most sensitive commodities by spreading rumors?

That's so reckless!

"No, it's not just about doing business, Lorna. Twelve supertankers, even if they're just scrap metal, the number needed to fill them all up and get them out of the Mediterranean is an absolutely terrifying number."

"Even if the spot price of crude oil only drops by a few cents, the money saved by the carrying capacity of these twelve giant ships would be enough for us to make ten movies."

"Besides, this is also a way to demonstrate our strength to Onassis. I want that old man to know that the person sitting across from him isn't just a movie actor. Go ahead and do it, in the most discreet way possible."

Looking at Qin Han's calm face, Luo Na finally stood up and walked towards the retro telephone in the suite.

The next morning, a gentle breeze from the Aegean Sea swept through the streets of Athens.

On the suite's balcony, a sumptuous Greek breakfast was laid out on the round table.

Qin Han was slicing a golden-brown lamb chop when Luo Na slammed a stack of newspapers, still smelling of ink, onto the table.

"Look at this, your masterpiece." She picked up a cup of black coffee. "You've been on the phone all night, and you've almost used up all my connections in Europe."

Qin Han put down his knife and fork and picked up the top newspaper: This wasn't *The Times* or *Le Figaro*.

It wasn't a serious mainstream newspaper, but rather a piece of street literature like The Sun.

The front-page headline, printed in exaggeratedly bold font, read: "Exclusive Breaking! Secret Handshake in the Desert? Middle Eastern Oil Well About to Erupt!"

Continuing to flip through the following documents, without exception, they were all third-rate tabloids from France, Italy, and Britain, or even gossip pamphlets focused on sensationalism and juicy news.

The headlines were increasingly sensational, and the content was filled with phrases like "according to reliable sources" and "an unnamed insider said."

"Why is it all this cheap, low-brow literature?" Michael leaned over for a look. "Boss, the traders on Wall Street probably wouldn't even glance at newspapers with these scantily clad women. Can this kind of reporting really affect oil prices?"

Lorna scoffed, stirring her coffee with a small spoon. "Michael, if I leaked this baseless information to Reuters or AFP, the European Securities and Exchange Commission and Interpol would have traced my room through the phone line by noon today!"

"It's for safety's sake. I don't want to be strapped to cement and sunk into the Thames by those energy oligarchs' employees for spreading rumors. Nobody really cares if I publish articles in these third-rate tabloids."

Hearing Rona's complaints, Qin Han was not angry at all; instead, he laughed and said, "You did a perfect job, Rona. I believe this will actually make it even better."

He picked up his knife and fork again, cut off a piece of lamb chop, and put it in his mouth.

"Why?" Michael looked at him, puzzled. "These tabloids have absolutely no credibility."

"Michael, you need to understand the psychology of the capital markets. In peacetime, people really only believe the Wall Street Journal."

"But what time is it now? The US president has just stepped down, and the global financial markets are in a state of extreme panic and fragility, like birds startled by the mere twang of a bow."

"At times like these, official statements from mainstream media are less effective than rumors," as they are more likely to trigger sensitive market sentiment.

Qin Han stood up, walked to the edge of the balcony, and faced the morning sunlight: "Fear will make them prefer to believe it exists rather than not."

"As soon as a few institutions start to hesitate and tentatively sell crude oil because of this news, the price fluctuations will have a domino effect."

No sooner had he finished speaking than the telephone in the suite rang shrilly.

Michael grabbed the receiver, listened for a few seconds, and then suddenly turned his head: "Boss—it's Richard from Merrill Lynch calling."

He swallowed hard, his voice trembling slightly. "In early European trading, crude oil spot prices experienced a sudden, small dip. The drop was minor, but buying interest was extremely weak."

"Tell Richard to hold back," Qin Han ordered. "Now, all we need to do is quietly wait for the Greek emperor to arrive."

The 48-hour deadline arrived as scheduled.

As evening fell, Qin Han, accompanied by Michael and Lorna, led by Alexei, through heavy security to a closed meeting room.

"I heard from Alexei that a young director from Hollywood wanted to buy my industrial waste in the port of Piraeus."

Accompanied by this powerful voice, a swivel high-backed chair slowly turned around.

A short, somewhat overweight old man came into Qin Han's view.

Aristotle Onassis, one of the greatest shipping tycoons of the 20th century, was a legendary figure who was once treated as an honored guest by countless heads of state and even married the former First Lady of the United States.

"Not director, Mr. Onassis. Producer," Qin Han corrected, meeting the gaze of the Greek shipping magnate without flinching.

"It makes no difference to me; we're all magicians creating illusions on screens." Onassis sneered, pulling a Cohiba from his cigar box, which Alexei immediately lit for him.

The strong smell of tobacco filled the reception room.

"Twenty million dollars, that's the bottom line for that scrap metal." Onassis didn't even bother with pretense, directly revealing his trump card, "No bargaining. This is already a concession I'm making out of consideration for Marlon Brando, who's hiding on that island and refusing to come out."

"If you think it's too expensive, you can turn around and leave now. The port of Piraeus may be a bit old, but I'm not short of a few berthing fees."

This is the consistent negotiation style of the shipping magnate who has traversed the world.

Michael tugged at Qin Han's sleeve under the table. Buying twelve old oil tankers that could be scrapped at any time for twenty million US dollars was practically robbery.

Qin Han looked at the old man opposite him, who seemed to have him cornered, and pressed down on Michael's hand: "Twenty million US dollars. Full payment, cash. Also, I need you to find a suitable way to refill these ships with crude oil."

A flicker of surprise crossed Onassis's eyes. "Young man, agreeing so quickly often means you've set a trap somewhere I don't know about. How do you plan to pay this money?"

Qin Han didn't speak, but snapped his fingers at Michael.

Michael suppressed his inner turmoil, took out a super account fund certificate issued by Merrill Lynch from his briefcase, and pushed it to the center of the round table.

"There are nearly two million dollars in cash in this account, and it's slowly growing. I'll use it to do a 1:10 leveraged loan, which will give you exactly twenty million dollars in cash."

The shipping magnate glanced at the figures and the endorsement from a top Wall Street investment bank, confirming the authenticity of the funds.

But the doubt on his face did not lessen; instead, it deepened.

"You're willing to spend twenty million to buy them, but I don't think you're a fool doing charity. Tell me, what exactly do you want to do?"

"I told you, I'm the producer." Qin Han looked directly into the eyes of the legendary tycoon. "I bought them for a reason."

"Like I told Alexei before, maybe I just want to blow them up in the Pacific and make the greatest movie ever?"

"Do you think I would believe such a bizarre reason?"

"Whether you believe it or not is irrelevant, Mr. Onassis." Qin Han closed the distance between them. "What matters is that this deal is entirely beneficial to you. You can get rid of a bunch of liabilities and get enough cash to keep your fleet going through this harsh winter; I can also get what I want: access to buy crude oil."

"This is the essence of a transaction: each party gets what they need, and the other does not interfere with each other."

Onassis stared at Qin Han, trying to use his decades of experience in judging people to see through the true purpose of this young Asian man.

But he failed, and Qin Han didn't reveal any emotion.

Five full minutes passed before Onassis stubbed out his cigar in the crystal ashtray. "Fine! I don't care if you bought these wrecked ships to blow up for fun or to smuggle them. Once the money's in my Swiss bank account, they're yours!"

He turned to Alexei: "Prepare the transfer documents and hand them over to this Hollywood tycoon!"

"Wait a minute," Qin Han suddenly interrupted the shipping magnate.

Onassis's eyes instantly turned cold: "What? You want to back out?"

"Of course not." Qin Han leaned back in his chair. "I fully agree to the $20 million agreement to buy the ships. But don't forget my earlier request: I need a channel to purchase crude oil."

"Twelve 200,000-ton oil tankers, filling their fuel tanks—most smugglers don't have that kind of capability."

Qin Han smiled and offered his final trump card: "Not to mention, according to this morning's crude oil prices in the European spot market, prices have been adjusted downwards due to some uncertainties in the Middle East."

"I want a locked-in price: no matter how oil prices fluctuate afterward, the payment you give me must be settled at today's price when the shipment is completed."

Even with Onassis's composure, the corner of his mouth twitched a few times.

Of course he knew about the inexplicable market drop this morning, but only now did he realize who was behind those absurd rumors that suddenly appeared in third-rate tabloids!

"You—you actually dare to play these tricks in the European market!"

"Business is business, Mr. Onassis. I only look at the contract and today's spot price," Qin Han replied with a polite smile.