Chapter 1899 - 1408: Mysterious Invitation

The next day, Mosul's western district.

The abandoned textile factory warehouse sat by the riverside road, a three‑story concrete structure that had survived the 2015 street fighting. One corner of the roof had been blown open by shellfire, exposing twisted rebar.

At this moment, the warehouse had been temporarily converted into a meeting site. On the commanding heights of the three surrounding blocks, the Tenth Division's most elite sniper teams had been in position for twelve hours.

Their scopes swept over every window, every pile of rubble, every potential sniper perch.

At the entrance to the street, two T‑72 tanks blocked the road at an angle, turrets slowly rotating, the Shadow of their 125‑millimeter smoothbore guns chilling to the bone.

Behind a sandbagged checkpoint, soldiers watched with wary eyes, fingers resting on the trigger guards, ready at any moment to respond to sudden incidents.

Overhead, three modified civilian drones circled at three hundred meters, their cameras transmitting live imagery.

"They're here."

The voice of an observation post came over the comms.

Samir stood behind a broken window on the warehouse's second floor and raised his binoculars.

Three black Chevrolet Suburban SUVs were slowly driving along the riverside road.

The convoy kicked up a trail of dust, looking utterly out of place against the backdrop of the ruined city.

"Confirm identity." Samir spoke into the radio.

"License plates match."

Samir lowered the binoculars and turned toward the interior of the warehouse.

The space had been crudely partitioned, the original textile machinery cleared out. In the center stood a long wooden table taken from a nearby school, chalk marks still visible on the surface.

Song Heping sat on a chair by the window, posture relaxed, but his eyes were fixed on the direction from which the convoy was approaching.

"You're sure they won't try anything?"

Samir walked to the table and asked in a low voice.

"The fact that Simon is coming in person means they want to end this with a certain amount of dignity."

Song Heping said calmly, "The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency does not personally step into a war zone unless the deal is essentially settled. His presence is itself a form of guarantee."

"In Mosul, the only truth I've learned is never to trust any guarantee." Samir's voice was low. "Especially from the American."

Song Heping looked up at him and said, "That's why today we're not only taking the documents, we're taking leverage that will force them to honor their promises."

The convoy stopped thirty meters outside the warehouse.

The SUV doors opened, and Simon was the first to get out.

He had only five people with him. Two assistants carrying briefcases, three security personnel scanning the surroundings with wary eyes—but as agreed, they carried no long weapons, only handguns at their waists.

Samir made a hand signal, and the warehouse doors slowly opened.

When Simon stepped inside, his eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dim light.

His gaze swept quickly across the interior of the warehouse and finally settled on Song Heping.

"Song." Simon nodded in greeting, without the slightest intention of shaking hands, and sat down directly on the opposite side of the table.

His assistant set the briefcase on the table with a soft click.

Sunlight slanted in through the high windows; dust swirled in the beams like a miniature battlefield.

"The documents."

Simon went straight to the point, motioning for his assistant to open the briefcase.

Three folders were taken out and pushed to the center of the table.

Song Heping reached out, took them, and began to read carefully. The rustle of pages turning sounded unnaturally loud in the empty warehouse.

The first was a State Department authorization agreement, strictly formatted and cautiously worded, authorizing the Central Intelligence Agency to "enter into temporary understandings with local actors under special circumstances."

The second was a Central Intelligence Agency operational confirmation, detailing the entire course of the pursuit of Misu and the decision to terminate it "based on strategic realignment."

The third was an additional memorandum from the President's National Security Advisor Rice, confirming that the agreement "conforms to the United States' long‑term interests in Illiguo."

Song Heping read very slowly, spending at least a minute on every page.

From time to time he frowned, or traced a line of text with his fingertip.

Simon waited patiently, but the rhythmic tapping of his right fingertips on the tabletop betrayed his inner restlessness.

Ten minutes later, Song Heping stacked the three documents neatly in front of him and looked straight at Simon. "Acceptable. But I need an additional clause."

Simon's brows knit together. "Song, we already reached agreement over communications."

"The section on disposition of the arms is too vague."

Song Heping pushed the documents back to the center of the table, his finger resting on a paragraph on page three.

"Here it says 'handled under residual materiel procedures,' but there's no specific timetable, transfer location, or acceptance standards. In Mosul, a vague agreement is no agreement at all."

Simon's assistant leaned forward to explain, "Mr. Song, a transfer of materiel on this scale takes time. The inventory of six bases has to be checked and assessed, and we have to coordinate transport routes. That involves complex—"

"Three months." Song Heping cut her off, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument. "Ninety days starting today to complete all transfers. And I'm not talking about 'residual materiel.' I want the full inventory, including that batch of Javelin anti‑tank missiles and Stinger air‑defense systems you plan to 'accidentally overlook.'"

As he spoke, a sly smile appeared on his face.

"I remember Duke talking to me before he died. He mentioned there were some nice toys in that shipment. You'd better not forget them."

The air inside the warehouse abruptly congealed.

Simon's expression did not change, but a flicker of surprise crossed his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Alpha Base, Warehouse Three, two levels underground."

Song Heping recited a string of coordinates.

"Last week's satellite imagery showed special transport vehicles going in and out. Simon, we're Old Friends, and you should understand how I operate. Things I've set my sights on—things that belong to me—I never leave uninvestigated. Especially in Illiguo, my intelligence network is still very sensitive."