Chapter 1900 - 1408: The Mysterious Invitation (Part 2)

Simon exchanged a glance with his assistant.

The assistant whispered something, and Simon shook his head slightly, looking back at Song Heping, "Sixty days. We can provide transportation assistance, but the list needs... adjustments. Some equipment is too sensitive to remain in Illiguo."

"Seventy-five days, transportation will be handled by us."

Song Heping leaned forward, fingers intertwined on the table.

"In exchange, the US side provides all technical manuals, maintenance records, and a complete inventory list of all equipment, including those 'sensitive equipment.' I can guarantee they won't appear on battlefields opposing the United States."

"How can you guarantee that?"

"Just as you guarantee no accountability," Song Heping smiled slightly, "We both know the value of an agreement is not in the words, but in the cost of breach. If my people use those weapons against US targets, you have a reason to tear up the agreement and re-intervene, which is of no benefit to me. The same applies vice versa."

Simon remained silent for a long time; outside the warehouse, the wind suddenly picked up, sweeping in dust through the damaged door.

The dust danced even more intensely in the beam of light.

"I need to consult," Simon finally said.

"Please do," Song Heping gestured, "But I need an answer before sunset. Nights in Mosul are not too safe, even for the CIA director."

Simon stood up, walking with his assistant to the corner of the warehouse.

Samir seized the opportunity to whisper to Song Heping, "Those missiles are good stuff, do you really have them?"

"Of course," Song Heping answered in a low voice as well, "When the US Army withdraws, they always 'forget' some high-value weapons; it saves transportation costs and lets local allies owe a favor. It's just that this time, the one they owe has changed to me."

Samir nodded thoughtfully, his gaze returning to Simon.

The director was communicating with Washington through an encrypted satellite phone; although the content wasn't clear, his body language showed the conversation was not easy.

Twenty minutes later, Simon returned to the table.

"Seventy-five days, list includes all equipment, but technical manuals for sensitive weapons are not included. That's the bottom line."

"Alright," Song Heping agreed effortlessly.

Simon signaled his assistant to prepare the documents for amendment.

The scratch of metal pen tips on the paper was exceptionally clear in the empty warehouse. Additional clauses were handwritten in the blank space at the end of each document, specifying a seventy-five-day limit and the scope of the list.

When the last document was signed and stamped, the distant call to prayer from a minaret outside the warehouse just happened to echo.

Long and desolate, it resonated over the ruins of Mosul.

"Pleasure working with you, Song,"

Simon placed his copy of the document into his briefcase but didn't immediately stand up.

He looked at Song Heping with a complex expression, "Where's the stuff?"

Song Heping took out a sealed waterproof bag from the inner pocket of his tactical vest.

He did not directly hand it over but placed it on the table, gently pushing it across the center line with his index finger.

"A USB drive entrusted to me by Duke before his death, containing all original files, experimental data, and fund flows of the 'Seeder' project."

He pointed to another portable hard drive, "And the evidence chain collected over the years by Misu—photos, recordings, soil sample analysis reports."

Simon's assistant, wearing gloves, carefully opened the waterproof bag.

Inside was a military encrypted hard drive, stained with dark brown marks, and a small glass vial with a label.

The vial contained a little grayish-brown soil, along with a stack of storage cards and microfilm wrapped in waterproof film.

Simon stared at the items for a long time without speaking.

"Duke was a stubborn old man," Simon finally spoke, his voice slightly sighing, "He shouldn't have died like that."

"Few people in war can choose their way of dying," Song Heping stood up, "Documents signed, items handed over. We're settled."

Samir also stood up, preparing to see them off.

But Simon gestured for his assistant and security personnel to step back to the warehouse door.

"Song, may I have a word in private?"

Simon's voice lowered a few notches.

Song Heping raised an eyebrow but followed Simon to the corner behind a large concrete pillar.

Here, they were far enough from others, and the noise of the generator would cover their conversation.

Simon took out a small silver electronic jamming device from his suit pocket and pressed the switch.

The indicator light glowed a faint red.

"Anti-eavesdropping?" Song Heping chuckled, "This might be the first time you've used such a gadget in enemy-controlled territory during your tenure as CIA director."

"Not enemy territory," Simon corrected, his tone serious, "You and I are not strictly enemies."

He paused, seemingly choosing his words carefully, "Someone wants to meet you."

The smile faded from Song Heping's face, "There are many people who want to see me, most of whom want to see me dead."

"This time it's different," Simon's voice lowered further, "The invitation comes from Washington. It's not an official invitation, but a private... meeting."

Song Heping stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed, "Let me guess, go to the United States and then 'accidentally die' in a hotel room or on a street someday? Or more elegantly, have a permanent cell reserved at Guantanamo?"

"The person wanting to see you has enough power to ensure that won't happen," Simon said, "In fact, if he wanted you gone, the previous bombing wouldn't have been canceled."

"Then why am I not dead?"

"Because he considers you more valuable alive and useless dead," Simon glanced around again, "Song, you made the White House sign an agreement they didn't want, acquired over two billion in arms, and can continue to roam free in Illiguo. In the past twenty years, few have achieved even one of these feats."

"So this is a retaliatory invitation? For me to go and endure the victor's humiliation?"

"Quite the opposite," Simon shook his head, "He thinks you're talented. The kind of talent needed in chaotic times."

Outside the warehouse, the wind kicked up again, the sand grains softly pattering against the warehouse's metal walls, making a delicate rustling sound.

"Who is it?" Song Heping asked.

Simon didn't answer directly but took out a folded note from another pocket of his jacket, handing it to Song Heping.

The paper had no text, only a hand-drawn emblem.

An oval outline with a simple sketch of an eagle and shield in the center.

Below the emblem, a date was penciled in: November 5th, along with a coordinate: 38°53'52"N 77°02'11"W.

Song Heping stared at the paper.

He recognized the coordinates.

Washington D.C., 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

"He finds you intriguing," Simon's voice was barely above a whisper, "He said, someone like you is either the most dangerous enemy or... the rarest mirror."

"Mirror?"

"A mirror that reflects our own limitations," Simon withdrew the jammer, the indicator light dimming, "He's reviewed all your files, from Africa to the Middle East. He says you have your own war philosophy, and that philosophy, in some ways, comes closer to reality than the Pentagon's advisors."

Song Heping folded the note, not immediately returning it, "What if I don't go?"

"Then don't," Simon shrugged, "The invitation isn't an order. But he asked me to convey this message: 'A true strategist is never content to stay on the fringes of the board.'"

When they returned to the table, Samir looked at them inquisitively.

Song Heping gently shook his head, indicating nothing was amiss.

Simon joined his assistant and security team, heading towards the warehouse door.

At the threshold, he paused, glancing back at Song Heping one last time.

"Seventy-five days, the list will be delivered on time," he said, "As for that invitation... you have two weeks to consider. After that, it expires."

The convoy's departure stirred up dust that glimmered golden-red in the setting sun.

Inside the warehouse, Samir approached Song Heping, "What did he say at the end?"

"Something unimportant,"

Song Heping quietly slipped the note into the hidden pocket of his tactical pants.

Washington. White House. Private meeting.

He felt the edge of the note in the dark pocket, slightly sharp against his hand.

The hand-drawn oval emblem vividly appeared in his mind.

Not the official presidential seal, but some more personal mark.

"A true strategist is never content to stay on the fringes of the board."

It really sounds intriguing...

A new game had indeed begun.

And the players were moving their pieces on their respective boards.

Some games on the ruins of Mosul, others in far-off places.