Chapter 1990 - 1444: The Net

8 AM, Baghdad.

Sunlight poured over the beige exterior walls of the Ministry of Defense Building like molten lead.

Rashim stood at the window, holding the freshly delivered encrypted intelligence, his brow knitted into a dead knot.

The window-mounted air conditioner emitted an unbearable roar, blowing dry cold air into the office, yet failing to dispel the cloud over his brow.

"Are you sure?" He didn't turn his head, his voice so low it was almost drowned out by the air conditioner's noise: "Only three hundred or so armed escorts per convoy?"

Intelligence officer Colonel Ahmed stood three meters away.

The colonel's uniform was crisply ironed, but sweat had already seeped out from the back of his neck.

"Confirmed, Minister." Ahmed said, "Our observation post near Anai Town visually confirmed it."

Rashim did not immediately respond.

He still faced away from the room, his gaze cast upon the Tigris River shaded by green trees outside the window.

The river was calm, showing no sign of the fifteen billion dollars worth of arms soon to stir up a storm on this land.

"So, six routes in total have only eighteen hundred armed escorts." Rashim, after a long silence, expressed his doubt: "He has ten thousand mobile forces at hand, yet only sends eighteen hundred with the goods. The remaining eight thousand two hundred..."

He turned around, his sharp eyes under grey-white eyebrows fixed on the colonel.

"Ahmed, tell me, where are those eight thousand two hundred?"

This question, the intelligence officer could not answer.

"We... haven't scouted the location of Song Heping's main forces yet."

Ahmed admitted his oversight with difficulty.

"His mercenary camp and the elite of the Tenth Division disappeared after leaving Mosul. They likely employed scattered maneuvering, departing early before dawn to evade our surveillance..."

"Sadr."

Rashim suddenly used an ancient Arabic term, meaning "a person who hides a blade in their chest."

Ahmed was momentarily stunned, then understood the minister's meaning.

Referring to Song Heping, someone who appears calm yet hides a blade within.

"He's too composed. Something's not right."

Rashim paced back to his desk but did not sit down, his hands bracing the edge.

"A normal escort commander would concentrate the main forces around the goods. Song Heping goes against this, placing the meat in plain sight while keeping the blade sheathed. Doesn't he know how many eyes are on this batch? Doesn't he know the Dulaimi Tribe has already gathered eighteen hundred men?"

He paused, his voice suddenly becoming very light, as if talking to himself.

"Or is he... trying to lure them to his convoy? Is this guy... crazy? Three hundred people protecting one convoy..."

Ring-ring—

The secure phone on the desk suddenly rang.

The red indicator light flashed urgently, signaling a direct line to the Prime Minister's Office.

Rashim glanced at the caller ID and gestured.

Ahmed understood, immediately exiting the office, the heavy oak door silently closing behind him.

"Prime Minister."

Rashim answered the phone, his voice taking on the smooth tone peculiar to politicians.

"Rashim, my friend."

The Prime Minister's voice from the other end sounded older than his actual age.

"I heard your shipment of US goods is already on the road?"

"Yes, indeed, sir. Everything is proceeding according to plan."

"Plan?" The Prime Minister chuckled lightly: "Various versions of 'the plan' are circulating in Baghdad now. Some say Song Heping's crazy, entrusting fifteen billion dollars worth of goods to mere hundreds of mercenaries; others say he's a fraud, with no equipment on the trucks at all; and some say..."

The Prime Minister paused.

"You've already pocketed a kickback of 30 million dollars from him."

Rashim's fingers tightened around the handset, each word squeezed out through clenched teeth: "Sir, which do you believe?"

"I believe you'll provide me an explanation." The Prime Minister replied.

Rashim took a deep breath, looking out the window.

The Tigris River still flowed calmly, but at some point, several patrol boats appeared on its surface, their white wakes slashing through the blue waves like blades.

"Sir, Song Heping isn't crazy, and I haven't taken 30 million."

His voice was so soft it seemed like a prayer only he could hear.

"He might be setting a trap. And we... this matter has nothing to do with us; according to the contract terms, he must deliver the arms to Baghdad for us to complete the handover before we make payment."

The other end of the line was silent for five seconds.

Then the Prime Minister hung up.

Rashim set down the handset and picked up the intelligence report again.

Six convoys, each with over three hundred people, scattered along a six hundred-kilometer transport line.

Any person with military sense would call this suicidal escorting.

But Rashim had seen Song Heping's eyes before.

They did not belong to someone about to commit suicide.

He dialed Safar's satellite phone.

"Uncle."

The young officer answered quickly, the background filled with the roar of helicopter rotors.

"Where are you?"

"In the air. On Mr. Song's helicopter."

Rashim closed his eyes.

Just as expected.

"What is he trying to do exactly?"

The other end was silent for a moment, then Safar's voice came through, tinged with a mix of respect, excitement, and a fear he himself had not fully understood.

"Uncle, he said... for this escort mission, we're not the prey."

"Then who is the prey?"

"Anyone who reaches out is the prey."

The roar of the helicopter's rotor drowned out the rest of the conversation.

But Rashim didn't need to hear anymore.

He set the phone down and returned to the window once more.