Chapter 2004 - 1449: Something Feels Off! (2)

Before figuring out why Obama wants to meet him, he still needs to keep a low profile.

If he now goes to the CIA director for protection, the whole situation will only get more complicated.

Song Heping doesn't like complications; he likes things under control.

Better to lure them in than sit there passively on defense.

Let Lemont and Robbin make a move—once they dare to act, he can grab hold of something on them and settle the accounts later, at his own pace.

When the time comes, the one who dies won't be him, it'll be them.

The car drove into the hotel's underground parking lot.

The driver Abdulla parked, confirmed the surroundings were safe through his earpiece, and only then did he let Song Heping get out.

In the elevator, Song Heping straightened his collar against the mirror-like metal wall panel.

The face in the reflection was dark-skinned and gaunt, with deep-set eyes that betrayed very little emotion.

Pushing forty now; in the PMC business, that already counts as an old-timer.

Over these ten-plus years, he'd built his own company, had thousands of employees, earned the right to sit as an equal with ministers and generals—and even the US president had sent him an invitation, asking to meet him in person—though he'd soon be a former president.

But as his empire grew, so did the number of people who wanted him dead.

The elevator doors opened; he walked toward his room.

Two Bodyguards were standing in the hallway; when they saw him, they straightened up at once.

"Boss."

Song Heping nodded, swiped his card, and went in.

Inside, Jiang Feng was sitting on the sofa, frowning at his laptop.

"Old squad leader." Jiang Feng looked up and pointed at the screen. "Looks like there's some movement on Lemont's side."

Song Heping walked over and stood behind him to look.

On the screen was a set of photos, taken covertly. The image quality was average, but you could clearly see Lemont and Robbin.

The two were talking in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of Robbin's office in the Tulip Hotel, expressions serious.

"When were these taken?"

"This afternoon." Jiang Feng zoomed in on one shot. "Check this out—"

He pointed at Lemont's hand gesture.

"He's signaling something, and Robbin is nodding."

Song Heping studied the photos closely.

Lemont's right hand was making a downward motion in front of him, while Robbin dipped his head slightly.

He'd seen that gesture before—in the CIA training manual.

It meant "approve the operation."

"Looks like they tried to sabotage our arms convoy and failed. Now they're coming after me instead."

Song Heping spoke evenly, as if this weren't anything major. He went straight to the table, picked up a bottle of mineral water, and took a sip.

Jiang Feng closed the laptop and looked at him. "Do you want to get ahead of this somehow?"

"I'll handle this my way." Song Heping dropped onto the sofa. "Let them move."

Jiang Feng froze for a second. "Old squad leader, that's not Illiguo, it's the United States. We've got no people there, no guns, no backup. If something goes down—"

"That's why we send people first." Song Heping cut him off. "Tomorrow morning, get in touch with Grey Wolf. Have him pick eight men from Hunter School, go in on business visas, staggered entry. Once they're there, no sudden moves—wait for my orders."

Jiang Feng stared at him for a few seconds, then finally nodded. "Got it."

Song Heping knew what Jiang Feng was thinking.

Eight men, in a place like the United States, facing a potential assassination by the CIA—that manpower is nowhere near enough.

But he didn't explain.

He couldn't let too many people know he had Director Simon as a card in his hand, nor could he let anyone know his real plan.

Sometimes, showing weakness is how you force your opponent to expose theirs.

Outside, night had fully settled over Baghdad.

Scattered gunshots drifted in from the distance. No telling if someone was celebrating a wedding or if another street firefight had kicked off.

After more than a decade in this city, Song Heping had long since learned to tell the difference.

Tonight, that was celebratory fire, not a shootout.

He shut the window and turned back around.

"Once I'm gone, you'll be in charge of running things here."

"All right."

Jiang Feng closed the laptop and stood up to leave.

At the door, he turned back again. "Old squad leader, you sure you don't want to line up more people? It's just a phone call."

Song Heping shook his head. "No need. I've got it mapped out."

"Okay. Then be careful."

Jiang Feng turned and left.

The door shut; the room fell quiet.

Song Heping sat down on the sofa, pulled out his phone, and looked at the "Crescent International" invitation.

He dialed a number.

Three rings, then the other side picked up.

"Song?" The voice sounded a bit surprised.

"Hello, Mr. Han." Song Heping's tone was calm. "I wanted to check on the status of my visa application."

There was two seconds of silence, then a chuckle. "Mr. Song is in such a hurry? Don't worry, the visa's already issued. You'll have it in your hands tomorrow."

"Thank you. One more thing—" Song Heping paused for a moment. "Has your president's office mentioned a specific time for the meeting? I need to plan my schedule. I've got some Old Friends I want to see in the United States too."

"I'm not quite sure about that." James Han's voice was watertight. "I'm only in charge of the invitation. As for the detailed schedule, once you're in the United States, someone will coordinate with you."

"Understood. Then I'll see you when I get there."

Song Heping hung up and tossed the phone onto the sofa.

He stood, walked over to the mini bar, took an ice-cold beer from the fridge, twisted off the cap, and drank twice.

Gunfire sounded outside again.

This time it was a burst—like an AK.

Song Heping listened for a few seconds, confirmed it was celebration, and let it go.

He sat back down on the sofa, picked up his phone, and scrolled to a number in his contacts that had no name saved.

He stared at that number for a long time, then finally locked the screen.

It wasn't time yet.

Lemont, Robbin, you want to make a move in the United States?

Bring it on.

Song Heping took another long swig of beer, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smile.

Let's see just how much nerve you've got, and how sharp your methods really are.

Meanwhile, in the Baghdad Green Zone, at the CIA station.

Lemont sat in his office, staring at the business registration record for "Crescent International" on his computer screen.

He had already tapped every CIA channel to dig into this company, and come up with nothing.

That was highly irregular.

Inside the US, for a company to be beyond the CIA's reach, it had to be either an FBI asset, an NSA shell, or else…

Or the White House had intervened directly.

Either way, it meant that Song Heping's trip to the United States was not a simple business visit.

Lemont's fingers tapped lightly on the desk—that was his habitual tic when he was on edge.

He picked up the phone and dialed an encrypted number.

"Robbin, we need to talk."

On the other end, Robbin's voice sounded impatient. "About what? Haven't we already decided?"

"I can't find anything on the company that invited Song Heping." Lemont kept his voice low. "This is off. I think we should suspend the operation—at least until we figure it out."

"Lemont, don't make yourself sound like a coward." Robbin's tone went cold. "Do you have any idea how big AAFES's contracts in Iraq are every year? Do you know how much we stand to lose if Song Heping refuses to cooperate and, with his current clout in Iraq, shuts us out?"

Lemont stayed silent.

"Who he's going to meet in the United States isn't the point. The point is—" Robbin paused, then ground out the words, "One thing matters most: he has to die there."

"But—"

"No buts." Robbin cut him off. "My people are already in Washington. Everything's in place."

Lemont wanted to say more, but in the end he said nothing.

He thought of the file in Song Heping's hand that could rock the White House, of the shelling at the Mosul operations base that still haunted him, and of Director Simon's evasive expression when he'd mentioned Song Heping.

But he hadn't told Robbin any of that.

Some secrets are safer the fewer people know them.

"All right." Lemont hung up.

He stared at the words "Crescent International" on the screen, overtaken by a sharp sense of foreboding.

In more than twenty years in this line of work, he'd felt this way only three times.

The first two times, people died.

The third time was now.