Chapter 1261 - 1090: Crossing the Border

After returning to the safe house in Tehran, Song Heping immediately contacted his transport contractor Jackson using the encrypted line.

The phone rang for a long time before connecting, with the background filled with noisy music and women's laughter, seemingly from some entertainment venue.

"Hey! My dear friend Song! I haven't received a call from you in a while. I heard you caused quite a stir in the Middle East?"

Jackson's voice carried drunkenness and his usual exaggeration.

"Jackson, long story short, I need help." Song Heping wasn't in the mood for small talk.

"Oh? Need some scarce goods again? Sam? Javelins? Or..."

The sounds of music and laughter seemed to gradually fade away.

Clearly, Jackson was a man of action; he realized Song Heping wanted to discuss business, not casual chatter, so he quickly found a quiet corner to listen attentively.

"No, this time it's not buying, it's selling." Song Heping cut him off, "I have a batch of goods, worth one hundred million dollars, and need to find a buyer and transport it out."

"One hundred million?! Is it US dollars?"

Jackson's slightly drunken voice became mostly sober: "What kind of goods? Diamonds? Gold? Or...?"

"Crude oil." Song Heping spat out the words, then added: "Authentic Persian crude oil."

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

More than ten seconds later, Jackson's sound of sharply inhaling could be heard: "Hiss... Persian crude oil? Song, you always manage to bring me 'surprises'! This stuff is a hot potato right now; the Americans are watching it more closely than anything!"

"I know the risks. That's why I'm looking for you. Do you have a way?" Song Heping asked directly.

Jackson pondered for a moment: "Honestly, my main business is arms and 'special items' transportation. The oil industry is too deep, and the rules are different. I generally don't touch it. However..."

He changed his tone, saying: "I do know a guy specialized in this field. His name is Zayed, a cunning old fox from the White Elephant Country with extensive connections, especially for handling this kind of... um...'sensitive' energy products. I can give you his contact information, just say I referred you. But whether it works or not, how to negotiate, depends entirely on you."

"That's enough. Thank you. I owe you a favor."

Song Heping wrote down the string of numbers Jackson provided.

"Good luck, Song. But I must remind you, dealing with Zayed requires you to keep a few watchful eyes. And, don't let the CIA find out you're meddling with this, or we're all finished."

Jackson half-joked, half-seriously warned him, then hung up the phone.

After obtaining the number, Song Heping didn't hesitate and immediately used the hotel's phone, through an encrypted switching device, to dial Zayed's number.

The phone rang for a long time before being picked up, and a voice with a thick Indian English accent, lazily said: "Who's this?"

"Mr. Zayed? I was referred by Jackson. My surname is Song." Song Heping spoke in English.

"Jackson?" The voice on the other end raised slightly as if gaining some interest, "That arms mule? He introduced you to me, what's the matter?"

"I have a batch of crude oil that needs to be sold. It's valued at about one hundred million dollars." Song Heping got straight to the point.

"One hundred million?" The laziness in Zayed's voice disappeared in an instant, replaced by a sharp intelligence, "Where's the oil from? What quality? When can it be picked up?"

"Light crude oil from the Persian Gulf. First-class quality. Can be picked up anytime with my documents." Song Heping replied.

However, upon hearing the word "Persian," the enthusiasm on the other end of the phone seemed to have been doused with cold water.

Zayed paused for a moment, then spoke with extreme caution and even a hint of alienation: "Persian oil... my friend, this business might be difficult to do. The current atmosphere is tight; the American fleet and satellites are watching every drop of oil leaving the Persian Gulf like vultures, especially Persian oil. The risk is too high, although the profit is considerable, I must be responsible for my entire network."

Song Heping didn't give up: "Risk is proportional to reward. Jackson says you're the best; there's no channel you can't handle."

"Hum, that Jackson guy just loves giving me trouble."

Zayed snorted, but his tone seemed to soften a bit.

Few people knew this number, and those who did had a close connection; Jackson being able to directly pass the number to Song Heping showed that the background of Song Heping wasn't ordinary, and he must be a wealthy big client.

Money!

Who would mind having more?

No one really wants to avoid money.

The only concern would be safety.

The fear is having money and no life to enjoy it.

"How about this... Mr. Song. If you truly want to do this deal and prove you're not setting me up or that you're serious, then you need to show your sincerity."

"What kind of sincerity?"

"Leave Persia, come to the White Elephant Country to meet me." Zayed said, "We'll talk in a neutral place. The White Elephant Country, Goa. The climate there is nice, and... chaotic enough for people like us to meet. If you can come, we will discuss the details face to face. If you don't dare to come, then there's no need to waste each other's time."

Go abroad?

To an unfamiliar place possibly full of traps?

Song Heping's heart sank.

This means he would leave the relatively safe Persian-controlled zone, exposing himself to international visibility.

The CIA must have already put him on a key list; going abroad means extremely high risk.

"I need to think it over." Song Heping didn't agree immediately.

"Of course. Think it through, and once you decide to come, contact this number again. Remember, I will only wait three days."

Zayed finished speaking and promptly hung up the phone.

The room fell into a deathly silence. Song Heping put down the phone, walked to the window, and looked at the twinkling lights of Tehran at night.

This guy!

Song Heping stood frozen in place with the satellite phone in hand.

He was even more arrogant than me, hanging up the phone just like that.

And giving me a three-day deadline to meet him?

Shit!

Should I go or not?

If the approval for one hundred million dollars of crude oil cannot be converted into cash, it's just a pile of waste paper.

The thousands of people at the camp are waiting to be fed, and future operations will need huge financial support.

Otherwise, I'll have to cover it with my own money.

One hundred million dollars is just temporary startup capital.

Subsequently forging a powerful militia organization, that one hundred million dollars is just a drop in the bucket.

If I break the rules and put my own money in, starting it off, future funds will probably have to be filled in by me.

Even though there might be some compensation after reclaiming the oil fields in northwestern Siria.

But who knows what the future holds?

Moreover, now that Avanti wants to create a Shi'a arc, I can't be the sucker taking risks and still footing the bill for him.

This business can't be done like this.

Now, the opportunity is right in front of me, but the risk is also huge enough to be deadly.

Song Heping withdrew his gaze from the window, becoming exceptionally calm and determined.

Risk is everywhere, but opportunities are fleeting.

Some risks must be taken!

He turned around, picked up the satellite phone, and contacted Avanti: "Prepare a brand new, absolutely clean identity for me. A Chinese descent from a Southeast Asian country, for business inspection purposes. Route... transfer via Dubai to Goa. Make it fast."

Avanti's efficiency in handling matters was quite okay.

In less than 24 hours, an officer from the Revolutionary Guard came to the door with a sealed file bag.

After opening it, inside was a brand new fake passport.

Forty-eight hours later, Song Heping, under the identity of "Li Xinan," holding an almost flawless forged passport, successfully landed at Dabolim Airport in Goa, after transferring via Dubai.

The tropical, humid, warm air rushed in, forming a sharp contrast with the cold of the Persian Plateau.

The airport wasn't large, filled with a lazy vacation atmosphere.

Tourists from various countries were bustling, with the air mixed with the scents of sunscreen, spices, and sweat.

Song Heping lowered the brim of his hat; his gaze behind sunglasses quickly scanned the arrival hall, confirming there was no unusual attention, then followed the crowd leisurely through the customs check.

When the passport was stamped, the turban-wearing customs officer from the White Elephant Country flipped open the passport handed over by Song Heping, looked at the photo, then glanced at Song Heping a few times, delaying stamping it.

Song Heping's heart skipped a beat.

Shit!

Could there be a problem with the passport?

Isn't it said that officials in the White Elephant Country work in very abstract ways?

So meticulous?

So sharp-eyed?

If his identity is exposed here, it'll be the end.

"Sir, there's an issue with your passport."

The White Elephant customs officer, speaking in curry-flavored Indian English, placed the passport aside, interlocked his two coffee-colored hands tightly on the desk, and said with a stern expression on his face: "You need to come with me."

Even though Song Heping was used to big scenes, he couldn't help but take a cold breath in his heart.

Damn it…

Could it really be a case of overturning in the ditch?

That Avanti bastard.

Even at the national level of forgery, they can't make a decent passport?

The Persians really aren't reliable either!

He even started planning on how to escape from the airport in a while.

But in this situation…

Shit!

Chances are really slim.