Chapter 1428 - 1191: Game of Wits

In the cold wind of the Moscow winter night, the black sedan glided silently away from the estate surrounded by high walls and bare birch trees, like a slippery fish.

Fine condensation clung to the car window, slicing the passing streetlights into blurry spots of light.

Song Heping leaned back in the soft leather seat, eyes closed, appearing to rest, but his mind was racing.

He was replaying every conversation, every glance, every meaningful pause within the manor.

Dealing with seasoned "Siroviki" like Petrovich required extreme caution; every word needed careful consideration, balancing showing value without appearing too eager, and stating positions without making the other side feel threatened.

The driver, one of Petrovich's men, was silent as a stone.

The only sound inside the car was the faint hum of the heating system.

Song Heping could feel the driver's scrutinizing gaze in the rear-view mirror, but he didn't care.

This level of surveillance was an expected norm the moment he set foot on Moscow soil.

The Old Russians loved playing this game.

So, dealing with them carelessly could easily cost a life.

The journey was long and silent.

When the car finally entered downtown Moscow, passing through bustling, neon-lit streets, and stopped at the back door of a seemingly ordinary but heavily secured hotel, Song Heping slowly opened his eyes.

Two expressionless staff members approached; one opened the car door, and the other politely gestured for him to follow, then began leading the way.

With just a glance, Song Heping could tell these two were agents.

Which department exactly, he didn't know.

He didn't want to guess.

It made no difference.

Soon, the three of them took a private passage directly to the top-floor suite of the hotel.

The suite's luxury formed a stark contrast with the manor's simplicity and weight; outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows lay the dazzling cityscape of Moscow, with the spires of the Kremlin faintly visible in the distance.

Just as the door closed, a figure emerged from the inner room.

It was the Hunter.

There was a barely discernible anxiety on his face.

"How did it go?"

The Hunter's voice was low, knowing that such a level of suite was inevitably bugged.

"Gone all night and not a word; I thought you were being entertained in the Lubyanka basement by those 'Ice Men' from the Kremlin."

Song Heping took off his down jacket, tossed it casually onto the sofa, and walked over to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a glass of vodka, without ice, and took a swig.

The spirits blazed a fiery path from his throat to his stomach, dispelling some of the chill and slightly relaxing his nerves.

"Afternoon tea?"

Song Heping smiled and said, "It's not at that point yet."

He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the vast and complex city.

Here was another battlefield, one without gunfire but equally life-and-death.

"How did the talks go, really?"

The Hunter stepped beside him, pressing for details.

He knew the critical significance of this trip; it concerned the future of their armed group named "Liberation Forces" out on the Persian Plateau, and also the defensive fate of the "Musician" trying to survive in the cracks.

Song Heping turned around, pointing at the balcony.

The "Hunter" understood.

They pushed open the door and stepped onto the balcony, shutting the door behind them.

The temperature in Moscow in January was minus ten degrees or more.

It was freezing outside.

But it was also an excellent way to evade eavesdropping.

Song Heping stared into the distance for a while, then whispered, "Petrovich is just an advance scout; clearly, those behind him have bigger ambitions for this messy Middle Eastern game."

Song Heping said slowly, "Initially, it seems the Kremlin has a strong interest in the concept I proposed. Their interest stems from the current stalemate in their operations in Siria, and their urgent need to ally with the Persians to find a strategic breakthrough."

A glimmer of hope flashed in the Hunter's eyes: "Did they agree?"

"Not that simple."

Song Heping shook his head, "This level of strategic shift involves the complex relationships among Russia, the United States, Persia, and us. Petrovich or the president he stands for will not gamble easily. They've given us an opportunity, a chance to prove we're worth the investment."

"Prove? How?"

"He didn't say explicitly, but I think they need to see that we really can influence the situation in Northern Illiguo, make the Americans feel the pain, to the point where they must sit down and negotiate with us."

Song Heping explained, "The Kremlin's stance is clear—they won't step forward until I validate my capabilities; they're watching to see how far our play can go."

The Hunter frowned: "So, they want us to first have a go with the Americans, to force the Americans to the negotiating table? And they get to reap the benefits? Isn't this barefaced freeloading?"

"Politics is essentially about deals and games, and this isn't your first encounter with the Russians."

Song Heping's tone was very calm: "We need to present real achievements and strategic value in exchange. Now, it seems the Kremlin is very interested in this, but at the end of the day, agreeing to this plan depends on the Americans also coming on board; otherwise, it won't work."

The Hunter nodded thoughtfully: "I understand the Russians' plan. But, chief, I still can't see how you can make the Americans willingly come to us for collaboration. That's Uncle Sam we're talking about, nose in the air. I remember you mentioning this idea back at the start of the year in that rudimentary command post on the Persian Plateau; the brothers all thought it sounded like a fantasy, and nobody took it seriously. Now, you're actually pushing it forward?"