Chapter 96

"Sir, our boss said that if you have time, you can join him for tea. He'd prefer it to be in the United States."

Osborn leaned out of the driver's seat, intercepted Grant, and relayed Tang Dao's message. Grant halted and didn't turn around, but he perked up his ears and headed towards the camp. The adjutant was already waiting at the entrance, and as soon as Grant arrived, the adjutant cast a stern look at a soldier who had just raised his middle finger in their direction.

The U.S. military?

Impressive.

How many shots could they withstand?

"Lieutenant Colonel Grant, your wife just made an international call."

"What did she say?" Pulsatilla asked, his eyes shifting.

"Your daughter has been accepted into a public elementary school in Princeton, United States."

Even the adjutant was taken aback. Admission to Princeton's public elementary schools was highly competitive, and only elite students were accepted. The Americans valued fairness and democracy, but it was essentially a lie from the start. With limited educational resources, it ultimately came down to who had more power and influence. In their pursuit of self-interest, the wealthy class had come up with the term "donation."

Donations could secure spots in elementary schools, middle schools, universities, and even in politics.

Seeing Grant's reaction, it seemed like his daughter wasn't exceptionally bright. Was this guy a hidden wealthy individual?

Grant was in a daze, with a single thought lingering in his mind: it's not emotions that determine whether one cries or laughs, but money.

The so-called "happiness of the poor."

Deceiving oneself!

When Aidid's bandits tied Cecilio's body to Mogadishu's gates, all the agents maintained their silence. They knew that the battle to determine the arms trade in Somalia was over.

The Asian had the last laugh!

Do you know how despicable capitalists can be?

They can drink with your enemy during the day, discussing how to exploit you, and they can come to your room at night, kneel down and wag their tails like dogs, as long as you feed them. That's enough.

Mogadishu.

Old Chen's Chinese Restaurant.

This was a well-known restaurant in the local area, even in Somalia. The owner had been here for 20 years. He used to study Chinese medicine and opened a medical clinic. When he came here, his face was full of worries about the soldiers' health. He'd check their pulses, inspect their tongues, and feel their pulses. Once he found out they were just faking illness, he'd get angry and flip the table, abandoning acupuncture for rice shoveling.

Lao Chen was around sixty years old, and the years had etched wrinkles onto his face. Half of his hair had turned gray, and he had no wife back in his hometown. Instead, he adopted a baby boy in Mogadishu and raised him as his own, hoping to secure his retirement.

Usually, he'd close the restaurant in the afternoon. Mogadishu's situation was highly volatile. He had almost been killed several times. The worst incident was when a stray shell exploded near his restaurant's entrance. If he hadn't hidden in time, he would have been crushed.

This life had brought him immense mental stress.

However, money could be made in this place. Peacekeeping troops and mercenaries often came here, and spending tens of dollars on a meal wasn't a big deal for them. After earning a bit more over the years, he intended to bring his adopted son back and retire comfortably.

Bang, bang, bang!

Not long after Lao Chen closed the restaurant, there was a loud banging on the door. He glanced at his 16-year-old adopted son, motioned for him to be quiet, and whispered, "Go fetch the gun from upstairs."

The adopted son nodded and tiptoed up the stairs. Within seconds, he returned like a monkey, holding a Beretta 38 submachine gun. It was a World War II-era weapon, but Lao Chen had purchased it for self-defense for $70. Somalia was a chaotic place.

"Old man, why don't you open the door, and I'll take the gun?" The adopted son, Gua, had a Sichuan accent and hesitated to part with the weapon.

"You fool!" Lao Chen slapped Gua on the forehead and snatched the submachine gun. He looked through the door's peephole and saw two Caucasian men in suits outside, looking anxious and occasionally checking their watches. As long as they weren't locals, he decided to open the door slightly and said in English, "Gentlemen, I'm sorry, but we're closed."

"Walter, I'll give you the money." One of them pulled out a wad of dollars from his pocket and offered it. "We've reserved the place for you."

This stack of money must have been worth thousands of dollars.

Lao Chen, upon seeing the money, widened his eyes and realized that this was a big customer. He hastily asked someone to open the door and beckoned them inside.

He had heard from the customers that some big shots wanted to entertain guests here, and the guest in question was of Asian descent.

For the sake of dollars, he accommodated them.

But it was only later that he realized that this dinner seemed much larger than expected.

At 4:17 PM, an armored personnel carrier led the way, followed by three armored vehicles with mounted machine guns and fully armed personnel. This was a show of force, and anyone who saw it would be intimidated.

The bosses who had received the news walked out together. Seeing this display, they exchanged glances, and in each other's eyes, they saw both concern and helplessness.

Most of the companies represented there weren't primarily focused on the North African market.

But they wanted their share!

Their profits from Somalia were directly linked to the dividends they could extract.

When they saw this, they suddenly realized that sooner or later, the other party might find the Somali market too limited. The amount of dollars that could be squeezed from a country with a population of just 10 million was limited.

Tang Dao stepped out of the lead armored vehicle at 4:52 PM. He removed his suit, glanced around, and saw three big men standing on the steps with smiles on their faces.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Nicholas," a bespectacled man with a Nordic accent extended his hand first.

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Frantesc."

Frantesc Kowski was an old Czech arms dealer. His agency was responsible for representing the products of the Ceska Straight Poljovka factory, a well-known firearms manufacturer in Northern Europe. Their signature product was the CZ 75 pistol, which had seen action in various conflicts.

Seeing Frantesc take the lead, the other two quickly greeted Tang Dao, not wanting to be outdone.

One of them represented Argentine arms dealer Domingo Matt, and the other was a black man representing a local foreign trade organization with some influence in North Africa. In this era, foreign trade companies, in essence, were smuggling companies. They might look mild-mannered, but were they truly sheep? They grinned, revealing that beneath their genteel exteriors, they were wolves.

"Don't stand there; let's go inside and talk." Tang Dao saw that they were hesitant, so he smiled and

walked into the restaurant first. He glanced around and was quite satisfied with the cleanliness and orderliness.

They all stood, waiting for Tang Dao to take his seat before they did.

Without realizing it, he had already taken the dominant position.

"I haven't had Chinese food in a while. I can smell the delicious aroma. Is it ready to be served?" Tang Dao propped his elbows on the table and inquired. An employee behind Frantesc hurriedly ran towards the kitchen to check and greeted them.

Old Chen nodded eagerly, "It's almost ready."

He smacked his adopted son on the back of his head and said, "Gua, don't gawk; bring the food out!"

Certainly, here's a refined version:

"Please, let's not linger outside. Come inside, and we can discuss this further," Tang Dao said, taking the lead with a warm smile. He stepped into the restaurant and glanced around with approval, appreciating the cleanliness of the place.

The others hesitated for a moment but eventually followed Tang Dao's lead, taking their seats only after he had settled at the head of the table.

"It's been a while since I've enjoyed Chinese cuisine. I can already smell the delicious aroma. Is our meal ready to be served?" Tang Dao inquired, leaning forward slightly. An employee, guided by Frantesc, hurried towards the kitchen, indicating that the food would be served shortly.

Old Chen, the restaurant's owner, nodded eagerly. Meanwhile, he playfully scolded his adopted son, who had been curiously peeking at the guests. "Gua, don't stare; the food is on its way!"

With the stage set, an air of intrigue hung over the gathering. If you have any specific requests or if you'd like to continue the story further, please feel free to let me know.