36: Three billion! And that's just a deposit!

He let out a heavy breath, as if trying to exhale all his hesitation and reluctance.

"Fine!"

He gritted his teeth and squeezed the word out from between them.

"8.5 billion it is!"

The heart hanging in David's chest finally settled completely.

The smile on his face became incredibly sincere, even carrying a hint of gratitude.

"Mr. President, you truly have incredible courage!"

"However, there is one last thing I must remind you of." David's expression instantly became extremely serious.

"What is it?"

"My identity." David pointed to himself.

"You know, many of the things I am selling to you are not permitted for export by the US. I am able to obtain them because of my special channels."

"Therefore, absolutely, absolutely no one can know that I brokered this deal."

"Otherwise, those mad dogs at the CIA will tear me to pieces."

"It doesn't matter if I die, but the point is... our cooperation, as well as the subsequent ammunition replenishment, parts supply, and personnel training, will all be cut off."

These words were half fact, half a warning.

Saddam immediately understood the stakes involved.

He nodded solemnly.

"Rest assured, Mr. David. The conversation between you and me today is known only to heaven and earth."

"You are the most honored friend of Iraq, and I will use my life to guarantee your safety."

"Pleasure doing business with you!"

David could feel that Saddam's palm was strong and powerful.

But he knew even better that his life, starting from the moment he shook this hand, had completely turned around!

This business was enough to take him from a struggling middleman.

And vault him into becoming a true tycoon capable of holding a place on the world arms map!

The ecstasy in his heart, like a volcanic eruption, almost burned away his reason.

The sunlight in Baghdad was still blinding.

But for David, everything today was gilded with a golden edge.

The formal contract signing ceremony was far more boring than yesterday's secret talk, but also more important.

The Iraqi representatives were no longer Saddam himself, but a group of officials in suits with serious expressions.

The contract terms were gone over word by word.

A forty percent deposit.

Within one month, the first batch of forty f-15 "eagle" fighter jets would be delivered, along with two thousand matching "Falcon" air-to-air missiles.

Subsequent payments would be paid in batches according to the delivery progress.

When David used the special pen to sign his name at the end of the contract, he felt that the pen weighed a ton.

At the moment the pen touched the paper, he knew that the massive sum of 3.4 billion US dollars would be...

...transferred into his capital pool within twenty-four hours through countless secret Swiss Bank accounts.

3.4 billion! And that's just the deposit!

David's face was calm, but his heart was already a tempest.

He could even feel the Iraqi officials opposite him, when they saw his signature...

...the complex look in their eyes, barely hidden, mixed with jealousy, suspicion, and awe.

This transaction was, from beginning to end, shrouded in absolute secrecy.

There were only two copies of the contract; David took one, and the other was sent directly to the Presidential Palace to be kept by Saddam personally.

The ceremony ended, and David did not stay for a moment.

He politely declined the farewell banquet arranged by the Iraqi side and, under the protection of several Death Sworn, drove straight to the airport.

Baghdad, this city about to become the global focus, was a place he didn't want to stay in for even one more second.

The plane soared into the clouds, leaving that city in the yellow sand far behind.

David leaned against the porthole, watching the landscape below shrink rapidly, and let out a long breath.

His destination for this trip was The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

That country where princes were everywhere and it was filthy rich.

South America, Bolivia.

Deep in the humid and sultry rainforest, in an inconspicuous US military base, the atmosphere was so oppressive you could wring water out of it.

"Boss, we found it."

A young CIA agent handed a file to his superior, Omar.

His forehead was covered in sweat, and it was unclear whether it was from the heat or nervousness.

"We have a lead on that guy who sold weapons to Gomez and his gang of drug dealers."

Omar, a middle-aged white man in his forties, had sharp eyes.

He took the file but didn't open it immediately; he just stared at his subordinate.

"Speak."

"His name is David. A Bolivian arms dealer." The agent spoke very quickly, "But... that's all there is."

"What do you mean that's all there is?" Omar's brow furrowed.

"It means exactly what it says, Boss." There was a hint of helplessness in the agent's voice.

"We searched through all the databases, and this 'David' is like a ghost."

"No photos, no passport information, no entry or exit records, nothing! Just a name!"

"We suspect that 'David' is just an alias."

"Furthermore, much of the shipment he sold to Gomez was standard-issue equipment from Russia."

"Our people speculate that this David likely has deep ties with Russia."

Omar was silent for a moment.

He opened the file, and sure enough, there was only a lonely name on it, along with a few lines of vague speculation.

"Compile all the information into a detailed document." Omar threw the file back onto the table.

"I want to see all the details, including the fact that you couldn't find any information itself; that needs to be written in too."

The US, The Pentagon.

"A name? Is this the answer the CIA gives me after spending tens of millions of dollars and messing around in South America for two months?"

A general with three stars on his shoulder slammed a file onto the conference table, the loud noise making the air in the entire room freeze.

His rage almost ignited the files on the table.

"Bobby! What are you people in the Intelligence Operations Division doing!"

"An arms dealer has turned our backyard into a mess, and you don't even know what he looks like?"

Sitting opposite him was the Deputy Director of the CIA's Intelligence Operations Division, Bobby Ray.

He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his expression unchanged.

"General, please calm down. We are investigating with all our might."

"Investigating with all your might? Is this what you call your all?" The general pointed at him bluntly, "Don't give me that bureaucratic talk!"

"Mr. President." Bobby Ray ignored the furious general and turned his gaze to the head of the conference table.

Sitting there was the President of the US, Ronald Reagan.

"According to the clues we currently have, this arms dealer named 'David'..."

"...is highly likely to be an official representative planted in Latin America by Russia, a white glove."

Bobby Ray's voice was steady and persuasive.

"He acts with extreme caution and has top-tier counter-intelligence capabilities. This precisely indicates that behind him, there is a powerful state apparatus in support."

President Reagan crossed his fingers, placed them on the table, and listened quietly.

On his famous actor's face, no emotion could be seen.

"Bobby, I don't want to hear these speculations."

Reagan finally spoke, his tone flat but carrying undeniable pressure.

"Russia's hand has reached out too far."

"I don't care if this 'David' is human or a ghost, a white glove or a black glove; I'll give you two weeks. I want to see his detailed information."

"I want to know exactly who is setting fires in our backyard!"

"Yes, Mr. President."

Bobby Ray lowered his head, and a flash of coldness flickered in his eyes behind his lenses.

Five days later.

The capital of The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, Riyadh.