Chapter 489: Sword Pointing at America: I Won

Gangdao Zhonghuan, the top floor of the Xinghan Building, Lu Qingshan's CEO office.

Wang Yuyun, in high heels, cradled a thick stack of reports, her cheeks flushed from overexcitement. She spread the documents on the coffee table, her voice trembling: "Boss, it's crazy, completely crazy. Our 'Golden Bond' was listed just over ten minutes ago, and several major institutions have already swept it clean. HSBC's senior team just called personally, asking if they can be granted another five hundred million in credit, even if the interest rate is cut by half a point."

Liang Zhiwei sat at the other end of the sofa, rapidly tapping his calculator, his fingers almost leaving afterimages. He took off his glasses, rubbed his tired eyes, and chuckled: "Mr. Lu, this battle was fought beautifully. That old spendthrift Jonathan fled in a hurry, leaving a mess that we took over entirely. I just calculated that we conveniently swallowed three medium-sized Yingzi banks that joined the fray. Now in Hong Kong Island's financial circle, when Xinghan Group stomps its foot, the real estate trembles three shakes."

Lu Qingshan sat on the single armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a Yixing clay cup, watching the night view of Victoria Harbour outside.

Ships came and went on the sea, lights dazzling; that was the glow of money in motion.

"Enough, stop counting the money," Lu Qingshan said, sipping his breath, "this amount is just a toll. Jonathan is merely a pampered lapdog; there's no pride in chasing him away. The real man‑eating Lion is still lying across the ocean."

Liang Zhiwei's smile froze for a moment as he slipped the calculator back into his bag: "You mean… the United States?"

"Rothschild took a hit this time because they were too arrogant, and we have hard currency in hand. But this trick works only once; the second time it fails," Lu Qingshan said, setting down his teacup, standing, and walking to the massive World Map. He jabbed his finger heavily on the North American continent: "If we want to avoid being choked later, merely ruling the Place isn't enough. We have to go there, to the house of those who make the rules, flip the table, and rearrange the layout."

Wang Yuyun and Liang Zhiwei exchanged a glance, both seeing shock in each other's eyes.

Flip the table?

That's the United States, the planet's largest violent machine and financial monster.

"Yuyun, Old Liang, the family matters are yours. Chew the meat you swallow into mush, swallow it, and turn it into ours. No matter what, the accounts must be clearer than clear water, the foundation steadier than Mount Tai." Lu Qingshan turned, his gaze blazing, "I will turn Xinghan Group into a hedgehog; anyone who wants to bite must first shatter its mouthful of teeth."

The two immediately straightened their backs: "Understood!"

Late at night, Lu Qingshan dialed the encrypted line that connected directly to New York.

On the other end, Ye Ning's voice sounded weary, and in the background the characteristic noisy sirens of Wall Street could be heard.

"Boss, calling at this hour surely isn't good news." Ye Ning knew Lu Qingshan all too well.

"Arrange a meeting for me," Lu Qingshan said, lighting a cigarette, "or rather, a gathering of people."

"Who?"

"Ronald Reagan, Henry Kissinger." Lu Qingshan exhaled a smoke ring, his tone as casual as inviting a neighbor over for mahjong, "Also, summon the current heads of the Rockefeller, Morgan, and Mellon families. I want to meet them."

The line stayed silent for a full minute.

"Boss…" Ye Ning's voice trembled, "Are you sure you haven't had too much to drink? These old guys don't even usually get to see the President; you want to summon them all at once? That's not a dinner, that's a Hongmen Banquet. Moreover, the elder of the Morgan family just announced that we're lucky nouveau riche, and he's pondering how to dismantle Xinghan and sell it for scrap."

"Lucky?" Lu Qingshan laughed, his chuckle cold, "Tell them I'm going there not to beg for mercy, nor to pay homage."

He pulled from his pocket the uncut "Eastern Star" raw stone and tossed it between his hands.

"Tell Kissinger, if they don't want Soviet tanks rolling into Paris, if they don't want the US Dollar turned to waste paper, then attend the appointment on time. I have a card; they can't refuse it, nor dare not to take it."

"…I understand." Ye Ning inhaled deeply, "I'll arrange it right away. But boss, the atmosphere in Washington right now… feels off. You'd better bring more people."

"No need. Too many people would make us look timid." Lu Qingshan hung up, crushing the cigarette.

Two days later, a Boeing 747 chartered by Xinghan Group, painted with its deep‑blue logo, pierced the clouds and landed at Washington's Andrews Air Force Base.

In late‑autumn Washington, the sky was overcast, the wind cutting like knives.

The cabin door opened, Lu Qingshan tightened his trench coat, stepping down the gangway. Lin Yueqiang followed, carrying the black briefcase, his other hand cautiously resting on his waist, his eyes scanning the surroundings like radar.

The tarmac was empty, no flowers, no honor guard, not even a decent reception officer.

Only a few black Ford business vans were parked there, beside them stood several Secret Service agents wearing sunglasses and chewing gum, their faces expressionlessly bureaucratic.

"These foreign devils, shameless," Lin Yueqiang spat, "Brother‑in‑law, we're at least foreign guests, and they send us only these beat‑up cars? Not even a red flag?"

"It's a test of strength," Lu Qingshan said, unfazed, walking straight to the van, "If they came drumming and banging, that would be strange. The more they do this, the more nervous they are."

The convoy entered Washington city, finally stopping in front of an inconspicuous annex on the east side of the White House.

Instead of the oval office, Lu Qingshan was led to a side chamber.

The room was small, its décor dated, the oil paintings on the wall dimmed. On the table sat a pot of coffee long gone cold, and a few copies of yesterday's newspapers.

"Mr. Lu, please wait," the escort agent said expressionlessly, "President and the gentlemen are in a meeting; they'll see you when it ends."

That wait lasted half an hour.

The wall clock ticked away, each second testing one's patience.

Lin Yueqiang could no longer sit still; he kicked the chair leg, producing a loud "clang": "This is outrageous! What time is it? Leaving us hanging here—what's that about? Brother‑in‑law, let's go, we won't stand for this nonsense!"

Lu Qingshan, however, remained seated on the sofa, holding yesterday's Washington Post, reading it with relish. He even lifted the cold coffee for a sip, not frowning once.

"What's the hurry?" Lu Qingshan turned a page, "It's a test of patience. They want to see how much resolve this Eastern nouveau riche truly has."

At that moment, the side chamber's door finally opened.

A middle‑aged white man in a dark suit, his hair meticulously combed, entered. He was White House Chief of Staff James Beck, his gaze bearing the arrogance and scrutiny of someone in a high position.

"Mr. Lu, sorry for the wait," Beck said apologetically, though his face showed none, "The President's schedule is tight, but you may proceed now. I must remind you, you have only fifteen minutes. Also, the family representatives have short tempers; please watch your words."

The tone sounded less like a host's invitation and more like a scolding of a beggar seeking a meal.

Lu Qingshan slowly closed the newspaper, folded it neatly, and placed it on the table.

He lifted his wrist and glanced at his watch.

"Fifteen minutes?" Lu Qingshan smiled, stood, straightened his collar, "Mr. Beck, I think you've mistaken something."

Beck was startled: "What?"

"My time is valuable too," Lu Qingshan said, looking at Beck, his gaze calmly unsettling, "Since President Reagan and the gentlemen are so busy, I won't disturb you."

After that, he waved at Lin Yueqiang: "Yueqiang, grab your things, let's go."

"Go? Where to?" Lin Yueqiang was bewildered.

"To the airport." Lu Qingshan's voice was low but clear enough for Beck to hear, "Since Washington has no time for tea, we'll head to Moscow. I hear Comrade Gorbachev has recently taken an interest in Africa's minerals and Middle East oil; his tea should still be hot."

Lu Qingshan finished, not even glancing at Beck, and strode toward the exit.

Beck's complexion changed instantly.

He had expected Lu Qingshan to gratefully accept the fifteen‑minute "gift," never imagining the Eastern man would dare flip the table outright!

To Moscow?

Now is the most critical moment of the Cold War; if Xinghan Group's resources—the Angolan mines, Middle Eastern oil, and that "mysterious tactic" capable of blowing up Soviet tanks in Africa—were to shift to the Soviet Union, it would be a disaster for the United States!

"Mr. Lu! Wait!"

Beck hadn't had time to intervene when an aged yet resonant voice echoed from deep within the hallway.

Henry Kissinger, wearing his signature black‑rimmed glasses, hurried over. Though the old man was advanced in years, he moved faster than a youngster at that moment, his face plastered with the oily yet affable smile typical of a career diplomat.

"It's all a misunderstanding," Kissinger grabbed Lu Qingshan's hand as if meeting a brother lost for years, "Lu, my old friend, how could you leave? The President is already waiting inside; earlier it was just… hmm, a minor scheduling error."

Lu Qingshan halted, looking at Kissinger with a half‑smile, "Dr. Kissinger, my patience is also limited. I don't want this kind of 'error' to happen a second time."

"Certainly, certainly," Kissinger wiped the sweat from his forehead, turned and glared fiercely at Beck, "What are you still staring at? Open the door!"

Beck clenched his teeth, forced his proud head down, and turned to make a gesturing "please."

The two massive mahogany doors slowly swung open.

A strong cigar smoke rushed into the face.

The conference room was dimly lit, and around the huge oval long table sat a dozen or so people.

Seated at the very center was President Reagan, who had started as an actor. Flanking him were the old men, each foot‑tap of which could shake Wall Street: David of the Rockefeller family, Pierre of the Morgan family…

The one sitting in this room was the "Emperor" of half the world.

A dozen or so pairs of eyes, full of scrutiny, hostility, greed and contempt, all shot toward the doorway. The air seemed to solidify; that intangible pressure could make an ordinary person's legs go weak.

Lin Yueqiang instinctively reached for his waist, his whole body muscles tensing.

Lu Qingshan, however, smiled.

He took a step, his leather shoes thudding on the carpet with a steady, muffled sound. He showed no hint of unease; instead, he moved as relaxed as if strolling through his own backyard.

He walked to the specially reserved empty seat at the far end of the long table, did not sit down at once, but placed both hands on the tabletop, his gaze sweeping over everyone present before finally landing on Reagan's face.

"Good afternoon, everyone,"

Lu Qingshan's voice echoed through the quiet conference room, carrying an undeniable penetrating force.

"It looks like everyone's here. Then let's not waste time discussing how to split this cake, or… how to avoid smashing the table."