Chapter 490

In the windowless conference room in the East Wing of the White House, the air was as murky as a stagnant pool.

There were no reporters, no flashbulbs, not even a waiter; only the cigar smoke swirled under the dim yellow light. It was the finest Cuban Cohiba, yet at this moment it smelled of suffocating gunpowder.

Along both sides of the long table sat a dozen or so old men who could decide whether the Western world would eat bread or sip thin porridge tonight.

David Rockefeller sat to Reagan's left, twirling the family heirloom gold ring in his hand, his eyelids drooping as if dozing, yet the glint in his cloudy eyes was colder than a scalpel.

"Young man," David Rockefeller broke the silence, his voice hoarse like sandpaper on wood, "the 'gold bond' scheme you ran in Hong Kong has caused quite a stir. It directly links to physical gold, bypassing the US Dollar settlement system. Do you know who the last person tried this? It was de Gaulle. France nearly went bankrupt afterward."

He paused, pressed the cigar out in the crystal ashtray with a ruthless motion, and said, "You treat the financial order as a child's game; you are declaring war on the rules of the civilized world."

Lu Qingshan sat at the head of the long table, with Lin Yueqiang standing behind him, hand on his waist. Facing the accusation, he merely smiled, reached into his coat, pulled out a pack of cheap "Da Qianmen" cigarettes costing two mao each, took one out, and lit it.

The harsh bite of the low‑grade tobacco instantly dispelled the expensive cigar aroma.

"Mr. Rockefeller, we speak plainly," Lu Qingshan exhaled a smoke ring, "the so‑called financial order is just you few families sitting on the dealer's seat, printing green paper in exchange for the world's blood and sweat. I merely lifted a corner of that veil. So, is that enough to make you nervous?"

"How dare you!" Pierre Morgan slapped the table, rattling the coffee cups, "this is Washington, not your vegetable market! Believe it or not, with one phone call I could freeze all of Xinghan Group's overseas accounts."

"I believe you, of course," Lu Qingshan flicked ash, his face indifferent, "but Mr. Morgan, if I were to dump all my US Treasury bonds and then tighten the valves on those Middle East oil pipelines, would you guess whether tomorrow's Dow Jones Index will be green or red?"

The conference room fell silent instantly. The few magnates exchanged uneasy glances, their faces grim.

That's why the barefoot aren't afraid of those wearing shoes. Lu Qingshan held tangible assets in his hand—hard currency—while they only held bubbles.

Reagan sat in the head seat, silent all along. The president, a former actor, possessed astonishing intuition; he looked at the Eastern youngster as if he were the protagonist in a script about to overturn the plot.

"Alright, gentlemen," Reagan tapped the table, his trademark charming smile in place, "we're all busy; let's skip the mutual threats. Lu, what exactly do you have in your hand that lets you face half the world's wealth alone? Speak plainly."

Lu Qingshan stubbed out his cigarette, leaned forward, and crossed his hands on the table.

"President, that's straightforward," Lu Qingshan raised a finger, "since everyone's here, I'll name my price. I want to buy a stake in the Federal Reserve."

"Cough cough cough—"

Kissinger, who had just lifted his coffee to sip, choked immediately, coughing violently, his face turning a pork‑liver hue.

David Rockefeller's hand trembled, the ring clinking against the tabletop with a crisp sound.

"What did you say?" Pierre Morgan thought he had misheard or mistranslated, "You want to buy Federal Reserve stock? Those dead shares that only pay a fixed 6% dividend?"

"No," Lu Qingshan shook his head, his gaze burning, "what I want are 'management shares' that carry decision‑making seats. I want a chair in the Federal Reserve's Open Market Committee that belongs to Xinghan Group—or, rather, to Huaxia—and that outranks yours, since I'm the newcomer."

Boom!

The remark detonated like a cluster bomb, blowing the conference room wide open.

What is the Federal Reserve? It is the citadel of American conglomerates, a privatized central bank, the heart of US Dollar hegemony! For a century only those few families have been able to carve up the cake inside, even the US Government can't get a hand in, and now a Huaxia man dares to ask for a share?

"Crazy! Absolutely crazy!" the Chicago consortium's representative stood up, pointing at Lu Qingshan's nose, "You're dreaming! This touches America's red line! It's impossible!"

"Red line?" Lu Qingshan sneered, "Red lines are meant to be broken."

Ignoring the surrounding roars, he raised a second finger: "Besides the chair, I want Dr. Kissinger to join me, and within three years unconditionally secure Huaxia's accession to the World Trade Organization with permanent Most‑Favored‑Nation status."

"Ha!" the Boston consortium's elder sneered, "Young man, are you still half‑asleep? You want us to get you into the WTO? To give you MFN treatment? On what grounds? Just because you hold a few tons of gold and a few barrels of oil? Believe we'll put you on the Blacklist right now so you can't even buy a single screw!"

"On that basis."

Lu Qingshan lifted the black briefcase from his feet, placed it on the table, and opened it with a "clack".

Inside there was no money, only several documents.

He pushed the documents toward Reagan.

Reagan picked them up, puzzled, flipped two pages, and his previously relaxed expression instantly froze.

It was a detailed intelligence report on Soviet Far East, Eastern and Northern European military deployments, even marking supply vulnerabilities at several secret nuclear submarine bases. Below it lay a Xinghan Group report on the Pricing Power of Middle East oil, and an analysis forecasting Japan's semiconductor industry eroding the US market.

"Do you think I'm begging you?" Lu Qingshan leaned back into his chair, his voice low but each word a dagger, "I'm saving you."

"Look at the United States now. The economy is stagnant‑inflationary, unemployment is high, debt is crushing. In Europe, those old aristocrats under Rothschild are tinkering with the Euro, trying to kick the US Dollar off its altar. The Japanese are buying your skyscrapers, your companies, bragging they'll buy all of America. The Soviet Union may be sick, but its nuclear teeth are still sharp, ready to bite your throats at any moment."

Lu Qingshan stood, walked to the massive World Map on the wall, and drew a circle with his finger on the red‑colored East Asian region.

"On this planet, only this piece of land can save the United States."

"Huaxia has a billion people—that's a billion mouths ready to consume, the world's largest potential market. We have countless diligent, cheap labor that can lower your production costs and curb inflation. Xinghan Group is the bridge linking these two colossal forces."

He turned, his gaze sweeping over the silent consortium magnates.

"Refusing me is refusing the next fifty years of national destiny. Do you want to cling to that pitiful pride and drown, or grab my hand and become richer for another hundred years?"

The conference room was dead silent.

Only the wall clock's tick‑tock filled the air.

These capitalists have no borders, only interests. Lu Qingshan's words hit their soft spot with pinpoint accuracy. They despise Huaxia's ideology, but they love money more and fear death even more.

Reagan closed the documents, inhaled deeply. He had to admit that the young man had persuaded him. But—

"Lu, what you're offering is tempting, but it's a future‑dated check," Reagan stared at Lu Qingshan, his eyes sharpening, "It's still not enough to buy a seat at the Federal Reserve. That chair is too pricey. Unless… you can give me an irresistible, present‑day chip."

Lu Qingshan smiled.

He knew the fish had taken the bait.

"President, what do you want most? Or, what is the greatest political ambition of your life?"

Reagan said nothing, but everyone knew the answer.

Bring down the Soviet Union.

Lu Qingshan walked to Reagan's side, leaned down, and whispered in his ear, "What if I told you I could help you bring down the Soviet Union, unify Germany, and make Europe a complete US vassal?"

Reagan's pupils snapped shut, as if pricked by a needle.

Even Kissinger, at that moment, removed his glasses, dabbed his handkerchief repeatedly, his hand trembling slightly.

"Bring down the Soviet Union?"

That's something generations of US presidents have dreamed of achieving, yet never managed.

"Who doesn't brag?" the California consortium's representative sneered, "The Soviet Union's economy may be weak, but it's still a superpower, its steel flood rolls on, the KGB remains, you can't just topple it by saying so."

"So I say, this is a gamble."

Lu Qingshan straightened, walked to the map, and hammered his finger onto the spots of Berlin and Moscow.

"Give me one year."

"I will use economic means, coordinated with Xinghan Group's global resource deployment, to turn the tide in these two places. I will drain the Soviet Union's fiscal lifeblood, and I will bring down the Berlin Wall."

Lu Qingshan turned around, looked at the stunned bigwigs filling the room, spread his arms, like a mad gambler and like a prophet who sees the future.

"The wager is the Federal Reserve seat and the WTO entry ticket."

"If I lose, all my assets in the United States belong to you, and my brain—Lu Qingshan's—can also be given to you as a ball to kick."

"But if I win…"

Lu Qingshan's gaze fell on Reagan's face, and the corner of his mouth curled into a haughty arc.

"Everyone, dare to follow?"