Chapter 492: National Fortune Express and the Russian Nesting Dolls

The northwestern wind is as hard as a knife, scraping the face and causing a sting.

This place can't be found on any map, it only has a code name. The withered grass along the runway is blown flat by the wind, and a few dark‑green Jeeps are parked at the end of the military runway; beside the vehicles stand a dozen or so men, their coat collars stiff, silent, with only the wind howling.

The massive tires of the Boeing 747 touch the ground, emitting a harsh screech, followed by the roar of the thrust‑reverser.

Lu Qingshan looks out through the port window and at a glance recognizes the elderly man standing at the front, slightly stooped yet upright. Old Chen leans on a cane; the wind tosses his white hair into disarray, but he does not move a muscle.

The aircraft has just come to a halt, and before the gangway is fully set up, three gray‑painted C‑130 Hercules transports land behind it. Their massive fuselages loom like three well‑fed giant birds, weighing heavily on the runway.

When the hatch opens, a blast of cold rushes in. Lu Qingshan pulls his windbreaker tight and strides down the gangway.

"Old Chen, the wind's fierce—why aren't you waiting in the vehicle?" Lu Qingshan reaches out to help.

Old Chen waves his hand; his cloudy old eyes flash startlingly bright, fixed on the three American planes unloading behind him: "My old bones can still hold out. Those crates, though, are worth more than my life."

A few gray‑haired researchers in Zhongshan suits have already rushed over. They are the country's leading experts on lithography machines and aircraft engines; normally they need assistance walking, yet now they run faster than rabbits.

A huge wooden crate is carefully set down by a forklift. The box bears a glaring line of English: ASMLPrototype, along with the GE logo, the crown jewel of the aviation industry.

An elderly academic, Wang Zhanfeng, wearing thick bottom‑heavy glasses, shivers as he walks over, reaching to touch the cold wooden panel. As he keeps touching it, his knees suddenly give way; he drops to his knees on the cement, his face pressed to the crate, and he sobs loudly.

"It's here... it's really here..."

The old man's cries are torn apart by the wind, stirring a pang of sorrow. After thirty years of being choked, this vile resentment finally erupts today.

Old Chen's eyes redden; he inhales deeply, turns to Lu Qingshan, and says, "Qingshan, this time you're not just doing business—you've connected the backbone of our nation."

Lu Qingshan says nothing, merely pulls a black file folder from his briefcase and hands it over with both hands.

"Inside are copies of the Federal Reserve Open Market Committee's equity transfer documents, plus the first batch of unlocked technology and parameter lists," Lu Qingshan says, his voice a bit hoarse. "Also, the layout on the Soviet Union side is all here."

Old Chen takes the file bag, his hand trembling slightly. He knows all too well the weight of those papers. It's a Soviet life exchanged for a Huaxia express ticket.

"Good! Good!" Old Chen says "good" twice, turns, and raises his voice sharply toward the tear‑wiping experts and officers behind him, "Transmit the commander‑in‑chief's order!"

Everyone instantly stands at attention, and even the kneeling academic Wang Zhanfeng is helped to an upright stance.

"Effective immediately, establish the 'Project 101' Command; Comrade Zhang Dezhi, Minister of Equipment, shall serve as chief commander, mobilizing all national resources in relevant fields, sparing no cost, to master these technologies!" Old Chen pauses, his gaze landing on Lu Qingshan, "Appoint Comrade Lu Qingshan as 'Project 101' chief consultant, with the highest secret‑level privileges!"

General Zhang Dezhi strides forward and renders a proper military salute to Lu Qingshan. In his eyes is absolute respect for a superior.

After the handover is completed, Lu Qingshan does not linger at the base. He knows that from now on it will be so busy the axle will turn, but his battlefield lies elsewhere.

Returning to Capital City's Fuqiang Hutong, it is already ten p. m.

He pushes open the vermilion door, and the courtyard lights are on. Jin Hu, who had been lying in his nest, hears the footsteps and with a "teng" darts out, circling Lu Qingshan, his tail whirring like a propeller.

"You're back?" Lin Yue'e greets him, holding a wok spatula, wearing the faded apron. The house exudes the scent of stewed pork ribs—the smell of home.

A string in Lu Qingshan's heart loosens; he is about to smile, but notices his wife's complexion is off.

Lin Yue'e doesn't take his coat as usual; instead, flustered, she points to the main hall table: "Qingshan, a parcel arrived this afternoon, claimed to be a diplomatic gift from the Soviet Embassy. I haven't dared open it, but this dog keeps barking at the box."

The smile on Lu Qingshan's face instantly fades, his gaze turning cold.

"Yueqiang!"

"Here!" Lin Yueqiang, who was teasing Lu Xiaoxue inside, rushes out, and at the sight of the situation, his hand immediately reaches for his lower back.

"I told your sister and the child to stay in the back yard; without my word you may not come out."

Lin Yue'e wants to say something, but seeing her husband's ice‑cold face, she grits her teeth, scoops up the bewildered Lu Xiaoxue and walks toward the back.

Only Lu Qingshan and Lin Yueqiang remain in the main hall. Jin Hu emits a low woof from his throat, his fur standing on end, staring intently at the square box wrapped in kraft paper on the table.

Lu Qingshan pulls a military dagger from his boot and gently pries open the packing rope.

The paper skin parts, revealing a finely painted wooden box. Opening the lid, inside is a beautifully painted Russian nesting doll. The doll depicts a smiling Russian grandmother, festive, yet now it looks somehow sinister.

"What the hell are these old Russians up to?" Lin Yueqiang frowns.

Lu Qingshan says nothing, his left hand holding the base, his right hand unscrewing the first doll.

Inside there is another.

Unscrew again.

There are seven layers in total. When Lu Qingshan unscrews the final thumb‑sized doll, there is no smaller doll inside.

Only a folded photograph and a yellowish pistol bullet remain.

Lu Qingshan lifts the photo with the tip of his knife.

It is a candid shot by Zhang Yuanjing. In the background, the iron fence of the Ministry's kindergarten; Lu Xiaoxue is crouched on the ground watching ants, her hair in two small braids, smiling innocently. On the photo's edge, a red pen draws a crosshair aimed at the back of the child's head.

On the bullet's tip, a tiny Russian inscription is carved with a knife: Иванов (Ivanov).

"Fuck them!" Lin Yueqiang, seeing the photo clearly, his eyes instantly redden, a fist slams the table, "These beasts! Their disaster reaches the family; they've broken the rules!"

Lu Qingshan does not curse. He simply watches the bullet, his face as calm as a still pond, but those who know him understand this signals his fury at its peak.

This man had previously been placed by Ye Ning for an internal Soviet investigation; he is the brother of the Soviet general whom he humiliated in Africa, a KGB head of Far‑East affairs, a mad dog.

"Click."

Lu Qingshan crushes the exquisite wooden doll in his hand. The wooden splinters pierce the flesh, blood beads oozing, yet he seems unfazed.

"Yueqiang." Lu Qingshan's voice is very soft, so soft that it makes the scalp tingle.

"Brother‑in‑law, you tell me! I'll send people right now to take that embassy down!"

"No need. That's a brute's job." Lu Qingshan tosses the bullet and the photo into his briefcase, "Relay my orders, activate the 'Cleansing Order'. Sweep through our company, the project department, and the surroundings, inside and out. Even the cleaners, the vegetable deliverers—if any foundation is even slightly unclean, remove them all."

"Notify General Zhang Dezhi, raise the security level to the highest. From today, Xiao Xue will no longer go to kindergarten, have the teacher come to the house for lessons."

"Yes!" Lin Yueqiang grits his teeth and replies, then turns to make a phone call.

Lu Qingshan walks into the courtyard, lights a cigarette. The ember flickers, reflecting his murderous eyes.

Since you don't want to follow the rules, then we won't let anyone follow the rules.

He pulls out the encrypted Satellite Phone and dials a number.

"Lu? My brother!" Saleman's excited voice comes through, with Arabic music and cheers in the background, "The batch you sent is fantastic! My father‑king is delighted; just now, he officially appointed me Crown Prince! The gates of Saudi Arabia are forever open to you!"

"Congratulations, Your Highness the Crown Prince," Lu Qingshan exhales a smoke ring, his tone devoid of warmth, "However, we must celebrate in a different way."

Saleman detects something amiss; the music stops instantly, "What happened?"

"That 'Oil Rope' plan doesn't have to wait until next year," Lu Qingshan said, looking at the pitch‑black night sky, "It will be launched at the beginning of next month. I want you to drive oil prices down, down to the floor. I want the Soviet people to have not even enough money to buy bread, let alone bullets."

The person on the other end of the phone was silent for a few seconds. The plan was originally meant to cooperate with the United States in dragging down the Soviet Union, but an early launch means Saudi Arabia would also suffer heavy losses.

"Lu, this will hurt," Saleman hesitated.

"Discounted arms worth two hundred billion US dollars, plus the shares of that security school," Lu Qingshan added coldly. "Besides, I'll give you a big gift—recent unrest in Iraq; I can provide you with their latest troop deployment map."

"Deal!" Saleman, a smart and ruthless man, said. "For friendship, and for the future. On the morning of the first of next month, you'll see a plunge performance of the Brent crude oil price."

He hung up the phone, Lu Qingshan tossed the cigarette butt onto the ground and stomped it flat with his foot.

At the same time, in an old tube‑shaped building less than two kilometers from Fuqiang Hutong.

A middle‑aged man in a janitor uniform, looking honest and plain, was huddled in the dim attic. He skillfully assembled a high‑power radio transmitter, his fingers tapping rapidly on the keys.

The tick‑tack radio waves crossed the Capital City night sky, heading straight for Moscow.

"Package received. Target's emotional fluctuations are extreme. Hunt operation commencing."

After sending the report, the man dismantled the transmitter, stashed it inside a hollowed‑out bed chest, and a faint, sinister smile appeared on his face.

In the courtyard of Fuqiang Hutong, the wind stopped.

Lu Qingshan stood beneath the old locust tree, looking north.

"Ivanov…" he whispered the name, as if chewing a broken bone, "Since you dared to reach your claws toward my daughter, I will uproot your entire KGB and use this set of dolls as a burial offering."