Chapter 988: Not Because You're President, I'll Take Care of You

Diego’s public speech lasted only thirty minutes, and Lans could tell he had edited the script somewhat.

Some parts felt abruptly disjointed, especially those sections praising the people.

Lans had not interacted much with Diego, nor often, but he could sense this was a president clinging to the mindset of an old slaveowner—a ruler.

He viewed the people of this nation as his own bred slaves, so when asked to praise them, he felt deeply uncomfortable.

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It was like the slaveowners before the Federal Liberation Movement—you might as well pull out your gun and shoot them right away than make them say, “If you work hard, I’ll free you and give you land to live a quiet, prosperous life.”

They couldn’t utter such words; to them, slaves were animals—no different from horses in the stable, cattle in the barn, sheep in the pen, or dogs in the kennel.

They were merely tools for earning money and accumulating wealth.

Even less than tools.

They couldn’t say those words.

But if you told them, “If you don’t get your ass off that rock and move your hands so I know you’re fucking working, I’ll hang you,” they’d gladly recite that long sentence clearly, fluently, with a touch of dark humor—

Long sentences have always been the enemy of the poorly educated.

Diego shared this mindset; how could he possibly praise his slaves?

He couldn’t do it—he was a president who cared about face.

On this issue, he wasn’t even qualified; a qualified president would say whatever was necessary, even if it was insincere.

After Diego finished speaking, Lans patted his pant leg, placed both hands on the upper part of his knees, used a bit of leverage, and stood up.

“Arrange a meeting with the president. I need to see him as soon as possible.”

Gomes immediately made the call; at that moment, Diego had just returned from the large balcony of the presidential palace.

He always gave public speeches from that balcony—his father, his grandfather, his ancestors had all done the same.

They all did it; previously, they might not have stood in the presidential palace, but always on some elevated platform higher than others.

Diego wiped his hands and cheeks with a pristine white silk handkerchief; the current temperature felt comfortable to him, and he wiped not because he was hot, but because he sweated oil.

In just a short while, a thin layer of oil would secrete onto his skin; if he didn’t wipe it, his skin would soon begin to gleam—he hated that state.

His skin was already slightly dark; if it were also oily and shiny, he’d find it bizarre.

He casually tossed the used silk handkerchief to his butler; the once spotless cloth now bore a mixture of grime and grease.

If properly cleaned, the handkerchief might be restored to pure white and reused.

If not, it would be destroyed.

Nothing from the presidential palace—not even crushed or burned—was ever given to servants; that was the rule.

“Master, Gomes is on the phone.”

Diego looked at the butler standing nearby, holding the receiver, then shuffled over, “Find me the best cobbler in town. I need new shoes.”

“These shoes are uncomfortable—I can’t even walk straight or steady.”

He blamed his wobbly gait on the shoes, not his own obesity.

The butler smiled in agreement; he was used to Diego inventing excuses for himself.

He picked up the phone, his tone slightly impatient.

Gomes had always been too close to the Federals—he disliked that.

The Federals were no good people; on this point, he agreed with the president of the Jide Republic.

But the Jide Republic had real power and leverage to refuse; he, president of Lapa—a poor, backward place—had no such privilege.

He had already planned to remove Gomes, but Gomes kept running to Lans’s side, making the matter complicated.

In a few days, he planned to announce the revocation of Gomes’s position as president of the chamber of commerce and appoint a new one.

“What’s so urgent you have to call me now?” His tone was hostile, thick with unmistakable displeasure and anger, and a trace of something unsettling.

Like a bone stuck in meat—you keep chewing, trying to find it, crush it, then spit it out hard.

Gomes knew making this call meant he had no retreat—it was a declaration.

“Mr. Lans wants to meet with you.”

Diego grew furious upon hearing this; he felt betrayed by Gomes—he had trusted him so much!

Well, not that much.

“Are you working for the Federals now?”

“Gomes?!”

Gomes’s mouth turned bitter; he knew how terrifying this fat man was. He pretended not to hear the hard-to-answer question and shifted tactics, even sounding slightly confrontational to keep the conversation moving.

“What’s your answer?”

“Mr. President!”

Diego gritted his teeth, glanced at the time, “Before dinner today.”

“I’m free before dinner. Come to the Presidential Palace.”

He hung up immediately, muttered curses at Lans, the Federals, and Gomes, then shuffled off toward his room.

He needed a glass of iced fruit juice, then a lie-down to ease his physical fatigue.

If not for the slightly cooler temperature, he’d have preferred lying in an open-air pool.

The sensation of water washing over his body lifted his mood considerably.

Over an hour later, Lans arrived at the presidential palace; Diego and the Minister of Foreign Affairs received him in the palace’s conference room.

The side chamber—not the main hall.

It wasn’t that Diego couldn’t afford to use the main hall; it was that Lans had no official status. Using the main hall would make Diego feel he was bowing to the Federals—receiving a non-official guest in the highest chamber.

Even though he truly was inferior to the Federals.

In the side chamber, none of those concerns existed.

After shaking hands with both men, Lans was led by staff to his sofa and sat down.

“I just listened to your public speech, President Diego. It serves as a vital warning and help to the people of Lapa. I believe the issue will be resolved soon.”

Diego and the Minister of Foreign Affairs both nodded; the statement was flawless.

But Lans quickly shifted tone: “I noticed you mentioned the Jide Republic provided a batch of grain to Lapa.”

Diego confirmed the news again: “Yes. Three hundred fifty thousand tons of wheat.”

“We plan to mill it into flour; eating flour gives more satiety than raw wheat kernels.”

He meant turning the flour into bread or cakes, adding other ingredients—anything as long as people didn’t starve.

Lans nodded slightly. “What agreements did you make with the Jide Republic?”

“What made them willing to send so much grain?”

Diego paused, then his face darkened with displeasure. “That has nothing to do with you.”

“It’s our deal with Jide. You don’t need to know, and you have no right to know.”

Clearly, he was offended.

If someone else had asked—say, the Federal ambassador or a diplomat—he might have felt slightly less insulted.

Who was Lans?

A gang boss, strutting in like this, demanding to know what deals he made with the Jide Republic?!

He felt Lans’s arrogance—his calm demeanor hiding utter disregard for him!

So his tone grew harsh, louder than necessary.

Lans listened to his outburst without rushing to rebut or react. He smiled, picked up the coffee cup the butler had just brought, stirred it gently with a spoon, then sipped a small amount. “This concerns the interests of Federal investors in Lapa.”

He looked up at Diego. “I. We. The Federal investors. They don’t care about your people’s cultural level, nor your ability to help them climb social ranks, nor your fully developed industries.”

“They come here for cheap labor and inexpensive resources.”

“If you strike some deal with Jide—say, trading resources for grain aid—”

“And that harms Federal investors’ interests…”

He set down his coffee cup, though he was careful, gentle.

Still, when the cup’s base touched the saucer, a faint click sounded.

He looked at Diego. “We will hold you accountable.”

They locked eyes; Diego glared at Lans with all the fury he could muster—but to Lans, it was still weak.

His gaze and expression were indeed fierce, terrifying—but hollow.

The Minister of Foreign Affairs stepped in quickly. “This is our internal affair!”

Diego took a deep breath, looked away. Lans turned to the minister. “I said—we must protect investors’ interests.”

The minister bristled. “How do you plan to protect them?”

Lans answered swiftly: “I need to know what deal you made!”

For a moment, the president of a nation and his foreign minister were cornered by Lans, struggling even to speak clearly.

Seeing they still said nothing, Lans continued: “Ore, wild trees, rubber plantations, orchards, light and heavy industry—all of these are what we need.”

“If you redirect certain mines or regional resources to them—”

“Or if anything else happens that harms Federal investors’ interests—”

“Then it’s time for us to act!”

He didn’t yield, standing firm, face-to-face. “A minor player selling out the country might just leak insignificant information.”

“But a ruler selling out the country? That’s real treason.”

Diego couldn’t hold back: “What are you implying?”

He pointed at his own chest and stood up. “Are you saying I’m betraying my country?”

The Minister of Foreign Affairs also quickly stood up to urge him to sit down, while the butler in the distance and several soldiers turned their gazes toward this side.

“Do you think I won’t kill you?” he had begun speaking recklessly; as president of a nation, even if he were an incompetent politician, he should not lose composure in such a fit of rage.

Then again, he already was an incompetent politician—who could possibly expect him to make the right choice like a competent one?

Lans paid no mind to his threats; he didn’t even lift his eyes, casually picked up a fruit he had never seen before, and took a bite.

Sour and sweet—tropical lands were full of such strange, odd fruits.

He shook his head, unsure whether he disapproved of Diego’s actions or simply wasn’t satisfied with the fruit in his hand.

He tossed the fruit into the trash bin, then looked up at Diego. “I believe you.”

“I believe you can kill me.”

His gaze shifted briefly to the Minister of Foreign Affairs’s face, then returned. “But before you kill me, you must consider how you’ll explain your actions to the Alliance, and how you’ll justify to the Federation why you did this.”

“Then you must consider whether your explanation will convince anyone—whether the Alliance controlled by the Republic of Jiede will expel you from it.”

“And how you’ll handle the Federation’s pursuit.”

“You, your family, this minister beside you, all your friends, and every one of their families—will die.”

He spoke these words in a calm tone, yet they carried an undeniable weight of conviction.

He leaned back against the sofa and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it. “In just one day, the Federation’s navy will arrive here and erase Zolan from the map.”

“Want to try?”

Diego still glared fiercely at Lans, but now he said nothing further to provoke him.

Because he knew Lans’s words were very likely true.

A subtle, enigmatic smile appeared on Lans’s face. “So, Mr. President, we can be enemies—or friends.”

“Sharing information is the most basic courtesy among friends.”

“Tell me something I’m interested in.”

“For instance, what deal did you strike? Why are they willing to supply you with so much grain?”

Calculating at a price slightly lower than Lans’s purchase rate—35 federal soles per ton—that’s seventeen point five million federal soles.

If they’d sent grain worth a million, Lans might have accepted it as plausible—stabilizing Lapa’s situation benefits the entire Alliance.

But this is seventeen point five million. No one gives away such a sum casually. There must be a deal—and the item exchanged must be extremely valuable.

At least, something worthy of this grain!

Lans’s stance was undeniably firm—so firm it bordered on incomprehensible.

Diego’s small eyes never left Lans; he saw no shock, fear, anxiety, or unease in Lans’s gaze.

He saw only calm—and beneath that calm, a storm raging.

Diego pushed aside the Minister of Foreign Affairs beside him and sat back down on the sofa.

“We will send a portion of our best talent to the Republic of Jiede, followed by rubber blocks and copper ingots.”

The Republic of Jiede has long been pushing industrial development; rubber blocks and copper ingots are among the most essential materials for industry.

Lans smiled. “See? It’s not so complicated to say it out loud.”

“You made a wise choice at this crossroads of life, Mr. President.”

Lans nodded in satisfaction. Regardless of whether Diego had hidden anything, he had obtained the answer he wanted.

He then rose, supporting himself with his legs. “I will report everything that happened today to Senator Cleveland.”

“As for how they intend to handle this matter, I will contact you immediately if there’s new information.”

“Now, I must return.”

He extended his hand toward Diego; Diego could only weakly shake it, then the Minister of Foreign Affairs.

There was no further exchange among the three. Lans gave a slight nod, then strode out.

Watching Lans’s retreating figure, Diego picked up his coffee and took a sip—then hurled it violently to the floor, staining a cream-colored camel-hair rug brown.

He glanced at the shattered teacup and the large damp patch on the carpet, then turned and staggered away.

After Diego left, the Minister of Foreign Affairs sat back down and lit himself a cigarette.

He had a premonition: the Federals weren’t here merely to invest—they wanted more.

They wanted cheap labor here, cheap resources here, even the people here.

Power. Land. Anything!

He knew Lapa stood no chance against the Federation—the two were not even in the same league.

The Federation’s earlier attempt to forcibly station troops felt like yesterday!

If not for the Republic of Jiede’s president urgently forming the Yalan National Alliance, the Federals might already have begun infiltrating their lives.

Thinking of this, he let out a heavy sigh—there was almost no light ahead.

Even if he could barely glimpse the contours of the future, he was powerless to change it—this feeling was terrible.

On the other side, after returning to the hotel, Lans immediately called Senator Cleveland and recounted everything he had discovered, then mentioned his subsequent thoughts.

This matter carried some potential risk, so Lans wondered whether there was any way to have the navy’s warships cruise near Lapa—or even near the Republic of Jiede.

To make them fully understand the gap in strength between the two sides!

The senator agreed, and also warned Lans to be careful with his safety.