Chapter 1314: Chapter 637: The United Kingdom, the Shit-Stirrer! (Part 2)
“Your Excellency, Supreme Leader, but… but millions of lives,” he said with a choked voice, trying to play the tragic role once more.
However, the moment he uttered the word “lives,” the last bit of patience in Victor’s eyes vanished completely!
With no warning, Victor grabbed the heavy crystal ashtray beside him—the very one he had been using while smoking—and swung his arm fiercely!
A deep whooshing sound sliced through the air!
“Bang—!!!”
The ashtray, with incredible force and precision, slammed into the table in front of Mendoza! It landed less than ten centimeters from his fingers!
The expensive mahogany tabletop instantly showed a noticeable dent. Broken ashes and water splashed everywhere, with some droplets even landing on Mendoza’s terrified, contorted face.
The loud noise and sudden violence startled everyone.
Mendoza was scared out of his wits, letting out a short scream. He jerked back as if scalded, nearly toppling his chair.
“I told you to shut up!!!” Victor roared, his voice shaking the entire conference room. “If you dare fart uselessly in my presence again! Next time, the ashtray won’t land on the table!!!”
Ambassador Mendoza was utterly terrified, scrambling to right his chair and shrinking back into his seat, not daring to utter another sound, his eyes filled only with boundless fear.
The other ambassadors froze like cicadas in the cold, even their breathing softened, fearing they might become the next target.
Victor’s chest heaved a few times, and the violent rage in his eyes gradually subsided.
He sat up straight, adjusted his slightly disheveled collar, and glanced around at the faces still reeling from shock:
“48 hours.” He spoke, “Within 48 hours, news from Medellin will arrive. Until then, if anyone dares to be noisy, don’t blame me for not observing diplomatic etiquette.”
His gaze swept over the British ambassador; these words were meant for him.
Victor wasn’t an idiot. He saw the glances exchanged; how could he not understand?
Anyone with half a brain knew the Brits wanted to get involved in Latin America. They wanted to win over the Colombians.
Damn it, the war isn’t even over, and they’re already scheming!
Bastard Brits, always so disgusting!
The conference room was left with only the heavy, oppressive breathing and the stark dent on the table, evidence of the turbulent storm that had just occurred.
“Meeting adjourned.”
Without unnecessary words, Victor, too lazy to waste more words on them, promptly stood up.
The chair legs scraped against the marble floor with an ear-piercing sound.
Casare and President Lunacharsky followed closely behind, striding out of the meeting without a glance back.
As the door closed, the conference room, like a deflated ball, finally allowed the dozen or so ambassadors’ rigid bodies to relax slightly, but no one dared to speak loudly, only exchanging nervous glances in silence.
The British ambassador George Cavendish’s face was ashen. He adjusted his meticulously tied bow tie, an action carried with a deliberate elegance, trying to recover the dignity Victor had ruthlessly trampled upon.
Commonly known as: trying to act cool but ended up humiliated.
He was the first to rise, walking out without a word, his pace slightly quicker than when he arrived.
The other ambassadors snapped out of their daze, hurriedly leaving their seats, eager to escape this room filled with violence and humiliation as quickly as possible.
Outside the National Palace, the night deepened.
The cars of the ambassadors from various countries quietly waited in their designated spots.
Colombian Ambassador Mendoza stumbled hurriedly into his car, his face pale and his forehead still wet with cold sweat.
Gasping, he said something to the driver, but the car didn’t move immediately, instead idling in place for a moment.
A few seconds later, Mendoza opened the car door, looked around cautiously, then quickly walked towards a sleek black car not far away, which flew the Union Jack.
He opened the car door and swiftly got inside.
The door closed, sealing the world outside. Inside, the air was filled with the rich scent of expensive leather and cigars.
George Cavendish was already seated in the back, having discarded the genteel mask he wore in diplomatic settings, looking at Mendoza with cold eyes.
“Useless!” Cavendish’s voice was low, “Couldn’t withstand any pressure, tears? You think that’s clever! Everyone else at the table was an actor too; what did you think you achieved? A warning from an ashtray?”
Mendoza wiped his sweat, his lips still trembling: “Mr. Cavendish, Victor, he really dared to act! Didn’t you see his eyes…”
“Save your cowardly act!” Cavendish interrupted impatiently, “This is not the time for complaining! Victor’s rigidity exceeded expectations. He doesn’t fall for international pressure or moral coercion. 48 hours… hmph, what official report can he deliver in 48 hours? A carefully crafted lie? Or… continue to pretend ignorance?”
He took a deep draw of his cigar, the smoke swirling in the dim car light, reflecting his current thoughts.
“Mendoza, perhaps the disappearance of Medellin is an opportunity for all of us, a huge opportunity to reshape the landscape of Latin America!”
Cavendish’s voice carried a seductive whisper, “Victor’s Mexico is rising in a disturbing way, its power unknown, its methods… even more unpredictable. His new order is full of violence and might, something the civilized world is unwilling to see.”
He turned, his eyes intensely focused on Mendoza: “The British Empire’s traditional interests and influence in Latin America must be maintained and strengthened! And Colombia, as a key country on the South American continent, has a unique geographical position and potential.”
“Think about it, Mendoza, think about a Colombia freed from the shadow of drug cartels, with strong external support! It could completely become the new anchor of stability in South America, the new leader.”
“Leader?” Mendoza’s murky eyes flickered with a mix of greed and desire, temporarily overshadowing his fear. The term was too tempting to him, to his country.
“Exactly!” Cavendish said decisively, “But the premise is that we must break Victor’s high-pressure control over Latin America, especially your Colombia! The Medellin incident is the perfect wedge to tear open his iron curtain! We can’t enter it directly for investigation, but… news will come out, there’ll always be clues. We need you in Colombia to use every channel to collect any real information about Medellin’s disappearance! Photos, witnesses, anomalies… anything that points to the truth! At the same time…”
He leaned closer to Mendoza, his voice lowered further, “In Bogota, within the Organization of American States, we need to continue creating public pressure! Pin the labels of ‘humanitarian disaster,’ ‘state terrorism,’ firmly on Victor! Make all of the Americas feel uneasy and afraid! Isolate him! Undermine his moral foundation! Create conditions for our next move.”
Mendoza’s heart began to race.
Fear still lingered, but the allure of power and the promises from the British were like a shot of adrenaline into his veins. He nodded vigorously, his eyes rekindling with a blend of ambition and calculation: “I understand, Mr. Cavendish. For Colombia’s future… for the new order in South America, I know what to do. I will immediately contact home, mobilize all the resources we can. Victor cannot hide the sun with one hand forever!”
“Good.” Cavendish leaned back in his seat, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “Remember, time is tight. Victor only gave 48 hours. We must find the truth before he weaves his lies… or create a truth damaging enough. Go, act quickly and discreetly.”
The car door opened again, and Mendoza slipped out like a ghost, returning to his own vehicle.
The two cars almost simultaneously started and silently merged into the thick night outside the National Palace. Their headlights pierced the darkness, like two treacherous snakes sliding off in different directions, leaving behind deeper conspiracies and an impending storm.
Inside the car, Cavendish watched the rapidly retreating nightscape of Mexico City through the window, his gaze deep. Victor’s show of force may have temporarily restrained the scene, but it would only make the undercurrents below the surface more turbulent. A silent war over the truth of Medellin’s disappearance and the dominance of Latin America was just beginning. He picked up the encrypted satellite phone and began dialing.
“We must also accelerate our plans!”
…