Capítulo 1332: Chapter 645: Am I Some Kind of Good Guy? (Part 3)
Victor merely gazed at him calmly, as if saying: My people are speaking the truth, while you are still trying to weave a rope of lies. The choice between the consequences or departure lies with you.
The air in the office, due to Casare’s rapid-fire sarcasm and Cavendi’s embarrassment, became unbearably awkward. The diplomatic mask that the British had relied on for centuries—polite yet aloof—was utterly torn off, revealing the pallid underside.
“My time is very precious.”
“What price do your citizens’ lives hold in the eyes of your government? That is the real core issue. You want my people to risk entering Medellin’s meat grinder to bring out your gentlemen and ladies unscathed. Fine, but this isn’t a charity event. This is a high-risk military operation. Risks demand compensation.”
Victor couldn’t be bothered to waste breath on these people; the British are too arrogant, always thinking they are still the Sun Never Sets.
“Go call your Prime Minister, ask him, and ask yourself, what price your soldiers, your citizens hold? How much are they worth in concessions? How much in benefits?”
Victor delivered with undeniable decisiveness:
“To be clear, without a satisfactory price for us, those British soldiers trapped in Medellin will stay there. We won’t waste a single bullet to save a group of allies who stab us in the back. They’ll either fight their way out themselves or die at the Colombians’ or the drug traffickers’ hands. This was inevitable the moment you chose to support Carlos’s opposition and obstruct our efforts to stabilize Colombian order!”
“And, be sure to remind your Prime Minister, if your country continues to try to gain something for nothing, or delays with diplomatic rhetoric games… Mexico’s media machine will be fully engaged. We will ensure the whole world clearly sees how the British Empire sits idly by, watching its soldiers and citizens trapped overseas for petty gains. We’ll report in detail your country’s support of opposition in Colombia and the glorious deeds of undermining stability, as well as how you are now humanely abandoning your own people.”
“The steps of London’s Parliament Building will soon be piled high with newspapers bearing images of your soldiers and slogans of questioning.”
“This is the additional media tax you need to pay now.”
“The choice is yours. Now, go make the call. Casare will arrange for you a quiet room.”
Having said that, he no longer glanced at Cavendi, his gaze returning to the evaluation report on the Colombian military base’s location on the table, as if the diplomatic storm that could shake the British Isles was merely a breeze over the surface.
Casare’s face was filled with undisguised gloating. He stepped in front of the nearly petrified Cavendi, a pressure exuding from his obese frame, his small eyes narrowed to slits, flashing a gleam of cunning commerce: “Please, Ambassador? The phone room is this way, time is money, oh no, time is the lives of your gentlemen and ladies! Heh heh…” He deliberately elongated his tone, made an extremely crude gesture of “please,” pointing to the door.
Ambassador Cavendi was rigid all over, his lips quivering, yet he couldn’t utter a word.
Victor’s blatant threats and Casare’s unabashed humiliation pressed on him like two mountains, leaving him almost breathless.
His proud diplomatic skills, the dignity of the Empire, were thoroughly crushed in this office. He moved his feet with difficulty, like a soulless puppet, stumbling out of the Supreme Leader’s office under Casare’s “enthusiastic” “escort.”
The heavy wooden door closed behind him, isolating the suffocating pressure and cutting off his last shred of decorum.
The office returned to silence.
Victor didn’t even lift his head, instead picking up a pen to make a prominent circle on a coordinate point near the Panama border on the report.
The massive map of South America showed Brazil’s silhouette stretching silently in the light. Colombia’s clamor was only a prelude, the British dilemma in Medellin merely a minor episode.
The pen at his fingertip pointed towards the center of a grander chessboard.
Just like Emperor Caesar once gazed into the distance.
Perhaps he might also say: I came, I saw, I conquered?
…