Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 647 Am I a good person?

Before the thunderous cheers of "support" inside the Colombian Congress building had fully subsided, a concise action report had already crossed the border and appeared on Victor's desk in Mexico City.

The report, though only a few lines long, carried immense weight: "The purge in Bogotá is complete. Carlos and key opposition figures have been brought to justice, parliament has been restored to order, and Armando has complete control of the situation."

Victor put down the report, his fingertips tapping unconsciously on the smooth tabletop, his gaze fixed on the Mexico City skyline outside the window.

A soft chuckle broke the brief silence, emanating from his nose. "You did a pretty good job."

Casare, who was standing next to him, immediately noticed his reaction and gently pushed another document with recommendations regarding the reorganization of the Colombian army and the adjustment of the Mexican garrison in front of him.

Viktor's gaze swept over the document title, but he didn't open it immediately. Instead, he spoke slowly with a knowing tone: "See? No matter how many conspiracies and schemes there are, no matter how grand the slogans are, they are all paper castles in the face of absolute military power. No matter how loud the applause in the parliament is, it still depends on the guns in the barracks to support it. Armando was able to sit in that position not because he was good at talking, but because we have people standing in the barracks of Bogotá now."

"Force is always the deciding factor in the superstructure."

“Manstein did a good job, proving that our investment in Colombia was worthwhile.” Victor finally picked up the document and quickly flipped through the key clauses. “But this worthiness requires a deeper foundation. Armando needs us more than anyone else now, and this is the opportunity.”

He looked up at Casare: “Tell Manstein to stop holding back and proceed with the plan immediately, under the guise of helping to stabilize the situation and combat the remaining rebels.”

First, expand the troop deployment: send an additional rapid reaction brigade, prioritizing its deployment to strategic locations such as Bogota and key border nodes.

Second, fully intervene in the reorganization and training of the Colombian army. Key positions must be filled by reliable officers (i.e., pro-Mexico or approved by Mexico). The original army structure will be broken up and reorganized, with priority given to replacing Carlos's old troops.

Third, in Choco Province or Leticia in the Amazon region, near the Panamanian border, find suitable locations and secretly build permanent military bases with large-scale logistical support capabilities to prepare for the next step of the operation.

Fourth, the authority of the Mexican intelligence agency's Colombian branch is upgraded by one level, and its funding and personnel quotas are doubled, ensuring deep penetration and real-time monitoring of the Colombian military and political leadership and the social dynamics of major cities.

Casare quickly jotted down the key points without questioning them.

Whatever the boss says goes!
He understood that what Victor wanted was not a superficial ally, but to completely transform Colombia into Mexico's tentacles and a solid springboard for its expansion across South America.

“Understood, boss. General Manstein has been waiting for this green light. The additional troops and equipment are already on standby at the border. The main deployment will be completed within 48 hours of the order being issued. The preliminary assessment report on the base site selection will be submitted later.” Casare’s efficiency has always been very high.

Viktor nodded, satisfied with the speed.

He stood up, walked to the huge map of South America, and slowly moved his gaze southward from the green land of Colombia, finally fixing it on the vast expanse of Brazil, which occupies nearly half of the map.

Brazil, a true behemoth in South America, is also one of the core sources and transit points for South American drugs flowing to North America and Europe.

Its jungles and slums are home to powerful, ruthless drug trafficking syndicates.

Victor's finger tapped heavily on the long border between Brazil and countries such as Colombia, Peru, and Bolivia.

"Once the nails from Colombia are removed, it will be time for the real tough nuts to crack."

Victor tapped Brazil's location on the South American map twice with his finger, ambition swirling in his eyes.

The order in Colombia is just the beginning; the vast drug market, the complex web of forces, and the behemoth that is Brazil are his real targets on the chessboard.

“Colombia is just the first domino,” Victor said in a low voice. “When we completely cut off and reorganize the routes of the major drug-producing countries in Latin America, when we define their order, our influence will no longer be infiltration, but coverage. The whole of Latin America will be brought into our orbit, becoming a solid backing and springboard. No matter how deeply rooted the drug lords in Brazil are, they will not be able to stop this torrent.”

Casare nodded in deep agreement; he understood Victor's blueprint—

By integrating resources, an unprecedented transnational power network centered on Mexico was established.

This prospect is both breathtaking and exhilarating.

Just then, there was a gentle knock on the office door.

Rohus Misch, Deputy Director of the Secret Service and bodyguard, poked his head in: "Your Excellency, Ambassador George Cavendish is urgently requesting an audience and is waiting in the meeting room. He says it's about the emergency situation of British troops being trapped in Medellín."

"The British have finally come knocking on our door, boss. I told you those gentlemen would end up coming to us anyway," Fatty Ka said happily.

Viktor's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly before returning to its usual calm.

He turned away from the map, walked back to his huge desk, and sat down. "Let him in."

Soon, British Ambassador George Cavendish walked in briskly.

This gentleman, known for his composure and diplomatic skills, now showed barely concealed anxiety and a hint of embarrassment.

He disregarded the past embarrassment and cut straight to the point: "Your Excellency Victor, thank you for taking the time to meet with us. The situation is extremely urgent! We hope your country can provide us with assistance."

"Are we cheap goods? You come when you want us, and then ostracize us when you don't? Bah!"

No sooner had Ambassador Cavendish finished speaking than Casare suddenly let out a short, sarcastic snort.

The sound was unusually jarring in the quiet office.

Ambassador Cavendish abruptly stopped speaking, a hint of embarrassment and anger flashing across his face as he turned his gaze to the burly, sharp-eyed Mexican official.

"help?"

Casare drew out his words, a forced smile appearing on his chubby face, his small eyes gleaming with undisguised mockery. "Oh dear, Your Excellency Ambassador Cavendish, you use that word so lightly. Let me think... If you hadn't tried to blackmail us, we would already be in Medellín!"

"Damn it, you British people can't do anything right, you sons of bitches!"

Casare was anything but polite; if he weren't afraid of killing the other man, he would have rushed up and slapped him twice already. He was a civilized man, after all.

Cavendish's expression changed slightly, but his diplomatic composure allowed him to quickly adjust and attempt to explain: "Mr. Casare, the historical context is complex, and the situation at the time..."

"complex?"

Casare interrupted him rudely, his voice suddenly rising in pitch, carrying a sharp, unfiltered edge.

"So complicated that you think you can stab us in the back? So complicated that you think you can condone, or even secretly support, those forces that oppose our actions in Colombia? When Carlos and his group were jumping around, some of your London observers and human rights organizations were jumping for joy, sending out support telegrams faster than anyone else! What, now that your 'gentlemen' are trapped in the Colombian jungle, you've suddenly remembered your 'rude' neighbors? The winds have shifted faster than the London weather!"

Cavendish was somewhat flustered by this barrage of blunt and biting accusations, but he forced himself to remain calm:
"Mr. Casare, your accusations are baseless! Our British government has always upheld international law and the principles of justice. On the issue of Colombia, we were merely expressing the international community's general concern for democracy and human rights! As for the Medellín incident, it was a complete accident, an indiscriminate act of violence by armed groups!"

There are hundreds of innocent British citizens there, including women and children! This is a pure humanitarian crisis! As a responsible great power, as a member of the civilized world, shouldn't we put aside our prejudices and lend a helping hand when lives are threatened? He tried to steer the conversation back to the moral high ground, his tone even carrying a hint of pity and indignation.

"Humanitarianism?"

Viktor, who had been listening silently, finally spoke. He leaned forward slightly, his sharp gaze fixed on the British ambassador, and without any preamble, went straight to the core question: "Mr. Cavendish, we are certainly concerned about humanitarianism. So, what price is your government willing to pay for this 'humanitarian concern'?"

If you don't pay, what's the point of playing?

These words were like a bucket of cold water, precisely poured onto the moral torch Cavendish was trying to ignite. His prepared impassioned speech faltered instantly, and cracks appeared in the mask of compassion on his face. He clearly hadn't expected Victor to speak of "costs" so bluntly and so quickly.

“Uh…the price?” Cavendish’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his eyes flickered, and his voice lost its previous fervor, becoming somewhat dry. “Sir Victor, saving lives is priceless! We are discussing the safety of hundreds of British citizens, which in itself is…”

"Mr. Ambassador,"

Casare's signature mocking voice rang out again. He crossed his arms, his fat face full of contempt, as if to say, "I knew it! Anyone can talk a good game. Priceless? Tsk tsk, how sweet that sounds. But I seem to recall that back then, the lives of our Mexican soldiers weren't considered so priceless by you London gentlemen? It's your own people's lives that are priceless? It's only when we send troops, men, and equipment to rescue people from the hornet's nest you stirred up that you start talking about priceless? So you play the good guy, we take the risks, and you don't want to pay the bill? What kind of 'humanitarian' deal is that?"

He took a step forward, almost touching Cavendish, spitting as if about to land on the man's well-maintained face, his voice scathing: "You son of a bitch, I heard you scheming all over Mexico City! You don't want to spend real money, you don't want to concede any benefits, you just want to use a few empty promises of civilized world and humanitarianism to make us risk our lives? Is the skin of your British Empire thicker than the armor of those old battleships docked in Portsmouth Harbor? Oh, wait, no!"

Casare seemed to suddenly remember something, and exaggeratedly slapped his forehead, "I forgot, you guys are even having trouble maintaining those warships now, right? No wonder you have to thicken your skin to save on fabric!"

Cavendish's face flushed red and then paled; every word Casare uttered felt like a whip lashing at his dignity as a diplomat and the face of his country.

He opened his mouth, wanting to refute, but found that any explanation seemed pale and powerless in the face of the other party's naked utilitarianism and biting sarcasm. He looked to Viktor for help, hoping that the Führer could stop his subordinate's rudeness.

Viktor simply looked at him calmly, as if to say: My men are telling the truth, while you are still trying to weave a rope of lies. The price, or you leave, is the choice.

The air in the office became incredibly awkward due to Casare's barrage of sarcasm and Cavendish's embarrassment. The polite yet aloof diplomatic mask that the British had relied on for centuries was now completely torn away, revealing their pale backside underneath.

“My time is valuable.”

"What is the value of your country's citizens' lives in the eyes of your government? That's the core question. You want my men to risk entering Medellín, that meat grinder, to bring your gentlemen and ladies out unharmed. Fine, but this isn't a charity event; it's a high-risk military operation. Risk demands compensation."

Victor was too lazy to waste his breath on these guys. The British were too arrogant, always thinking they were still the British Empire.

“Go call your prime minister and ask him, and ask yourself, how much are your soldiers and your citizens worth? How much concession are they worth? How much benefit are they worth?”

Viktor made an unquestionable decision:
"Let me make it clear: without a price that satisfies us, those British troops trapped in Medellín will remain there. We will not waste a single bullet rescuing a group of allies who have stabbed us in the back. They will either fight their way out on their own or die at the hands of Colombians or drug traffickers. This is the price you were destined to pay when you chose to support Carlos's opposition and obstruct our efforts to stabilize order in Colombia!"

"Furthermore, please remind your Prime Minister that if your country continues to attempt to gain something for nothing, or to stall for time and play diplomatic games... Mexico's media machine will be in full swing. We will make it crystal clear to the world how the British Empire, for petty gains, stood idly by while its soldiers and citizens were in dire straits overseas. We will report in detail on your country's glorious deeds of supporting the opposition and destabilizing Colombia, and how you are now humanitarianly abandoning your own people."

"The steps of the Houses of Parliament in London will soon be piled high with newspapers bearing the portraits of your soldiers and accusatory slogans."

"This is the extra public opinion tax you now need to pay."

"The choice is yours. Now, go outside and make a call. Casare will arrange a quiet room for you."

After he finished speaking, he didn't look at Cavendish again, turning his gaze back to the assessment report on the site selection of the Colombian military base on the table, as if the diplomatic storm that had just shaken the British Isles was nothing more than a breeze brushing across the table.

Casare's face was plastered with undisguised schadenfreude. He strode up to the nearly petrified Cavendish, his obese body exuding an aura of oppression. His small eyes narrowed into slits, gleaming with a mercenary glint: "Please, Mr. Ambassador? The telephone booth is over here. Time is money, oh no, time is the life of you gentlemen and ladies! Hehe..." He deliberately dragged out the last syllable, making an extremely rude "please" gesture and pointing to the door.

Ambassador Cavendish was stiff and his lips trembled, but he couldn't utter a single word.

Viktor's blatant threats and Casare's undisguised humiliation weighed on him like two mountains, almost suffocating him.

His prized diplomatic skills and imperial dignity were utterly crushed in that office. He moved with difficulty, like a lost puppet, and staggered out of the head of state's office under Casare's "enthusiastic" "escort."

The heavy wooden door closed behind him, shutting out the suffocating sense of oppression and also cutting off his last shred of dignity.

Silence returned to the office.

Victor didn't even look up; he simply picked up his pen and drew a prominent circle around a coordinate point near the Panamanian border on the report.

On the vast map of South America, the outline of Brazil stretches silently under the lights. The commotion in Colombia is just the prologue, and the British predicament in Medellín is merely a minor episode.

The pen at his fingertips is pointing towards the center of a grander chessboard.

Just like Julius Caesar gazing into the distance.

Perhaps he will also say: I came, I saw, I conquered?
……

(End of this chapter)