Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 650 Trading
Cavendish's motorcade sped through the heavily guarded streets of Mexico City, eventually stopping in a reception room on the side of the National Palace, used for receiving important foreign guests.

He had called before he arrived, so Casare was already waiting for him when he got there.

This most trusted ally of Victor, dressed in a well-fitting suit, simply nodded slightly to Cavendish to sit down.

“Mr. Casare,” Cavendish took a deep breath, after all, he needed a favor, so he had to pretend to be very grateful, “Thank you for meeting with me at this critical moment. On behalf of the Government of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, I hope to resolve this unexpected incident that neither of us wants to see as soon as possible and properly.”

“The head of state is very busy, so I will handle this matter entirely. If the ambassador has any suggestions, he can speak directly to me.” He made it clear to Cavendish that Victor would not meet with him in person, and that he, Casare, was the one who could make the decisions.

Cavendish felt a chill run down his spine; he knew there was no way around it.

He took a deep breath, leaned forward slightly, and adopted the most sincere posture: "Mr. Casare, I understand the enormous efforts and risks your country has taken in combating transnational criminal organizations..."

Before he could finish speaking, the kashaman interrupted, "Get to the point, sir. I don't have much time to waste here with gentlemen talking about how full the moon is tonight."

Cavendish felt a chill run down his spine; he knew the other person was getting impatient.

Suppressing his displeasure at being abruptly interrupted, he forced himself to get to the point: "Okay, Mr. Casare, we understand the sensitivity of the matter and wish to show our utmost sincerity. We propose:"

First, immediately resume the golden channel for counterterrorism intelligence sharing that was suspended due to the unforeseen event;

Second, provide a security cooperation fund of £2000 million for drug control and security enhancement along your country's southern border.
Third, authorization is granted to sell two of your country's most advanced offshore patrol vessels and related maintenance technology packages to your military.

He paused, observing Casare's face, and then played his most crucial trump card:
"Fourth, and most importantly, as recognition of your country's enormous sacrifices in maintaining regional stability and as a testament to the deep friendship between us, the Government of the United Kingdom is willing to explicitly recognize Mexico's legitimate sovereignty and territorial integrity over Belize in the UN Security Council and all relevant international forums, and to abandon all previous ambiguous positions."

After Cavendish finished speaking, he felt his back was soaked with cold sweat.

Recognizing Belize as part of Mexico would be an unprecedented reversal in British foreign policy, enough to trigger a political tsunami at home.

After listening, Casare leaned back in the large leather seat, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest, producing a monotonous soft sound.

The conference room fell into a suffocating silence.

Cavendish could even hear the throbbing in his temples.

A few seconds later, Casare broke the silence: "Mr. Ambassador, is this what you call the greatest sincerity? Intelligence sharing? We have our own channels and don't necessarily need your golden passage. £2000 million? That's only enough to buy a few new cars for the border police."

"Patrol ship? Technology package? Sounds good..."

“But!” Casare leaned forward slightly, his voice low but each word piercing Cavendish’s eardrums, “Intelligence? We don’t need yours. Money? We can earn it ourselves. A few wrecked ships won’t change the regional landscape. As for Belize… ha.” He let out a short, sneer. “Our people are standing firmly there. Do we need you to acknowledge that? Is that charity? No, that’s just belated, meaningless nonsense!”

We've already stationed troops there, and you're playing this game with me?

Cavendish gasped, feeling all the blood rush to his head, his ears ringing.

Casare casually crushed his carefully prepared chips one by one, as if he were cleaning up breadcrumbs on a table.

Intelligence, money, and even political recognition that cedes traditional spheres of influence...

To think they're so insignificant in the other party's eyes! This isn't negotiation; it's clearly a one-sided humiliation and extortion!
He suppressed the dizziness, his throat dry. "Mr. Casare, we...we've come with the utmost sincerity..."

Casare immediately interrupted his futile struggle: "Mr. Ambassador, save your breath. In my opinion, your sincerity is nothing more than an attempt to use a bunch of worthless chips to shut us up and cover up the stupid mistakes you made in that disastrous and shameful joint operation in Colombia!"

Cavendish's heart sank, and an ominous premonition gripped him instantly.

He paused, his gaze sharp and intense, then uttered each word clearly and distinctly to Cavendish:
"What we want is for the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland to issue a public, formal, and unreserved apology in front of the whole world!"

"Apologize?" Cavendish repeated in a trembling voice.

The word was like a red-hot branding iron, burning his face until he blushed.

To make Her Majesty's government apologize to countries that they might traditionally perceive as somewhat barbaric? That would be worse than ceding Belize!

This touched the most sensitive and untouchable nerve of those London gentlemen—the face of the empire!

After all, this is Britain, a traditional powerhouse!

When did they apologize?

Even if they fail, they'll still stick their necks out.

“Yes, an apology.” Casare’s tone was firm and unquestionable. “You must admit that in the joint operation codenamed Colombia, due to serious intelligence failures by the British and chaotic and incompetent command at the front, you must admit that it was your arrogance and mistakes that led to the mission’s failure. Furthermore, you must admit that it was our commander who turned the tide, temporarily taking over command and adjusting tactics, thus preventing the complete collapse of the entire operation and ultimately achieving the core objective! You must declare to the world: Mexico’s military command capabilities far surpass those of your armchair generals!”

This is not just an apology; it's about stripping the United Kingdom's military credibility and diplomatic dignity bare on the international stage!

It's about trampling and grinding the Anglo-Saxon sense of superiority underfoot!
He could almost picture the massive waves crashing in the Houses of Parliament, the shattered teacups at the Prime Minister's residence, and the ubiquitous satirical cartoons in the tabloids.

“Mr. Casare,” Cavendish’s voice was dry, like sandpaper scraping. “This demand is simply too much. Do you know what this means in our country? It’s a hundred times more difficult than recognizing Belize! It’s tantamount to political suicide! For God’s sake, could you… could you… perhaps…” He struggled to find a sliver of room for maneuver, even if it was just a symbolic, vague statement, at least enough to give London a pitiful fig leaf. “Bang—!”

A loud bang interrupted Cavendish's humble plea.

Casare slammed his hand down on the heavy solid wood table! The force was so great that the ashtray on the table jumped, and several documents slipped to the floor. The entire reception room seemed to shake.

Cavendish shuddered, his heart pounding in his chest. He stared at Casare in terror.

Casare abruptly stood up, looking down at the British ambassador who was practically slumped in his chair. The pretense of gentleness on his face was completely shattered, leaving only naked anger.

“Words?!” Casare’s voice suddenly rose, filled with a furious roar. “You’re talking to me about words now?! If it weren’t for your chaotic commands, Colombia would be liberated by now. Why would we need to talk about the face of those old men in London?!”

He suddenly bent down, pointed at the other person, and began to hurl insults:
"Either you issue a public, complete, and unreserved apology! Admit your mistakes! Acknowledge our capabilities! Let the whole world see! Or... take your worthless sincerity and go back to your embassy! Wait and see how we properly handle the mess left by your troublemaker! See how much face your country will have left in Latin America when the sun rises tomorrow! The choice is yours!"

"It's over!"

The bandits encountered an unreasonable soldier.

"I need to see the full text of a properly worded apology statement from your Prime Minister's Office within two hours, or you will face the consequences. Now, you can leave."

Cavendish didn't know how he got to his feet. He managed to maintain the last shred of diplomatic dignity as he turned and left. He clearly felt the gaze behind him, piercing his spine like a physical object. It wasn't a farewell, but rather the gaze directed at a loser.

The embassy car driver, who was waiting outside, quickly opened the car door.

Cavendish practically slumped into the leather back seat, his shirt already...
“Back…back to the embassy.” His voice was so hoarse it didn’t sound like his own.

The car started and drove away from the heavily guarded National Palace. Outside the window, the bustling streets, colorful lights, and vibrant scenes of Mexico City were now distorted into a blurry and hostile backdrop in his eyes.

He took a few deep breaths of the leather-smelling air inside the car, trying to calm his wildly beating heart, and then dialed the emergency line directly to the heart of the matter at 10 Downing Street, London.

The call connected quickly, but instead of the Prime Minister's calm voice, it was the Deputy Prime Minister's hoarse voice on the other end: "Cavani? Any results from Mexico?"

“I…I just came from Casare’s place. Victor didn’t see us. Casare…he represented us.”

He forced himself to recount, in the most concise and objective language, how Casare had contemptuously rejected all the conditions put forward by the British.

"Their only demand is that we, in the name of the Prime Minister's Office, issue a public, full, and unreserved apology statement to the world within two hours."

Cavendish paused, as if uttering those words had exhausted all his strength. "The apology statement must acknowledge all our mistakes in the joint operations with Colombia: intelligence failures, command incompetence..."

There was a dead silence on the other end of the line.

The silence was more unsettling to Cavendish than Casare's roar. He could even picture the Deputy Prime Minister rubbing his temples in pain on the other end of the phone.

A few seconds later, the Deputy Prime Minister finally spoke, "I... understand."

This calm, almost resigned response was completely unexpected by Cavendish!

He had expected to hear a furious rebuke, or at least an incredulous exclamation. A surge of emotion, a mixture of absurdity and indignation, rushed to his head.

"Your Excellency, Deputy Prime Minister! Don't you...don't you think this demand is an utter disgrace?! This is not just an apology, it's about trampling our centuries-old military reputation and diplomatic dignity into the mud! This is a naked humiliation! It's an undermining of the very foundation of the British Empire!"

"London... how could London possibly accept this?! Parliament will be in uproar! The media will tear us apart! This is political suicide!"
“Cavendy,” of course I was furious! I was absolutely livid! Every honorable Englishman would want to smash something upon hearing this demand! But…

He took a deep breath, the sound of which, coming through the microphone, was as heavy as pulling a broken bellows.

“But domestically… domestically, things are in complete chaos! Even as we were talking, Whitehall was packed with angry crowds! They were holding signs, chanting slogans, and defaced the Union Jack! They… they even…” The Deputy Prime Minister’s voice held a near-collapse of shame and helplessness that Cavendish had never heard before, “They even threw… filth at the gates of Buckingham Palace! Her Majesty the Queen… Her Majesty the Queen is temporarily unable to return to London from Windsor due to security concerns! Buckingham Palace… it’s a complete joke now!”

Cavendish was struck dumb; his hand gripping the phone trembled violently. Throwing excrement at Buckingham Palace? Her Majesty the Queen forced to remain in Windsor? The public's anger had reached the very foundations of the monarchy? This was a hundred times worse than any diplomatic failure! This was a sign that the very foundation of the nation was crumbling!
"Public anger has erupted like a volcano, Cavendish. The royal family is under unprecedented pressure. Everyone... everyone is asking, why did our operation fail so miserably? Why did we leave the Mexicans to clean up the mess? Why were our generals so incompetent? Now, the nation's anger is focused on one thing: an explanation! An explanation that can quell public anger and divert attention!"

The Deputy Prime Minister's voice was clear: "The apology Casare wants, though humiliating, is precisely the kind of explanation he needs. It allows all the firepower to be focused on the government's incompetence, rather than the deeper problems caused by the failure itself. It can temporarily prevent the monarchy from being dragged into a deeper vortex. It's a choice between two evils..."

The deputy prime minister's voice choked for a moment, and when he spoke again, only a resigned helplessness remained:

"The dignity of the gentlemen, the face of the empire... Under the pressure of overwhelming public opinion and the royal family, they can only bow their heads. Casare has calculated this. He has grasped our most painful weakness. Prepare to receive the draft of the apology statement... The wording... will be appropriate, and will meet all the demands of the Mexicans. You cooperate well in the follow-up."

The call was disconnected, leaving only a monotonous, urgent busy tone that sounded particularly jarring in the enclosed space of the luxury car.

As dusk settled over Mexico City outside the car window, neon lights flickered, outlining its cityscape, but all this prosperity was irrelevant to him.

……

(End of this chapter)