I manufacture weapons in the Middle East and am wanted globally?

Chen Zheng stuffed the stack of US dollars into the inside pocket of his jacket, patted it to make sure it wouldn't fall out.

He took out a cigarette from his pocket, put one in his mouth, lit it, and then handed the cigarette pack over.

"Want one?"

"What's the point of being a person if you don't even smoke cigarettes?" Chen Zheng said with a smile.

As the car crested the last hill, the Bekaa Valley unfolded before the windshield like a giant scroll.

It's completely different from the grayish-yellow color in Syria.

Here stretches an endless expanse of green—vineyards, orchards, and farmland, pieced together like a giant mosaic carpet.

The houses on both sides of the road were not the gray concrete blocks typical of Syria, but rather farmhouses with red tiles and white walls, some of which were covered with vines and blooming with unidentified small purple flowers.

There were people selling fruit by the roadside: watermelons, figs, grapes, piled on wooden boards, a colorful sight.

"This place is like a completely different world from Syria," Chen Zheng said, looking out the window.

"Lebanon is the Switzerland of the Middle East."

Khalid said, "At least it used to be. The civil war lasted fifteen years, and it didn't stop even after it ended. But the Bekaa Valley was relatively peaceful, with the milk tea shops managing things, and the order was alright."

The car continued driving forward, and we arrived in Zahle.

Zahl is the largest city in the Bekaa Valley, built on a hillside. Layers of red-tiled houses stretch from the foot of the mountain to the middle, resembling a giant stepped amphitheater from afar. A white clock tower glitters in the sunlight above the city.

"I'm going to make a phone call." Chen Zheng took out his phone.

I answered the phone after it rang twice.

"Chen!" Assam's voice came through the receiver, tinged with laughter, "You've arrived?"

"We've just arrived at the city gate. Where are you?"

"Drive straight ahead, there's a Shell gas station, I'll wait for you there."

"OK."

The pickup truck drove less than 500 meters before Chen Zheng saw the Shell gas station.

The red and yellow signboard stood out prominently in the sunlight.

A silver-gray Toyota Land Cruiser was parked next to the gas station, its body spotless, a stark contrast to Khalid's dusty Corolla.

Assam leaned against the car door, saw Chen Zheng and his group's pickup truck drive up, grinned, and revealed a set of white teeth.

Khalid brought the car to a stop, and Chen Zheng pushed open the car door and jumped out.

"Assam!" He walked over with his arms outstretched.

"Chen!" Assam also opened his arms.

The two hugged and patted each other on the back, like old friends who hadn't seen each other for years.

Actually, we've only met once.

Chen Zheng smiled, turned around and pointed to Khalid, who had just gotten out of the driver's seat, "This is my brother, Khalid."

Khalid walked over, shook hands with Assam, and said in Arabic, "Hello."

"Khalid." Assam shook his hand and nodded. "Chen mentioned you to me, the local tyrant of Delaware."

Khalid waved his hand with a smile, "Just trying to make a living."

Assam glanced at him. "Okay, take my car. You can park yours here and I'll have the gas station staff watch it."

"good!"

Chen Zheng and Khalid picked up the bag containing the AKMs, but left the Israeli weapons under the seats.

The cruiser in the upper left of Assam.

"This car is nice," he said.

"Secondhand." Assam started the engine, and the car slowly drove out of the gas station and onto the main road. "I bought it back from Dubai; it was half the price of a new car."

Chen Zheng sat in the passenger seat and rolled down the window halfway to let in some fresh air.

"You still haven't told me who the client you found for me is." He turned to look at Assam. "Is it the bubble tea shop?"

Assam chuckled.

"A bubble tea shop?"

He shook his head. "The Milk Tea Party doesn't need your little weapon. They're members of the Arc of Resistance, with the Langzide Revolutionary Guard backing them up. Guns, ammunition, missile parts—they have everything they need. Maybe they'll do business with you when you can make missiles yourself."

That's true.

Do large companies purchase from small factories?

Unless you offer a large rebate to the purchaser.

Chen Zheng frowned slightly: "Who is that?"

"The Fatah Committee in the Bekaa Valley."

Chen Zheng narrowed his eyes.

"Aren't they in the West Bank?" he asked.

"That's headquarters."

Assam said, "They also have branches in Lebanon, mainly responsible for the management of refugee camps and the organization of armed forces. The Fatah Committee in the Bekaa Valley manages several refugee camps and also has a small to medium-sized militia."

He paused, lowering his voice slightly, "They urgently need a batch of weapons. The Israelis have been making a lot of moves in Gaza recently, and Fatah wants to stir things up in the Bekaa Valley to distract Israel. But too many people are eyeing this opportunity."

Who are they?

"The Iranians want to supply the goods through their own channels. The Turks also want to get involved. There are also several local arms dealers who have been operating in Lebanon for many years and have deep ties with the upper echelons of Fatah."

Assam counted on his fingers, "We definitely can't get big orders, like tens of thousands of bullets or thousands of guns. But we can take a bite out of the smaller, scraps."

He glanced at Chen Zheng, "Provided your goods are of high quality."

"My stuff is harder than your dick!" Chen Zheng said with a laugh.

The car drove through the narrow alley and turned onto a slightly wider street. On both sides of the street were various shops—fruit shops, butcher shops, bakeries, hardware stores, and a few cafes.

People sat under the parasols outside the café, drinking coffee, smoking hookahs, and chatting.

There were many people on the street, including locals in robes and foreigners carrying large bags, with blond hair and blue eyes, dark skin, and all sorts of people.

"There are a lot of backpackers here," Chen Zheng said.

"Lebanon is alright for tourism."

Assam said, "The Bekaa Valley has wineries, ancient Roman ruins, and mountains; Europeans love to come here for hiking."

He parked his car in front of a restaurant.

The restaurant is small, with a single piece of wood for the entrance, on which the words "Star of Baalbek" are written in Arabic and French.

Several tables were set up at the entrance, covered with red and white checkered tablecloths, and a few potted green plants were placed next to them, casting dappled shadows in the afternoon sun.

"Eat first." Assam turned off the engine, opened the car door, and said, "Eat your fill before you meet the client."

The three people entered the restaurant.

It looks bigger inside than it does from the outside.

The ceiling is high, and old black and white photos hang on the walls, showing the old-fashioned Bekaa Valley—vineyards, farmers, and stone houses.

In the corner was an old-fashioned radio playing Arabic music, the tune slow and gentle, like an old man telling a story.

The shop was quite crowded, with five or six of the seven or eight tables occupied. Some of the people were locals, dressed in long robes, drinking tea and chatting.

There were also a few backpackers, clearly from Europe, wearing windbreakers, with maps and cameras on the table, awkwardly eating barbecue with knives and forks.

Assam found a table by the window, pulled out a chair, and sat down. A waiter came over; he was a young man wearing a white shirt and black vest, carrying a menu.

"Mr. Assam, it's been a long time."

"I've been busy lately."

Assam took the menu, didn't even open it, and immediately rattled off a list of dishes: "A large kebab platter. Two servings of hummus. One serving of tabloid salad. Several servings of naan bread. And an extra dish of your garlic sauce."

The waiter wrote it down, nodded, and turned to leave.

"Do you come here often?" Chen Zheng asked.

"I know almost everyone on this street." Assam picked up his water glass from the table, took a sip, and said, "I grew up here."

Chen Zheng nodded and didn't ask any more questions.

The food was served quickly. When the barbecue platter was brought out, the iron plate was still sizzling with oil. Lamb, beef, and chicken were cut into large chunks, skewered on iron skewers, and grilled until crispy on the outside and tender on the inside. They were sprinkled with cumin and chili powder, and the aroma wafted straight into my nose.

The hummus was served in a white porcelain bowl, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with paprika.

Tabule salad is a large plate of chopped parsley, diced tomatoes, chopped onions, and mint leaves, mixed with lemon juice and olive oil. The green and red colors look appetizing.

The flatbread was freshly taken out of the oven; it was puffed up, steaming hot, and you could hear a crisp sound when you tore it apart.

Without a word, Khalid grabbed a scoop, tore off a piece, dipped it in hummus, stuffed it into his mouth, squinted his eyes, and let out a satisfied sigh.

"God," he mumbled, his mouth full, "the last time I ate such a good meal was when my cousin got married."

Chen Zheng also picked up a flatbread, tore off a piece, wrapped it with a piece of mutton, dipped it in garlic sauce, and stuffed it into his mouth.

The meat was roasted to perfection, with a crispy outer skin and tender, juicy inside. The gamey smell of the lamb was masked by cumin and minced garlic, leaving only a rich aroma.

"This meat is good," he said.

"The sheep in the Bekaa Valley grow up eating grape leaves," Assam said, picking up a piece of chicken. "The meat has a natural sweetness."

The three of them ate in silence for a while, and the dishes on the table disappeared at a visible rate.

Khalid ate the fastest, devouring half a plate of roast meat and three flatbreads by himself, his mouth covered in oil, which he didn't bother to wipe.

Halfway through his meal, Assam put down his fork, picked up a napkin, and wiped his mouth.

"The person I'm taking you to meet later is called Abu Hassan."

He lowered his voice and slowed his speech, "A member of the Fatahbeka Valley Committee, in charge of armed forces and logistics. He oversees about two hundred people, mainly responsible for affairs at the Ain Hille refugee camp."

Chen Zheng put down the flatbread and listened attentively.

"This person is an extreme anti-Israel individual."

Assam's voice lowered even further, so low that only the three people at the table could hear him. "His ancestors were from Haifa. They were driven out in 1948 and the whole family fled to Lebanon, where they lived in a refugee camp for three generations. His father was a veteran of Fatah and died in 1982 when Israel invaded Lebanon. He himself served time in an Israeli prison, where he was imprisoned for six years."

He paused, then continued, "So—"

"So his hatred for the Israelites was hotter than the sun in the Bekaa Valley," Chen Zheng continued.

Upon hearing this, Chen Zheng took something out of his pocket.

A piece of cloth.

White, cotton, and neatly folded.

He unfolded the cloth, held both ends with his hands, raised it above his head, wrapped it around the back of his head, and tied a knot at his chin.

A standard disthal, the white turban typically worn by Shia clerics in Islam.

The hair wrapped around his head, paired with his Asian face, looked somewhat incongruous, yet it also conveyed an indescribable earnestness.

Chen Zheng straightened the edge of his headscarf, sat up straight, placed his hands on his knees, and looked as serious as if he were attending a service.

His tone was so serious it wasn't a joke: "I can love real x too."

Khalid is drinking soup.

Upon hearing this, he almost spat out the soup from his nose.

He suddenly lowered his head, his shoulders trembling, his face flushed red, desperately trying to suppress his laughter. The soup bowl wobbled in his hands, almost spilling.

Assam was also stunned for a moment. He looked at the crooked white cloth wrapped around Chen Zheng's head, his lips twitched, but he quickly returned to normal.

"You've worn your headscarf crooked," he said calmly.

"Um?"

"The left side is higher."

Assam reached out and pulled down the left side of his headscarf, then straightened the wrinkles on the right. "Like this. The way you were like before, you looked like a newbie. You'd be laughed at."

Chen Zheng nodded earnestly: "Thank you."

Khalid finally couldn't hold back any longer. He put down his soup bowl, covered his mouth, and his shoulders trembled like a leaf.

He pretended to cough, coughed twice, then picked up his water glass and took a sip, but the water leaked from the corner of his mouth and dripped onto his clothes.

Chen Zheng turned to look at him, his expression still very serious.

"Khalid, what's so funny?"

"No, no," Khalid waved his hands frantically, his face turning ashen. "I... I just... the soup was too hot."

"The soup is cold," Assam said.

Khalid opened his mouth, but couldn't speak.

Chen Zheng turned his head and continued to sit upright, the white turban on his head gleaming softly under the dim yellow lights of the hotel.

Assam glanced at him, and the corners of his mouth finally curled up slightly.

"Alright," he stood up, took a few bills from his pocket and placed them on the table, "Let's go. Abu Hassan doesn't like waiting."

The three people walked out of the restaurant.

The afternoon sun shone directly down, and the white headscarf on Chen Zheng's head shone brightly in the sunlight.

The Assam Land Cruiser passed through the center of Zahle and turned into a relatively quiet street.

The streets are lined with three- or four-story buildings with beige exteriors and green shutters, typical of Lebanese style.

Some buildings have bullet holes in their walls, densely packed like a pockmarked face—traces left by the civil war, which have remained unrepaired for decades.

The car stopped in front of a three-story building.

The exterior of the small building was painted with a light yellow paint, but it had almost completely faded, revealing the gray cement underneath.

The iron gate at the entrance was closed. The green paint on the gate had faded and was rusty in some places.

Two people were standing next to the iron gate.

They were both dressed in casual clothes, but their waists were bulging, clearly indicating they were carrying weapons. One was leaning against the wall smoking, while the other was squatting on the ground, holding a string of prayer beads and turning them one by one.

When Assam's car stopped, the one who was smoking threw his cigarette butt on the ground, stomped it out, and walked over.

Assam rolled down the car window, took out an ID card from his pocket, and handed it over.

The man took the document, glanced at it, and then looked down at Chen Zheng and Khalid in the car.

His gaze lingered on Chen Zheng's white turban for a moment, his brows furrowing slightly, but he quickly regained his expressionless demeanor.

He returned the documents to Assam and waved to his companion who was squatting on the ground.

The iron gate was pushed open.

"Looks like you're not just anyone, you think you can just walk in like that?" Chen Zheng said with a smile from the side.

Nonsense... Do you think people who can study in China are ordinary people?

Even if he's not the son of a chief, he's still a member of a religious family!

"Hassan is the son of my father's brother. My father was a Hojat Islamist (religious status) of the Zahri Shia sect. This committee member studied the scriptures with my father."

Everything suddenly became clear.

Hojat Islam has already become a powerful figure in the region.

"Then your father must be a very kind religious person. How is his health?" Khalid praised him, and then continued the conversation.

Assam glanced at him.

"He went to become a suicide bomber."

"..."

I'm afraid the air will suddenly become quiet.

So kind!