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

He took out his phone and checked the time: 7:30 in the morning.

Is there a time difference between Lebanon and Syria? No, they are both in the UTC+2 time zone.

I called the materials supplier that Uncle Qiao had recommended.

The machine will stop for one minute...

Chen Zheng was really upset; that was all that damn money!

The phone rang for a long time before a hoarse male voice answered in Arabic, "Who is it?"

"Abdul Karim?" Chen Zheng asked in Arabic.

"it's me."

"I was introduced by Mahmoud from Dera City," Chen Zheng said. "He said I could get a batch of CNC raw materials."

"Mahmoud?"

"Okay, I understand," Abdul said. "What kind of ingredients do you want?"

陈正把规格报了一遍：32毫米外径、壁厚5.5毫米的45号钢无缝管，25毫米外径的40Cr合金钢棒料，各1000斤。

"1000 jin?" Abdul scoffed. "Small business."

"Long-term business."

"Okay," Abdul said. "As for the price, seamless 45# steel pipe is $1200 per ton, and 40Cr bar stock is $1800 per ton. Since you need a small quantity, add $500 for shipping."

Chen Zheng did a quick mental calculation and thought, "Damn!"

Seamless steel pipe of No. 45 costs about 5000 RMB per ton in China, which is equivalent to 7.800 USD. 40Cr steel bar costs about 8000 RMB per ton in China, which is equivalent to about 1100 USD. The former is 60-70% more expensive.

You also need to pay for shipping.

It's only 200 kilometers from the Beka Valley to Dara!

Your grandma's...legs!

Places without an industrial system are indeed really expensive!

Chen Zheng asked, "When can we deliver the goods?"

"Today, the truck will be loaded in Lebanon and will arrive in Daraa around tonight. Someone will contact you then, and you can pay the driver."

The other party doesn't seem interested in this small amount of business.

Without even a word... he just hung up, seemingly not worried about Chen Zheng backing out of the deal...

Of course, the main problem is that remittances are inconvenient now. Syria doesn't have online banking, and as for other wire transfers, it can take several days. Therefore, many businesses don't require deposits.

Chen Zheng put his phone on the table, sat down, and lit another cigarette.

He took out his phone and opened the calculator.

A single Stechkin APS barrel, in its raw form, weighs approximately 2.5 kilograms. 1000 jin (500 kg) is enough to make 200 barrels.

A complete APS rifle, with all its steel parts weighing approximately 1.2 kilograms, requires 1000 kilograms of 40Cr steel bars, enough to make over 400 rifles.

With the skills of Baldman and Chiang Kai-shek, there was no scrap rate.

200 APS barrels, at $95 each, would cost $19000.

400 APS rifles, at $500 each—that's $20.

Chen Zheng stared at the number on the screen, a long piece of cigarette ash burning down and falling onto his pants, but he didn't even realize it.

$20 million.

I've finally bought a 70-square-meter apartment in a third-tier city in Zhejiang!

That's outrageous profit!!!

No. 59 Huali Road, Zhujiang New Town, Tianhe District, looks so low-key, and they don't even rent out their office space, yet they make so much money!

He took a drag of his cigarette and said to the two bald men, "The feed will arrive tonight. When it does, you two go all out."

The two laborers exchanged a glance, then stood up at the same time, put their feet together, and gave a military salute.

"Gurgle!" (Yes)

"Coo coo!" (Loyalty!)

Chen Zheng couldn't help but chuckle as he looked at their earnest expressions.

Then he stood up, dusted off the cigarette ash from his pants, walked to the window, and opened it.

A wave of heat hit us.

On the streets of Daraa, dust danced in the sunlight, and the call to prayer echoed from the distant mosque, long and desolate, like an invisible river flowing through this gray city.

Chen Zheng squinted, looking at the crooked buildings in the distance, the walls riddled with bullet holes, and the crowds walking back and forth on the street.

"Syria," he whispered, "I'm going to make a fortune."

……

When Chen Zheng came out of the factory, the sun was already high in the sky.

He first drove to the bank.

There is only one foreign bank in Daraa, the Saudi-French Pimot Bank, located on the ground floor of a five-story building. Two Toyota pickup trucks are parked in front of the building, with several armed security guards sitting in the truck beds.

The bank's exterior walls are painted off-white, with the bank's name written on them in Arabic, English, and French.

Chen Zheng parked the car at the entrance and went inside.

The air conditioning in the lobby was on full blast, and he got goosebumps all over his arms from the cold.

The floor was covered with marble tiles, polished so smooth they reflected your image. Several locals, dressed in robes and headscarves, waited quietly in front of the counter.

Chen Zheng walked to the counter, took out $2000 from his pocket, and handed it to the teller.

"Exchange for Syrian pounds," he said in Arabic.

The teller was a young woman with a headscarf covering her face, revealing only her delicate features, as if she had stepped out of One Thousand and One Nights.

She took the US dollars, counted them, and then looked up at Chen Zheng.

"Sir, today's exchange rate is 1 US dollar to 47.5 Syrian pounds." Her voice was soft, with a professional politeness. "2000 US dollars, that's 95000 Syrian pounds in total."

"OK."

The teller handed out a stack of Syrian pounds, a thick pile of 1000-pound notes.

Chen Zheng took it, counted it, stuffed it into a kraft paper envelope, and put it in his pocket.

He intended to give this money to the workers' families.

They gave us cash directly, that's amazing...

After all, the visual impact of holding 10,000 yuan is different from that of holding 10 grams of gold.

We need to be careful.

Currently, the country that uses US dollars the most is probably neighboring Iraq.

It could also be South Korea.

He turned to leave, but the teller suddenly called him back.

"gentlemen."

"Um?"

"Today's newspaper." She handed me an Arabic newspaper, pointing to the front page. "It says there might be protests in Daraa. Please be careful."

Chen Zheng glanced down at the front page. A large photograph showed the crowds of protesters from yesterday, a dense mass of heads, with banners reading "Freedom" and "Dignity." Below the photograph was a headline in large print, which he could roughly understand, even though his Arabic wasn't particularly fluent: "Tense Situation in Daraa Continues; Security Forces on High Alert."

"Thank you." He tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked out of the bank.

The sunlight was so bright that he squinted. He stood at the bank entrance, unfolded the newspaper, and read it carefully.

The report said the protests in Daraa have lasted for nearly a month, growing from a few dozen people to several thousand.

Protesters demanded political reform, the release of political prisoners, and an end to the state of emergency. Security forces set up checkpoints at major intersections in the city, checking passing vehicles and pedestrians.

Chen Zheng folded the newspaper and threw it on the passenger seat.

He started the pickup truck and drove towards the hospital.

There are indeed many more checkpoints on the road.

The first checkpoint was at an intersection. Two soldiers in gray camouflage uniforms stood in the middle of the road, holding AKMs with the muzzles pointing downwards. One of them walked over, bent down, and glanced at Chen Zheng through the car window.

"Where are you from?" he asked in Arabic.

"Chinese." Chen Zheng took out his passport and handed it over.

The soldier flipped through the passport, saw 200 Syrian pounds tucked inside, looked up at Chen Zheng's face, and said with a smile, "Chinese people are good."

Then he signaled to the others to let them pass, and saluted Chen Zheng as he left.

There's still morality now, but wait a few years, hehehe... then they'll just start looting!

The hospital is located north of Dera, in a four-story building with white paint on the exterior, some of which has peeled off to reveal the gray cement underneath. A faded red cross hangs at the entrance, next to which are the words "Daraa Hospital" written in Arabic.

Chen Zheng parked his car in the parking lot in front of the hospital, locked the car door, took the brown paper envelope containing the money, and walked into the hospital.

The lobby reeked of disinfectant and cheap perfume. The terrazzo floor was cracked in places, the gaps filled with dust.

A row of plastic chairs stood against the wall, where several people sat; some were receiving IV drips, while others were lost in thought.

He went up to the second floor and headed towards the inpatient department.

The corridor was quiet, with the occasional nurse pushing a trolley past, its wheels creaking on the floor. The air smelled of medicine mixed with disinfectant, making one feel slightly dizzy.

His father's hospital room was at the end of the corridor; it was a double room.

The door was ajar, and the sound of a television could be heard from inside. It was Syrian state television, and an announcer was reading a news report in Arabic.

Chen Zheng pushed the door open and went in.

The ward was small, with two beds separated by a curtain. The bed by the window was empty, while his father was lying on the bed by the door.

Chen Jianguo lay on the hospital bed, covered with a thin white blanket, with an IV needle inserted into his wrist and a thin IV tube connected to it.

His face was even thinner than when he last saw him, with prominent cheekbones, sunken eye sockets, and sallow skin, like a crumpled old newspaper.

But the eyes were open.

"Dad." Chen Zheng walked over, sat down on the edge of the bed, and reached out to shake his father's hand. The hand was so thin it was just bones, the skin was dry, but it was still warm.

His mother was sitting in the folding chair by the bed. When she saw Chen Zheng, her eyes lit up, and she stood up. "Zheng."

After shouting, tears welled up in my eyes.

"Mom," he called out, taking the brown paper envelope out of his pocket and handing it over. "This is $2000. Use it to pay for your medical expenses."

Chen Zheng turned to look at his father. "How are you feeling today?"

Chen Jianguo blinked, his voice weak as if it came from a great distance: "I'm alright, just a tightness in my chest."

"Ah Zheng, about the money..."

"Don't worry about the money," Chen Zheng interrupted him. "I've taken care of it."

"Did you take the money from the cabinet?" he asked.

"Take it."

Chen Jianguo frowned and his mouth moved slightly. "I was originally planning to get you some money for your future wife, but now it seems that Dad is really useless."

"dad."

Chen Zheng interrupted him, his tone very serious, "I got an order through a friend. The client is a local, has a good reputation, and pays quickly. I just finished one yesterday and made over $4000."

The ward was silent for two seconds.

The announcer on TV was still reading the news report, his voice buzzing like a fly buzzing around.

"Over 4000?" His father's voice rose half an octave, filled with disbelief. "What can you do to earn over 4000?"

"Agricultural machinery parts".

Chen remained calm and said, "The customer needs it urgently and in large quantities. Our factory's machines are highly precise, producing high-quality products, which is why they are willing to pay a high price."

Chen Jianguo stared at him for a long time.

"Zheng," his father's voice suddenly turned serious, carrying the wariness unique to an old father, "tell me honestly, what exactly are you doing?"

Chen Zheng met his father's gaze and said with a smile, "Dad, are you worried I'll do something reckless? I've been a model student in China for over ten years. Don't worry, it's just agricultural machinery parts. It's just that there are fewer factories now, so the price is higher."

Seeing Chen Zheng's determined look, Chen Jianguo breathed a sigh of relief, but still said, "You absolutely mustn't do anything illegal."

"Dad, don't worry!"

How can you say it's illegal?

That's called a niche industry.

Moreover, getting caught is considered illegal.

Just then, the nurse came in. "Patient, let me take your blood pressure."

Chen Zheng walked over, bent down to tuck the blanket around his father, and then straightened up.

"Mom, I'm going to check on those two injured workers."

His mother nodded, wiped her tears with her sleeve, and sniffed: "Go ahead."

Chen Zheng walked out of the ward and gently closed the door behind him.

His father's ward was on the third floor, while the injured worker's ward was on the first floor.

The orthopedics department is located at the very back of the first floor, at the end of the corridor.

As Chen Zheng walked over, he could hear people talking in the distance. It was Arabic, and the voices were loud, as if they were arguing about something.

He pushed the door open and went in.

This is a six-person room, and it's full of people.

Some had their legs in casts and were hanging in mid-air, some had their arms wrapped in bandages and hung in front of their chests, and some had their heads wrapped in gauze, with only their eyes showing.

There were two people lying on the bed furthest inside, by the window.

A man named Muhammad, in his early thirties, was dark-skinned and thin, with a short beard. His right leg was in a cast and sling, and his ankle was wrapped in gauze, from which a pale yellow liquid seeped.

The other one was named Hassan, and he was older, around 40 years old. He was chubby, with a round face like a pancake. His chest was wrapped in thick bandages, and his left arm was in a cast, slinged around his neck with a triangular bandage.

Both of these men were long-time workers at Chen Zhengjia's factory.

They all come from rural areas, are poor, and not very educated, but they are hardworking and never slack off. It's just that their relatives are a bit difficult to deal with.

After all, many relatives... give me a headache.

Muhammad saw Chen Zheng enter first.

He was chatting with the person in the next bed when he saw Chen Zheng.

"Little boss..." he called out, his voice low, like a child who had done something wrong.

Hassan turned around and saw Chen Zheng. His face flushed crimson, as red as a boiled shrimp. He struggled to sit up, but the wound in his chest prevented him from moving. He could only slump to one side, mumbling, "Little boss, you're here..."

Chen Zheng walked over and stood between the two beds.

He looked at Muhammad's legs, then at Hassan's chest and arms.

"How are you?" he asked. "Feeling better?"

Muhammad lowered his head, not daring to look at him: "Much better, much better... The doctor said the bone has set, and I'll be able to walk again in a few months."

"It's alright."

Chen Zheng took out the brown paper envelope from his pocket, which contained Syrian pounds that he had just exchanged from the bank.

He handed Muhammad's family a young woman wearing a black headscarf, holding a child, standing by the bed with red eyes.

Another stack was handed to Hassan's family, a middle-aged woman wearing a faded robe and several cheap plastic bracelets on her wrist.

"This is today's medical expenses and part of the compensation," Chen Zheng said. "The rest of the money will be sent to you in a couple of days."

Muhammad's wife took the money, counted it, her lips moved as if she wanted to say something, but she didn't. She lowered her head, holding her child, her shoulders trembling slightly.

Just then, a young Arab man wearing a headscarf rushed in through the door, shouting in a very unfriendly tone, "Sister, I saw that poor Qinqiang opera singer's pickup truck downstairs!"

……