278-279

*Chapter 278: Another Bombing Incident*

The sky over Dubai this morning was hazy and gray—a rare sight in this region.

Most of the year, the desert climate ensures clear, sunny skies.

Well, except during sandstorms.

A day like today in Dubai likely means a sandstorm is on the horizon in the coming days.

Much like the current mood of CIA Dubai Regional Director, Myles Jones:

Cloudy.

He had no choice but to rush to the Mustagh Sheikh Royal Palace Hotel before 9 a.m.

“...Relax, Myles. In the end, didn’t nothing happen?”

The speaker was Kenny, someone Myles had worked with before. The two had even infiltrated Persia together.

Although they hadn’t entirely succeeded, the mission had been perilous enough to forge a strong “revolutionary” bond.

“But something did happen.”

Myles gave a wry smile. “A bombing and a shootout! I’m telling you, Kenny, big domestic figures like your boss shouldn’t come to places as dangerous as this. Do you see anyone else coming here? If they’re not politicians, there’s no reason to visit this godforsaken place!”

Kenny shrugged. Honestly, he thought Myles Jones had a point.

After all, for reasons everyone knows, the desert is one of the most hostile regions in the world for Americans.

Even when the ruling class tries to align with or please the United States, the general population still harbors deep-seated resentment, fueled by fervent cries of Allahu Akbar.

This sentiment often infects the middle and upper ranks, leading to occasional incidents of fanaticism.

That makes it dangerous for Americans.

So it wasn’t entirely surprising when a bombing and shooting occurred near the Mustagh Sheikh Royal Palace Hotel, shortly after the world’s richest man checked in last night.

Given the circumstances, it almost makes sense.

But the fallout—including the Secretary of Defense’s explosive anger and the anxiety among other elites—was inevitable.

For Myles, as the CIA’s regional head, the repercussions were enormous.

If this incident didn’t blow over well, he feared he’d be sent back to America to manage garbage or live a quiet, rural life.

Luckily, a small blessing in disguise was that the head of security for the VIP staying at the Mustagh Sheikh Royal Palace Hotel happened to be an old comrade of his.

Myles believed he still had a chance to salvage the situation, so he rushed over early this morning.

“So, have you identified who was behind it?” Kenny asked Myles.

The events were naturally connected to the explosions and “firecracker” sounds that Qiu Shuzhen and Wan Qiman had overheard last night while bathing.

Those weren’t firecrackers, and the loud explosions weren’t just ordinary blasts.

They occurred within 200–300 meters of the Mustagh Sheikh Royal Palace Hotel and were targeted at the area but neutralized in time.

Evidence and testimony from captured suspects revealed the attackers’ real target: Milo Blackburn.

Everyone knew that Milo was the son of the current U.S. Secretary of Defense.

Since taking office, the Secretary had earned a reputation as an aggressive hawk.

In just one year, he had famously declared:

- “America’s voice extends beyond its 50 states to wherever a Nimitz-class carrier can reach.”

- “World peace depends on the U.S. military.”

- “To uphold truth and freedom, U.S. forces will fight anywhere, even in enemy nations.”

These statements earned him the ire of foreign nations, which deemed him excessively hawkish, and criticism from some Americans who thought such a man shouldn’t hold the role of Secretary of Defense.

Yet, many Americans admired Joseph Blackburn.

Now, America’s brightest star, its wealthiest genius, and the Secretary’s son was involved in an incident in the Emirates.

It wasn’t hard to imagine the Secretary’s reaction.

Aside from the furious crackdowns initiated by Sheikh Maktoum and other Emirates leaders, the person feeling the most pressure was naturally Myles Jones, head of the CIA in Dubai.

Although Myles’ department wasn’t directly under the Defense Department’s control and reported only to the President, everyone knew about President Larrington’s close relationship with Milo Blackburn.

Back when Milo was still unknown, Larrington promoted his novels on talk shows.

Not to mention, when the CIA was in danger of being dissolved, it was Milo’s grandfather who stepped in and saved the agency, leaving an indelible mark.

Whether overtly or covertly, Milo was practically royalty to the CIA.

And, on top of that, he was one of the global elite.

The stakes were impossibly high.

Even the rogue, semi-autonomous field agents of the CIA were now sweating bullets.

So, despite having been up all night since 2 a.m., Myles—eyes bloodshot and nerves frayed—made his way here, desperate to see the big boss.

He even used up favors to get his former comrade to put in a good word.

Finally, he secured a chance to meet the VIP during breakfast.

“It’s mostly confirmed.”

In response to Kenny’s question, Myles smiled bitterly. “It was Osama and his foundation.”

The names Osama and his Foundation might not mean much to the average American, but Kenny wasn’t average.

As a former elite CIA operative, now Milo Blackburn’s head of security, Kenny wielded significant influence within the agency.

By rough count, over 53 retired CIA operatives now worked for Milo’s Blackburn Foundation.

That’s why Myles was so anxious about this incident.

If something went wrong, it wouldn’t just be the VIPs upstairs who’d come after him. His colleagues wouldn’t spare him either.

After all, Milo was their golden goose—the best retirement plan any of them could hope for.

If something happened to this man, Myles wouldn’t just lose his job. His peers would tear him apart.

Fortunately, Myles had taken precautions, and the incident turned out to be just a scare.

Otherwise, he might already be on the run—or worse, caught and silenced by his colleagues.

“I figured it was Osama,” Kenny nodded.

While Osama’s full name might not sound dramatic, if translated into Chinese as “Ben Laden,” it would certainly draw attention.

“At least nothing happened…” Myles sighed with relief, just as the door opened, and a beautiful Asian maid walked in. “Kenny, the boss is ready for breakfast.”

Kenny nodded and turned to Myles. “Get ready. Someone will take you to see Mr. Blackburn in five minutes.”

Myles’s face showed a pleading expression. “Kenny, for old times’ sake, please help me…”

Kenny hesitated briefly, then said, “The boss isn’t that upset. He even told me these things are normal. But still, tread carefully.”

“Thank you, Kenny,” Myles said gratefully.

Kenny waved him off and left.

Myles stayed behind, nervous and restless for several minutes.

As expected, someone soon arrived to escort him.

They walked through opulent hallways adorned with luxurious Persian rugs.

These carpets, handwoven from high-quality wool and silk, were dyed using natural plant and mineral pigments, ensuring vibrant and lasting colors.

The intricate weaving process required each thread to be manually beaten hundreds of times to ensure durability and beauty.

Such rugs were expensive and among Persia’s top exports to the West, popular even in Europe and America.

The Mustagh Sheikh Royal Palace Hotel lived up to its reputation as Dubai’s finest.

The best suite on the top floor was no exception.

---

At the Book Café, reading a flawless version!

Then, in front of numerous maids and many bodyguards.

Milo Blackburn was seated, surrounded by five young Asian women, preparing to enjoy his breakfast.

Indeed, he looked exactly like the man seen in newspapers and on television.

Young, handsome, and even while seated, his tall and imposing physique was unmistakable.

With blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, he exuded a commanding presence that immediately gave the impression of an aggressive and dominating man.

"Mr. Blackburn, good morning. I’m Miley Jones. I deeply apologize for what happened last night. I’m very sorry," Miley said nervously.

After speaking, it didn’t take long for him to hear the gentleman’s response.

"Things like this are never desirable. Luckily, no harm was done. Hello, Miley. I’m Milo Blackburn. Kenny has mentioned you before. He said you worked together on a mission in Persia. It sounds like an experience worthy of being turned into a novel."

Milo took the plate handed to him by Liu Li, unfolded a napkin, and sipped from a goblet of water. Holding a knife and fork, he began cutting his food and added, "If I ever write a spy novel, I would definitely make you and Kenny the main characters."

His tone was gentle, and the content of his words immediately put Miley, who had been nervous and uneasy, at ease.

Feeling grateful, Miley responded, "Thank you so much for saying that, Mr. Blackburn. Truly, thank you!"

"Miley, Kenny just told me that the CIA has identified the attackers as members of Al-Qaeda, correct?"

"Yes."

"And the reason they targeted me is because I’m the Secretary of Defense’s son?"

"Yes," Miley answered, quickly adding, "In fact, ever since February 1994, when Riyadh revoked his citizenship, this individual has severed all ties with us. Last year, he even invited journalists to his hideout to publicly announce their existence to the world. Now, they oppose anything and anyone associated with us. So, even if it were someone else, as long as they’re American and there’s an opportunity, they wouldn’t hesitate to attack."

Milo, chewing on a piece of veal, nodded slightly.

Others might not fully grasp the significance of Al-Qaeda or Bin Laden, but Milo understood all too well what those names would come to mean for Americans in the future.

After all, it was already late 1997.

2001 wasn’t far away.

And since the Strait Crisis had been resolved earlier than expected and the Southeast Asian financial crisis had come sooner than anticipated, events originally meant for 2001 could either be accelerated or delayed.

In certain matters, Milo deeply understood that their occurrence often involved randomness and coincidence.

Upon learning that part of the attack against him was orchestrated by Osama’s men, Milo had dismissed the idea of pursuing them to the ends of the earth or wiping out their entire families.

It wasn’t because he was merciful.

Rather, he knew that even as an elite of America’s upper echelon, even as someone akin to a celestial dragon, such a feat would be nearly impossible to accomplish.

Take the previous life as an example.

Before 2001, Americans were indifferent about capturing Al-Qaeda operatives and didn’t invest much effort in their pursuit.

But after 2001?

The full might of a superpower was deployed to capture Osama.

It spanned three presidential terms.

As everyone knows, whether seeking re-election or competing for office, candidates would do their utmost to win public favor.

Capturing Osama was undoubtedly a monumental achievement for Americans, one that could secure at least 60% of public support.

And yet, it took nearly a decade to locate him.

Even then, there was uncertainty about whether the captured man was truly Osama.

The man was a master of concealment.

Afghanistan’s rugged terrain, with its endless mountains and caves, rightfully earned its nickname as the “graveyard of empires.”

Avenging oneself against such elusive adversaries was no simple task.

"So, this matter can only end here?"

After swallowing the tender veal, Milo calmly looked at Miley. "Is it my fault then? Did God send villains with bombs to punish me? Is it because I’m not devout enough?"

"It’s not like that..." Miley, who had just relaxed, immediately broke into a cold sweat.

At the same time, Milo’s words reminded Miley of another layer to his identity.

Apart from being one of America’s top elites, the son of the Secretary of Defense, and a super-genius billionaire, Milo Blackburn was also publicly acknowledged by numerous bishops as someone capable of hearing God’s voice—a living miracle.

When he first appeared in the public eye, it sparked a theological debate among many prominent bishops in the United States.

Though the debate eventually subsided, the impression that "Milo might truly hear God’s gospel" became ingrained in the minds of countless Americans.

As Milo grew more successful, this belief only strengthened among the populace.

Otherwise... how could he possibly achieve so much success?

Even Catholics, who initially disliked him, began to acknowledge his ability to hear God’s gospel due to his extraordinary achievements, which highlighted God’s power.

Even the Pope in the Vatican had, on multiple public occasions, referred to Milo as the true “Lamb of God,” implicitly affirming his divine connection.

Once again, the sentiment arose: without God’s protection and the ability to hear His voice, how could an ordinary human achieve what Milo had at his age?

Initially, Milo needed confirmation of his "miraculous" nature.

Now, it was the believers who needed him to validate the existence of "miracles."

It was proof that God truly existed in this world.

But now, this so-called “Lamb of God,” revered by the Pope himself, had just been bombed upon arriving in the desert region.

Under specific conditions and circumstances, this alone could serve as a pretext for a holy war.

(End of Chapter)

*Chapter 279: France's First Daughter*

This attack incident did not make major headlines in the end.

There were two main reasons for this.

First, being bombed, especially by terrorists, is never good publicity.

In particular, Milo's trip to the Middle East this time was primarily for Yahoo's global IPO roadshow.

The roadshow hadn't even started, and if news got out that he had been bombed, it could tarnish Yahoo's reputation.

It might make people wonder if Yahoo had done something to incur public wrath, provoking groups like al-Qaeda to target them.

This could potentially affect Yahoo's stock price when it goes public.

Secondly, the local sheikhs, enraged internally, acted swiftly to appease the situation.

They didn't wait until the next day—by that very evening, they announced a $11.8 billion order to the U.S.-based Raytheon Company, seeking to purchase an array of weapons, including the Patriot Missile Defense System.

Their swift compliance was almost heartwarming.

Fortunately, Milo was unharmed—he wasn't even startled.

The CIA and his security team had neutralized the attackers from several hundred meters away before they could pose any real threat.

As a result, after United Global Corporation received a $500 million order from the Department of Defense, the incident was temporarily brushed under the rug.

However, because of this, Milo's trip to Dubai was also cut short.

The sheikhs were terrified of another mishap. They visited him at the hotel daily, refusing to let him leave...

This continued until the IPO roadshow event concluded, and he left the Middle East.

---

"Tsk, tsk. Bombed from hundreds of meters away, and you still ended up securing an $11.8 billion arms deal?"

"I imagine the arms industry giants in your country are now all itching to visit the Middle East to get bombed too, aren't they?"

On the Champs-Élysées, Paris's dazzling gem, where tall plane trees stood upright, their green canopies shading the sidewalks, Milo found himself seated in a café overlooking the iconic boulevard.

Luxury boutiques, cafes, and hotels lined the street, radiating Parisian style and opulence.

The person speaking to Milo at this moment was Claude Chirac. Yes, her last name was exactly the same as the current occupant of the Élysée Palace.

Well, that's because she was the daughter of the current French President.

---

Indeed, right before Christmas, Milo had arrived in Paris.

The following evening, one of the final events of Yahoo's global IPO roadshow, where Milo's presence was required, was scheduled to take place in the 16th arrondissement.

At this moment, he was enjoying coffee on the snowy Champs-Élysées with Claude Chirac.

Claude teased him, saying, "I heard your security company even got a $500 million contract out of this incident. Hush money, I assume?"

Milo shrugged nonchalantly. "If you'd like, my dear Claude, you could try it too. Imagine—‘The daughter of the Élysée Palace resident gets bombed in the Middle East’—now that would be even more sensational than my case. Maybe then the sheikhs would place orders with Dassault or Thales instead."

Claude frowned slightly, still looking elegant. "That’s unlikely…"

She understood that the sheikhs placed orders with the Americans to placate the furious Americans.

If an important French or British figure were bombed there, would France or Britain gain similar benefits? Claude doubted it.

Arms deals like these were less about the weapons themselves and more about the silent protection sought by the purchasing nation from the seller.

In short, it was protection money.

Did France still have enough influence to collect protection money?

Compared to Britain, perhaps France fared better. But when it came to competing with the U.S.…

Apologies—at least in the Middle East, ten Frances couldn't match the influence of one America.

So, if a significant French figure were to be bombed there, it would likely be for nothing.

This privilege was exclusive to Americans, thanks to their unique position in the Middle East and the inherently submissive nature of the Gulf sheikhdoms.

Moreover, such benefits were likely one-off deals.

If Milo visited again and was bombed again, unless something significant happened, it was doubtful he would receive the same compensation twice.

---

"I hear things are heating up in Mali? Coincidentally, many of my people are stationed nearby. Does mighty France need assistance? If so, we offer friendship pricing," Milo said with a smile, taking a sip of his coffee.

Claude's slender eyebrows furrowed slightly. "It’s just a minor issue. Besides, if we did need private military contractors, the companies in Cannes would suffice to meet our needs."

Here was an insider fact that might shock the general public: the same Cannes known for its world-famous film festival was also a hub for private military companies (PMCs).

This picturesque town near Nice was home to nearly 300 PMC headquarters and offices, as it was historically tied to the rise of the renowned French Foreign Legion.

Even some of America’s most famous PMCs maintained offices in Cannes to handle European business.

In fact, Milo’s United Global Corporation also had an office there.

Besides, no matter how weakened France might be, it was still one of the world’s five great powers.

If it truly needed PMCs, it had plenty of domestic options.

Allowing an American company to step in would be laughable and politically unacceptable.

"Fair enough, just thought I’d mention it," Milo chuckled.

---

Before noon, Milo and Claude left the café, smiling and greeting the reporters and paparazzi gathered outside.

As the world’s richest man, with his wealth and striking appearance, Milo was a global sensation—even in non-English-speaking countries.

Not to mention his sports company, Paladin Sports, had announced its entry into France earlier that year.

Rumor had it that Paladin was in negotiations to acquire French soccer powerhouses like Paris Saint-Germain, Saint-Étienne, and Marseille.

The owners of these teams had even publicly acknowledged the negotiations.

Given this context, Milo Blackburn’s sudden visit to France fueled widespread speculation among French soccer fans that he was here for the acquisitions.

Little did they know, what they considered sacred was nothing more than entertainment to someone like Milo.

If he wanted to buy them, it was merely a matter of money—not something worth his personal attention.

Besides, Americans have their own preferences: baseball is loved by the elites, football and hockey by the middle class, and basketball by the common folk.

Soccer, on the other hand, is somewhat lacking in appeal.

However, it was precisely because of some soccer-related news that this situation arose. Moreover, Claude is far from being an unknown figure.

She is famously referred to as “the most important woman behind Chirac.”

The two of them showing up together, casually sipping coffee at a café, wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.

Naturally, paparazzi spotted them, called for reinforcements, and within moments, a crowd had gathered outside.

This is Paris—dispersing them wasn’t an option.

Milo and Claude had no choice but to face the crowd with smiles.

At this moment, their bodyguards were firmly blocking the front, ensuring the pair wasn’t jostled.

The two wore highly infectious expressions, though Milo wasn’t particularly fond of these performative smiles. Over time, however, he had grown accustomed to it.

As for Claude, she was a natural.

Her father’s political success owed much to the numerous votes she pulled in from women and young men.

“Claude, over here!” Some reporters who had just arrived shouted their names, hoping for a cooperative pose or a few pictures.

Milo maintained his usual smile, slightly lowered his head, and moved forward under the protection of the bodyguards.

Claude, on the other hand, handled the situation like a seasoned politician, even though she wasn’t one.

Microphones pushed past the bodyguards, appearing before Milo and Claude.

Both knew that if they didn’t offer some sort of explanation today, the reporters wouldn’t be satisfied.

“Mr. Blackburn, are you dating Miss Chirac? Rumor has it that Miss Chirac recently broke up with her critic boyfriend—was it because of you?”

“Claude, did you break up with André because of Mr. Blackburn?”

“You have more than a five-year age gap. What brought you two together?”

“Mr. Blackburn, is it true you plan to purchase Paris Saint-Germain? Why not Nice instead?”

The reporters bombarded them with these and other pressing questions.

Milo couldn’t help but glance at Claude, who maintained a composed, dignified expression like a politician.

A mischievous thought suddenly crossed his mind. With a smile, he stopped walking, faced the microphones, and said, “Yes, we just decided to start dating. We’ve known each other for a while—you all know how charming Claude is.”

As he spoke, Milo paused and turned to gaze deeply at Claude, whose dignified smile began to freeze.

Almost instantly, the surrounding reporters erupted with excitement.

As Claude’s forced smile finally faltered, the paparazzi of Paris were thrilled beyond measure.

“So, will you two get married?”

“What’s your relationship with Sophie Marceau?”

“Claude, did you cheat, or did Milo come between you and André?”

“Claude, what are your thoughts on age-gap relationships?”

The barrage of chaotic questions intensified.

Even Milo, the instigator, couldn’t help but look annoyed as his face darkened.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, suddenly remembering this was Paris—this was France.

In the U.S. and the U.K., reporters often held back to maintain professionalism.

But the French? They knew no such restraint.

Milo’s face turned grim as he stopped responding to questions and walked away under the protection of bodyguards.

Claude, on the other hand, couldn’t help but smile, thinking to herself, This American boy thinks he can handle the French paparazzi?  

Little did he know, the entertainment reporters of France had a history longer than that of London.

The world’s earliest official newspaper may have originated in ancient China, but the earliest entertainment tabloids, with verifiable evidence, first appeared during the reign of the Sun King in France.

Back then, they were used by opponents and foreigners to smear the Sun King, detailing everything from his affairs with Marie Angélique to fictitious scandals.

In terms of tenacity, French paparazzi rivaled those in London and far surpassed the restrained American ones.

As Milo left with a scowl, Claude addressed the reporters with a smile. “It’s not what you think. Mr. Blackburn and I are good friends, but we don’t have that kind of relationship. He was just joking earlier.”

Having said that, Claude didn’t entertain further questions. Under the bodyguards’ protection, she followed Milo to their vehicle.

The two got into a massive Cadillac SUV, leaving the scene with a convoy escort.

However, by the afternoon, after Claude had told reporters they were merely friends in the morning, they were spotted at the recently opened White Horse Manor Hotel in Paris.

Milo, his body glistening with sweat, lay flat on the round mattress, breathing softly to recover from his earlier exertion.

Turning his head, he looked at Claude—still sprawled on the mattress—France’s “friend” and presidential daughter. With a satisfied smirk, he teased, “Claude, is this what you meant by being ‘just friends’? Do friends do things like this?”

Even someone as composed as Claude hadn’t fully recovered. Her fingers twitched slightly, gripping the sheets as she slowly turned her head. Her flushed face, warm with lingering heat, carried a hint of daze.

But as moments passed, her dreamy eyes gradually regained clarity. Exhaling deeply, she propped herself up lazily, reached for a slim cigarette from the side table, and lit it with a click of her Dupont lighter.

Taking a long drag, she exhaled a stream of smoke, her face radiating satisfaction and a faint, charming smile.

In her thick French-accented English, she said...

"You are such a complete jerk! Saying that in front of the reporters, what could I do? Should I have told them that I really got involved with you?"

"What are you afraid of? You're not married, and you don’t have a boyfriend right now either," Milo said with a smile, propping his head up with his right hand as he turned sideways, taking in the captivating charm before him.

He watched the First Daughter of France elegantly smoking a post-coital cigarette, exuding a lazy allure of satisfaction.

"Tsk…"

Claude spoke up, "You know exactly why I broke up with my boyfriend!"

"I don’t know at all!" Milo replied bluntly, moving closer to embrace Claude’s voluptuous, tender figure. "I don’t like women who smoke!"

Then, ignoring her protests, he took her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

Disregarding her objections, he carried Claude straight to the bathroom.

They showered, seamlessly transitioning into the second round.

(End of Chapter)