Chapter 315 You're Backstabbing Jill Truck Factory: The Night is Like a Giant Beast

The living area of ​​the container market was in complete chaos, and what was originally a relaxed and leisurely home had been turned into a terrible battlefield.

The Chinese businessman being dragged away cried out, "I paid protection money! I paid protection money!"

But who can protect him?

Even the Russian next door, that former university professor, loudly protested: "The Constitution stipulates that all Russian citizens have the right to move freely, the right to choose where they want to be, and the right to choose where they want to live."

The police responded by simply dragging the person away.

Talking about law in Moscow? Are you kidding me?

The constitution is nothing more than a piece of paper.

People around him tried to help, but the armed men pushed everyone against the wall, just like the police conducting a surprise inspection at a nightclub, checking everyone's IDs one by one and not giving them a chance to move.

Wang Xiao was only freed after the person was taken away.

Surrounded by bodyguards, she hurried through the crowd and rushed to the police officer in charge: "Sir, you need to give us a specific explanation. Why are you arresting people?"

The tall, expressionless policeman said, "Moscow doesn't welcome outsiders. All outsiders have to leave."

"Then can you tell me who ordered the arrest?"

The policeman's face was even more gloomy than the night outside the window, and he simply uttered one word: "Superior."

Wang Xiao patiently pressed on, "Then who is your superior?"

Her answer was the cold muzzle of a gun.

The policeman brushed her hand away with the butt of his gun, his gaze falling on the fossilized conch shell pendant on her chest: "None of your business, ma'am."

It's a pity, she has a valid residence permit.

But the police still warned her: "I advise you to leave Moscow as soon as possible. Madam, Moscow does not welcome outsiders."

His gaze made Wang Xiao feel very uncomfortable. The latter remained calm and retorted, "Sir, I suggest you be more polite to the merchants in my market. Otherwise, I don't mind taking the case to the International Court of Justice."

The police responded with a sneer, simply waving their hand and saying, "Take him away!"

A large number of merchants were forced onto trucks, crying and screaming, desperately calling for help from Wang Xiao.

The surviving profiteers were trembling with fear, feeling a sense of shared sorrow for the fallen.

Yes, yes, arrests are commonplace for police in Moscow.

But apart from the time they attacked the White House last year and arrested people from other places, as long as you have Russian citizenship, at least in container markets and wholesale buildings, no police will come and go crazy.

The second sister was still in shock. She was among the first group of Chinese businessmen to come to Russia. Under Wang Xiao's guidance, she had bought a shop and obtained legal status in Moscow long ago.

However, her relatives who went to the container market to do business with her did not have Moscow residency permits and had already been taken away.

"Mr. Wang," she pleaded, pushing her way forward, "you have to save everyone!"

People nearby also shouted, "Mr. Wang, you can't just ignore everyone's lives!"

Xiao Gao and Xiao Zhao shouted, "Make way, make way! You're all blocking the way, how are we supposed to rescue people?"

Wang Xiao had already started giving orders: "Call the embassy and tell them about today's events."

"Start patrols immediately to prevent anyone from taking advantage of the chaos."

"Everyone back to your rooms, close the doors, and don't wander around."

She then quickly contacted Ivanov: "I noted down the license plate number, but they refused to say which department they belonged to or who gave the order."

The phone was filled with the rumble of machinery.

Even after going into the office next door to answer the phone, the noise from the machines in the workshop was still deafening. The smell of machine oil mixed with the heat of cutting metal couldn't be stopped from seeping in through the cracks in the door.

Ivanov cursed, "These damned bastards!"

He couldn't stand it for even a second longer, so he immediately called Yura and roared, "Enough! Are you guys ever going to stop?"

On the other end of the phone, Yura's hesitant voice came through: "Ivanov?"

"Take all your troubles at me! What kind of hero to torment innocent people?" Ivanov cried out in anguish. "Why have you become such a despicable person as the Duke of Buckingham?"

When they first heard the story of the Three Musketeers in their youth, these little kids, barely ten years old, all thought the Duke of Buckingham of England was awesome, daring to even steal from the Queen of France.

In order to see the Queen, he did not hesitate to instigate the King of England to start a war.

That way, he can go to Paris openly and legitimately for the subsequent peace talks.

But when they turned twenty and saw the soldiers coming from the Afghan battlefield, missing limbs, or even losing their lives, they truly realized just how cruel war really is.

Then, looking back, the brilliant and romantic Duke of Buckingham realized how selfish and vicious he had been. He started a war just to steal someone's woman.

Screw love, it's just that little thing in your crotch.

Yura was baffled: "What Duke of Buckingham? Ivanov, whether it's me or Punonin, I swear we've never stolen anyone."

"Stop rambling!" Ivanov yelled into the receiver. "The container market! You're arresting people in the container market, causing innocent merchants to be displaced and families to be torn apart. What's the difference between this and starting a war?"

He shouted so hard that his chest felt like it was being stabbed with needles. "Just because they couldn't put a collar around my neck and treat me like a dog to be enslaved, are they going to threaten me into bowing down like this?"

Yura was startled and hurriedly emphasized, "My dear friend, don't say such strange things. We're brothers! I swear, we really didn't arrest anyone. Don't be anxious or angry, I'll find out what happened."

The call ended, but Ivanov's anger could not be quelled.

He was panting heavily, his body engulfed in anxiety and anger like fire.

The office door was flung open, and the factory manager stormed in, furious. "Sir, what are you doing? What terrible thing are you doing to the ZIL truck factory? Those Japanese want to dismantle the B-type production line! That was the award-winning product from the 1978 Leningrad Automobile Exhibition!"

"I'm saving the ZIL truck plant! Leningrad has been renamed St. Petersburg, Comrade Director!" Ivanov roared back. "Forget about competing with foreign trucks, even the trucks produced by the Gorky Automobile Plant in Novgorod Oblast are more attractive than the ZIL trucks."

The factory manager seemed deeply humiliated: "Jill's car is exclusively for party and government leaders!"

"You're going to try and get government orders now?" Ivanov sneered. "You're no longer in the party and government leadership! Even if they were still there, they'd run away at the sight of the ZIL truck factory today."

The phone rang again, and the factory manager roared, "Mr. Ivanov, it's unfair to say that about the ZIL truck factory. It's the chaotic reforms and terrible financial policies that have put our factory in such a predicament."

Ivanov ignored him completely and answered the phone directly.

Yura relayed the message: "It was Luzhkov, the mayor of Moscow, who personally ordered the repatriation of non-Muscovites to their hometowns. Don't worry, I've already inquired about the concentration camps, and I'll find someone to take care of them."

Ivanov didn't even say thank you before abruptly hanging up the phone and yelling at the driver, "To Sparrow Mountain!"

The factory manager reached out to stop him, the oil on his white coat emitting a pungent smell: "Mr. Ivanov, you can't leave. Our production line can't be dismantled. It's not the engine's fault, it's the oil's quality that's the problem."

Ivanov shoved him aside: "Get out of the way! I need to save someone!"

The factory manager staggered, letting out an angry roar: "You are massacring the Jill Truck Factory! You are disregarding the lives of 100,000 workers! You actually let the Japanese demolish the truck factory for the sake of some insignificant outsider!"

"Insignificant?" Ivanov's anger was completely ignited. "Do you think bread and salt would fall from the sky to fill your bellies without these insignificant people?"

Without even glancing at the factory manager's reaction, he strode out of the office and rushed all the way to the factory gate.

The Moscow night is like a ravenous beast, baring its fangs, eager to devour the whole world.

Ivanov was about to get into his armored car when the headlights, like the eyes of a giant beast, rushed straight at him and stopped.

The car window rolled down, and Yura poked her head out, beckoning to him, "Ivanov, get in, we'll go with you."

The passenger window rolled down, revealing Punoning's face.

The tax police major general made no attempt to hide his sarcasm: "My friend, you really do always forget about us when things are good, but you're quick to pin the blame on me when things go wrong. What's wrong with you?"

His elbow rested on the car window, a posture of complete amusement. "You think you've got a ride with our respected mayor and that you can pretend we don't exist?"

Ivanov's gaze swept over him without any change, as if he didn't exist, and he only greeted Yura: "No need, thank you, I'll go by myself."

Yura grew impatient and unbuckled her seatbelt, trying to get out of the car: "Ivanov, you don't understand that stubborn old fox. He's still stuck in the Soviet era; he's like the Communist Party, thinking about arranging everyone's lives and work."

Ivanov's response was to close the car door, wave at him, and the car shot off like an arrow onto the road, speeding away.

Yura lost the initiative and could only look at the car exhaust fumes under the streetlights and let out a curse.

Then he turned and vented his anger on Punonin: "What are you doing? We clearly agreed before we came that we would take this opportunity to reconcile with Ivanov. Why did you deliberately provoke him?"

The streetlights cast a dim shadow, and large patches of tree shadows covered Punonin's face. His complexion was ashen, and his voice was cold: "He thought he could do whatever he wanted just because he had Luzhkov's connections. Naive businessman!"

Yura wanted nothing more than to punch him: "The more you mock and ridicule me, the more you push Ivanov out of the picture. Now you've messed everything up, what are you going to do?"

Punonin remained unmoved, coldly watching the direction Ivanov's car had gone: "Once he's out there getting his head bruised and battered, he'll know who his true support is."

The night was dark and quiet in Moscow.

There was no curfew, and the streets remained deserted.

Moscow's poor security situation makes citizens who lack confidence absolutely avoid wandering outside at night unless absolutely necessary.

The car sped along, as if it had wings, and almost flew all the way to the Queshan Villa.

Thank goodness, the mayor did not choose to go elsewhere to escape the summer heat, but stayed in Queshan.

Even so, visiting late at night is still extremely impolite.

The bulletproof car rolled over the gravel road, its headlights piercing the iron fence of the Queshan villa area. Ivanov's leather shoes crunched on the dew-kissed lawn, his trouser legs clung to the dandelion fluff, as he hurried inside.

The guard dutifully stopped him: "Hey, sir, what are you doing?"

"I need to see the mayor, immediately!"

The guard blocked his way, preventing him from going any further: "My God, sir, do you know what time it is?"

In the dead of night, even the chirping of insects has ceased, and even the cicadas have fallen asleep.

Ivanov immediately pulled out a $10 bill and stuffed it into the man's hand: "Sir, please help me. I need to see the mayor right away. It's extremely urgent!"

"Who is it?" The lights on the second floor came on, and the short, stout mayor of Moscow appeared in the second-floor corridor.

Although he was over fifty, he loved sports and his eyesight remained sharp. He immediately spotted Ivanov downstairs: "It's you? What are you doing here so late?"

Ivanov noticed his striped pajamas and became even angrier.

Summer is a wonderful time, a perfect time for vacation.

He endured the pungent smell of engine oil and the scorching heat at the Jill Truck factory, trying every possible way to save the factory.

Merchants in the container market were in complete chaos, running for their lives, only to be forcibly dragged onto trucks and dumped in a concentration camp in the middle of nowhere.

The culprit who caused all this chaos and turmoil actually has the nerve to sleep!

Unable to contain his anger, Ivanov didn't even bother to invite the mayor into the house. Standing downstairs, he shouted, "I don't understand, Mr. Mayor, why are you betraying me at this time?"

“You said the ZIL truck plant is the industrial heart of Moscow, and you told me I have to make it beat again.”

“I’m doing everything I can to do this, even at the expense of my own interests, those of my partners, and other shareholders. If you not only don’t support me from behind, but instead cruelly stab me in the back!”

The mayor's personal secretary had already woken up and ran over. Upon hearing this, she immediately scolded, "What nonsense are you talking about, Ivanov? Have you gone mad, saying such things to the mayor?"

"I've gone mad because of you!" Ivanov was fed up with the bureaucratic rhetoric. "If the ZIL Truck Factory dies, it will be entirely your responsibility! There will never be another fool like me who actually believed you really wanted to save the ZIL Truck Factory!"

“Young man!” The mayor’s voice was authoritative, pressing down like the night. “Don’t spout nonsense. What’s going on at the Jill Truck Factory? Come in and talk.”

The housekeeper, who was also woken up, brought tea to the guests because there wasn't time to grind coffee.

As she put down her cup and left, she couldn't help but glance at Ivanov a couple more times.

It wasn't because Ivanov was exceptionally charming tonight, looking like a movie star; rather, it was because the waiters had never seen such a disheveled guest.

His shirt was stained with machine oil on the front and hem, and his trouser legs were wet with dew, with bits of grass and dandelions stuck to them.

Good heavens, how dare he show up in front of the mayor like this?

What about his most basic manners?

Fortunately, the mayor didn't mind. He ignored the minor rudeness and his gaze fell on Ivanov's dirty shirt, even softening slightly: "You just came from the ZIL truck factory? What happened?"

He had never seen a young businessman like this before.

Those newly rich who made a lot of money at a young age are the kind of people who would rather play in a casino than touch a slot machine.

Because they can't flaunt their wealth in front of slot machines.

Who else would take over a truck factory and actually work on the production line like this young man? He's been working late into the night without resting, and he's still busy right now.

The mayor couldn't help but think back to the old days when he took over the vegetable base.

At that time, he was also working incredibly hard, doing everything he could to get things done.

Therefore, at this moment, he, who is over fifty years old, believes that he should be tolerant of the young and impetuous new factory owner.

Ivanov blurted out, "You ordered the expulsion of outsiders from Moscow, and my merchants in the container market have all been arrested."

The mayor looked surprised and instinctively turned to look at his secretary.

The latter quickly replied, "It's those Chechens. You said before that you would send all the Chechens back."

The mayor then realized what was going on and nodded, "That's exactly right. Young man, I'm just trying to help you."

He couldn't expel the Chechens outside the container market alone. Coincidentally, Moscow doesn't welcome Chechens now, so he sent them away as well.

“Not just Chechens!” Ivanov emphasized, “but everyone, all outsiders from outside Moscow.”

He suppressed his anger, "Sir, doing this will give the impression that we are going to bombard the White House again."

Last year's crisis, in which the president ordered the bombardment of parliament, while causing limited actual casualties, severely damaged Russia's investment environment.

The whole world is suspicious of Russia, fearing that it may be at any moment engaged in a war.

Under the lights, the mayor squinted slightly, like an aging beast, still exuding the might of an old tiger.

He didn't pick up where Ivanov left off, accusing his subordinates of misinterpreting him and overreaching in their enforcement. Instead, he slowly lit a cigar: "Young man, I know you like excitement. But Moscow doesn't need too many people. Everyone's rushing to Moscow—"

He waved his arms and gestured, "With so many people staying in Moscow, the city's resources can't handle it, and society is becoming chaotic. They should go back to where they came from."

A surge of anger rushed from the soles of his feet to the top of Ivanov's head.

He almost shouted it out on the spot.

What nonsense are you spouting?

Why do people flock to Moscow from all corners of Russia? Because they can't survive there.

Why should Moscow close its doors to them? Without the support of all of Russia, where would Moscow's glory come from?

Russian law requires companies to pay taxes in their place of formal registration.

The vast majority of Russia's monopolistic state-owned enterprises, such as oil and gas companies, are registered in Moscow.

It's as if Moscow produces oil and natural gas.

What makes Moscow, which has sucked the blood of all Russians, so noble?

If it's really that noble, then we should all just break up and become independent countries.

Let's see what kind of mess Moscow will become when it can no longer bleed dry from other places.

However, the mayor seemed to have lost interest in continuing the topic.

He looked extremely tired and even yawned: "If nothing's wrong at the Jill Trucks plant, we can talk about the other issues tomorrow."

Tomorrow? One night of torment is enough to drive the merchants to their breaking point!

Why don't you go to a concentration camp and sleep there yourself?

A powerful rage burned within him, yet Ivanov strangely calmed down: "Sir, I'm talking about the Gil Truck Factory. The people your men arrested weren't ordinary merchants, but shareholders of the Gil Truck Factory."

The mayor stopped yawning in surprise: "What shareholders?"

"I mean, the money I used to save the Jill Trucks factory was all raised from the merchants."

He directly complained, "Otherwise, where would I have gotten so much money? The government begged and pleaded with me to take on the Sakhalin oil and gas field project. The billion US dollars I invested all came from businesses."

He took the briefcase from his assistant and pulled out the documents.

“The oil and gas field has produced oil, and we should have distributed dividends to the shareholders. However, because you put me in charge of the Jill Truck plant, in order to save the plant and the 100,000 employees working there, I had to cancel the dividend distribution.”

Ivanov opened the contract and pointed to the section about the ZIL truck factory, saying, "Because I need money to invest in an oil refinery, to build an oil refinery in partnership with the Japanese, so that they will agree to provide Suzuki Iso's technology and allow our engineers and technicians to be trained at their factory in Japan."

He then took the opportunity to complain: "In fact, the Japanese negotiated very harsh terms with me on the refinery project, which were far less favorable than those of the Americans. But the Mitsui Group includes the auto parts industry and has the technology that the Jill Truck plant desperately needs, so I accepted the contract at the expense of my own and my shareholders' interests."

The secretary chimed in, "It's just car parts. Doesn't America have car factories? Can't American oil companies help make the connections?"

Ivanov's eyes widened: "How far is America, and how close is Japan? Besides, America is a country of immigrants. I want to select the best engineers and technicians from the factory for training. What if they go and never come back? Japan isn't a country of immigrants, so the risk is much lower."

The mayor was quite surprised; he hadn't expected the young man in front of him to have such a comprehensive perspective.

Ivanov continued, “The government’s promised loans are delayed, and we simply can’t wait any longer. I finally managed to persuade the merchants to give up their dividends and continue investing in the refinery. Only then will we have the technology and the money to save the ZIL truck factory.”

He turned to the mayor and complained, "We're working together on this, and now we've been shot in the back. What are we going to do with Jill Trucks?"

The mayor didn't respond, but his secretary chuckled first: "Mr. Ivanov, you're in trouble. They're your creditors now. Their departure is easing your burden, isn't it? Don't worry, Moscow will never lack businessmen. Your container market won't have to worry about finding stalls."

Ivanov couldn't believe his ears and glared at him: "Is this what you think? For a businessman, the most important thing is integrity. Politicians can go back on their word in the afternoon, but a businessman must keep his word. In Moscow, in Russia, a businessman without integrity cannot survive."

"Alright," the mayor interrupted Ivanov, trying to smooth things over, "He was just joking to tell you not to be too nervous."

Ivanov retorted, "That joke isn't funny at all; it's going to kill me."

The mayor stretched out his hand, his face weary: "But you have to admit, young man, so many businesses are a heavy burden on Moscow. This city can't support so many people."

“They did not add any burden to the city.” Ivanov said solemnly, “On the contrary, their existence ensured the livelihood of millions of shuttle merchants, and intermittently ensured the livelihood of the families behind each shuttle merchant and their customers.”

The secretary retorted from the side, "With so many people, the daily food supply will be a huge problem."

“They went to my farm to buy products, whether it’s fruits, vegetables, meat, or milk, they all come from my farm.”

Ivanov emphasized, "Without their consumption, the farms cannot survive. Because the farms also need orders."

The secretary raised another issue: "Then what about the water and electricity they consume? What about the heating supply in winter? Don't tell me that you also supplied that from the farm."

"Without them, would others not consume it?" Ivanov retorted sharply. "With such a large market demand, there must be such a large supply. Even without them, there would be other merchants."

The secretary laughed and said casually, "Then let other merchants come. There are so many people in Moscow."

Ivanov once again deeply felt what a bunch of idiots were in the government.

Do they think that, apart from the fact that there are thresholds to become an official like them, all other industries are open to anyone who can be grabbed?

On the contrary, all professions in this world require entry barriers.

Besides becoming an official!

Even a pig would do a better job than them.

Ivanov, enraged, laughed and turned to the mayor: "Sir, it seems the secretary doesn't quite understand what a market is. Of all those vegetable farms back then, why was it only you who managed it so well?"

"Alright, alright." The mayor rubbed his face wearily. "Stop making a fuss. Make a phone call and tell them I said so. Let them go back and tell them not to wander around outside."

Ivanov was overjoyed and immediately assured him, "No problem. They are a group of hardworking people who work more than twelve hours a day and have no time to go out and wander around."

The mayor stood up from the sofa and looked at him: "My young sir, I did this against my principles for the sake of the Jill Truck Factory. I hope you will not disappoint me."

The darkness filtering through the window dimmed the lights.

The mayor's shadow was elongated, like a mountain pressing down on Ivanov.

He said, word by word, "You know, I've always believed that to live in Moscow, you have to contribute to the city. Moscow has never welcomed those who don't contribute."

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[Let me see] Who guessed correctly? Historically, Luzhkov was known for driving away outsiders. Of course, this kind of thing isn't unusual; major Chinese cities at the same time did the same thing.