The Mastermind's Gaze
In Seattle's Lake Union, a Georgian-style manor overlooking the lake and mountains, surrounded by high walls and dense woods, is still brightly lit on the top floor of the main building, in a study with a full-length curved window offering a superb view.
The atmosphere here is completely different from the pseudo-artistic vibe of "Pioneer Gallery" or the glitz and glamour of Mike Anderson. It is heavy, solemn, and carries an unquestionable sense of power that has been precipitated by time.
The walls are covered with dark mahogany wainscoting that extends to the high dome, where several seemingly unremarkable oil paintings, but which connoisseurs can immediately recognize as original works by classical masters, hang.
The enormous Persian carpet was so thick it could swallow every footstep. The air was filled with the scents of fine cigars, old leather books, and a distinctive aroma of antique furniture polish and dried roses—a scent that belonged to old-fashioned grandeur.
The desk was made of a single piece of dark walnut wood, large enough to be used as a conference table. Behind the desk sat an elderly man.
Marseille Dinggeli.
He looked to be around seventy years old, but he was very well-maintained, with no obvious signs of obesity and a straight back. His hair was meticulously styled, silver-white, combed back without a single strand out of place.
He had a lean face and well-defined features, and must have been very handsome in his youth. At this moment, he was wearing a deep purplish-red silk robe with intricate dark patterns embroidered on the collar and cuffs, and he was holding a glass of single malt whisky with an amber color, sipping it slowly.
He sat there without deliberately striking any pose, but his grey-blue eyes, as calm and cold as a winter lake, could exert an invisible pressure with just a glance.
On the desk in front of him was an open file box containing a thin stack of documents. On top of it was a high-resolution candid photograph—in which Lin Feng was shaking hands with Mike Anderson at the entrance of a restaurant, a businesslike smile on his face.
A white man in his fifties, dressed in a well-tailored dark gray suit, with a sharp and capable demeanor, stood respectfully three steps away from the desk. He was one of Dinggeli's many capable assistants, Edgar Sloan, who was responsible for handling some of the "less convenient" tasks and information gathering.
"Edgar," Dinggeli put down his glass, his voice steady, with a hint of the slow, hoarse rasping characteristic of the elderly, but each word clear and forceful, "Tell me about this suddenly appearing Easterner, Lin Feng."
"Yes, boss." Edgar bowed slightly, his speech steady, clearly having the information memorized. "Lin Feng, Great East Country, his specific background is unknown, but he is suspected of having connections with certain gray-market capital within Great East. He arrived in Seattle approximately four months ago and subsequently acquired NLG Logistics in an all-cash transaction, with the acquisition price exceeding the market valuation by about 30%. The source of funds points to Cayman Islands, which is difficult to trace."
He paused, then continued, "After acquiring NLG, he purged the original management and opposition shareholders with an iron fist; the process... was unusual. The original owner Old Walton, went to South Korea after selling the company and was killed shortly after in a gang fight there, presumably to silence him. Several minority shareholders quickly moved away from Seattle after selling their shares, their behavior suspicious. NLG is currently completely under his control, and its operations... are unusually 'stable'."
Dinggeli's fingers tapped lightly on the smooth walnut wood table, making a soft, rhythmic sound. His grey-blue eyes remained devoid of any emotion, as if he were listening to a weather forecast that had nothing to do with him.
Edgar continued his report, "His contact with Mike Anderson began at a dinner party about three weeks ago. Mike tried to solicit investment from him, but the process didn't seem pleasant. Subsequently, Lin Feng proactively contacted Mike, expressing interest in the investment project and investing the first sum of one hundred million US dollars."
Upon hearing the figure of "one hundred million dollars," Dinggeli's fingers, which were tapping the table, paused for half a second, and his gray-blue eyes rolled as he looked at Edgar.
One hundred million? In cash?
"Yes, boss. The funds entered Mike's company account through complex offshore channels, making it difficult to trace the source, but the process was 'compliant'," Edgar affirmed. "Since then, the two have been in frequent contact. Mike took him to golf courses, art exhibitions, and private parties, making every effort to win him over. Lin Feng also seemed very interested in the 'high-return' prospects described by Mike, and purchased several paintings at the art exhibition, which were quite valuable."
"Did Mike transfer assets to us through him? Or did he try to channel Lin Feng's funds into channels we control for 'laundering'?" Dinggeli asked, this being his core concern. Dinggeli and the forces he represented were among the biggest behind-the-scenes manipulators and ultimate beneficiaries of Mike's Ponzi scheme. They provided protection, packaged some "high-quality assets," and ultimately facilitated the "laundering" and profit distribution. Most of the funds Mike absorbed would eventually flow into downstream accounts under their control through various means, or be converted into "hard assets" designated by them.
Edgar's face showed a hint of doubt, and he shook his head. "Boss, that's the strange thing. According to our surveillance, Mike didn't channel Lin Feng's funds into any of our pre-set channels. That $100 million, after entering Mike's company, seems to have been mostly used to pay 'returns' to previous investors and cover other losses, with a small portion transferred by Mike to several overseas accounts under the guise of 'project operations' and 'relationship management.' As for the money Lin Feng used to buy the paintings, it went directly into the shell company connected to the gallery and Mike, without flowing to us."
Dinggeli was silent for a moment, his grey-blue eyes narrowing slightly, like an old but still sharp eagle. He picked up his glass, took another sip of whiskey, and let the rich liquid slowly melt in his mouth, as if savoring the meaning of the message.
"Nothing flowed towards us..." he repeated slowly, then asked, "Does this Lin Feng look like a fat sheep?"
Edgar didn't answer immediately this time. He hesitated for a few seconds, seemingly carefully choosing his words: "On the surface, he fits the characteristics of some 'nouveau riche' types: extravagant spending, awkwardness in 'high society' activities like golf and art, and easily swayed by 'insiders' like Mike. But..."
He looked up at Dinggeli, his tone becoming serious. "Considering his actions before and after acquiring NLG, this man is bold, meticulous, ruthless, and extremely focused on controlling his own power. His core team (especially that assistant named K) has a mysterious background and is highly capable. He himself is no pushover either; he publicly humiliated Daniel Crawford at the dinner party and openly demanded his core business, displaying a tough stance. Such a person would never easily believe Mike's flawed scam, much less so readily invest a hundred million dollars simply because of the lure of 'high returns.'"
Dinggeli listened quietly, his face still expressionless, but his gray-blue eyes seemed to have become even deeper and colder.
"So, what's your judgment?" he asked.
Edgar took a deep breath and offered his conclusion. "Boss, in my opinion, this Lin Feng doesn't seem like a fat sheep waiting to be slaughtered. He's more like... a hungry wolf. A wolf disguised as a lost lamb, sneaking into the hunting grounds, secretly observing, assessing, and perhaps even baring its fangs. His approach to Mike and his massive investment are definitely not for simple purposes. It's very likely that he's not after that illusory 'return on investment,' but rather Mike himself, or... what Mike represents."
"Hungry wolf..." Dinggeli murmured the word, a clear and undisguised look of disgust finally flashing across his gray-blue eyes.
He hates uncontrollable factors. He hates intruders who disrupt established rules and balance. He hates even more those greedy, ambitious "wolves" trying to steal food from his plate.
Seattle is his territory, or at least one of his territories. The rules of the game here are jointly formulated and maintained by these "old guys" who have been entrenched here for decades or even centuries. Hyenas like Mike are their henchmen, sent out to hunt for food and to handle some of the dirty work. Hyenas can be greedy and cunning, but they must be obedient and must know that most of the food will eventually be handed over to them.
But the wolf is different. The wolf is a solitary hunter, a disruptor of order, and a potential challenger vying for dominance. Especially when this wolf comes from the East, a land completely unfamiliar to them, even to the point of instinctive wariness, and acts with such ruthless directness, it becomes even more unsettling and... repulsive.
Dinggeli put down his wine glass, leaned forward slightly, and placed his hands on the table with his fingers interlaced. This simple action seemed to lower the atmosphere in the study even further.
"I don't like this person." He said slowly, his voice calm, but each word was like a nail hardened with ice, piercing the air. "His eyes, his way of doing things, the time and manner of his appearance... all make me very uncomfortable. Seattle doesn't need new predators, especially predators from Outer Domain who don't know the rules."
He looked at Edgar, and in his grey-blue eyes, the trace of disgust had transformed into a cold, resolute determination:
"Edgar, think of something."
He paused, then added four words, a casual remark that determined the fate of someone far away:
"Get rid of him."
There was no explanation, no discussion, not even a specific instruction. Just a simple "Think of a way to get rid of him." It was as if he were instructing the gardener to cut off an unsightly weed, or telling the butler to get rid of a fly that had entered the banquet hall.
This is Marseille Dinggeli's way: based on intuitive judgment, on overwhelming power, and on absolute confidence in his own control. He doesn't care what Lin Feng did specifically, what his background was, or how much of a threat he posed. He only knows that the appearance of this "Eastern wolf" displeased him and disrupted the tranquility of the "garden," so he should be eliminated.
Edgar, without the slightest hesitation or doubt, immediately bowed and solemnly replied:
"Yes, boss. I understand."
He knew exactly what "getting rid of him" meant. It wasn't simply about business suppression or legal means—those were last resorts. Mr. Dinggeli disliked trouble and leaving any future problems. "Getting rid of him" meant the most thorough and physical solution. Like dealing with Daniel Crawford and Richard Cohen, creating a perfect "accident," or, in a more direct but equally traceless way, making this person disappear from the world.
He would arrange for the truly shady "cleaners" under Mr. Dinggeli to investigate Lin Feng's schedule, habits, and security loopholes, formulate a plan, and wait for the right opportunity.
"Go ahead." Dinggeli waved his hand, picked up his wine glass again, and turned his gaze to the deep night outside the window, as if he had just dealt with a trivial matter.
Edgar bowed again, quietly left the study, and gently closed the door behind him.
Silence returned to the study. Only the flickering light from the simulated fire in the fireplace danced on Dinggeli's expressionless, marble-sculpted face.
He raised his glass, gazing at the dazzling Seattle cityscape outside the window, as if silently toasting the city and that reckless "Eastern wolf."
They were oblivious to the danger of death.
Also, a salute to... the impending demise.
[End of Chapter 420]