"Boss, the South Koreans' request this time is clear. They want the formula for the mutated grass from you, or perhaps even in-depth cooperation…" A man sent by Zheng Jin spoke seriously as he sat across from Jiang Hai in the stretched Rolls-Royce. He was the head of the negotiation team.
Zheng Jin had an exceptional eye for talent, and the man in front of Jiang Hai—Tullus Parkville—was no exception. Of European, Greek descent, he had grown up in the United States and was now 35. Ten years ago, he had graduated from MIT and headed to New York, ambitious to make his fortune. He had worked as a trader, salesperson, and laborer, experiencing both triumphs and setbacks.
When Jiang Hai founded Tenglong Company last year, Zheng Jin had been impressed by him through an introduction and brought Tullus into the company.
While Tullus was not cut out to start his own business, he excelled working for others. Starting as a salesperson, he was promoted to sales supervisor in three months, and six months later, became deputy manager of the sales department. His negotiation skills and keen understanding of people quickly set him apart. A decade of experience had polished his edge, making him a valuable asset to Tenglong Company.
He was content to stay, motivated by the salary Jiang Hai offered. Though the company was privately held with Jiang Hai owning 100% of the shares, he offered a 10% dividend to high performers. In addition to a $1 million annual salary, Zheng Jin received a 5% dividend. Though the first year wasn't especially profitable—since Tenglong's largest shipment was still Jiang Hai's beef—the net profit exceeded $50 million. Her 5% dividend was $2.5 million, bringing her total income to $3.5 million, an impressive sum for a new company.
For comparison, Walmart paid Pra Walton $3 million annually, and that was only for overseeing one department. Tullus earned $300,000, but with a 1% bonus from Zheng Jin, he would earn $800,000 this year—a staggering amount for someone unemployed a year ago. He knew he was now firmly tied to Jiang Hai's success.
The team's goal was clear: they would receive 10% of the negotiated compensation. From the $100 million at stake, that meant $10 million—over a million per person, even after splitting with Moses Adams. Jiang Hai, however, was more concerned with strategy than the money.
As for why Nan Gaoli had summoned Jiang Hai to the Blue House, Jiang Hai already had a good idea.
"That's pretty much my guess," Jiang Hai chuckled. He had long recognized Nan Gaoli's shamelessness; the moment his men started acting, he knew exactly what they were up to.
"Boss, here are a few plans we've prepared. Take a look." Tulumen smiled, pulling a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.
Jiang Hai skimmed them quickly. Though he disliked reading, he understood their importance. Tulumen's preparations impressed him—the papers anticipated nearly every question Nan Gaoli might ask and offered detailed strategies to handle them.
Jiang Hai smiled and handed the papers back.
"Uh, boss?" Tulumen asked hesitantly. Was Jiang Hai dissatisfied?
"No, I'm satisfied. But you've misunderstood the priority between Nan Gaoli and me. Our fodder is unique; no one else can replicate it. Your notes suggest a strategy where I defer to a country, but that's backward. This information is excellent for ordinary situations, but not for me." Jiang Hai leaned back, smiling.
"This strategy of deception works for others. For me, though, it's different. My main business is in the U.S., and China is involved too. Nan Gaoli can't threaten me. He might have walked away this time, but he won't come back. The secret of the grass is mine alone—completely secure. There's nothing to study, no loopholes. I'm the one leading this negotiation."
According to calculations by Pra Walton, if Jiang Hai's estate—including cattle, fisheries, and the grass—went public, his net worth would be tens of billions, making him easily the world's richest man. Wealthy, yes, but in terms of influence, he still lagged behind.
"I understand," Tulumen said. Though he didn't know where Jiang Hai's confidence came from, it certainly simplified matters. Ten years of experience had taught him that in business, sometimes it's less about choice and more about following through. Even if the report wasn't adopted directly, the effort and preparation mattered—and Jiang Hai had praised him for it.
"We've arrived at the Blue House!" Galina, sitting in the front passenger seat, announced. Jiang Hai's eyes narrowed in the sunlight as he muttered, "Let's go." Tulumen, sitting across from him, stepped out first and opened the door. Azarina and Galina followed, dressed in casual women's suits, hair tied up, wearing sunglasses—dignified yet approachable. One male bodyguard remained to act as driver.
Inside, security had already reported Jiang Hai's arrival. He was greeted by the officials in charge—not the president, given Jiang Hai's current standing. He recognized two faces: one, the arrogant South Korean he had met while selling grass, and two, Li Xihuai, overwhelmed at seeing Jiang Hai again. If not for his shameless tolerance of flattery from two women, Li Xihuai might have been furious.
Today, Li Xihuai had a mission. The seizure of Jiang Hai's plane had delayed sales and slightly damaged the meat. Jiang Hai's legal team demanded $10 million in compensation, not an apology. For a nation, money outweighed pride, and $10 million was manageable. Li Xihuai, if the negotiation failed, would personally handle the payment. He believed he had discovered a weakness in Jiang Hai and felt confident—but he was mistaken. Jiang Hai might lose control at times, but he never walked into traps knowingly.