The third day of negotiations.

Cen Jin felt that she needed to wear something different. She got up in the morning and went through her bag — picking things up with her left hand, putting them down with her right, rifling through the same few items over and over.

A clever woman can’t cook without rice.

She picked up the white T-shirt and jeans that had been soaked in seawater, washed, and hung out to dry — the outfit that had carried her through the first two rounds of negotiations.

They were already wrinkled beyond all recognition.

She said, “If Hu Sha writes a memoir about the Sirius negotiations someday, and mentions me in it — will he write: that female negotiating representative who went days without changing her clothes, and wore sandals…”

Wei Lai continued for her: “…and talked the ransom down from twenty million to three million. Believe me — that achievement will outshine walking into Hu Sha’s negotiations in five different formal gowns combined.”

Cen Jin smiled and, feeling there was nothing else to be done, picked up the clothes and prepared to go change behind the curtain.

Wei Lai said, “Hold on.”

He fished out his own denim shirt from his bag: “Wear this.”

Cen Jin gave him a sideways glance: “Anyone can tell it’s a man’s shirt. I can wear it loosely as a nightgown, but wearing it to negotiations — won’t people laugh at me?”

Wei Lai took the clothes out of her hands and pushed the shirt into her arms: “Listen to me. Wear this one. I have an idea.”

Cen Jin studied him for a moment, then accepted it with guarded trust.

When she came out, she had the denim shirt on, buttoned perfectly straight, not a button missed — fastened all the way up to the collar, making her look as though she’d been stuffed into a sack.

Wei Lai sat on the bed and stared at her for a long moment: “Do you have any aesthetic sense at all? Come here.”

If you added a black-framed pair of glasses, you’d be a dead ringer for the most insufferable female disciplinarian in any old Hong Kong film.

Cen Jin was annoyed: “You have it!”

Wei Lai laughed: “I have the most plainly honest male aesthetic — I only know what way I like you best.”

He pulled her close, reached up, and began undoing buttons.

He undid two, looked for a while, frowned — apparently not satisfied — and undid one more. He pulled the collar sideways. His eyes caught the image that made his throat tighten: the rumpled shirt open around half-revealed, softly rising contours.

Cen Jin looked down at herself: “You’re seriously going to let me sit in front of Hu Sha like this?”

Wei Lai’s expression changed: “What are you thinking? In front of Hu Sha, only one button undone. Understand?”

Then why did you undo so many just now?

Cen Jin raised her hand to twist at his mouth in annoyance. Wei Lai dodged away with a grin, then swept his arm around her body and pulled her close. He bent his head and kissed where she was half-exposed — the warmth and wetness made Cen Jin draw in a sharp breath; she struggled and cursed at him: “Stop it… I still have to… negotiate…”

The words that followed broke apart into a hoarse, stumbling one-by-one, her body gone soft with no way to pull free.

After a good while, Wei Lai finally released her. He slid a hand inside her shirt and slowly guided the shoulder strap back onto the shoulder that had slipped down in her struggling, then said: “See that? In front of someone with bad intentions, don’t undo three buttons — otherwise the consequences can’t be predicted.”

Cen Jin clenched her teeth: “Get out of here. I don’t need you helping me with my clothes.”

Wei Lai laughed and coaxed her: “Don’t — I promise to behave from here on out. Really.”

He bent down, took the hunting knife from his bag, tilted his head and bit open the sheath with his teeth, and made a cut along the hemline at the bottom of her shirt, then cut horizontally across the width. He grabbed the corner and tore all the way around.

From the rough tear, the fabric frayed into little white threads and scraps. Cen Jin guessed what was coming: “Are you going to cinch the waist with it?”

That would show the waist, but wrapping a strip of fabric around it sideways would look ridiculous.

Wei Lai said nothing. He cut the strip in two, reached for one side of the excess fabric at her waist, and used the knife to punch through a paired hole.

Cen Jin worked it out and reached over to take the strip from him. She threaded it through the hole from the outside, pinched the fabric into a gather, tied it off, then shifted the knot to the inside of the shirt.

By the time she’d finished her side, he had already tied off the other.

A very masculine way to do things — knife-punched holes and rope-tied knots, rough and direct and unrefined, looking like something at a glance, not holding up under close inspection — and yet there was something about it, an inexplicable sensuality.

Cen Jin smiled. She found she liked it.

More than all the evening gowns she owned, the ones made with meticulous tailoring, studded with brilliant crystals and elaborate embroidery.

Wei Lai reached out and cupped her chin: “Don’t go provoking Hu Sha again — his temper is too volatile.”

Cen Jin was unconcerned: “I do need to be careful. But if he needs something from me, he’ll be more and more careful around me — yesterday I gave him a choice. If it were you, which would you pick?”

“Do you even need to ask? Any person would want to live to old age in peace. Only…”

Cen Jin raised an eyebrow: “Only what?”

Only — giving you a ransom, giving you the chance to retire and walk away clean, getting you government pardon, giving you diplomatic status, giving you a peaceful second half of life…

That wasn’t an opportunity. It wasn’t something any single person’s power alone could achieve. Tempting as it sounded, it was almost illusory.

Hu Sha wasn’t a fool. Who would believe you, little girl.

That day’s negotiations started from breakfast.

Everything was from cans — tuna and baked beans, along with the rare treat of coffee: small sachets of instant, mixed with an enormous amount of white sugar. With each sip, the tongue met with many half-dissolved grains.

Cen Jin had read Hu Sha right. He was preoccupied, but more measured and careful than the day before.

He had little appetite. Several times he seemed on the verge of saying something, but held back each time. At last he found a moment and adopted a casual tone: “Jin, what you said to me yesterday — you were joking, right?”

Cen Jin kept her head down, her spoon scraping up the last few beans at the bottom of the can: “I came here from another continent, nearly got blown to pieces — just to make a joke? Do I seem like someone who loves telling jokes?”

Hu Sha cleared his throat, as if trying not to appear too invested: “Jin, I’ve hijacked many ships and killed… many people. The government wants to catch me more than anything. How could they possibly let me go?”

He gave a dry laugh, nervously wetting his lips with his tongue — but a glimmer of hope unmistakably passed through his eyes.

Wei Lai saw it clearly, and wanted to laugh, and yet also felt a faint, strange sorrow.

Pirates were people too. Backed into guns and the sea, it was most likely for lack of options. To suddenly be told there was a path — even a man who performed indifference would find himself staring at it for a long time, drawing closer, reaching out to feel whether the ground beneath it was solid.

Cen Jin finished eating, reached for a napkin to wipe the corner of her mouth, and pushed the empty can to one side: “How many people have you killed? As many as two hundred?”

Hu Sha was startled: “No — absolutely nothing like that.”

He was now only wishing he had been less careless in his killings, that his record wasn’t quite so unclean — back then he had thought, since I’ll die on the sea anyway, every person I take with me is one more to be buried with me.

Cen Jin said, “Let me tell you a story. Do you know about World War Two and the German Nazis?”

Hu Sha nodded.

Good — that made it easier to explain.

“Toward the end of the war, the German army was in full retreat, and they put their hopes in the development of new weapons. The leading scientist was a man named Wernher von Braun — an SS major. Because labor had grown desperately scarce, he used concentration camp prisoners as slave workers. The total number of laborers who died in the weapons program was approximately twenty thousand.”

“Once the weapons were developed, they were primarily used against England. In total, they killed several thousand people before the war ended.”

“Then the Allied forces entered Germany. Von Braun quietly approached the Americans and reached a private agreement — he would offer his technical expertise in exchange for the Americans helping him escape trial as a war criminal.”

“He succeeded. He was safely sent to the United States, where his unsavory past was buried. He went to work for the Americans. Many years later, he was involved in and helped bring about a defining moment in American history: the Apollo moon landing.”

“He received many honors. He was awarded the National Medal of Science, was called the father of modern spaceflight, and died peacefully in a hospital.”

Hu Sha had been listening with poorly concealed impatience; by the time Cen Jin finished, there was even a trace of irritation.

“That can’t possibly be the same thing. That was a scientist. He helped the Americans put a man on the moon! He was a scientist — a man with knowledge! What am I? I can’t even build a car!”

Cen Jin smiled. She leaned toward Hu Sha, enunciating each word: “Get this straight — the key reason von Braun escaped trial was not that he was a scientist. It was because, in a world where transaction is the ruling principle, he had something the Americans needed. Something of value to them.”

“The Somali government doesn’t need you to build cars… think about it — what value do you have to offer them?”

Did he have value? Hu Sha opened his mouth. He genuinely couldn’t think of a single thing.

After a pause he said, “Jin, you tell me — we’re friends.”

“Your greatest value is this: at the height of your fame, you bow your head and go to the government of your own accord. When you go to surrender, you need to have firepower, followers, presence, and the force to be reckoned with.”

“If you go crawling to them as a broken-down, beaten dog with nothing left — you have absolutely no value whatsoever.”

Hu Sha’s throat moved: “You want me to surrender? That’s walking straight into the wolf’s jaws. They’d arrest me and throw me in prison.”

Cen Jin smiled: “Would they? I don’t think so.”

“This current Somali transitional government is a complete facade. The country is in constant civil war, warlords control different territories, no one takes the government seriously — its foreign relations are in shambles, its domestic policy is failing, piracy is rampant, and its reputation is disgraced.”

“And then, at precisely this moment, the pirate who has turned the Red Sea upside down — a man who could be giving them sleepless nights and empty stomachs — simply doesn’t. He shows humility and comes to them of his own will. Do you think they would send him to prison? Or would they be absolutely overjoyed, and treat this as a political achievement, announcing it to society with fanfare?”

“What face it would give them — they could even follow through with it. Grant you a pardon, give you diplomatic standing and a prestigious title, let other pirates see what cooperating with the government brings: look at all these rewards. Why wouldn’t they be envious?”

Hu Sha swallowed. He poured himself a cup of water and gulped it down in one long, extended chug.

Then he wiped his lips with his sleeve, his face flushed, visibly excited: “Jin, keep going.”

“What would they gain from sending you to prison? It would seal off any path for other pirates who might consider surrendering. And once you’re behind bars, you’d fade without a sound and soon be forgotten — the Red Sea would simply produce a second and third Hu Sha in your place.”

She lowered her voice: “Does it feel less unreachable now — the idea of making peace with the government?”

Hu Sha chuckled.

He said, “If there is such a chance, I would of course want to try. But Jin — do you know people in the government? I remember you worked for an international organization — haven’t you… been promoted?”

Cen Jin laughed out loud: “You give me too much credit. I left the international organization a long time ago. Now I’m just someone who occasionally writes articles. I don’t know anyone in the government. They wouldn’t give me a second glance.”

The smile froze on Hu Sha’s face.

Wei Lai exhaled. He quietly moved closer to Cen Jin.

Hu Sha’s change of expression was not a good sign. Who could say — he might lunge at her again, like yesterday, shouting and raging, or draw his gun.

Sure enough, his tone was now edged with anger.

“Jin — you said all of that, made it sound so wonderful, and in the end you don’t even know anyone in the government. What good is any of it!”

Cen Jin gave him a mild sideways glance: “You could send your own men to make contact with people in the government.”

Hu Sha’s face went increasingly menacing — as if he’d just heard the most laughable thing in the world: “A pirate could get an audience with government people? Who would believe anything he said? The moment he shows his face, he’d be grabbed, beaten, maybe jailed! Only someone whose word carries enough weight can make that kind of approach!”

“You’ve said all this to me, it sounds wonderful — but it’s all rubbish! All rubbish!”

He stood up and slammed both fists on the table. The cups and dishes on the surface leaped and fell back with a clatter.

Wei Lai felt mildly reassured: Hu Sha was actually showing more restraint today. No direct threats against Cen Jin. Some progress.

And that was precisely the moment Cen Jin spoke.

She said, “The person whose word carries enough weight — there is one, right here, and you know them.”

Hu Sha slowly began to calm down.

He was starting to get a feel for Cen Jin’s pattern: women were just this calculating — she always deliberately let him grow anxious and furious, then produced the solution.

He asked, “Who?”

His suspicious gaze traveled from her to Wei Lai: “Him?”

Wei Lai felt the pressure: please don’t speculate wildly — the only African I know is Ke Ke Shu, and even though his background is genuinely murky, he is definitely not a prince from Somalia living in hiding among the common people.

Cen Jin said, “The Saudi ship owner.”

Wei Lai laughed.

Like a lamp suddenly switched on, everything came into clear view all at once.

All the groundwork, all the tangents, the setups, the provocations, the guidance and persuasion — the seemingly disjointed, rambling conversations that darted from one corner of the world to another. In this moment, the fog lifted, and the cards on the table were revealed.

He let out a long breath. There was the deep satisfaction of watching everything settle into place.

Hu Sha was bewildered: “I hijacked their ship. They hate me for it — why would they help me…”

Cen Jin cut him off.

“Yes, you hijacked their ship. But isn’t the ship still completely intact? Aren’t the 25 hostages on board still alive and well? The ship is in your hands right now. What you do with it — whether you trade it just for money, or for money and a future — that’s entirely up to you.”

Author’s Note:

A small piece of historical context:

In the 2008 hijacking of the Saudi supertanker Sirius Star, the real pirate leader’s name was Hassan, with the nickname “Big Mouth.” The Sirius Star was ultimately ransomed for three million US dollars.

A few years later, Hassan held a press conference in the Somali capital Mogadishu, announcing his “retirement.” In his statement he said: “We have been engaged in this dirty trade for many years…”

He also expressed great willingness to use his influence to encourage other pirates to give up this way of life and surrender to the government.

The Somali government welcomed Hassan’s surrender, publicly announced that they would not pursue him for his past actions, granted him diplomatic status, and issued him a passport.

As for the details of how the negotiations in between unfolded — that, I genuinely do not know…