Continuing from the previous chapter.
Gaddafi's spectacle was far from over.
Having regained America's recognition, he became even more inflated—perhaps because he'd been riding high for decades.
This time, he set his sights on France.
Gaddafi had always proclaimed himself the "King of Africa," but he felt the title was somewhat hollow. As the King of Africa, shouldn't he also unify Africa's currency?
Not only did he entertain this idea, but he acted on it.
To be honest, there was nothing inherently wrong with his ambition. He was a power-hungry man, and unifying the wealth of Africa seemed natural. But he failed to consider whether his strength was sufficient for the task.
Before World War II, most of Africa was a French colony. Even now, the primary currencies in circulation there were the franc and, later, the U.S. dollar. By 2013, the Chinese yuan had also begun circulating in Africa.
What Gaddafi was attempting was nothing short of replacing the franc and the dollar.
Of course, France wouldn't stand for it. At the time, France was still primarily composed of proud Gauls, untainted by external influences. These haughty Gauls would not tolerate Gaddafi's defiance.
But Gaddafi thought, I'm not even afraid of America or Russia. Why would I be afraid of a mere France?
Determined to make France understand his power, he orchestrated a plane crash in Nigeria.
Gaddafi was experienced in such matters.
This disaster claimed the lives of 176 passengers, the majority of whom were French citizens.
Having now antagonized Britain, the U.S., France, and Russia, Gaddafi surveyed his surroundings and realized he had yet to challenge one more permanent member of the UN Security Council—China.
So, he stirred up more trouble.
Gaddafi demanded nuclear technology from China, threatening to support Taiwan's independence if refused. Naturally, China rejected him outright.
Unwilling to accept defeat, Gaddafi stubbornly believed that money could solve anything.
To demonstrate his sincerity, he traveled to China for the first time, accompanied by his squad of female bodyguards.
However, his arrogance remained unchanged. He altered his flight path without authorization and arrived three hours late.
Originally, the meeting was meant to discuss trade cooperation, but Gaddafi brought up nothing but nuclear weapons, completely ignoring economic matters.
Once again, China firmly rejected him: China does not sell nuclear weapons. Our nuclear arsenal exists solely for self-defense and peace, to break the monopoly and blackmail of nuclear powers.
[TL/N: What a fucking joke, what is this then? this shit was from BBC News and Washington Post.
China 'link' to Libya nuke design
Investigators have identified China as the origin of some nuclear weapons designs found in Libya last year, the Washington Post newspaper reported.
It said the international inquiry found that Chinese designs probably supplied to Pakistan in the 1980s were sold on to Libya by Pakistani-led smugglers.
It quoted officials as saying that some of Libya's documents were in Chinese.
The findings raise questions as to whether similar Chinese designs were supplied to Iran and North Korea.]
This was Gaddafi—a man who never stopped talking, never stopped challenging. Whether his actions were for Libya's benefit or not, his ultimate fate was sealed. When he was finally overthrown, not a single major power came to his aid—not even with a mere statement of support.
That is the cost of arrogance and isolation.
As the saying goes: Weakness and ignorance have never been barriers to survival—arrogance is.
Gaddafi's sons inherited his arrogance.
Among them, one stood out—Mutassim-Billah Gaddafi.
Born in December 1977, he was 27 years old.
To compete with his older brother (Gaddafi's second son) for Libya's succession, he aggressively invested in various ventures, amassing wealth to build a loyal faction within the military.
In Europe, his methods were relatively mild; in Africa, they were outright brutal.
Gaddafi watched his sons compete but did not intervene. He believed that true strength arose from rivalry, forgetting the damage such internal strife inflicted on the nation.
In the original timeline, Mutassim defeated his older brother in 2007 and secured his claim to Libya's leadership.
Unfortunately, four years later, he, his father, and his brothers were executed by NATO-backed rebels.
---
Martin obtained a phone number from a captured Libyan prisoner.
Without hesitation, he dialed it.
"Zayed? Why are you calling me at this hour? It's already 10:30 at night!"
A deep voice answered in Arabic.
Martin responded in Arabic as well: "Mutassim-Billah Gaddafi? This is Martin Meyers."
A moment of silence. Then, a chuckle.
"Zayed got caught, huh? And he gave you this number? How did you manage that?"
Martin said calmly, "Simple. I asked, and he answered."
"Is that so? Well, if you don't want to tell me, so be it." Mutassim clearly didn't believe him.
Martin continued, "I don't quite understand something. Just because you failed to buy a mine, you resorted to such extreme measures against me? Are you really trying to make an enemy of me?"
Mutassim chuckled again. "An enemy? A powerful enemy? I must admit, I didn't expect you to eliminate the Kurds and find me so quickly. But I'm curious—what exactly do you plan to do about it?"
Martin smirked. "I hear you have a girlfriend in Italy. What's her name again? Vanessa Hessler?"
"So what? Are you trying to use a hostage to threaten me? You're a superstar, a billionaire—I don't believe you'd stoop to that level." Mutassim's voice remained casual.
But Martin detected a faint trace of unease beneath that veneer of calm.
So Zayed was right—Mutassim did care about that woman.
Martin instantly relaxed, genuinely this time. He said, "Of course, I wouldn't be so foolish. But tell me, if international superstar and billionaire Martin Meyers were to pursue Miss Hessler, do you think she'd say yes?"
The other end of the line fell silent, as if the mute button had been pressed.
Martin did not hang up. He was patient.
After a long moment, a heavy breath came through the receiver. Mutassim spoke, his voice no longer lighthearted:
"What do you want?"
A sentimental fool!
For a fleeting second, Martin almost felt a sliver of goodwill toward him.
Or perhaps Mutassim was simply afraid of losing face—especially in such a crucial moment of his power struggle.
But that momentary sympathy vanished as quickly as it had come.
"Let's meet," Martin said.
"This August, I'll be at the Venice Film Festival," Mutassim replied.
"Okay. We'll meet there. And until then—don't cause any trouble. Do not cross my line again."
Mutassim didn't respond. He simply hung up.
But Martin could sense the frustration and reluctant agreement in his silence. He smiled in the dark.
Meanwhile, on the other end of the line, in Turkey, Mutassim-Billah Gaddafi furiously smashed the disposable phone in his hand.
"Martin Meyers!"
His eyes flashed with a vicious light—before he quickly concealed it.