Chapter 1001 - 931 Ms. M's Sinister Plan

The night in London was heavy and damp, like an old velvet cloth saturated with dirty water, weighing heavily down on the River Thames.

Deep within Whitehall Street, a building that appeared solemn from the outside yet labyrinthine within, stood brightly lit.

This was the heart of MI6, codenamed "Vauxhall Cross."

At this moment, behind a heavy oak door on the top floor, the sound of raindrops tapping against the glass outside was shut out, along with the entire world.

Ms. M's office was spacious and cold. Behind a large mahogany desk, she was sunk into the shadow of a high-backed chair, like a meticulously sculpted stone statue.

Only the antique ring on her finger occasionally reflected a cold, hard glint under the halo of the desk lamp.

Spread out before her was a classified document just "blown" back from a distant theater of war—a few thin pages tinged with the aftertaste of gunpowder and blood.

The core of the report revolved around one person: Song Heping.

Beneath the report lay a few photographs, images taken by a spy satellite in Isriye, Siria, earlier that afternoon.

Though the photos were not very clear, the silhouette standing amidst the sand-colored ruins was a figure Ms. M could sketch with her eyes closed.

At the bottom of the report was a line written—Objective: Infiltrate the outskirts of Ashala Town.

Related information: Rescue codename "Cook," one of the founding members of "Musician" Defense Front.

She picked up the report, and the paper made a slight, dry rustle between her well-maintained fingers.

Every word was like a stone tossed into a deep pool, stirring waves of calculations in her calm, untroubled mind.

The large, oil-rich mining areas in the north of the Sen Republic, held firmly in Song Heping's grip, along with hundreds of square kilometers of land like a private kingdom, including the ever-expanding armed forces he established based on these resources...

These images vividly appeared before her.

The Sena New Government—the president "friend" Du Er whom they at MI6 had propped up—had privately expressed strong dissatisfaction and apprehension more than once.

That was supposed to be the cash cow of a "friend," a channel through which British capital smoothly flowed, now occupied by a mercenary leader they could not fully control.

The new government was still not firmly established and neither could nor dared tear off the façade; after all, there were already more than three thousand elite mercenaries stationed there, and if he wished, another five thousand elite could be called from the neighboring Darfur region.

Ms. M never would have imagined that in less than a year, Song Heping's power in Africa would have soared to such a terrifying level.

The civil war in Libya had caused those armed factions in the northern Darfur region that previously relied on Colonel Ka's support to completely collapse, all of which were smoothly incorporated under Song Heping's command.

Just this alone expanded the power of Song Heping's "Musician" defense more than tenfold.

Du Er complained over the phone that those mercenaries were like stones stuffed into a pillow, robbing him of sleep, uncertain if one day they'd conspire with other forces in Sena and reproduce another coup.

These clumsy lies, of course, Ms. M would not believe; she was well aware of Song Heping's mind.

This man was indeed ambitious, but not the type who fancied standing in the spotlight. To suggest he achieved the current benefits only to overthrow the Du Er government and establish a new king was outright ludicrous.

That China person was not so foolish as to tear completely with England and France.

However, the greed and venom in Du Er, Ms. M could sense clearly through the long waves of the radio signal.

"Burn the bridges after crossing, cook the hare after catching it..."

She silently savored this ancient Eastern proverb, a cold curve emerging at the corner of her lips.

"The wisdom of the China People is universally applicable."

Song Heping had already lost his value as a "bridge" and "pawn," even becoming a stubborn stone obstructing the path to profit.

This was indeed a stone, and for the sake of profit, it had to be moved.

And it must not soil her own hands.

She lifted her gaze from the document to the man standing straight before her desk.

"Hawkins."

Her voice was not loud, carrying an indisputable steadiness, like a scalpel slicing through skin—swift and sharp.

"You must make arrangements immediately, using the fastest and most secretive method, to covertly transmit the entire contents of this report, especially Song Heping's exact location and the rescue target 'Cook' intelligence, through our 'Black Glove' in the Middle East to our 'old friend' Buckdadi in the Deir Ezzor region."

The room was dead silent for a moment.

The air seemed to have solidified, only the gentle breeze from the air conditioning seemed particularly clear at this moment.

Hawkins, the intelligence director, a veteran agent with immaculately groomed hair and a granite-like stern demeanor, tightened his body almost imperceptibly.

His facial muscles seemed rigid, an expression of intense shock and disbelief flashed across his deeply sunken eyes.

Leaking to the 1515 armed group?

At a time when the whole world was fighting terrorism?

Not to mention Song Heping's prior cooperation with MI6, doing so would be no different from stabbing in the back, and even the slightest leak would be fatal damage to the image of the British intelligence department and the British government.

Even traditional allies might very well turn against us.

The risk involved was akin to a nuclear bomb.