Chapter 874 - 812: Underlying Currents

Khartoum, the Intelligence Bureau Chief's private villa.

Director Rashim stood on the balcony, gazing at the Nile River at night.

In the living room behind him, a white man was savoring some tea.

"Song Heping has agreed to the deal?"

The white man asked in English with an Oxford accent.

Rashim turned around, his face full of caution: "Why have you British suddenly become so concerned about Song Heping?"

The man chuckled lightly, placing down the bone china teacup: "We are interested in anyone who can maintain the interests of the Commonwealth."

He lifted his hand and adjusted his tie clip.

"Especially in our former colonial territories."

He retrieved a document from his briefcase: "This is the information we have on Song Heping. He not only has a background with the PLA military but is also closely connected with South American drug lords and anti-government armed organizations."

Rashim glanced at the document, snorted: "The Americans also say he supports terrorism, Israel accuses him of murdering a Mossad agent. Everyone wants Song Heping dead, but he's still alive and well."

Saying this, he paused, a vigilant look in his eyes, and asked again: "What? Are you MI6 planning to collaborate with the Americans to eliminate him? Let me remind you, Mr. Weber, Song Heping is one of our people now, and the president is counting on him to fight for control in Northern Darfur."

Rashim's fingers rhythmically tapped the balcony railing, the night breeze from the Nile carried a humid scent.

He turned and walked back to the living room, the chandelier's light casting fragments of reflection on Weber's gold-rimmed glasses.

Weber smiled slightly, with the unflappable smile honed at the Oxford Debate Society.

"Director, the influence of Great Britain has never truly left the Nile."

He took a sip of tea.

"But in recent years, the actions of the Americans in the Sahel region have threatened the interests of the Commonwealth. Their actions in Africa have effectively weakened our influence, if not for the alliance between our two countries, we would have turned hostile long ago."

Rashim's eyes flashed with complexity.

He himself had been trained at Sandhurst Royal Military Academy and knew better than anyone the intricate influence of the British in Sudan.

The families that once held positions in the colonial government now still control Sudan's economic lifeline.

"So you have your eye on Song Heping?" Rashim sneered: "An internationally wanted arms dealer, a criminal listed as a US and UN terrorist leader?"

Weber set down the teacup, the clash of porcelain making a crisp sound.

"You forget one thing, he is also a formidable opponent for the CIA, Mossad, and even us."

He corrected: "Washington now has a 30 million US Dollar bounty on his head, second only to Laden. But, that's not our war, it's the Americans' war, Africa doesn't need them to fight terrorism, if there's fighting to do, it should be done by us."

Rashim said: "Collaborating with him, what if the relationship is leaked, what of your British reputation then? That would be a fatal crisis."

Weber was unabashed: "That's why I need your cooperation. Do you understand what I mean?"

Rashim stood up, walked to the liquor cabinet.

He needed time to think.

Poured two glasses of Scotch Whisky, he handed one to Weber. "Song Heping is indeed... very valuable."

He cautiously chose his words.

"But he is not anyone's pawn. From what I know of him, this person is not easy to control."

"Of course not." Weber accepted the glass, amber liquid shimmering under the light, "But he needs friends, especially friends like MI6."

The British man took an encrypted USB drive out of his suit pocket and pushed it toward Rashim.

"72 hours ago, we intercepted a satellite communication at our intelligence station in South Sudan. Former CIA Deputy Director Pence met with a man codenamed 'Shepherd' in Juba."

Rashim frowned.

Pence's name was all too familiar to him—the one who had just resigned in disgrace for breaching Sudanese airspace.

"Who is Shepherd?"

"We're still confirming, the background of this person is very mysterious." Weber admitted: "But six hours after the meeting, he is set to head to Northern Darfur to meet with Hakeem and Markuer."

Rashim's glass halted mid-air.

Hakeem's 'Justice and Equality' and Markuer's 'Liberation Front' are the two most formidable armed factions in Darfur, having a blood feud with each other.

Only astronomical rewards and sheer power could bring these two together.

"The Americans want to unite them against Song Heping?"

Weber nodded: "Not only that. They hired EO Company's elite 'Anvil' strike team through shell companies. Eight former Special Forces retirees, a combat team specializing in high-value target elimination, presumably planning a new attack."

The room fell into silence.

Rashim walked to the window, watching the specks of lights along the Nile.

Logically, Song Heping is indeed a problem, but his presence in Northern Darfur is also crucial for the government army against the Southern Rebel Army.

"Why tell me all this?" Rashim turned and asked, "MI6 could have contacted Song Heping directly."

Weber's smile disappeared, replaced by the cold demeanor unique to intelligence personnel.

"Because the United States remains an important partner of the Commonwealth. We cannot take this risk, but you are the most suitable candidate."

He leaned forward, voice lowered: "Director, this is not charity. The Americans' expansion in Africa threatens British interests, and it also threatens yours. They have now established bases in Niger, all they need is an excuse—such as 'humanitarian intervention' or 'protecting oil pipelines'—to enter Sudan, and you are our proteges, when they come, everything will reshuffle, can you then ensure your current position?"

Rashim's temple throbbed.

Weber was right.

The Americans' actions in South Sudan have grown increasingly aggressive in recent years, and Darfur remains Sudan's most fragile soft spot.

"Suppose I agree to cooperate," Rashim said slowly, "What can Britain offer?"

Weber's eyes lit up, knowing Rashim was beginning to waiver.

"Intelligence sharing, military equipment, and..."

He paused meaningfully, a threatening glint in his eyes: "The protection of Sudanese officials' assets by the London Financial City."

This was a deadly temptation.

Rashim swirled his drink, weighing the pros and cons.

Collaborating with the British means offending the Americans, but refusing MI6...

The 30 million pounds in the London Vault might be frozen by tomorrow.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Later, I will provide Song Heping with some useful intelligence through you to ensure he can continue... disrupting the Americans' plans in South Sudan."

Weber looked Rashim in the eye.

"The Americans may never dream that their ally would stab them in the back." Rashim sneered: "You British are always so... hypocritical."

"It's called pragmatism, Director." Weber wasn't offended: "In this game, we all serve our respective national interests, just in different ways. The Americans have backstabbed us too."

Rashim asked: "About 'Shepherd', what else do you know?"

Weber's expression turned serious: "Very little. This codename first appeared in our files last year, related to a series of South Sudan oil field attacks. But one thing is clear—he is backed by the 'Elder Council', and the 'Elder Council's relationship with the CIA...is ambiguous."

Rashim nodded.

Such "deniable operations" using private military companies or local insurgent forces was a game he was all too familiar with—in fact, the British were the originators of this trick.

"Does Song Heping know about this?"

"Not yet." Weber admitted, "We think it would be best coming from you. After all, he is still the 'protégé' of Sudan's government."

Rashim walked to his desk and pressed the internal communication button: "Prepare the car, I'm going to the Atlon Oasis."

Then turned to Weber: "You will come too."

"What?" Weber raised his eyebrows slightly, hesitated for a moment: "My identity..."

"Either you come with me now, or you will never get close to Song Heping." Rashim said firmly, "The choice is yours."

The British agent considered for a moment, then nodded: "I'll go. But my identity must remain confidential."

Twenty minutes later, a nondescript Land Rover Defender left the villa area, heading towards Atlon Oasis.

In the car, Rashim spoke a few words in Arabic over an encrypted satellite phone.

After hanging up, he turned to Weber.

"Song Heping agreed to meet. But I warn you—this person is ten times more dangerous than what's written in the files, don't play your gentlemen's game."

Weber adjusted his tie: "Director, we are professionals. After tonight, Song Heping will have another option, and the Americans will have another nightmare. That's the point, isn't it?"