"Ma'am?"
Hawkins' voice carried a hint of dryness that even he hadn't noticed, struggling to maintain surface calm.
"Please allow to confirm... Are you suggesting that we leak the real-ti location and intended actions of Song Heping to... the 1515 organization?"
"That's correct."
Ms. M's reply was without the slightest hesitation, as concise as delivering a routine order.
She even leaned back slightly, adopting a more comfortable posture, her gaze as sharp as an eagle's, piercing through the dim light of the office, fixed on Hawkins' face.
"Director Hawkins, your hearing is not the issue."
Hawkins felt his throat tighten, a chill mixed with professional alertness and moral shock climbing up his spine.
He took a deep breath, attempting to clarify the logic behind this order: "Ma'am, with all due respect. Currently, Song Heping's team is still, at least within the frawork of our interests in the Sen Republic, a substantial cooperative partner. Not long ago, during the Sen coup, we've closely collaborated, jointly overthrowing the old regi and supporting a governnt aligned with our interests. At this ti... leaking his whereabouts to ISIS, is it... is it too..."
He weighed his words, ultimately choosing a more professional expression.
"...would it jeopardize the hard-earned mutual trust between us and the current Sena New Governnt, and have we considered that once it's leaked... it could have unpredictable negative impacts on the international reputation of MI6?"
"Reputation?"
Ms. M gently repeated the word, as if hearing an amusing joke. She reached for the crystal whiskey glass on the table, half-filled with amber liquid, ice clinking crisply against the glass walls.
Gently swirling the glass, her gaze fixed on the flowing luster, her tone as calm as water, yet every word like an icy awl.
"Hawkins, tell , what is our departnt?"
"MI6, Ma'am." Hawkins responded imdiately.
"What are our duties?" Ms. M pursued, her gaze intense.
"To maintain the national security and overseas interests of Great Britain, Ma'am." Hawkins' voice returned to a rigidly standard answer.
"Very well."
Ms. M picked up the crystal glass and sipped the whiskey inside, the spicy liquid sliding down her throat, bringing a hint of warmth, yet utterly failing to lt the ice in her eyes.
"Then, tell , a 'partner' in the northern Sen Republic, who holds a military stronghold, practically controls invaluable strategic resources, and shows lip service to the new governnt that supported him to the top, is he a safeguard for Britain's national security and overseas interests, or... a liability? Even a threat?"
Hawkins fell silent.
He could not refute it. The Sena New Governnt's private apprehensions and dissatisfaction with Song Heping, along with reports of conflicts over mining interests, were all too clear to him as the intelligence director.
He just didn't expect that Ms. M would be willing to assist an abhorrent extremist group like the 1515 ard forces to eliminate Song Heping.
"The new governnt needs stability, needs complete control of the situation, and most importantly, they need to deliver on their promises to our capital."
Ms. M's voice, though low, carried a penetrating power that struck at the core of Hawkins' heart with each word.
"Song Heping's presence is that major stumbling block. The mining areas he occupies, that base, should be the wealth of the Sena New Governnt, the channel through which our capital flows smoothly. But now? It's beco a personal kingdom of Mr. Song. The new governnt dares not act directly due to his strength, yet cos to us for help, but think about it, should MI6 really be the one to play the villain?"
She set the glass down, leaning slightly forward, her gaze sharper.
"Making a direct move? Whether successful or not, it's the worst strategy. Succeed, and we'd bear the infamy of 'betraying a partner', what would the Sena New Governnt think? Would they be next? Fail..."
She let out an almost imperceptible sigh, tinged with a trace of apprehension: "Hawkins, you and I both know what kind of person Song Heping is. The destructive power he can unleash in a desperate situation can give any intelligence agency a headache. Without a hundred percent certainty, we can't easily put ourselves in his line of fire."
The office fell into silence, the spherical ice in the crystal cup gradually lting, the water beads slowly sliding down the glass wall, leaving a slight wet streak on the smooth mahogany desk.
Outside the window, it suddenly began to rain in London.
Raindrops beat dully against the bullet-proof glass, like countless cold hands tapping.
Ms. M's voice broke the suffocating silence, cold yet precise, like a scalpel cutting through flesh: "Killing with a borrowed knife, Hawkins. This is the superior strategy. Let the 1515, a knife already tainted with blood and notorious, solve this problem for us. They and Song Heping are already neck-deep in blood debts, an irreconcilable conflict."
She paused, raised the crystal glass again, and gestured lightly towards Hawkins.
"We just... 'happened' to provide a bit of insignificant intelligence support. Who would suspect it? Who could prove it? Even if Song Heping dies, the bla would fall squarely on Baghdadi. Our MI6 reputation? Intact. The Sena New Governnt will be grateful to us, and those enticing mining interests... will return to the negotiation table, back to our hands. Killing multiple birds with one stone, why not?"
The last trace of struggle on Hawkins' face completely vanished.
The faint worries about morality and partnership were pathetically fragile in the face of the cold logic of national interest.
Ms. M's analysis, like peeling an onion, layer after layer peeled back the harsh truth hidden beneath the guise of "cooperation."
Sena needed a compliant ally, not a warlord that could grow too big to control.
Song Heping's value had been rapidly depreciating since the Sena New Governnt's establishnt, now becoming an obstacle that urgently needed removal.
By using Buckdadi's hand, not only could they eliminate a troubleso enemy, but also perfectly avoid all political and reputational risks, even paving the way for future greater advantages.
He understood.
He fully understood.
This was by no ans a spur-of-the-mont betrayal, but a ticulously planned and coldly calculated political purge.
"Ma'am, I understand."
Hawkins' voice regained its usual rigidity, even carrying a hint of decisiveness in executing a task, "Target elimination, risk transfer, maximization of interests. I'll get on it imdiately. Through the 'Dark River' channel, ensuring no traceable signs remain. Within an hour, the intelligence will be delivered to the designated location."
Ms. M nodded slightly, her face expressionless, just leaning back in her chair again, her gaze shifting to the rain outside the window, as if they had discussed not a matter of life and death, but an insignificant asset transfer.
"Go on, Hawkins. Neat and clean."
"Yes, Ma'am."
Hawkins straightened his back, turned, and walked steadily towards the heavy oak door. His leather shoes treading on the thick carpet made almost no sound.
He opened the door; the bright lights from the corridor briefly flooded in, then were shut out again by the heavy door.
In the corridor, the busy figures of intelligence analysts and their low conversations reached his ears, a different world of order and noise.
Hawkins gently closed the door, shutting the room filled with the aroma of whiskey and cold calculation completely behind him.
He took a deep breath of the air in the corridor, with its scent of disinfectant and paper, and stepped forward, each step firmly planted.
National interest above all, it was a creed etched in his very bones.
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