He stared at Song Heping, his tone filled with doubt, with a hint of subtle probing.
This is indeed the most fragile link in the entire mad plan.
"Their ears..."
Song Heping's voice interrupted him flatly, as if stating a natural law already verified.
"Will beco ornantal as soon as the operation begins."
He slightly tilted his head, his gaze directed towards the shadow-obscured corner behind the workbench, "Collins, let Mr. Shire see our strength."
In the corner, the screen of a military-grade rugged laptop lit up in response, with an eerie blue light instantly outlining the silhouette of a young man seated on a simple folding chair.
Collins' face appeared unusually pale under the screen's illumination, expressionless, with eyes so focused they seed hollow.
His long fingers tapped rapidly on the keyboard, movents succinct and efficient, causing the screen to switch imdiately.
Complex and constantly flickering spectrograms occupied the left side of the screen, while the right side was filled with waterfall-like refreshing signal waveforms.
Colorful lines representing different frequencies and intensities danced wildly across the grid.
"The British Army advisory team, all primary and backup communication frequencies, have been captured."
Collins' voice rang out, cold and flat, without any emotional fluctuation, like machine-synthesized speech.
"Current encryption protocol, 'Sentry-3B'. Decryption completion, 99.7%."
His fingers tapped another key. On the screen, the complex waveforms representing the "Sentry-3B" encryption layer were instantly deconstructed and stripped away, revealing clear fragnts of voice data streams that flashed by.
Shire's pupils contracted sharply again! 99.7%!
This is almost a complete break!
The technical departnt of DGSE, proud of itself, could barely penetrate early versions of the "Sentry" series encryption protocols!
How is this possible?!
Collins' fingers didn't pause, tapping another set of keys.
The screen switched again.
A partial map of Butare City appeared, clearly marking the location of the British Army communication center.
Three continuously blinking green dots ford a triangular distribution within an 800-ter radius of the target center.
This was clearly a manifestation of successful intrusion and eavesdropping!
"Pre-set electromagnetic interference pulse generator."
Collins' voice remained emotionless, as if reading a manual, "has been deployed at the three optimal nodes in the target area."
He lifted his eyelids and said with slight pride: "Once the activation command is issued, within 0.5 seconds, all wireless communications and data chains in the target area will be paralyzed for at least ninety minutes."
Shire gasped, the sound crisply audible in the dead quiet of the factory!
0.5 seconds!
Paralyzed for ninety minutes!
This was virtually a lethal strike severing the British Army embedded in Sena's regi's central nervous system!
Shire looked at Song Heping's expressionless face under the light and then at Collins' face, pale as a phantom under the eerie blue screen light, realizing clearly for the first ti that what he faced was not rely a lucky escapee seeking revenge but a war machine assembled from cold-blooded will and destructive technology.
It lay dormant in the shadows, awaiting a fatal strike.
The British had gotten themselves into trouble with this guy…
That was truly unwise.
Previously, GDSE had been troubled by the success of Duer's coup, blaming it on Noel's lackluster guard units, which supposedly led to Song Heping's fortunate success. Now it seems nothing was by accident, and the results weren't born of re luck.
He and his departnt's agents lost fairly.
However, this clearly is also his best opportunity.
At least he could turn the tables and regain control over Sena's authority.
"It's your turn to lay down the stakes."
Song Heping's gaze locked onto Shire again: "The nas of the puppets you control within the Duer governnt, every military officer's na, rank, division, current precise location, personal and family background weaknesses, and secure contact thods and frequencies."
He listed the demands steadily, each pointing directly to critical vulnerabilities.
"All information must be delivered into my hands by noon tomorrow at the latest, I need to contact them and issue instructions during the operation."
He paused for a second, drawing a circle with his fingertip on the map.
"In exchange, after the establishnt of the new regi, aside from the three mines I originally owned, French enterprises will have indisputable priority negotiation rights and most favored clauses for other mining rights and reconstruction projects within Sena."
His gaze was sharp as a hawk.
"Also, at the UN level, until the dust settles, a necessary 'diplomatic silence'—France's voice, all voices, including speaking rights within the General Assembly and in dia outlets like AFP, must stir the waters for us. At all costs, we must strive to legitimize our coup. As for how to do that, I don't need to teach you rumor-mongers, do I?"
"Priority..."
Shire's gaze was fixed on the mark on the mining area, as if he wanted to engrave it into his retina.
"...must be included in the first batch of official bilateral moranda after the new governnt is established. In black and white, with the binding force of international law."
His tone was firm, brooking no ambiguity.
This is a significant cornerstone for France's resource map in Sena and indeed the whole of Africa for decades to co.
"Agreed." Song Heping's response had no hesitation, crisp and decisive like the snap of a bullet being chambered.
Shire silently exhaled a breath of turbid air.
A heavy psychological burden within his heart was finally lifted.
He didn't speak again, but slowly, with a solemnity almost ritualistic, he took out a dark brown, finely textured crocodile leather cigar box from the inner pocket of his suit.
"Click."
The sound of the box lid snapping open was as crisp as the release of a firearm safety in the quiet.
He took out a dark brown Cohiba cigar and offered it to Song Heping: "Care for one?"
Song Heping shook his head: "I don't have the habit of smoking."
"Cigars don't enter the lungs." Shire didn't press further, but calmly used the cigar cutter he carried with him to swiftly snip off the cigar cap.
Then, he took out a DuPont lighter from another pocket.
"Flick—"
The roller struck flint, and a steady orange fla leapt up, illuminating Shire's focused profile.
He brought the cigar close to the fla, not rushing to light it, letting the flickering tongue of fire evenly and patiently lick the dark brown cigar body, slowly rotating it.
The subtle crackling of high-quality tobacco being toasted and the unique scent of kerosene filled the air, oddly diluting the heavy rusty sll of the factory, bringing a hint of luxury warmth.
He took a deep draw, letting the rich, full-bodied smoke swirl and brew in his mouth for a mont before slowly, lengthily exhaling.
Gray-white smoke rose, swirled, and dispersed under the dim yellow light, blurring the last traces of struggle and calculation in his eyes.
"The files and contact thod."
Shire finally spoke again, with a decisiveness post-dust-death: "Within four hours, through Henry's secure line, they will be sent to your designated secret email."
He paused, took a puff of the cigar, letting the smoke circle in his lungs before continuing, each word clear and weighty: "As for the UN and dia direction... the French Republic knows how to provide protection for you at the right ti. You can rest assured on this point."
An invisible contract was quietly ford under the spicy aroma of the cigar and the dim yellow light.
No handshake, no unnecessary promises.
Only the eting of eyes, affirming the transaction both knew well.
Song Heping's gaze lowered, once again focusing on that huge map laden with ambition and slaughter.
His gaze ultimately settled on the center of the map, on that small red dot symbolizing the core of the Duer Presidential Mansion.
He extended his hand, picked up the cigar cutter Shire had casually placed on the edge of the table, and then asked Shire for a cigar.
"Snap!"
A short, crisp cutting sound with a tallic sharpness suddenly echoed in the empty factory.
The cut-off, still slightly moist dark brown cigar tip fell from the open scissor mouth.
"Thud."
It fell dead center, precisely covering the scarlet dot—the location of the Presidential Mansion.
The cigar tip lay there quietly, exuding a chilling symbolic aning.
Shire got the implication, once more taking out the sa DuPont Grand Lighter, snapped it open with a thud, lit it up, and passed the fla to Song Heping.
Song Heping lit the cigar, drew on it.
The cigar's aroma swirled in his mouth and then was exhaled.
Indeed, it doesn't need to enter the lungs.
"Pleasure working with you, Mr. Shire."
He said.
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