You can leave 203 once you've entered?
"Qin Fei? Captain Lei, do you an...?"
He didn't understand why Lei Ming suddenly ntioned Qin Fei, and was puzzled about the boundary between this personal guidance and the previously ironclad national stance.
"Ahem—ahem—after he left, the things he ca into contact with were rather mixed."
Lei Ming coughed two aningful tis, stopping right there, with extrely cautious wording.
"In his hand, he might have so kind of 'eye's information or channels that you need."
He emphasized "might" and "information or channels," rather than direct abilities or resources.
"I'll give you the number. Whether you can persuade him depends on you."
Lei Ming's voice returned to its earlier steadiness, but the last sentence had more weight: "Rember, Song Heping, in big matters, stay calm, the sky won't fall. Take care."
As the words were leaving his mouth, a string of numbers was broadcast, and the call abruptly ended, leaving only the busy tone.
Song Heping held the phone, listening to the busy tone, montarily dazed, his mind in turmoil.
Lei Ming's refusal was straightforward and thorough, consistent with his identity and position as a current battalion captain, leaving no room for fantasy.
But that na and number...
Qin Fei?
The person who left Unit 203 for "special reasons"?
In an extrely personal, extrely elusive way, without crossing any red lines, Lei Ming pointed him to a possible path that existed in the gray area.
Countless questions flooded his mind.
But ti waits for no man; the Daishe Bird's bomb wouldn't wait for him to clear his thoughts.
He looked down at the number he had just written, a hint of determination in his eyes.
Whether Qin Fei could help or not, this was already the only possible path Lei Ming had indicated without violating principles.
He took a deep breath, pressed the button on the satellite phone again, and dialed that number leading to Eritrea...
anwhile.
Khartoum, dusk had fallen.
The man codenad "Mole," whose surface identity was a senior business representative of a certain European trading company stationed in Sudan, possessed good governnt relationships and a diplomatic license plate.
At this mont, he was driving an inconspicuous Toyota Land Cruiser, slowly maneuvering on the dusty roads on the outskirts of the northeast industrial zone of Khartoum.
Under the dashboard, a high-definition miniature cara disguised as a dash cam silently recorded the scenes along the way.
He had received the highest-priority orders from London, and the cold command text chilled the back of his neck.
Twelve missing military trucks...
Uncover Song Heping's secret...
Within 12 hours...
The industrial zone was expansive, filled with various factories, warehouses, and scrapyards, many places were poorly managed, and the walls were dilapidated.
Official records here were often a re formality.
He couldn't conduct a high-profile search; he could only rely on the most primitive yet most effective thods: observation, deduction, and utilizing his locally developed informant network over the years.
He first ruled out formal large military warehouses or governnt facilities; Song Heping wouldn't be that foolish.
His attention was focused on those semi-abandoned factories guarded by private security companies, especially places with large enclosed workshops or underground spaces.
He lowered his head and opened his phone, clicking open the encrypted ssages one by one.
Informant A (a broker providing parts for multiple factories) reported: Three days ago, an abandoned chanical repair shop near the old slaughterhouse was suddenly taken over by a group of "new security guards." These people were well-equipped, unlike locals, and strictly prohibited anyone from approaching the big warehouse deep in the factory. They brought in many "large equipnt parts," covered with thick tarps, and the trucks... seed to be green military trucks?
Informant B (a taxi driver specializing in the industrial zone night shifts) ntioned: The night before last, early in the morning, he dropped off a drunk security guard near that factory area by the old slaughterhouse, and saw several "big guys" (aning large trucks) parked outside the big warehouse deep in the yard, with their tails facing the warehouse door, seemingly unloading goods. He curiously took another look and was fiercely driven away by security.
Both pieces of information pointed to the sa location—an abandoned "Sudan Heavy Machinery Repair Factory" on the edge of the industrial zone, near the long-ago closed state-run slaughterhouse.
"Mole" drove closer to the area.
He didn't drive straight to the factory's main gate but instead took a side dirt road piled with construction debris.
He stopped the car, took out a high-definition digital cara with a telephoto lens, and under the cover of night, peered through the rusty, multiple damaged barbed wire fences on the factory grounds.
The interior of the factory was overgrown with weeds, and several low office buildings were dilapidated.
But deep down, that massive, vaulted structure of a maintenance warehouse exuded an unusual sense of alertness.
The warehouse's main door was tightly closed, but a small door next to it, used for personnel entry, was open, revealing bright lights inside.
Two camouflage-painted pickup trucks were parked at the door, with several n in plain clothes but carrying AK rifles, vigilantly patrolling nearby.
Their movents and positions hinted at the skill of professional soldiers, far from ordinary security.
More critically, "Mole" keenly captured the outlines of several large vehicles parked in an area veiled in shadows behind the warehouse side.
Although deliberately obscured by worn tarps and debris, the distinctive, square, boxy vehicle fronts and tall driver's cab outlines, coupled with vague army green paint—were precisely those Ural trucks ntioned in the intelligence provided by headquarters!
He adjusted the focus, zood in with the lens, his heart racing in his chest.
By one vehicle's rear wheel, a small corner of canvas was lifted by the wind, revealing the dark green tal components underneath!
The angular structures and the hefty base feeling...
"Mole's" breath hitched—
That thing looked just like a part of a Sam-6 missile launcher!
What you seek is easily found!
He suppressed his excitent, fingers steadily pressing the shutter continuously, freezing the evidence.
He also noticed new installations of inconspicuous ventilation ducts atop the warehouse, one of which had an angle and shape...
Sowhat suggested a radar base?
Everything pointed to that dangerous conclusion.
He didn't linger, quickly packing up his cara, starting the car, leaving the seemingly heavily guarded area silently.
After confirming no tail, he found a relatively safe spot to prepare to send the photos and detailed descriptive text back to London via an encrypted channel.
However, just as he was compiling the information, his phone vibrated slightly, the screen lighting up.
A piece of extrely "valuable" intelligence ca from an inside source he had secretly developed within the Sudanese military's logistics departnt—
"About the commotion at that abandoned repair factory... don't be too tense, brother. It's a deal long settled between Song Heping and our military high-ups, a batch of 'air defense systems,' to bolster the capital's surrounding air defense. The truck convoy arrival in Khartoum is just fulfilling a contract handover. Those guards are for handover security and will withdraw in a couple of days."
The source spoke casually, as if talking about an ordinary matter.
This "inside scoop" was like the final puzzle piece, instantly rendering all "abnormalities" observed by "Mole"—professional guards, concealed military trucks, exposed suspected launcher parts, new "radar bases"—into plausible, non-threatening explanations!
Song Heping wasn't carrying out an unspeakable secret operation but fulfilling a sensitive yet "normal" military arms transaction contract!
"So that's it..."
"Mole's" taut nerves relaxed, a hint of misguided relief replacing prior tension.
He promptly sent this "key" information, along with the photos he took and the observation report, all encrypted and sent to London. The core conclusion of the report was:
"Post-reconnaissance and reliable insider confirmation, the trucks inside the target warehouse are indeed from the Northern Darfur convoy. Observed suspected air defense system part exposure. Combined with insider intelligence, determined as Song Heping and the Sudanese military fulfilling an established military procurent contract (Sam-6 air defense system), undergoing handover. Security for temporary handover protection. No special threat signs towards third parties discovered yet."
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