The French are no good...
Then it's the British!
Especially the British.
He is well aware of how deep the grievances are between those gentlen of Great Britain and this "African Ghost" Song Heping.
If he is willing to act as a henchman to attack Song Heping, they would certainly be very happy to help!
Wasn't that how it was before?
He has had cooperation with them, although that cooperation also ended in failure.
"I am Sayif, I need to speak with the Ambassador! Or the head of MI6 here! Imdiately! What I need to discuss concerns the safety of British interests in North Africa!"
"Please hold."
The secretary's tone on the phone was as cold as ice cubes in a freezer.
This ti, the wait was even longer.
After a full minute, the phone was finally transferred, and a young, cold, and distinctly London-accented male voice ca through: "Mr. Sayif? Unfortunately, both the Ambassador and the Intelligence Chief are currently not at the embassy; they've returned to report back ho and won't be able to return to Tripoli anyti soon. We will docunt the situation you ntioned and will contact you if necessary. Goodbye."
After speaking, the person hung up without hesitation.
"Bastard! Son of a bitch!!"
Sayif completely exploded, he violently smashed the satellite phone in his hand against the wall like a madman.
The expensive communication device shattered instantly, with debris flying everywhere.
He gasped heavily, eyes red, chest heaving violently, fists clenched as if ready to fight yet unable to find a target to unleash on.
Right now, Sayif felt like he was nothing more than a discarded rag, heartlessly thrown into the trash by forr allies who swore allegiance.
England and France!
They chose to stand by!
They tacitly accepted Song Heping's victory!
After extre anger cos piercing cold.
Sayif staggered back a few steps and fell heavily into a large seat, as if all the strength in his body had been drained.
Outside, the twilight sky of Tripoli was stained with a sickly orange by the smoke from the city's edge.
He knew that his ti was truly running out.
...
London, on the banks of the Thas River, at MI6 headquarters.
In the office, Ms. M leaned back in her high-backed chair.
The ashtray in front of her was already filled with cigarette butts.
Sitting across from her was Ayers, Division Chief for Africa, a competent middle-aged man.
"Sayif has sent another request for an audience, his wording... nearly desperate."
Ayers gently pushed a telegram in front of Ms. M, his tone calm.
"He claims there is an urgent matter involving the safety of our interests in Libya, hoping to exchange it for our support."
Ms. M glanced at the telegram, the corners of her mouth curling into a sneer as she regarded it like an outdated and inferior product: "Interests? Safety? Does he think we're three-year-old children? Or is he so frightened by Song Heping that he's beginning to babble nonsense?"
She took a drag on her cigarette and slowly exhaled.
"His only urgent matter is probably that he himself is nearly finished, trying to drag us down as his lifeline."
"The Aricans have completely withdrawn, on the French side, Shire has just clearly notified us that they have closed all official communication channels with Sayif."
Ayers added.
"Shire, that old fox, acts quickly."
Ms. M snorted coldly, her gaze suddenly becoming sharp.
"He himself had unclear dealings with Song Heping in Sena before. Now, Sayif holds no value at all. Continuing to bet on him would not only waste valuable resources in a bottomless pit but also thoroughly offend that madman Song Heping. Look at what he did in Sawinu! He's a butcher! Yet an efficient one who has controlled the situation."
She stood up, walked over to the large African map on the wall, and her gaze landed on Libya's location, her finger drawing a small circle around Tripoli: "How many assets do we have here still? How important are they?"
"Mostly so comrcial intelligence networks and a few long-term operatives, value... moderately high. Also so civilian staff needing evacuation."
Ayers quickly replied.
"Moderately high value..."
Ms. M softly repeated, gently tapping the map with her finger.
"That ans not worth clashing head-on with a rcenary leader who controls most of Libya's territory, has a strong military presence, acts ruthlessly, and clearly bears ill-will towards us. Especially when we can't collaborate with France and the US."
She turned around, her gaze icy and resolute: "Notify our chief in Tripoli to initiate the 'Ash' evacuation plan. Abandon all non-essential personnel and all assets valued below Grade A! Only take core staff and high-value intelligence sources. The operation must be swift! Discreet! Must be completed before Haftar or Song Heping's troops encircle Tripoli!"
"What about Sayif..." Ayers inquired.
"Sayif?"
Ms. M's expression showed a hint of near-cruel indifference, as if discussing sothing trivial and inconsequential.
"He's a smart man, should understand the rules of the ga. When you lose, you pay the price. He's not the first pawn to be abandoned, nor will he be the last. Give him an encrypted informal communication channel and tell him we 'sympathize' with his predicant but are 'powerless to assist.' Wish him... good luck."
She picked up the red confidential phone on the table.
"Also, connect with the North Africa Division of the Foreign Office. We need a statent calling for both parties in Libya to 'cease fire imdiately' and 'resolve differences through political dialogue.' The wording should be... sufficiently 'concerned' with enough leeway, things are very complicated, nobody knows how it will unfold."
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