Mercenaries, I Will Be King Chapter 350 - 298: Three Factions' Battle of Wits

The next afternoon.

Simon was in his office, playing with a set of darts again.

The darts helped him concentrate and eased the pressure of his work.

As the head of an intelligence station, especially one in a war zone, Simon was under no small amount of stress.

Gathering information on the various rebel ard organizations scattered throughout Illiguo, co-opting local tribal powers, aligning with large ard groups like the Kurd Ard, guarding against Persian infiltration from the north, and even surveilling Illiguo officials within the temporary governnt to see if they harbored any ulterior motives or were involved in unsavory activities.

Even the US military was under Simon's surveillance.

That's why high-ranking US Army officers like Peter and their backers at the Pentagon genuinely detested these intelligence operatives.

The CIA is accountable to the President, while constitutionally, the military belongs to the United States of Arica.

The CIA has a very complex background; they are the private army of the deep Arican governnt, naly the people of the Khazar group's elder council, as can be seen from the Kennedy assassination.

Behind the military, however, stands the traditional and massive military-industrial complex.

Sotis, their demands are not aligned.

When interests coincide, they cooperate; when interests diverge, it's not unusual for them to undercut each other.

Knock, knock, knock—

There was a knock at the door.

"Co in!"

Simon's gaze never left the target.

As his subordinate Ted pushed the door open, Simon's last dart flew out, hitting the bullseye.

Simon turned to glance at Ted, walked toward his chair and asked while walking, "Do we have a result?"

Ted was a slightly overweight white man, not an operative in the station, one of the many civilian employees at the CIA; Ted was one of them, an intelligence agent.

"The situation seems to be less than ideal."

Ted placed several sheets of paper on Simon's desk.

"The AIS of the 'Man Tianxing' has not been turned off. It's still heading towards Aden Port."

AIS, also known as the Automatic Identification System, originated in the 1990s and is a shore-based and shipborne broadcasting automatic identification reporting system, akin to the identity card of each rchant ship.

Simon's brows furrowed as he picked up the papers on the desk, flipping through them one by one.

They contained the navigation trajectory and satellite overhead images of the "Man Tianxing."

"The pirates in Somalia haven't made their move?"

His frown deepened.

Ted said, "According to the information I've obtained, they sent two batches of more than fifty people to intercept and attack the 'Man Tianxing,' but for so reason, they seem to have failed..."

Simon threw the A4 sheets back onto the desk, ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, and said viciously, "Wasn't it said that Song Heping went on this trip with just one person? How can they not handle him with dozens of n?!"

Ted was dumbfounded by Simon's outburst and hesitated to speak.

To say Song Heping was formidable might upset Simon.

But to say Song Heping wasn't formidable would be to admit his own incompetence since he had arranged the operation.

"So... what should we do next?"

Ted could only "look to the future," attempting to shift Simon's attention to the upcoming work arrangents.

"After all, they haven't reached Eritrea yet, we still have an opportunity, so... should we?"

He tentatively suggested, "Inform our African branch to dispatch a small operation team directly to Eritrea and deal with them there?"

"Are you out of your mind?!"

Simon grew even more furious, pointing to his own head, "Ted, don't you use your brain when you work? We're going against the military here. Even if we take down Song Heping and ruin this deal, we can't let the military find out it was us! Requesting assistance from the African branch? Do you have any idea how much of a risk there is for a leak with all the back and forth? If the military gets hold of proof that it was us, do you think the top brass at the Agency will still back us up? They'll toss us out as scapegoats imdiately!"

Ted was scolded into a stupor, utterly at a loss, and could only stand there waiting for Simon's next instruction.

"We can't make a move..."

Simon stood up and paced back and forth beside his desk, finally stopping: "Aren't there the French?"

He turned toward Ted.

"I've been reluctant to kick this up to the French until now, but it seems we have no choice. Imdiately release so information through covert channels to the DGSE. Make sure they can't trace the source. Get the intelligence into their hands—I'm sure they'll know how to 'welco' Mr. Song properly. We won't need to get our hands dirty."

The DGSE is also known as the Seventh Bureau, formally called the General Directorate for External Security of France.

Its main mission is to comprehensively collect a variety of intelligence from overseas, including political, economic, military, scientific, and terrorist activities, akin to the tasks of the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States, while its counter-espionage efforts are comparable to those of the FBI, essentially serving as a hybrid of the CIA and FBI.

"Good, I'll go arrange that imdiately."

After speaking, Ted turned and left, vanishing outside the door.

Simon returned to the table and picked up another dart, taking slight aim before throwing it.

This ti, the dart hit the bullseye again, which greatly improved his mood.

Several hours later, in Tunisia, North Africa.

A French intelligence operative, holding a brief report, hurried down the corridor and knocked on the last door at the end of the hallway.

Before even receiving a response from inside, he pushed the door open, unable to wait any longer.

"SIR, we've obtained an urgent piece of intelligence, I think you must take a look at it right away!"

This was an office building for a company called "Bestray," which superficially appeared to be a France-run trading company dealing with imports and exports between Africa and France.

But in reality, it was an intelligence station set up by the DGSE in this location.

Since World War II, Tunisia had been the intelligence hub of Africa, and many famous movies have been shot based on the North African spy stories that took place here.

Even though World War II had long been over and the Cold War had ended, the influence of the French here had never ceased.

Station chief Bar looked up from behind his desk at his subordinate, who was drenched in sweat, and couldn't help reminding, "Keep calm, don't act as if your tail is on fire every ti. Soone unaware might think that ard mbers have already surrounded us."

The intelligence operative didn't seem to heed Bar's words and rushed forward to lay the brief report in front of Bar.

"This intelligence is very important."

Bar picked up the brief report with a hint of skepticism and glanced at it.

Just one look, and his pupils rapidly contracted.

"How reliable?"

He abruptly looked up, his gaze sharp as a blade.

"After analysis by three groups, there's a 90% chance it's true."

"SA-9 anti-aircraft missile systems?" Bar felt his pores widening, his hairs standing on end.

He quickly made contact with the Sahel Region.

Then, there were the stationed French Foreign Legion and Special Forces in the area, especially since the situation in Mali and Niger had been very tumultuous of late, with the French army assisting the governnt in quelling the turmoil.

If these Soviet-made weapons were covertly transported to the Sahel Region at this ti, anyone could guess with their toes who they were intended for.

Three SA-9 launch systems with a total of 12 anti-aircraft missiles might not be enough to tackle the advanced fighter jets of the French army, but for those helicopters, they were more than sufficient—one hit, one kill.

If they really fell into the hands of those terrorist organizations, who knows how many French soldiers would lose their lives to the Netherworld.

"Imdiately contact the counter-terrorism forces' commander in the Sahel Region and tell him I'll be connecting with the headquarters for an online video conference in ten minutes," Bar decreed.

As an experienced agent, he certainly understood the weight of this intelligence.

They must intercept it in Eritrea; it absolutely must not enter West Africa.

That was the French army's jurisdiction!

Almost simultaneously, in the Green Zone of Illiguo, at the local US Army Command, an ISA operative also holding a piece of intelligence report knocked on the office door of Peter.

"SIR, there's a piece of intelligence you must look at right away," the operative said.

Peter put down the pen in his hand and picked up the intelligence report for a look.

The content of the intelligence was clear, indicating that based on information from Africa's covert networks, Song Heping and the tracks of three SA-9 missile launch systems had been exposed, and currently, the French intelligence departnt and Special Forces were brewing a plan to act in Eritrea to apprehend Song Heping.

"SIR, should we get involved? We have people in North Africa."

"No."

Peter waved his hand dismissively, placing the intelligence report directly into the paper shredder nearby.

"This has nothing to do with us, understood?"

The ISA lieutenant first looked stunned, then seemingly understood and saluted.

"Understood, SIR!"

Having said that, he turned and left the office.