The night over the Nile River cast mottled shadows across the Atlon Oasis, with the sand dunes under the bright moonlight resembling sleeping giants.
Song Heping sat cross-legged on the sheepskin rug inside the tent, in front of him a yellowed map of Northern Darfur, with several pins in different colors marking key locations.
The ergency lamp beside him emitted a pale light, casting flickering shadows on his profile.
"Shepherd..."
Song Heping lightly tapped the routes from Zad to Northern Darfur on the map with the tip of his knife, his brow furrowed.
The knife was a Mad Dog Tactical Knife, crafted ticulously, which he had confiscated from a dead Mossad Agent.
"Where will you co from..."
He kept speculating in his mind.
Although Henry had obtained intelligence that the "Shepherd" was going to Northern Darfur to mobilize two Ard Organizations to team up against him,
that intelligence was not concrete, rely a rough piece of information.
Oftentis, the most primitive intelligence is like this, usually vague and unclear, requiring peeling back layers and detailed analysis with the professional skills of intelligence analysts to obtain the most accurate answers.
It's a pity that his manpower was limited.
If he had resources like the CIA, then placing an ambush team on each route entering Northern Darfur from Chad would make things much easier.
"Henry, can you get more in-depth intelligence?"
He turned his head to look at Henry, who was also frowning, beside him.
Henry shook his head: "No way, this intelligence was obtained purely by chance. A snitch in Chad had coincidentally seen Pence, and knowing about our issues with the CIA, he did so investigation, discovering that Pence was interacting with a guy codena 'Shepherd'. But he didn't dare delve deeper, fearing for his life, and could only sell this raw intelligence, which I deed to have so value, so I bought it with money."
"Hmm." Song Heping nodded slightly, "This intelligence is indeed quite useful, but unfortunately a bit rough. The most critical thing now is the route, the route the 'Shepherd' takes into Darfur."
"Do you want to eliminate him?" Henry asked.
Song Heping smiled, "Eliminating him, yes, but I don't plan to just easily take him out. If I could capture him, the usefulness and value of this guy would be imnse."
Henry spread his hands, "Sorry... Unless, I go back to that snitch and give him more money to make so moves, maybe get the route?"
"It's too late for that."
Song Heping shook his head.
"I guarantee that within three days, the 'Shepherd' will enter Northern Darfur to connect with Hakeem and Markuer, persuading them to team up against us. There are too many Ard Organizations in Sudan, all fighting one another yet each seeking to climb into the lap of Western powers to strengthen themselves. If Pence is the one connecting them, they truly might unite against us. Our manpower is still too little right now, and without any advantage, their alliance against us is very detrintal."
With that, the two fell into silence.
Survival.
Those are the two most precious words.
And also the two words that bear the most pressure.
Outside the tent, sand particles were whipped up by the night wind, making a soft sound as they hit the canvas.
Song Heping's ears twitched slightly, picking up the distant roar of an engine.
He discreetly put away the knife, his right hand naturally resting on the HK416 assault rifle beside him.
"Is it Rashim coming?"
"Should be him."
"Him coming personally so late, will there be issues? Could it be that there's been a change in plans on the governnt's side?"
Henry was evidently worried.
"No choice even if there has been a change. We have no options now."
"Old squad leader, Director Rashim has arrived."
Jiang Feng lifted the tent flap and ca inside.
"And brought a white man."
"White man?"
Song Heping's eyes narrowed.
White man?
They were not common among the higher ranks of the Sudan Military Intelligence Bureau.
He slowly stood up, brushing non-existent dust off his khaki pants: "Let them in."
When Rashim stepped into the tent, Song Heping noticed the white man behind him—a tall figure, gold-rimd glasses, a desert-colored suit tailored impeccably, looking out of place in the desolate desert.
"Mr. Song, apologies for the late-night disturbance."
Rashim said in fluent English, with a deliberately respectful tone. He turned to the white man behind him.
"This is my assistant, Weber."
"Hello, Mr. Song." Weber appeared cultured and refined, "I've heard much about you; it's an honor to et you."
"Hello to you too."
Song Heping's lips curled slightly.
Assistant?
When did the Sudan Military Intelligence Bureau start hiring Oxford-accented "assistants"?
He noticed the mark on Weber's ring finger on his right hand—a recently removed wedding ring, the occasional glimpse of a Patek Philippe watch on his left wrist, and the inconspicuous micro-cara on his tie clip.
"Please sit." Song Heping gestured to the mat on the ground, then settled back into a cross-legged position himself, the HK416 casually placed across his knees.
He noticed Weber's pupils contract slightly when he saw the weapon in his hand—not out of fear, but as a professional assessnt.
The latest model of assault rifle currently used by the Arican Special Forces is not sothing just anyone can obtain.
Rashim seed a bit awkward as he sat down, obviously not accustod to this posture.
Weber, however, gracefully knelt down, his movents so fluid they seed specially trained.
Song Heping chuckled inwardly—Japanese seating posture, British accent, Swiss watch, this "assistant's" identity was becoming more intriguing.
"Tea?"
Song Heping asked, gesturing to Abu outside the tent before waiting for a response. Monts later, Bodyguard Abu entered with a copper tray bearing three steaming cups of red tea and a small dish of dates.
"Thank you."
When Weber took the teacup, his pinky lifted slightly—a typical British upper-class habit.
He took a sip, barely wrinkling his brow.
Too sweet.
Song Heping guessed that these British people never quite got used to authentic Sudanese tea.
"So... what urgent matter brings the Director to visit late at night that couldn't be discussed over the phone?" Song Heping got straight to the point, his eyes fixed on Weber.
"Because tonight's discussions are related to the Aricans, and their surveillance capabilities are too formidable. I was worried about being monitored..."
"Related to the Aricans?"
Song Heping's interest piqued at once.
Rashim cleared his throat, "We've received intelligence that the CIA is planning an operation against you."
He drew a manila envelope from his suit's inner pocket and handed it to Song Heping. "An interdiary codenad 'Shepherd' had contact with forr CIA Deputy Director Pence, planning an operation against you. Pence resigned over the previous drone incident, but it's likely he won't let you go. I'm here to personally provide you with this intelligence—"
He lightly tapped the envelope with his fingers.
"Inside is the 'Shepherd's' operational route and schedule."
Song Heping didn't take the envelope imdiately, instead continuing to watch Weber, "Did this 'assistant' gentleman participate in obtaining this intelligence?"
A barely noticeable smile appeared on Weber's lips, his blue eyes looking particularly profound under the kerosene lamp, "I am only responsible for analysis work, Mr. Song. The specific operational details were carried out by our field personnel."
Our field personnel.
Song Heping caught this subtle phrasing.
Not "the Bureau's field personnel," but "our field personnel."
He took the envelope and slowly opened it, finding a hand-drawn map and several satellite photos inside.
The photos showed a man wearing an Arabic headscarf boarding a small plane at an airport in Chad.
Evidently, this is the "Shepherd" they were referring to.
"In 48 hours, 'Shepherd' will et with Hakeem on the Alder Plateau in Northern Darfur, and 24 hours later, with Markuer."
Rashim said, his voice hushed, as if worried soone outside the tent might overhear.
"The Aricans want to unite these two factions of ard groups to simultaneously assault the Atlon Oasis, intending to deal with you."
Song Heping placed the photos on the map and drew a knife, using its tip to point at the Alder Plateau—a desolate border zone at the junction of Sudan, Libya, and Chad, a power vacuum of governnt control.
"Why tell this?" he looked directly into Rashim's eyes, "There's no necessity for you to take this risk."
Rashim's Adam's apple bobbed, his expression slightly stiff.
Song Heping noticed his eyes unconsciously flicker to Weber, seemingly seeking assistance.
"Okay, let explain," Weber put down his teacup with a crisp clink as porcelain t the copper tray, "Mr. Song, the situation in Africa is changing. These past few years, the Arican expansion in the Sahel Region has already threatened many..."
His speech paused briefly before continuing, "Traditional interests."
"Traditional interests?" Song Heping feigned confusion, "You an Sudan's traditional interests?"
"Ahem, I an everyone's interests."
Weber cleared his throat twice, his voice becoming deeper.
"Including yours. Once the Aricans gain a foothold in Darfur, the first ones they'll want to eliminate are those like you... terrorist leaders."
"Hahahaha!"
Song Heping burst into laughter, his laughter echoing around the tent.
He slapped his knee, suddenly restraining his laughter, "Mr. Weber, or should I call you Agent Weber of MI6? Since when did you British start caring about my life or death?"
The air inside the tent instantly froze.
Rashim's face turned pale, while Weber maintained perfect composure, only his right index finger twitched slightly—Song Heping knew it was a natural response of the body under tension.
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