Working as a police officer in Mexico Chapter 1369: 660: Look, the Sun Is Setting

Chapter 1369: Chapter 660: Look, the Sun Is Setting

“Let’s do it this way.” He finally spoke, his voice hoarse as if drained of strength, “Tell Silver Wing Capital, 20 million, in the account within three days. Shares, let them take as they please.”

Sir Davidson opened his mouth, finally just nodding heavily.

He was aware that Scottish Power held the grid hubs of Glasgow and Edinburgh, and although 5% of the shares seed little, it ant that foreign capital was touching the energy lifeline of the United Kingdom’s north for the first ti.

But right now, the tear gas procurent contract was three days overdue, and in Colonel Hawkins’ telegram, soldiers were dealing with the backlash of tear gas with expired gas masks, which were surplus from the 1990s Gulf War. The rubber gaskets had long hardened, causing many to cough uncontrollably, making even aiming a problem.

Don’t think it’s too much…

It is said that it’s 2020, and the United Kingdom is still saving on nuclear weapons maintenance costs… aning that they might just fly off with a whistle one day.

“I’ll get in touch right away.” When Davidson turned, the tal clasp of his briefcase hit the door fra, making a muffled sound that was particularly piercing in the silent office.

Before the door closed, the MI6 director burst in, rainwater still clinging to the hem of his trench coat, and his usually ticulously grood hair clung ssily to his forehead.

“Pri Minister, urgent intelligence.” His voice was extrely low but carried an undeniable urgency, “Our listening post intercepted encrypted communications in Strasbourg, France. The Deputy Director of the European Departnt of the French Foreign Ministry secretly t with the Scottish National Party high-level officials last week.”

The Pri Minister jumped up from the sofa, fingers clutching the equity docunts suddenly tightened, paper making a crisp sound under pressure: “French? What are they planning?”

“It’s not just the eting.” The director took out a surveillance record from his briefcase, the sll of ink mingling with the dampness of rain rushing at him, “Our people captured the scene when the SNP leader’s private advisor left the French Embassy carrying a briefcase possibly containing an economic assistance plan. More troubling is that the French National Railway Company is in contact with the Scottish local governnt, discussing a cross-border railway upgrade plan after independence. They’re preparing for Scottish independence.”

The Pri Minister stumbled half a step, his back hitting the cold fireplace.

The flas of Northern Ireland were still burning, and under Scotland’s ice lay hidden currents. What he had to extinguish the fires were only national assets continually mortgaged away.

“Are they insane?” The Pri Minister’s voice trembled with disbelief, “The Anglo-French Alliance has maintained for half a century, and they dare to stab us now?”

“It’s not stabbing; it’s looting a burning house.” Eliot’s tone was sowhat disappointed, “The Northern Ireland riots have caused the British Pound to plumt; Scottish independence sentint has already been high. The French extending an olive branch now is no different than handing a match to a powder keg. Their goal is clear: to weaken the UK’s voice in the European Union and to retrieve the losses they incurred over the North Sea Oil Field division years ago.”

The Pri Minister’s hand slipped from the fireplace, shaking the bronze statue of Churchill, its base clanging against the marble.

He recalled Wilson’s sarcasm three days ago on the phone—”Capital never pays for reckless actions,” but now, even forr allies were toasting Britain’s plight.

“How much can the Treasury Departnt’s account squeeze out?”

The Pri Minister’s voice was as rough as sandpaper.

He was thinking, perhaps he could suspend the supplies to the Persian Gulf Fleet and move the funds to appease Scotland, but that thought was imdiately quashed. If the Navy cuts off supplies, the diterranean’s routes would imdiately fall into other nations’ fleets’ control.

The director saw the red blood vessels spreading in the Pri Minister’s eyes and said in a low voice, “Excluding the ergency funds for the Belfast garrison, there’s only… 7 million British Pounds left, not enough for even half a year’s allowance for the Scottish local parliant.”

The office plunged into a deathlike silence, with only the wall clock tirelessly ticking away,

each tick pounding like a heavy hamr on the Pri Minister’s nerves.

He suddenly rembered the other corner of a painting in his grandfather’s study. Yes, his grandfather owned quite a few paintings.

In 1940, Churchill clenched a cigar in the Downing Street basent, outside the window was the German Army’s bombing flas, but at that ti, Britain still had the resources of colonies to utilize and allies around the world willing to give blood.

And now, all he held were piles of mortgage agreents and a briefing labeled “French interference in Scotland.”

“Imdiately have the Foreign Minister see the French Ambassador.”

The Pri Minister took a deep breath, “Tell them that if they dare ddle in Scottish affairs, we’ll reveal the files of France’s weapon smuggling to the IRA during De Gaulle’s era, and also, extend the North Sea Oil Field’s extraction rights tender to xican companies, let the French know they’re not the only buyers.”

When he spoke these words, even he felt a lack of confidence.

Those files were Cold War secrets, and once revealed, the already tense Anglo-French relations would disintegrate completely, and bringing in xican companies was just drinking poison to quench thirst, as Victor’s capital had always been greedier than Parisian politicians.

The director agreed, turning to leave, but heard the Pri Minister quietly say, “Send a telegram to Colonel Hawkins, tell him… to hold on a little longer.”

Hold on? With what? Worn-out boots of the soldiers, or the “collateral” constantly carved off from the nation’s body?

He didn’t dare ask, just quietly shut the door.