"It's their own stupidity." Victor said expressionlessly, "Hurry up and go."
Obsidian Hall.
This room had no windows, the walls polished smooth with black volcanic rock, dimly lit, with an air that carried a sulfur-like sll—deliberately designed to evoke the volcanoes and mines of the Scottish Highlands.
McTavish sat on a black leather sofa, his suit jacket tossed to the side, his tie loosened. He looked ten years older than he did a few months ago, with heavy bags under his eyes, but the miner-like stubbornness and fierceness in his gaze was undiminished. Calum McDonald sat next to him, still clutching his briefcase like a vigilant groundhog. Another man stood in the shadows, very tall, very thin, wearing an ill-fitting, cheap suit but standing upright like a javelin, his eyes scanning every corner of the room—forr SAS, unmistakable.
The door opened, Victor walked in alone, carrying a regular paper bag.
"Angus," he nodded, casually tossing the paper bag onto the coffee table, "Was the journey smooth?"
"Smooth." McTavish's voice was hoarse, "Smoother than the haggling with those bastards in Scotland and London."
Victor laughed, sitting opposite, pouring himself a glass of water: "Haggling is a necessary course of politics. But the good news is, you're about to graduate—the referendum results are set in stone, London doesn't even have the strength to fart now."
"But the knife is still in their hands." McTavish stared at him, "The Army has withdrawn, but the Navy is still blocking our ports, and the Air Force occasionally 'wanders' into our airspace. London verbally acknowledges 'autonomy,' but their covert actions continue. Last week, our temporary Treasury Departnt office in Glasgow was hacked, the loss was minor, but disgusting."
"So you need your own knife." Victor continued, "Tell , what do you want? Tanks? Aircraft? Or... more specialized personnel?"
The forr SAS mber in the shadow moved slightly but said nothing.
McTavish pulled out a crumpled list from his pocket and slid it to Victor. It was scribbled in pen:
Portable Air Defense Missiles (Stinger upgraded version) x 200 sets
Anti-ship Missiles (shore-based, range over 100 km) x 50 sets
Main Battle Tanks (second-hand T-72 class or above, modifiable) x 30 units
Infantry Fighting Vehicles & Armored Personnel Carriers x 100 units
Military Consultant Group (Electronic Warfare, Special Operations, Coastal Defense) x 150 personnel
Military-grade Encrypted Communication Network (comprehensive coverage) x 1 set
Small Patrol Boats (capable of mounting anti-ship missiles) x 12 vessels
Victor glanced at it, not rushing to comnt, instead asking: "Money? These things, even at a friendly price, start at ten billion British Pounds. Your North Sea oil and gas inco hasn't been credited yet, and the 30-billion compensation from London is just an empty promise. What are you offering?"
McTavish gritted his teeth: "We can use future oil and gas revenue as collateral, or... mining rights. Scotland has rare earths, lithium, and Europe's last large offshore natural gas field."
"Not enough." Victor shook his head, "Resource collateral is too slow, and international capital still has doubts about Scotland's stability. Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless you're willing to offer sothing more 'concrete.'" Victor leaned forward, lowering his voice, "For example, in your independence constitution, explicitly state 'never join NATO,' and allow xico to establish two 'non-military listening stations' in Scotland—ostensibly for teorological and marine research, but you know the real purpose. In exchange, these items..." He tapped the list, "I can advance them to you, five years interest-free, with future tariff revenue as installnt repaynt."
McTavish's face changed.
Calum couldn't help but speak: "Listening stations? That's akin to selling national security to you! The citizens won't agree, and Parliant won't pass it!"
"Then don't let them know." Victor's tone was icy, "The listening stations can be built in remote areas of the Shetland Islands, looking like ordinary weather stations. Personnel entirely Scottish-national, trained by us. Data shared, but raw data belongs to you. As for NATO..." He sneered, "What's the benefit of joining NATO? Being a watchdog for the United States, then being tied to a tank to die in Eastern Europe or the Middle East? Scotland wants independence, not swapping masters."
McTavish was silent for a long ti, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the sofa armrest.
The forr SAS mber in the shadow finally spoke, his voice low and raspy with a Northern England accent: "Two listening stations, one in Shetland, one in Hebrides. Data must be encrypted and relayed by Scottish military, and we have the right to inspect station operations at any ti. Reduce the military consultant group's personnel to 80, selected by us. Also, we need a comprehensive Navy officer training program, including submarine operations—don't glare at , I know you have ans to procure second-hand Kilo-class submarines."
Victor raised an eyebrow, looking at this stranger: "Who are you?"
"John McLean," the man replied briefly, "Used to work for the Queen, now for Scotland. I'll only say one thing: Scotland can be your partner, but never a puppet. We want weapons, we want technology, but the trigger-pulling finger must be our own."
The room went silent.
Victor suddenly smiled, his smile carrying a hint of admiration for the first ti: "Deal, let the subordinates hash out the details, but there's one prerequisite—"
He picked up the paper bag, pulled out a docunt, and threw it in front of McTavish.
"Here's the anomalous transfer record of the Bank of England's gold reserves over the past six months. Approximately two hundred tons of gold 'disappeared' from the London Vault, passed through shell companies in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands, and ultimately flowed into a few mysterious North Arican investnt funds."
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