Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 813 Secret Meeting
The Nile River cast dappled shadows on the Atron Oasis at night, and the sand dunes, illuminated by the bright moonlight, resembled sleeping giants.

Song Heping sat cross-legged on a sheepskin rug inside the tent, with a yellowed map of North Darfur spread out in front of him, several thumbtacks of different colors marking key locations.

The emergency light placed to the side shone a stark white light, casting his profile in flickering light.

"shepherd"

Song Heping lightly tapped the tip of his dagger on several routes from Zadar to North Darfur on the map, his brow furrowed.

The dagger was a finely crafted mad dog tactical knife that he had seized from a dead Mossad agent.

"Where will you come from...?"

He kept speculating in his mind.

Although Henry obtained intelligence that the "Shepherd" was going to North Darfur to mobilize two armed groups to cause trouble and jointly deal with him.

But that intelligence was not specific; it was merely a rough estimate.

Often, the most basic intelligence is like this: it's mostly vague and unclear. Only through meticulous analysis and the expertise of intelligence analysts can the most accurate answers be obtained.

Unfortunately, I don't have many people.

If we had the resources of the CIA, we could set up an ambush team on every route from Chad into North Darfur, and things would be much easier.

"Henry, can you get any more in-depth intelligence?"

He turned his head to look at Henry, who was also frowning beside him.

Henry shook his head: "There's nothing we can do. This intelligence was obtained by chance. An intelligence broker met Pence by chance in Chad. He knew about our conflict with the CIA, so he did some investigation and found that he was in contact with a guy codenamed 'Shepherd.' But he didn't dare to investigate further, otherwise he probably wouldn't have survived. So he sold this raw intelligence to me. I thought it still had some value, so I bought it."

“Hmm.” Song Heping nodded slightly: “This intelligence is indeed quite useful, but it’s a bit rough. The most crucial thing now is the route, the route the ‘Shepherds’ take into Darfur.”

"You want to kill him?" Henry asked.

Song Heping laughed and said, "I will take him down, but I don't intend to just kill him and be done with it. If I can catch him, this guy's role and value will be immense."

Henry shrugged. "I'm sorry... how about I go back to that information broker, give him more money to pull some strings and get the route?"

"That's too late."

Song Heping shook his head.

“I guarantee that within three days, the ‘Shepherd’ will enter North Darfur to contact Hakim and Makur and persuade them to join forces against us. There are too many armed groups in Sudan, fighting each other, yet each wants to find a Western ally to strengthen their own power. If Pence is the one to broker the deal, they will indeed unite against us. Right now, we are still too few in number and have no advantage at all. Their alliance would be very disadvantageous to us.”

After that, both of them fell silent.

survive.

These are the two most precious words.

These are also the two words that carry the most pressure.

Outside the tent, sand grains were whipped up by the night wind, pattering against the canvas with a soft, rustling sound.

Song Heping's ears twitched slightly as he caught the roar of an engine in the distance.

He calmly put away the dagger, and his right hand naturally rested on the HK416 assault rifle beside him.

"Is that Rahim?"

"It should be him."

"Why would he come all this way so late? Could it be that the government has changed its mind again?"

Henry was clearly worried.

"There's nothing we can do about changing our minds; we have no other choice now."

"Sergeant, Director Rahim has arrived."

Jiang Feng lifted the tent flap and walked in.

"He also brought a white man."

"White people?"

Song Heping narrowed his eyes.

White people?

This is a rare sight among the high-ranking officials of the Sudanese military intelligence agency.

He slowly stood up, brushing non-existent dust off his khaki pants: "Let them in."

As Rahim entered the tent, Song Heping noticed the white man following behind him—tall, with gold-rimmed glasses and a well-tailored desert-colored suit, looking completely out of place in this desolate landscape.

"Mr. Song, I'm so sorry to bother you so late at night."

Rahim spoke in fluent English, his tone deliberately respectful. He turned to the white man behind him.

"This is my assistant, Weber."

“Hello, Mr. Song.” Weber appeared polite and refined. “I’ve long admired your name. It’s an honor to meet you.”

"you're good too."

Song Heping's lips curled up slightly.

assistant?

When did Sudanese military intelligence start hiring "assistants" with Oxford accents? He noticed the ring mark on Webber's right ring finger—his wedding ring had been taken off recently, the Patek Philippe watch faintly visible on his left wrist, and the inconspicuous miniature camera on his tie clip.

"Please sit down." Song Heping pointed to the cushion on the ground, then sat down cross-legged again, with HK416 casually resting on his lap.

He noticed that Weber's pupils contracted slightly when he saw the weapon in his hand—not out of fear, but out of professional assessment.

The latest assault rifles currently used by US special forces are not something just anyone can get their hands on.

Rahim sat down somewhat awkwardly, clearly unaccustomed to this posture.

Weber, on the other hand, gracefully knelt down, his movements so fluid they seemed to have been specially trained.

Song Heping sneered inwardly—the Japanese sitting posture, the British accent, the Swiss-made watch—this "assistant's" identity was becoming increasingly interesting.

"Tea?"

Song Heping asked, and before anyone could answer, he gestured to Abu outside the tent. A moment later, Abu, the bodyguard outside the tent, came in carrying a copper tray with three cups of steaming black tea and a small dish of dates on it.

"Thanks."

When Webber took the teacup, his little finger was slightly raised—a typical habit of the British upper class.

He took a sip, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly.

It is too sweet.

Song Heping guessed that these British people would never get used to authentic Sudanese tea.

"So... Director, is there something urgent that can't be discussed on the phone?" Song Heping asked directly, his eyes fixed on Weber.

"Because the things we were discussing tonight involved Americans, and their surveillance capabilities are so powerful, I'm worried about being monitored..."

"Is it related to Americans?"

Song Heping's heart stirred slightly, and he immediately became interested.

Rahim cleared his throat: "We've received intelligence that the CIA is planning an operation against you."

He pulled a manila envelope from his suit pocket and handed it to Song Heping. "A middleman codenamed 'Shepherd' has been in contact with former CIA Deputy Director Pence and is plotting an operation against you. Pence resigned because of the previous drone incident, and I doubt he'll let you off the hook. I'm here to personally provide you with this intelligence—"

His fingers tapped lightly on the envelope.

"This contains the 'shepherd's' route and timetable."

Song Heping didn't immediately take the envelope, but continued to stare at Weber: "This 'assistant' gentleman was involved in obtaining this intelligence?"

A barely perceptible smile appeared on Weber's lips, his blue eyes appearing exceptionally deep in the kerosene lamplight: "I'm only responsible for the analysis, Mr. Song. The specific operational details will be handled by our field personnel."

Our field staff.

Song Heping caught the subtle nuance in the wording.

It's not "MI6 field agents," but "our field agents."

He picked up the envelope and slowly opened it. Inside was a hand-drawn map and several satellite photos.

The photo shows a man wearing an Arab headscarf boarding a small plane at an airport in Chad.

Clearly, this is the "shepherd" they were talking about.

"Forty-eight hours later, the 'Shepherd' will meet Hakim on the Erdi Plateau in North Darfur, and then meet with Makur 24 hours later."

Rahim said in a low voice, as if worried that someone outside the tent might be eavesdropping.

"The Americans want to unite these two militant groups to launch a pincer attack on Atron Oasis, with the aim of targeting you."

Song Heping placed the photo on the map, drew his dagger, and pointed the tip at the Erdi Plateau—a desolate border region where Sudan, Libya, and Chad meet, a vacuum of government control.

“Why are you telling me this?” He looked Rahim straight in the eye. “You didn’t need to take this risk.”

Rahim's Adam's apple bobbed, and his expression stiffened slightly.

Song Heping noticed that his eyes unconsciously glanced at Weber, as if seeking help.

“Alright, let me explain.” Weber set down his teacup, the porcelain clinking against the copper plate. “Mr. Song, the situation in Africa is changing. The American expansion in the Sahel region in recent years has threatened many…”

He paused briefly, then quickly continued: "Traditional interests."

"Traditional interests?" Song Heping feigned confusion: "You mean Sudan's traditional interests?"

"Ahem, I was referring to the interests of everyone."

Weber coughed twice, his voice becoming low.

"Including you. Once the Americans have established a foothold in Darfur, the first thing they'll do is eliminate terrorist leaders like you."

"Hahahaha!"

Song Heping burst into laughter, the sound echoing inside the tent.

He slapped his knee, then suddenly his smile vanished: "Mr. Weber, or should I call you Agent Weber of MI6? Since when did you British start caring about whether I live or die?"

The air inside the tent instantly froze.

Rahim's face turned deathly pale, while Weber remained perfectly calm, except for a slight twitch in his right index finger—Song Heping knew that was a natural reaction of the human body when under tension.

(End of this chapter)