American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 62 Purification?
Medvedeva followed her supervisor into the office, the heavy wooden door closing gently behind her.

The manager walked straight to his office chair, took a silver cigarette case from the drawer, flicked out a cigarette, put it to his lips, and then casually tossed the cigarette case onto his desk.

"Do you smoke?" The supervisor's voice was accompanied by the soft clatter of a metal cigarette case hitting the table.

Medvedeva pursed her lips and shook her head, saying, "No, sir."

The supervisor's gaze lingered on her face for a few seconds. He picked up the kerosene lighter on the table, opened the cap with a crisp "ding," and struck it to ignite a flame.

The orange-red light cast a flickering shadow on his sunken eye sockets, which disappeared as the lighter clicked shut.

"Have a seat, Team Leader Meva Lake," the supervisor said, exhaling a wisp of smoke as he adjusted his posture.

Medvedeva quietly sat down in the chair opposite her, her gaze fixed on the slightly gleaming pack of cigarettes on the desk. A faint scent of tobacco mingled with the aroma of leather and wooden furniture throughout the office.

"When you're in a bad mood, it's okay to have a cigarette," the manager's voice drifted through the rising smoke.

Medvedeva hesitated for a moment, then her slender fingers pulled a cigarette from the pack.

Seeing this, the supervisor gently pushed the heavy lighter towards her with her index finger. The sound of metal scraping against the solid wood tabletop was particularly clear in the quiet office.

Medvedeva awkwardly lit a cigarette, but didn't smoke it, letting the pale blue smoke curl upwards between her fingers. The cigarette burned slowly between her slender fingers, and the grayish-white ash gradually accumulated.

The supervisor stared at Medea through the swirling smoke, the cigarette between his fingers trembling slightly with his deep voice: "Medea Lake, codename 'The Traveler,' First-Class Intelligence Officer, 38 years old, British citizen."

He exhaled a puff of smoke and continued, "He holds a Platinum certification in complex operations planning and execution, and has led the design and successful execution of 37 field operations. He is particularly skilled in multi-front command, emergency decision-making, and resource coordination and integration in high-risk environments."

"French native speaker level interpreting, Russian professional level, Arabic professional communication level. Regional studies specializes in former Soviet countries, the Caucasus region, and key areas of the Middle East and North Africa."

The supervisor flicked his cigarette ash: "Master of International Relations and Strategic Studies from St Andrews Heights, with first-class honors, whose doctoral degree was interrupted due to special talent recruitment."

"Graduated from the Royal Defence Research Institute's Advanced Command Course. Participated in three operations: 'Dawn Chisel Mark,' 'Ghost Market,' and 'Echoes of Silence.'"

He paused. "Personal details: unmarried. My father is a retired physics professor, currently living in Scotland; we are estranged. My sister is a practicing lawyer."

The supervisor stubbed out his cigarette heavily in the crystal ashtray, his gaze sharp as he looked up: "Meva Lake, I know you far better than you think."

The cigarette in Medvedeva's hand trembled slightly, and the accumulated ash fell silently onto her trousers, leaving a few grayish-white marks on the dark fabric.

She looked up and met her supervisor's sharp gaze.

The manager chuckled and leaned back in his chair: "Do you know what I'm going to say?"

Medvedeva slowly shook her head, the cigarette between her fingers still burning quietly.

A few seconds of silence fell between the two men. The supervisor's gaze grew serious. "As the intelligence hub of Britain, MI6 must not be reduced to a political arena. Only one voice can give orders here. No outsiders are allowed to interfere. Only in this way can we truly fulfill our mission: to protect Britain."

"But look at the current situation." The supervisor's voice lowered: "You saw what happened in the meeting room just now. The entire senior management of MI6, numbering over a dozen people, has been split into three factions: the conservatives, the reformers, and the fence-sitters."

He slammed his hand on the table, making the ashtray bounce: "Three voices in one intelligence agency? That's a complete joke!" The supervisor stood up, walked to the window, and continued with his back to Medvedeva: "Intelligence work requires swift and decisive execution, not endless debates in parliament. When we are out in the shadows dealing with the enemy, internal divisions are the most deadly poison."

The supervisor turned and stared at Medea, the light from the window casting a halo around his silhouette: "Do you think what happened in the conference room just now was just ordinary factional infighting?"

Medea's fingers held a cigarette: "I don't know, sir."

The manager sat back down in his chair, the leather creaking slightly. "Do you know who's on this list?"

Medea shook her head, another bit of cigarette ash falling from her lips: "I don't know, sir."

“You must be thinking,” the supervisor’s voice turned sharp. “We are declaring war on the reformers and fence-sitters, using this list to purge dissidents and turn MI6 into a one-man show.”

He leaned forward: "You may even have realized that you've been passively made a pawn in this struggle?"

Medvedeva lowered her head, staring at the pattern on the carpet: "I don't know, sir."

The supervisor pushed a document in front of Medvedeva: "Everyone on this list today."

His fingers slammed heavily on the paper: "They are all our conservative officials, not a single one from the reformists or fence-sitters. Does this answer make you feel any better?"

Medvedeva looked up, a hint of surprise flashing in her eyes.

The supervisor's expression turned serious than ever before: "We are not excluding dissidents, Medvedeva."

He slowly stood up: "We are purifying our own factions. Only by starting with ourselves can we eventually get the factions in the entire system to put aside their infighting and truly focus on our common mission: to defend Britain."

The office fell silent, with only the ticking of the clock on the wall.

The supervisor turned to look at the London skyline outside the window, his resolute profile reflected in the glass: "Sometimes the hardest battle is not against the enemy, but against your own shadow."

Medvedeva's fingertips trembled slightly as the cigarette burned to the end, but she was completely unaware.

The supervisor's gaze lingered on her face for a moment before he suddenly asked, "Which faction do you consider yourself to belong to? Conservative? Reformist? Or fence-sitter?"

Medvedeva's lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.

“No need to answer.” The supervisor’s voice softened. “You don’t really have a choice, Medvedeva.”

The cigarette ash finally gave way and fell silently onto the carpet. Medvedeva nodded slightly, a complex emotion flashing in her eyes.

“Go back.” The supervisor took a USB drive from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Remember, don’t mention today’s events to anyone. This is the original list Doyle gave you; you can keep it.”

The supervisor glanced at Medea one last time, then turned to look out the window at the deepening twilight, where their blurry figures were reflected in the glass.

　Is it real purification or fake purification?
　
(End of this chapter)