American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 82 Method
“I could kill Santino right now, even if it means going to war with the entire High Table. But can you?” John’s gaze deepened. “You’re too young to follow my path. You can’t be a dragon-slaying hero like me, because your life has only just begun, Salong.”

John approached Beta, gently placing his right hand on the back of his neck and pulling him closer. "Don't be impulsive. Jaina still holds real power in the High Table, while Santino is nothing more than a clown who has risen to power through blood pacts. Trust me, once we see Jaina, we'll find a better way to deal with him."
-

“We will definitely find a better way to deal with her.” The supervisor stood in Director Moore’s spacious office, his tone firm as he fought for Medvedeva’s last chance.

Director Moore's office was so spacious it was almost empty, with tall green plants in the four corners and a three-meter-long solid wood desk in the center of the room, exuding a sense of oppression.

Director Moore was deep in his large leather seat, silently exhaling smoke, the gray smoke rings slowly swirling in the air.

The circular sofa surrounding the office was packed with people, each with a gleaming brass ashtray in front of them. The heavy smell of nicotine filled the enclosed space, making it almost impossible to breathe.

These were all core conservative members under Director Moore, but the number was significantly smaller than in previous closed-door meetings. Those who were absent had either been transferred to insignificant, sinecure departments or had simply been ordered to retire early.

The supervisor did not deceive Medvedeva.

The conservatives are indeed carrying out internal purification, but they are not purging the truly problematic officials, but rather those "dissidents" who are secretly colluding with the reformers.

Whether you call them fence-sitters, double agents, or pawns planted by the reformists, they have now been thoroughly purged. After this massive purge, the conservatives have finally transformed into a pure and united political entity.

An official, noticing Director Moore's silence, immediately spoke on his behalf: "What guarantees do you have that she is as loyal as you claim? Who can guarantee she won't suddenly have a change of heart and make some foolish decision with that list?" His fingers tapped lightly on the sofa armrest, his tone laced with aggressive questioning.

Another official took a deep drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke swirl slowly in front of him. He squinted his eyes, which were slightly red from the smoke: "We agreed to let her take back the original list in the first place, precisely to solidify the charge of leaking secrets. You also agreed to execute her for treason."

He flicked his cigarette ash: "Why are you hesitating now that things are so close?"

Facing the scrutinizing gazes of the crowd, the supervisor said in a steady voice, "I understand your concerns. But rather than making unfounded suspicions, it's better to give her a clear test."

He looked around: "Wouldn't it be more convincing to let her prove her stance with concrete actions than to execute her outright?"

A brief silence fell over the conference room. All eyes were on Director Moore.

The person in power slowly flicked the ash from his cigarette, his gaze piercing through the rising smoke, maintaining an enigmatic silence.

The wall clock ticked clearly, measuring every second of this game.

At this point, an official impatiently interjected, "Why make it so complicated? Wouldn't it be simpler to just get rid of her directly?"

The supervisor ignored the question and looked directly at Chief Moore: "Let her handle the Downing Street shooting."

This finally caught Director Moore's attention, and he slowly turned his head. The officials on the sofa exchanged glances but remained silent.

The office fell silent for a moment, broken only by the faint crackling of burning cigars. After a long silence, Director Moore's deep, authoritative voice broke the stillness: "Go on."

The supervisor straightened his back and explained clearly, "Medeva has obtained key evidence in the Munich assassination case and is 80% certain that she can confirm the true identity of 'The Jackal.' Currently, the reformists are handling this case."

“My suggestion is for Medva to find a way to package ‘The Jackal’ as the murderer in the Downing Street assassination, making it an airtight case. This way, we can both snatch ‘The Jackal’ from the reformers and use him to close our Downing Street case, while simultaneously leaving the Munich case unsolved.” “In this way, she will completely sever any possibility with the reformers, and at the same time, fully demonstrate her ability and determination to defect.” After the supervisor finished speaking, he looked at Director Moore with slight trepidation.

Director Moore slowly set down his cigar and gently placed it on the crystal ashtray. He opened a drawer, the sliding rails making a slight scraping sound, and took out a cigar box. The distinctive aroma of Cuban cigars filled the air. He took out a cigar and tossed it to his supervisor.

The supervisor quickly caught the cigar with both hands and held it in his hands.

With a "snap," Director Moore slammed the drawer shut, picked up the half-burnt cigar again, and looked directly at his supervisor.

"Your unease is written all over your face." He exhaled a wisp of smoke. "What are you worried about?"

The supervisor instinctively lowered his head to avoid that gaze: "We need capable people. Appropriate protection can both motivate them and reassure them."

The office was so quiet that you could hear the faint sound of tobacco fibers breaking as a cigar burned.

Director Moore took a deep drag, the embers flickering on the cigarette butt. He let the smoke swirl slowly between his lips, seemingly savoring the cigar or appreciating his supervisor's words.

The supervisor held his breath and waited for what felt like an eternity.

Director Moore finally made a move. He stubbed out his cigar in the crystal ashtray, extinguishing the embers, but offered no clear answer.

“This is Cuban,” Director Moore said, his voice tinged with casualness. “I don’t remember the exact brand; it was all delivered by my subordinates.”

He pointed to the cigar in the manager's hand: "Sit down and have a taste, see if it suits your palate."

The supervisor understood the deeper meaning behind the invitation: it was Director Moore's unspoken message: do it, but don't involve me; if successful, there will be benefits, and she can be formally incorporated into the conservative faction; if it fails, deal with Medvedeva as planned.

The supervisor, holding a cigar, finally relaxed a little: "Thank you, sir."

Director Moore gently shook his head: "They're all on our side."

The supervisor walked towards the sofa. Several colleagues exchanged glances, and one of them moved aside to make room for him.

Director Moore, with his fingers interlaced in front of him, leaned back in his office chair, looked at the ceiling, and asked his supervisor, "How long have you been in the position of head of the Special Operations Division?"

The supervisor replied, "Eighteen years, sir."

"Eighteen years," Director Moore remarked, "Times are always progressing, and you should keep up with the pace."
-

Supervisor
　Updating 6 words a day is too grueling. The author has been updating 4 words every few days, so I'm taking a break. Please forgive me.

　
(End of this chapter)