American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 89 Suspicion
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Headquarters of the French Security Service.

Charlie's gaze darted back and forth between the projection screen and Medvedeva. His colleague from MI6 was focused on explaining the intelligence he had brought, unaware of Charlie's stare.

"Based on service records obtained from the British military, it can be definitively confirmed that 'The Jackal' is Alexander Duggan, the true perpetrator of the Munich assassination. Furthermore, 'β' and 'The Jackal' are the same person. Self-taught assassins often operate with crude methods; only those with formal military training could act so efficiently. Moreover, sniper rifles are not weapons that ordinary people can handle skillfully..."

Charlie focused intently, carefully comparing the investigation details of the Indian businessman's assassination with the information provided by Meva, trying to find any possible contradictions or anomalies. He noted down every subtle difference and repeatedly considered it in his mind.

Medvedeva switched between the projected materials, her French flowing effortlessly, requiring no interpreter throughout the entire intelligence meeting. The meeting room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop; all attendees were glued to the screen.

Until the last slide popped up—a picture of a "jackal".

The once quiet space stirred, and whispers spread. The thin, dark-haired man in the photo, his face dotted with light freckles, was now coldly staring at everyone through the screen.
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After the meeting, Charlie quickly caught up with Medvedeva, who was about to leave, in the corridor.

“Meva Lake, may I speak to you in private?” he said in English, not in French.

Medvedeva stopped and turned to look at the French security agent, who was in his early forties, bald, and had sharp eyes.

She turned her head slightly to her deputy and said, "Go downstairs and wait for me." The deputy nodded in understanding, picked up his briefcase, and turned to leave.

In the empty corridor, the two watched the last few French agents leave the conference room.

Medvedeva crossed her arms and gazed calmly at Charlie. The afternoon sun streamed through the window at the end of the corridor, casting long, thin shadows between them.

Charlie took his phone from his inside suit pocket, gently placed it on the edge of the hallway windowsill, and opened the camera app with the screen facing up. Medvedeva glanced at it, then, understanding, took out her own phone, opened the camera app, and placed it on the windowsill as well. The two phones lay quietly side by side on the windowsill.

"Do you want to ask some questions that are not convenient to discuss publicly?" Medvedeva broke the silence first.

Charlie looked her straight in the eye: "To put it bluntly, 'Jackal' and 'β' are really the same person?"

Medvedeva's expression remained unchanged: "According to the intelligence we currently have, that is indeed the case. Besides, haven't you already verified the authenticity of the intelligence and are preparing to issue an international arrest warrant?"

“Now it’s just the two of us,” Charlie said. “I want to hear your personal judgment.”

"My judgment?" Medvedeva said, "My judgment is that the intelligence is completely true."

Charlie then asked, "Are there any other factors involved in your judgment? Such as political considerations?"

Medvedeva's lips tightened: "Brazil shot a prominent journalist in front of the global media in front of 10 Downing Street. This is a blatant provocation against the dignity of the British nation."

Her voice remained steady: "If you insist on asking whether there are political factors involved, yes, it's that I want to grab this bastard called β right now and shove his head up his ass to defend the national dignity of Britain."

The corridor fell silent.

Charlie stared intently at Medvedeva's face, this equally trained agent trying to find clues in the subtle changes in her expression.

Medvedeva, on the other hand, maintained a poker face, showing no unease or guilt.

Time passed slowly in silence. The sunlight filtering through the window shifted subtly, casting a clear shadow obliquely onto the corridor floor, separating the two people at opposite ends, partially obscured by the window frame.

Charlie broke the silence by reaching for his phone on the windowsill and putting it back in his suit pocket. Seeing this, Medvedeva also put away her phone.

“I will continue to investigate every detail of the assassination of the Indian businessman.” Charlie’s voice was firm, but his eyes still held a lingering suspicion.

After saying that, he walked past Medvedeva, his silhouette edged with gold by the slanting sunlight, his whole being bathed in light as he walked away into the distance.

Medvedeva stood still, her head slightly turned as she gazed in the direction Charlie had gone. The sunlight illuminated her right cheek, while her left eye and half of her face remained in shadow.

Medvedeva watched Charlie's figure disappear around the corner of the corridor.

She expressionlessly put her phone back in her pocket. As she turned away, her face disappeared completely into the shadows.
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MI6, the British intelligence agency.

The supervisor's office was shrouded in a grayish-blue haze.

The manager was slumped in his leather office chair, leaning back against the backrest, facing the London skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The cigarette between his fingers was half-burned, its ash teetering precariously. On the desk, the crystal ashtray was piled high with cigarette butts. A few unextinguished cigarette butts on the top layer ignited the sponge in the filter, sending a thin wisp of white smoke rising, tracing a clear path through the still air.

The acrid smell of burning tobacco, mixed with the smell of burning paper, fermented in the enclosed space, filling the entire room with a suffocating and oppressive atmosphere.

The supervisor seemed oblivious to all of this, mechanically bringing the cigarette to his lips, taking a deep drag, and letting the ash fall onto the front of his suit jacket.

Outside the window, the glass curtain walls of the City of London reflected the leaden light of the sky, echoing the flickering sparks between his fingers.

The city's weather remained characteristically gloomy, with low-hanging rain clouds almost touching the tops of skyscrapers, and the entire office shrouded in dim light.

As the light dimmed, the supervisor's figure slowly merged into the shadows, eventually becoming just a blurry outline. Only the cigarette butt continued to flicker in the darkness, each faint flash appearing briefly before disappearing into the ever-deepening darkness.

Raindrops began to gently tap on the windowpane, their soft sounds echoing in the quiet office.
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Michael attended Vicky Davis's funeral despite his lingering injuries.

The stitches on his waist were still throbbing, but he insisted on wearing a black suit and sunglasses to hide all the emotions in his eyes.

With the help of a caregiver, he struggled to step out of the car. The sharp pain in his lower back caused his facial muscles to twitch uncontrollably. He bit his lower lip and forced himself to straighten his back.

He chose to stand at the very back of the mourning crowd.

Several colleagues who noticed him cast varying glances; some were surprised, some ignored him, and most were indifferent. When Michael's superior spotted him, he glanced at him as if he were an insignificant object, then turned away a few seconds later.

The wind swept through the cemetery, ruffling the black hair that fell across Michael's forehead. The pastor's eulogy drifted on the wind, intermittently reaching his ears.

(End of this chapter)