"No! What are you doing?! What is this?!"
Orwell saw the syringe and jerked backward sharply, but he was tightly restrained by straps, able only to wriggle in vain, his pupils dilated in fear.
His performance was a disgrace to his identity as an agent.
But Song Heping clearly recognized that this guy's reaction was normal.
Although Orwell was an agent and a double agent at that, he was an outsider—a doctor originally working in Qatar, later recruited by the CIA and Mossad consecutively.
Considered an outsider then!
This type of outsider spy receives some professional training, but absolutely lacks the comprehensive training of field agents or those recruited from universities to become career agents; counter-interrogation training is likely superficial at best.
Agents like this are the easiest to break.
Especially in front of Russian Special Forces, it wouldn't be long before they fold.
"A little... amusement tool."
Petrovsky's tone was flat, as if he were describing a dinner condiment.
"It enhances your nerve perception, especially pain. It's said the effect can be increased five to ten times. We hope you'll enjoy it."
"No! Don't! I'll talk! I..."
Orwell's mental defenses began to crumble the instant he saw the syringe.
But "Iron Hammer" didn't give him a chance to continue speaking.
He yanked open the shirt sleeve covering Orwell's arm, ignoring his screaming and struggle, precisely injecting the needle into the vein at the crook of his elbow, slowly pushing the transparent liquid inside.
Almost instantly, Orwell's body began to convulse violently, his breathing became rapid and shallow, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his gaze became unfocused, uttering meaningless moaning sounds.
He seemed to have grown extraordinarily sensitive to everything around him, even the friction of clothing against his skin caused unbearable stinging pain.
Petrovsky waited patiently for about thirty seconds until Orwell's moaning subsided slightly, then spoke again, his voice not loud but like a heavy hammer pounding on Orwell's drug-intensified nerves: "Warehouse. Address."
"East... east of Latamira... about twenty kilometers... there's an abandoned... Kabul freight transit station..."
Orwell's voice was intermittent with painful gasps, "Number three... warehouse three... basement... there's a hidden chamber..."
"Types, quantities, and origin of the chemicals."
Petrovsky continued to ask, his speech rate not fast, but every word incredibly clear.
"It's... sarin... precursor... and... mustard gas... raw materials..."
Under the dual pressure of drugs and fear, Orwell's spirit collapsed completely, answering every question almost reflexively, "From... from the Turkish border... under the guise of medical supplies... brought in... Mossad... Mossad provides the channels and formulas..."
"Mossad?"
Petrovsky raised an eyebrow sharply; even Song Heping beside him looked alert.
Daishe Bird generally doesn't meddle in affairs, but this was beyond meddling.
"Yes... yes..."
Orwell's face streamed with tears, his body trembling uncontrollably, "I... I work for the CIA on the surface... but... real orders come from Mossad... They... they want us to use aid projects here as a cover, a week later... at a refugee camp south of Raqqa... fabricate a chemical weapons attack... then... then frame the Hafez Government..."
This guy spilled everything completely; even Petrovsky's interrogation hadn't truly begun, yet he already wet his pants.
Subsequently, Orwell's broken recounting revealed more shocking inside stories—the ultimate goal of Mossad is to use this chemical weapons attack, capable of provoking strong international reactions, to completely topple the already precarious Syria Hafez Regime.
Once Hafez falls, Syria will plunge into total anarchy, and Daishe Bird Country can, under the guise of creating a "security buffer zone" and "preventing extremist organizations from obtaining chemical weapons," push eastward and northward from its solidly controlled Golan Heights, occupying more Syrian territory, establishing a larger and deeper strategic defense zone.
"Ambitious."
Petrovsky snorted coldly, glancing at Song Heping.
Song Heping shrugged, saying, "It's your problem."
He wasn't wrong.
This is a Russian interest issue.
Nothing to do with him, the boss of an international defense company.
All he wanted was profit, a smuggling route from Peshawar to Central Asia to the Middle East.
"The warehouse guard specifics? Defensive arrangements?"
Petrovsky continued pressing, not giving Orwell any chance to catch his breath or fabricate lies.
"There... there's about a squad... fifteen people or so... peripheral action personnel from Mossad... well equipped... with heavy weapons... cameras and alarm systems at the warehouse entrance... the hidden chamber requires password and iris scan... the password is... is 'Samson2024'... the iris... is mine..."
Orwell had utterly surrendered, spilling everything he knew like beans from a bamboo tube.
The interrogation continued for another five minutes, with Petrovsky repeatedly questioning certain details—this is an interrogation technique, asking multiple times, cross-checking, until confirming Orwell wasn't lying.
Once all valuable intelligence was extracted, Petrovsky nodded to "Iron Hammer."
"Iron Hammer" took out another small syringe from a metal box, containing some sedative.
He injected Orwell again, whose violent trembling and moaning quickly diminished, his eyes turned vacant, and eventually his head slumped sideways, passing out.
"Take him up, we still need him."
Petrovsky instructed "Angel", then turned to Song Heping and the surrounding team members, "The mission objective remains unchanged: destroy that warehouse. We can't let those dirty things be used anywhere; we have to obliterate them."