Persia, inside the Revolutionary Guard Camp.
Song Heping stared at the message sent by the cook on his phone screen.
Everything seemed to be carrying out according to his plan.
This time, in order to rescue Ferrari, he employed every conceivable network of relationships.
His gaze returned to Henry, who was seated beside him, eyes fixed on the computer screen: "What's the situation at the airport?"
Henry's fingers danced across the keyboard in a rapid rhythm, and the surveillance footage on the screen constantly changed.
Hidden in each shot were at least two CIA agents. They were disguised as travelers, cleaners, even airport security personnel, but their overly deliberate body language and frequent contact with earpieces betrayed them.
"You know, my old employer's intelligence network is decent; they have their people in Romania's aviation management system."
He pointed at the screen.
"Without these intelligence resources, it would be tough to compete with the CIA this time."
Song Heping said, "Check the Turkish Airlines counter."
Henry didn't respond immediately, instead enlarging the footage to the Turkish Airlines check-in counter.
A man in a dark trench coat was seated in the waiting lounge pretending to read the newspaper, but his eyes scanned the entrance every thirty seconds.
"It's getting lively," he finally said, his voice deep, "the CIA stationed at least twenty people in ambush at all entrances, joined by Romanian Special Service personnel."
He scoffed disdainfully.
"They really think you're taking that Turkish Airlines flight to Bucharest."
Song Heping remained silent, still staring intently at the screen, not speaking for a long time.
Suddenly, he turned around, took out the satellite phone, and called Lady M.
"M, I need one more favor from you."
"I've helped you a lot already," Lady M said. "Remember, I have my limits."
Song Heping sneered, "We're on the same boat now."
Lady M paused briefly, "Speak."
Song Heping said, "I need you to release another recording over the CIA-monitored internal communication line, like before, disguising it as your internal Sudan line monitoring records of my call with the Oasis Camp."
"What content?" Lady M's voice was filled with caution.
Song Heping said, "I will state my exact flight number and arrival time in the recording."
"Are you crazy?" Lady M was shocked, "Are you planning to make yourself bait?"
Song Heping said, "No, it can't be called bait, and don't ask me why. Anyway, since there's a mole inside your line by the CIA, use it to release intelligence. Besides, this isn't false information; it's true."
This response left Lady M completely silent.
Even someone as experienced in intelligence work as she couldn't immediately fathom Song Heping's intentions.
He's aware of the CIA and Romanian Special Service swarming Bucharest Airport yet dares to openly let her release his precise itinerary?
Intending to engage in a gunfight at the airport?
Create chaos?
Or does he want to draw the tiger away from the mountain and take the opportunity to rescue Ferrari?
But no matter what, this is a suicidal move.
Equivalent to courting death.
"Can you tell me why?" Lady M was very curious, "Or are you now giving me false information?"
Song Heping said, "I assure you with utmost sincerity, I really will take that flight."
Lady M was rendered speechless.
"Alright."
She said, "Good luck."
Song Heping immediately turned to Henry and said, "Soon we'll make a call, the CIA still thinks you're in Sudan, follow my script, make the recording, and send it to Weber to be sent to MI6 headquarters through that monitored line."
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
Song Heping's decision deviated from the previous plan.
Even Henry felt puzzled.
"Positive, just do it quickly."
"Alright," Henry shrugged, "since you're the boss."
After finishing all this, Song Heping picked up the satellite phone again.
About ten seconds later, Simon's phone, far away in the United States, vibrated...
Bucharest Safehouse, 6 a.m.
Wright watched the surveillance footage on his computer screen, the liquid in his coffee cup long gone cold.