April in Morocco is already slightly warm.
But the small town of Asilah, being near the coast, is cooled by the sea breeze, making the climate very pleasant here.
Amanda's lace nightgown floated down from the second-floor balcony, conveniently covering the lens of the MI6 surveillance team on stakeout. The technician in the surveillance van stared at the two tangled orange figures on the thermal imaging device, while the captain's suppressed laughter came through the earpiece: "Our former colleague seems quite vigorous."
The Mediterranean wind swept over the blue and white houses, intermingled with the saltiness, as Amanda Leclair's lace curtains gently swayed in the twilight.
Inside the second-floor bedroom, Henry Wilson, a former top analyst in British intelligence and now head of the "Musician" Defense Intelligence Department, was using his teeth to open a bottle of 2012 Bordeaux red wine.
"Darling, how long can you stay this time?" Amanda's fingers traced Henry's chest scars, her French accent like poison mixed with honey.
This mixed-race girl he met at the Casablanca casino had the most dangerous figure in the intelligence world—a 0.7 waist-to-hip ratio paired with a 102 cm bust, enough to melt anyone's guard.
Henry glanced at the satellite positioning on his watch; Song Heping should have crossed the Ethiopia border by now.
"Three days."
His Adam's apple remained motionless as he lied, a basic skillfully honed in the MI6 anti-interrogation course.
In reality, he had booked a flight back to Ethiopia for six o'clock the next morning.
Three hundred meters away, in a van with a "Fishing Company" logo, MI6 operations team leader Coleman was adjusting the focus on the thermal imaging device.
The orange figures on the screen were overlapping in a 69 position, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust: "The target is in position, all teams report status."
"Alpha team in position, north alley cleared."
"Bravo team controls the high ground, good visibility."
"Charlie team seals off the coastline, no abnormalities found."
The earphones filled with confirmations one after another.
Coleman glanced at the tactical tablet; the 3D model of Amanda's apartment was rotating, with every fire point marked in red.
He recalled Lady M's warning before his departure: "Henry is an old fox, trained in the 'Aurora' program, don't give him 0.5 seconds to react."
"All units, ready—"
He checked his watch.
"Act on my command."
"Understood!"
"Understood!"
"Understood!"
Each unit already in the assault position responded.
At 00:17, Henry suddenly woke up from the embrace of his mistress.
His pupils contracted rapidly in the dark—the sound of waves was mixed with a metallic friction noise, like the stock of an HK416 rifle being adjusted.
"What's wrong?" Amanda asked drowsily.
Henry didn't answer; the moment he stepped barefoot onto the Persian carpet, a slight tremor came from under his feet.
The neon sign of the café downstairs shouldn't have been powered off at this hour.
He darted towards the nightstand swiftly as lightning, but before he could reach the Glock 19 hidden behind the vase, the floor-to-ceiling window shattered into countless shards.
"Flashbang!"
The exclamation was barely out of his mouth when the million-candela flash of the shock bomb engulfed the bedroom.
Amanda's scream was torn to shreds by the overpressure sound wave, and Henry, blinded, rolled towards the bathroom by muscle memory, only to crash into a human wall—a British emblem on a riot shield glinted under the night vision goggles.
A group of operatives in black combat uniforms burst into the room from the door and windows in different directions.
Glass shattered everywhere, the wooden door bursting open as if it were paper.
The shock bomb and flashbang still lingered, and before Henry could react, he was surrounded by wolfish operatives.
Two hefty men pinned him down like a lamb, hands instantly pinned behind his back, the Glock 19 in his grip seized like a useless toy.
"Long time no see, 'Albatross'."
The voice behind the riot mask froze Henry's blood; it was his codename during training in Belfast.
"You are..."
Henry's face turned pale.
He realized who these people were.
Before he could finish speaking, a needle jabbed into his neck, and his last conscious memory was the crunch of a tactical boot crushing a wine bottle.
An hour later.
The white LED light in the interrogation room was like a shadowless lamp on an operating table.
Henry was tied to a specially designed chair, the nylon straps on his wrists automatically tightening by 1 millimeter every ten minutes.
Coleman tapped a seized satellite phone with a pen, and the screen suddenly lit up with an encrypted message: [Cargo has arrived at B3 zone].
"Tell me about Song Heping's Somalia itinerary."