American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 86 Weighing
Beta gently shook her head: "I'm not blaming Helen. After all, she lived with us for eight years. From the time she walked into this family when I was 21 and became my stepmother, she gave me love I had never experienced before. I have always respected her and appreciated her care and dedication."

He picked up the dark, thick espresso in front of him and looked at John meaningfully: "I was just wondering, when we see Gianna, will she have someone beat you up and throw you out into the street? After all, what you did might be seen by her as a serious betrayal of love."

John glanced at Beta.

Beta smiled, downed the terribly bitter cup of coffee in one gulp, and swallowed it with a smile.
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Medvedeva hung up the phone with her supervisor and put her phone in her pocket. She turned and leaned against the railing by the river, the shimmering light of the Seine casting dappled patterns on her sunglasses.

The Seine is always bustling on weekends.

Cruise ships, filled with laughter and chatter, passed under the bridge, while street performers on the shore folded balloon dogs for the children watching. Right before her eyes, a white cruise ship glided almost close to the riverbank, and a little girl on the deck stood on tiptoe, her golden-brown braids glistening like honey in the sunlight.

The little girl with golden-brown hair noticed Medvedeva standing behind the railing.

The child's eyes were clear. She raised her little hand and waved at Medvedeva: "Salut! (Hi)"

Medvedeva paused for a moment, then smiled slightly and softly replied, "Coucou! (Hey!)"

The little girl waved happily again, but was immediately drawn to the scenery on the other side of the boat. She skipped and hopped away, her pale yellow dress drifting away like a dandelion.

The cruise ship, leaving long trails of ripples, gradually sailed away into the distance.

Medvedeva watched the young couple take turns carrying their daughter on their shoulders, observed the mother's raised eyebrows as she feigned anger, and the father's wink as he secretly fed the child candy. In a fleeting moment, the little girl threw herself into her father's arms, rubbing her ice cream-smeared face against his clothes.

A drop of water suddenly landed on Medvedeva's cheek. She reached out and touched it lightly, feeling the damp coolness on her fingertips. Looking up, she saw a thick rain cloud being pushed by the wind across the city.

Raindrops began to patter down, creating countless tiny ripples on the river's surface. Medvedeva tilted her head back, letting the rain soak her face. Water droplets slid down her cheeks, winding their way to her collar.

She stood in the rain for a moment, and when the third button of her shirt began to feel cool, Medvedeva finally retreated to the striped awning of the café.

The tissues handed to her by the waiter smelled of lavender. She mechanically wiped her cheeks until she was sure that the water stains came from the sudden rain in Paris.

On the riverbank, panicked tourists were running for cover, clutching their heads as they scrambled for shelter from the rain. The tour boat, once filled with laughter, had vanished into the depths of the rain, as if it had never existed.

Medvedeva received clear instructions that she needed to repackage "Jackal" as "β" to definitively establish that the two were the same person.

Instead of reporting directly to MI6 with the information, she had a more ingenious plan.

She decided to proactively provide French intelligence with photos and information about Alexandre Duggan in the name of MI6, implying that this information had been verified by MI6.

After receiving this "verified" intelligence, the French side would naturally pass on Alexander Duggan's information to MI6 in subsequent intelligence exchanges.

Given the current state of chaos within MI6, to avoid unnecessary trouble, relevant personnel will likely assume that this intelligence has already been confirmed by the French side.

A simple information gap was enough to convince both sides. In this way, Alexander Dugan was successfully portrayed as "β," and the identity of "The Jackal" was confirmed. As a key link in the intelligence chain, Medvedeva could then naturally intervene in the investigation, combining the originally separate "Jackal" case with the "Downing Street" case.

Everything was going according to her plan. As long as both sides' intelligence systems operated as she expected, the truth would be completely rewritten.

Medvedeva was acutely aware that she was being drawn into a dangerous gamble. Although the supervisor's hints were subtle, Medvedeva was no political idiot.

When the list that ignited the entire MI6 was confirmed to have leaked from her, she sensed that a storm was about to break.

As a lowly team leader, how do you quell the unrest within the organization after this massive purge? The most direct way is to completely eliminate her, the one who triggered the storm—in any way necessary.

Thinking of this, Medvedeva froze as she wiped the raindrops from her eyes. A terrible thought flashed through her mind: Did the USB drive her supervisor had given her really contain the original list?

To make her stance clear, she never checked the USB drive again after retrieving it.

But what if it wasn't a list at all, but a top-secret document? If she, someone without the proper permissions, were to open and view it, the system would automatically generate a violation record. At that point, she would face charges of "leaking state secrets."

In the secret prisons of intelligence agencies, human rights are nonexistent. All interrogation procedures can be manipulated. Whether she is sentenced or "accidentally" imprisoned depends entirely on which method best appeases the restless powerful figures.

Under the awning, Medvedeva clutched a tissue in her hand.

She gazed at the blurred river surface through the rain, her thoughts spreading like ripples on the Seine. What deeper meaning lay hidden in her supervisor's sudden phone call?
Was it out of some kind of protection, to give her a chance to make a contribution and protect herself? Or was it that, caught in the power struggle at the top, the supervisor secured a glimmer of hope for her?
The snippets of conversation over the phone kept replaying in Medvedeva's mind.

Perhaps her supervisor was implying that as long as she followed his instructions, she could escape unscathed from this storm. But it's also possible that the phone call itself was a trap, waiting for her to willingly jump into a prepared cage.

Raindrops pattered on the cafe's awning, making a rhythmic patter, like a countdown reminder.

In the game of intelligence, every move can lead to drastically different outcomes. Now, she must determine whether her supervisor's outstretched hand is a lifeline or a noose.

A nauseating, stagnant feeling rose in Medvedeva's chest.

She loathed this game of gauging people's hearts on the edge of a knife, interpreting every glance and dissecting every word, like scavenging for gold in a rotten swamp.

But at this moment, she had to force herself to immerse herself in this quagmire. Medvedeva clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, the pain making her thoughts clearer.

The rain intensified, and the watermarks on the café's windows distorted the outline of the Seine.

In this struggle, the greatest danger is not open or covert attacks, but that even the question of "who is the enemy" has become a proposition that needs to be repeatedly verified.

(End of this chapter)