The night in London was heavy and damp, like an old velvet cloth saturated with dirty water, weighing heavily down on the River Thames.
Deep within Whitehall Street, a building that appeared solemn from the outside yet labyrinthine within, stood brightly lit.
This was the heart of MI6, codenamed "Vauxhall Cross."
At this moment, behind a heavy oak door on the top floor, the sound of raindrops tapping against the glass outside was shut out, along with the entire world.
Ms. M's office was spacious and cold. Behind a large mahogany desk, she was sunk into the shadow of a high-backed chair, like a meticulously sculpted stone statue.
Only the antique ring on her finger occasionally reflected a cold, hard glint under the halo of the desk lamp.
Spread out before her was a classified document just "blown" back from a distant theater of war—a few thin pages tinged with the aftertaste of gunpowder and blood.
The core of the report revolved around one person: Song Heping.
