495: Chapter 495 Leaving a Backdoor, Barrett Gets Caught in the Crossfire

A coalition soldier handed him a bottle of water. When the old man took the water bottle, his fingers were so withered and dry that his joints were deformed. He didn't drink it; instead, he unscrewed the cap and poured it onto the ground in front of him. "My son."

The coalition soldier helped him onto the medical vehicle. Through the car window, he could be seen burying his face in his arms, his shoulders trembling.

Nine in the morning. Kuching Riverbank Park.

Zhang Cheng's holographic projection appeared in front of the monument. He wore a dark green military service uniform, with a baobab leaf badge pinned to his left chest, and behind him was the faintly visible peak of Mount Kinabalu in the morning mist.

He faced the reporters, United Nations observers, and coalition soldiers off the stage, holding no speech script in his hand.

"This is not a declaration of victory." He began to speak, his voice transmitting from the array speakers of the holographic projection, clear over the riverbank park as if right beside the ear, "This is an evidence list. The 'Operation Firestorm' combat order, Barrett's autograph, the white phosphorus bomb authorization letter, and the Dumdum bullet shipment list—all have been made public on Shuguang Cloud. Any connected device in the world can download the original files for verification."

He paused for a moment.

"Barrett's plan was to create a landslide on the southwest slope of Mount Kinabalu, burying three Kadazan villages at the foot of the mountain alive and pinning the disaster on the coalition. He almost succeeded. He almost used more than two thousand lives to draft a press release imposing sanctions on Myanmar."

On the river surface, fishermen pulled in their oars. The river breeze stopped, and the flags hanging on both sides of the podium drooped down, motionless.

"If this plan hadn't been intercepted, this morning's White House press conference would have been a different face and a different set of rhetoric," he said. "Nothing would have happened. Nothing would have changed. Barrett would be sitting in his secret room in Manhattan drinking tea, and then filling in the White House press secretary's name at the signature line of this framed press release."

"We intercepted it."

The audience fell silent. Several Kadazan representatives stood in the front row off the stage, among whom an old woman pressed her palms together, murmuring prayers in the local dialect of the Mount Kinabalu region.

"Interception doesn't mean it's over." Zhang Cheng's voice lowered by half a degree, "Interception only means that not everyone died completely this time. What about next time? As long as the person who signs the command doesn't need to bear any consequences—there will still be countless field commanders thrown onto the battlefield, ordered to 'destroy evidence and leave no survivors', and then have their encrypted channels turned off by their employers."

He raised his hand, pointing toward the direction of Mount Kinabalu behind him.

"Therefore, the Federation of Greater Burma Government has submitted a formal application to the International Criminal Court—listing Barrett and other core members of Council of Elders as prime suspects for war crimes. The evidence has been submitted."

Among the reporters off the stage, someone stood up and applauded. Then a second, a third, followed by patches of applause. The applause continued without cheers, only the crisp sound of palms clapping together.

In the Naypyidaw underground command center, Li Lanzhi received an encrypted call from Zhao Gang.

"The leader has received your briefing. Over in The Hague—the Office of the Prosecutor of the International Criminal Court has officially accepted the evidence submitted by Myanmar." Obvious static could be heard in Zhao Gang's signal, which was the sound quality degradation produced when transferring through the encrypted channel with the relay station of the Longguo Southern Theater Command, "The Ministry of Foreign Affairs of France expressed 'high concern for the authenticity and integrity of the evidence' in this morning's press conference. The wording was concern, but this is Paris's most intense statement against Council of Elders in public."

"What about Britain? MI6 cut the channel."

"That's for self-preservation. The scope of the investigation has expanded to MI6." Li Lanzhi placed the coffee cup on the desk, "The Kuala Lumpur intelligence station. What London is panicking about right now isn't Washington—it's The Hague actually taking action."

"When do you plan to make it public?"

"When MI6 thinks they've cut it clean." Li Lanzhi flipped her tablet over, "They just cut the channel and haven't found that we left a backdoor."

Subtle current static came from the communication channel. The encrypted relay station on Zhao Gang's side switched nodes, and the voice paused for a second before continuing: "Received. The leader asked me to tell you—"

The second half of Zhao Gang's sentence was swallowed by static noise.

Li Lanzhi typed three words and sent them: Signal lost. The cursor on the screen flashed three times without a receipt. She placed the coffee cup on the desk. The sound of the bottom of the cup hitting the tabletop bounced dully in the underground command center.

Four hours later, Vega intercepted a confirmation telegram sent from the MI6 Kuala Lumpur intelligence station to London— "The channel has been completely physically cut, with no residual links."

London replied: "Confirmed safe."

By the time Li Lanzhi finished reading the intercepted telegram, the coffee had turned completely cold. She shook the last layer of coffee grounds at the bottom of the cup, poured them into the trash can, and typed the backdoor release command on the encrypted terminal.

The complete roster of personnel at the MI6 Kuala Lumpur intelligence station, encrypted communication records, and the secret telegram exchange logs between MI6 and Barrett were all uploaded via Shuguang Cloud.

London thought they had cut it clean.

They didn't find that the backdoor was still open.

Zero point four seconds after the data packet was uploaded, Vega locked onto a gulfstream g650 taking off from Kennedy Airport. The transponder was marked "Private Business Flight." Route tracking showed it was flying toward Geneva. There was only one name in the passenger list matching a core member of Council of Elders.

Interpol's Red Notice was issued thirty-seven minutes later.

"N472B." In the control tower of Geneva International Airport, the dispatcher stared at the flashing light spot on the radar screen and pressed the talk button. Beside his hand was the Red Notice issued by Interpol three minutes ago—Target: Barrett. "Shut down the engines before landing. Law enforcement is waiting on the ground."

The pilot stared at the law enforcement code popping up on the cockpit display, his fingers pausing on the throttle lever. In the rear of the cabin, Barrett saw through the porthole that five wheeled armored vehicles of the Swiss Gendarmerie forces were closing in from both sides of the runway.

He had calculated the route, airspace, and transferring to a private helicopter after landing to fly to his villa in Valais. The underground vault held hard currency and new identity documents sufficient for thirty years of living.

The only thing he missed was that frontline commander whom he had ordered to "leave no survivors"—that person's encrypted terminal still stored that telegram.

Barrett left the secret room four hours before Haskins was put in handcuffs.

When he left, Abramovich was still booking airline tickets—EK204 to Dubai, first class. Haskins said he needed to process the last batch of paper documents before leaving. Barrett received a call from Haskins in the bulletproof car heading to the airport: "The federal prosecutor's people are already downstairs. Don't wait for me."

The phone hung up.

Thirty-seven minutes later, Barrett's gulfstream g650 took off from the private runway of Kennedy Airport.

One in the morning. Manhattan.

When the federal prosecutor entered Haskins's apartment on Park Avenue with a search warrant, he was destroying the last batch of paper documents in front of the shredder.

Half a sheet of paper was jammed in the shredder slot. The paper was blackened by machine oil, but the upward-curling letter t at the end of Barrett's signature on the paper surface was still there.

When the agent pulled out that half-sheet of paper, Haskins's hand was still pressing on the shredder switch.