Chapter 1369: Chapter 660: Look, the Sun Is Setting

“Let’s do it this way.” He finally spoke, his voice hoarse as if drained of strength, “Tell Silver Wing Capital, 20 million, in the account within three days. Shares, let them take as they please.”

Sir Davidson opened his mouth, finally just nodding heavily.

He was aware that Scottish Power held the grid hubs of Glasgow and Edinburgh, and although 5% of the shares seemed little, it meant that foreign capital was touching the energy lifeline of the United Kingdom’s north for the first time.

But right now, the tear gas procurement contract was three days overdue, and in Colonel Hawkins’ telegram, soldiers were dealing with the backlash of tear gas with expired gas masks, which were surplus from the 1990s Gulf War. The rubber gaskets had long hardened, causing many to cough uncontrollably, making even aiming a problem.

Don’t think it’s too much…

It is said that it’s 2020, and the United Kingdom is still saving on nuclear weapons maintenance costs… meaning that they might just fly off with a whistle one day.

“I’ll get in touch right away.” When Davidson turned, the metal clasp of his briefcase hit the door frame, making a muffled sound that was particularly piercing in the silent office.

Before the door closed, the MI6 director burst in, rainwater still clinging to the hem of his trench coat, and his usually meticulously groomed hair clung messily to his forehead.

“Prime Minister, urgent intelligence.” His voice was extremely low but carried an undeniable urgency, “Our listening post intercepted encrypted communications in Strasbourg, France. The Deputy Director of the European Department of the French Foreign Ministry secretly met with the Scottish National Party high-level officials last week.”

The Prime Minister jumped up from the sofa, fingers clutching the equity documents suddenly tightened, paper making a crisp sound under pressure: “French? What are they planning?”

“It’s not just the meeting.” The director took out a surveillance record from his briefcase, the smell of ink mingling with the dampness of rain rushing at him, “Our people captured the scene when the SNP leader’s private advisor left the French Embassy carrying a briefcase possibly containing an economic assistance plan. More troubling is that the French National Railway Company is in contact with the Scottish local government, discussing a cross-border railway upgrade plan after independence. They’re preparing for Scottish independence.”

The Prime Minister stumbled half a step, his back hitting the cold fireplace.

The flames of Northern Ireland were still burning, and under Scotland’s ice lay hidden currents. What he had to extinguish the fires were only national assets continually mortgaged away.

“Are they insane?” The Prime Minister’s voice trembled with disbelief, “The Anglo-French Alliance has maintained for half a century, and they dare to stab us now?”

“It’s not stabbing; it’s looting a burning house.” Eliot’s tone was somewhat disappointed, “The Northern Ireland riots have caused the British Pound to plummet; Scottish independence sentiment has already been high. The French extending an olive branch now is no different than handing a match to a powder keg. Their goal is clear: to weaken the UK’s voice in the European Union and to retrieve the losses they incurred over the North Sea Oil Field division years ago.”

The Prime Minister’s hand slipped from the fireplace, shaking the bronze statue of Churchill, its base clanging against the marble.

He recalled Wilson’s sarcasm three days ago on the phone—”Capital never pays for reckless actions,” but now, even former allies were toasting Britain’s plight.

“How much can the Treasury Department’s account squeeze out?”

The Prime Minister’s voice was as rough as sandpaper.

He was thinking, perhaps he could suspend the supplies to the Persian Gulf Fleet and move the funds to appease Scotland, but that thought was immediately quashed. If the Navy cuts off supplies, the Mediterranean’s routes would immediately fall into other nations’ fleets’ control.

The director saw the red blood vessels spreading in the Prime Minister’s eyes and said in a low voice, “Excluding the emergency funds for the Belfast garrison, there’s only… 7 million British Pounds left, not enough for even half a year’s allowance for the Scottish local parliament.”

The office plunged into a deathlike silence, with only the wall clock tirelessly ticking away,

each tick pounding like a heavy hammer on the Prime Minister’s nerves.

He suddenly remembered the other corner of a painting in his grandfather’s study. Yes, his grandfather owned quite a few paintings.

In 1940, Churchill clenched a cigar in the Downing Street basement, outside the window was the German Army’s bombing flames, but at that time, Britain still had the resources of colonies to utilize and allies around the world willing to give blood.

And now, all he held were piles of mortgage agreements and a briefing labeled “French interference in Scotland.”

“Immediately have the Foreign Minister see the French Ambassador.”

The Prime Minister took a deep breath, “Tell them that if they dare meddle in Scottish affairs, we’ll reveal the files of France’s weapon smuggling to the IRA during De Gaulle’s era, and also, extend the North Sea Oil Field’s extraction rights tender to Mexican companies, let the French know they’re not the only buyers.”

When he spoke these words, even he felt a lack of confidence.

Those files were Cold War secrets, and once revealed, the already tense Anglo-French relations would disintegrate completely, and bringing in Mexican companies was just drinking poison to quench thirst, as Victor’s capital had always been greedier than Parisian politicians.

The director agreed, turning to leave, but heard the Prime Minister quietly say, “Send a telegram to Colonel Hawkins, tell him… to hold on a little longer.”

Hold on? With what? Worn-out boots of the soldiers, or the “collateral” constantly carved off from the nation’s body?

He didn’t dare ask, just quietly shut the door.