"Remember." Before getting off, the chef glanced at the luxury Aurus car with the license plate number 001, and suddenly grabbed his wrist tightly, warning in a low voice.
"If the General asks about the British, just say you've severed ties." There was a hint of undeniable seriousness in his eyes.
"Lady M has no friends in Moscow."
Song Heping's pupils contracted slightly — could it be that even his secret contact with MI6 was known?
He adjusted his tie, showing a professional smile: "I only make friends with money."
This restaurant by the Moscow River only caters to political and business elites, but tonight it was unusually quiet — clearly booked out.
Walking through the corridor laid with Persian carpets, Song Heping noticed plainclothes guards at every corner, their earpiece wires faintly visible, with obvious bulges at the back waist.
The chef pushed open the gilded door, and warm lights and piano music poured out.
