Watching the furious Brenan.
Simon sighed quietly to himself.
He knew it was pointless to keep explaining, as it would only bring humiliation upon himself.
But now he was caught in a dilemma, like mud in the pants—whether it was dirt or something worse, it wasn't good.
If he didn't explain, it would be even more unclear.
So, under Brenan's almost devouring gaze, Simon had no choice but to take out that specially encrypted satellite phone and, under everyone's watchful eyes, dialed the intermediary known as "Trade Team" and, as required, broadcasted the call through the conference room speakers.
After a brief transfer and wait, the voice of "Trade Team," speaking heavily accented and somewhat slick English, came through.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Simon. I assume you're contacting me about the situation in Nineveh Province?"
"Yes."
Simon tried to keep his voice calm.
