London, MI6 headquarters, "Deep Well" command center.
The cold air hung heavy, like lead.
The sound of M's knuckles tapping on the alloy control console, thud, thud, thud, was like an invisible heavy hammer, slowly and stubbornly pounding on the tense nerves of every intelligence officer.
On the massive screen wall, the dot representing the "Seagull" was like a stubborn stain, firmly pinned to the electronic nautical chart of Alexandria Port's eastern anchorage, with a flashing green label beside it reading "Routine maintenance, AIS signal normal," which was glaringly visible.
Each flash was like a needle pricking deep into her ice-blue pupils.
"Madam, the third round of port checks is complete, the customs declaration for 'heavy engineering machinery parts' shows no logical gaps, and customs clearance records are clear."
The intelligence officer's voice sounded unusually dry in the empty space, as if his throat were filled with the dust of data streams.
