Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 660 The Whistle War?!
10 Downing Street, London, the Prime Minister's Office.

Sir Johnson practically dragged himself into the Prime Minister's office, looking somewhat tired.

Upon returning from Bogotá, he was overwhelmed by bad news from Northern Ireland and a deluge of questions from Parliament.

His eyes were sunken, and his suit was wrinkled; he had long lost the dignified demeanor he had when he was meticulously negotiating at the conference table in Bogotá.

The Prime Minister had his back to him, gazing out the window at the gloomy London sky.

The atmosphere in the office was even more oppressive than the weather outside. The desk was piled high with the latest reports and casualty lists about the Northern Ireland attacks, each one heavy with weight.

There were no small talk, no formalities.

The prime minister, with a cigarette between his fingers, spoke his first words, which were both sudden and direct:
"Johnson, tell me the truth, do you think Mexicans are backing this up?"

These words were like a bullet, instantly piercing Sir Johnson's barely maintained composure.

He was stunned!
My mind went blank, and I saw Lundstätter's calm yet enigmatic face on the conference table in Bogotá...

He opened his mouth, but the Prime Minister's question wasn't "Is it or isn't it?" but rather "Do you think so?", which in itself contained a strong implication!
What has the Prime Minister, or rather the intelligence community, already sensed?
Not everyone in the Sixth Division of the Central Youth Corps is just sitting around doing nothing.

"prime minister."

Sir Johnson forced himself to remain calm, frowning slightly. "We are allies with Mexico..."

"Allies?!" The Prime Minister whirled around, his cigarette clenched so tightly in his hand that it crumbled in his palm, ash and tobacco falling in a flurry. His face was contorted with extreme rage. "Those Mexicans dare call themselves allies?! A bunch of hyenas in the guise of civilization! A bunch of opportunistic robbers!"

"Victor is a bastard!"

Hmm... I often get called a bastard.

He suddenly kicked over the brass wastebasket next to him, the metal hitting the ground with a jarring clang, scattering documents and cigarette butts all over the floor.

"When they were discussing the fund with you in Bogotá, they probably already knew something bad was going to happen in Ireland! Isn't that clear enough?"

"That so-called Amazon fund was a complete trap! They lured us in with hundreds of millions of pounds as bait, only to stab us in the back when we were at our weakest point!"

Look at what's happening now!

He pointed to the report on British casualties on the table, his anger barely contained. "More than twenty lives! An entire military camp destroyed! Our soldiers are bleeding on our own soil, while they're calculating how to carve up our share in South America! What are the Mexicans saying? They're laughing at us! They're waiting for us to be too busy to take care of ourselves so they can swallow the whole of South America!"

"And those weapons! SAM-7? RPGs? Without a country backing them up, how could the Irish Resistance get their hands on these things?"

The Prime Minister suddenly grabbed the crystal paperweight from the table and smashed it against the wall, scattering shards of glass. "They pretend to be investigating the source of the weapons while sending them into Ireland. Those sons of bitches, they call us brothers on the surface, but behind our backs they've been sharpening their knives, just waiting for us to slip up!"

No matter how good the soundproofing of the office was, the Prime Minister's roar pierced through the door like thunder. The secretaries and guards in the corridor outside held their breath and dared not even make a sound.

Sir Johnson's face darkened. He recalled Lundstätter's calm gaze as he sent the telegram, and the strange glint in the French representative's eyes. Those details, which he had overlooked at the time, now pierced his mind.

Is it...

The French are involved too! ? ?

Anglo-French relations should be good, since we are both allies in Europe.

"They want us to withdraw from South America."

The Prime Minister, panting heavily, his chest heaving, said, "And on a deeper level, they might want to take this opportunity to drain us dry. The market panic in London, the devaluation of the pound, those undervalued assets... those Mexicans will definitely not let this opportunity pass them by!"

Why is it so clear?
Because that's what Britain did back then, and later the United States did the same.

Capital is also accompanied by violence!
He grabbed Johnson by the collar and pulled him close, spitting almost in his face: "What you saw in Bogotá was just the tip of the iceberg. What they want isn't the resources of the Amazon, but the last reserves of our British Empire! The industrial foundation we've built up over hundreds of years!"

"Prime Minister...I..."

Johnson's voice trembled.

The prime minister abruptly released his grip, and the other person staggered back a few steps, bumping into the door frame.

"Investigate! Have MI6 and MI5 deploy all available resources! Even if you have to dig three feet into the ground, find evidence of Mexican interference. Also, tell the Ministry of Finance to hold onto those core industries at all costs. Even if it means using executive orders, don't let Mexican capital infiltrate!"

He paused, then continued, "And Northern Ireland, pass on my orders: put the garrison on high alert and raze those resistance strongholds! Even if we have to bomb Belfast to the ground, let the Mexicans see that even a weakened camel isn't something they can just devour!"

He understood that if the Mexicans only wanted their assets, then the Northern Irish really wanted their lives.

During the Great Famine, the British preferred to lose their own food rather than give any to the Irish…

Only heavy breathing could be heard in the office. The Prime Minister's figure appeared particularly hunched in the dim light, as if he had aged ten years in an instant.

……

The air in Belfast, Ireland, is somewhat oppressive.

British armored vehicles rolled over the wet streets, mud kicked up by their tracks splashing onto the closed doors and windows. Armed soldiers stood guard every few steps, dragging the city into a suffocating atmosphere of dread.

The residents huddled inside their houses, the curtains drawn tight, only daring to peek through the gaps at the figures in camouflage uniforms. Fear and an unspeakable hostility filled the air.

Fitz Neighborhood, a typical Irish neighborhood.

Seventeen-year-old Patrick O'Connell, a high school student, was smoking on his second-floor balcony in the evening.

Downstairs, three British soldiers were patrolling along the base of the wall, their leather boots making a dull thud on the stone pavement, and their rifle butts occasionally hitting the wall with a harsh clatter.

Perhaps it was teenage rebellion, perhaps it was the pent-up frustration of the past few days, or perhaps it was simply that Patrick found the soldiers' posture somewhat comical, but as he watched their retreating figures, he unconsciously let out a long whistle.

The voice was exceptionally clear on the deathly silent street, carrying a hint of mockery and a touch of provocation.

The patrolling soldier suddenly turned around, his gun barrels instantly raised, and pointed towards the balcony.

The lead sergeant's eyes were sinister; he clearly took the whistle as an open provocation. "Who's there?!" he shouted sharply, his voice echoing through the alley.

Patrick jumped in fright, dropping his cigarette. He instinctively tried to duck back inside, but it was too late. "Bang! Bang! Bang!" Heavy thuds echoed, like drums pounding against the O'Connell's wooden door. Patrick's parents, who had just set dinner on the table, turned pale with fright at the noise. The door was unlocked, and the soldiers rudely pushed it open, their boots scraping the floor.

"Second floor!" the sergeant growled, and the three men headed straight for the stairs.

Patrick was still stunned on the balcony when a soldier rushed up and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him down. "What were you blowing just now?!" The soldier's fist was pressed against his chest, and the boy trembled with fear, his lips shaking so hard he couldn't speak.

“He’s just a child! He didn’t do anything!” Patrick’s mother screamed and lunged forward, but was stopped by another soldier.

"Back off!" the soldier roared.

"Please, he's only seventeen. He just whistled, he didn't mean it..."

The father rushed forward, trying to protect his son, but was forcefully pushed away by the soldier and stumbled into the wall.

"Take him away!" The sergeant ordered his men without giving any further explanation.

Two soldiers lifted the still trembling Patrick and dragged him downstairs like an animal.

The boy's mother cried and chased after him downstairs, but was blocked by soldiers with rifle butts. She could only watch helplessly as her son was taken out of the house and shoved into a military jeep parked at the alley entrance.

The car door slammed shut, the engine roared away, leaving behind the mother slumped on the ground and the father leaning against the wall, his eyes filled with despair.

That night, the O'Connells searched all the nearby temporary checkpoints and garrison posts, only to receive the cold reply: "Suspected of obstructing military affairs, under investigation."

They weren't even allowed to see their son.

They hadn't slept all night, and they were all somewhat apprehensive...

The next morning, just as dawn was breaking, a military vehicle pulled up in front of O'Connell's house.

Two soldiers came down and handed Patrick's father a note. "Patrick O'Connell suffered a sudden illness while in custody last night and died despite all efforts to save him."

The father's hand trembled violently, the note fluttered to the ground, and the mother screamed and fainted on the spot.

Upon hearing the news, the relatives who had been by his side shouted, "You are all murderers!"

But the British troops acted as if they hadn't heard them, got into their vehicles and drove off.

The news spread like wildfire throughout Belfast.

"A sudden illness?" No one believed this explanation.

A healthy 17-year-old boy, perfectly fine the day before, died suddenly after being arrested and imprisoned simply for whistling? People are more inclined to believe that it was torture, murder, or the occupiers' brutal suppression of the resistance.

When Patrick's body was brought back, his family found obvious bruises on his wrists and ankles, as well as a dark contusion on the back of his neck.

That afternoon, residents of Fitz Street spontaneously gathered, holding up photos of Patrick and chanting "Justice for us" as they marched toward the British checkpoint.

It started as a peaceful protest, but when soldiers picked up their guns and fired tear gas to disperse the crowd, anger ignited long-simmering hatred.

Stones, glass bottles, and Molotov cocktails were thrown at the soldiers, who retaliated with rubber bullets and high-pressure water cannons.

The conflict escalated rapidly, spreading from Fitz to the rest of Belfast. What began as anger over the attack on the military camp transformed into a full-blown rebellion against British rule, fueled by the tragic death of a young boy.

Patrick O'Connell, the young man who died because of a whistle, became a glaring symbol in the history of Northern Ireland.

His death, like a spark thrown into boiling oil, completely ignited the already turbulent situation and overnight brought many new faces with grief and indignation to the ranks of the Irish resistance—among them Patrick's classmates, neighbors, and ordinary people who had watched him grow up.

In the rooftop office of the National Palace in Mexico City, the downpour had stopped, and a few rainbows peeked through the horizon outside the window.

Casare knocked on the door and came in, holding a briefing that had just been encrypted and transmitted.

“Boss, there’s new news from Northern Ireland.” Casare’s voice was a little strange. “A seventeen-year-old Irish boy in Belfast was arrested and imprisoned for whistling at a British sentry post. He was found dead this morning.”

Viktor's fingers froze abruptly. He looked up, his composure instantly turning to astonishment, his brow furrowing into a deep frown: "What did you say? Whistling? Dead?"

This is... fucking outrageous!
He grabbed the briefing and quickly scanned it, his brows furrowing more and more as he read. Finally, he slammed the briefing on the table, his eyes filled with disbelief as he looked at Casare. "This... did we kill Patrick?"

Casare was taken aback by the question, then an embarrassed look appeared on his face. He quickly waved his hand: "Boss, what are you talking about? Our instructions to the resistance are very clear: the targets are military facilities and transportation hubs. We have never allowed them to touch civilians, let alone such meaningless small-scale conflicts."

He pointed to the words "died in British custody" on the briefing, his tone helpless and somewhat amused, "We are not terrorists. Doing this kind of thing will not help our plans at all, but will only disrupt the rhythm."

Viktor stared at the boy's name on the briefing, remained silent for a few seconds, and then suddenly burst out laughing, a laugh tinged with self-mockery and absurdity.

He shook his head, picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, but couldn't taste anything: "Yeah, I was just too hasty."

He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingertips lightly on the table, a hint of amusement flashing in his eyes: "These British troops... are really quite 'capable', aren't they?"

"We went to great lengths to provoke the situation, using heavy weapons to attack military camps in an attempt to create panic and undermine their military deterrence. And what was the result?"

Viktor raised an eyebrow. "They didn't say a word, just killed a whistling kid in prison. That's more effective than us dropping ten rockets."

Casare also realized this and couldn't help but nod: "Indeed, Patrick's death has already sparked large-scale riots in Belfast, and now the civilians throughout Northern Ireland are enraged. News from the resistance is that long lines of people signed up to join this morning, all of them coming with anger."

“This is much more effective than sending weapons with money.” Victor picked up the briefing and looked at it under the light as if he were examining some strange object. “I was worried that the Irish resistance’s mass base was not solid enough, but now the British army has personally delivered the most vivid mobilization teaching material to them.”

He tossed the briefing back onto the table, picked up his coffee cup, walked to the window, and gazed at Mexico City after the rain: "It seems we've been too conservative. Sometimes, the most effective weapon isn't the SAM-7 or the RPG, but rather that self-righteous arrogance and stupidity."

Viktor turned around, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "The third batch of aid has arrived ahead of schedule. There's no need to hide it anymore. Since the British are helping us so much, let's go with the flow and let this fire burn even brighter."

Casare nodded in response and turned to leave when he heard Victor chuckle softly, "You can lose your head just by whistling? The British Empire's magnanimity is truly becoming more and more extraordinary."

It's rare to see someone so stingy.

……

(End of this chapter)