American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 70 Intersection
At the boarding area of ​​Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport, the Fiat Panda slowly came to a stop.

Catalia pulled the handbrake and turned to look at Beta in the passenger seat. Beta was carefully checking his backpack when he looked up and met her complicated gaze.

Beta suddenly laughed and opened her arms: "Come on, we've been friends since we were kids, splashing around naked in the bathtub."

He pulled Katalia into his arms, his grip neither too tight nor too loose: "Don't be so sentimental, just say goodbye like before."

The hug was brief but warm, carrying their unique understanding. As they parted, Beta patted her on the shoulder: "Take care of yourself."

Catalia suddenly reached out and pulled Beta back into her arms. This embrace lasted a little longer than before, carrying the tacit understanding unique to old friends, warm but not overly affectionate, stopping just at the perfect boundary of friendship.

She whispered in his ear, "Mind your own business first, you jerk." Her voice held only concern for each other.

Beta nodded knowingly: "Let's go."

"Hmm." Kataria released her hand, her fingertips lingering briefly on his shoulder before slowly withdrawing.

Outside the car door, the sounds of airport announcements and the hustle and bustle of the crowd rushed towards her. Beta slung her backpack over her shoulder, and her figure quickly blended into the surging flow of people.

Catalia stared in the direction he had gone until the horn of the car behind her brought her back to reality.
-

Beta moved slowly with the flow of people, perfectly blending into the queue of tourists waiting to pass through customs.

He discreetly observed his surroundings. The dense array of cameras on the ceiling covered almost every angle, capturing everyone's facial features—far exceeding the surveillance density of ordinary areas. At the customs counter, two high-definition cameras were pointed at each traveler, capturing their faces.

The French security services responded with astonishing speed, and the security measures at customs have clearly been upgraded across the board, with a significantly different level of alert than before.

Beta's gaze swept over a distance where five well-trained police dogs were being led by fully armed police officers. They were panting, their eyes scanning the queuing crowd.

Beta was thankful he had completely rid himself of the smell of gunpowder. If he had gone straight to customs, those sniffer dogs would have pulled him out in three seconds. And even with his skills, there was no way he could have escaped from sixty heavily armed police officers with automatic rifles.

There were only four or five American tourists left in front of Beta. He observed them discreetly for a few seconds, then naturally struck up a conversation. With just a few pleasantries, he skillfully blended into the small group, chatting and laughing as if he were an old friend who had traveled with them all along.

“Did you go to Montmartre? The alleys there are like a maze,” Beta described vividly while keeping an eye on the customs officers out of the corner of her eye.

He skillfully steered the conversation, occasionally throwing out a few interesting anecdotes about Parisian attractions, and sometimes echoing others' complaints. In less than five minutes, this hastily formed "tour group" was chatting enthusiastically under his guidance, while Beta perfectly blended into the group of enthusiastic tourists, becoming their most talkative "travel companion."

The line moved slowly forward, and when it was Beta's turn to be questioned by customs, a dramatic scene unfolded.

As soon as the customs officer asked, "What was the purpose of your trip to Paris?", the American tourists eagerly stepped forward to explain, "He was with us!" "We were all here for tourism!"

Beta nodded in agreement, "That's right, we came to see the Eiffel Tower." He deliberately answered in heavily accented French, while showing the photos of the tower on his camera. The customs officer glanced at the chattering group of tourists; this kind of mutual support among tour groups was all too common. With the enthusiastic corroboration of four or five Americans, the officer didn't ask any further questions. He glanced at the harmless-looking man, compared him to the photo on the immigration record, and promptly stamped Beta's passport with an exit stamp.

Beta secretly breathed a sigh of relief; this kind of "extras" cover was often more convincing than any carefully crafted lie.

Beta and the American tourists were chatting and laughing as they passed through the customs channel when they bumped into a group of people with a completely different demeanor.

The leader was a woman around 38 years old, with long, golden-brown hair neatly tied in a high ponytail. She wore a black jacket and sweatpants, with lightweight combat shoes on her feet. Her gray-blue eyes were like scanners, possessing the sharpness unique to professional agents, as if they could see through everyone's disguise.

Beta paused briefly in conversation, like any ordinary tourist, casting a curious glance before resuming his chatter with his companions. The group's professional aura was far too obvious; they were definitely a security forces team from some country.

This MI6 special operations team, led by Meva Reik, has just entered the country through the diplomatic passage.

As they passed by the noisy group of American tourists, Medvedeva's gaze swept across the crowd. Among the Americans, a dark-haired young man was chatting and laughing, clearly the core figure of this small group.

Medvedeva's professional instincts made her take a second look, but the other person's natural tourist demeanor did not arouse her suspicion.

Under the bright overhead lights of the airport, the two teams briefly met and then quickly separated, heading towards their respective destinations.

What Medvedeva didn't know was that in that fleeting moment, the target she had been tracking for so long was right in front of her, yet she completely missed her.

Medvedeva led her team to the customs security area and placed several black equipment cases onto the conveyor belt. Inside the cases were neatly stacked various firearms and ammunition, their outlines clearly visible under the scanner.

She handed the diplomatic clearance documents to French security officials.

After careful inspection, the other party signaled for them to open the box for physical inspection. The two French agents began to count the weapon serial numbers and check the quantity of ammunition one by one, which is standard procedure to prevent foreign agents from smuggling weapons through diplomatic channels.

“According to diplomatic agreements, you are legally allowed to bring weapons into the country,” the French official in charge said in fluent English, while gesturing for the photographer to take pictures of each weapon for record-keeping. “But remember, using these weapons within France is a different matter.”

His gaze swept over each British agent: "No firing is permitted without our permission. When leaving the country, all firearms and ammunition must be accounted for. If a single bullet is missing or a gun is lost, we have the right to detain the entire team on charges of espionage."

Medvedeva nodded calmly, signaling the team members to close the weapons case after the inspection was completed.

A French security official stepped aside and pulled back the barricade: "To be honest, I don't welcome you to France at all. But it's my duty to receive you."

He leaned forward slightly: "So please don't cause me any trouble. You know, I prefer to deal with the people who create trouble rather than solve it."

Finally, he gave a cold smile: "Believe me, if you are detained on charges of espionage, given the efficiency of your government, you will probably have to spend an unforgettable Christmas in Paris."

(End of this chapter)