Chapter 2006 - 833: Chaos

Sara looked at him.

"And then?"

"Then, when it docks—your people take photos, call the police, make arrests."

December 4, 1997, Washington D.C.

Turner stood in the CIA operations room, looking at the huge screen.

On the screen was a map, marked with Europe, Africa, the Mediterranean. Several red dots flickered at different locations.

"That Congo base, confirmed to be taken out by the Mexicans."

The intelligence analyst stood beside him, speaking quickly.

"They captured one alive, a Russian, responsible for bookkeeping. The ledger fell into their hands. We don't know how much is inside."

Turner didn't speak.

"Also, on the Europe side, Italy, France, Spain, and Portugal have all signed that 'Digital Security Agreement' with Mexico. The Mexican technical team has already stationed in the coast guard command centers of those four countries."

Turner's fingers tapped on the table.

"That African—what's his name?"

"'Black Mamba.' Idriss Diawlo."

"Is he still at sea?"

"Yes. Our satellite captured his ship three days ago, coordinates off the coast of the Guinea Gulf. He is waiting to load the next batch of goods onto the ship."

Turner was silent for a few seconds.

"How much goods does he still have?"

"At least thirty tons. And weapons, enough to fight a small war."

Turner stood up and walked to the window.

Outside was Virginia's gray sky, and in the distance, one could see the surface of the Potomac River reflecting a bit of light.

"The Mexicans want to use him as leverage," he said, "Capture him alive, extract a confession, then use it to trade with the Europeans."

The intelligence analyst said nothing.

"Tell the 'Black Sea Wolf,'" Turner turned around, "To move ahead of schedule."

December 5, 1997, Off the coast of West Africa, "Far Seer."

When Hendrick rushed into the bridge, Black Mamba was looking at a nautical chart.

"Boss, something happened."

Black Mamba looked up.

"What happened?"

Hendrick handed over the satellite phone.

On the other end of the phone was the voice of the "Engineer," processed by a voice changer, cold and mechanical:

"Mr. Diawlo, your position has been exposed."

Black Mamba's fingers tightened on the armrest.

"By whom?"

"The Mexicans. They've been monitoring you with satellites for three days. Your coordinates, your route, your cargo ship—everything is under surveillance."

Black Mamba was silent for three seconds.

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'm trying to say, your time window is closed. The Italians could act at any time. The French could act at any time. The Spaniards could act at any time. Your ship can't escape."

Black Mamba stood up.

"What do you want me to do?"

The phone was silent for a few seconds.

"Abandon the ship. Forget the goods. It's enough to stay alive."

Black Mamba looked out the porthole at the gray-blue sea.

"Far Seer" was his lair. All the goods went out from here, all the money went through here, everyone followed his orders.

Abandoning the ship meant starting over.

"I don't have time," said the voice on the phone, "Make your own decision."

The call ended.

Black Mamba stood motionless on the bridge.

Hendrick waited.

After a long time, Black Mamba said:

"Notify everyone, prepare to evacuate."

December 6, 1997, early morning, Marseille.

"Scorpion" and the remaining seven men boarded a speedboat.

The speedboat was small, enough for only people and two boxes of cash, not weapons.

The dock was dark, unlit. In the distance, one could see the lights of the city of Marseille, but couldn't hear any sound.

"Scorpion" stood at the bow, watching the city grow further away.

He thought of Costa, thought of Samir, thought of the Africans who died in Warehouse No. 17.

All died in vain.

The motor of the speedboat was low, leaving a shallow white wake on the sea surface.

A subordinate leaned over:

"Boss, where are we going?"

"Scorpion" didn't turn back.

"The boss said, head to Greece."

December 6, 1997, noon, Rome.

When Conti received the message, he was having lunch.

The message was from Sanchez, just one line:

"'Far Seer' is evacuating. Target direction: deep in the Guinea Gulf. Should it be intercepted?"

Conti put down his fork.

He stared at that line, stared for a long time.

Then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Get me the French Navy."

December 7, 1997, Guinea Gulf.

A French Navy frigate stopped fifty nautical miles away from "Far Seer."

It's not that they didn't want to chase, but they couldn't.

"Far Seer" had entered the international waters of the Guinea Gulf, ahead was Equatorial Guinea's territorial waters. France wasn't authorized to enter another country's waters for arrests.

The captain stood on the bridge, watching the radar screen's diminishing dot.

"Report to command, target has left monitoring range. Request further instructions."

The response from command took ten minutes:

"Return to the original patrol route."

The captain closed the communicator and glanced at the gray-blue sea outside the window.

That ship had escaped.

Thirty tons of goods, twenty drug traffickers, an African known as "Black Mamba"—all escaped.

December 8, 1997, Mexico City.

Victor looked at the report, expressionless.

Bramo stood beside him, waiting for him to speak.

"'Far Seer' escaped."

"I know."

"The French stopped halfway through the chase."

"I know."

"'Black Mamba' is still alive. Thirty tons of goods are still at sea. Kosovo is still waiting for the weapons."

Victor put down the report.

"Tell Gals, how is the interrogation on that Russian going?"

Bramo opened a folder.

"He confessed. He's been working with the 'Black Sea Wolf' for three years, handled enough weapons to arm two brigades. On the client list, besides 'Black Mamba,' there are anti-government armed forces from five African countries, and—a man from the Kosovo Liberation Army."