Chapter 2008 - 834: We’ve Been Infiltrated~

December 15, 1997, London, Thames River Police Headquarters.

Graham sat next to the narrow interrogation room, watching the three people inside through the one-way glass.

One was a narcotics sergeant from Liverpool Police Station, in his fifties, with a sallow complexion typical of sleepless nights. Another was an MI6 liaison officer stationed in the Northwest Region, just over thirty, with a tie worn too tightly. The third was a representative from the Coast Guard Corps, clutching a surveillance report of the Liverpool Dock Area.

"Five hundred kilograms." The narcotics sergeant spread the photos on the table, "In Marseille, five hundred kilograms can make the Albanians and Africans fight for three months. In Liverpool, five hundred kilograms can drop the street drug prices in Merseyside County to the lowest point in twenty years."

The liaison officer didn't speak. He was sent from London and knew the protocol: the local police report first, then it's the intelligence department's turn.

"What about the driver?" Graham asked through the earpiece.

A voice came through the liaison officer's headset. He slightly tilted his head and then spoke: "The driver's name is Musa Kamara, from Guinea-Bissau, and he entered the United Kingdom as a refugee three years ago. He had no criminal record for the past two years and worked in a cold storage in Liverpool. He quit his job three months ago, and his source of income has been unclear since then."

"Where was he arrested?" Graham continued to ask.

"Dock Area B9 berth, 3:20 a.m. on December 12. At that time, he was loading a white Ford Transit. The cargo was thirty plastic barrels, each weighing about seventeen kilograms, totaling five hundred and ten kilograms. Test reports confirmed a purity of 87%."

Graham was silent for a few seconds.

Five hundred kilograms, purity 87%, unloading at the Liverpool Dock Area.

All this meant the official start of operations.

"Did he talk?"

"Yes," the liaison officer said, "but it's not much use. He said someone paid him, two thousand British Pounds a week, to pick up cargo at the docks at dawn and deliver it to a designated location. He's never seen the contact, and every time it's a disposable phone, with delivery locations temporarily notified. He only knows the person spoke with an African accent, nothing more."

Graham leaned back in his chair.

A typical one-way contact. Even if they captured a hundred Musa Kamaras, they couldn't trace the higher-ups.

"And the ship?"

The Coast Guard Corps representative finally had a chance to speak: "It's a trawler registered in Sierra Leone, called 'Atlantic Glory.' We checked its navigation records: it left Freetown three months ago, then stayed in international waters for twenty-seven days before suddenly approaching the UK coastline. We tried to intercept it last night, but it had already entered Irish waters, and the Irish side said they needed time to go through the procedures."

"By the time the procedures are complete, the ship will have already fled."

The narcotics sergeant couldn't help but interject.

The Coast Guard Corps representative didn't argue back.

Graham looked at the three people on the other side of the glass. They were all exhausted, each trying in their own way to solve a problem beyond their capability.

He switched off the earpiece and stood up.

In the corridor, Ellis was leaning against the wall waiting for him.

"Did you find out?" Graham asked.

Ellis nodded: "'Atlantic Glory,' bought by a Panamanian company last October. The shareholder of that company is a shell company in Luxembourg. And the legal advisor for that Luxembourg company—guess who?"

Graham looked at him.

"A Washington law firm. Specializes in taking CIA outsourcing contracts."

Graham closed his eyes.

Americans again.

"What do they want to do?" he asked, more to himself.

Ellis didn't answer.

They both knew the answer: the Americans want to wedge more into the cracks in Europe. Drugs are just a tool; chaos is the goal.

December 16, 1997, Greece, Crete Island.

"Scorpion" had been in this fishing village for three days.

Strios arranged accommodations for them—a few abandoned fishermen's huts facing the Aegean Sea, without heating, so cold at night they couldn't sleep.

The five tons of goods left by Hendrick had been repackaged and hidden in the hold of an abandoned fishing boat. Strios' channels were testing the waters, with the first batch of fifty kilograms sent to the nightclub district of Heraklion last night.

No feedback had returned yet.

"Scorpion" sat on a rock by the sea, looking at the distant gray-blue water.

He thought of Marseille.

He was present when Costa died. He was there when Samir died. He was also there when the two tons of goods were snatched by the Albanians.

Every time, he was the one standing, the one living.

But he was starting to feel tired.

The phone vibrated.

A message from an unknown number contained only four words:

"The boss wants to see you."

December 17, 1997, West Africa, Guinea-Bissau.

Black Mamba had been hiding here for ten days.

"Far Seer" was abandoned at sea, the crew scattered, the cargo ship suspended, weapons trades indefinitely postponed.

He was currently staying in an abandoned cashew plantation, surrounded by a few trusted veterans. Hendrick came every two days, bringing news from the outside.

The news wasn't good.

Liverpool's five hundred kilograms were seized, but the loss is bearable. The real trouble is the captured Russian—his ledger fell into the hands of the Mexicans, and that Russian knows far more than the numbers on the ledger.

"How many people does he know?"

Black Mamba asked.

Hendrick stood in front of him, deliberating on the wording.

"He collaborated with 'Black Sea Wolf' for three years. The weapons he handled were enough to equip two brigades. The client list includes, besides us, anti-government armed forces from five countries, and—one contact from the Kosovo Liberation Army."