Chapter 2012 - 835: The Mexican Territories?~_2

"Right." Victor turned around, "We want them to know. Fear is the best salesman."

December 28, 1997, Scotland, Edinburgh.

McTavish and Sarah Kent met for the third time.

Still in the side wing of the reception room at Holyrood Palace, but this time there was a map on the table. The map marked all the ports and docks on the United Kingdom's west coast, from Liverpool to Glasgow.

"Over in Liverpool, our guys have been watching for three weeks, took seven photos of unloading, reported once to the police." Sarah pointed to Liverpool on the map, "Five hundred kilograms, broke the record, but it's no use. The traffickers are still there, the goods are still there, the money is still there."

McTavish looked at her.

"What do you want to say?"

"I want to say that just reporting to the police is useless." Sarah raised her head, "The police can't handle the docks, customs can't handle the fishing boats, the coast guard can't handle the open sea. This is a systemic loophole that needs a systemic solution."

McTavish was silent for a few seconds.

"What do you want?"

"The satellite system you mentioned last time. The Mexicans provided it, the one that can see every ship at sea."

McTavish looked at her.

"That requires authorization from London."

"London won't give it."

"So?"

Sarah pushed a piece of paper in front of him.

The paper had only one line: "Liverpool Port Authority Security Council Observer - Sarah Kent."

McTavish looked at the line.

"This is..."

"The title given to me by Liverpool City Council, approved last week. I have the right to access parts of the port authority's security system data. Including ship arrival and departure records, surveillance footage, customs inspection reports."

McTavish understood.

"You can pass the data to me. I pass it to the Mexicans. They use the satellite to cross-reference and find suspicious ships. Then—"

"Then I report to the police." Sarah continued, "Police make arrests, and the credit goes to them. No one knows where the data came from."

McTavish was silent for a long time.

Then he extended his hand.

"Deal."

December 29, 1997, Guinea Gulf.

Black Mamba stood on a newly rented fishing boat, looking at the gray-blue sea in the distance.

This boat was much smaller than the "Far Seer," capable of carrying only five tons of cargo. But small has its advantages—small target, fast, difficult to detect.

Hendrick stood beside him.

"Over in Greece, 'Scorpion's goods are selling well. Strios's channels have already extended to Athens. In two more months, the entire underground market in Greece will be ours."

Black Mamba didn't speak.

"Over in Kosovo, Cheku is pushing again. He says his troops are waiting for weapons, their hair's turning white from waiting. The Americans promised goods haven't arrived, the Europeans don't dare to give; we are his only hope."

Black Mamba turned around.

"Tell him, the goods can be given, but the price will double."

Hendrick paused.

"Boss, raising the price now—"

"It's not raising the price." Black Mamba interrupted him, "It's a test. If he accepts, it means he really needs this batch of goods. If he doesn't accept, it means he has other channels. Those with other channels aren't worth trusting."

Hendrick was silent for a few seconds, then nodded.

"Also, there's movement from the Mexicans' side." He said, "Our informant in the Congo says that Russian is still alive, held in a Mexican-controlled mine. We don't know how much he confessed, but the 'Black Sea Wolves' are already panicking."

Black Mamba looked at the sea surface.

"Let them panic. Only the panicking make mistakes."

December 30, 1997, Washington D.C.

Turner stood by the office window, looking at the thin ice forming on the Potomac River.

On the desk was a report just sent from London. The report was short, but every word made him uncomfortable.

"MI6 is investigating your itinerary and contacts."

He took a puff of his cigar.

MI6. Graham.

The old man sitting in London's basement waiting for the Empire to collapse.

"Sir." The assistant stood at the door, "The 'Black Sea Wolves' are here."

Turner turned around.

Entering was a man in his forties, wearing a cheap suit, with the cautious look unique to those who live long in shadows. His name was Victor Kovach, Hungarian, the liaison for the "Black Sea Wolves."

"Mr. Turner," Kovach stood in the doorway, not coming in, "Our problem is more serious than expected."

Turner gestured for him to sit.

Kovach didn't sit.

"That Russian—Ivanov—was caught by the Mexicans. He knows Cheku, knows several of our clients, and even knows 'T'."

Turner's fingers paused on his cigar.

"Has he seen you?"

Kovach shook his head.

"No. I've always used a code name."

"Then it's fine." Turner took another puff of his cigar, "No matter how powerful the Mexicans are, they can't trace to Washington."

Kovach was silent for a few seconds.

"Mr. Turner, 'Black Sea Wolves' is not a charitable organization. We do dirty work for you because you pay. But if the risk is too high, we have the right to choose not to accept."

Turner looked at him.

"What do you want to say?"

"I want to say, if the Mexicans trace Ivanov to Cheku, and Cheku gets caught, Kosovo's matters will be exposed. At that time, everyone will know that the United States and Europe have been secretly supplying weapons to the Kosovo Liberation Army. The public opinion will explode."

Turner extinguished his cigar.

"Cheku won't be caught. He's smarter than you."

Kovach said nothing.

Turner stood up, walked to him.

"Go back and tell your boss, the contract continues. Payment is on schedule, goods will be delivered. If the Mexicans do find something, I'll handle it."