Chapter 2013 - 835: The Map of Mexico?~_3

December 31, 1997, Brussels.

Conti stood in the corridor of the European Union Council Building, watching the New Year's fireworks outside the window.

In the distance, the bells of Saint Michael's Cathedral were ringing.

His phone rang.

It was Sanchez.

"Happy New Year, Minister."

Conti said nothing.

"I have some good news." Sanchez's voice was calm. "We've located the new ship of 'Black Mamba.' It's a small fishing boat, registered in Liberia, and left the Guinea Gulf three days ago, heading toward the Mediterranean."

Conti's fingers tightened.

"What about the cargo?"

"There should be around five tons on board. The destination could be Greece or Southern Italy. We're still tracking it."

Conti was silent for a few seconds.

"Can we catch it?"

"We can. But you'll need to move yourselves. We'll only provide the coordinates."

Conti hung up the phone.

He stood by the window, looking at the night sky of Brussels. The fireworks continued to explode, colorful and illuminating the entire city.

He thought of those young men lying in the morgue.

They did not see this year's fireworks.

January 1, 1998, early morning, Greece, off the coast of Crete Island.

'Scorpion' stood on the deck of the newly arrived fishing boat, looking at the outline of Crete Island in the distance.

The sky was still dark, and the coastline pitch black. Only a few lights occasionally flashed on the mountain tops.

Strios stood beside him.

"Has the cargo arrived?"

"Five tons," Scorpion said.

Strios nodded.

"Change the unloading point. The last one was targeted by the police."

Scorpion looked at him.

"How do you know?"

Strios smiled.

"Because I gave them an informant. A fake one. He reported three places, the police investigated all of them and found nothing. Next time, they won't trust him."

Scorpion was silent for a few seconds.

"Where did you learn this?"

Strios patted him on the shoulder.

"Greeks fought Turks for three hundred years, Germans for four years, and their own government for fifty years. The things we've learned could fill ten books."

January 2, 1998, London.

Graham sat in the office, looking at the investigation report that had just been delivered.

Ellis stood in front of him.

"Turner's itinerary — in the past three years, he's been to Switzerland five times, Cyprus three times, and London twice. Each time was a 'private trip.' His bank transactions — regular salary and pension, no anomalies. But we found a clue in Switzerland: Room 201."

Graham raised his head.

"What room?"

"The presidential suite of a hotel in Zurich. Every time Turner went to Switzerland, he stayed there, paying in cash. The hotel's manager said that room is often reserved long-term by a 'business consulting company,' with payments made by a shell company in the Cayman Islands."

Graham leaned back in his chair.

"Who's behind that shell company?"

Ellis shook his head.

"Can't be traced. Cayman isn't cooperating. But we can guess."

Graham was silent for a long time.

Then he stood up and walked to the window.

Outside was the Thames River, with gray water carrying a few barges.

"Seal this report," he said.

Ellis was taken aback.

"Not release it to the media?"

"What for? So they can write 'CIA funding African Drug Lords'? And then what? Then the British will march in the streets, demanding the government cut ties with the United States? Then the U.S. will apologize, compensate, and stop?"

Ellis said nothing.

"None of that will happen." Graham turned around, "The Americans will just call us insane, destroy all evidence, transfer Turner to another department, close those shell companies, and after the dust settles, they'll open new ones. We'll gain nothing."

Ellis was silent for a few seconds.

"Then what do we do?"

Graham looked at him.

"Wait. Wait for Turner to make a mistake himself. Wait until he thinks he's safe and lets his guard down. Wait until he contacts 'Black Sea Wolf' again — we'll be waiting."

January 3, 1998, Mexico City.

Victor looked at the newly received satellite imagery.

The image showed a small boat approaching the shore from the offshore waters of Crete Island. No markings on the hull, the deck covered with canvas.

"Black Mamba's new ship." Bramo stood beside him, "Five tons of cargo, destination Crete Island. We've already sent the coordinates to the Greek Coast Guard."

Victor nodded.

"Are they taking action?"

"Waiting for orders."

Victor was silent for a few seconds.

"Tell Sanchez to let the Greeks wait one more day. Wait until the cargo is ashore before capturing it."

Bramo was taken aback.

"Wait until it's ashore? Won't that mean it's already in the market?"

"Let it be." Victor looked at the screen, "Five tons of cargo, the Greek market won't digest it all year. But the contact on that ship is worth more than five tons of cargo."

Bramo understood.

"You want the contact."

Victor did not answer.

He picked up another report, just sent by Gals.

The report stated that the Russian Ivanov had finally spoken and revealed the identity of "T."

It's not an American.

It's a German.

January 4, 1998, Crete Island.

'Scorpion' stood in the shadow by the dock, watching the fishing boat slowly approach.

Five tons of cargo, packaged in eighty plastic barrels, being unloaded barrel by barrel.

Strios stood beside him, clutching a mobile phone.

"Any news from the police?" Scorpion asked.

Strios shook his head.

"No. They're still investigating the three places reported by the fake informant."

Scorpion looked at the plastic barrels.

Eighty barrels. Each barrel can sell for 200,000 Euros. Sixteen million in total.

"Leave once the unloading is done," he said, "Abandon the ship."

Strios nodded.

Just then, sirens sounded in the distance.

Not just one, but a dozen.

Scorpion turned and ran.

Strios did not run. He stood where he was, watching the police cars surround from all directions, sealing the dock tight.

He raised his phone and dialed a number.

"Mr. Sanchez," he said, "The cargo has arrived. The contact has escaped."

There was a moment of silence on the other end.

"Why didn't you stop him?"

Strios smiled.

"I'm Greek. I don't arrest people for others, I only make money for myself."

January 5, 1998, Athens.

'Scorpion' sat in a rented room, looking at the grey sky outside the window.

He had taken a speedboat from Crete Island to Athens, taking six hours. The speedboat was prepared in advance by Strios, hidden in another gulf, even with fuel topped up.

He owed Strios a favor.

A big favor.

The phone vibrated.

The message came from an unknown number, with only two words:

"Alive?"

He replied:

"Alive."

Waited for a long time, no reply.

He pulled out the SIM card, threw it into the toilet, flushed it away.

January 6, 1998, Berlin.

Dr. Wagner sat in the office, looking at the report just sent from Greece.

The report was long, but its core was just one sentence: "Greek police intercepted five tons of 'Black Pearl,' arrested local gang leader Strios, but the contact escaped."

He put down the report.

Strios. The leader of a local Greek gang, collaborated with 'Black Mamba' for two months, helping him distribute five tons of cargo throughout Greece.

Now he's sitting in prison, awaiting trial.

Wagner picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"This is Wagner. Connect me with the Greek Department of Justice. Tell them Germany is willing to extradite Strios."

The person on the other end was taken aback.

"Why?"

Wagner looked at the grey sky outside the window.

"Because what he knows is worth more than five tons of cargo."

...