Chapter 2014 - 836: The Goods

January 7, 1998, Berlin, Federal Criminal Police Office.

Dr. Wagner looked at the person across from him, his fingers tapping lightly on the table twice.

Strios was thinner than in the photos, with dark circles under his eyes, but his posture was steady, not like an extradited criminal, more like a businessman at a meeting.

"Do you know why you're here?"

Strios nodded.

"Greece couldn't hold me, Germany wants to take their chance."

Wagner didn't respond. He pushed a file to the center of the table.

Strios glanced down. It was a photograph. The dock on Crete Island, his fishing boat, his subordinates, and those eighty barrels of "Black Pearl."

"Five tons," Wagner said, "enough to get you twenty years."

Strios raised his head.

"Dr. Wagner, let's not beat around the bush. What do you want to know?"

Wagner leaned back in his chair.

"Who is your handler?"

Strios laughed.

"Handler? I'm Greek. We don't talk handlers, we talk cooperation."

"Cooperation with whom?"

Strios was silent for a few seconds.

"An African. Scar on his face, doesn't say much, ruthless. He's worked in Marseille, in Liverpool, now in Greece. I don't know his real name, just his code name—'Scorpion.'

Wagner wrote down "Scorpion" in his notebook.

"How does he contact you?"

"Disposable phones. Use it and toss it. The number changes every time."

"Where does the stuff come from?"

Strios spread his hands.

"Ships. I don't know where the ship comes from, don't know where the stuff comes from, only know he notifies me of the time and place before the goods arrive. I pick them up, he unloads, I take my cut. It's that simple."

Wagner looked at him.

"Do you know how much five tons of goods are worth?"

"Sixteen million Euros. Retail price triples."

"Then do you know whose goods these are?"

Strios was silent for a few seconds.

"I heard it's from some big shot in Africa. Called 'Black Mamba,' but I haven't seen him."

Wagner stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window was Berlin's winter sky, leaden gray, hanging low.

"Mr. Strios, you helped sell their goods for two months, how much did you make?"

"Three million Euros. Still in the account, untouched."

"Why haven't you touched it?"

Strios laughed.

"Because I knew sooner or later someone would come asking. Move the money, and you're a dead man."

January 8, 1998, London, Thames River Police Headquarters.

Graham put down the interrogation record that came from Berlin.

Ellis stood in front of him.

"The Germans acted fast."

Graham nodded.

"What did Strios say?"

"Mentioned 'Scorpion,' mentioned 'Black Mamba,' mentioned five tons of goods. But he doesn't know his handler, doesn't know where the goods come from, doesn't know where that 'Scorpion' is now."

Graham was silent for a few seconds.

"This is typical one-way communication. Even if you catch a hundred Strioses, you won't find the upstream."

Ellis said nothing.

Graham stood up and walked to the window.

Outside was the Thames River, gray waters with a few barges floating. In the distance, the crane of The Shard was still rotating, like a tireless giant.

"Any movement from Turner's side?"

Ellis shook his head.

"No. His schedule is normal, bank transactions normal, even phone calls have decreased. Seems like he's waiting for something."

Graham turned around.

"Waiting for the storm to pass. Waiting for us to exhaust our search, to give up, to forget about him. Then he'll come out, change a code name, switch his people, and start over again."

Ellis was silent for a few seconds.

"What do we do?"

Graham looked at him.

"Keep waiting."

January 9, 1998, Mexico City.

Victor stood in the monitoring room of the Quantum Computing Laboratory, looking at the gigantic screen.

On the screen, the red dots along the Mediterranean coast had increased by over ten since last week. Sanchez's system had marked thirty-seven suspicious targets, and the Italian and Greek coast guards had already tracked down twenty-one of them.

"Strios was extradited by the Germans," Bramo stood beside him, "The interrogation records just came through."

Victor took the records and glanced through them.

"'Scorpion.' Marseille, Liverpool, Greece."

He raised his head.

"This guy has met Costa, met Samir, met Black Mamba. He knows ten times more than Strios."

Bramo nodded.

"They're still searching in Greece. But a guy like 'Scorpion' won't wait around to get caught."

Victor was silent for a few seconds.

"Tell Sanchez to keep an eye on all the ports in Greece. If 'Scorpion' wants to run, within three days, he'll definitely get on a ship."

Bramo was taken aback.

"Are you sure he's still in Greece?"

Victor put the interrogation records down.

"He has five tons of goods to sell. He won't leave until the goods are sold."

January 10, 1998, Athens.

"Scorpion" sat in a café, looking out at the gray street.

He had already changed residences three times, discarded five phones, and had two haircuts. The scar on his face was too conspicuous, so he covered it with a band-aid, pretending it was a fresh shaving cut.

The TV in the café was broadcasting news. He didn't understand Greek, but he could understand the images—photos of Strios, photos of the dock, and pictures of those eighty barrels of "Black Pearl" piled on the shore.

He placed the coffee money on the table and stood up.

Just as he reached the door, his phone rang.

It was the one Strios left for him. A disposable phone, only one person knew the number.

He answered.

"How much of the goods are left?"