Chapter 2016 - 836: Cargo~_3

But according to reliable intelligence, the total amount of "Black Mamba" transported to Europe is over one hundred and fifty tons.

There are still one hundred and twenty tons on the market.

"Tell Sanchez," Victor said, "Keep tracking. The next shipment won't be on a fishing boat."

Bramo froze for a moment.

"If not a fishing boat, what is it?"

Victor pulled up a satellite image.

The image showed a container ship, with a long hull and colorful containers stacked on the deck. The ship is registered in Liberia, with its port of registry in Panama, and the route is from West Africa to the Netherlands.

"This ship, the 'Atlantic Merchant'. It left the Guinea Gulf three days ago, moving towards Europe. The hold contains three hundred containers, listed in the customs declaration as 'frozen fish'. But our people found that the ship changed owners three months ago, and the new owner's identity is the same company as the 'Far Seer'.

Bramo looked at the image.

"Three hundred containers. Even if only a third are loaded, that's one hundred tons."

Victor nodded.

"Tell Conti. Let him decide how to intercept."

January 16, 1998, Rome.

Conti looked at the freshly delivered intelligence, his fingers paused on a certain page.

'Atlantic Merchant'. Three hundred containers. One hundred tons of "Black Pearl".

One hundred tons.

Enough to crash the drug prices across Europe.

Enough to reshuffle all the gangs.

Enough to make that African the emperor of the European underworld.

He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Connect me to the French Navy. Tell them I need a ship."

January 17, 1998, Gibraltar Strait.

French Navy's frigate 'Courbet' stopped twenty nautical miles away from the 'Atlantic Merchant'.

It's not that they don't want to pursue, but they can't.

The 'Atlantic Merchant' flies the Liberian flag, a flag of convenience ship. Intercepting a flag of convenience ship in international waters requires the consent of the flag state.

On the Liberian side, the procedure is still ongoing.

The captain stood on the bridge, watching the radar screen where that slowly moving dot was.

"Report to headquarters, the 'Atlantic Merchant' is entering Spanish waters. Should we continue tracking?"

The reply from headquarters took twenty minutes:

"Continue tracking, do not intercept."

January 18, 1998, Madrid.

Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

The Liberian ambassador to Spain sat in the meeting room, facing a sternly worded diplomatic note.

The note demanded the Liberian government consent for the Spanish Navy to board and inspect the 'Atlantic Merchant'.

After reading the note, the ambassador looked up.

"I need to consult the President."

The Spanish Minister of Foreign Affairs looked at him.

"Where is the President?"

The ambassador was silent for a few seconds.

"In Switzerland."

January 19, 1998, Geneva.

The Liberian President met the Spanish ambassador in a private hospital ward.

The President is seventy-three years old, just recovered from heart surgery, looking waxy and speaking weakly.

"What's on that ship?"

The ambassador stood by the bedside.

"Drugs. One hundred tons."

The President closed his eyes.

One hundred tons. Enough to have his country sanctioned by the international community for twenty years.

"Let them inspect."

The ambassador paused.

"Mr. President—"

"Let them inspect." The President opened his eyes, "If the ship is gone, we can build another; if the country is gone, there's nothing left."

January 20, 1998, Gibraltar Strait.

Two Spanish Navy patrol boats approached the 'Atlantic Merchant' at three in the morning.

The freighter did not resist. The captain stood on the bridge, raising his hands, waiting for the Spanish soldiers to board.

The search lasted six hours.

Three hundred containers, two hundred and thirty were opened. All contained frozen fish.

The soldiers began to doubt the intelligence.

Then someone discovered that the floor of the cargo hold at the lowest level had a new patch.

They pried open the floor, revealing a sealed compartment underneath.

The sealed compartment held one hundred tons of "Black Pearl".

January 21, 1998, Rome.

Conti looked at the search report, his finger stopped at the last line.

"Seized one hundred and three tons of high-purity 'Black Pearl', setting a European record for single drug sting."

He set the report down.

One hundred tons.

That African is likely somewhere right now, looking at this report, thinking of how to retaliate.

January 22, 1998, Guinea-Bissau.

Black Mamba looked at the news from Europe, his fingers tapping the table lightly.

One hundred tons. Gone.

'Atlantic Merchant'. Gone.

Three hundred containers. Gone.

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window is a barren cashew plantation, with weeds growing half the height of a person.

"Boss."

Hendrick stood at the door.

"Kosovo is pressing again. Cheku said his troops are waiting for weapons, and they've grown old waiting."

Black Mamba turned around.

"Tell him, the goods are on the way. Wait another month."

Hendrick was silent for a few seconds.

"How much do we have left?"

Black Mamba looked at him.

"Fifty tons left. Enough for another shipment."

January 23, 1998, Athens.

"Scorpion" stood in a rented room, watching the gloomy sky outside the window.

The news was playing on TV. He couldn't understand Greek, but he could understand the images—the 'Atlantic Merchant' photo, the hundred tons of drug photos, the photos of Spanish soldiers boarding the ship.

He turned off the TV.

The phone rang.

It was Hendrick.

"Boss said, don't dispatch the goods for now. Stay in Greece and wait for instructions."

"Scorpion" didn't speak.

"Also. What did that Strios say in jail?"

"I don't know. But I guess he sold us out."

There was silence on the other end of the call for a few seconds.

"You guessed right."

The call ended…