Chapter 2017 - 837: Influence Spreading

January 25, 1998, Guinea-Bissau.

Black Mamba stayed in that abandoned cashew plantation for three more days.

A hundred tons gone. Three hundred containers gone. The route that had run smoothly for over half a year was also gone.

Hendrick came by every evening with news from the outside. None of the news was good.

"Kosovo is pressing again. Cheku says his men are waiting for weapons and are cursing."

"In Greece, 'Scorpion' is asking what to do next. Strios is still in prison and hasn't spoken, but he knows too much, and he will spill sooner or later."

"From the Italians, the Camorra people said they are willing to continue the trade, but the prices need to drop by half. They said the risks are too high."

Black Mamba sat in a broken wicker chair, looking at the sky outside that was about to turn completely dark.

"Anything else?"

Hendrick hesitated for a moment.

"From the United States, the 'Engineer's' men said Mr. Turner advised you not to move recently. He said the situation is too tight, to wait a few months before acting."

Black Mamba said nothing.

A few months.

He had fifty tons of merch stacked up. Fifty tons worth over billions. Waiting a few months means waiting for the money to be taken by someone else's goods.

"Tell the 'Engineer,'" he said, "I want to see Turner."

Hendrick was stunned for a moment.

"Boss, meeting him now—"

"I want to see him." Black Mamba interrupted, "Not a phone call, not an encrypted channel, face to face. Tell him, if he doesn't come, I'll go to Washington to find him myself."

January 27, 1998, Washington D.C.

Turner read the message three times in that safe house.

"I want to see you."

The next line read: "If he doesn't come, I'll go to Washington to find him myself."

He deleted the message and lit a cigar.

"Black Mamba" was not Mamadou, not the kind of idiot who doesn't realize he's being used as a pawn. He knew he was being used, knew Turner was using him as a tool, knew those arms were to destabilize Europe and not help him build a drug empire.

But he still took them, still shipped them, still sold them.

Because he had no choice.

Now he had a choice—drag Turner down with him.

"Sir."

The assistant stood at the door.

"Arrange a flight," Turner said, "to Lisbon."

January 29, 1998, Lisbon.

Turner waited in that hotel room for four hours.

Outside the window was the Tejo River, with its grayish waters floating a few fishing boats. In the distance, the red steel frame of the April 25th Bridge loomed in the mist.

The door opened.

The person who entered was not Black Mamba, it was Hendrick.

"The boss sent me."

Turner looked at him.

"Where is he?"

Hendrick did not answer. He sat across from Turner, took a photo out of his pocket, and slid it onto the table.

The photo showed the abandoned cashew plantation, overgrown with weeds, no people in sight.

"What's this?"

"The boss's address," Hendrick said, "but he won't see you."

Turner's fingers tapped on the table.

"Then what does he want?"

Hendrick slid another piece of paper over.

There was only one line on the paper: "Fifty tons of merch, help me ship it into Europe. You take thirty percent."

Turner looked at that line.

Fifty tons. Thirty percent.

This was Black Mamba giving him one last chance.

"What if I refuse?"

Hendrick stood up.

"Then the boss will go to Washington to find you himself."

January 31, 1998, Madrid.

The people from the Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs placed the intelligence report on the table without saying a word.

Conti picked it up to read.

The intelligence came from Mexicans. Sanchez's system discovered another suspicious cargo ship off the coast of West Africa, registered in Panama, route from the Guinea Gulf to the Mediterranean. The cargo listed was "frozen fish."

"Frozen fish again," Conti said.

The Spanish Minister of Foreign Affairs nodded.

"We've checked, that Panamanian company and the owner of the 'Atlantic Merchant' are the same."

Conti fell silent for a few seconds.

"What are you planning to do?"

The Spanish minister looked at him.

"Wait."

February 2, 1998, Rome.

Sanchez stood in front of the big screen at the Coast Guard command center, looking at the blinking red dots.

Thirty-seven suspicious targets marked in the past three days. The Italian Coast Guard chased fourteen, eight confirmed for drug trafficking.

"Not a bad efficiency," Conti stood beside him.

Sanchez nodded.

"The system still needs more data. In another three months, the accuracy can reach over ninety percent."

Conti said nothing. He looked at those red dots, thinking of the two patrolmen killed in Catania, the patrol boat hijacked at Genoa Port, and those young men lying in the mortuary.

"That African," he said, "any news?"

Sanchez called up a satellite image.

The image showed a long cargo ship with the deck piled high with containers. The ship was registered in Panama, registered in Liberia, route from West Africa to the Mediterranean.

"The 'African Star.' Left the Guinea Gulf three days ago, currently moving towards Gibraltar. The ship is likely carrying thirty to fifty tons of merch."

Conti's fingers tightened.

"Intercept or not?"

Sanchez looked at him.

"Can't intercept. The ship is in international waters, registered in Panama, Panama hasn't responded yet."

Conti remained silent for a long time.

Then he turned around and walked out of the command center.

The hallway was very quiet, only the sound of his footsteps.

February 4, 1998, Athens.

"Scorpion" sat in that rented room, looking at the gray sky outside the window.

He had already changed five residences, discarded over a dozen phones, and cut his hair three times. The scar on his face became more and more conspicuous, so he simply stopped covering it, since it was impossible to hide.