Chapter 2018 - 837: Influence Spreading Out ~_2

The phone rang.

It was Hendrick.

"The goods have arrived. Albanian coast. You take people to pick them up."

"Scorpion" said nothing.

"The boss says this is the last run. After this, you stay in Europe, no need to come back."

"Scorpion" was silent for a few seconds.

"What about the money?"

"Someone on the other side will give it to you. Three million euros. Enough for you to live in Europe for a lifetime."

The call ended.

February 6, 1998, Albanian coast.

The night was very dark, the wind very strong.

"Scorpion" stood on a speedboat, watching the cargo ship in the distance slowly approach.

The cargo ship had no lights, only the outline of the ship barely visible in the darkness. It docked, stabilized, and then began unloading the cargo from the hold.

Plastic barrels. One by one, lowered with nets, loaded onto waiting trucks on the shore.

"Scorpion" counted.

Thirty barrels. Fifty barrels. Eighty barrels.

One hundred barrels.

He turned around and said to the person next to him:

"That's enough."

The trucks started up, driving into the night.

February 8, 1998, Pristina.

Agim Ceku stood in that warehouse, looking at the mountain of plastic barrels in front of him.

He had someone open one barrel.

Inside were brand new AK-47s, shiny with oil, with Russian prints on the packaging.

He had someone open another barrel.

Inside was "Black Pearl," white powder, sealed in plastic bags.

"What is this?" he asked.

The delivery person shrugged.

"The boss says it's a gift. The guns are for sale, the goods are free."

Ceku was silent for a few seconds.

He knew what this meant.

Black Mamba was using him as a distributor.

Sell the guns to the Kosovo Liberation Army, the money goes to Black Mamba. "Black Pearl" is to be sold in Kosovo, profits split half-half.

He had no choice.

February 10, 1998, Belgrade.

The Serbian Intelligence Agency people placed the report on the Director's desk.

The report was short, but every word made the Director's heart race.

"The Kosovo Liberation Army has obtained a new source of weapons, enough to equip a brigade. The source of weapons is unknown, suspected to be from Eastern Europe. At the same time, large amounts of high-purity drugs named 'Black Pearl' appeared in Kosovo, source also unknown."

The Director looked at that report, tapping his fingers on the desk.

Kosovo.

The place had been chaotic for three years. Albanians wanted independence, Serbians wouldn't allow it. The United States and Europe publicly supported Serbian territorial integrity, secretly sending weapons to the Kosovo Liberation Army.

Now another batch.

Who sent it?

He didn't know. But he knew this would completely ignite Kosovo.

February 12, 1998, Washington D.C.

Turner in that safe house, looking at the just-received message.

The message was short, but every word made him want to curse.

"Fifty tons of goods reached Albania. Thirty tons of weapons handed to Ceku. Twenty tons of 'Black Pearl' entered the Kosovo market. Please make the final payment."

Final payment.

Thirty percent profit. Fifty tons of goods. Over a hundred million euros.

Where could he get that much money?

"Sir."

The assistant stood at the door.

"There's news from London. MI6 is checking your bank transactions."

Turner's fingers paused on the desk.

"What did they find?"

"Nothing yet. But they've got the records of the hotel you stayed at in Switzerland."

Turner was silent for a few seconds.

"Have the Black Sea Wolf people take care of that hotel manager."

The assistant hesitated for a moment.

"Sir—"

"Take care of it," Turner interrupted him.

February 14, 1998, Zurich.

The hotel manager's body was found three days later.

Died at home, heart attack, with no suspicious traces at the scene.

Forensic doctor's report said the deceased had a history of heart disease, death by natural causes.

No one suspected a thing.

February 15, 1998, London.

Graham looked at the report just delivered, fingers pausing on a certain page.

"Zurich hotel manager, heart attack death, dated February 13."

He looked up.

"Ellis."

Ellis walked in from the doorway.

"Check this hotel manager. Who he saw before he died, who he talked to on the phone, any abnormal funds in his account."

Ellis hesitated for a moment.

"You suspect—"

"I'm not suspecting anything," Graham interrupted, "I just want to confirm."

February 17, 1998, Costa Rica.

The President of this Central American country hadn't slept for three nights.

His name was Armando Calderon, fifty-three years old, elected three years ago with "law and order" as his slogan. He said during his campaign that he would make Costa Rica the safest country in Central America.

Now his country was one of the highest murder rates in the world.

The culprit was not political violence, but drugs.

In the past six months, Costa Rica had become a transit station for "Black Pearl."

Colombian drug traffickers, Mexican drug traffickers, local gangs—all flooded in, fighting for territory, ports, and police stations.

Last month, an armed group occupied a Pacific coastal port for six hours. They killed seven police officers, stole two patrol boats, and then vanished into the night.

No one knew who did it. But everyone knew that those armed militants were better equipped than the Costa Rican regular army.

"Mr. President."

The Minister of Defense stood in front of the desk, face darker than the sky outside the window.

"Something happened again in San Miguel. Armed militants attacked a police station, killed four people, and stole a batch of weapons."

Calderon said nothing.

"Our troops are not enough. Our equipment is even less. The guns the drug traffickers use are American-made, while our soldiers are using thirty-year-old hand-me-downs."