Chapter 2020 - 837: Influence Spreads

Victor looked at the report just received from San Costa Rica.

In the past ten days, Mexican troops intercepted three tons of "Black Pearl," arrested thirty-seven drug traffickers, and destroyed five processing sites.

He put the report down.

"Tell Garcia, well done. The next batch of troops will depart next week, send two hundred more people."

Bramo nodded.

"Also, the Government of Costa Rica asked when the port operating rights will be signed."

Victor thought for a moment.

"Next week. Let them send representatives to Mexico City to sign."

March 8, 1998, Washington D.C.

Turner stood at the office window, looking at the melting thin ice on the Potomac River.

The fifty tons of goods from "Black Mamba" had already entered Europe. War had started over in Kosovo. The Mexicans had entered Costa Rica.

Everything was going according to plan.

But it also seemed like nothing was going as planned.

"Sir." An assistant stood at the door, "In London, MI6 is investigating that hotel manager's bank account. They found a transfer."

Turner turned around.

"How much?"

"Five hundred thousand US Dollars. It came in from the Cayman Islands three weeks ago."

Turner was silent for a few seconds.

"The recipient?"

"That hotel manager."

March 10, 1998, London.

Graham looked at the bank records just delivered, tapping his finger on the table.

Five hundred thousand US Dollars. Cayman Islands. Hotel manager.

Then the hotel manager died.

Heart attack.

"Ellis."

Ellis walked in from the door.

"Investigate the source of that money. Check the shareholders of the Cayman Islands company. Investigate the hotel manager's family—have they received any money recently."

Ellis nodded.

Graham stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window was the Thames River, with gray boats drifting on its surface. In the distance, the cranes of Shard Building were still turning.

He thought of Turner.

He thought of the safe house in London, the discussions about the "Wind Roll Grass" plan, and the schemes about how to exploit chaos.

Turner thinks he's manipulating everything.

He doesn't know that the manipulated will also have their moment to bite back.

March 12, 1998, Guinea-Bissau.

Black Mamba sat in the abandoned plantation, looking at the news just received.

The message from Kosovo: "Cheku has received all the weapons. The Kosovo Liberation Army is gathering, preparing for a spring offensive."

He deleted the message.

Fifty tons of goods. Thirty tons of weapons were exchanged for money, and twenty tons of drugs were exchanged for channels.

Cheku owes him a favor. Kosovo owes him a favor. Europe owes him a market.

Enough.

"Boss."

Hendrick stood at the door.

"Turner's people ask when the next batch will be sent."

Black Mamba looked at him.

"Tell them, there won't be another batch."

Hendrick paused for a moment.

"Boss—"

"Turner thinks I'm his pawn." Black Mamba stood up, "He doesn't know that pawns will also have their time to finish the game."

March 15, 1998, Pristina.

The Kosovo Liberation Army's spring offensive began.

The first shot was fired in Mitrovica. A Serbian police post was attacked, resulting in three police deaths.

The second shot was fired in the suburbs of Pristina. A Serbian military camp was hit by a rocket, injuring five.

The third shot...

Agim Ceku stood at the command center's sandbox, looking at the red arrows representing the attack routes.

The new weapons are indeed different.

His troops for the first time had firepower capable of directly confronting the Serbians.

"General." The adjutant stood behind him, "The Serbians are already mobilizing troops. They say they'll flatten us within three days."

Cheku didn't turn around.

"Let them come."

March 18, 1998, Belgrade.

The Serbian President sat in the office, looking at the freshly delivered war report.

Three days. The Kosovo Liberation Army launched seventeen attacks, killing twelve police officers, injuring twenty-three, and destroying four posts.

Where did their weapons come from?

The Director of Intelligence stood in front of him.

"Source unknown. But the confiscated weapons have Eastern Europe production marks. Possibly Ukraine, or Bulgaria."

The President was silent for several seconds.

"The Americans?"

The Intelligence Director shook his head.

"The Americans say they are unaware."

The President sneered.

Unaware.

March 20, 1998, New York.

Emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council.

Only one agenda: Kosovo.

The Serbian representative slapped the table, demanding the Security Council condemn the Kosovo Liberation Army's "terrorist acts." The Albanian representative said it was "a national liberation struggle." The United States representative said "all parties should remain restrained." The Russian representative said "oppose any external forces interfering in internal affairs."

After six hours of arguing, nothing was resolved.

Conte sat in the observer's seat, watching the suit-clad men pointing fingers at each other.

He knew this war would last a long time.

He also knew who sent those weapons.

But he couldn't say.

March 22, 1998, Rome.

Sanchez stood in front of the large screen in the Coast Guard command center, watching the flickering red dots.

In the past week, suspicious targets in the Mediterranean had decreased by thirty percent.

Not because the drug traffickers stopped, but because they changed routes.

The batch from "African Star," took the Albanian coast. Now the goods had entered Kosovo, turning into guns in Cheku's troops and rampant "Black Pearl" on the streets of Kosovo.

"Minister Conte." Sanchez turned around, "We need more ships."

Conte looked at him.

"What kind of ships?"

"Patrol boats. Boats that can patrol twenty-four hours between the Albanian and Greek coasts."

Conte was silent for a few seconds.

"How much will that cost?"

Sanchez didn't answer.

He knew the answer.

A lot of money.

But compared to those young men lying in the morgue, that money was nothing.

March 25, 1998, San Costa Rica.

Colonel Garcia stood on the rooftop of the tallest building at the port, looking at the gray-blue sea below.

One month. Intercepted five tons of "Black Pearl," arrested sixty-seven drug traffickers, destroyed nine processing sites.

Residents near the port started to dare go out at night. Police began to dare to patrol the streets. Children started to dare to stay a little longer after school.

"Colonel." An adjutant stood behind him, "The Presidential Palace called, asking if we can set up a point at San Miguel next week."

Garcia didn't turn around.

"Tell the Presidential Palace, they can. But they'll need to pay."

The adjutant paused for a moment.

"Pay?"

"Yes." Garcia turned around, "We're here to help, not to babysit."

March 28, 1998, Mexico City.

Victor stood in the monitoring room of the quantum computing experiment building, looking at the huge screen.

On the screen, the Mediterranean coast red dots were still flashing. In Kosovo, new marks appeared, the places where "Black Pearl" began to spread.

Bramo stood beside him.

"Sanchez said, the Italians want to pay more to buy more patrol boats."

Victor nodded.

"Give them."

Bramo took note.

"Also, in Costa Rica, Garcia asked if they should send another battalion. He said near the port had stabilized, but those drug traffickers in the mainland are still active."

Victor thought for a moment.

"Don't send yet. Let the Costa Ricans fight first. If they can't win, then they'll plead with us."

Bramo paused for a moment.

"Isn't this just sending them to their deaths?"

Victor looked at him.

"It's not sending to their deaths. It's proof. Proof that they really need us."

March 30, 1998, San Costa Rica.

Calderon looked at the message from Mexico City, tapping his fingers on the table for a long time.

"Let the Costa Ricans fight first. If they can't win, then they'll plead with us."

He put the message down.

The Mexicans are right.

He needs proof. Proof that his country truly needs Mexico. Proof that those in Parliament, those opposition members, those who call him a "traitor"—they are the ones who are wrong.

"Minister of Defense." He looked up.

The Minister of Defense stood at the door.

"Deploy a brigade to San Miguel."

The Minister of Defense paused for a moment.

"Mr. President, our troops—"

"I know." Calderon interrupted him, "But this is the only way."