Chapter 2058 - 847: Stirring Up Trouble

March 15, 1998, 3:00 a.m., Brussels, European Union Headquarters.

The meeting had been going on for six hours.

The ashtray was filled three times, the coffee machine emptied twice, and the sky outside the window changed from black to deep blue, then to lead grey.

The Italian representative stood up for the third time.

"I'll say it again, the refugee ship that docked at Naples Port yesterday had forty-seven people on board, twelve of whom had fake passports. The inquiry revealed that they are Chechens. They boarded from the Albanian coast, crossed the Adriatic Sea, taking twenty hours. The boat belongs to a Greek fisherman, who took money and claims to know nothing."

He threw a stack of photos on the table.

The photos showed faces—men, women, children. All with large eyes, deep-set eye sockets, expressionless, like a group of fish just pulled out of water.

The French representative didn't look at the photos. He stared at the Italian representative.

"Did they say anything?"

"Say what? They said nothing." The Italian representative's voice was hoarse. "There was a translator, but even the translator couldn't get anything. They either shook their heads, nodded, or did nothing, just looked at you. Their eyes look fucking dead."

The German representative remained silent for a long time.

Then he spoke:

"When is the next batch arriving?"

No one replied.

The only sound in the meeting room was the hum of the air conditioner.

5:00 a.m., Albanian coast.

Scorpion stood behind a rock, watching the sea.

The third batch of boats was due an hour ago.

But there was nothing on the sea.

He checked his watch. 4:55 a.m.

The wind blew from the sea, bringing a salty chill. He tightened his coat and stared at the dark water.

5:10 a.m.

5:20 a.m.

5:30 a.m.

As the horizon began to lighten, a small dot finally appeared on the sea.

It was a fishing boat, very small, very decrepit, no different from the other refugee boats drifting on the Mediterranean.

But Scorpion knew it was different.

The boat was riding low in the water.

Much lower than a fishing boat should.

By the time the boat came ashore, it was already light.

More people jumped off the boat than he expected.

Fifty? No, seventy.

Men, women, children. The oldest over sixty, the youngest still nursing.

They didn't speak, just stood there, like a group of silent ghosts.

Scorpion walked over.

The leader was a man in his forties, with a long beard and bright eyes.

"Where is Cheku's man?" the man asked in Russian.

Scorpion couldn't understand, but he had a translator beside him.

After listening, the translator said, "He asked where Cheku's man is."

Scorpion shook his head.

"Cheku's not coming. I will take you."

The man looked at him for a long time.

Then he nodded.

"Let's go."

Seventy people followed Scorpion and disappeared into the morning fog.

9:00 a.m., Pristina, Cheku's command post.

Cheku hadn't slept all night.

He sat on a broken chair with a map spread out in front of him.

Lines drawn in red on the map represented the areas his troops could control, shrinking. Ammunition was scarce, men even scarcer, and even meals were becoming a problem.

The adjutant ran in.

"General, 'Scorpion' is here."

Cheku looked up.

"Let him in."

When Scorpion came in, there was no expression on his face. He sat down opposite Cheku, took an envelope from his pocket, and placed it on the table.

"The next batch has arrived."

Cheku looked at the envelope but didn't move.

"How many?"

"Seventy. Chechens."

Cheku tapped his fingers on the table.

"Which batch is this?"

"The fourth."

Cheku was silent for a few seconds.

"Do you know what they're doing?"

Scorpion shook his head.

"I don't know. Don't want to know either."

Cheku stared at him.

"You don't know?"

Scorpion looked back at him.

"General, I'm just a courier. The Boss tells me to send people, I send people. He tells me to send guns, I send guns. He tells me to shut up, I shut up."

Cheku stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the sky over Pristina was gray, and smoke from the battles a few days ago could still be seen on the distant hills.

"Those Chechens," he said, "they are not refugees."

Scorpion remained silent.

"They are warriors. Men, women, all of them. They fled from Chechnya, nowhere to go, brought here by 'Black Mamba,' and then what? Where do they go then?"

Scorpion still didn't speak.

Cheku turned around.

"You really don't know?"

Scorpion looked at him.

"General, I can't answer your questions. But there is one thing I can tell you—"

He paused.

"The next batch will have twice as many."

Cheku closed his eyes.

He remembered three months ago, the first time he met 'Scorpion.' Back then, he thought this African was an ordinary arms dealer: pay for goods, simple and straightforward.

Now he knew.

'Black Mamba' was not an arms dealer.

He was in the business of people.

2:00 p.m., London, Thames River Police Headquarters.

Graham looked at the latest intelligence from Kosovo, tapping his fingers on the table.

"Chechens. The fourth batch. Total, at least two hundred."

Ellis stood in front of him.

"The Italians are worried, the French are worried too. They're urging the European Union to send troops to blockade the Albanian coast."

Graham looked up.

"Troops? Whose troops?"

Ellis said nothing.

Graham sneered.

"The French won't send troops, too much trouble at home. The Germans won't either, they can't even outfit their own army. The Italians want to, but they don't have the capability."