Chapter 2059 - 847: Stirring Up Trouble

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the surface of the Thames River was a gray mist, with a few barges floating.

"Those Chechens, where will they end up?"

Ellis thought for a moment.

"Italy? France? Germany? All possible."

Graham shook his head.

"No. They won't stay in Southern Europe. Southern Europe is too poor, too chaotic, too easy to be watched."

He paused.

"They will head north. Germany, Netherlands, Belgium, even—the United Kingdom."

Ellis's face changed.

"You mean—"

Graham turned around.

"Tell border control to heighten vigilance. Every port, every airport, every smuggling route. From now on, check every single face, one by one."

He paused.

"Also, contact the Mexicans. Tell them they can set the terms for intelligence exchange. We'll agree."

Four o'clock in the afternoon, Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

Bramo placed Graham's reply on Victor's desk.

Victor glanced at it.

"The British finally relented."

Bramo nodded.

"They're anxious. The Chechen issue is making them restless."

Victor stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the traffic on the Paseo de la Reforma was slow but orderly.

"Tell them the terms remain the same. Real-time intelligence on Kosovo must be shared. We need to know all of Turner's activities within the United Kingdom."

He turned around.

"And add one more—"

Bramo waited.

Victor looked at him.

"That 'Scorpion', keep an eye on him. If he leaves Kosovo, I want to know immediately."

Bramo was momentarily stunned.

"'Scorpion'? He's with the 'Black Mamba'—"

"I know." Victor interrupted him, "Precisely because he's with him, we must watch."

He walked back to the desk and sat down.

"That 'Scorpion' is smarter than we thought. He's been in Marseille, been in Liverpool, been in Greece, and now in Kosovo. Everywhere he's been is where the 'Black Pearl' runs rampant."

He paused.

"He's not just an errand boy. He knows much more than those we've caught."

Seven o'clock in the evening, Virginia, Turner's home.

Turner sat in the study, in front of him a telegram he had just received.

The telegram was very short, only one line:

"The Chechens have arrived in Kosovo. Fourth batch."

He burned the telegram.

The ashes drifted into the fireplace, mixing indistinguishably with the documents burned all afternoon.

The phone rang.

He picked it up.

"Mr. Turner."

The voice on the other end was still altered by a voice changer.

"What's the matter?"

"The Mexicans and the British are exchanging intelligence. They know everything about Kosovo."

Turner's fingers tapped on the desk.

"What about that 'Scorpion'?"

"Still in Kosovo. Cheku's men are watching him."

Turner was silent for a few seconds.

"Tell 'Black Mamba', his men should withdraw. If they stay any longer, they'll be rounded up."

The other end was silent too.

A few seconds later, the voice said:

"Mr. Black Mamba says he wants to send one more batch. The final batch. After that, he'll leave."

Turner closed his eyes.

"How many people?"

"Three hundred."

Turner's hand trembled.

"Is he crazy?"

No answer on the other end.

Turner took a deep breath.

"Tell him, once the final batch is sent, vanish immediately. Cut off all contact channels. Our people will disappear too. From now on, no one knows anyone."

The call ended.

Turner sat there, staring at the ashes in the fireplace, staring for a long time.

Then he stood up, went upstairs, and started packing his luggage.

Ten o'clock in the evening, Kosovo, Mitrovica.

Scorpion sat in a dilapidated house, looking at the dark night outside the window.

The sound of a crying child came from the next room.

It was a Chechen child. Very small, couldn't speak, could only cry. Had been crying for three days, voice hoarse, still crying.

He didn't know where those children would end up.

He only knew they wouldn't stay here.

Cheku pushed the door open and came in.

"You need to leave."

Scorpion looked at him.

"The last batch hasn't arrived."

Cheku shook his head.

"You need to go. My men can't keep an eye on you, but others can. British, Germans, even Mexicans—they're all looking for you."

Scorpion was silent for a few seconds.

Then he stood up.

"When will the last batch arrive?"

Cheku looked at him.

"In three days."

Scorpion nodded.

"Then I'll leave in three days."

March 16, 1998, two o'clock in the morning, Albanian coast.

When the fifth batch of boats docked, it was still dark.

Three hundred people.

Men, women, children.

The leader was a man in his fifties, hair gray, with a deep scar on his face.

He stood on the beach, watching those disembarking from the boats, counting one by one.

After counting, he said to the translator beside him:

"Tell the people picking us up, let's go."

The translator looked around.

"No one's here to pick us up."

The man squinted his eyes.

"No one to pick us up?"

The translator shook his head.

"No. The agreed person hasn't come."

The man was silent for a few seconds.

Then he turned around and said a sentence to those people.

The people listened without saying anything. They just stood up, followed him, and headed ashore.

No direction, no goal, just walking.

Walking out of the beach, onto the road, towards the dark mountains.

Four o'clock in the morning, Pristina, Cheku's command post.

Cheku was awakened by a urgent knock on the door.

"General! Something happened!"

He jumped out of bed and opened the door.

The adjutant stood at the door, face pale.

"What happened?"

The adjutant handed over a telegram.

Cheku glanced at it, and his hand began to shake.