Chapter 2061 - 848: You Only Have One Life

March 17, 1998, 2 AM, Adriatic Sea.

The "Foresight" is a bulk cargo ship registered in Panama, currently drifting in international waters twelve nautical miles off the Albanian coast.

No lights, no sound—like a dead object.

Black Mamba stands on the bridge, clutching a satellite phone in his hand.

He has been on this ship for four days.

Departing from the Guinea Gulf, bypassing Gibraltar, crossing the Mediterranean, evading three patrol squads, two satellite passes overhead, and narrowly escaping detection by the Spanish Coast Guard once.

But now, he's arrived.

Hendrick walks in from outside, his face indistinct in the darkness.

"Boss, the last group has moved into the mountains. Volkov's men are coordinating."

Black Mamba nods.

"Cheku?"

"Still in Pristina. But he wants to meet you."

Black Mamba is silent for a few seconds.

"Meet me? What qualifies him to meet me?"

Hendrick says nothing.

Black Mamba turns around, looking at the dark sea outside the porthole.

"Tell him the goods will be delivered, the guns will be sent. But meeting—unnecessary."

He pauses.

"From now on, he's his own man. Not mine."

Hendrick is momentarily stunned.

"Boss, that's a network of over three hundred guns—"

"The network can be rebuilt," Black Mamba interrupts him, "Life is just one."

He moves to the sea chart, pointing to a location with his finger.

"Italy. Barry Port."

Hendrick leans in to look.

"Tomorrow night, a passenger ship from Greece will dock. There are 120 passengers on board, twenty of whom are ours. Chechens, boarding separately, disembarking separately, no one will notice."

He lifts his head.

"You lead the team. Once ashore, someone will meet you at the dock."

Hendrick looks at him.

"Boss, what about you?"

Black Mamba doesn't answer.

He walks to the porthole, looking out into the darkness.

"I have other matters."

March 17, 1998, 9 AM, London, Thames River Police Headquarters.

Graham hasn't slept all night.

Three reports are spread on the desk. One from Italy, one from Albania, one from MI6's own informant.

All three reports discuss the same matter: at least two hundred Chechens have entered Europe in the past seventy-two hours through various means.

Not refugees. Not smuggled immigrants. Warriors.

Men, women, even children—all have fought in Chechnya, seen blood, killed people.

"Ellis."

Ellis enters the room.

"Found anything?"

Ellis shakes his head.

"Italians have locked down all ports, only caught seven. Seven are all elders and children, know nothing. The rest—vanished."

Graham closes his eyes.

He recalls twenty years ago in Belfast, how the IRA people did the same thing. Mixed with the population, moved into communities, waited a year, two years, five years, then suddenly emerged, detonating car bombs one morning.

Now it's Europe's turn.

"The French?"

"Still arguing. There's a proposal in Parliament to close the border, but the left opposes it, saying it's 'a fascist act.' Germans are more chaotic, they haven't solved their own refugee problem."

Graham opens his eyes.

"Tell the Italians not to just focus on ports. Focus on inland. Focus on train stations, bus stations, every place that can hide people."

He stands up, walks to the window.

Outside, the waters of the Thames River are gray, with several barges floating.

"And," he turns around, "anything from the Mexicans?"

Ellis shakes his head.

"No. They just say 'under verification'."

Graham sneers.

"Under verification. They know everything, just won't say."

He pauses.

"Tell that Bennett if he keeps hiding things, I'll leak Ivanov's matter to the media. Let him taste what it's like to be watched."

March 17, 1998, 2 PM, Rome, Ministry of Internal Affairs.

Conti stands in the office, looking at the huge map of Italy on the wall.

The map is marked with a dozen red dots. Each red dot represents a possible hiding place for a Chechen.

Barry, Brindisi, Taranto, Lecce—the entire Puglia Region, all red dots.

"Minister," the secretary enters, "Prime Minister's call."

Conti picks it up.

"Conti, what's your status there?"

The Prime Minister's voice is urgent.

Conti is silent for two seconds.

"Prime Minister, we've caught seven. The rest—still searching."

Silence from the other side of the phone.

"Seven. One hundred ninety-three. Can you tell me you can find the rest?"

Conti says nothing.

"Conti, do you know what those people are here for?"

Conti knows.

They are here to fight.

Not to fight Serbians, not Albanians, but Europeans.

"Prime Minister," he finally speaks, "we need to close the borders. All borders. For at least a month."

Even longer silence from the other end.

Then the Prime Minister says:

"Parliament won't agree. The left will say it's fascism, the right will say it's incompetence. The media will tear us apart."

Conti closes his eyes.

"Then what do you want me to do?"

The Prime Minister doesn't answer.

The call ends.

March 17, 1998, 4 PM, Pristina, Cheku's command post.

Cheku sits on the broken chair, with a man standing before him.

The man is Volkov.

The real boss behind the "Black Sea Wolf."

"General Cheku," Volkov speaks, his Russian accent thick, "how many men do you have left?"