Chapter 2063 - 848: You Only Have One Life

Black Mamba put down the pen.

"How's Tamara?"

Hendrick was stunned for a moment.

"That woman?"

Black Mamba nodded.

"She killed seventeen Russians. I've seen her file."

Hendrick was silent for two seconds.

"She didn't speak. Didn't say a word from start to finish."

Black Mamba stood up, walked to the window.

Outside, the night sky of Athens was very dark, with only a few lights in the distance.

"She doesn't need to speak."

He paused.

"She just needs to live. Live, and then wait."

Hendrick walked up to him.

"Boss, what do we do next?"

Black Mamba didn't answer.

He looked outside the window, watched for a long time.

Then he turned around.

"Where's Volkov?"

"In Pristina. Over with Cheku."

Black Mamba nodded.

"Tell him, the next batch, don't send them."

Hendrick was stunned for a moment.

"Don't send them? But the—"

"Three hundred is enough," Black Mamba interrupted him, "Any more would cause trouble."

He went to the table, picked up the map.

"From now on, we wait."

March 18, 1998, 9 AM, London, Thames River Police Headquarters.

Graham looked at the intelligence just arrived from Mexico City, tapping his fingers on the desk.

"Hendrick. Rome. Twenty Chechens."

He put down the intelligence.

Ellis stood in front of him.

"What do the Italians say?"

Ellis shook his head.

"They're still looking. But those people disappeared in Rome."

Graham stood up, walked to the window.

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

"The Mexicans know faster than we do."

Ellis nodded.

"They have Bennett. His network is denser than ours."

Graham turned around.

"Then let's use their network."

He paused.

"Tell the Italians, the Mexicans have all of Hendrick's data. Have them go talk to Bennett."

Ellis was stunned for a moment.

"Bennett? Will he give it?"

Graham looked at him.

"He will. Because he wants us to owe him a favor."

March 18, 1998, 2 PM, Rome, Ministry of Internal Affairs.

Conti looked at the telegram from London, his hand trembling.

"The Mexicans have Hendrick's data."

He put down the telegram.

The secretary stood by the side.

"Minister, should we contact the Mexican Embassy?"

Conti was silent for a few seconds.

Then he nodded.

"Contact them."

4 PM, Mexican Embassy in Rome.

Bennett sat in the ambassador's office, across from an Italian.

The Italian was Conti's secretary, in his forties, impeccably groomed, speaking slowly and deliberately.

"Mr. Bennett, we want to know Hendrick's whereabouts."

Bennett looked at him.

"Why?"

The secretary was stunned for a moment.

"Because he's Black Mamba's man—"

"I know," Bennett interrupted him, "but you want to know his whereabouts not to catch him. It's to catch those Chechens."

The secretary didn't speak.

Bennett stood up, walked to the window.

Outside, the sky over Rome was very blue, the sunlight was excellent.

"Those Chechens are now scattered all over your country. You can't catch them because they have support, hideouts, and people bringing them food. Instead of catching them, catch the person who's feeding them."

He turned around.

"Hendrick is that person."

The secretary's eyes lit up.

"Where is he?"

Bennett looked at him.

"Tell me first, what can you offer us?"

The secretary was silent for a few seconds.

"Intelligence sharing. All intelligence about Black Mamba, fully shared."

Bennett nodded.

"Deal."

He walked back to the table, picked up a pen, wrote an address on a piece of paper.

"Greece. Outskirts of Athens, an abandoned farmhouse. He was there last night."

The secretary took the paper, looked at it again and again.

"Thank you."

Bennett didn't speak.

The secretary turned and left.

The door closed.

Bennett walked back to the window.

He looked at the sky over Rome outside the window, silent for a long time.

Then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Mr. Victor, the fish has taken the bait."

March 18, 1998, 7 PM, outskirts of Athens, abandoned farmhouse.

Black Mamba stood at the entrance of the farmhouse, looking at the dirt road in the distance.

The sun was setting, painting the sky blood red.

Hendrick walked out from inside.

"Boss, the stuff is packed."

Black Mamba nodded.

"Let's go."

They had just walked a few steps when the sound of car engines came from the distance.

Not one, but several.

Hendrick's expression changed.

"Boss—"

Black Mamba didn't speak.

He looked at the approaching car lights, at the flashing blue lights on top of the cars, at the uniformed people jumping out of the cars.

Greek police.

At least thirty of them.

"Don't move!" someone shouted in Greek.

Black Mamba raised his hands.

Hendrick stood behind him, also raising his hands.

The police surrounded them, pressing them to the ground, searching them, cuffing them, dragging them into the cars.

As Black Mamba was shoved into a patrol car, he glanced back at the farmhouse.

The windows of the farmhouse were still lit.

He remembered sitting there last night, waiting for daylight, waiting for news, waiting for people who would never come.

Now the lights were still on.

He left.

9 PM, Athens Police Station.

Black Mamba was locked in a narrow interrogation room.

The cuffs were still on. The light was so bright, it dazzled his eyes.

The door opened, a person walked in.

Not a Greek.

An Italian.

Conti came in personally.

"Idriss Diawlo," Conti spoke, reading the name, "alias 'Black Mamba'. West African. Drug trafficking, arms smuggling, human trafficking. Number one on the International Criminal Police Organization's red notice list."