Chapter 2064 - 848: Only One Life

Black Mamba looked at him.

"Are you Italian?"

Conti nodded.

"Minister of Internal Affairs. Mario Conte."

Black Mamba smiled.

Smiled faintly.

"The Minister of Internal Affairs interrogates me in person? I've got quite the reputation."

Conti said nothing.

He walked to the table and sat down.

"Mr. Diawlo, do you know how many Chechens you've sent into Europe?"

Black Mamba looked at him.

"Three hundred."

Conti squinted his eyes.

"Do you know where they are now?"

Black Mamba shook his head.

"I don't know."

Conti stared at him.

"You don't know?"

Black Mamba looked back at him.

"I'm just the delivery guy. Once they're delivered, it's out of my hands."

Conti was silent for a few seconds.

Then he stood up, walked over to Black Mamba.

"Mr. Diawlo, how much cargo do you still have?"

Black Mamba said nothing.

Conti looked at him.

"If you don't tell me, I can find out anyway."

Black Mamba raised his head.

"Then go find out."

March 18, 1998, eleven in the evening, Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

Victor was looking at the telegram just sent from Athens.

"Black Mamba caught. Held at Athens Police Station."

He put the telegram down.

Bramo stood beside him.

"The Italians acted fast."

Victor shook his head.

"Not fast. Desperate."

He stood up, walked to the window.

Outside, the night sky of Mexico City was very dark, the stars very bright.

"Three hundred Chechens, scattered across Europe. They can't catch the people, can only catch the messenger."

He turned around.

"But what good is catching Black Mamba? He's said what he knows. What he doesn't know, he'll never know."

Bramo was momentarily stunned.

"You mean—"

Victor looked at him.

"Black Mamba is just a courier. The real mastermind hasn't shown up yet."

March 19, 1998, two in the morning, Pristina, Cheku's command center.

When Volkov pushed the door open, Cheku was sleeping.

"General Cheku, there's a problem."

Cheku jumped out of bed.

"What problem?"

Volkov looked at him.

"Black Mamba got caught."

Cheku froze.

"What?"

"Caught by Greek police. Last night, outskirts of Athens."

Cheku was silent for a few seconds.

Then he asked:

"What do we do?"

Volkov walked to the window.

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

"Wait."

Cheku looked at him.

"Wait for what?"

Volkov didn't turn around.

"Wait for someone to take his place."

March 19, 1998, nine in the morning, London, Thames River Police Headquarters.

Graham looked at the telegram just sent from Athens, tapping his fingers on the desk.

"Black Mamba got caught."

Ellis stood in front of him.

"The Italians have applied for extradition. Greece is processing the request."

Graham sneered.

"Extradition? By the time the process is done, Black Mamba's mouth will be wide open."

He stood up, walked to the window.

"Tell the Greeks that the UK is willing to assist interrogation. We have his complete file."

Ellis was momentarily stunned.

"Will they agree?"

Graham turned around.

"They will agree. Because they also know, the words from Black Mamba's mouth are worth more than those three hundred Chechens."

March 19, 1998, two in the afternoon, Athens Police Station.

Black Mamba sat in the interrogation room, facing someone new.

Not a Greek, not an Italian, but a British.

Graham came personally.

"Mr. Diawlo," Graham began, "we meet again."

Black Mamba looked at him.

"You're British?"

Graham nodded.

"MI6. Graham."

Black Mamba smiled.

"MI6. Turner's colleague."

Graham squinted his eyes.

"You know Turner?"

Black Mamba looked at him.

"He wired me money."

The room was silent for a few seconds.

Graham looked at him, his expression changed.

"Continue."

Black Mamba leaned back in his chair.

"What do you want to know?"

Graham stepped closer.

"Everything."

Black Mamba was silent for a few seconds.

Then he spoke, his voice very calm:

"I'll start from Africa."

March 19, 1998, seven in the evening, Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

Victor looked at the interrogation records just sent from Athens.

Black Mamba confessed everything.

From Congo to West Africa, from West Africa to Europe, from drug trafficking to arms, from arms to human trafficking. He recounted every event, disclosed every person.

The only person he didn't mention.

Volkov.

Victor laid down the records.

Bramo stood beside him.

"Why doesn't he mention Volkov?"

Victor looked at him.

"Because he's afraid."

Bramo was momentarily stunned.

"Afraid?"

"Volkov is not the 'Black Sea Wolf's' boss," Victor said, "He's just a front man. The real boss is still behind the scenes."

He stood up, walked to the window.

Outside, the night sky of Mexico City was very dark, the stars very bright.

"The person behind the scenes is the real mastermind."

March 19, 1998, nine in the evening, Pristina, Cheku's command center.

Volkov stood at the window, looking at the dark night outside.

The phone rang.

He picked it up.

"Volkov."

The voice on the other end was soft, with a heavy Russian accent.

"Black Mamba confessed."

Volkov tapped his fingers on the desk.

"How much did he confess?"

"Everything. Except you."

Volkov was silent for a few seconds.

"He's loyal."

The other end chuckled.

"It's not loyalty. It's fear of you."

Volkov said nothing.

The other continued:

"But he will eventually talk. The British, the Italians, and that Mexican – they'll pry his mouth open."