Chapter 2002: Chapter 832: Useless Without the Sea
MacLaine put down the phone and said to his men:
"Add an extra shift tonight. Glasgow Port, from ten p.m. to four in the morning. Keep a close eye on the ships with no lights."
His subordinate nodded and started making calls to arrange it.
MacLaine walked to the window and looked out at the gray Clyde River.
He knew why the people in Liverpool had informed him.
It wasn’t to help. It was a test. A test to see whether he could pick up the same movement in Glasgow.
If he did, it meant Scotland’s intelligence network was still worth something. If he didn’t, it meant the Scots still owed a favor.
November 1997, offshore West Africa, the "Far Seer."
Black Mamba stood on the bridge, watching the newly arrived refrigerated cargo ship ease alongside.
The hull carried the "Odessa Fishing" logo, registered in Liberia. The captain was a Ukrainian, standing at the bow smoking, looking indifferent.
Hendrick came back from the freighter, a few sheets of paper in his hand.
"Boss, we’ve checked the holds. The sealed lower compartment has enough space; thirty tons is no problem. The upper refrigerated hold is loading frozen fish, from Poland, bound for Egypt."
Black Mamba took the papers and glanced over them.
They were the ship’s manifest. It read: "Frozen sea fish, 600 cartons, origin Poland, destination Egypt Alexandria Port."
No problem.
Customs seeing this manifest would only think of frozen fish, not the thirty tons of Black Pearl under the frozen fish.
"Next shipment," Black Mamba said, "goes on this ship. Shut down all the semi-subs. Move them to the Guinea Gulf to stand by."
Hendrick nodded.
"And the weapons from Kosovo, when do they move?"
Black Mamba was silent for a few seconds.
"No rush. When the Europeans are busy fighting the drugs, the weapons will be worth more."
November 1997, Italy, Rome.
The first day the Mexico technical team arrived.
Leading them was an engineer in his forties, graying hair, glasses, slow and measured in his speech. His name was long; the Italians couldn’t remember it, only that his surname was Sanchez.
Conti went to the airport to meet them himself.
Not out of politeness—he wanted to see with his own eyes what these "technical personnel" actually looked like.
Sanchez wore an old jacket and carried an old briefcase, completely inconspicuous in the crowd. Only his eyes, when they swept across the terminal hall, caught Conti’s attention—he was counting exits, cameras, and guard positions.
"Welcome to Italy," Conti said.
Sanchez nodded.
"Minister Conte, my team needs three things: an office, network access, and all vessel monitoring data for the eastern half of the Mediterranean over the past six months."
Conti looked at him.
"The permissions for network access..."
"I know there are restrictions," Sanchez cut him off. "The agreement spells it out clearly: we can only access the data layer you’re willing to open. But the monitoring data must be complete, otherwise our algorithms can’t be calibrated."
Conti was silent for a few seconds.
"All right."
Sanchez nodded and walked ahead with his briefcase.
After a few steps, he looked back and said:
"Minister Conte, one more thing. Our people will help you upgrade the Guard Corps’ communications system. After the upgrade, you’ll notice one change—semi-subs will no longer be able to disappear from radar."
November 1997, France, Marseille.
Samir sat beside the ruins of Warehouse 17, watching the workers clear the site.
Two weeks after Costa’s death, his own business had doubled.
Not because he was smarter than Costa, but because he was more flexible.
Costa played by the rules. He didn’t.
Africans wanted product, he supplied. Albanians wanted weapons, he sold. Italians wanted intelligence, he passed it on.
As long as there was money to be made, everything was negotiable.
Scorpion walked over and sat down beside him.
"Next shipment, ten tons. Arriving in three days."
Samir nodded.
"Same drop point, La Spezia?"
"No. We’ve changed it."
Scorpion handed him a slip of paper.
Samir glanced at it and slipped the note into his pocket.
"How many people know this place?"
"Five. You, me, and the three on the boat."
Samir asked nothing more.
He knew the rule: every time the unloading point changed, the number of people who knew it went down by one batch.
November 1997, Germany, Wiesbaden.
Dr. Wagner received a report.
The report was from the European Criminal Police Organization. It said that over the past week, the amount of Black Pearl seized inside Germany had dropped by thirty percent.
That was not good news.
Wagner knew what it meant.
It wasn’t that the Africans had stopped supplying. They had switched channels. When the semi-subs were under watch, they switched to freighters. When the freighters were watched, they switched to speedboats. When the speedboats were watched, they switched to people carrying product on planes, trains, long-distance buses.
The method of transport could change. The flow of product would not stop.
He pulled up the text of the four-country agreement and stared at the words "Mexico technical team" for a long time.
Germany hadn’t signed.
Yesterday, the police at Hamburg Port had seized another two tons, hidden in a container of imported bananas.
He picked up the phone and dialed a number.
"This is Wagner. Set up a meeting with the Mexican Ambassador for me. As soon as possible."
November 1997, Scotland, Glasgow.
John McLean’s men picked up movement.
At two in the morning, a trawler with no lights came alongside the quay. Four men came off the boat, lifted several plastic drums into a panel van, then drove off quickly.
By the time MacLaine got the call, the van had been gone for fifteen minutes.
He had the port surveillance pulled up.
The footage showed the van’s license plates were fake.
