Chapter 2003: Chapter 832: Useless Without Access to the Sea
"Can’t catch up." He said into the phone.
There was silence on the other end for a few seconds.
"Do you know what the people who got off the ship look like?"
"Can’t see clearly. The surveillance is too far."
"What about the fishing boat’s number?"
"It’s been scraped off."
Silence again from the other end.
"MacLaine," the other voice said, "you owe us a favor, and you can’t repay it yet."
MacLaine said nothing.
He hung up the phone and looked at the gray Clyde River outside the window.
The cargo had already landed.
"Black Pearl" had arrived in Glasgow.
November 22, 1997, England, Liverpool.
Sarah Kent received a message.
The message came from the encrypted number in Scotland, and the content was simple: "The cargo has arrived. Be alert on your end."
She handed the phone to Allen.
Allen glanced at it.
"Glasgow has already discovered it."
Sarah said nothing.
"It’ll happen in Liverpool too," Allen said, "It’s just a matter of time."
"What should we do?"
Allen thought for a moment.
"Tell the dock district division people, add another patrol shift. From 4 AM to 8 AM. If any suspicious unloading is found, don’t go near it, report directly, and notify us simultaneously."
Sarah nodded and began to arrange things.
Allen walked to the warehouse door and looked at the gray sky outside.
He recalled the days three months ago in Belgrade. At that time, he thought leaving MI6 would keep him away from such suspicion and scheming.
Now he understood that the world had no escape.
Only different forms of involvement.
November 23, 1997, Mexico City.
Victor stood in the surveillance room of the Quantum Computing Experiment Building, looking at the report Bramo had just delivered.
The report was long, but the core was only a paragraph:
"Surveillance data from Italy, France, Spain, and Portugal has been integrated into the system. In the past seventy-two hours, seventeen suspicious ship signals have been detected in the Eastern Mediterranean, of which eight have been confirmed to be related to the ’Black Pearl’ transport. Tracking in progress."
Victor set down the report.
"Tell Sanchez," he said, "Data sharing must be fast, analysis results should be synchronized and sent to the four countries’ Coast Guard. The first cooperation, let them see the effect."
Bramo nodded and began recording.
"Also," Victor walked to the window, "Is Gals still watching in Congo?"
"Still waiting for that account book."
"Tell him, no more waiting. Move tonight."
November 23, 1997, night, eastern border of Democratic Republic of Congo.
When Gals received the order, it was local time, 7 PM.
He glanced at his watch.
An hour until that mysterious figure appeared.
"Attention all teams," he pressed his throat mic, "Action time moved forward. 8 PM sharp, ten minutes after the lights go on, Team A sneaks into the wooden house, Team B seals the warehouse exits. Team C stays on peripheral alert, intercept any vehicle attempting to escape."
Each team’s confirmation came through the earpiece.
At 8 PM sharp, the lights in the wooden house turned on as scheduled.
The man in the gray jacket, as usual, carried a folder inside.
At 8:10, Gals whispered, "Team A, action."
Three shadows darted out from the bushes, quietly sneaking behind the wooden house. One of them retrieved hydraulic cutters, snapping the iron bars on the window with a crunch.
The next second, all three climbed into the room simultaneously.
The room briefly rustled, then quieted.
Team A’s voice came through the earpiece:
"Captain, target controlled. Account book found."
Gals stood up.
"Attention all teams, begin retreat. Team B covers, Team C prepares the rear."
He moved through the bushes and entered the wooden house.
The man in the gray jacket was pinned on the ground, cloth stuffed in his mouth, eyes wide open.
Several folders were spread out on the table, filled with dense figures—transaction dates, quantities, payment methods, buyers’ names.
Gals picked up the top one and flipped through a few pages.
The name "Black Mamba" appeared twelve times.
He closed the folder and glanced at the man pinned on the ground.
"Take him."
November 24, 1997, offshore West Africa, "Far Seer".
Black Mamba stood on the bridge, watching the horizon as a cargo ship approached.
It was the second trip of the "Odessa Fishing".
The first trip carried thirty tons of cargo, twenty tons went to Italy, ten tons to Greece. The second batch was being loaded, destined for Spain.
"Boss," Hendrick came up from the cabin, "Something happened in Congo."
Black Mamba turned around.
"What’s the matter?"
Hendrick handed over a fax.
"Our base on the Rwanda border was seized. The account book is gone. Three people guarding the base, two dead, one missing."
Black Mamba looked at the fax and said nothing.
"Who did it?"
"Don’t know. No traces were left at the scene."
Black Mamba was silent for a few seconds.
"What’s the name of the missing one?"
"Ivanov, Russian, responsible for bookkeeping."
Black Mamba crumpled the fax into a ball and tossed it into the sea.
"Notify everyone," he said, "Suspend all transactions. Hold the cargo, wait until things are figured out."
Hendrick hesitated.
"Kosovo is urging..."
"Let them wait." Black Mamba cut him off, "The cargo can be delayed a few days, but the account book can’t fall into others’ hands."
November 25, 1997, Mexico City.
Bramo put the file from Congo on Victor’s desk.
Victor glanced at it.
It was a photocopy of "Black Sea Wolf’s" account book, with pages labeled "Black Mamba" being folded at the corners.
"Gals said the captured Russian is being interrogated. Preliminary confession indicates their dealings with ’Black Mamba’ began this April, total of seven times, weapons volume enough to equip a battalion."
