Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1737 - 777: There’s Always Someone Waiting for Me to Fall!

Capítulo 1737: Chapter 777: There’s Always Someone Waiting for Me to Fall!

The representative from the National Development Bank responded: “We are drafting plans for the ‘post-Olympic era’ industrial zone. Take Cancun as an example; the Olympic water sports venues will be transformed into national-level water sports training centers, while also being open to tourists. The sailing base in Belize is planning to partner with Cuba and Jamaica to launch a cross-Caribbean sailing tourism route.”

“What about funding?”

Foster asked, “The transformation needs money, and maintaining operations needs even more money.”

“Part of it comes from Olympic surplus.”

The Treasury Minister was cautious, “For the other part, we are considering issuing municipal bonds or bringing in strategic partners. For instance, Mr. Larson, if your precision sensor technology could be applied to intelligent energy-saving management in venues, we could offer pilot projects and procurement contracts.”

Larson nodded, jotting down notes in his notebook.

The second half of the meeting shifted to technical discussions—grid upgrades, wastewater treatment standards, communication protocols. Dry, but substantial.

These capitalists might have been “invited,” but once it came to specific business contracts and technical details, their professional instincts took over.

After the meeting ended, Larson and Foster walked out of the building side by side.

“What’s your take?” Foster asked.

“More structured than expected.”

Larson said, “They don’t just want to make quick money off the Olympics; they’re really setting up something, though rough, but it’s in the right direction.”

“What about risks? Security concerns, political pressure…”

“Where isn’t there risk?”

Larson looked at the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma, “Returning to the United States has risks; staying here has risks too. At least here there are orders now, plans are underway, my son has to report to the Industrial Upgrade Guidance Bureau next week, I’ve got to pave the way a bit.”

Foster smiled: “My nephew too, young men, it’s good for them to venture into new places.”

They parted ways at the street corner, each getting into their own car.

Unbeknownst to them, and unconcerned, just a few blocks away, the Counter-Terrorism Bureau was eavesdropping on a suspicious international long-distance call.

The call was made from Tripoli to an immigrant community in Mexico City, using an Arabic dialect. The content was about pricing “a batch of used cars.”

However, the conversation included some peculiar words: “sports equipment,” “special packaging,” “delivery before the rainy season.”

The translator listened to the recording three times, highlighted these terms, and sent the voice samples of the speakers to the analysis center.

…

Victor received Casare’s weekly report, a thick stack.

He first flipped to the economy section: infrastructure investment progress, employment data, currency exchange rate fluctuations. Then he moved to the security section: twelve new suspicious leads, three marked in red.

One lead caught his attention: Austrian sailing coach Hans Weber, hired by the Belize Olympic Committee three months ago, a clean background. But a week ago, his apartment’s utility bills in Belize City showed unusually high electricity usage. A plainclothes officer infiltrated to check and found a high-power shortwave radio set in the apartment, model from the Soviet Union’s late 1970s military supply, but well maintained.

“Radio…”

Victor murmured. Hans Weber’s explanation was “personal hobby.” The police did not confiscate the equipment but marked it for round-the-clock surveillance.

Another lead: A catering company for the Olympic delegation in Mexico City had discrepancies between the odometer data and GPS records of one of its refrigerated trucks. About three hundred kilometers of travel remained unexplained. The driver claimed he was “lost,” but that route led to the mountains.

The third red-marked lead was the simplest: After a threatening letter appeared, the editor of Germany’s Der Spiegel who received the fax experienced a home burglary attempt, with nothing stolen but his desk rummaged through. Local police considered it a routine attempted burglary.

Victor picked up a red pencil and circled the third lead.

Too coincidental.

He walked to the study’s safe, entered a password, and retrieved a thin folder from inside.

The label read “M.K.”

Inside were a dozen photos and briefings about a person named “Miroslav Kovar,” Polish descent, former East German Staat (secret police) field officer, disappeared in 1990.

There were unconfirmed rumors that he became a “free intelligence broker,” specializing in political dirty work.

The photos were taken secretly, blurry, but they showed a thin, bespectacled middle-aged man.

The last photo was taken at a Vienna café, dated November 1995.

Victor stared at the photo for a long time, then placed it alongside the lead about the Der Spiegel editor.

If the threatening letter wasn’t from Africa, but from some old hand wanting to stir things up, then the style was more fitting: leaving obvious false leads while cleaning up traces that might expose oneself. But the cleanup itself could leave new traces.

He returned the folder to the safe, locked it, and called Casare.

“Miroslav Kovar, track his activities for the past six months. Focus: whether he has contacted anyone related to the Olympics, media, sports officials, contractors. Use unofficial channels, don’t alarm the Polish.”

“Understood, I’ll arrange it.”

After hanging up, Victor walked to the corridor, the sky was darkening, and the distant sea had a leaden hue.

The rainy season is approaching.

Indeed, the shadows of espionage were deep behind the scenes; everyone wanted to see him fail.

Perhaps…

This threatening letter was sent by someone supported by the British?

Who can say for sure?

Victor took a puff of his cigarette; just then, his personal phone rang, he answered, and a voice immediate shouted on the other end.

“Papa!”

…