Chapter 2001: Chapter 832: Useless Without a Coast~_2

November 11, 1997, France, Paris.

Office of the President of France.

The Minister of Internal Affairs stood in front of the presidential desk, face ashen.

"There’s trouble in Marseille again. Last night, Albanians and Africans had a shootout in the northern district, lasting half an hour, resulting in thirteen deaths. The shell casings found at the scene—made in Ukraine."

The President remained silent.

"The report from the Paris headquarters states that in the past week, ’Black Pearl’ has appeared on the streets of Paris. Not in the suburbs, but in the city center. A high school student in the 16th arrondissement overdosed and was sent to the hospital; reporters are already blocking the hospital’s entrance."

The President looked up.

"Have you looked at Mexico’s terms?"

The Minister of Internal Affairs nodded.

"Five-year term. Technical teams stationed at the command center. Additionally—"

"I know," the President interrupted, "Tell me, if we don’t sign, can we solve this problem ourselves?"

The Minister of Internal Affairs was silent for a few seconds.

"We can’t."

The President reclined back in his chair.

Outside the window was the gray sky of Paris, with the tip of the Eiffel Tower piercing through the clouds.

"Then sign."

November 12, 1997, Belgium, Brussels.

The signing ceremony of the Four Nations Agreement was held in a small conference room at the European Union Council Building.

No reporters, no live broadcast, just four agreements and four pens.

Ministers of Internal Affairs from Italy, France, Spain, and Portugal each signed their names on the thick document.

The Mexican Ambassador to the European Union sat across, watching them finish signing, then stamped the steel seal of the Mexican National Emblem on the last page of the document.

End of the signing, no champagne, no handshakes.

Minister Conte put away his copy of the agreement and turned to leave.

"Minister Conte," the Mexican Ambassador called to him.

Conte turned back.

"Our technical team will arrive in Rome next Monday," the Ambassador said, "Please prepare office space in advance."

Conte nodded, said nothing, and pushed the door open to leave.

The corridor was quiet, only the sound of his own footsteps.

November 13, 1997, Scotland, Edinburgh.

McTavish looked at the telegram just sent from London, frowning.

The telegram was an internal file from MI6, its source of channel unknown, now on his desk.

The content was simple: Four European countries signed a "Digital Security Cooperation Framework" with Mexico, and the Mexican technical team would be stationed at the four countries’ Coast Guard command centers.

Callum stood nearby, waiting for his reaction.

McTavish put down the telegram.

"Mexicans are moving faster than I thought."

"This may not be bad for us," Callum said, "With Mexicans establishing a foothold in Europe, our strategic value in the North Sea will rise."

"It will also decline," McTavish looked at him, "If Mexicans can directly obtain intelligence from Italy and France in the Mediterranean, why would they still cooperate with us? How useful is Shetland Islands’ monitoring station to them?"

Callum did not answer.

McTavish stood up and walked to the window.

"Tell McLean to keep an eye on the streets of Glasgow. If ’Black Pearl’ comes in, we need to know before London does. Also, with the English Congress, don’t forget to repay the favor to Sarah Kent."

November 14, 1997, Democratic Republic of Congo, eastern border.

Gals lay in the bushes two hundred meters from the target base, watching the warehouse through a thermal imaging scope.

It’s been three days.

Many people were in and out of the warehouse, but they were all locals, carrying goods, loading trucks, unloading, skillfully. No armed personnel, no Eastern European faces.

The ledger was still inside.

His judgment was simple: Every night at eight, the room near the warehouse would turn on its light. It stays lit for an hour, during which people come and go, holding a folder. After the light goes out, that person leaves with the folder and drives north.

The ledger should be in that room.

"Captain," a voice from the observer post came through the earpiece, "Target vehicles spotted. Three trucks coming from the north, entering the warehouse."

Gals adjusted the focus of the thermal imaging scope.

Three trucks, with tarps covering the beds, tires deeply pressed—heavy load. Once the trucks settled, camouflage-wearing people disembarked, not locals.

"Black Sea Wolf."

Gals whispered.

He counted them, twelve people. Six stayed by the trucks on alert, while six entered the warehouse.

"Attention all teams," he spoke into the throat mic, "Target sighted, but do not engage. Continue monitoring."

He was not waiting for these mercenaries.

He was waiting for the person who appears in the room every night at eight.

November 15, 1997, England, Liverpool.

Sarah Kent received a report.

The report was issued by the Dock District Branch; its content: In the past three days, nighttime patrol teams observed three suspicious activities in the dock area. Two unlit fishing boats approached the shore, unloaded goods quickly, and left. Those unloading said nothing, used no flashlights, were swift in action.

Sarah handed the report to Allen.

Allen looked, said nothing.

"Is it ’Black Pearl’?" Sarah asked.

Allen shook his head.

"Uncertain. But if those fishing boats were unloading regular goods, they wouldn’t need to turn off lights, avoid speaking, or act so quickly."

Sarah was silent for a few seconds.

"What should we do?"

Allen thought for a moment.

"Inform the Scots. It’s time to repay their favor now."

November 16, 1997, Scotland, Glasgow.

John McLean received the message while eating with a few underlings.

The message was brief, from that encrypted number in Liverpool: "Dock area, three times in three days. You owe us."