Chapter 2004: Chapter 832: Useless Without Access to the Sea

Victor opened the account book, page after page.

The numbers were tidy, and payment methods were clear—half in cash, half offset by "Black Pearl."

He closed the account book.

"Tell Gals, the Russian is useful. Encrypt the interrogation records; send the originals back to Mexico City."

Bramo nodded.

"Also," Victor walked to the window, "replace the name ’Black Mamba’ in the account books with a code, and send the scanned copies to the European Criminal Police Organization. Say—an anonymous informant provided the clues, source unknown."

Bramo hesitated for a moment.

"Isn’t that essentially telling them who did it?"

"Yes." Victor turned around, "But not now. When ’Black Mamba’ is fighting fiercely with the Europeans, then tell them. By then, this account book will be our ticket in."

November 26, 1997, France, Paris.

The Minister of Internal Affairs threw the anonymous account book copy onto the table.

"Congo border base? ’Black Sea Wolf’? I’ve never heard of any of these names."

The Director of Intelligence stood across, waiting for him to finish.

"But our people checked." The Director of Intelligence said, "’Black Sea Wolf’ indeed exists. Eastern European mercenaries, supplying African drug lords. On their client list, there’s a name—Idriss Diawlo, ’Black Mamba.’"

The Minister of Internal Affairs was silent.

"Evidence?"

"Transaction records in the account book, time, quantity, payment method, match the source of the batch of weapons seized by us in Marseille."

The Minister of Internal Affairs walked to the window.

Paris streets were quiet, showing no signs of anomalies.

But he knew, beneath those calm appearances, twenty tons of "Black Pearl" were spreading, twelve gangs were fighting for territory, thirty-two corpses lay in the morgue awaiting identification.

"Tell Conti," he said, "we’ve caught a lead."

November 27, 1997, Italy, Rome.

Conti was in the first technical meeting with Sanchez when he received the intelligence.

Sanchez’s team had installed a new preemptive warning system at the Rome Coast Guard command center in just three days. The screen no longer showed a dense array of radar signals but a simplified map, with only red and green dots.

"The red ones," Sanchez pointed at the screen, "are suspicious targets. Our algorithm analyzes vessel speed, heading, draft, nighttime behavior, and automatically marks those likely to be trafficking drugs."

Conti watched those red dots.

Many.

More than he expected.

"In the past three days," Sanchez continued, "we’ve marked seventeen targets. The Coast Guard investigated eight of them, confirmed drug trafficking on five. The rest are under ongoing surveillance."

Conti said nothing.

Midway through the meeting, the Director of Intelligence entered, placing the file just transmitted from Paris in front of Conti.

Conti glanced at it, his expression changed.

"Mr. Sanchez," he stood up, "excuse me for a moment."

He took the file out of the meeting room and stood in the hallway, lighting a cigarette.

The Director of Intelligence stood beside him.

"Is the account book real?" Conti asked.

"Most likely real. Transaction records match the weapons we seized."

Conti took a deep drag of his cigarette.

"Black Mamba..."

He uttered that name, as though tasting some bitterness.

"Move now to arrest him?"

The Director of Intelligence shook his head.

"He’s on the high seas. We have no jurisdiction. Even if we did, no ship can chase him."

Conti was silent for a few seconds.

"Tell Paris to hold onto this intelligence for now. Wait until the Mexicans finish installing that system, wait until our ship can catch up to him, then move."

The Director of Intelligence nodded and turned away.

Conti stood in the hallway, looking out at the gray sky.

He knew what holding onto the intelligence meant.

It meant for the next three days, "Black Mamba’s" ship would still operate, drugs would still land, young men would still die.

But he had no choice.

November 28, 1997, off the coast of West Africa, "Far Seer."

Black Mamba received the latest news from "Engineer":

"Congo base was taken down, possibly by Americans. Maybe Mexicans. Investigating."

He looked at the message, saying nothing.

Hendrick stood behind him, waiting for his reaction.

"Stop transactions." Black Mamba said, "All cargo ships stand by. Over in Kosovo, tell them shipment is delayed by a week."

Hendrick hesitated for a moment.

"What about after a week?"

Black Mamba did not answer.

He watched the freighter approaching the horizon.

It was the third voyage of "Odessa Fishing."

Thirty tons of goods, already loaded, heading to the Mediterranean.

It couldn’t be stopped.

"After a week," he finally said, "what should be shipped will still be shipped. The account book is gone, but the goods remain. As long as the goods remain, we can still fight."

November 29, 1997, England, Liverpool.

Sarah Kent stood at the patrol point in the dock area, watching the fishing boat docking.

No lights. The boat moved slowly. People aboard did not speak.

She picked up the walkie-talkie.

"Everyone attention, the target has appeared. Do not approach, do not expose. Record, photograph, note the license plate."

Once docked, four shadows jumped onto the pier, hauling several plastic barrels from the cabin, loading them onto a waiting van.

The entire process took less than five minutes.

The van started, leaving the dock, vanishing into the night.

Sarah put away her phone, glanced at the photo just captured.

The license plate was clear.

She sent the photo to Allen.

"Check this vehicle."

Ten minutes later, Allen replied:

"License plate is fake. But the model is Ford Transit, white, with a broken left tail light. Not many of this kind in Liverpool."

Sarah looked at the message.

"Can you find it?"

"Three days."

November 30, 1997, Scotland, Edinburgh.

McTavish sat in the office, reading the report MacLaine delivered.

Suspicious fishing boat was found at Glasgow Port, swiftly departed after unloading, license plate was fake, people not caught.

He set the report down.

"The goods have arrived."

Callum nodded.

"Similar discovery in Liverpool. Sarah Kent’s team is on the chase."

McTavish was silent for a few seconds.

"Tell her, if help is needed just speak. Scots owe a debt, it needs repaying."

November 30, night, Mexico City.

Victor stood in the monitoring room of the Quantum Computing Experiment Building, watching the giant screen.

On the screen, red dots along the Mediterranean coast had formed a cluster.

Italy, France, Spain, Portugal—four countries coastlines marked over two hundred suspicious targets.

Sanchez stood beside him, pointing at several dots on the screen.

"These are what we are closely following. Freighters, disguised as fishing boats, disguised as speedboats. Every three days a batch, departing on time, docking on time. Precise like a clock."

Victor looked at those dots. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

"Can you trace back to the source?"

Sanchez pulled up a larger map.

West African coast. Guinea Gulf. A small red dot.

"Here. We’ve located ’Far Seer’s’ signal. Three days ago, it aligned with a refrigerated freighter for six hours on the high seas."

Victor looked at that small red dot.

"Black Mamba" was there.

"Tell Conti," he said, "we found him. Let him decide when to move."

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