December 1, 1997, old port of Marseille.
Samir died in his own car.
Two shots.
One between the eyebrows, one in the heart.
The killer used a 9mm Parabellum. The casings were left on the passenger seat, deliberately not picked up.
When Scorpion saw the body, Samir’s blood had already drained, congealing into dark brown clots on the driver’s seat.
He stood by the car and lit a cigarette.
Costa was dead, Samir was dead. The usable local forces in Marseille were down to a few small-ti street thugs who didn’t count.
Scorpion exhaled a lungful of smoke and pulled out the satphone.
"Boss, sothing happened in Marseille."
There was three seconds of silence on the other end.
"Who did it?"
"No idea. But the Albanians had a eting last night. Afterward their boss said, ’From now on, the product in Marseille is our call.’"
The other end went quiet again.
Scorpion waited.
"What about Samir’s people?"
"Scattered. So ran, so went over to the Albanians."
"And the product?"
"Two tons left in the warehouse. I’ve got people guarding it."
A very soft chuckle ca through the line.
It wasn’t amusent. It was cold.
"Two tons—enough for them to fight over for a while. Let them. When they’re done, you co back."
Scorpion hesitated for a second.
"Boss, we’re giving up Marseille?"
"Marseille is already gone," Black Mamba said. "The product is still here, the ship is still here, our people are still here. We’ll pick another place and start over."
December 2, 1997, Ro.
Conti stared at the report Sanchez had just brought in, his finger stopping on one particular page.
The coordinates of the Far Seer. Precise to four decimal places. From three days ago.
Three days. Enough ti for a ship to run five hundred nautical miles.
"Why am I only seeing this now?"
Sanchez sat opposite him, expression very calm.
"Because we had to confirm."
"Confirm what?"
"Confirm it wasn’t bait."
Conti fixed his eyes on him.
"Your satellite caught it three days ago, and you’re only telling now that you’ve ’confird’ it? In three days the Far Seer could have run out of the diterranean, could be hiding in the Guinea Gulf, could—"
"It didn’t run."
Sanchez cut him off.
Conti choked off mid-sentence.
"We’ve had eyes on it the whole ti," Sanchez said. "The Far Seer is still where it was. The coordinates have shifted less than twenty nautical miles. It’s waiting for soone."
Conti was silent for a few seconds.
"Waiting for who?"
Sanchez pulled up a photo and slid it across the desk.
The image was taken by satellite, not very clear, but you could see two ships alongside each other. One was the Far Seer, the other had a long hull and containers stacked across its deck.
"Reefer cargo vessel, the Odessa Fishing," Sanchez said. "They ca alongside once three days ago, and again yesterday. Each ti for four to six hours—just enough to move the product from one ship to the other."
Conti stared at the photo.
"It’s loading."
"Yeah," Sanchez said. "Next shipnt, about thirty tons. Destination could be Spain, could be Italy, could be Greece. Depends on the wind and weather."
Conti got to his feet and walked to the window.
Outside, Ro lay under a dull grey Sky. He thought of the two patroln shot dead in Catania, of the Patrol Boat snatched from Genoa Port, of the young n lying in the morgue.
He turned back.
"When do we move?"
Sanchez looked at him.
"You decide."
December 3, 1997, Edinburgh.
When Sarah Kent walked into the side reception room of Holyrood Palace, McTavish was already waiting.
No whisky this ti. Just two glasses of water, the ice already lted.
She sat down and went straight in:
"We’ve tracked down that white Transit from Liverpool. The registered owner is a fake identity, but our people picked up the vehicle. Last night it went to the docks again and offloaded. We took photos and video. The plates are fake, but we got the driver’s face."
She slid a photograph across.
McTavish lowered his head to look. The photo showed a black man, around thirty, scar on his face, heaving plastic drums down from the truck.
"Who is he?"
"We don’t know. But our informant says he speaks with a West Africa accent, likely from Guinea-Bissau."
McTavish was silent for a few seconds.
"What about the product?"
"It went into three districts in Liverpool. Our people are on them, but keeping their distance. Still, the street price has started to drop."
She pushed another sheet of paper across.
On it was a set of figures: over the past week, the street price of Black Pearl in Liverpool had fallen from 80 pounds a gram to 50 pounds.
McTavish stared at the numbers.
He knew exactly what they ant.
The faster the price plunges, the more people fight for turf. The more turf wars there are, the more bodies on the pavent.
"How long can your people keep this up?"
Sara watched him.
"What are you trying to do?"
McTavish didn’t answer. He stood and walked to the window.
Outside, Edinburgh Castle was lit up, like a giant beast crouching in the night.
"Glasgow has found the sa product," he said. "Our people are chasing it, but they can’t catch up. The opposition moves too fast, too professional: new boat every ti, new faces every ti."
Sara waited for him to go on.
"xico gave us a tracking system," McTavish said, turning back. "Satellite-based, can see every ship on the sea. But they won’t let us use it."
"Why not?"
"Because it needs authorization. Authorization ans London has to sign off. London won’t sign off."
Sara was quiet for a few seconds.
"What do you want?"
"Your docks. The docklands in Liverpool are the closest we get to the sea. If your people spot a suspicious ship there, tell . I’ll tell xico. xico’s satellite will lock onto that ship and stay on it from the mont it leaves Africa until the mont it docks."
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