It's Hendrick's voice.
"Three tons."
"Can it be sold?"
"Yes, but it needs time."
The phone was silent for a few seconds.
"The boss says time is running out. Greek police have started checking the port, checking the fishing boats, checking all ships coming from Africa. In two weeks, your three tons of goods will rot in your hands."
"Scorpion" said nothing.
"Over in Kosovo, Cheku is urging. He's willing to pay double for this batch, but the goods must be delivered to the Albanian coast."
"Scorpion" was silent for a few seconds.
"Albania? That's someone else's territory."
"That's why the price is doubled."
"Scorpion" stood at the café entrance, watching the sparse pedestrians on the street.
"I need a boat."
"The boat is already on its way. Three days later, south of Crete Island, that abandoned small fishing port. You know the place."
The call ended.
January 11, 1998, Edinburgh.
McTavish looked at the data Sarah Kent had just sent.
