Black Mamba said nothing.
"They are the ones you sent to the ship in Africa. Seven people. Six adults and one child. They arrived in Italy three days ago. Last night, they were killed. Execution style. Shot."
Black Mamba's eyes shifted slightly.
But he still said nothing.
Graham pushed the photo forward a bit.
"That child, about seven or eight years old. A boy. His eyes were open when he died. Do you know why?"
Black Mamba looked at him.
"Because he wanted to see what the person who killed him looked like."
Black Mamba's fingers twitched.
Graham noticed.
"Mr. Diawlo, how many people did you send?"
Black Mamba spoke, voice hoarse:
"Three hundred."
Graham nodded.
"Three hundred. We caught twenty-two, seven are dead. Two hundred seventy-one remain. Do you know where they are?"
Black Mamba shook his head.
"I don't know."
Graham stared at him.
"Do you really not know?"
Black Mamba looked back at him.
"Really."
Graham was silent for a few seconds.
