March 17, 1998, 2 AM, Adriatic Sea.
The "Foresight" is a bulk cargo ship registered in Panama, currently drifting in international waters twelve nautical miles off the Albanian coast.
No lights, no sound—like a dead object.
Black Mamba stands on the bridge, clutching a satellite phone in his hand.
He has been on this ship for four days.
Departing from the Guinea Gulf, bypassing Gibraltar, crossing the Mediterranean, evading three patrol squads, two satellite passes overhead, and narrowly escaping detection by the Spanish Coast Guard once.
But now, he's arrived.
Hendrick walks in from outside, his face indistinct in the darkness.
"Boss, the last group has moved into the mountains. Volkov's men are coordinating."
Black Mamba nods.
"Cheku?"
"Still in Pristina. But he wants to meet you."
Black Mamba is silent for a few seconds.
"Meet me? What qualifies him to meet me?"
Hendrick says nothing.
Black Mamba turns around, looking at the dark sea outside the porthole.
