October 27, 1997, France, Marseille.
Samir took over all of Costa's business.
He didn't attend the old man's funeral. He sat in the office of Warehouse No. 17, in front of him were three things: the satellite photo left by Costa, a fax sent from Italy, and a freshly opened sample pack of "Black Pearl".
The fax came from Genoa. The sender was unknown, but he understood the content:
"October 31, ten tons. Drop-off point: offshore La Spezia."
Samir threw the fax into the shredder.
He didn't need to guess who sent it.
In these times, the only ones who can throw down ten tons of goods on European soil at once are the Africans on that ship.
"Scorpion" arrived at three in the afternoon.
Still wearing that ill-fitting suit, still with that expressionless face. This time he didn't bring bodyguards, sitting alone on an old wooden crate at the warehouse door, waiting for Samir to come out and see him.
"Costa is dead." Samir stood before him, not sitting down.
"I know."
