Working as a police officer in Mexico

Chapter 1993: Chapter 830: Land Crawling with Poisonous Insects (Part 3)

Not a person.

A road.

A newly constructed, unrecorded dirt road hidden deep in the rainforest. The surface is compacted, wide enough for heavy trucks to pass. There’re fresh tire tracks, deep treads—heavy load.

Casare crouches in the bushes by the roadside, scanning the surroundings with a thermal imager.

No ambush.

The owner of this road is confident, confident enough to not need defenses.

Or rather, the goods on this road are enough to make anyone think twice about plundering.

"Captain," a soldier whispers, "Two hundred meters ahead, there’s a man-made structure."

Casare makes a gesture. The team splits in two, approaching the target silently, like water seeping into sand.

The structure is a makeshift warehouse, tin roof, wooden structure, recently built. There are no sentries around, just two parked heavy trucks, their beds covered with canvases.

Casare waits until the drones confirm there’s no ambush behind the warehouse before moving his team next to the trucks.

He lifts a corner of the canvas.

Inside are green shrink-wrapped packages. Neat and square, stacked into piles.

Not drugs.

Military rations.

NATO standard, batch number indicating production in Poland. Expiry date: 1999.

Casare opens the canvas on another truck.

Medical supplies. Surgical instruments, antibiotics, plasma substitutes. Also from Eastern Europe.

This is not a black market arms dealer’s haul.

This is official aid from a country—or officially sanctioned placement.

He walks to the warehouse door, peering inside through a crack.

What he sees makes his pupils contract.

Not weapons. Filing cabinets, server racks, a portable satellite ground station. In the corner are several long wooden crates with "sensitive instruments" labeled in Russian, unopened.

This is no logistical base.

This is a command center.

Casare presses his throat mic, lowering his voice to the bare minimum:

"Mr. Bramo, I need support. Level—highest."

October 22, 1997, Scotland, Edinburgh.

McTavish rarely loses his temper.

Now he slams the intelligence report on the table with such force that the water glass jumps.

"Have the Norwegians reneged?"

Callum adjusts his glasses. He prefers to maintain an even tone in these moments, as if stating a fact about the weather:

"Not reneged. ’Reassessed.’"

"Reassessed what? Whether we’re fit to be their partner?"

"Reassessing the strength of U.S. pressure." Callum slides over a fax, "A private memo from the Norwegian Oil Minister, obtained by our informant. It states clearly: the U.S. Department of Energy promises that if Norway refuses deep Mexican involvement in the ’Odin’s Eye’ project, the U.S. will prioritize Norway’s National Petroleum Company for the five-year rotation contract on strategic oil reserves."

McTavish says nothing.

"Odin’s Eye" is Scotland’s most vital energy lifeline post-independence. The Mexicans are willing to invest money and provide technology, on the condition of securing control of the project and 40% of future revenues.

40% is steep.

But now, Norwegians aren’t even letting Scotland have 40%—they want to bring the U.S. in, squeeze out the Mexicans, then give Scotland a 20% non-voting share, calling it "the rights a resource-rich country deserves."

"What about our Self-defense Army?" McTavish asks.

"In training. The Mexican advisors said it would take another four to six months to reach initial combat readiness."

"We don’t have six months." ƒгeewёbnovel.com

"I know."

McTavish walks to the window. It’s rare for Edinburgh to be sunny, with sunlight hitting the castle, and the blue and white saltire standing still.

He recalls what Victor told him a month ago in Mexico City:

"Independence isn’t the finish line; it’s the starting line. The question is, when you start running, are you surrounded by teammates or creditors?"

He thought at the time this was a negotiation tactic by the Mexicans to exert pressure.

Now he realizes Victor was telling the truth.

Independence doesn’t automatically grant Scotland dignity. Dignity requires strength, strength requires time, and time—requires something else in exchange.

"Respond to the Norwegians," McTavish says, "’Odin’s Eye’ project, Scotland is willing to renegotiate the share ratio. But there’s one bottom line: no U.S. companies in the core management. If they insist, we’ll activate Plan B."

Callum looks up: "Plan B is..."

"Find the Russians."

Callum isn’t surprised. He just writes a few words in the memo, then looks up:

"One more thing. From England, Sarah Kent’s people arrived secretly in Edinburgh last night. She wants to see you. It’s not an official meeting—more like ’a glass of whisky.’"

McTavish pauses for a few seconds.

"How many did she bring?"

"One. That organization advisor named Allen."

"Arrange it for tomorrow night. The location in the lounge of the Holyrood Palace side wing, keep it off the official schedule."

Callum nods, turning to leave.

"Callum," McTavish calls him back.

The history teacher turns.

"What do you imagine it would be like today if our ancestors hadn’t agreed to the Union Act three hundred years ago?"

Callum doesn’t answer this question. He simply says:

"Angus, we don’t have the luxury to look back."

October 23, 1997, Mexico City, Paseo de la Reforma.

Victor’s convoy departs from the National Palace, heading for the "Silicon Valley Mexico" park.

He’s not taking the usual bulletproof Mercedes this time, instead opting for an unmarked Chevrolet minivan. In the front passenger seat, Casare has an unlit cigar in his mouth, and Bramo spreads three different colored folders across his lap in the back seat.