novelsite Chapter 69 The Chess Players of the Port
Chapter 69 The Chess Players of the Port
East Wharf District, 11:30 p.m.
The mist on the river was like a living thing, silently spreading along the dark water, swallowing the blurry outlines of distant barges, and even the lights on the opposite bank were reduced to hazy, fuzzy patches of light. The container yards, like tombs forged from steel, cast huge, distorted shadows under the pale moonlight, intersecting to form a bottomless labyrinth.
In the shadow of a forty-foot refrigerated container, Zhang Yiqiang stood like a cold statue. He wasn't smoking a cigar, his hands were in the pockets of his tight jeans. Tonight's attire was as "flashy" as ever—a flashy Hawaiian-print shirt, the red background with large yellow flowers taut against his slightly protruding belly; his jeans were pressed so straight they could almost cut a match, the cuffs tucked into shiny pointed leather shoes; the gold chain around his neck, as thick as a little finger, swayed gently with his subtle breathing, gleaming with a gaudy yet garish gold light in the dim light. On his left wrist, the ceramic bezel and luminous hands of his Rolex Submariner glowed eerily green in the shadows, like the eyes of some cold-blooded animal.
But there was no trace of the unrestrained or relaxed air that should accompany his "arrogance" on his face. His round face was taut like a drumhead, his narrow eyes were half-closed in the darkness, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes were etched much deeper than those of his peers due to long-term calculation and vigilance. He was surveying his territory, like an old wolf patrolling a hunting ground full of traps.
Faint footsteps echoed through the fog. Old Han, Zhang Yiqiang's trusted lieutenant in a grey jacket, appeared like a ghost through the gaps between the shipping containers, stopping half a step away from Zhang Yiqiang. His voice was so low it was almost drowned out by the sound of the river:
"Brother Qiang, all the goods have been counted and inspected. Twelve DShK heavy machine guns, with tripods and spare barrels; twenty PKM general-purpose machine guns, in excellent condition; two hundred AK-74 assault rifles, all original products from Eastern European arsenals, with the serial numbers ground off. Three hundred thousand rounds of ammunition, packed in desiccant boxes. And those eight 'big shipments'—" He paused, a rare hint of excitement in his voice, "Soviet-era 2B9 'Cornflower' 82mm automatic mortars, in much better condition than expected, like they were pulled directly from a warehouse, each equipped with one hundred high-explosive rounds, and the barrels still have over 70% of their lifespan remaining."
Zhang Yiqiang gave a soft "hmm," almost inaudible. He continued to look at the river, but Lao Han knew he was listening.
"The people in Syria confirmed half an hour ago that three modified refrigerated trucks will arrive at berth number seven in the western area at 11:00 PM tomorrow night. It will be a cash transaction, in euros, old banknotes, not consecutive numbers. They require that the goods be inspected and loaded directly onto the ship. The ship is already waiting in Hamburg and will depart at 3:00 AM when the tide is most favorable, transiting via the Mediterranean." Old Han spoke steadily, explaining every detail clearly.
"What about Mr. Zhou?" Zhang Yiqiang finally spoke, his voice hoarse as if he hadn't spoken in a long time. He didn't turn around, or even look at Lao Han, but Lao Han felt the invisible pressure suddenly increase.
Old Han's Adam's apple bobbed, and his tone became even more cautious, carefully choosing his words: "Mr. Zhou... called from Rotterdam this afternoon. He only said two sentences." He imitated that calm yet unquestionable tone, "The first sentence: 'Yi Qiang, the buyer of this shipment is a very important friend of ours in the Middle East.' The second sentence: 'Don't let that little incident at the dock last month happen again.'"
Zhang Yiqiang's hands, tucked into his pockets, clenched almost imperceptibly. The Rolex strap on his left wrist dug into his skin.
He certainly knew Mr. Zhou was unhappy. The real "Mr. Zhou," the Huaqing Gang boss who had long been based in Rotterdam and remotely controlled multiple routes in Western Europe, rarely directly interfered in the specific affairs of a "secondary port" like Berlin. What he controlled was the network, the channels, and the higher-level resource integration and exchange of interests. Zhang Yiqiang in Berlin, to put it nicely, was the "regional manager," but to put it bluntly, he was a purchasing agent and warehouse manager in Mr. Zhou's vast network. He was responsible for "sourcing goods" from the chaotic arms market in Eastern Europe, maintaining the smooth flow of the smuggling route at the port, and dealing with various local forces to ensure the safe entry and exit of Mr. Zhou's goods. And Mr. Zhou provided the funds, the higher-level protection, and the channels connecting buyers in the Middle East and Asia.
The last batch of "special armor alloy" that secretly leaked from a certain research institute disappeared during transshipment at the dock, and the culprit remains unknown. The value of the goods wasn't actually enormous, but the fact that it happened so soon after a batch of "research materials" personally overseen by Mr. Zhou made it a serious matter. It meant that Zhang Yiqiang's control over the dock had been compromised, implying that he might not be "completely trustworthy." In Mr. Zhou's network, this was a fatal flaw.
This heavy weapons deal presents him with an excellent opportunity to regain trust and prove his worth. It also serves as a demonstration to Mr. Zhou that the Port of Berlin remains firmly under his control, and that he has the ability to handle large-scale, sensitive transactions.
"Mistake..." Zhang Yiqiang chewed on the word, as if trying to swallow it whole. He finally turned around, his narrow eyes looking at Lao Han, "Have any unruly rats been lurking around the docks lately?"
Old Han replied immediately, clearly prepared: "The Iron Hand Gang is still frantically searching for that Ukrainian madman, Andrei. The commotion is getting bigger and bigger, and it's alerted several of our peripheral informants. Also... those Indian bastards in Neukölln, the leader of them is called Rajish, just a low-level thug. Yesterday, he caused trouble in Chinatown, breaking three ribs of a fellow Fujianese and stealing a cash register. This afternoon, one of our brothers saw two of his men loitering around the dock area, like they were scouting, but they didn't dare get close."
"Rajish," Zhang Yiqiang murmured the name, his tone dripping with undisguised contempt, like mentioning chewing gum stuck to the sole of a shoe. Those lowlifes who made a living by bullying their fellow countrymen's small shops and extorting money weren't even worthy of being his pawns. Their greed, shortsightedness, and foolish impulsiveness destined them to be cannon fodder.
But sometimes, the most insignificant and foolish piece can be used to checkmate or even disrupt the entire game.
"Tomorrow night," Zhang Yiqiang suddenly said, a cold and precise smile curving his lips like the gleam of a scalpel, "make arrangements in the East District: 'laissez-faire.' Let Rajish and his idiots think they have a chance to sneak in. Leave the flaws natural, but not too obvious."
Old Han paused for half a second, then a look of realization flashed in his eyes: "You mean... you want to use them as scapegoats? To muddy the waters?"
"Wolf of the Iron Hand Gang has been overreaching lately." Zhang Yiqiang looked back at the river, his voice calm yet chilling. "He's using the pretext of looking for Andrei to probe everywhere, trying to figure out our control and activity patterns at the port. Let's put on a show for him." He paused, then continued, "In the East District, 'arrange' a good show. Andrei, being chased by the Iron Hand Gang, flees to the docks in a panic, only to run into Rajish's gang of idiots trying to take advantage. Then... a double-cross. Rajish's entire gang is wiped out, and several 'Iron Hand Gang members' lie dead on the spot. Gunfire, explosions, exciting enough, right?"
Old Han understood perfectly. An "accidental conflict" in the eastern part of the dock would draw the attention of the police, the media, and even other gangs. The real deal, however, would be completed quietly at berth number seven in the western area, under the cover of gunfire and chaos. The Iron Hand Gang would be embroiled in a murder case and get into trouble; annoying flies like Rajish would be swatted away; and Mr. Zhou's goods would be safely transported away. Three birds with one stone.
"Brilliant," Old Han said sincerely. "Then I'll go arrange for body doubles and people to impersonate the Iron Hand Gang. Real firearms, but blanks and dye rounds instead?"
"No." Zhang Yiqiang shook his head, his eyes cold. "Use live ammunition. It has to be bloody, it has to be dead, to make it realistic. We can kill two of Rajish's men, and two of the 'Iron Hand' should be down too. The rest, let them 'escape wounded.' Let the police and the Iron Hand investigate themselves."
"Understood. I'll take care of it right away." Old Han nodded and turned to leave.
"Wait a minute." Zhang Yiqiang called out to him, a deeper suspicion flashing in his eyes. "Any new leads on that batch of alloy that went missing last time?"
Old Han stopped and shook his head: "All the surveillance footage at the dock has been professionally erased, leaving no trace. The porters and guards have checked, and found nothing wrong. But..." He hesitated for a moment, "A couple of days ago, a guy who runs a transport business in the suburbs mentioned that recently, heavy trucks have been frequently entering and leaving the railway marshalling yard in the southern suburbs of Berlin late at night, without their lights on. Our people didn't take it too seriously at the time, assuming they were homeless people or scrap metal dealers."
Marshalling yard?
"Tomorrow during the day," Zhang Yiqiang ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument, "send two of our most alert, unfamiliar brothers to take a long detour over there. Bring binoculars, but don't get too close. Look for any new tire tracks, signs of activity, or unusual lights or noises. If there's anything fishy..." A cold glint flashed in his eyes, "Once the transaction is completed tomorrow night, payment is in hand, and Mr. Zhou is satisfied, we'll have time to give him a proper 'visit.' Anyone who dares to touch my goods will have to pay a price."
"Understood. I'll choose the people myself." Old Han agreed, and this time he really turned around and quickly disappeared into the shadows and mist of the container maze, his footsteps soon fading away.
Zhang Yiqiang remained alone in the shadows for a few minutes before taking out a Cuban cigar from his shirt pocket and lighting it with a pure gold lighter.
The orange-red sparks flickered in the thick fog, illuminating half his face. His bald head gleamed greasy in the moonlight, and his gold chain and Rolex flashed with a gaudy yet practical golden light in the smoke—these were his "armor," the "superficial nouveau riche" image he deliberately presented to the outside world. This image could make his opponents look down on him, make the police think he was just a rich, uncouth man, and make Mr. Zhou think he was "useful but not a threat." But the real venom lay hidden beneath the armor, ready to strike a fatal blow at any moment.
He took a deep drag on his cigar, the thick smoke swirling in his lungs before he slowly exhaled. The white smoke mingled with the gray mist on the river's surface, indistinguishable from each other.
He liked this feeling. He liked the feeling of having everyone and everything on the chessboard, being calculated and manipulated. Rajish was the pawn crossing the river to its death, the Iron Hand was the rook charging recklessly, Mr. Zhou was the general sitting firmly in the rear, and he, Zhang Yiqiang, was the chess player who mobilized everything and determined the course of the game. Every move was calculated; every unexpected event could be turned into an opportunity.
As long as things go smoothly tomorrow night.
As long as the batch of heavy weapons leaves port safely and a large commission is received, Mr. Zhou's "friend" will be satisfied.
He could then regain Mr. Zhou's trust and solidify his position in Berlin and within Mr. Zhou's network. Perhaps, he could even use the pretext of cracking down on "thieves" to demonstrate his competence and loyalty to Mr. Zhou.
As for the possible shady dealings at that marshalling yard? He'll go check it out himself after he finishes his business. In Berlin, anyone who touches Zhang Yiqiang's goods, no matter who it is, will have to pay back their principal and interest.
He exhaled a long puff of smoke, his gaze piercing through the mist, as if he could already see the chaotic gunfire in the eastern part of the dock tomorrow night, and the cargo ships quietly departing from the western part.
Everything is under control.