After months of intelligence gathering and analysis, Operation Serpent Lure was underway. Three black hawk helicopters fast roped BSAA agents on the rear and front deck of the cargo vessel My Lady Margarete. The three teams swiftly cleared the deck with zero resistance. One team stayed on top to secure the deck while the other two went below deck.
The agents had reached the second level of the ship before anyone realized they were there. The alarm blared in vain as the BSAA closed in from both sides. BOWs were released on the third level, however even that barely provided a speed bump. Within minutes the cargo was secure, the deck was secure, and the bridge was secure. My Lady Margarete was secure.
Cleaning teams were lifted in next, followed closely by the techs who would catalogue and take samples of everything present. What a catch this was. T and C-Virus present, along with a preserved specimen from a BOW event, though they'd need do test to confirm which one if even known.
Interrogating anyone was proving impressively difficult. The engineers spoke Chinese, the techs spoke French, and the crew of the ship were Bulgarian. It was neatly compartmentalized, so no one knew the entire story.
What proved the most interesting find was a hard drive which showed pictures of preserved specimens. Several dozen men, women, and unidentifiable remains.
Within the next month the ship would be moved to London and stripped piece by piece to ensure not a single stone was unturned.
Preston Reynolds shuffled the notes in his hand as went through the details the Operation and what led to it, and what was happening now. Preston was a former military intelligence officer before becoming a senior analyst for the BSAA, and later the special operations group in the BSAA, Silver Dagger. He was of average height and build short brown hair with a high fade on the side, a look he carried over from the army. The audience for his brief were decision makers within the BSAA, which he always referred to as the suits because they always wore plain black suits as if they pre-planned their attire in advance.
"To summarize, there isn't much on who owns or financed the cargo, or the ship itself. The manifest is bogus, the papers were forged or expired, in some cases having not been renewed for two captains. What we do know is the money for the cargo originated from cash drops across multiple countries, primary eastern Europe and parts of Asia."
"Any indications of where the money originated from before it was withdrawn as cash?" A suited asked.
"Zero, and each withdraw ranged between five and nine thousand dollars, placing it firmly under the limit of a reportable currency transaction. The only links we have is the slips the ship was docked in when it was supposed to be getting inspected. It went through a slip in Singapore, sailed to a slip in Jakarta, before departing for its next destination where we hit it in the Indian Ocean. How it got through without inspection is likely just bribery, not even suspicious in that part of the world. Those slips were both owned by the same man, Wesley Smithson"
"Who is that?"
"U.S. national, international shipping billionaire, he owns the slips. He also owns slips in Japan, China, Thailand, you get the point. Regardless, the recommendation is along with investigating the port, investigate where this money came from. We've traced one drop picked up in Moldova."
"Do we have updates on the analysis of the possible lab?" A suit asked, referring to the pictures.
"We do know one of the pictures was BSAA Operative Piers Nivans, killed in action in two thousand thirteen in the China Sea. The others are still being identified."
After the briefing was adjourned Preston returned to his office, habitually messy with books, one and three-inch binders, and random folders on shelves and on the small table next to his desk. There was also a small security safe for classified documents. Hearing a knock no sooner than he sat, he turned and saw Chris Redfield, looking rather out of place in a suit and jacket.
"What's up Chris?" Preston asked, leaning into his chair finding a pen to wiggle with his fingers. Part of him needed to be occupied.
"I think I got something that could help ID those pictures," Chris said, Preston's eyebrows asking for details, "My sister, Claire, works for Terra Save. They have a data base with thousands of missing persons assumed kidnapped. Keep it small, sign non-disclosures, they could help."
Preston placed the end of the pen to his lip, then softly bit his teeth into it, thinking.
"NDAs, Terra Save cannot use it for press," Preston said, Chris nodding in acceptance, "Give me her contact information I'll get it started."
Sherry was early. Bright, smiling and early. However she was very early, so she was bright, smiling, early, and alone. Her tea was warm instead of hot she was so early. Claire was punctual, she'd be on time. Say she'll be there at eleven and she'll walk in the exact moment the second hand reaches twelve.
The moment Claire entered the restaurant Sherry lit up. Half leaping from her chair, completely wrapping her in a warm hug before they both sat down across from each other.
"Been here long?"
"Just got here myself," Sherry lied, now embarrassed her tea was cold. Not warm, cold.
"We don't do this often enough, and even when we do there's some work involved," Claire said, pulling out her phone and placing it on the table.
"Now I have a schedule that doesn't involve needles," Sherry said, Claire awkwardly chuckling, Sherry then realizing that probably came out wrong. "What did you want to show me?"
"You didn't see these, not yet at least. A few weeks ago, Chris' team busted a cargo ship in route, carrying…stuff," Claire starting, Sherry informing her she heard about it, "In this stuff was a hard drive containing a series of pictures, eighty-four in total," Claire said, sliding the phone across the table, "Picture fifty-two."
Sherry scanned to fifty-two and saw a man in what appeared to be a stasis chamber filled with water. He looked young, late teens, early twenties, with straight red hair. He didn't appear to be being kept alive, merely preserved as there was no apparent way to provide oxygen or nourishment.
"That's Steve Burnside," Claire said, Sherry trying to remember who that was, "The man who saved me on Rockford Island."
"That Steve?" Sherry asked.
"I know he's not alive, he's dead, but you and I both know that's relative. BSAA is dragging their feet on investigating the financial side of this. Can you, or Leon, or who ever give them a hand?"
"My case load is actually open, I can ask if they'll let me go," Sherry said and looked at the phone again.
"Number seventy three," Claire said, and Sherry started scrolling again, but stopped at number sixty five which was a baby, though not in a stasis pod. "Savages." Sherry recognized seventy three. It was Piers Nivans.
"I heard he didn't make it."
"I'll try to get those to you as fast as possible, but that's enough business. How's Jake doing?"
"Last I knew he was working in Morocco, but I did use him as a freelance a few months ago," Sherry said, giving a very business answer to a very personal question.
"Never mind," Claire said, not up for teasing her so early into their evening.
Chris exited the port management office in Singapore. To say they were less than welcoming was an understatement. Singapore was a dead end.
Walking to his jeep he sat in the passenger seat as his phone range. Putting in his Bluetooth he pressed answer. "Redfield."
"Any luck in Singapore?" Preston asked.
"Not a thing. Security cameras are closed circuit and purged every four days. I'm sure there is a law saying they can't do that, but good luck telling them that. Manager is bribable, and whoever signed the inspection form is basically the Asian version of John Smith."
"It's Singapore, western Anglo-Saxon names are common. I knew that was going to be a dead end. We should be in Europe. Speaking of which, your sister called, the DSO requested to participate. They just need us to disclose what we have. Do you know a Sherry Birkin?" Preston asked.
"She's a friend, trustworthy," Chris said.
"I'll get her the stuff then."
They both hung up, Chris hovering over his phone for a moment before he scrolled through his contacts and called Sherry.
"Sherry Birkin," was also her way of answering the phone.
"It's Chris, how fast can you get Jake to Moldova?"
Jake Muller leaned against the hood of a car, placing one foot on the fender while repeatedly catching and tossing an apple with his left hand. Within a day of Sherry calling him requesting his assistance he made his way to Moldova and was now waiting to pick her up from the Chisinau International Airport. A group had recently exited the aircraft and were now hailing taxies or leaving by some other means.
Jake eventually saw Sherry, her pulling her carryon behind her while dressed in more casual, yet still formal attire. He noticed she had let her hair grow out a little, it now reaching her shoulder blades and contained in a ponytail. What stood out the most was that she still wore the blue scarf from China.
"What do you got me doing this time super girl?" Jake asked, Sherry catching his apple and handing him her bag, "Nice to see you too."
"We got work to do," Sherry said, taking a bite a bite of his apple before handing it back and taking her bag again.
"Let's get to it then, "Jake replied, taking a bite over her teeth marks and climbing into the driver's seat while she tossed her luggage in the back seat and took the passenger side. "Seriously, what are we doing here?"
"Hopefully not too…last time. Can't really go into detail yet," Sherry explained.
"I assume you have a form or…" Jake started before Sherry held out her phone, it requesting him to place his finger to sign with a box outlined. Jake pressed his finger to the box, it scanning his finger print.
"Jake Muller, by signing this you are agreeing to…"
"Not my first say nothing agreement, not even with Uncle Sam." Jake said, shifting the car into drive, "And you're supposed to give me the briefing, before I sign."
"BSAA hit a cargo ship, found a bunch of stuff, and when they followed the money, part of it originated from Moldova. Crew was less than useful, they're still interrogating them, but finding the linguist to translate has apparently been a nightmare."
"It was probably a babel op," Jake said, pulling the car out and merging with the traffic.
"Babel op?"
"Babel, like the tower of babel. Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the lord did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the lord scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth. It's a smuggling strategy to ensure compartmentalization by having every facet of the operation run by a different nationality, but more importantly…"
"A different language," Sherry said, Jake nodding, "The techs were French, the engineers who maintained the specimens were Chinese, the crew were Bulgarian. If they're intercepted, that's a big mess to untangle."
"At the very least it stalls the investigation to hide or move the important stuff," Jake explained with a grin, "I see why you need me now."
"Chris asked me to ask you for help, figured if anyone had connections to the underworld in eastern Europe, it'd be you."
"I'm flattered."
"Do you know someone?"
"I may know someone who owes me a favor."
With the DSO cooperating with the BSAA on the investigation, the two agency's deputy directors arranged and ironed out the specifics. The DSO would be the lead investigators, but any actions on targets for arrest would fall under the BSAA, more so for arrest authority and jurisdictional purposes. The first person the DSO interviewed when they accepted the case was Wesley Smithson. Senior Special Agent Leon Kennedy stood in the observation room, and listened as Wesley Smithson was interviewed with his lawyer.
"So it's supposed to be a coincidence a ship carrying illicit cargo, was parked at not one but two of your slips?" The officer asked.
"I have slips all over the world, I own the property but owning the property itself is not how you generate capital from it. I lease out those slips, perhaps your time would be better served speaking to the leased entities."
"We will need a list of your leases, and…"
"As soon as my client sees a warrant for those documents," the lawyer said, the officer keeping his cool, and nodding.
"You will see a warrant, I can promise that."
"Excellent, so until then, I have nothing to say," Wesley said, standing up and button his suit back and exiting the room with his lawyer. The officer in the room looked at Leon, shaking his head in frustration.
The officer entered the hallway where Leon was waiting, and walked together out of the building. They used an interrogation room from the FBI, the DSO not having a room for that purpose at their field office.
"Now what, we don't have much to go off of," the officer said to Leon.
"Sherry will find something in Moldova, and Hunnigan has the analysts turning over every stone on Smithson," Leon said, his phone ringing a moment later, "Speaking of Hunnigan….You find anything?"
"On paper, Smithson is a saint," Hunnigan said, Leon opening the passenger door, the officer driving.
"Go on."
"It was hard to find, because he didn't deduct any of his charitable donations, and hasn't on his taxes for the last ten years. We researched for any political group or charities that have a list of donors. Pick any anti-bioterror group, he donates to it. He's even on the board of directors for TerraSave. He's very private, generous, and even has a lot of sympathy points because when he was in college in 1998 his entire family was killed. Guess where's he from."
"Raccoon City?" Leon asked.
"Yup. The best we can do at this point, is dig through the finances of any of the groups, see if they are a front for something else. He'll never talk without a lawyer, he's not stupid. The BSAA sent some analysts to us to work on this jointly, I want you here for a synch briefing."
"On my way," Leon said, opening the door to the car and sliding into the passenger seat. The officer took the driver's seat and started to drive them back to headquarters.