Since taking this new job, former Stasi agent Ulrich Sandman felt his life had become even more turbulent than before.
Ulrich had never met his new employer face-to-face, but everyone knew exactly who they were working for. This lack of direct contact meant that if they were caught for crimes like murder, the high-ranking figure would remain untouchable—just as, back in the day, East Germany would never officially acknowledge Stasi agents who failed in their missions.
It was a standard protocol.
At forty-three, Ulrich Sandman was aging for an agent, especially one in the field. When his former country crumbled, he had considered retiring to a quieter life. But life rarely offers such choices.
Firstly, his history was far from clean.
Even if he wanted to disappear, it depended on the new German government's willingness to let him go. Since the fall of the Berlin Wall, the unified German government had relentlessly pursued former Stasi members, resulting in many arrests. Many others were forced into hiding or were assassinated under mysterious circumstances.
Compared to them, Ulrich had been fortunate.
Even if he had avoided retribution, settling down wasn't an option.
He had many mouths to feed.
Aside from his aging parents, a wife, and four children, he had a sister twenty-one years younger, currently studying at Columbia University in the U.S. She was aiming for a Ph.D., and without his support, he could never afford her tuition. There were also his own growing children.
And beyond his family, Ulrich was supporting the families of six fallen comrades.
This was tied to a series of painful memories from his past.
During his Stasi days, he'd climbed the ranks, eventually reaching the rank of major, not for the title itself but for the pay raises and the covert income he could use to help those around him. Because of these commitments, a quiet life was never an option.
Most of Ulrich's family now lived comfortably in Australia. While he knew they were essentially hostages, Ulrich found no fault with this arrangement.
It was to be expected.
If his employer hadn't taken these precautions, Ulrich would have thought less of him.
So long as he stayed loyal, there would be no issues. If he died on a mission, he believed his family would be well taken care of. After all, the billionaire behind this organization had no shortage of money; all he asked in return was loyalty.
If he had once served his country, he could now serve an individual.
Deep down, Ulrich understood this was a fair exchange. He had essentially sold his life, but for far better pay than in East Germany—enough to make him question his own worth. His family was well-cared for, and he could also continue supporting the families of his fallen comrades.
There was nothing wrong with that.
Ulrich Sandman now held an Australian passport under his real name, but thanks to the Westeros network's influence, he was essentially a new person, free from past entanglements.
Perhaps as a mark of trust, Ulrich now managed five action teams.
After years of quiet observation, he understood that in Westeros's private intelligence network, this was a relatively high level of responsibility and trust.
Another fortunate thing: in recent years, though his team had likely killed, none of them had died.
This mission, even if someone were to die, the responsibility would be on them alone.
Ulrich himself had been more like an officer than a field soldier. While commanding men to risk their lives was natural for officers, he had never grown used to sending others to die. He would rather die himself. Perhaps this was why he hadn't been promoted in the Stasi after reaching major rank—they likely saw his reluctance as a weakness.
This time, Ulrich led his team personally.
It was a strange mission, investigating smuggling routes to France from around the world.
Perhaps because it involved connecting with smugglers and carried inherent dangers, his team had been assigned.
Not that he minded.
Though he didn't understand why his employer was interested in these routes, he had learned not to question his assignments. Some tasks seemed random at first, like an operation in southern Italy two years ago. But overnight, an entire family linked to the 'Ndrangheta was wiped out. Gunfire and explosions across Reggio Calabria, across from Sicily, had even led people to think there was a riot.
Afterward, his employer had installed a puppet family in Reggio Calabria, which now helped with the current investigation.
This mission involved a journey of thousands of kilometers.
Ulrich's team usually comprised six people; this time, he selected only two to accompany him. First, they traveled to a small town on Iraq's northern border, where they found a smuggler outpost recruiting clients.
After a week of waiting, they joined 129 smuggled passengers recruited by the smugglers, leaving Iraq and crossing into Turkey. They traveled overnight to a small coastal village in southern Turkey, where they waited for three days.
Finally, in the dead of night, the weary and tense passengers were awakened, rushed to a seaside dock, and herded onto a cargo ship. This was the most perilous leg of their journey.
The 129 passengers—93 men and 36 women—were crowded into the ship's lowest hold. The smugglers, wearing masks, charged each passenger $1,000, with another $1,000 due upon arrival.
This was standard procedure for reputable smuggling operations.
Years of horrific incidents, where smuggled passengers were murdered or abandoned, had led to a system where passengers held back part of the payment for safety. Reputable smugglers didn't force them to pay upfront.
Reputable smugglers—it sounded odd.
But it was true.
There were countless unreliable smugglers, and many unsuspecting victims had been deceived and killed.
Ulrich's team had been given new identities and carefully disguised for this mission. With prior arrangements, they were treated as honored guests on the ship. The smugglers removed their masks around Ulrich and his team, even helping with information collection.
Photos were permitted, as long as they didn't capture faces.
This cargo ship was registered in Panama, a common practice in the Mediterranean. Many ships were registered in obscure African or South Asian countries, to avoid liability in case of trouble.
The smugglers' network also engaged in contraband smuggling between France and Greece, carrying cargo one way and returning with passengers.
Each passenger paid $2,000, the going rate.
Some less reputable smugglers might charge only $1,000, though their operations were smaller—often a few extra people smuggled aboard by regular shipping crew.
For seafarers, low pay and difficult work made these opportunities tempting.
The reputable smugglers could also make extra money beyond the $2,000.
Upon arrival, the passengers would be assigned jobs, with wages garnished for several years, totaling around $8,000. This meant each passenger ultimately paid $10,000.
It seemed like a lot, but these passengers were relatively lucky.
In exchange for the $10,000, they would be well-settled in Europe. Unlike amateur smugglers who abandoned people upon landing, these passengers wouldn't be left to fend for themselves.
Of course, there were no binding contracts.
Yet, for the next few years, the smugglers would tightly control them, turning them into cheap labor or, effectively, slaves.
In Western nations, citizens were reluctant to take on grueling, low-paying jobs. Legal immigrants were not enough, so illegal immigrants, practically expendable labor, were tolerated—since governments didn't have to offer them benefits and could deport them if they caused trouble.
For locals, $8,000 was two or three months' pay; for these passengers, it would take years of labor.
At least, if they reached Western Europe, many felt it would be worth it.
Onboard, Ulrich knew the passengers below were all Kurds from northern Iraq. Life for Kurds in the Middle East was even harsher than for Europe's Romani, often with no security for even the most basic rights. With Iraq's economy devastated by sanctions, conditions had only worsened.
On the darkened deck, Ulrich smoked with the captain, a man named Renault. Due to orders from above, the smuggling crew was more relaxed around Ulrich's team, leading Renault to share openly.
"Since the Cold War ended, smuggling has become a booming business," Renault said. "But the Middle East to France isn't the best route. Do you know why, John?"
Ulrich's alias on this mission was John. He shook his head, "Why?"
"First, Middle Easterners don't make the best workers, often due to religious customs."
"Then why are you doing it?" Ulrich asked.
Renault's gaze turned shrewd. "Because once they arrive, they won't be free to do as they please. If someone slacks off, the whip works wonders." He paused, then continued, "France has been tough on illegal immigration lately, making smuggling harder."
Lighting another cigarette, Renault said, "The best route now is from Eastern Europe to Western Europe. Eastern Europeans blend in better with Westerners and work harder than people from Africa or the Middle East. Many governments, like Germany's, practically welcome them as cheap labor. Asia's another potential line, but it's too far. But Asians are hard workers—I'd love to take that route if I had a way in."
Ulrich smiled, noting this down, and they chatted a while longer before heading to the dining area.
Then came the task of feeding the passengers in the lower hold.
Ulrich and his two companions volunteered to help, sparing the smugglers from the unpleasant duty.
Six or seven men carried buckets of rice and water to the lower hold. As they opened the
door, a nauseating stench greeted them.
The smugglers banged on the buckets, summoning the shadowy figures to receive food. While it would have been easier to leave the food behind, this way, they ensured everyone was fed and none died of hunger or thirst.
These were labor assets, after all, and the smugglers needed them alive.
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