Chapter 2062 - 848: You Only Have One Life

Cheku looked at him.

"Why are you asking this?"

Volkov smiled.

"Because I need to know if you can do me a favor."

Cheku said nothing.

Volkov stepped closer.

"Three hundred Chechens, now scattered across Europe. I need someone to meet them. Give them a place to stay, give them food, give them—the route to continue north."

Cheku's eyes narrowed.

"Why ask me?"

Volkov looked at him.

"Because you have no other choice now."

Cheku stood up.

"You—"

"Calm down, General." Volkov interrupted him. "Your people are almost out of ammo, your soldiers are starving, your enemies are still waiting across from you. Your only way out now is to cooperate with me."

He paused.

"I'm not begging you. You're begging me."

Cheku stared at him, stared for a long time.

Then he sat back down.

"What do you want me to do?"

March 17, 1998, 7 PM, Barry Port.

By the time the ferry docked, it was completely dark.

Hendrick stood on the third-class deck, watching as the lights on the dock got closer.

Beside him stood a woman, in her thirties, with short-cropped hair and no expression on her face. Her name was Tamara, a Chechen, who had killed seventeen Russian soldiers on the battlefield.

"We've arrived," Hendrick said.

Tamara said nothing.

The boat docked firmly, the gangway lowered. Passengers began to disembark.

Hendrick was at the front, Tamara followed behind, separated by five or six people.

A few Italian police officers stood on the dock, lazily checking documents. They glanced at Hendrick's passport—fake, but extremely well-made—and waved him through.

Tamara's passport was the same.

Fifteen minutes later, all twenty people had passed through.

A van without plates was parked on the dock, its windows tinted dark.

Hendrick pulled open the door.

A man sat inside.

Scorpion.

"You've arrived," Scorpion said.

Hendrick nodded.

"Let's go."

The van started, driving into the Barry night.

March 17, 1998, 9 PM, Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

Victor looked at the intelligence just sent from Italy.

"Hendrick. Scorpion. Twenty Chechens. Barry Port."

He put the intelligence down.

Bramo stood nearby.

"Bennett's people said they went north. Might be heading to Rome, maybe Milan."

Victor stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the Mexico City night sky was pitch-black, the stars very bright.

"That Hendrick," he said, "is one of 'Black Mamba's' people."

Bramo nodded.

"He's been in Marseille, been in Liverpool, been in Greece. Now he's in Italy again."

Victor was silent for a few seconds.

"He's not running around to play."

He turned around.

"He's paving the way."

Bramo paused.

"Pave what way?"

Victor looked at him.

"Pave the way for 'Black Mamba' to come to Europe."

He returned to his desk and sat down.

"Tell Bennett to keep a close watch on Hendrick. Wherever he goes, we follow. If he meets with 'Black Mamba,' I want to know first."

Bramo nodded.

"Also," Victor said, "send Hendrick's intelligence to Graham."

Bramo paused.

"Send it to the British?"

Victor looked at him.

"The British are more anxious than we are now. They have Turner, Ivanov, all sorts of lines. Let them chase. If they catch up, we share the intelligence. If not—we don't lose."

March 17, 1998, 11 PM, outskirts of Rome, in an abandoned warehouse.

Hendrick stood in the center of the warehouse, looking at those twenty people.

Men and women, mixed. The oldest in their forties, the youngest just sixteen. Their faces expressionless, their eyes lifeless, standing there like twenty sticks.

"Do you know where you are?"

No one answered.

"This is Italy. Go north, it's Europe. Go east, it's the Balkans. Go south, it's the Mediterranean. Go wherever you want to go."

He paused.

"But there's one condition—"

He looked into their eyes.

"From today, you are not Chechens. You are Albanians, Syrians, Iraqis. Speak any language, just don't speak Chechen."

Tamara looked at him.

"Why?"

Hendrick stepped closer.

"Because being a Chechen means death."

Tamara said nothing.

Hendrick turned and walked to the door.

"Tomorrow morning, someone will come for you. What happens next is not my concern."

He pushed the door open, stepping into the night.

Scorpion followed behind him.

"Where's the Boss?" Scorpion asked.

Hendrick didn't turn back.

"He's not in Italy."

"Where?"

Hendrick paused.

He looked at the lights of Rome in the distance, silent for a few seconds.

"Greece."

March 18, 1998, 2 AM, outskirts of Athens, in an abandoned farmhouse.

Black Mamba sat on a broken chair, a map spread out before him.

The map marked a dozen spots. Each spot represented a hiding place for the Chechens. Barry, Brindisi, Taranto—Southern Italy was all red. Further north, Rome, Florence, Milan, also had a few points.

He picked up a pen and drew a circle around the Milan point.

Hendrick entered, pushing open the door.

"Boss."

Black Mamba looked up.

"Arrived?"

Hendrick nodded.

"Twenty people, all in Rome. Tomorrow morning, someone will pick them up."