Chapter 2065 - 848: You Only Get One Life

Volkov nodded.

"I know."

"What are you planning to do?"

Volkov looked out the window.

"Disappear."

March 20, 1998, 2:00 a.m., Priština Airport.

Volkov stood on the runway, looking at the unmarked transport plane.

Cheku stood beside him.

"You're leaving?"

Volkov nodded.

"The Black Mamba was caught. I'm next."

Cheku was silent for a few seconds.

"What about me?"

Volkov turned around and looked at him.

"You have two options. The first, keep fighting. The second, surrender."

Cheku was stunned.

"Surrender?"

Volkov nodded.

"Surrender. Hand over your weapons, stand trial, do a few years in prison, then get out. Or—"

He didn't finish.

Cheku looked at him.

"Or what?"

Volkov didn't answer.

He turned and boarded the plane.

The cabin door closed.

The engines started.

The plane slid into the night.

Cheku stood on the runway, watching the plane get smaller and smaller, until it finally disappeared into the horizon.

He didn't know how long he stood there.

At dawn, he turned and walked back.

Back at the command center, he told his deputy:

"Contact NATO. Tell them I want to negotiate."

March 20, 1998, 9:00 a.m., Athens Police Station.

The Black Mamba sat in the interrogation room, looking at the Brit opposite him.

Graham was also looking at him.

"Mr. Diawlo, we've been talking for twelve hours. You've said a lot, but there's one person you haven't mentioned."

The Black Mamba said nothing.

Graham took a step closer.

"Volkov."

The Black Mamba's eyes moved slightly.

"Where is he?"

The Black Mamba shook his head.

"I don't know."

Graham stared at him.

"You don't know?"

The Black Mamba looked back at him.

"I don't know."

Graham was silent for a few seconds.

Then he stood up and walked to the door.

"Mr. Diawlo, you can't protect him."

He pushed the door open and walked out.

The Black Mamba sat there, looking at the closed door.

He knew Graham was right.

Volkov couldn't be protected.

But he also knew that if he revealed where Volkov was, he'd be the next to die.

Volkov's people would find him, no matter where he was, no matter who was watching him, they would find him and make him die more miserably than those Chechens.

He closed his eyes.

The face of that three-year-old child appeared again in his mind.

March 20, 1998, 2:00 p.m., Rome, Ministry of Internal Affairs.

Conti looked at the latest interrogation record sent from Athens, tapping his fingers on the table.

"The Black Mamba still refuses to say where Volkov is."

The secretary stood beside him.

"Minister, the Greeks say they can hold him for no more than forty-eight hours. After forty-eight hours, they'll have to hand him over to the International Criminal Police Organization."

Conti nodded.

"Tell the Greeks, forty-eight hours is enough."

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, Rome's sky was very blue, and the sun was shining brightly.

"That Volkov, he can't have gotten far."

March 20, 1998, 7:00 p.m., Mexico City, Feathered Serpent Temple top floor.

Victor looked at the latest news from Athens.

"The Black Mamba still won't say where Volkov is."

He put the news down.

Bramo stood beside him.

"Mr. Victor, could Volkov have already escaped?"

Victor shook his head.

"He can't escape."

Bramo was puzzled for a moment.

"Why?"

Victor looked at him.

"Because someone is watching him."

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, Mexico City's night sky was very dark, and the stars were very bright.

"Bennett's people have been watching him for three days."

Bramo was stunned.

"What?"

Victor turned around.

"He boarded a plane at Priština Airport. The plane flew north. Destination—Moscow."

Bramo's face changed.

"Moscow? That's—"

"Russia," Victor interrupted him, "the true boss of the 'Black Sea Wolf' is in Russia."

He walked back to his desk and sat down.

"Tell Bennett not to touch him. Let him go back."

Bramo was puzzled for a moment.

"Let him go back? Then he—"

"When he goes back, he'll lead us to the true boss."

Victor looked at him.

"The Black Mamba is just a deliveryman. Volkov is a receiver. The real boss is the one who pays them."

He paused for a moment.

"That person is in Moscow."

March 20, 1998, 9:00 p.m., outside Moscow, a villa.

Volkov stood in the living room, looking at the man opposite him.

The man was over sixty, with graying hair, wearing an old military uniform, sitting in a large chair, holding a glass of vodka.

"Volkov," the man began, "why did you come back?"

Volkov lowered his head.

"Boss, the Black Mamba was caught."

The man nodded.

"I know."

Volkov was stunned.

"You know?"

The man looked at him.

"Of course, I know."

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, Moscow's night sky was very dark, and it was still snowing.

"That African, he thinks he's playing a big game. But he doesn't know he's just a pawn on the board."

He turned around.

"Now the pawn is taken. The game must go on."

Volkov looked at him.

"Boss, what should we do next?"

The man was silent for a few seconds.

Then he spoke:

"Wait."

Volkov was stunned.

"Wait?"

The man nodded.

"Wait for someone to take the pawn's place."

March 20, 1998, 11:00 p.m., Athens Police Station.

The Black Mamba lay on the floor of the interrogation room, unable to sleep.

He stared at the ceiling light, the light that had been on all day.

He thought of that three-year-old child.

Diego Espinosa.

He didn't know what the child looked like, only that he was burned to death, thrown on a tire and burned.

He didn't stop it.

He watched from the side.

Just like Sinopiquiar.

The door opened.

The Brit walked in.

Graham stood in the doorway, looking at him.

"Mr. Diawlo, you have one last chance."

The Black Mamba said nothing.

Graham took a step closer.

"Where is Volkov?"

The Black Mamba closed his eyes.

"I don't know."

Graham was silent for a few seconds.

Then he turned and walked out.

The door closed.

The Black Mamba opened his eyes.

He looked at the light for a long time.

Then he laughed.

He laughed softly.

"Boss," he murmured, "I protected you."