Chapter 2066 - 849: The Situation Is a Complete Mess

March 21, 1998, 2 a.m., the villa on the outskirts of Moscow.

Volkov had been standing in the living room for three hours.

The man in the old-fashioned military uniform said nothing further, just sat in the large chair, drinking vodka sip by sip. The fire in the fireplace crackled brightly, but Volkov's back was drenched in cold sweat.

He had known this man for twenty-three years.

Since the Soviet Union era, this man was his "Boss." Back then, the Boss was still young, wearing a KGB uniform, going in and out of the Moscow headquarters, with everyone bowing and scraping to him. After the Soviet Union collapsed, the Boss disappeared for five years. When he reappeared, he had become the true owner of the "Black Sea Wolf."

Not the front, but the owner.

Volkov knew how many people he had killed—at least three figures. He knew how much money he had—enough to buy a small country. He knew how many connections he had—from Moscow to Washington, from Beijing to London, he had people everywhere.

But he never knew what the Boss was thinking.

"Volkov."

The Boss finally spoke.

Volkov shivered.

"Come and sit."

Volkov walked over and sat down in the chair opposite.

The Boss poured him a glass of vodka, pushing it to him.

"How many years have you been with me?"

Volkov thought for a moment.

"Twenty-three years."

The Boss nodded.

"Twenty-three years. Long enough."

He lifted his glass, taking a sip.

"That African, how long have you known him?"

Volkov knew he was talking about Black Mamba.

"A year and a half."

The Boss nodded again.

"A year and a half. He dares to risk his life for you. Twenty-three years, and you don't even dare to say where he is."

Volkov's hand trembled slightly.

"Boss, I'm not—"

"You're not what?"

The Boss looked at him, eyes calm like a stagnant pool.

"Volkov, you've been with me for twenty-three years, you should know what I hate the most."

Volkov lowered his head.

"I know."

"Say it."

"Betrayal."

The Boss smiled.

A light smile, like wind sweeping across the snow.

"You're not betrayal. You don't dare. That makes me despise you more than betrayal."

He stood up, walking to the fireplace.

"That African, he's smarter than you. He knows if he talks about where my people are, he won't live. So he stays quiet. He's not protecting me, he's protecting his own life."

He turned around.

"And you? Why did you come back? To protect your own life?"

Volkov didn't speak.

The Boss took a step closer.

"Volkov, do you know where those Chechens are now?"

Volkov shook his head.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" The Boss squinted his eyes, "You sent them into Europe. You don't know where they are now?"

Volkov's hand started shaking again.

"Boss, I only handled the sending. The reception was Hendrick and Scorpion—"

"Hendrick and Scorpion?"

The Boss interrupted him, sneering.

"Those two errand boys? You think they're of any use?"

He walked back to the chair, sitting down.

"Volkov, I'll give you a chance."

Volkov lifted his head.

"Within three days, find those Chechens. Then tell me where they are."

Volkov was stunned.

"Boss, that's three hundred people—"

"Three hundred." The Boss nodded, "Three hundred people who've fought in Chechnya, scattered across Europe. They have no leader, no money, no direction. But they have guns, knives, and the skill to kill."

He looked at Volkov.

"Do you know what three hundred people like that can do?"

Volkov said nothing.

The Boss answered for him:

"They can blow up half of Europe."

March 21, 9 a.m., London, Thames River Police Headquarters.

Graham sat in his office, with three reports spread out before him.

The first came from Italy: last night the Bari police discovered seven Chechens in an abandoned warehouse. Six adults, one child. All dead. Gunshots. Execution style.

The second came from France: Marseille police intercepted a truck with twelve Chechens hidden inside. Five men, seven women. All arrested, under interrogation.

The third came from Germany: Frankfurt Airport, three people with Syrian passports were stopped at border control, fingerprint results showed—Chechens. Under interrogation.

Three reports, twenty-two individuals.

Another two hundred seventy-eight to go.

He pushed the reports aside, rubbing his eyes.

Ellis pushed the door open.

"There's news from Greece."

Graham looked up.

"Speak."

"Black Mamba still won't say where Volkov is. They can hold him for at most another twenty-four hours."

Graham stood, walking to the window.

Outside, the surface of the Thames River was a dull gray, a few barges floating by.

"Twenty-four hours."

He murmured.

"And after twenty-four hours?"

Ellis said nothing.

Graham turned back.

"Tell the Greeks, before they hand Black Mamba over to the International Criminal Police Organization, show him something else."

Ellis hesitated for a moment.

"What?"

Graham took a photo from the drawer, handing it to him.

The photo showed the seven dead Chechens in Bari. Adults and a child, lined up on the ground. Every forehead had a bullet hole in the center.

"Let him see. See what happens to the people he sends."

Black Mamba sat in the interrogation room, looking at the photo in front of him.

There was no expression on his face.

Graham sat across from him, staring into his eyes.

"Mr. Diawlo, do you know these people?"