Chapter 2068 - 849: The Situation Is a Mess

Bramo was stunned.

"Himself?"

"He killed those seven people to silence them. They knew too much. Alive, they would implicate him. Dead, there's no problem."

He turned around.

"But that child—he shouldn't have killed."

Bramo looked at him.

"I know." Victor interrupted him, "I've killed more people than he has."

He walked back to the table and glanced at the photograph.

"Tell Bennett to find Hendrick. Alive."

Bramo nodded.

Victor said, "Find those remaining Chechens. Tell them Hendrick killed their people."

Bramo hesitated.

"Tell them? That—"

"Let them take their own revenge," Victor interrupted him, "Let them go after Hendrick, let them kill him. We won't get involved."

He paused.

"It's called using a borrowed knife to kill."

2 AM, the Alps, a certain smuggling route.

The snow was heavy.

Tamara was at the front, trudging through snow up to her calves. Behind her were three people—a woman and two men, all of whom had fought with her in Chechnya.

They had been walking for six hours.

Over this mountain was Switzerland.

The guide was an Albanian, in his forties, with a face full of stubble, and he spoke little. He just walked without answering any questions. He would stop occasionally to wait for them to catch up.

Tamara didn't know his name, only that he was one of Hendrick's men.

Hendrick.

Whenever she thought of that name, something burned inside her.

Those seven. Six adults, one child.

She knew them. The child was named Ruslan, nine years old, the son of one of the couples. His father had died in the Chechen war, and his mother brought him out, staying in a refugee camp for half a year, and then they got on Black Mamba's boat.

Now they were all dead.

Who killed them?

Hendrick said he didn't know.

But she didn't believe him.

The Albanian guide stopped and glanced back at her.

"Ahead is the border. Over it, someone will meet you."

Tamara nodded.

They continued walking.

The snow fell heavier and heavier.

...

Graham hadn't slept all night.

Scattered over the desk were over a dozen reports. From Italy, France, Germany, Switzerland, Austria—all about the Chechens.

But each report contained only one sentence: "No target found."

Those people had vanished as if into thin air.

Ellis pushed open the door and entered.

"There's news from Greece."

Graham looked up.

"Speak."

"Black Mamba has been handed over to the International Criminal Police Organization. Before leaving, he had the translator deliver a message."

Graham waited.

"He said: 'Tell that British man, Volkov is in Moscow.'

Graham was taken aback.

"Moscow?"

Ellis nodded.

"Moscow."

Graham stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the surface of the Thames River was gray and murky, with a few barges floating by.

"Why would he tell us that?"

Ellis thought for a moment.

"Maybe he no longer wants to protect that person."

Graham shook his head.

"It's not that he doesn't want to protect him. It's that he can't protect him."

He turned around.

"That Volkov, why did he run back?"

March 22, 1998, 2 PM, a villa in the suburbs of Moscow.

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

The Boss was sitting in a chair, holding a glass of vodka, his expression very calm.

"Black Mamba spoke."

Volkov's hand trembled slightly.

"What did he say?"

The Boss looked at him.

"He said you're in Moscow."

Volkov was stunned.

"He—how could he—"

"Why couldn't he?" the Boss interrupted, "He protected you for three days, that's enough. After three days, he has to protect his own life."

Volkov lowered his head.

The Boss stood up and walked in front of him.

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

Volkov said nothing.

The Boss looked at him.

"Answer me."

Volkov raised his head.

"Betrayal."

The Boss nodded.

"Yes. Betrayal."

He reached out and patted Volkov on the shoulder.

"But you haven't betrayed me. You've just been sold out."

Volkov was stunned.

"Boss—"

"That's why you're still alive."

The Boss turned around, walked back to his chair, and sat down.

"Now, tell me, where are those Chechens?"

Volkov shook his head.

"I really don't know."

The boss looked at him.

"You don't know?"

Volkov nodded.

"Really don't know."

The boss was silent for a few seconds.

Then he laughed.

Laughed softly.

"Volkov, do you know why you've followed me for twenty-three years and remain just a runner?"

Volkov said nothing.

"Because you never know what others are thinking."

He stood up and walked to the window.

"Those Chechens, they're in the Alps now. Someone is guiding them towards Switzerland. The guide is an Albanian found by Hendrick."

Volkov was stunned.

"How—How do you know?"

The boss didn't turn around.

"Because I had someone watch Hendrick."

Four o'clock in the afternoon, Alps, Switzerland side.

Tamara stood on the ridge, looking at the plain at the foot of the mountain.

On the plain was a small town, the spire of a church glinting in the sunlight. Outside the town was a road, with cars running on it, very small, like ants.

"Switzerland," the Albanian guide said.

Tamara looked at the plain, stared for a long time.

Then she asked:

"Where is our contact?"

The Albanian pointed down the mountain.

"In the town. There's a person driving a white van. He'll take you to the next place."

Tamara nodded.

They started to descend the mountain.

After walking for an hour, they reached the foot of the mountain.

The town was small, just a single street with dozens of houses. There weren't many people on the street, occasionally a car would pass by, slowly driving away, disappearing into the distance.

The white van was parked in front of a house.

Tamara walked over.

The window rolled down, revealing a face.

It was a young man, in his twenties, blonde-haired with blue eyes, speaking English with a German accent.

"Tamara?"

Tamara nodded.

The young man opened the car door.

"Get in."

Tamara got in the car. The other three also got in.

The door closed, the van started, driving out of the town.

Tamara watched the rapidly retreating scenery outside the window and asked:

"Where are we going?"

The young man didn't turn around.

"Germany."

Outside Munich, a warehouse.

The white van stopped at the entrance of the warehouse.

Tamara got out of the car.

Inside the warehouse, someone was waiting.

It was a man in his forties, bald, with a full face of hard lines, speaking German with a Turkish accent.

"Tamara?"

Tamara nodded.

The man pointed inside the warehouse.

"There are beds, water, food inside. Rest for now. Tomorrow, someone will come to take you away."

Tamara looked at him.

"Where to?"

The man shook his head.

"Don't know. I'm only responsible for the pickup."

Tamara was silent for a few seconds.

Then she led the three people into the warehouse.

The warehouse was dark, with only one lamp hanging overhead. The ground was covered with several dirty mattresses, and a few cardboard boxes were piled in the corner, containing bottled water and bread.

Tamara sat down on a mattress.

The three others also sat down.

No one spoke.

After a long time, the smallest woman began to speak. Her name was Mariam, twenty-two years old, had fought for two years in Chechnya.

"Tamara, how much longer do we have to go?"

Tamara didn't answer.

She didn't know.

Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

Victor stood at the window, looking at the night view of Mexico City outside.

Bramo stood behind him.

"Mr. Victor, there's news from Bennett."

Victor didn't turn around.

"Speak."

"Hendrick is in Rome. He met five groups of Chechens, each group with four people. Those people are now divided into five teams heading north. One team entered Switzerland, one entered Austria, one entered France, and two are still in Italy."

Victor turned around.

"He's helping them escape?"

Bramo nodded.

"He's tidying up for Black Mamba. Those people are useful alive. Dead, they're worthless."

Victor was silent for a few seconds.

Then he asked:

"The woman—Tamara—where is she?"

Bramo looked at the report in his hand.

"Germany, outside Munich."

Victor nodded.

"Tell Bennett to find her. Then tell her, Hendrick is in Rome."

Bramo paused.

"Tell her? Then—"

"Let her go find him," Victor interrupted, "Let her ask who killed that child."

He paused.

"If she asks, and Hendrick did it, she'll handle it herself."