Chapter 2080 - 852: A Cage of People, Awaiting Its Master_2

Shamir turned around.

"Fight until no one dares to attack us from the north."

Ross stared at him.

"Do you know what's being said outside? They say you want to annex Southern Lebanon, say you want to take the Litani River, say you want—"

"That's what they say." Shamir interrupted him, "What I am saying is that the Syrian army is gathering on the Golan Heights. What I am saying is that those disembarked from the 'Black Mamba' ship are now in Syrian uniforms, waiting to press down from the north. What I am saying is—"

He paused.

"The one in Moscow is waiting for us to clash with the Syrians."

Ross was stunned.

"Moscow?"

Shamir nodded.

"You've told Victor about the direction of the funding flow. What did he say?"

Ross was silent for two seconds.

"He said he knew."

Shamir waited for more.

"That's it?"

Ross nodded.

"That's it."

Shamir sneered.

"Of course he knew. Now he doesn't have to do anything, just watch us fight the Syrians. Once we're exhausted and worn down, he'll come out to clean up the situation."

He walked back to his desk and picked up the battle report.

"Tell Victor, I have something to show him."

8 AM, Mexico City, atop the 'Feathered Serpent Temple'

Victor looked at the encrypted file that had arrived from Jerusalem on the screen.

It was a video.

The quality was poor, shaky, like it was recorded on a cellphone. The footage depicted a basement, dimly lit, with several maps hanging on the walls. A man sat in front of the camera, wearing a black mask that only revealed his eyes.

"Mr. Victor," the man began, speaking in Russian with a heavy accent, "I am called Volkov. You may have heard of me."

Victor tapped his fingers on the table.

Volkov. A man from the 'Black Sea Wolf'. The contact for Black Mamba. The guy who vanished from Priština Airport.

"I know your people are looking for me." Volkov continued, "I also know there has been a misunderstanding between you and the Squid Man recently."

He paused.

"Those four boxes weren't placed by the Squid Man, nor by your people. It was me who did it."

Victor squinted his eyes.

"Do you want to know why?"

Volkov leaned back.

"Because someone asked me to do it. That person is in Moscow. That person paid me to place the boxes on your ship, then notify the Squid Man. That person wants you and the Squid Man to fight."

He laughed.

His laugh was very light.

"That person is also waiting now for the Syrians and the Squid Man to clash. When you're all worn out, he'll come out— to clean up the situation."

The video ended here.

Victor turned off the screen.

Bramo stood beside him.

"Victor, is this true?"

Victor didn't answer.

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma had already started to jam. Someone was honking, someone was cursing, someone was sticking their head out of a car window, looking in the direction of the National Palace.

"That Volkov," he began, "where is he?"

Bramo shook his head.

"I don't know. This video was sent through encrypted channels, the source is untraceable."

Victor was silent for a few seconds.

Then he turned around.

"Call Shamir. Tell him, I watched the video. Tell him—"

He paused.

"Tell him, I owe him one."

9 AM, north bank of the Litani River, suburbs of Tyre

Ben Abraham leaned against a battered armored car, chewing on a hardtack.

Tyre was just five kilometers ahead. The outline of the ancient city emerged from the morning mist, the Mediterranean sunlight reflecting on the sea's surface, shimmering beautifully like a postcard.

But there were no gunshots in the postcard.

The adjutant ran over.

"Brigade commander, orders from above— halt the advance."

Ben Abraham was taken aback.

"Halt?"

The adjutant nodded.

"The Chief of Staff said to wait for new orders."

Ben Abraham put away the hardtack.

"What about the brothers?"

"Casualties— twenty-three more."

He nodded.

"Let the brothers rest. Rotate the watch every half hour."

The adjutant left.

Ben Abraham leaned back against the armored car again, looking at the city to the north.

He didn't know why the order to halt came.

But he knew one thing—

Stopping is harder than fighting.

10 AM, Damascus, Syrian Ministry of Defense

Minister of Defense of Syria, Mustafa Talas, stood in front of a massive sandbox, looking at the area in Southern Lebanon covered with little squid flags.

His Chief of Staff stood by his side.

"General, the Squid Man has stopped."

Talas nodded.

"I know."

"What should we do? Continue to attack?"

Talas was silent for a few seconds.

Then he turned around, looking at the man standing in the shadows.

The man was in his forties, dressed in civilian clothes, his face expressionless. He wasn't Syrian, nor was he Arab. He was Russian.

"Mr. Volkov, what do you think?"

Volkov stepped out of the shadows and stood in front of the sandbox.

He looked at those little squid flags, at the blue arrows representing the Syrian army, at the blue line running in between.

"General Talas," he began, speaking fluent Russian, "how long do you think the Squid Man will stop?"

Talas said nothing.

Volkov answered for him:

"No more than forty-eight hours."

He looked up.

"Once they have rested enough, they will continue to push north. Push to Tyre, push to Sidon, push to Beirut. Then what?"

He pointed at the map.

"Then, your army is still waiting on the Golan Heights. Your people are still watching at the border. If you do nothing, the whole world will say, Syria is afraid."