Chapter 2083 - 853: New Mexicans

March 25, 1998, 9 PM, outskirts of Moscow, that villa.

The fire in the fireplace burned fiercer than during the day, but the Boss sat in that large chair and his back was still cold.

The news of Volkov's capture arrived twenty minutes ago.

He took a sip of vodka; the liquid slid down his throat like an icy line.

"Boss," the person standing in the shadows spoke. He was a young man, just over thirty, with a skinny face and protruding cheekbones, small yet bright eyes like two thumbtacks pinned to the wall, "The Mexicans didn't interrogate him."

The Boss tapped his fingers on the rim of the glass.

"Didn't interrogate?"

"Didn't interrogate. Just locked him up directly."

The Boss remained silent for three seconds.

Then he laughed.

The laugh was light, like a breeze over snowy ground.

"Bennett," he said the name, "Victor's dog. He knows I'll go."

The young man didn't speak.

The Boss stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, Moscow's night sky was as dark as a pot; the snow was still falling, densely, turning into pools of water stains on the window glass.

"Volkov followed me for twenty-three years," he said, "The things he knows could fill a book."

The young man stepped closer.

"Should we handle it?"

The Boss didn't turn around.

"Handle it how? The Mexican's prison, my people can't get in."

The young man was silent for two seconds.

Then he said:

"He has a daughter."

The Boss turned around.

"Where is she?"

"Saint Petersburg. With her mom. His ex-wife."

The Boss's eyes narrowed.

"Does he know?"

The young man shook his head.

"He doesn't know. He thinks his daughter and her mom died in Chechnya."

The Boss walked back to the chair and sat down.

"Tell her her dad is still alive. Tell her the Mexicans took her dad. Tell her—"

He paused.

"Let her go find Bennett."

The young man hesitated.

"Boss, doesn't that mean—"

"Mean what?" The Boss interrupted him, "Mean sending her to die?"

He picked up his glass and took a sip.

"Volkov will talk. No matter what we do, he will talk. That kind of person won't last three days."

He set the glass down.

"But after he talks, then what? Will the Mexicans believe?"

He looked at the young man.

"If at this moment, his daughter suddenly appears, crying out that her dad is innocent, saying we're the real villains—what do you think the Mexicans will do?"

The young man didn't speak.

The Boss answered for him:

"They'll think what Volkov said isn't necessarily the truth. They'll think there's more to it. They'll think—"

He laughed.

"They'll wait."

He stood up and walked to the window.

"Waiting is the best delay. Delay one day, the Syrians get one more day to prepare. Delay two days, Hezbollah gets two more days to replenish. Delay three days, that Mexican's opponents in his own Congress will come out."

He turned around.

"This is called using a living piece to break a deadlock."

10 PM, Saint Petersburg, Vasily Island, an old residential building.

Natasha Volkova sat in the kitchen, staring at the bowl of cold soup on the table.

She was twenty-two, slim, pale, with short hair cut like a boy. Her eyes were large but her gaze always wandered, as if seeing everything through a veil.

Her mother died of cancer three years ago. Her father—she'd never met him. Her mother said he died in Chechnya, during the war.

She believed it.

But now someone told her he wasn't dead.

The person standing at the door, skinny, with protruding cheekbones, thumbtack-like eyes, dressed in a black down coat, face reddened by the cold.

"Your dad is alive," he said.

Natasha looked at him and didn't speak.

"The Mexicans captured him. He's confined in Mexico City."

She still didn't speak.

The young man took out a photo from his pocket and handed it to her.

The photo depicted a man in his fifties, unkempt beard, wearing an old military uniform, standing in front of a villa.

"Recognize him?"

Natasha looked at the photo.

The man's eyes were like hers. Big, wandering, seeing everything as if through a veil.

Her fingers trembled slightly.

"He..." Her voice was hoarse, "He's not dead?"

The young man nodded.

"Not dead. But he's about to die. The Mexicans want to kill him."

Natasha raised her head.

"Why?"

The young man looked at her.

"Because he knows some things."

He paused.

"Do you know what kind of person he is?"

Natasha shook her head.

The young man was silent for two seconds.

Then he said:

"He's a bad person. Killed many. Trafficked drugs, smuggled arms, caused countless deaths. The Mexicans caught him rightly."

Natasha was stunned.

"Then you—"

"I want you to go to Mexico," the young man interrupted her.

"Go tell the Mexicans you don't know anything about your dad's affairs. Tell them you're innocent. Beg them—to spare his life."

Natasha looked at him.

"Why?"

The young man stepped closer.

"Because your dad, though bad, still has a bit of humanity. For these twenty-three years, every month he sent money to your mom. The money for her medical treatment, your schooling—all came from him."

Natasha's hands began to tremble.

"I thought... that was..."

"That was my concoction," the young man interrupted her, "Your mom and I made it up. She didn't want you to know that the person she hated all her life was actually supporting her."

He stepped back.

"Now you know the truth. You decide for yourself."

He turned and headed for the door.

At the door, he paused.

"The ticket is on the table. Tomorrow morning at nine, Sheremetyevo Airport, a flight to Mexico City. Someone will meet you there."

The door closed.

Natasha stood in the kitchen, staring at the ticket on the table.