Chapter 2084 - 853: New Mexican

March 26, 1998, 10:00 AM, Mexico City, Northern Prison.

Bennett sat in the interrogation room, opposite an empty chair.

He waited for twenty minutes.

The door opened. Volkov was brought in, handcuffed, with no injuries on his face—Bennett had instructed not to touch him.

Volkov sat in the chair, looking at Bennett.

"Are you Bennett?"

Bennett nodded.

Volkov laughed. ℯℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

The laugh was bitter.

"I thought you'd beat me up first."

Bennett said nothing.

He stood up, walked over to Volkov, took a photo out of his pocket, and placed it on the table.

The photo was of a young woman. Short hair, big eyes, thin.

Volkov looked at the photo, and his hand started to shake.

"Who is this?"

His voice was hoarse.

Bennett looked at him.

"Your daughter."

Volkov was stunned.

"My daughter... is dead..."

Bennett shook his head.

"She's not dead. She's alive. In Saint Petersburg. Someone went to see her yesterday, told her you were alive. Told her you'd been captured by Mexicans. Told her—"

He paused.

"To come to Mexico to find you."

Volkov's tears fell.

"Who... who sent her?"

Bennett didn't answer.

He just looked at him.

Volkov closed his eyes.

He knew who it was.

The Boss.

"He wants to use her..." Volkov murmured, "He wants to use her to make me keep quiet..."

Bennett still said nothing.

Volkov opened his eyes.

"Where is she?"

"On her way. She'll arrive this afternoon."

Volkov was silent for three seconds.

Then he looked up at Bennett.

"I'll tell you everything."

11:00 AM, Jerusalem, Prime Minister's Office.

Shamir looked at the newly arrived battle report.

The 91st Division has retreated to the south bank of the Litani River. Casualties: one hundred seventy-three killed, over four hundred wounded. On Hezbollah's side, at least nine hundred dead.

He put the battle report down.

Ross stood in front of him.

"Shamir, the White House is asking you, what next?"

Shamir stood up, walked to the window.

Outside, the Golden Dome Mosque of the Temple Mount shimmered in the sunlight. But today, that light seemed a bit glaring, like a knife.

"Mr. Ross," he began, "do you know who placed those four boxes in Tyre?"

Ross shook his head.

Shamir turned around.

"It was that person. The person in Moscow. He wants me to believe, Hezbollah has dirty bombs. He wants me to keep fighting."

He returned to his desk and picked up another piece of intelligence.

"But this intelligence says, those four boxes are empty."

Ross was stunned.

"Empty?"

Shamir nodded.

"Empty. Only the shell, nothing inside. Hezbollah had no idea what those boxes were."

He put the intelligence down.

"That person wants me to fight to Tyre, discover empty boxes, and then what? Then the whole world would say, the Squid Man is spreading rumors. The Squid Man wants to expand the war."

He paused.

"Then, the Syrians would press down from the Golan Heights."

Ross's expression changed.

"Then you—"

"I stop." Shamir interrupted him, "I withdraw. I let the whole world see, the Squid Man is not a warmonger. The Squid Man is just defending itself."

He walked to the window.

"When the Syrians move, I'll attack again."

12:00 PM, Golan Heights, Syrian army assembly area.

The Chechens mixed in with the Syrian soldiers, wearing Syrian army uniforms, speaking halting Arabic, but the faces were those faces.

The leader was in his forties, full of stubble, his eyes like knives. His name was Ramzan, he fought in Chechnya for five years, killed twenty-three Russian soldiers, now leading two hundred compatriots, waiting for a signal.

The signal hadn't come yet.

He stood by the trench, looking at the sun-bleached land to the south.

Over there is Israel. Over there are Jews. Over there are people he has never met but hated for half his life.

"Ramzan."

A young man ran over, panting.

"The people from Moscow have arrived."

Ramzan turned around.

The man stood at the trench entrance, thin, with prominent cheekbones, eyes like thumbtacks.

"Ramzan," the young man started, "the thing you've been waiting for has arrived."

1:00 PM, Mexico City, International Airport.

Natasha felt her legs buckle when she got off the plane.

She had been on a plane for twelve hours, over an entire night, across half the globe, now standing in a completely unfamiliar country, completely unfamiliar city, completely unfamiliar crowd.

There was a man standing at the arrivals gate.

In his forties, wearing a black jacket, his face expressionless.

"Natasha?"

She nodded.

The man turned and walked away.

She followed him through the crowded throngs, out of the terminal, and into a black van without license plates.

The car started.

She watched the scenery fly by outside the window. Skyscrapers, billboards, palm trees, and those Spanish signs she couldn't understand.

"Where to?" she asked.

The driver didn't answer.

She waited a long time.

Then the driver spoke:

"To see your father."

2:00 PM, Northern Prison.

Volkov sat in the interrogation room with a blank transcript spread in front of him.

Bennett sat opposite him, a translator standing nearby.

"Where should I start?" Volkov asked.

Bennett looked at him.

"Start from when you first met Sergei Ivanov."

Volkov was silent for three seconds.

Then he began.

"It was 1975. Leningrad. I was twenty, just enlisted. He was KGB, came to the troops to pick people. I was picked."

He paused.

"For the next twenty-three years, the things I did for him could fill ten books."