Chapter 2086 - 853: New Mexicans~_4

He turned around and looked at those old brothers.

"We fight our way in."

6:30 PM, Jerusalem, Prime Minister's Office.

Shamir looked at the war report just delivered, his hand steady.

"Chechens have broken into Safed?"

Moses' voice came through the phone, hoarse like sandpaper.

"Yes. Over thirty people, they've rushed in. There are civilians in the city."

Shamir was silent for three seconds.

Then he said:

"Tell the Golan Brigade, at all costs, keep them out of the city."

"They're already in the city."

Shamir closed his eyes.

He knew what that meant.

If those Chechens opened fire in the city, killing civilians, the whole world would see it. If the whole world saw it, then Hezbollah, Hamas, Syrians, Iranians—all would see an opportunity.

"Moses."

"Yes."

"Get them out of the city. Use shelling."

Moses was stunned.

"Shelling? There are still civilians in the city—"

"I know." Shamir interrupted him, "But if we don't shell, those people will kill more in the city."

There was silence on the other end of the line.

Three seconds later, Moses said:

"Understood."

6:45 PM, Safed.

Ramzan stood on a narrow street, with stone houses on both sides, the windows all shut, doors all locked.

The street was empty.

But he knew there were eyes watching him from behind those windows.

"Ramzan," a brother said, "there's movement ahead."

He raised his gun.

A rumbling voice came from afar.

Not tanks—but planes?

He looked up.

There were several small black dots in the sky, getting bigger.

When the shells fell, he didn't hear a sound.

He only saw a flash of white light, and then everything disappeared.

7:00 PM, Mexico City, Northern Prison.

Bennett walked into the interrogation room.

Volkov and Natasha were still sitting there, one crying, one tearing, but neither speaking.

Bennett sat down opposite Volkov.

"Your daughter is here," he said. "Can you tell what needs to be said now?"

Volkov looked up.

He looked at Bennett, looked at Natasha, looked at the closed door.

Then he spoke:

"Sergei Ivanov is not the real boss."

Bennett squinted his eyes.

"What?"

Volkov looked at him.

"He's the front. The real person is hidden behind. That person—"

He paused.

"That person is called Victor Petrovich. The former deputy of the KGB chairman Kryuchkov. After the Soviet Union collapsed, he took over the overseas assets of the KGB."

Bennett's hand froze in mid-air.

"Where is he?"

Volkov shook his head.

"I don't know. No one knows. He only makes contact through phone. We call him—the 'Principal'."

Bennett was silent for three seconds.

Then he asked:

"Who funded Joshua Ben-David?"

Volkov looked at him.

"The 'Principal.'

"Who placed those four boxes?"

"The 'Principal.'"

"Who sent those Chechens into Europe?"

"The 'Principal.'"

Bennett stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the night sky of Mexico City was dark, the stars bright.

"Where is he?" he asked again.

Volkov shook his head.

"I really don't know."

Bennett turned around.

He looked at Volkov, looked at Natasha, at those two similar faces.

"Your daughter," he said, "she can stay."

Volkov was stunned.

"Stay?"

Bennett nodded.

"The Mexican Government will grant her political asylum. She can live here, work, marry. As long as what you said is true."

Volkov's tears fell once again.

He looked at Natasha.

Natasha looked at him too.

The fog seemed to clear.

8:00 PM, Moscow's suburbs, that villa.

The Boss stood at the window, looking at the pitch-black night outside.

The phone rang.

He picked it up.

The voice on the other end was that of a young man.

"Boss, the Chechens are dead."

The Boss nodded.

"I know."

"The Israelis shelled them. Over thirty people, all dead."

The Boss was silent for three seconds.

Then he asked:

"What about Volkov?"

The young man's voice paused.

"He's talking."

The Boss knocked lightly on the window frame.

"Talking about what?"

"Saying he doesn't know who the Boss is. Saying the Principal is the front. Saying—

"Enough."

The Boss interrupted him.

He hung up the phone.

Outside the window, the snow had stopped.

The sky was very dark, very still, as if nothing had happened.

But he knew, something had changed.

9:00 PM, Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

Victor looked at the interrogation records just sent from the Northern Prison.

Every word Volkov said was on this piece of paper.

He put the paper down.

Bramo stood beside him.

"Victor, the 'Principal'—"

"I know." Victor interrupted him.

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma had lessened, only a few taxis occasionally driving by, their headlights casting long shadows on the road.

"That Volkov," he spoke, "where is his daughter?"

Bramo paused for a moment.

"In the Northern Prison. With him."

Victor nodded.

"Let her stay."

Bramo looked at him.

"Victor, that's Volkov's daughter—"

"I know." Victor interrupted him, "But Volkov told the truth. The one who tells the truth deserves a reward."

He turned around.

"Arrange a job for her with Bennett. Translator, clerk, anything will do. Don't let her return to Moscow."

Bramo nodded.

"And," Victor said, "call Shamir. Tell him—"

He paused.

"Tell him that the person in Moscow is not the real boss. Tell him we still have a battle to fight."