Chapter 2087 - 853: New Mexican

10:00 PM, Jerusalem, Prime Minister's Office.

Shamir looked at the intelligence just sent from Mexico City.

"Principal." Deputy to the former chairman of the KGB. Took over overseas assets after the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Joshua's benefactor. Sender of the four boxes. Transporter of Chechens.

He put down the intelligence.

Ross stood in front of him.

"Shamir, do you believe it?"

Shamir didn't answer.

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the Golden Dome Mosque on Temple Mount shimmered silver in the moonlight. In the distance, towards the north, Safed was still burning, the fire faintly reflecting in the night sky.

"Mr. Ross," he began, "Have you heard of 'Principal'?"

Ross shook his head.

"No."

Shamir turned around.

"Neither have I."

He walked back to his desk and picked up the intelligence.

"But Volkov mentioned it. His daughter came. His daughter cried. His daughter—it's real."

He put down the intelligence.

"Tell Victor, I believe it."

Early morning, Safed.

The ruins were still smoking.

The windows of the stone houses were all shattered, the doors all collapsed, the streets littered with rubble and broken glass.

Israeli soldiers were clearing the scene.

They dragged bodies out from the ruins—Chechens', Israelis', and a few unidentifiable.

A young soldier squatted next to a body, looking at the face.

The face was youthful, in the early twenties, clean-shaven, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, as if sleeping.

The soldier looked for a long time.

Then he stood up and said to the person next to him:

"Bury him."

"Where?"

The soldier pointed to a clearing outside the city.

"Over there. No tombstone."

2:00 AM, outskirts of Moscow, that villa.

The boss wasn't asleep.

He sat in the large chair, holding a glass of vodka, the fire in the fireplace blazing, yet his back still felt cold.

The door opened.

The young man walked in.

"Boss, Volkov's daughter stayed."

The boss nodded.

"I know."

"The Mexicans arranged a job for her."

The boss nodded again.

"I know."

The young man was silent for two seconds.

Then he asked:

"What do we do?"

The boss stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, Moscow's night sky was dark, quiet, the snow had stopped long ago.

"Wait."

The young man was taken aback.

"Wait?"

The boss turned around.

"Wait for that 'Principal' to show up."

He smiled.

A very light smile.

"Wait for Volkov to say the name. Wait for Victor to find that person. When they do—"

He paused.

"We'll come out then."

3:00 AM, Mexico City, Northern Prison.

Natasha sat in a small room, gazing at the unfamiliar night sky outside the window.

She didn't know what to think.

Father is alive. Father is a bad man. Father killed many people. Father raised her for twenty-three years.

She remembered her mother's words before she died.

"Your dad... he's dead..."

That was a lie.

She remembered the words of the man standing at the door—thin, prominent cheekbones, eyes like tacks.

"Your dad may be bad, but he still has a bit of humanity."

Now she knew what that humanity was.

It was her.

The door opened.

Bennett walked in.

"Natasha, you can leave tomorrow."

She looked up.

"Where to?"

Bennett looked at her.

"The Mexican government has arranged a job for you. Translation. At the Immigration Bureau. Do it if you want, leave if you don't."

Natasha was silent for three seconds.

Then she asked:

"What about my dad?"

Bennett looked at her.

"He has to stay."

Natasha's hand trembled slightly.

"How long will he be sentenced?"

Bennett didn't answer.

He just looked at her.

Those eyes held no sympathy, no anger, nothing at all.

Natasha lowered her head.

"I understand."

Bennett turned and left.

The door closed.

She sat there, looking at the unfamiliar night sky outside the window.

In the distance, the lights on Paseo de la Reforma were still shining, flickering like scattered gold pieces.

She didn't know whether to cry or laugh.

She only knew one thing—

From today on, she was Mexican.