Chapter 2088 - 854: So Many Complications

March 27, 1998, 4:00 AM, Northern Prison, Mexico City.

The fluorescent lights in the corridor emitted a continuous buzzing sound, like a swarm of flies trapped in glass tubes.

Volkov leaned against the iron door of his cell, listening to the noises outside. He couldn't sleep.

His daughter was in one of the rooms downstairs, separated by three layers of concrete, but he could sense her presence. It was a strange feeling—seeing someone he hadn't seen for twenty-three years suddenly appear before him, and he didn't know what to think.

Footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor.

Not the jail guards. The guards walked clumsily, their soles scraping the concrete floor. These footsteps were light and steady, each step the same length.

The door opened.

Bennett stood at the entrance, holding a folder in his hand.

"Your daughter is asleep."

Volkov nodded.

"How much do you know about the Principal's matter?"

Volkov looked at him.

"I told you everything I know."

Bennett walked in and sat down across from him.

"Do you know what the person who came to find her looks like?"

Volkov was taken aback.

"Who?"

"The person who went to Saint Petersburg to find her. Thin, prominent cheekbones, small eyes. Do you know him?"

Volkov thought for a moment and shook his head.

"Never seen him."

Bennett opened the folder and pushed it in front of him.

Inside was a sketch drawn based on Natasha's description—thin face, high cheekbones, small eyes, eyes like nails.

Volkov stared at the face for a long time.

Then his expression changed.

"That person..."

"Recognize him?"

Volkov nodded.

"His name is Grisha. Sergei Ivanov's driver."

Bennett's eyes narrowed.

"Driver?"

"Yes. Followed Sergei for fifteen years. Wherever Sergei went, he followed. I thought he died in—"

He didn't finish.

Bennett finished for him:

"He's not dead. He went looking for your daughter. And then your daughter came to Mexico."

Volkov's hands began to tremble.

"He... is he the Principal's man?"

Bennett didn't answer.

He stood up and walked to the door.

"Volkov, your daughter coming to Mexico is no coincidence."

The door closed.

Volkov sat there, staring at the sketch, staring at the face, staring at those two eyes that looked like nails.

He remembered the last time Grisha appeared in front of him—a figure standing next to Sergei, head bowed, never speaking.

Now he knew why.

Grisha didn't speak because he was listening.

5:00 AM, Moscow outskirts, at the villa.

Grisha stood in the middle of the living room, in front of that wide chair.

The chair was empty.

The Boss was nowhere to be seen.

He stood there for ten minutes.

Then the phone rang.

He picked it up.

"Grisha."

It was the Boss's voice on the other end.

"I'm here."

"The Mexicans know about you."

Grisha paused for a moment.

"They sketched your face. Volkov recognized you."

Grisha was silent for two seconds.

"Should I disappear?"

The Boss chuckled.

"Disappear? No. Not only should you not disappear, but you need to go to Mexico City."

Grisha was stunned.

"Go to Mexico City?"

"Yes. Go tell them you're Grisha, Sergei's driver, and you know nothing. You went to Saint Petersburg to find Natasha because Sergei instructed, if anything happened to him, take care of her."

Grisha said nothing.

"Will they believe?"

"No, they won't," the Boss said, "but they'll think. Thinking leads to waiting. And waiting is enough for us."

The call ended.

Grisha stood there, looking at the dark night outside the window.

He knew the Boss was right.

But he also knew one thing—

Once in Mexico City, he might not come out.

7:00 AM, Mexico City, top floor of the Feathered Serpent Temple.

Victor hadn't slept all night.

The coffee cup on the table had been replaced four times, the ashtray filled twice, and the TV on the wall had been playing continuously—CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera, rotating the footage of Safed.

Ruins. Corpses. Crying women. Silent men.

He turned off the TV.

Bramo pushed the door open and entered.

"Victor, we've got information on Grisha."

Victor raised his head.

"Tell me."

"Grisha Voronov, forty-two, from Saint Petersburg. Joined Sergei Ivanov's company as a driver in 1990, worked for eight years. After Sergei disappeared, he also vanished. Three days ago, he suddenly appeared in Saint Petersburg, looking for Natasha. Then—"

"Then she came to Mexico."

Bramo nodded.

Victor stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma was already starting to get jammed. Someone was honking, someone was cursing, someone was sticking their head out of the car window looking towards the National Palace.

"What is he trying to do?"

Bramo said nothing.

Victor turned around.

"Where is that Grisha now?"

Bramo looked at the report in his hand.

"Still in Saint Petersburg. But this morning he bought a ticket—to Mexico City."

Victor's eyes narrowed.

"He's coming alone?"

"Yes. Alone. No entourage, no cover, openly bought a ticket."

Victor was silent for three seconds.

Then he laughed.

A cold laugh.

"The Principal's man is daring."

8:00 AM, Jerusalem, Prime Minister's office.

Shamir looked at the military report that had just been delivered.

The cleanup operation in Safed was complete. Thirty-seven Chechens, all dead. Israeli soldiers—twenty-one casualties. Civilians—twelve.

He set the report down.

Moses stood in front of him, face gray.

"Shamir, the domestic public opinion has exploded. Some say we reacted too slowly, some say we reacted too quickly, some say—"