Chapter 2090 - 854: So Many Problems_3

12:00 PM, Mexico City, International Airport.

Grisha was stepping off the plane under the blazing sun.

He squinted, adjusted to the unfamiliar light, and then followed the crowd towards the exit.

At the arrival gate, two men stood waiting.

Both wore black jackets, their faces expressionless.

"Grisha Voronov?"

Grisha nodded.

The two men flanked him on either side.

"Please come with us."

He didn't resist.

Once in the car, he asked:

"Where to?"

The driver didn't respond.

The man next to him answered:

"Northern Prison."

Grisha nodded.

He watched the scenery flying by outside the window—skyscrapers, billboards, palm trees, and Spanish slogans he couldn't understand.

He remembered his boss's final words.

"Tell them you know nothing."

He would.

But would they believe him?

12:30 PM, Northern Prison.

Bennett sat in the interrogation room, facing the empty chair.

The door opened.

Grisha was brought in, his hands unshackled, face uninjured.

He sat in the chair, looking at Bennett.

"Are you Bennett?"

Bennett nodded.

Grisha smiled.

A very light smile.

"Volkov said I'm the principal's man."

Bennett said nothing.

Grisha leaned back in the chair.

"He was wrong."

Bennett looked at him.

"Then who are you?"

Grisha looked at him.

"I'm Sergei's driver. Sergei died, and I didn't know what to do. Sergei told me before he died, if anything happened to him, to take care of his daughter. So I went to Saint Petersburg. I told her the truth. I brought her to Mexico."

He paused.

"It's that simple."

Bennett was silent for three seconds.

Then he got up, walked up to Grisha, and pulled a photograph out of his pocket, placing it on the table.

The photo showed the villa outside Moscow.

Grisha looked at the photo, his expression unchanged.

"Recognize it?"

Grisha shook his head.

"I don't."

Bennett pulled out another photo.

It was of Sergei Ivanov. Standing at the villa's entrance.

"Recognize him?"

Grisha nodded.

"I do. Sergei. My boss."

Bennett pulled out another photo.

It showed Grisha himself. Standing at the villa's entrance. With Sergei.

Grisha looked at the photo, his expression still unchanged.

"That's me. Sergei's driver."

Bennett nodded.

He collected the photographs.

"Mr. Grisha, do you know when this photo was taken?"

Grisha shook his head.

Bennett looked at him.

"After Sergei disappeared. You were alone, standing at the villa's entrance."

Grisha's hand trembled slightly.

But only briefly.

Then he regained his calm.

"I went back to fetch something. Sergei had some documents—"

"What documents?"

Grisha looked at him.

"Personal. Related to his daughter."

Bennett nodded.

He pulled out another photo.

It showed Grisha at the airport, holding a ticket—Moscow to Mexico City.

"When was this taken?"

Grisha glanced at it.

"Yesterday."

Bennett nodded.

"Did you come alone?"

Grisha nodded.

"Alone."

Bennett stood and walked to the door.

"Mr. Grisha, you haven't said much. That's okay. We have plenty of time."

The door closed.

Grisha sat there, looking at the closed door.

His back was damp.

1:00 PM, Golan Heights.

Israeli Air Force planes were bombing Damascus.

Wave after wave, bombing and retreating, returning again. The Syrian air defense was crippled on the first day, and what remained could only fire symbolically, unable to intercept.

But the Syrian ground forces continued to advance.

Tank after tank crossed the blue line, with infantry following behind, pressing against the Israeli positions. The Chechens charged at the front, madly, without dodging bullets.

The Golan Brigade had retreated to the third line of defense.

The brigade commander stood beside a crippled tank, watching the approaching shadows in the distance.

All he had left were two battalions. One in the trenches, the other in reserve. Reinforcements were on the way, uncertain of their arrival time.

"Brigade commander," the adjutant ran over, "the Staff Department orders—hold out."

He nodded.

"Tell them, we can hold."

2:00 PM, Jerusalem, Prime Minister's Office.

Shamir looked at the newly delivered battle report, his hand steady.

The Golan Brigade was still fighting. The Syrians were still pushing. Damascus was still being bombed.

He set the report down.

Moses stood in front of him, his face ashen.

"Shamir, we can't hold on much longer."

Shamir looked at him.

"I know."

"Where are the Americans?"

Shamir didn't answer.

He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

A voice came through—unhurried, with a Texan drawl.

"Shamir, I've been waiting for this call for three hours."

Shamir remained silent.

The voice continued:

"The Syrians are on the move, I know. Damascus is being bombed, I know. Your people are barely holding on, I know too."

He paused.

"What do you want?"

Shamir spoke, his voice very calm:

"I want you to engage."

There was a two-second silence on the other end.

"Engage? How?"

Shamir looked at him.

"Bomb Golan Heights. One Syrian tank after another."

There was a laugh on the other end.

"Shamir, that would amount to declaring war on Syria."

Shamir said nothing.

There was a three-second silence on the other end.