Chapter 2094 - 855: Twists and Turns

March 28, 1998, 5 a.m., Northern Prison of Mexico City.

The lights in the interrogation room were so bright that Grisha couldn't open his eyes.

He had been sitting in that chair for six hours. The last thing Bennett said before leaving to take a call was "wait," and he had been waiting ever since, waiting for that door to open again, waiting for someone to tell him news about his daughter.

The door opened.

It was Bennett who came in, followed by a young man carrying a camera.

Grisha's heart sank.

"Mr. Grisha," Bennett sat down opposite him, "the final segment."

Grisha looked at him.

"What final segment?"

Bennett said nothing, just nodded at the young man with the camera. The young man set up the machine in the corner of the room, pointed the lens at Grisha, and the red light came on.

"Say something to the camera," Bennett said.

Grisha's lips moved.

"Say what?"

Bennett looked at him.

"Say—'Anna, Dad's sorry.'"

Grisha froze.

"My daughter... what happened to her?"

Bennett didn't answer.

Grisha stood up, intending to rush to the door, but two guards pinned him back into the chair.

"Mr. Bennett!" his voice trembled, "What happened to her? Tell me what happened to her!"

Bennett looked at him, his eyes like a dead pool of water.

"She's with the Principal."

Tears fell from Grisha's eyes.

"What have they... what have they done to her?"

Bennett remained silent for three seconds.

"They told her you sold her."

Grisha froze.

"I... I didn't..."

"I know," Bennett interrupted him, "but she doesn't know."

He pointed at the camera.

"So you need to tell her. Tell her you didn't sell her. Tell her you're looking for her. Tell her—"

He paused.

"Tell her, Dad's sorry."

Grisha looked at the camera, at the red indicator light, at Bennett's expressionless face.

He remembered the face in the photo. Thin, pale, with big eyes. He hadn't seen her for fourteen years, and now she was in the hands of the Principal, in the hands of those ruthless killers.

He faced the camera and began to speak:

"Anna..."

His voice got stuck.

He cleared his throat and tried again:

"Anna, Dad..."

Tears streamed down.

"Dad's sorry."

He lowered his head, his shoulders shaking.

Bennett stood up, walked over to the camera, and watched the playback of the segment.

"That's enough."

The cameraman turned off the machine.

Grisha raised his head, his eyes swollen and red.

"Mr. Bennett... will you save her?"

Bennett looked at him.

"We will."

Grisha froze.

"Really?"

Bennett nodded.

"Really."

He turned and walked towards the door.

When he reached the door, he stopped.

"Mr. Grisha, before your daughter hates you, you have to let her know that you love her."

The door closed.

Grisha sat there, looking at the closed door, tears streaming down even more fiercely.

March 28, 1998, 7 a.m., Saint Petersburg, in that basement.

When Anna woke up, the light was on.

It wasn't the glaring incandescent light, but a dim bulb hanging two meters above her, making the entire basement look like an old-era bomb shelter.

She huddled on the mattress, looking at the door.

The door opened.

A tall, thin man with prominent cheekbones and eyes like two nails entered. He was the one who had been standing at the door that day.

He walked up to her and crouched down.

"Anna, there's news about your dad."

Anna looked at him, not speaking.

The man pulled a phone out of his pocket, played a video, and held it in front of her.

On the screen, a man sat in an interrogation room, his face pale from the light, his eyes swollen, his lips trembling.

The man spoke.

"Anna... Dad's sorry."

Anna's hands started to shake.

She had never seen this face.

But she recognized those eyes.

Those eyes, just like hers. Big, dreamy, looking at everything as if through a layer of fog.

The man took back the phone.

"Your dad is in Mexico," he said, "He sold you to get money, to get a new identity. He doesn't want you anymore."

Anna's tears fell.

"You're lying to me..."

The man laughed.

"You can choose not to believe me. But do you know how he got to Mexico?"

Anna didn't say anything.

"He went by himself. He went looking for the Mexicans, saying he knew about the Principal. The Mexicans gave him money, gave him a house, gave him a new identity. He took it, and then—"

He paused.

"Then he forgot about you."

Anna huddled on the mattress, trembling all over.

The man stood up, walked to the door.

"Anna, your dad doesn't want you anymore. But you still have a chance."

Anna lifted her head.

"What chance?"

The man turned around.

"Help us."

Anna froze.

"Do what?"

The man looked at her.

"Speak. Say something to the camera. Tell your dad you hate him. Tell the Mexicans your dad is a liar."

Anna's hands shook even more violently.

"I... I can't..."

"You can," the man interrupted her, "You're his daughter. When you speak, he'll believe it."

He walked up to her, squatted down.

"Anna, your dad harmed your mom. Where was he when your mom was sick? Where was he when your mom died?"

Anna froze.

She remembered what her mom said before she died.

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

That was a lie.

Her dad wasn't dead. He just didn't want her anymore.

"I..." her voice was hoarse, "I'll do it."

The man smiled.

It was a light smile.

"Good."

March 28, 1998, 9 a.m., Mexico City, top floor of the Feathered Serpent Temple.

Victor hadn't slept all night.

The coffee cup on the table had been changed five times, the ashtray was full three times, and the TV on the wall was always on—CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera, taking turns showing footage of the Golan Heights.