Chapter 2096 - 855: Twists and Turns (Part 3)

"But Dad didn't sell you."

Anna's tears flowed down.

"Then... then what should I do?"

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

Then the voice said:

"Wait."

Anna was stunned.

"Wait for what?"

The voice was very soft:

"Wait for someone to come rescue you."

March 28, 1998, 12 noon, Moscow suburb, that villa.

The Boss sat in the large chair, holding a glass of vodka.

The fire in the fireplace was blazing, but his back was still cold.

The phone rang.

He picked it up.

"Boss, Grisha called Anna."

The Boss nodded.

"I know."

The voice on the other end paused.

"He told her he didn't sell her. He told her we were deceiving her."

The Boss laughed.

"So what?"

The other end was stunned.

"So what?"

The Boss stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, Moscow's snow had melted, revealing the gray ground. The sky was still gray, indistinguishable whether it was morning or afternoon.

"Anna hates her dad because she thought her dad sold her. Now she knows her dad didn't sell her, what will she do?"

The other end didn't speak.

The Boss answered for him:

"She'll hate us more."

He turned around.

"Hate is more useful than love."

He walked back to the chair and sat down.

"Tell the men below to move Anna to another place. Don't let her make phone calls again."

The other end paused.

"Where to?"

The Boss thought for a while.

"Chechnya."

March 28, 1998, 1 p.m., Golan Heights.

The smoke had cleared, but the air still carried the smell—burnt rubber, rusty metal, and that indefinable stench, the smell of death.

The Golan Brigade commander stood beside a battered tank, watching the soldiers clearing the battlefield.

They were very young. The oldest was no more than thirty. The youngest had just turned nineteen.

The adjutant came over.

"Commander, orders from above—rest here for three days."

He nodded.

"Have the casualty statistics been reported?"

The adjutant paused.

"One hundred fifty-three dead. Four hundred twenty-one wounded. Eleven missing."

He closed his eyes.

One hundred fifty-three.

These were his men.

"Those missing..."

The adjutant lowered his head.

"Still looking."

He opened his eyes.

"Search. Find them alive or their bodies."

The adjutant saluted and turned to leave.

He stood there, looking at the land pockmarked by explosions.

Over there was Syria. Over there someone was still watching him.

He didn't know if he'd ever return home alive in his lifetime.

But he knew one thing—

This war isn't over.

March 28, 1998, 2 p.m., Jerusalem, Prime Minister's office.

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

The Golan Heights were held. The Syrians retreated. The Americans moved in.

He placed the report down.

Moses stood before him, a bit of color returning to his face.

"Shamir, the Americans mean for us not to push further north."

Shamir nodded.

"I know."

"On the Syrian side, they're also discussing a ceasefire."

Shamir nodded again.

"I know."

Moses looked at him.

"What do you think?"

Shamir stood up, walked to the window.

Outside, the Golden Dome Mosque on Temple Mount gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. In the distance, to the north, smoke could still be seen on the Golan Heights.

"Moses," he began, "do you know what the man in Moscow wants?"

Moses shook his head.

Shamir turned around.

"What he wants is exactly this. The U.S. comes in, Syria ceases fire, we and the Arabs continue hating each other. And then? Then he can continue lurking in the shadows, keep selling arms, keep trafficking drugs, keep sending those Chechens to die."

He walked back to the desk, picked up the latest intelligence on Grisha.

"Now he's making moves in Mexico too."

He placed the intelligence down.

"Tell Victor I'm waiting for his update."

March 28, 1998, 3 p.m., Mexico City, Northern Prison.

Grisha sat in the interrogation room, a new transcript before him.

Bennett sat across from him.

"Your daughter has been relocated."

Grisha's hand trembled slightly.

"Where to?"

Bennett looked at him.

"Chechnya."

Grisha was stunned.

"Chechnya? That's—"

"That's her place," Bennett interrupted him, "She's a Chechen. She grew up there. She speaks the language there. She will—"

He paused.

"She will hate you longer."

Grisha's tears fell.

"Mr. Bennett... I beg you..."

Bennett looked at him.

"Mr. Grisha, do you know how to save your daughter?"

Grisha looked up.

Bennett stood up and walked to the window.

"When you tell us everything about the Principal. When we capture the Principal. When your daughter knows you didn't sell her."

He turned around.

"When she trusts you."

Grisha was silent for a long time.

Then he spoke:

"The Principal has a son."

Bennett's eyes narrowed.

"What?"

Grisha looked at him.

"The Principal has a son in London. Studying finance. He's twenty-five. He doesn't know who his father is."

Bennett walked back to his seat across from him.

"What's his name?"

Grisha shook his head.

"I don't know. I only know he's in London. Sergei mentioned it once."

Bennett nodded.

He packed up the new intelligence.

"Mr. Grisha, your chance to save your daughter just expanded."

March 28, 1998, 4 p.m., Chechnya, a mountainous region.

Anna was stuffed in a rundown Jeep, jostled for six hours.

She didn't know where she had arrived. She only saw the mountains outside the window grow taller, more desolate, more devoid of people.