Chapter 2097 - 855: Twists and Turns (Part 4)

The jeep stopped at the edge of a village.

The village was small, with dozens of stone houses scattered on the hillside. A few children were playing by the roadside. When they saw the jeep, they stopped to watch.

She was dragged out of the car and pushed into a stone house.

The house was dark and cold, with only a bed, a chair, and a tin stove.

The door was locked from the outside.

She sat on the bed, looking at the closed door.

She thought of the words on the phone.

"Wait."

Wait for what?

Wait for someone to rescue her.

Who would come to rescue her?

She didn't know.

She only knew that her dad didn't sell her out.

March 28, 1998, 5:00 PM, London, in an apartment.

Andrei Petrovich sat in front of the computer, watching the flickering numbers.

He was twenty-five, thin, pale, wearing glasses, studying for a finance master's at the London School of Economics. He didn't know who his father was. His mother said his father died, died during the years when the Soviet Union collapsed.

He believed it.

But he didn't know, his father wasn't dead.

His father was in Moscow, in that villa, in that large chair, holding a glass of vodka, looking out at the snow.

The doorbell rang.

He stood up and walked to the door.

Through the peephole, he saw two people standing outside. They both wore black coats, their faces red from the cold.

"Who?"

The person outside spoke, with an accent in English:

"Andrei Petrovich? We are from the London Police Department. We have a few questions to ask you."

His hand shook slightly.

Police?

He opened the door.

The two people came in, standing on either side of him.

"Andrei Petrovich," said one of them, "do you know someone named Grisha Voronov?"

Andrei shook his head.

"I don't know him."

The two exchanged a glance.

The other said:

"Do you know someone named Sergei Ivanov?"

Andrei shook his head again.

"I don't know him."

The two exchanged another glance.

The first one spoke:

"Mr. Andre, do you know someone called—"

He paused.

"The Principal?"

Andrei was stunned.

"Which Principal?"

The two looked at him, saying nothing.

Andrei's hand started to tremble.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about…"

The first one nodded.

"It's okay. Just come with us."

As Andrei was being taken out the door, he glanced back at the apartment.

The computer on the table was still on, the numbers on the screen still jumping.

He didn't know if he would see it again.

March 28, 1998, 6:00 PM, outside Moscow, in that villa.

The boss's phone rang.

He picked it up.

"Boss, Andrei's been caught."

The boss tapped his hand on the window frame.

"Who caught him?"

"The London police."

The boss was silent for three seconds.

Then he asked:

"Who reported him?"

The other end didn't speak.

The boss answered for him:

"The Mexicans."

He hung up the phone, stood up, and walked to the window.

Outside the window, Moscow's sky was already dark. In the distance, the red star of the Kremlin glowed in the night, like a beacon that would never extinguish.

"Grisha," he murmured, "you're more ruthless than I thought."

He turned around, picked up another phone, and dialed a number.

A voice came from the other end:

"Boss?"

"Andrei is in London. The Mexicans caught him. Tell the Chechnya side to hide Anna even deeper."

The other end paused.

"Boss, Anna is only fourteen—"

"What if she's only fourteen?" the boss interrupted, "Her dad sold me out, so I'll sell her out."

The call ended.

He sat back in the large chair, picked up the glass of vodka.

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

He knew, this game wasn't over yet.

March 28, 1998, 7:00 PM, Mexico City, top of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

Victor looked at the report just sent from London, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Andrei Petrovich, twenty-five, master's in finance from the London School of Economics, the son of the Principal.

Now in the London Police Department.

He put down the report.

Bramo stood next to him.

"Victor, London is asking, how to handle this person?"

Victor thought for a moment.

"Let him wait."

Bramo was stunned.

"Wait?"

Victor nodded.

"Wait until he knows who his father is. Wait until he hates his father. Wait until he's willing to help us."

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma had diminished, with only the occasional taxi passing by, the car lights casting long shadows on the road.

"The Principal has a son, has a daughter. We have his son, have his daughter. Once both of them are in our hands, let's see who can't sit still."

He turned around.

"Tell London, treat him well with food and drink. Don't let him escape, and don't let him know too much."

Bramo nodded.

"Also," Victor said, "tell Bennett to have Grisha record another message."

Bramo looked at him.

"Record what?"

Victor thought for a moment.

"Just say—'Andrei, your dad is in Moscow. Your mom is lying to you. You should know the truth.'"

March 28, 1998, 8:00 PM, Northern Prison.

Grisha sat in the interrogation room, looking at the camera.

Bennett stood beside him.

"Start recording."

Grisha spoke into the camera:

"Andrei, your dad is in Moscow. Your mom is lying to you. You should know the truth."

He paused.

"Your dad is named Victor Petrovich. Former KGB member. Kryuchkov's deputy. After the Soviet Union collapsed, he took over KGB's overseas assets. He—"

He stopped.

Bennett looked at him.

"What's wrong?"

Grisha shook his head.