Chapter 2134 - 866: In Mexico, Only Mr. Victor Can Issue Indulgences!

He threw the shredded paper into the trash can.

"Write it clearly, apologize, compensate. Hand over the perpetrator, then invite the Mexicans to the Golan Heights, invite them to keep the peace."

"Otherwise, do you think that damned Victor will let us go?"

Shamir said tiredly, "We need to change our approach, maybe we should invest more in Mexico."

...

Victor stood at the window smoking a cigarette.

Bramo pushed the door open and walked in.

"Bennett found those three hundred checks. AIPAC gave them to United States Congress members. The source of the funds isn't the Jews, it's—a shell company in the Cayman Islands. The legal person for that company intersects with the 'Principal's' transfer records."

Victor's eyes narrowed. "The Principal is financing U.S. legislators?"

"Not just that."

Bramo opened the folder, "Among those three hundred checks, at least fifty went to the group of Republican Party legislators attempting to impeach the President. Which means—"

"Which means, the Principal not only wants to control the Middle East, he wants to control Washington."

Victor walked back to his desk and sat down. "Tell Bennett to organize the evidence. Once the matter with the pilot is settled, this information should see the light."

Bramo nodded. "There's one more thing. That pilot, Eilad Shachar, arrives in Mexico City in two hours. Bennett asks, what should be done?"

Victor thought for a moment. "Hold him first."

Bramo was stunned. "Will he talk?"

Victor smiled. "He will. Because the people behind him will make him talk. That pilot is just a small pawn. There's a string of people behind him. We're aiming for that string."

2 PM, Mexico City, International Airport.

As the plane landed, the sunlight outside the porthole was intense.

Shachar was escorted off the plane by two Mexicans in black suits. His hands were cuffed in front, not blindfolded, not hooded. They wanted him to see the city. See those skyscrapers, those billboards, those hurried people in the sunlight.

He recalled that five days ago, he was still a pilot.

A pilot who dropped seven bombs and destroyed three targets. On the return trip, the eighth bomb "accidentally fell" and landed on the roof of the Mexican Embassy.

He wanted to say it was a malfunction.

But no one believed him.

Even the Squid Man didn't believe him.

He was pushed into a black van. The windows were tinted dark, making it impossible to see outside. The car drove for a long time, and when it stopped, he was taken into a gray building. No signs, no nameplate, just cold iron doors and humming fluorescent lights.

He was pushed into an interrogation room. It was small, with only a table, two chairs, one lamp. The lampshade faced down, lighting the area around the table brightly.

The door opened. The person who entered was in his forties, wearing a black jacket, no expression on his face.

"Mr. Shachar, my name is Bennett."

Shachar looked at him. "Are you going to kill me?"

Bennett sat down opposite him. "No. We're going to interrogate you."

Shachar laughed. "Interrogate what? 'Technical malfunction'?"

Bennett didn't laugh. "Mr. Shachar, you dropped seven bombs, destroyed three targets, the eighth bomb fell on the Mexican Embassy roof. Seven people died, including a ten-year-old child. You say it's 'mounting malfunction'. But our engineer checked the maintenance records of that F-16. That mounting, was replaced three months ago by a man named Gerald Cohen, mechanic of Squadron 117."

Shachar's hand trembled slightly. "You—did you capture Cohen?"

Bennett looked at him. "Cohen went missing three days ago. It wasn't your people, nor ours that did it. Who do you think?"

Shachar bowed his head. "I don't know."

Bennett stood up and walked to the door. "Mr. Shachar, you will talk. When you realize the people behind you want you dead more than we do, you will talk."

The door closed. Shachar sat there, staring at the lamp, his back covered in cold sweat.

Meanwhile at the Squid Air Force Squadron 117 base.

Squadron Leader Colonel Avi Beaton stood in the hangar, looking at the F-16 numbered 117. The mounting had been removed and sent for inspection, the aircraft sitting there like a patient whose spine had been drawn out.

The adjutant ran over. "Colonel, Cohen is still not found."

Beaton nodded. "Did you check his computer?"

"Checked. The hard disk was formatted. Recovered some data, inside were—emails exchanged with a company in the Cayman Islands. That company is related to the 'Principal'."

Beaton closed his eyes. He thought of Cohen. That reticent mechanic, who worked at the base for fifteen years without ever making a mistake. Three months ago, he applied for early retirement and was denied. Then, that F-16's mounting "malfunctioned".

"Colonel, the upper management asks, this matter—"

"This matter was done by Cohen alone," Beaton interrupted him, "He took the money, he acted, he ran away. It's unrelated to the Air Force, unrelated to the Squid, unrelated to anyone."

The adjutant was stunned. "Colonel—"

"Report as I say."

He turned and walked out. Stopping at the door, he paused. "Find Cohen, alive or his body."

…

Shachar sat in the cell, staring blankly at the wall opposite. The light was always on, the fluorescent light, humming, unable to be turned off.

The door opened.

In came Bennett, holding a document.

"Mr. Shachar, Cohen is missing."

Shachar lifted his head. "What?"

"Gerald Cohen, the man who replaced the mounting. Missing three days ago. It wasn't us who captured him, nor the Squid who hid him. He vanished, evaporated from the world."

Shachar's face turned pale. "You—you killed him?"

Bennett looked at him. "We didn't kill him. The one who wants to kill him is the one who paid him."

He placed the document on the table. "These are Cohen's emails with a company from the Cayman Islands. The legal person of that company is related to 'Principal'. Do you know who the Principal is?"

Shachar shook his head.

Bennett looked at him. "It doesn't matter if you don't know. But you'll soon find out. Because that person also wants to kill you now."

Shachar's hand began to shake. "You're—you're deceiving me—"

Bennett stood up and walked to the door. "Mr. Shachar, you're more safe in our prison than outside. When Cohen's body is found, you'll understand."

The door closed. Shachar sat there, trembling all over. He thought of Cohen. That reticent mechanic would always take an extra ten minutes for the pre-flight check. He thought it was seriousness, but now he knows it wasn't seriousness, it was—tampering.

Cohen's body was eventually found.

He sat in a chair, hands bound behind him, head drooping against his chest. A bullet hole was right at the center of his forehead, the bullet exited from the back of his head, leaving a patch of dark brown blood on the wall.

After forensic examination, it was stated that he was dead for at least forty-eight hours.

This means he was killed shortly after going missing.

Colonel Beaton stood in front of the body, his expression was strange, not angry nor sad, but fearful.

The adjutant stood behind him. "Colonel, the upper management asks who killed Cohen."

Beaton didn't answer. He stared at the bullet hole.

9 millimeters, Parabellum bullet, the same caliber as the handguns issued by the Squid Air Force.

"It was one of our own who killed him," he said.

The adjutant was stunned. "Colonel—"

"Seal the scene. Notify the military court. This matter is beyond our control."

This news also reached Bennett, who placed Cohen's body photos before Shachar.

Shachar looked at the photos for a long time. That bullet hole, that drooping head, that patch of dried blood.

"Who killed him?" His voice was hoarse.

Bennett looked at him. "Who do you think?"

Shachar closed his eyes. "It was our people. Squid Men."

Bennett didn't deny it. "Mr. Shachar, do you now realize the people behind you want you dead more than we do?"

Shachar opened his eyes. "What do you want me to do?"

Bennett sat opposite him. "Tell us, who made you pay attention to that F-16's mounting? Who had you 'accidentally' drop a bomb on your return? Who helped you modify the flight log afterward?"

Shachar was silent for a long time.

"It was Colonel Beaton. The squadron leader. He talked to me, said there was a 'special mission'. Said if I followed, I would be transferred to the F-15 squadron post-war. He said—"

He stopped.

"Said what?"

Shachar bowed his head. "Said it was for Israel. Said Mexicans are enemies. Said killing a few civilians in exchange for global sympathy is worth it."

Bennett stood up. "Mr. Shachar, you were utilized. By your squadron leader, by your country, by that person hiding in Moscow."

As he was about to leave.

Shachar panicked, "How will you handle me..."

Bennett turned and looked at him, "In Mexico, the only one who can issue an Indulgence is Mr. Victor!"

"Just wait, maybe you'll be out by tomorrow?"

…