Chapter 2136 - 867: Only the Chess Player Can Decide the Path! (Part 2)

"Colonel Beaton... what will happen to him?"

Bennett looked at him. "He will be tried. He will be convicted. He will go to prison. But he will also live. Because he was used too."

The door closed. Shahar sat there, looking at the lamp, tears flowing for a long time.

"I just want to live!!"

In a London apartment by the Thames River.

Andrei Petrovich had been staying in this apartment for three days.

Arranged by the London Police Headquarters, it was a two-bedroom apartment with a kitchen, bathroom, and television. The fridge was packed with food: milk, bread, cheese, ham, fruit, enough to last him a week. But he couldn't eat anything.

He sat by the window, staring blankly at the boats on the Thames River.

Three days ago, when the police took him from school, he thought it was a misunderstanding.

They asked if he knew Grisha Voronov, if he knew Sergei Ivanov, if he knew "the Principal."

He said he didn't know any of them. Then they showed him a video. In the video, a man in his fifties, with a disheveled beard and swollen eyes, spoke to the camera, "Andrei, your father is in Moscow. Your mother is lying to you. You should know the truth now. Your father's name is Victor Petrovich. A former KGB man. Kryuchkov's deputy. After the Soviet Union collapsed, he took over the KGB's overseas assets. He is the Principal."

He watched that video seventeen times.

Every time, he hoped it was fake. But the eyes of that man looked exactly like those he saw in the mirror.

The doorbell rang.

He got up, walked to the door, and looked through the peephole. Standing outside was a man—thin, with prominent cheekbones, eyes like nails. He didn't know this person, but his hands started shaking.

He opened the door.

The man stood at the door, looking at him. "Andrei Petrovich?"

"Who are you?"

The man walked in and closed the door. "My name is Grisha. I filmed that video."

Andrei took a step back. "You—you're—"

"Yes. Grisha Voronov. Your father's driver."

Andrei's hand tightened around the doorknob. "My father... is he still alive?"

Grisha looked at him. "Alive. In Moscow."

Andrei's hand relaxed. "Why hasn't he come to find me?"

Grisha was silent for three seconds. "Because he doesn't know you exist. When your mother was pregnant with you, your father was in prison. After he got out, your mother had already taken you away. He's been looking for you for twenty-five years."

Tears fell from Andrei's eyes. "He... does he know now?"

Grisha nodded. "He knows."

Andrei turned around, looking out the window. The surface of the Thames River was gray, with a few barges floating. In the distance, the London Eye spun slowly in the sunset, like it didn't care about anything in this city.

"Does he want to see me?" Andrei asked.

Grisha didn't answer.

Andrei turned around. Grisha stood at the door, his expression strange. Not angry, not sad, but—fear.

"Andrei," he began, "your father wants to see you. But not now."

"Why?"

Grisha looked at him. "Because he's under surveillance by many people now. Mexicans, British, Americans, Russians—they're all looking for him. If you go looking for him, it's like walking into the lion's den."

Andrei was silent.

"When can I see him?"

Grisha didn't answer. He opened the door and went out. At the door, he paused for a moment. "Andrei, not everything your mother said is false. Your father, indeed, is not a good person. But he raised me for twenty-three years. He got me out of prison, gave me a job, gave me food. He's killed people, sold drugs, smuggled arms. But he hasn't harmed you. Remember this."

The door closed.

Andrei stood by the window, watching the lights on the Thames River turn on one by one. He didn't know who to trust. He only knew one thing—his father was still alive.

...

In the Golan Heights.

Major Sanchez stood at the entrance of the camp, watching the approaching Jeep. The vehicle had the Syrian flag flying, its body splattered with mud. The car stopped in front of him, and Brigadier General Hassan jumped out, wearing a washed-out military uniform, with a bandage on his left arm.

"Major, your bridge is well built."

Sanchez saluted. "General, thank you for the hydrological map."

Hassan waved his hand. "No big deal. Show me around your camp."

Sanchez led him inside. The camp wasn't big, with three hundred people, fifty tents, a dozen armored vehicles, and two helicopters. There was a mess hall, medical room, prayer room, communication center—small but well-equipped. Hassan walked quickly, as if inspecting his own territory.

Stopping at the door of the prayer room, he paused. The door was open, with carpets laid inside, an arrow pointing towards Mecca. The wall had a verse from the Quran written in Arabic.

"Do you have any MSL here?" Hassan asked.

Sanchez nodded. "Mexico has 1.2 million Muslims. We have twenty-seven in our camp."

Hassan looked at him. "You don't believe?"

Sanchez shook his head. "I'm Catholic. But what my men believe is their business. My job is to ensure they go home alive."

Hassan was silent for a few seconds. Then he turned around and continued walking. At the edge of the camp, he stopped. From there, you could see the entire Lake Tiberias. The water shone blue in the afternoon sun, with Tiberias City across the lake looking like a painting stuck by the shore.

"Major, do you know why I'm here?"

Sanchez stood by his side. "No."

Hassan looked at the lake. "Because I'm afraid. I'm afraid my soldiers will die in vain."