Chapter 2142 - 869: Everything’s Negotiable~

The lights in the hallway of the Russian Federal Security Service headquarters were grayish white like those in an operating room.

Ivan Petrovich Korosov, a Vice Admiral, stood by the window, watching the old man feeding pigeons in the square outside. The pigeons were a dusty gray, the same color as the Moscow Sky in May.

A knock sounded on the door.

"Come in."

The young man who came in was named Dmitry, the field supervisor of the seventh division of the security service, holding a brown kraft paper file without a seal because its contents didn't need a seal, whoever saw it would lose sleep.

"General, sent by the Mexicans."

Korosov took the file, pulled out a stack of A4 paper. The first page was an asset list, with names of seven companies, their registration locations, legal representatives, business scopes.

The companies were all registered in Moscow and Saint Petersburg, with business scopes including import-export trade, logistics transportation, real estate development, financial consulting—standard shell company setup.

The second page was bank accounts. Four accounts, three banks, total balance over two billion US Dollars. Each large transaction marked with time, amount, and counterparty, precise to two decimal places.

The third page was real estate. Three houses, all in Moscow suburbs. The first one was in Rublevka, the most expensive wealthy area in Moscow. The second one was in Medichi, a regular villa. The third one—

Korosov's finger stopped on that line.

"General?" Dmitry asked softly.

Korosov didn't answer.

He looked at the address of the third property: Moscow suburbs, 47 kilometers on Leningrad Highway, a two-story villa, covering an area of 1200 square meters, property owner—Sergei Ivanov.

"The Principal's" official name.

"How did the Mexicans find out these things?" His voice was very calm.

Dmitry opened his notebook. "Their intelligence head is named Bennett, a few years ago during the Mexico drug War, he cleaned up a drug cartel's financial network, accumulated a tracking system. It's said to penetrate even three layers of shell companies in Cayman Islands."

Korosov nodded. "What do the Mexicans want?"

"They didn't say. Just sent a copy. Said, 'Russians handle affairs on their own doorstep more conveniently'."

Korosov laughed lightly, just a slight movement of his lips. "The Mexicans know how to do business."

He stood up, walked to the window. The pigeons were still strutting in the square, the old man was gone. The distant Kremlin's spire flashed with dark red light in the sunlight.

"Sergei Ivanov," he recited the name, "a former technical expert of the KGB's ninth bureau, resigned in 1991, then opened a security company in Saint Petersburg, the company went bankrupt in 1994, then vanished. The file says 'whereabouts unknown'."

He turned around. "Now we know where he went. The luxurious house in Rublevka, the villa in Medichi, the little building on Leningrad Highway at 47 kilometers."

"General, should we act?"

Korosov was silent for a long time. "Just watch, don't act. Let Sergei know someone is watching him. Let him run, run and he'll be careless, careless and he'll make mistakes."

Dmitry nodded and was about to leave.

"Wait. That Mexican intelligence head, named Bennett, tell him—the Russians owe the Mexicans a favor."

Dmitry left.

Korosov stood by the window, watching the pigeons take flight in the square, their gray wings covering half the Sky. He remembered the Winter of 1991, when the KGB disbanded, many people disappeared. Some died, some ran, some changed identities and continued Living. Sergei Ivanov was the cleanest disappearance, now the Mexicans dug him up.

"Interesting." He murmured.

The same day, Moscow suburbs, 47 kilometers on Leningrad Highway.

The two-story villa stood amidst a birch forest, gray walls and red tiles, no different from the hundreds of villas around. A dark blue Mercedes-Benz was parked at the entrance, with dark tinted windows, making it impossible to see if anyone was inside.

Sergei Ivanov sat in the study on the second floor, the computer screen was lit, displaying the login interface of an encrypted communication software. He didn't log in, just stared at the screen in a daze.

He had been hiding in this house for three days.

Three days ago, when Grisha led the Mexicans into the Rublevka mansion, he was sitting by the fireplace drinking vodka. The surveillance camera's alarm sounded, he saw Grisha push open the door, followed by two men in black suits. He stood up, walked to the back door, got into the Mercedes-Benz always in reserve, drove through the garage's secret exit, onto Rublevka Highway, merging into Moscow's evening rush hour traffic.

He didn't look back. He drove for two hours, reached this villa in Medichi. Stayed one night, felt unsafe, drove to 47 kilometers on Leningrad Highway. Here it's more remote, more inconspicuous, less likely to be discovered.

But he knew, he couldn't hide for long. Grisha had followed him for 23 years, knew all hiding places. Rublevka, Medichi, Leningrad Highway—Grisha had been to every place, lived in every place, remembered every place.

The computer screen went dark. He didn't turn it back on. Birdsong came from outside, chirping, like Sparrows. May in Moscow, Sparrows were the most abundant.

The phone vibrated. He glanced at the caller ID—encrypted number, no source displayed. He answered.

"Sergey Ivanovich," the voice on the other end was processed by a voice changer, indecipherable whether male or female, "the Mexicans gave your asset list to the FSB. Seven companies, four accounts, three properties, all listed."