Chapter 2143 - 869: Everything Is Negotiable~_2

Sergei's hand didn't shake. "Understood."

"You know what to do."

The call ended.

He put down his phone, stood up, and walked to the window. Outside, the birch forest rustled in the wind, the leaves not yet fully grown, tender green and translucent. He remembered when Grisha first came to this house, it was also May, and the birch forest had just sprouted. Grisha stood by the window, looked at the forest, and said, "Boss, this place is quiet. It's a nice spot for retirement."

Now Grisha had brought the Mexicans to find him.

He turned around, walked to the desk, and opened a drawer. Inside was a gun, a Makarov, nine millimeters, which he had taken out the year the Soviet Union dissolved. The gun barrel was polished brightly, and the magazine was full.

He placed the gun on the desk. Then he picked up the phone from the desk and dialed a number.

"Grisha."

There was a long silence at the other end. "Boss."

Sergei listened to the voice for three seconds. "You've lost weight."

Grisha said nothing.

"Are the Mexicans treating you well?"

Grisha's voice was soft. "Boss, come back. You can't run anymore."

Sergei chuckled, softly, like the wind blowing through the birch forest. "Grisha, you've been with me 23 years, have you ever seen me surrender?"

Grisha said nothing.

"Your daughter," Sergei said, "Anna. She's in Chechnya. A village called Shangji, forty kilometers south of Grozny. There is a school in the village, with a row of stone houses behind it, she lives in the easternmost one."

Grisha's voice began to tremble. "Boss—"

"Don't speak. Listen until I'm done. The people in the village don't know who she is; they only know she's an orphan from Grozny. When you go to find her, don't bring the Mexicans. Go alone. Take her photo, her mother's photo. She will recognize you."

Heavy breathing came from the other end of the line.

Sergei continued. "Grisha, do you hate me?"

Grisha was silent for a long time. "I don't hate you."

Sergei nodded. "That's good."

He hung up the phone, placing it on the desk, alongside the gun. Then he stood up and walked to the window. The birch forest still rustled in the wind, and sparrows were chirping. He remembered 1991, the winter the KGB disbanded, standing in the corridor of Lubyanka, watching colleagues pack up. Some cried, some cursed, some laughed. He neither cried, nor cursed, nor laughed; he merely placed his work ID on the desk and turned to leave.

He walked away for seven years, twenty billion US dollars, twenty-three years of life.

Now it was time to stop.

He walked back to the desk and picked up the gun. Makarov, nine millimeters, which he had carried out the year the Soviet Union dissolved. The barrel was still bright, the magazine still full.

He pressed the gun against his temple.

Outside the window, sparrows fluttered into flight.

Lubyanka Square.

Grisha stood in the center of the square, the phone still pressed against his ear.

The call had already ended, the busy tone beeped like the sound of a heart monitor stretched into a flat line. He stood there, looking at the gray building opposite, at the white, blue, and red tricolor flag atop it.

The two Mexican agents stood behind him, waiting for him to speak.

"Mr. Grisha?" one of them asked.

Grisha didn't answer. He turned around and walked toward the exit of the square, his steps brisk.

"Mr. Grisha! Where are you going?"

He didn't turn back. "To Chechnya."

Same day, Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

Victor looked at the intelligence just sent back from Moscow, tapping his fingers twice on the table. The FSB had already seized those seven companies, frozen four bank accounts, and sealed three properties. Not a single cent of the twenty billion US dollars on the asset list got away.

He set down the intelligence. Bramo stood before him.

"One more thing. Grisha left. Alone, he went to Chechnya."

Victor squinted his eyes. "His daughter?"

"The principal told him where she is. A village called Shangji, south of Grozny."

Victor was silent for three seconds. "Let him go. Tell Bennett not to stop him, not to follow, not to help. It's his daughter's rescue; he must do it himself."

Bramo nodded. "And the principal?"

Victor stood up and walked to the window. Outside, traffic on Paseo de la Reforma was moving slowly; the sun was about to set, gilding the entire street.

"The principal will be handled by the FSB. They want him silenced even more than we do."

He turned around. "Tell Bennett to compile a briefing on the principal and the FSB's activities and send it to the Squid Prime Minister's Office. Let them know that the person who bombed our embassy was not their man, it was someone from Moscow."

Bramo hesitated. "Victor, that means telling Shamir—"

"Telling Shamir what? Telling Shamir that his mechanic Cohen was killed by Russians? Telling Shamir that his squad leader Beaton was bribed by the principal? Telling Shamir that the F-16's racks were tampered with by Moscow agents?" He returned to his desk and sat down. "Shamir knows this. He's known for a long time. But he doesn't say it because he can't. Saying it would mean admitting he can't control his army. Saying it would mean telling the whole world that the Squid Man is being used as a weapon."

He looked at Bramo. "But now, we say it for him. Let the whole world know that the bomb wasn't a malfunction, wasn't a misfire, but an assassination. A murder by Moscow. Executed by a man hiding in a mansion in Rublevka, using Squid Man's hand to kill a ten-year-old Mexican child."

"We must vent this anger!"

Golan Heights, east shore of Lake Tiberias.