Chapter 2145 - 869: Everything Is Negotiable

Leningrad Highway, 47 kilometers out.

When FSB agents stormed the villa, there was no one inside anymore.

In the study, on the desk lay a pistol—Makarov, nine millimeters. Beside it was a cellphone, its screen glowing with a missed call. The call number was encrypted, its origin untraceable. There was also a note, hastily scrawled in Russian, as if written in a trembling hand.

Korosov stood before the desk, staring at the note.

"To Grisha: Anna is in Chechnya, Shangji Village, the easternmost house behind the school. Find her, take her away. Don't let her know how I died."

He folded the note and slipped it into his pocket.

Dmitry stood behind him. "General, he's gone. Surveillance shows he drove south two hours ago. Destination—Chechnya."

Korosov nodded. "He knows he can't escape. He's going to meet someone."

Dmitry hesitated. "Who?"

Korosov did not answer. He walked to the window, the birch forest outside rustling in the wind. It was getting dark, and the light in the woods was fading.

"Inform the Chechnya special operations team. Find him, don't capture, don't alert. Wait until he meets the person, then move in."

Dmitry nodded and turned to leave.

Korosov stood by the window, gazing at the darkening birch forest. He remembered 1991, the winter the KGB was dissolved, when Sergei Ivanov stood in the Lubyanka corridor, set his work ID on a table, and walked away. At that moment, Korosov stood at the other end of the corridor, watching his silhouette disappear at the stairwell.

Seven years had passed.

Now this silhouette was about to vanish again.

That same day, Jerusalem, Prime Minister's office.

Shamir looked at the briefing that had just arrived from Mexico City, reading it three times.

The first read was a skim, getting the gist. The second was detailed, noting every name. The third was slow, catching every detail.

Cohen was killed by the Russians. Beaton was bribed by the Principal. The rack of that F-16 was tampered with by someone in Moscow.

He put the briefing down. Moses stood before him, pale-faced.

"Prime Minister, if this goes public—"

"If it goes public, the whole world will know that the Squid Air Force was used as a pawn. A squadron leader was bribed by someone hiding in Moscow. A mechanic was silenced by the Russians. A pilot took the fall for someone else. Our military has been infiltrated like a sieve."

Moses lowered his head. "What do we do?"

Shamir stood up, walking to the window. Outside, the Golden Dome Mosque on the Temple Mount glowed red in the sunset.

"Tell the Mexicans, we know. Tell them, we will handle it. Tell them—"

He turned around.

"Tell Victor, keep the briefing. Use it when needed."

Moses was stunned. "Prime Minister, doesn't that mean—"

"Mean what? That we let the Mexicans hold leverage over us? We're already in their hands. Apologies, compensation, extraditions, we've done it all. What's the difference between one more leverage or less?"

He returned to his desk and sat down.

"But this leverage isn't in our hands; it's in Victor's. He knows when to use it and when not to. He's smarter than we are."

He looked at Moses. "Tell Colonel Barak, prepare for tomorrow. Go to the Golan Heights and discuss the next steps with the Syrians."

Moses was stunned. "The next step? Wasn't the water already discussed?"

Shamir looked at him. "Water is discussed, but what about land? Golan Heights, two-thirds to Syria, one-third to Israel. That's the United States' proposal. We don't agree, nor do the Syrians. But now, water flows, bridges are built, people start to move."

He paused.

"Perhaps it's time to talk."