Cheku looked at him.
"Why are you asking this?"
Volkov smiled.
"Because I need to know if you can do me a favor."
Cheku said nothing.
Volkov stepped closer.
"Three hundred Chechens, now scattered across Europe. I need someone to meet them. Give them a place to stay, give them food, give them—the route to continue north."
Cheku's eyes narrowed.
"Why ask me?"
Volkov looked at him.
"Because you have no other choice now."
Cheku stood up.
"You—"
"Calm down, General." Volkov interrupted him. "Your people are almost out of ammo, your soldiers are starving, your enemies are still waiting across from you. Your only way out now is to cooperate with me."
He paused.
"I'm not begging you. You're begging me."
Cheku stared at him, stared for a long time.
Then he sat back down.
"What do you want me to do?"
March 17, 1998, 7 PM, Barry Port.
By the time the ferry docked, it was completely dark.
Hendrick stood on the third-class deck, watching as the lights on the dock got closer.
