March 26, 1998, 10:00 AM, Mexico City, Northern Prison.
Bennett sat in the interrogation room, opposite an empty chair.
He waited for twenty minutes.
The door opened. Volkov was brought in, handcuffed, with no injuries on his face—Bennett had instructed not to touch him.
Volkov sat in the chair, looking at Bennett.
"Are you Bennett?"
Bennett nodded.
Volkov laughed.
The laugh was bitter.
"I thought you'd beat me up first."
Bennett said nothing.
He stood up, walked over to Volkov, took a photo out of his pocket, and placed it on the table.
The photo was of a young woman. Short hair, big eyes, thin.
Volkov looked at the photo, and his hand started to shake.
"Who is this?"
His voice was hoarse.
Bennett looked at him.
"Your daughter."
Volkov was stunned.
"My daughter... is dead..."
Bennett shook his head.
"She's not dead. She's alive. In Saint Petersburg. Someone went to see her yesterday, told her you were alive. Told her you'd been captured by Mexicans. Told her—"
