March 27, 1998, 4:00 AM, Northern Prison, Mexico City.
The fluorescent lights in the corridor emitted a continuous buzzing sound, like a swarm of flies trapped in glass tubes.
Volkov leaned against the iron door of his cell, listening to the noises outside. He couldn't sleep.
His daughter was in one of the rooms downstairs, separated by three layers of concrete, but he could sense her presence. It was a strange feeling—seeing someone he hadn't seen for twenty-three years suddenly appear before him, and he didn't know what to think.
Footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor.
Not the jail guards. The guards walked clumsily, their soles scraping the concrete floor. These footsteps were light and steady, each step the same length.
The door opened.
Bennett stood at the entrance, holding a folder in his hand.
"Your daughter is asleep."
Volkov nodded.
"How much do you know about the Principal's matter?"
Volkov looked at him.
"I told you everything I know."
