12:00 PM, Mexico City, International Airport.
Grisha was stepping off the plane under the blazing sun.
He squinted, adjusted to the unfamiliar light, and then followed the crowd towards the exit.
At the arrival gate, two men stood waiting.
Both wore black jackets, their faces expressionless.
"Grisha Voronov?"
Grisha nodded.
The two men flanked him on either side.
"Please come with us."
He didn't resist.
Once in the car, he asked:
"Where to?"
The driver didn't respond.
The man next to him answered:
"Northern Prison."
Grisha nodded.
He watched the scenery flying by outside the window—skyscrapers, billboards, palm trees, and Spanish slogans he couldn't understand.
He remembered his boss's final words.
"Tell them you know nothing."
He would.
But would they believe him?
12:30 PM, Northern Prison.
Bennett sat in the interrogation room, facing the empty chair.
The door opened.
Grisha was brought in, his hands unshackled, face uninjured.
