March 28, 1998, 5 a.m., Northern Prison of Mexico City.
The lights in the interrogation room were so bright that Grisha couldn't open his eyes.
He had been sitting in that chair for six hours. The last thing Bennett said before leaving to take a call was "wait," and he had been waiting ever since, waiting for that door to open again, waiting for someone to tell him news about his daughter.
The door opened.
It was Bennett who came in, followed by a young man carrying a camera.
Grisha's heart sank.
"Mr. Grisha," Bennett sat down opposite him, "the final segment."
Grisha looked at him.
"What final segment?"
Bennett said nothing, just nodded at the young man with the camera. The young man set up the machine in the corner of the room, pointed the lens at Grisha, and the red light came on.
"Say something to the camera," Bennett said.
Grisha's lips moved.
"Say what?"
Bennett looked at him.
"Say—'Anna, Dad's sorry.'"
Grisha froze.
"My daughter... what happened to her?"
