March 25, 1998, 9 PM, outskirts of Moscow, that villa.
The fire in the fireplace burned fiercer than during the day, but the Boss sat in that large chair and his back was still cold.
The news of Volkov's capture arrived twenty minutes ago.
He took a sip of vodka; the liquid slid down his throat like an icy line.
"Boss," the person standing in the shadows spoke. He was a young man, just over thirty, with a skinny face and protruding cheekbones, small yet bright eyes like two thumbtacks pinned to the wall, "The Mexicans didn't interrogate him."
The Boss tapped his fingers on the rim of the glass.
"Didn't interrogate?"
"Didn't interrogate. Just locked him up directly."
The Boss remained silent for three seconds.
Then he laughed.
The laugh was light, like a breeze over snowy ground.
"Bennett," he said the name, "Victor's dog. He knows I'll go."
The young man didn't speak.
The Boss stood up and walked to the window.
