Korosov sat in his office, looking at the photographs just sent back from the Golan Heights. In the photo, an elderly Syrian man and an elderly Israeli man stood face-to-face at the bridge, both crying. He looked for a long time, then put the photo down.
Dmitry stood in front of him. "General, Sergei's lawyer is here. They request to see the client."
Korosov raised his head. "A lawyer? Who hired them?"
"A law firm in Moscow. They say they're commissioned by the family."
Korosov laughed. "Family? What family does he have? A daughter in Chechnya, fourteen years old, who doesn't even know where Moscow is. Where would the family come from?"
Dmitry said nothing.
"Check. Check the accounts of that law firm. Who paid, from where it was paid, and through how many hands. Find out and let me know."
Dmitry nodded and turned to leave.
"Wait." Korosov called him back. "How about Grisha, has he finished writing?"
"Finished. Signed."
