Volodja squinted against the bright winter light as he stepped out of the buzzing metro station into the freezing air of Tsargrad. The cold stung his face. He looked up at the enormous new mall built on the Malachite Terminal. When he had last visited the area a few years earlier, the mall hadn't yet existed.
Its construction had sparked debate. Some complained that the building blocked sunlight and spoiled the view from nearby apartments. Others welcomed it, pleased that Malachite finally had a modern shopping centre like the rest of the city, complete with shops, restaurants, offices, and entertainment.
The Malachite Mall was truly majestic: a five-storey monolith shaped like a ship. Its black marble tiles reflected the sunlight, making the structure gleam like a dark diamond. In winter, the entire building was adorned with lavish Christmas decorations.
It was easy to admire the mall if you didn't live in its shadow. Volodja liked it. He had always been drawn to anything modern and high-tech.
Snow began to fall. Tiny flakes settled on his shoulders and melted into the black wool of his trench coat. He had removed his grey cashmere scarf on the metro; now he wrapped it around his neck and strolled towards the mall where he was to meet Emin. The choice of location struck him as odd, yet meeting in crowded public places to discuss sensitive matters was standard practice in their line of work.
The best way to hide a secret is to conceal it in plain sight. Most people overlook what is right in front of them.
Volodja excelled at this. He created convincing fake identities on social media to infiltrate businesses and organisations suspected of treason and Western funding. Once he gained their trust, he recorded their private conversations using the latest surveillance equipment — modified pens, glasses, watches, cufflinks, or anything else he could adapt.
Still, he found Emin's choice of venue unusual. The Milky Way was a modest café-restaurant serving traditional Scythian cuisine. It rarely attracted business lunches. Its regulars were mostly students, pensioners, and families with children, drawn by the homely atmosphere and reasonable prices. The place felt weird for their purposes, but then again, so was Emin.
Or perhaps I've simply grown too accustomed to the sleek, eccentric restaurants in Tsargrad City, Volodja thought.
The café was on the second floor. Shoppers hurried between the lingering Christmas and New Year sales. Volodja stepped onto the escalator and scanned the crowd for Emin, but the special agent was nowhere in sight. Still, he sensed he was close.
He disliked not knowing Emin's exact position. Disturbing rumours had been circulating about the man. Colleagues described him as unstable, almost manic, and many refused to work with him, unnerved by his unpredictable nature and the growing brutality he displayed toward his targets. Volodja was the only one in the department willing to meet him — partly out of curiosity, partly out of respect.
He had first known Emin as a bright-eyed young recruit, several years his junior. Back then, everything the half-blood touched succeeded. He had thwarted countless terrorist attacks, exposed foreign spies, and safely evacuated Scythian civilians and officials from war-torn Musulman zones. Eventually, he had been given the most critical mission of all: Borderland. That had been nearly ten years ago — the last time Volodja had seen him.
Emin had uncovered the planned surprise attack on the Scythe Empire, exposed the secret Gomorian biological laboratories in Borderland, and begun the investigation into Gomora's role in the pulmonary virus. Eight long years living among Nazis, powerless to stop their atrocities, had clearly broken something inside him. Whatever demons now haunted the special agent, Volodja didn't feel qualified to judge.
He entered the warm, cosy café and looked for a suitable table. The lunch rush had passed, leaving the place pleasantly quiet. He climbed to the mezzanine, where no tables were occupied, and chose a seat by the large window overlooking the stairs. From there he could watch for Emin's arrival. Outside, there was little to see except the road, passing cars, pedestrians, and an empty snow-dusted terrace.
"Hello, Vladimir," a soft voice said.
Volodja turned from the window. Emin was already sitting opposite him. Despite his vigilance, he hadn't noticed the man approach. The special agent had changed dramatically. The bright spark in his eyes had dimmed; they now appeared intensely dark. Silver strands threaded through his black hair. He remained physically strong, but his cheeks were hollow. Only the faint, familiar smile hinted at the old Emin.
"Man, you've changed," Volodja said, trying to ease the tension. "I hardly recognised you without the beard."
"I can hardly recognise myself," Emin replied with a slight shrug. "I stared at Mohammed in the mirror for so many years that I almost miss him now the beard is gone. I ordered black tea." He gestured to the plastic tray holding two large cups and a steaming teapot.
Volodja wondered how Emin had managed to approach so silently while carrying hot tea.
The agent poured for them both. They drank in silence for a while, each waiting for the other to speak.
"So," Volodja said at last, too curious to hold back, "why did you want to see me?"
"We're here to congratulate you," Emin replied calmly.
"Congratulate me on what?"
"Your engagement."
Volodja kept his expression neutral, though surprise flickered through him. Lately, little astonished him anymore. He waited for an explanation.
"We won. Gomora has fallen. But it isn't enough. You know better than most how many traitors fled to the West and are hiding there like spiders, weaving new plans to destroy our civilisation. We can't allow that. There is too much blood on their hands. To prevent another coloured revolution, they must be eliminated. I can't do it alone — there are too many of them. I need help. That's why I contacted you."
"No problem. I'm in."
"Are you sure? Haven't you heard what they say about me? Perhaps you should think it over."
"I don't listen to gossip. But I still don't understand why I had to get engaged."
"To move freely across the border without raising suspicion, you'll need to be married to someone from the West… or at least appear to be."
"Engaged to a Westerner?!" Volodja blurted, visibly displeased. The thought of dealing with a Western woman, especially an Almain, repulsed him. He still remembered Frau Adler, his short-tempered high-school German teacher — a quarrelsome woman who hated men and constantly pushed her poisonous ideas of female rebellion onto the girls.
"Alexandra is not a Westerner," Emin said firmly. "She's a Scythe, a devout Christian born to Scythian parents. She speaks and reads our language fluently. Her family moved to Gaul during the Turbid Times; she was born there. But she's a patriot, on our side, and willing to help."
"Why haven't they returned?"
"Alexandra wants to, but she's principled. She wishes to settle certain administrative and financial matters first. Besides, we need reliable people living in the West who can cross borders freely and report back."
"How did you find her?"
"By chance. She and her mother were having tea in a café on the Main Square. I overheard her complaining about Gaul mentality and an unpleasant incident at the border. She spoke with the slight accent many Scythian emigrants develop. I followed them home, learned who they were, and found a way to approach her. Though it's more accurate to say she recruited herself the moment she realised who I was."
"She's willing to betray her Gallic friends?"
"Alexandra has no real friends there. You know how the Gauls can be — racist and arrogantly chauvinistic for no good reason. She feels no particular loyalty to them."
"Tell me more about her."
"She's intelligent, well-educated, well-read, polite, and independent. Stubborn in the best way. Loyal and reliable. She likes when people call her Alex. You'll see for yourself when you meet her. She's attractive, too."
"Sounds like a super woman. Why didn't you propose to her yourself?"
"I had the impression she was afraid of me," Emin said quietly.
"You don't say!"
"Don't be cheeky," Emin's eyes flashed. "You're simply better suited for this. But I warn you: if you ever hurt her, make her cry, disrespect her, or force yourself on her, I will deal with you personally."
"Understood. You wouldn't have chosen me if you thought I was capable of any of that."
Emin didn't reply. They sat in silence for a moment, each pondering the mission ahead but concerned about different things.
Emin felt confident. With Volodja on board, half the work was already done. The brilliant IT specialist could track down anyone using nothing more than the internet and his custom gadgets. The only challenge would be locating the scattered traitors.
Volodja, meanwhile, was less worried about the operational side — he was an improviser who thrived on the unexpected. What troubled him was Emin's willingness to involve an unprepared young civilian woman. No matter how brave Alex claimed to be, she couldn't fully understand the risks. And Emin, driven by emotion and her obvious loyalty, had apparently not emphasised them.
"So, when do I meet my future wife?" Volodja asked.
"Today," Emin glanced at his watch. "They've just left the Historical Museum and are heading to the Malachite Terminal for a late lunch here at the Milky Way. You'll meet your mother-in-law as well. Be polite and courteous. Her parents understand the importance of this arrangement and that their daughter has agreed to a fictitious marriage to help us. In return, they've asked for protection and assistance relocating to Tsargrad. Life in Gaul has become expensive and dangerous."
"How will I recognise her?"
Emin slid a photograph across the table. It showed a young woman in a tight black dress with dark features and blood-red lips, gazing away from the camera to her right.
Volodja studied the image. He liked what he saw, yet he wondered what kind of woman would willingly enter such a dangerous game.
"You'll marry in two days. I've arranged everything — no waiting. Here's the address of the registry office. Her parents and a few friends will be there. Make a good impression."
"Have you told her about me? Shown her my picture? What if she doesn't like me?"
Emin raised an eyebrow, amused. "What is this? Are you falling in love already? I thought you were more businesslike."
"I don't know… I just wondered."
"As I said, you're the right man for the job. Whether you like each other is irrelevant for now." Emin stood. "Here's your new travel passport. I'll see you in Gaul."
With that, he walked away.
Volodja leaned over the balustrade and watched Emin leave the café. A few moments later, Alexandra and her mother entered.