Very early, a plane from Siberia descended toward Sheremetyevo Airport, weaving through black storm clouds that embraced the aircraft in a wet, frozen hug. Now and then the fuselage trembled from the polar winds that lashed the region. Through the windows the flat expanse of Moscow spread out, white with snow, its frozen rivers and lakes glittering under the pale light. Soviet apartment blocks rose between copses of trees until the plane passed over the metropolitan area itself.

  Ivo watched the passing landscape, while Marek sat brooding. The mercenary jabbed Ivo in the ribs.

  “Remember: I’ll handle the talking. You keep your mouth shut,” Marek warned.

  “Why?” Ivo asked.

  “Because obviously they’re going to question us about the finding, you idiot.”

  “Well, we’re not even certain why they called us,” Ivo replied.

  “It’s not to award us medals, dumbass! I can guarantee you that,” Marek snapped.

  “What can we say? How do we justify not finding it? Better to tell the true sequence of events,” Ivo suggested.

  Marek bit his lower lip and thought for a moment.

  “We’ll say the old man was evasive and protected by dark forces,” he proposed.

  “You know that’s not true… they might’ve investigated the corpse and the San Onofre incident.”

  “You’re an idiot. Keep quiet if you don’t want us both executed,” Marek hissed.

  They fell silent as the engines droned during descent. Eventually the plane touched down on Sheremetyevo’s snow-striped runway; the wheels struck, the turbines roared like a dragon’s breath, braking the aircraft, and the captain’s voice announced arrival.

  After leaving the terminal, a company car collected them and drove them to DRACO. An hour later they stood rigid before Lilith and her staff. Lilith’s brow was tight; she looked at the two agents with a severe, unreadable stare.

  “Victor Walder,” Lilith began. “Was found burned inside a car on a country road near the Slovenian border.”

  “We can’t be certain it was him — DNA tests weren’t possible,” Marek answered.

  “Oh? And what about his passport?” Lilith asked.

  “Ma’am, it could’ve been a stolen passport,” Marek said. “Do you know the market value of a U.S. passport on the black market in Slovenia?”

  “So… you’re saying it might not be Victor Walder?” Lilith pressed.

  Marek bit his lip. “Ma’am… he was on the train that crashed with the freighter in San Onofre.”

  “So are you sure it definitely can’t be Victor Walder?” Belial asked.

  “We can’t be sure, Your Grace,” Ivo said. Marek shot him a warning look; Lilith did the same.

  “What a relief to know you’re a pair of incompetents!” Lilith snapped. “More than a year ago we reported him dead and told Merkel that the case was closed—yet now some body turns up on the border with the same name. Useless! We’ll be in trouble explaining how our hunters lost him—any blind man could’ve tracked him faster.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Marek cleared his throat and looked at Ivo, who stayed unnervingly calm.

  “Well… this—this was completely unexpected…” Marek stammered, giving Ivo a nudge; Ivo turned to Marek and nodded several times.

  “We did everything we could, but he slipped away at the station,” Ivo said.

  Marek cut in. “We followed him to San Onofre where he boarded the train that had the accident.”

  “A year later he appears dead somewhere in Slovenia…” Lilith interrupted.

  “I swear, Ma’am, we did our best to find the man. That corpse is not Victor Walder,” Marek insisted.

  “Don’t you swear at me—admit you’re incompetent!” Lilith spat. “An old man fools you, and you believe he’s dead? And what’s worse—we lost the damn book. Now we don’t even know what he did with it.”

  “Maybe the bastard destroyed it,” Bafomet muttered.

  “Oh no—” Ivo interrupted. “He sent it to someone else.”

  Marek moved to silence him with a discreet signal, but Lilith turned to Ivo.

  “You say you followed him to San Onofre? You saw him board the train?” asked Belial, intrigued.

  Ivo looked at Marek. “We followed Victor Walder to the station,” he confirmed.

  Marek sighed but shot his partner a hateful glance.

  “He got off at San Onofre, he managed to lose us, but we caught up with him at night as he hurried toward the station. We stopped him. When we asked about the manuscript, he told us he’d sent it by mail… of course we didn’t know from where.” Marek said.

  “But why didn’t you capture him?” Belial pressed.

  “The man defended himself unexpectedly—and then someone who was helping him ambushed us,” Ivo answered.

  “Right. We were attacked by someone who let him escape,” Marek added. “He fled to the station, boarded the train, and then the accident happened.”

  “Did you see him board the train?” Belial asked.

  “No—when we arrived at the station the train had already exploded,” Ivo said.

  “Yes, we saw him!” Marek affirmed, locking eyes with him.

  Lilith, Belial, and Bafomet stared at them. Marek swallowed and licked his lips, avoiding Belial’s gaze.

  “You saw him?” Lilith demanded of Marek. She leaned close, her face almost in his.

  “Heard any evidence?” Marek exhaled, looked down, and shook his head like a child caught in a lie.

  “USELESS!” Lilith screamed. “HOW DID AN OLD SCHOLAR MANAGE TO ESCAPE A PAIR OF MERCENARIES TRAINED TO HUNT AND KILL? IT’S UNBELIEVABLE!”

  The two mercenaries remained silent, heads bowed.

  “WORTHLESS COWARDS!” Lilith raged, pounding the desk and switching to demonic curses.

  Belial took a drag of his cigarette during a pause and spoke calmly, his voice a contrast to Lilith’s fury. “Did you not find out where he sent the package?” he asked.

  Marek shook his head. “No, Your Grace.”

  “We saw him going into the post office…” Ivo began. Marek hurried to speak over him. “We saw him entering many post offices across Italy and Europe—he could have sent postcards or letters, anything.”

  “WHO THE HELL SENDS LETTERS THESE DAYS?” Lilith roared. “Why didn’t you investigate who received his mail? Idiots!”

  The room fell into a glacier-cold silence like the storm over Moscow.

  “You know what I think?” Lilith said, dropping into her chair and removing her glasses. “YOU ARE A PAIR OF GOOD-FOR-NOTHINGS!” She slammed the desk. The agents lowered their heads.

  “We are in deep trouble, and you’re the reason,” she continued. “Not only did you lie, you made us believe he was dead and stopped the search.”

  “Ma’am,” Marek began. “I suspect that corpse wasn’t Victor Walder.”

  “WE DON’T NEED YOUR GUESSWORK!” Lilith snapped. “This is the last straw—you call yourselves mercenaries and head-hunters? Your grandfathers must be rolling in their graves.”

  “Lilith, our commitment—our loyalty—” Marek tried to argue.

  “Shut up and get out of my sight—both of you!” Lilith ordered.

  They bowed and left the room.

  “They sent us to that damned hell,” Marek muttered down the corridor.

  “Well… a lot of people die wanting to go to Las Vegas,” Ivo replied.

  “You’re an idiot,” Marek said as they waited for the elevator.

  It arrived. The doors slid open and a group of Russian clerks stepped out; the mercenaries stepped in. When the doors closed, Marek grabbed Ivo by the lapels and slammed him against the wall.

  “Last time you contradict me,” he hissed. “I told you to shut up.”

  “Marek… we never really knew whether he boarded the train,” Ivo protested. “When we got to the station, the explosion had already happened. Maybe he fled…and later succumbed.”

  Marek shoved him again, grabbed his cheeks and hissed close to his ear, words dragged out like a warning: “Our version is we saw him die, and you go telling them he entered post offices in San Onofre—what are you trying to do?”

  “We saw him!” Ivo shot back. “That could be a clue!”

  Marek’s grip tightened around his neck; Ivo’s pale face flushed red as Marek’s fist compressed.

  “You better keep your mouth shut—next time you die. Consider yourself warned.”

  The hunter released him as the elevator stopped and the doors opened to let in a cluster of office workers.