The suit was a lie. It was a pre-war German cut, made of good wool, but it hung on Sineus’s frame like a shroud on a skeleton. The last of their shared funds had bought them four such disguises from a terrified tailor in a back-alley shop. They smelled of mothballs and desperation. Kulagin looked like a bear forced into a corset, his shoulders straining the seams. Zoya wore a simple black dress that failed to hide the coiled tension in her body. Sokolov just looked lost, a man of books drowning in a world of men.
They moved through the gilded doors of the consulate. The air inside was thick, a heavy blanket woven from expensive perfume, Turkish tobacco, and the cloying sweetness of brandy. A string quartet sawed away at a waltz in a corner, the music a thin veneer over the low hum of a hundred conversations in a dozen languages. This was the Istanbul Conclave, the neutral ground where enemies smiled at each other over crystal glasses before ordering each other’s deaths in the morning. Their mission was simple. Find a friendly face. An Allied contact. Someone from the Athenaeum, the faction Sokolov swore was their only hope.
Sineus took a glass of champagne from a passing tray. The bubbles were a bitter effervescence on his tongue. He and Sokolov began to move through the crowd, a slow, systematic search. They were looking for a sign. A lapel pin. A particular brand of cigarette. Anything. Their cover felt thin. Every glance felt like an accusation.
Kulagin found a spot near the grand staircase, his back to a marble column. He was a block of granite among porcelain dolls, his eyes scanning every entrance. Zoya drifted toward the terrace, a shadow slipping between clusters of laughing diplomats. She leaned against the balustrade, a lone figure looking out at the city lights, but her gaze was fixed on the reflection in the glass doors, watching the room behind her.
Then he saw it. Morozov. The political officer had been a ghost since the marshes, a hollow shell of a man. Now, something had rekindled in his eyes. A flicker of his old, terrible faith. He was watching a stout man with a thick moustache near the buffet, a minor trade attaché Sineus knew was a Red Directorate fixture. Morozov’s hands were trembling.
Sineus felt a cold knot tighten in his gut. He started to move toward him, a warning on his lips. But Morozov was already turning, melting into the crowd, heading for a corridor that led to the private offices. He was a man with a purpose again. A purpose that would get them all killed.
The betrayal was a physical thing, a sudden drop in pressure. Sineus lost sight of him. He turned back to the main room, his search for an Allied contact forgotten, replaced by a frantic hunt for his own man. He felt a new kind of gaze on him then. Not the casual sweep of a guard, but the focused weight of a mind. It was a cold, analytical pressure, like being measured for a coffin.
He scanned the balconies that overlooked the main floor. He saw nothing but shadows and silhouettes against the ornate ironwork. He caught his own reflection in a polished silver tray carried by a waiter. His face was a fractured mask, split and distorted by the convex metal, the faces of the crowd swimming around him like ghosts in a dark river. For a second, one of the fractured pieces wasn't his. It was Morozov’s face, twisted in a silent, desperate prayer to a god of steel and doctrine.
Sineus looked away, the image burning behind his eyes. The feeling of being watched intensified. It was coming from the balcony to his left. He looked again, and this time he saw a figure detach itself from the shadows. An old man in a simple dark vest and a crimson fez, his face a roadmap of wrinkles. The man met his gaze for a single, unnerving second, then turned and disappeared.
A moment later, a younger man in a similar vest and fez was standing beside him. He had appeared from nowhere, moving through the dense crowd with an unnatural ease. He did not look at Sineus. He looked at a painting on the wall.
— My master has an interest in unique items, — the man said, his voice a quiet murmur that cut through the noise of the party. — And in the people who carry them.
Sokolov, who had been circling back, froze at the words. Sineus stood his ground. This was not the contact they were looking for. This was something else. Something that had found them.
— We are not for sale, — Sineus said, his voice low and hard.
— Everything is for sale, Commander, — the aide replied, still not looking at him. The use of his rank was a casual display of knowledge. Of power. — It is only a matter of price. My master does not wish to buy you. He wishes to offer his services. He believes you have something that the Athenaeum would pay dearly for. And he is the only man in this city who can make that introduction without the Directorate or the Ahnenerbe knowing.
It was a trap. It had to be. A third player entering the game, one who knew who they were, what they carried, and who they were trying to reach. But Morozov was loose. Volkov’s net, he knew, was already closing. The official channels were a guaranteed death sentence. This new path was only a probable one.
— Your master, — Sineus said. — Who is he?
The aide finally turned his head. His eyes were dark and flat, holding no emotion.
— He is Adem Kurtoglu. And he is your only way out of this room alive.
Sokolov looked at Sineus, his face pale with fear and uncertainty. Kulagin, from his post, gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. A soldier’s warning. Zoya had gone still on the terrace, her hand resting near the small of her back, where her knives were hidden.
Sineus thought of the cold weight of the locket in his pocket. He thought of the child’s drawing inside. The hard right. He had no good choices. Only a bad one and a worse one. He made his decision, and walked into the stranger's web.
— Lead the way, — Sineus said.
The aide gave a single, sharp nod and turned, melting back into the crowd.
The air in the corridor was cool and still. The music of the party faded behind them to a dull, muffled pulse.
