The blue pulse from the transmission apparatus was the only light. It painted the darkness in rhythmic, silent waves. A hunter’s boot scraped on the floorboards to the left. Sineus did not think. He acted. He fired the Tokarev twice at the sound. A grunt, a heavy fall. He grabbed the bronze astrolabe from the shelf beside him and hurled it at the single bare bulb overhead. The world plunged into absolute blackness, broken only by the pulsing blue heart of the machine.
— Kulagin, the window! — Sineus yelled, his voice a raw command that cut through the sudden chaos.
Another shot, a suppressed hiss, tore through the air where his head had been. He dropped low, smelling the sharp tang of cordite and the ancient dust of the shop. He saw Kulagin’s broad shape move, a shadow against shadows. The sergeant major’s submachine gun answered with a short, deafening burst, not at the hunters, but at the large display window facing the alley. Glass shattered, raining onto the cobblestones outside.
— Covering! — Kulagin roared. He fired again, a sweeping arc of noise and muzzle flashes that forced the hunters back from the new exit.
Sineus grabbed Sokolov by the collar. The scientist was paralyzed, a dead weight of pure terror. Sineus hauled him toward the opening, his feet crunching on shards of the broken display case. In a sliver of glass on the floor, his own face stared back, fractured and unrecognizable in the pulsing blue light. He kicked it aside and shoved Sokolov through the empty frame into the alley.
The cold night air was a shock, smelling of wet stone and charcoal smoke. Kulagin was right behind him, laying down another burst of fire before tumbling out into the alley. They landed hard on the slick cobblestones. From the corner of his eye, Sineus saw movement. Zoya. She had already pulled Sokolov to his feet and was pointing upward, at the dark line of a drainpipe running up the brick wall.
— This way, — she hissed. She gave Sokolov a brutal shove toward the pipe. The scientist scrambled, his hands finding purchase out of sheer panic. Zoya followed him up the wall, moving with the fluid grace of a predator. They were shadows against the brick, disappearing onto the rooftops.
Two hunters appeared in the shattered window frame, their forms silhouetted by the blue light. Kulagin’s gun chattered again, and they vanished.
— They’ll come from both ends of the alley, — Kulagin said, reloading his weapon with practiced economy.
— Then we don’t stay in the alley, — Sineus replied. He looked for Morozov. The political officer was standing frozen just outside the shop, his pistol held in a trembling hand, a spectator at his own execution.
— Morozov! Move! — Sineus commanded.
Morozov flinched but did not run. He looked down the alley, then back toward the shop, his mind trapped by indecision. A choice between two kinds of death. Sineus saw it in that single, frozen moment. There was no time. To go back for him was to die with him. He made the choice. The price was one man. He grabbed Kulagin’s arm.
— Now, — he said.
They ran. They left Morozov behind. The sound of whistles echoed from the street, sharp and coordinated. The net was closing. They plunged deeper into the labyrinth of the Grand Bazaar. The narrow passage opened into a wider artery of the market, a canyon of closed stalls and shuttered windows. The air smelled of stale spices and damp canvas.
They moved fast, sticking to the shadows. A hunter appeared on a cross-path fifty meters ahead. Sineus fired the Tokarev. The shot was loud in the enclosed space. The hunter dropped. They did not slow down. They turned left, into another narrow way. A metal gate blocked the end. Locked.
— Back, — Kulagin grunted.
They retraced their steps. The whistles were closer now, coming from multiple directions. Volkov’s men were professionals. They were herding them. Sineus saw a flicker of movement on the rooftops above. Zoya. She pointed east, then vanished.
— Up, — Sineus said. He found a stack of wooden crates against a wall and started to climb. Kulagin gave him a boost, then followed, the submachine gun slung over his back.
The rooftops were a chaotic landscape of tile and tar, crisscrossed by laundry lines and chimneys. The cold air was cleaner here, carrying the scent of the sea. Zoya and Sokolov were waiting for them, crouched behind a low parapet. Sokolov was shaking, his face as white as bone. Zoya was perfectly still, her gaze scanning the alleys below.
— Two followed us up, — she said, her voice flat. She wiped one of her knives on her trouser leg. It left a dark, wet smear. — They are not following anymore.
Sineus nodded. He looked over the edge. He could see the hunters moving below, methodical and sure. They were sweeping the bazaar section by section. He saw a small group of them surround a locked gate. He saw them take a man into custody. Morozov. His face was slack with shock. He did not resist. The loss was a cold, hard stone in Sineus’s gut. A necessary price.
— They have him, — Kulagin said quietly, his voice devoid of emotion. It was a tactical observation. One liability removed, one source of intelligence gained by the enemy.
— He made his choice, — Sineus said. He turned away from the scene below. They kept moving, a four-person team now. They jumped from one roof to the next, a desperate, silent race across the sleeping city. They descended into a darkened square, a place where merchants sold carpets during the day. The stalls were covered in canvas, silent ghosts in the moonlight.
They crashed through a stall selling brass and copper goods. A polished samovar fell, and in its curved surface, Sineus saw his reflection again. Four faces, not one. His own, Kulagin’s, Zoya’s, Sokolov’s. All of them broken and distorted by the curved metal, a fractured image of their shattered unit.
They finally found refuge in a small, deserted courtyard behind a bakery. The air smelled of cold ashes and yeast. It was a dead end, but it was defensible. For now. Kulagin took up a position covering the only entrance. Zoya slid down the wall, her breathing shallow, and began checking her knives. Sokolov huddled in a corner, trying to make himself small.
Sineus stood in the center of the courtyard, the cold seeping into his bones. He reloaded his pistol. He had four bullets left. Kulagin had half a magazine. Zoya had her blades. Sokolov had his knowledge. They had escaped the shop. They had survived the chase. But they were not free.
The distant sound of a ship’s horn echoed from the Bosphorus. The rain began to fall again, a soft, steady hiss on the stone.
