The aide stopped. He was a young lieutenant with a face scrubbed clean of expression. He knocked twice on a heavy, steel-sheathed door. A voice from within answered, too low to be understood. The door opened inward. The aide stood aside and gestured for Sineus to enter. Sineus stepped across the threshold, his goal to simply receive his orders and understand why he had been pulled from the front.
The room was not an office. It was the nerve center of a hidden war. Vast maps of the front covered three walls, crisscrossed with red and blue grease-pencil lines. But beneath them, other lines glowed with a faint, sickly green light, pulsing slowly like sleeping veins. Two radio operators sat at a long table, their headsets on, whispering into microphones. The air smelled of hot vacuum tubes, strong black tea, and the damp wool of greatcoats.
A large man stood with his back to the door, studying the central map. He was built like a bear, broad and thick through the shoulders, wearing the immaculate uniform of a Red Directorate general. He did not turn.
— That will be all, Lieutenant, — the man said. His voice was a deep, calm baritone. It was a voice used to being obeyed without question.
The door clicked shut behind Sineus, the sound unnervingly final. The two radio operators stood, removed their headsets, and left through a second, smaller door without a word. The only sound left was the low hum of the radio equipment and the hiss of static. The privacy was absolute. The gravity of the meeting settled on Sineus like a physical weight.
The general turned. He was older than Sineus expected, his hair more grey than black, but his face was full and his eyes were a clear, intelligent blue. This was General Ivan Volkov, a man whose name was a rumor of power in the regular army. He smiled, a warm, almost fatherly expression.
— Commander Sineus. Welcome. Please.
Volkov gestured to a small table where a polished brass samovar steamed gently. Two simple glass tumblers stood beside it. He poured a stream of dark, fragrant tea into each glass. The gesture was disarming. An offer of hospitality in the heart of the state’s security apparatus.
— I trust your journey was not too eventful, — Volkov said, handing a glass to Sineus. The tea was scalding hot.
Sineus took the glass, his fingers wrapping around the heat. He said nothing. The journey had been a descent into madness. He had no words for it that this man would accept.
— Your actions at the rail junction were exemplary, — Volkov continued, taking a sip from his own glass. He watched Sineus over the rim. — Decisive. Brutal. Exactly what was required. You saved many lives with that order to take cover. Your instincts are sharp.
Sineus knew the praise was a test. He met the general’s gaze and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. He would not be drawn in. The dull throb from the Fracture still pulsed behind his eyes, a reminder of the true nature of those instincts.
Volkov’s smile did not waver. He set his glass down on the polished surface of a map table. For a moment, Sineus saw the general’s reflection in the dark wood, and beside it, his own. The image was distorted by the varnish, his face wavering, splitting into two overlapping visages that did not quite align. A fractured reflection. He looked away, focusing on the map of Stalingrad.
— I did not bring you here for commendations, Commander, — Volkov said, his tone shifting. The warmth receded, replaced by cold purpose. — I brought you here because we have a problem. A matter of the highest state security.
He let the words hang in the air. This was the true beginning. The pleasantries were over.
— One of our most vital assets has been compromised, — Volkov went on. He paced slowly in front of the maps, his hands clasped behind his back. — A man. Dr. Viktor Sokolov. Perhaps you have heard of him.
Sineus had not. The name meant nothing. He remained silent.
— He was one of our most brilliant physicists, working on a project of immense strategic importance. Two days ago, he defected. He killed three Directorate agents and vanished.
Volkov stopped pacing and turned to face Sineus directly. His blue eyes were hard as chips of ice.
— He did not leave empty-handed. He took with him the entire project’s research. Everything. We are calling it the Sokolov Cipher.
Volkov was building a frame. A simple, severe matter of treason. Sineus felt his own deep-seated distrust of men who fought wars from quiet, warm rooms. The general’s words were meant to impress upon him the magnitude of the loss. They did.
— We need him found, Commander. We need that data back before it falls into the wrong hands.
Sineus felt the trap closing. This was not a military operation. This was a manhunt. This was NKVD work.
— General, — Sineus said, his voice level. — With respect, this sounds like a matter for the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs. My men are riflemen, not investigators.
The challenge was laid. A question of jurisdiction. A test of his own.
Volkov smiled again, but this time it held no warmth. It was the smile of a man who holds all the cards.
— The NKVD is a blunt instrument, Commander. They would put a bullet in Sokolov’s head from a hundred meters and call it a victory. I need the cipher. And I need Sokolov alive, if possible. But more than that, I need a man who can think like the enemy. A man with… unique instincts.
He let the word hang in the air. Instincts. The same word he had used to describe the premonition at the rail junction. Volkov knew. He did not know how he knew, but he knew. The realization was a jolt of ice water in Sineus’s gut. He was not chosen for his service record. He was chosen for the anomaly in his head, the one he himself dismissed as shell-shock. The price of his strange gift was this unwanted attention. This leash.
— Sokolov is not just a traitor, — Volkov added, his voice dropping lower. — He is a commodity. And there is another buyer in the market. The Ahnenerbe Occult Bureau is also looking for him.
The name sent a chill through Sineus that had nothing to do with the winter outside. The Ahnenerbe. The Nazi’s own secret directorate, a nest of fanatics and occultists who dabbled in things far stranger than politics. The war he knew, the one of artillery and trenches, was a thin crust over something much deeper and darker.
— The Germans cannot get that data, — Volkov stated. It was not an opinion. It was an absolute. — If they do, the advantage they gain will be catastrophic. This is now a race.
He walked back to the table and picked up a sealed oilskin file. He held it out to Sineus.
— Your orders are simple. Find Sokolov. Retrieve the cipher. You will be given a small team, including your Sergeant Major. You will have priority access to all transport and resources. You will answer only to me.
He paused, his eyes locking with Sineus’s.
— Find him. At any cost.
The order was absolute. The weight of it was immense. To refuse was impossible. It would mean a tribunal, a bullet, or a slow death in a camp. His noble birth would be a death sentence. To accept was to become this man’s personal hound, sent on a chase he did not understand, using an ability he did not trust. He was being moved from a soldier’s ignorant loyalty to a state of knowing servitude.
Sineus looked at the file in Volkov’s hand. He gave a single, sharp nod.
He had made his choice. He had to.
Volkov’s expression relaxed. He handed the file to Sineus. It was heavy, dense with papers.
— Good. Your team is being assembled. You leave in one hour. Dismissed, Commander.
Sineus took the file. He turned without a word and walked to the door. His hand was steady as he pulled it open. The aide was waiting in the corridor, his face impassive. The sounds of the headquarters—the distant clatter of a typewriter, the hum of electricity—rushed back in.
The air in the hallway was cold and smelled of dust. The warmth of the general’s office was gone.
