The file Volkov had given him was a cold weight in his greatcoat pocket. It felt heavier than the pistol on his hip. Sineus walked through the muddy, churned-up grounds of the rear echelon headquarters, leaving the warmth and the hum of the general’s command post behind. The air was sharp with the smell of coal smoke and frost. His goal was to reach the staging barracks assigned to him, to brief the men Volkov had chosen. His men. The thought was a lie before it even formed. They were not his men. They were Volkov’s. He was Volkov’s.
His head still throbbed, a dull, persistent ache behind the eyes. A souvenir from the fracture. He thought of the general’s words. Your instincts are sharp. Volkov knew. He did not know how, but the man had looked straight through him, past the uniform and the rank, and seen the flaw inside. The anomaly. He felt like a specimen pinned to a board, his strangeness noted and approved for use. The feeling was worse than the cold.
He found the barracks. A long, low wooden building smelling of wet wool and oiled rifles. Inside, the light from a few bare bulbs was yellow and weak. It was a world away from the glowing green maps and polished tables of the Directorate. This was a soldier’s world. Practical. Worn. Honest. Two men were waiting for him, standing by a rough wooden table. Sergeant Major Boris Kulagin, his face a roadmap of old campaigns, his presence as solid and dependable as the earth. And Political Officer Pavel Morozov, his posture rigid, his face clean and unlined, an observer sent to ensure ideological purity.
Sineus laid the oilskin file on the table. The sound was a flat, final slap in the quiet room. He did not open it all the way. He slid out a single sheet of paper with the mission objective typed in stark, black letters. He had decided on the walk over. They would get the what, not the why. Not the how. Not yet.
— We have new orders, — Sineus said. His voice was flat. He was a commander giving a briefing. It was a role he knew. A mask he could wear. — We are being detached from the front. Our objective is a man. A defector named Dr. Viktor Sokolov.
Kulagin’s eyes, which had been on Sineus, flickered to Morozov and back again. He said nothing. He was a veteran who knew the shape of a bad order when he saw one. Morozov, however, stepped closer to the table, his gaze fixed on the paper as if it were scripture.
— A manhunt, — Kulagin said. It was not a question. It was a diagnosis. The word hung in the air, smelling of back alleys and summary executions.
— This is a matter of state security, Sergeant Major, — Morozov stated, his voice crisp. He had not been asked. He was asserting his place in the conversation. His place above Kulagin. — The Party has deemed it a priority.
Kulagin ignored him, his eyes still locked on Sineus.
— With respect, Commander. This is NKVD work. — Kulagin’s voice was low, rough like gravel. — This is for men who count bodies in basements, not on battlefields. We are soldiers. This is a stain.
Morozov stiffened.
— The Party has determined this is a military matter, Sergeant Major. Your opinion on what constitutes a stain has been noted. — He made a small, deliberate motion toward the notebook in his breast pocket. The threat was unspoken but clear. — The Commander’s duty is to the State. Not to his personal comfort.
Sineus felt the two forces pulling at him. Kulagin’s loyalty, a shield forged in combat. Morozov’s ideology, a cage built from doctrine. He looked from one man to the other. He saw the trap Volkov had laid, now illuminated by the yellow light of this bare room. Refuse, and he was a traitor. A nobleman of suspect birth, insubordinate at a critical moment. He would be shot. Kulagin, for his open dissent, would be shot alongside him. Accept, and he became Volkov’s personal hound, leashed and owned, sent to do the work of the secret police he despised.
He thought of the hard right. The choice that costs. What was it here? To die with a clean conscience, and let his sergeant die for it too? Or to swallow the poison and live, to protect his man from the consequences of his own loyalty? His integrity for Kulagin’s life. His soul for his sergeant’s life. A simple trade.
He looked at a smear of grease on the table, a dark, irregular shape. His own reflection stared back, distorted and broken. A fractured image of a man caught between two impossible choices. He saw the commander he was, and the hunter he was being asked to become.
He made the choice. The price was his freedom, paid in full. He would become the tool. He would wear the stain. But Kulagin would live.
— Your concerns are noted, Sergeant Major, — Sineus said, his voice devoid of emotion. He did not look at Kulagin. He looked at the map spread on the far wall, at the red lines pushing west. — But the orders are clear. Morozov is correct. Our duty is to the State.
The words tasted like ash in his mouth. He had moved from enduring the war to actively participating in its dirtiest secrets. The tension in the room did not break, but it changed. It was no longer a debate. It was a hierarchy.
Kulagin gave a single, sharp nod. His face was stone. He had argued. He had lost. He would obey. That was his code.
Morozov allowed himself a small, tight smile of satisfaction. The system had won. Ideology had proven stronger than a soldier’s sentiment.
— We will need equipment, transport, and clearance, — Sineus said, turning his attention fully to the operational details. He was a commander again, planning a mission. It was safer ground. — Morozov, your directorate can provide the necessary authorizations. I want them within the hour. Kulagin, prepare a list of supplies. Standard reconnaissance loadout. We travel light.
He was giving orders. He was in command. But he knew it was an illusion. He was a prisoner of the mission, and Morozov was his warden.
— There are additional papers, Commander, — Morozov said. He slid a thin folder from the main file. — Standard acceptance of special assignment protocols. They require your signature.
Of course they did. A final turn of the screw. A formal acknowledgment of the leash. Sineus picked up the pen beside the folder. The ink was black. He thought of the black mark Kulagin had earned in the hospital, the one Morozov had so carefully noted. Now he would have his own. A much larger one.
He signed his name on the line. The motion was fluid, practiced. The signature of a nobleman, taught by his father decades ago. The last remnant of a dead world, signing itself away in service to the new one. He pushed the folder back toward Morozov.
The deed was done.
The air in the room was still and heavy. The only sound was the faint hiss of the wind outside.
Sineus picked up the mission file. He turned to a fresh page.
