Gangster in France

Ïðåäèñëîâèå.

Äîðîãèå ÷èòàòåëè, ïóáëèêóþ íà àíãëèéñêîì âòîðóþ ÷àñòü ðîìàíà ïðî "ãàíãñòåðà" Àëåêñà. Ñèë íåò ïåðå÷èòûâàòü, ïîýòîìó ïðîøó âàñ - íàïèøèòå â êîììåíòàðèÿõ î íåòî÷íîñòÿõ, îøèáêàõ èëè îòñóòñòâèè ëîãèêè. È åù¸, ìíå íóæåí âàø ñîâåò. Äâà è ìîèõ êîðîòêèõ ðàññêàçà, ðàíåå îïóáëèêîâàííûõ íà ýòîì ñàéòå, ïðîèçîøëè â Êàíàäå è áûëè çàïèñàíû ñî ñëîâ ðåàëüíûõ ïðîòîòèïîâ ðîìàíà îá Àëåêñå.  ñâÿçè ñ òåì, ÷òî ìíå ëåíü ïèñàòü òðåòüþ (çàêëþ÷èòåëüíóþ) ÷àñòü ðîìàíà îá èõ æèçíè ïîñëå áåãñòâà èç Ôðàíöèè, íå ñòîèò ëè ââåðíóòü òå ðàññêàçû î Êîñòå (ðåàëüíîå èìÿ Àëåêñà - Êîñòà) è Àë¸íå â ýòó ÷àñòü? Èëè ïóñòü îñòàþòñÿ îòäåëüíûìè ðàññêàçàìè?


Chapter One

With a hiss of air brakes and the metallic scream of steel on steel, the train rolled into Gare de Lyon. Early on a July morning, Alex stepped onto the platform beneath the iron-and-glass vault of Paris’s great eastern terminal, his hands buried deep in the pockets of a worn-out jacket. The air smelled of iron, cigarettes, and something greasy and fried drifting in from the food stalls lined along the concourse.

He walked slowly down the platform among a dense cluster of Albanian refugees, studying the station with open curiosity. The building, erected in the middle of the nineteenth century, rose around him with theatrical grandeur.
Five hours earlier, at Strasbourg, French gendarmes and railway staff had failed to stop a shouting crowd barking orders and curses in a foreign tongue. Several hundred dark-haired men, women, and children had stormed five cars of an express train, simply taking them over. As a result, dozens of local residents and travelers bound for Paris were left stranded on the platform, tickets clenched uselessly in their hands.

Alex had slipped neatly into the chaos. Blending in with refugees from a country torn apart by civil war, he’d ridden for free.

The old station—recently celebrating the 150th anniversary of the start of its construction—impressed him with its pomp and, above all, with two massive mural panels mounted over the exits leading from the platforms into the main hall.
He didn’t know their titles, but as a budding amateur of painting he studied them with genuine interest.

The first radiated exuberance: young men being sent off to the front during the First World War, faces bright with patriotic fervor. The second was its grim counterweight—wounded soldiers and invalids returning from German captivity, hollow-eyed and broken.

Having satisfied his aesthetic hunger, Alex became acutely aware of a more physical one. He scanned the hall for a caf; he could afford.
The brasseries Le Train Bleu and La Vigne Saint-Laurent, barely twenty steps away, were dismissed instantly—their patrons looked like well-fed German burghers and French bourgeois. Instead, Alex headed for a humbler option, a station eatery with the plain name La Place.

Its glass wall stood right by the station exit. To the left of the entrance were buffet cases stacked with snacks, pastries, and glazed fruit. Beneath wide windows overlooking the forecourt stretched the baristas’ domain: three nimble young men commanding a dozen coffee machines, somehow keeping up with the steady human tide of arriving and departing passengers.

Alex stepped into La Place and took it all in. Just beyond the wide-open glass doors stood suitcases of every size imaginable. Beside a couple of them, two children—no more than seven years old—sat directly on the marble floor.
Standing guard, Alex thought as he passed tall tables mounted on black metal legs.

He moved past groups clustered around the bar tables, listening to fragments of conversation. Male and female voices overlapped in French, German, and Serbo-Croatian.

No Anglo-Saxons, no Americans would ever eat breakfast in a place like this, Alex thought. Cheap food for locals below the middle class, tightfisted Germans, and broke Balkan refugees.

He placed his order, took a cappuccino from the barista, and set his tray on an empty table. He hadn’t finished his cheese-smothered fries when two solidly built men stopped beside him. Their clothes marked them unmistakably as Eastern Europeans. Alex had seen their type more than once in Strasbourg: tense, speaking in low voices, eyes sharp and constantly measuring the room.

That’s how inexperienced outsiders behave, he thought. The ones sniffing around for petty theft or small-time scams. If they’re Yugoslavs, Romanians, or Bulgarians, I won’t get much useful information out of them.
They were discussing their order—in Ukrainian.

“We barely have enough money for coffee,” said the shaved-head one. “No croissants this time.”
“With cups of coffee we’ll stick out like idiots,” the second replied. “If we don’t order anything at all, the waiter will know right away we’re not here to eat.”
“Guys,” Alex cut in quietly. “Order the croissants. They’re worth it. Don’t worry about the money—I’ll cover it.”
“And why didn’t you order any for yourself?” the bald one asked, without surprise.
“I had them in the dining car,” Alex lied smoothly. “Two hours ago.”
“And where are you from, so quick on your feet?” the second switched to Russian.
“Strasbourg. Broke up with a local girl—so here I am,” Alex answered truthfully.
“Why’d you split?” the first asked suspiciously.
“The Fr;ulein didn’t like my past,” Alex said, then deftly steered the conversation elsewhere. “I get the sense you’re not tourists. How about this: I buy you croissants, you give me information. Deal?”
“Depends on what you want to know,” the second Ukrainian replied. “Some information costs more than any croissant.”
“I’m not sticking my nose into your business. I just want to know where in Paris homeless people get fed—and where the police don’t chase them off. I need a safe place to lie low while I learn French.”
“They hand out food during the day at Gare d’Austerlitz,” the bald one explained, now in Russian. “At night, you can crash at Gare de Lyon.”
“How do I get there?”
“There’s an escalator by the main departure board down to the metro. Take Line Five. Get off at Austerlitz and hang around the station area till dark. In the evening, walk back to Gare de Lyon—it’s close.”
“Thanks, guys. Here’s twenty. Enough for a couple of plain croissants,” Alex said, setting a crumpled Debussy note on the tray.

And he walked away.


Chapter Two

Thirty-year-old Stevo, a Romani gypsy, and his henchman Besik were sitting on the steps of the grand staircase that led to the most pretentious restaurant in the French capital—Le Train Bleu. Behind the oak doors hid an entire Belle ;poque museum: ceilings painted with pastoral scenes, gilded columns, massive chandeliers, mirrors in baroque frames, carpets meant for ministers and millionaires. A place where waiters wore white gloves and steaks were served on porcelain edged with cobalt blue.

But neither the leader of the Roma of Paris’s 12th arrondissement nor, especially, his right-hand man had the faintest idea what lay behind those oak doors. To them, the restaurant was just a building overhead—at their backs—where an iron staircase began. Inside there were fairies on the ceilings, Napoleonic table settings, and waiters gliding as if across a mirrored stage. But Stevo and Besik weren’t looking there. Their attention was fixed on the human current flowing below the stairs—the stream of potential profit.

Stevo studied the passengers of Gare de Lyon with care. He assessed jewelry, clothes, shoes, luggage, age. He weighed who could be intimidated and robbed, and who was better left alone. Besik, meanwhile, was openly gawking at girls and young women, imagining himself with them in secluded corners.

Three years earlier, Stevo had lived in Lun;k IX, a Roma housing project built in Ko;ice back in the socialist days. The son of a gypsy baron, he lent money on his father’s behalf to poor neighbors. The interest was steep—one percent per day. He collected debts the very hour welfare recipients came out of the post office. The job demanded decisiveness, fast reactions, and cruelty.
Stevo usually worked alone. His authority came from his father’s title, and he only took on helpers when he saw real potential. One of those was Besik Stojko—his partner in courtyard ping-pong.

Besik was five years younger, but stood out for his loyalty, courage, and organizational instincts. Unlike the lone-wolf Stevo, Besik led a gang of teenagers operating in the area between the school, a shabby grocery store, and a church.

There was nothing to steal from the locals—grimy children, perpetually pregnant women with sad eyes, potbellied men in tank tops and track pants. So the kids mostly targeted tourists who wandered into their neighborhood by mistake.
Stevo and Besik might have spent their entire lives in nine-story blocks with water and electricity cut off for nonpayment, if one day a British couple hadn’t parked a rented Daewoo compact on Khrebendova Street.

The moment the car stopped, a pack of boys aged ten to twelve rushed it.

“Money! Give us money!” they chanted in English, pounding their fists against the windows.

The woman behind the wheel leaned on the horn.

“Beeeeeeep!”

The kids responded by pulling faces. The oldest jumped onto the hood and began smashing his heel against the windshield.

“Get out of the car, you bitches!” he shouted, laughing as the glass cracked beneath his feet.

The man in the passenger seat tried to shield his wife from flying shards and didn’t notice a group of teenagers led by Besik approaching from his side. Realizing this wouldn’t stop the attackers, the Brit yanked the door open. One of the boys was knocked down, hit his head on the asphalt, and lost consciousness.

The windshield bowed inward. The woman covered her face with her hands. The husband, ignoring the boy he’d knocked down, grabbed the kid on the hood by the leg and flung him off the car. In that same instant, Besik stabbed him in the right side with a knife.

The man screamed and collapsed onto the pavement.

The children scattered. Besik’s teens quickly rifled through the victim’s pockets and headed toward an abandoned building with empty window sockets like dead eyes.

The attackers didn’t know that satellite phones were already widely used in Britain. They also didn’t know the woman had managed to report the attack to Scotland Yard in London.

By the time police arrived, the Brit was dead. Through tears, the woman described the killer—height, facial features, age, clothing, hairstyle. It was enough for local police to put out an alert.

And Besik, who had left the knife buried in the victim’s body, soon found himself wanted.

A few days later, police cars with sirens screaming stormed into Lun;k IX.
The district erupted in riot. Stevo organized it. Under his leadership, Roma smashed school windows, trashed the grocery store, and pelted police with stones.

To suppress the unrest, authorities deployed the army. With soldiers backing them up, police restored order.

Knowing freedom was no longer an option, Stevo and Besik ran. They escaped in the luggage compartment of a long-distance bus to Prague, then hitchhiked their way to Paris.
________________________________________
Three years later, a pair of well-dressed young men—about twenty-five—sat on the lowest step of the same staircase.

Behind them, like a boomerang arcing upward, ran the elegant iron staircase from the platforms of Gare de Lyon to the doors of Le Train Bleu. Wrought-iron railings and ornate steps lured weary travelers into one of Paris’s most exquisite restaurants.

Besik looked flashy, deliberately loud. His curls were hidden under a black low-crowned hat. On his shoulders—a red denim jacket with chest pockets, underneath a T-shirt with a large GUCCI logo. Over it all, a massive gold chain. Dark-blue skinny jeans and black ankle boots completed the look. He had always been theatrical—loved gold rings, bright accessories, stylistic excess. Despite Stevo’s mockery, Besik had long crossed the line between flair and vulgarity.
Stevo dressed more modestly. For him, quality and comfort mattered more than trends. The only rule was that clothing must not undermine the image of a man who inspired fear. He wore black boots, jeans, a sweater, and a leather jacket. Hiding from Slovak authorities, he had dyed his hair white and now went by Blond.

Stevo’s dark-brown eyes scanned the travelers carefully. Like a pack leader, he hunted—judging where a person came from, what they did, whether they were dangerous, whether they could be shaken down for money, or whether it would be a waste of time. Spotting a young man walking slowly and staring up at the wall paintings, Stevo nudged his lieutenant with an elbow.

“See the kid staring at the frescoes?”
“With the backpack?” Besik óòî÷íèë.
“Yeah. Looks Russian or Ukrainian. Bring him here. He’s our client.”
“As the old gypsy saying goes: If they won’t let us rob stores, we’ll rob people,” Besik grinned and headed toward Alex.

Alex was walking slowly past boutiques that had recently replaced ticket counters. He wasn’t looking at the displays; his gaze was fixed on the ceiling—on the painting stretching for dozens of meters overhead.

Cities and landscapes, cathedrals and castles, coats of arms and names—Jean-Baptiste Olive’s colorful panorama was meant to inspire travelers to journey south. Alex didn’t know that. He thought he was looking at real frescoes. He loved painting, though he understood little about it.

Besik slipped past unnoticed, turned, matched his pace, and said in a mix of Russian, Slovak, and Ukrainian:
“Legend has it that right here, at Gare de Lyon, gypsies from eastern Slovakia stole a suitcase full of manuscripts from Hemingway’s wife.”
“I’m surprised you even know who Hemingway is,” Alex said.
“I didn’t. Blond told me. He’s the son of the baron of Ko;ice’s Lun;k Nine district.”
“And what is Lun;k, exactly—and where?” Alex asked.
“Eastern Slovakia. The most hardcore neighborhood in Europe,” the gypsy replied with a grin.
“And where’s Blond himself?”
“Come on, I’ll take you. He’s waiting by the stairs of the fanciest restaurant in Paris,” Besik smiled.

Stevo was still sitting in the same place. His posture had changed—he was leaning back, resting on his elbows.

“First day in Paris?” he asked, looking at Alex from under his lashes.
“Just got in from Strasbourg,” Alex replied calmly.
“And what were you doing there?”
“What does a Russian runaway do on the German border without knowing the language?” Alex shrugged. “Stole stuff and fucked a young German girl.”
“And why’d you leave?”
“She got scared. Too law-abiding. Afraid that if I got caught, I’d rat her out and she’d lose her job.”
“I see. Stay out of the center—you’ve got nothing to do there. Go downstairs—there’s a shelter for the homeless. Come back here tomorrow. You’ll work under me. Name’s Blond. I’m in charge between this station and Austerlitz. If you can’t find me, give the money to Besik. He’s my right hand,” Stevo said, nodding toward his man.
“And what exactly do I do?”
“Stand by a shop entrance. Open doors for tourists. Just two phrases in French: Welcome and Come again. You’ll learn them?”
“I speak English fluently. French—not yet. But I’m sure in a day I’ll pronounce it without an accent,” Alex answered.
“Good. Terms are simple: we put you on a spot, you give us half your take. Try to screw us, and we’ll cut your throat and dump the body in the river,” Stevo said, pulling an antique Italian stiletto from his pocket and lifting it to Alex’s eye level.


Chapter Three

The next morning Alex woke up on a folding cot among a hundred homeless drifters. After a hasty breakfast—one third of a baguette with cheese and a cup of lousy coffee in a paper cup, kindly provided by volunteers from the Abb; Pierre Foundation—he set off in search of the station’s metro entrance.
Alex had money, but he didn’t bother buying a ticket. He hopped the turnstile with practiced ease, ran down the stairs to the platform, and jumped into the open doors of the first train heading down the Yellow Line toward its terminus, Ch;teau de Vincennes.

He had never seen a fortress of that scale in his short life. Stopping at the drawbridge over a deep moat, Alex read the historical plaque in English and couldn’t help comparing the fortifications to the Kremlin.

Built a century later by Ivan the Terrible, the Kremlin was defended worse than the residence of Charles V, he thought. Seeing the ticket prices for the castle tour, he decided to postpone entertainment for later.

Alex wandered the streets around the medieval residence of French monarchs and quickly realized that in this quiet, affluent neighborhood he would have neither enemies nor competitors in his first French job. He didn’t know that by strolling along General de Gaulle Street and Franklin Roosevelt Avenue, across Lumi;re Square and Anatole France Promenade, he was actually in the respectable Val-de-Marne department rather than Paris proper.

The absence of police—so characteristic of the city center where he’d spent the two weeks since arriving in France—both surprised and delighted him. Looking at restaurants with open terraces, caf;s without window frames, and small shops standing wide open, he felt as though he’d stumbled into a paradise made just for him. The idyllic calm of the locals, the carefree tourists, the friendliness and attentiveness of waiters, bartenders, and shopkeepers all seemed unreal.
On the quiet Rue de Picpus, Alex stopped in front of the nightclub bearing the same name.

Perfect, he thought, studying the club’s black-and-red sign. If the windows are shuttered during the day, that means it runs all night. This is where I’ll start my career as a doorman. While it’s warm, I’ll sleep in the park right behind the castle. Let the gypsies keep hunting for other suckers at the station.
After a quick bite at a cheap Thai joint called Tamarin, Alex crossed Avenue de Paris and headed toward Parc Floral via Place des Mar;chaux.

Neither the Valley of Flowers, nor the Garden of Four Seasons, nor the exotic plants collected from all over the world in the Vincennes botanical gardens impressed him. What he did note was the accessibility and excellent condition of the public toilets—and the abundance of winding paths and secluded dead ends with benches hidden away.

I was right. No homeless people on the outskirts—they don’t give handouts here. It’s safe. I’ll come here after the club closes and sleep till noon.
Late that same evening, Alex stood in front of Le Picpus, opening the door for guests with the words, “Welcome.” Slender mademoiselles in black dresses, escorted by gallant messieurs dressed in black suits and shoes, smiled at the young doorman and slipped him small bills.

When dawn came and the guests had dispersed, Alex sat down on the short carpet runner at the club entrance and began counting the night’s take. A waitress and a bartender stepped out through the glass door. Both were dressed to match the night crowd. The woman looked slightly older than Alex; the bartender was over thirty.

“Hey, do you speak French?” the waitress asked.
“English only,” Alex replied.
“You’re a hero,” the bartender said, impressed. “You stood here from nine p.m. to four a.m. in front of a place this gloomy with just one French phrase—and you didn’t even step away once. Come inside, hit the restroom while we make you something to eat.”

Alex followed the hospitable Frenchmen toward the men’s room. Along the way he studied the interior and couldn’t quite grasp where he was. Black tables stood against walls of rough-hewn stone; wooden chairs had red leather seats. A coffin hung from chains above the bar, and in the corner near the men’s room door stood an iron cage, eerily similar to the holding cells in police stations back in his hometown of Reutov.

When Alex returned to the hall, the waitress had already brought a plate of snacks and a pair of ;clairs. She was sitting across the table and wiping makeup from her face with a napkin. The bartender carried a tray with three tall glasses of beer, set them down, sat beside Alex, and asked:
“So where do you live, kid?”
“Not far from here,” Alex said, taking a seat in front of the food.
“You are looking for steady work or was this just a one-night thing?” the waitress asked, watching him with a smile.
Alex carefully bit into an ;clair, trying not to spill chocolate custard onto the table. Still chewing, he raised his index finger.
“Then come back at eight tonight. Try to find suitable clothes. Big youth party—about fifty people. In a crowd like that, nobody knows everyone. You’ll have a blast.”
“I’ll be here,” Alex replied. He drained his beer in one gulp and, slightly buzzed, added, “Will everyone be dressed in black again tonight? I’m asking so I know what counts as suitable.”
The bartender laughed.
“In this club, guests are always dressed in black. It’s a trendy youth subculture. They call themselves goths.”
“So, I get it—you’re both in black too, but you’re not part of it?”
“Exactly. It’s just business. We don’t share their views, but we follow the tradition for profit’s sake. Listen, kid—you’ve got good English, but you’re not British. Where are you from, so modest-looking?” he asked.
“Russia. And I’m not modest at all—more like combative when needed, bold, with a history,” Alex replied.
“Combative, huh,” the man snorted. “Alright. If you pass initiation into the goth brotherhood tonight, come back the day after tomorrow for work. You’re young, but you look solid. After a trial period, we’ll promote you from doorman to bouncer.”
“Do you have trouble with your crowd?” Alex asked.
“Not with ours,” the waitress said. “But other youth groups hate them—especially skinheads and metalheads. So you won’t be dealing with regulars, but with uninvited guests.”

Paris was still asleep. In the pre-dawn twilight, Alex headed toward the park hoping to get a few hours of rest while foreign tourists slept in hotels and sipped coffee with almond macarons and sabl;s. But his plan to hide away in a secluded corner of the park fell apart. At that early hour—when visiting slackers were still luxuriating in hotel beds—the park was full of locals: cyclists, runners, and fans of the increasingly popular Nordic walking.
Assessing the new fitness craze, Alex thought, Bunch of wannabe skiers, and walked along Avenue Daumesnil toward the Vincennes Zoo.

To his left, behind a line of parked cars, stretched dense forest. To his right stood a two-meter-high fence topped with sharp metal spikes, shielding the homes of the wealthy from envious eyes. Alex walked the sidewalk, peering over the fence at heavily pruned trees. Thick elm branches had been sawn off, sticking up like severed stumps of raised arms.

In the middle of the block between Alphand Street and de Gaulle, Alex noticed that the poplar crowns in front of house number 37 rose several meters higher than those in neighboring yards. He stopped and looked around.

Despite the no-parking markings in front of private gates, cars are packed tightly along the entire curb here, he thought. Looks like the owners haven’t been around in a long time. Worth checking. Can’t pass up a chance like this.
He put a foot on the base of the fence and pretended to tie his shoelaces, scanning the street. It was deserted; only the occasional car sped past.

Go, Alex ordered himself. He jumped, grabbed the metal spikes, pulled himself up, swung his weight over, and seconds later landed in the courtyard of a two-story villa.

Weaving through overgrown forsythia and boxwood, moving quickly across open spaces, the uninvited guest reached the back entrance.

The upper half of the door was stained glass. In the center, framed by gilded wire, were two white lilies. Around the large flowers, one in each corner, were dark-blue glass squares.

Alex leaned against the stained glass and peered inside through the clear crystal. No movement.

Overgrown bushes and grass, untrimmed trees, illegally parked cars in front, silence inside, he listed mentally. All signs point to an empty house.
As he ran through the checklist, he wrapped his T-shirt around his fist.
After one last glance around, the burglar struck the dark-blue glass square nearest the handle. A thick piece of crystal fell onto the mat beneath the door and remained intact. Alex slipped his hand through the opening, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

White fabric covered the furniture in every room and utility space of the villa—lampshades, porcelain fixtures, the TV, paintings on the walls. The only thing uncovered was a large rug in the middle of the living room, surrounded by plush armchairs.

After a quick sweep, Alex returned to the back door and carefully set the broken glass back in place. In the kitchen, he tested the faucets. Cold water pressure was good; the hot tap only hissed. He flicked the living room lights on and off. Satisfied, the exhausted young man lay down on the sofa, pulled a white sheet over himself, and fell fast asleep.

The new occupant of the house on Avenue Daumesnil woke closer to evening. Stretching luxuriously, he scanned the room and headed to the kitchen in search of food. The refrigerator was empty and unplugged. Upstairs, he inspected two large master bedrooms and a smaller child’s room. He found nothing of value in closets or bedside tables but noted several conservative suits hanging in the man’s wardrobe—one of them black.

Alex had no doubt he’d find one. He knew that everyone reaches an age when funerals become part of life—and the older you get, the more frequent they are.
At thirty, a man rents a black suit for a funeral and returns it afterward. In old age, cemeteries became routine, Alex thought. The owner of this house is clearly over sixty. Which means my outfit for the goth party is hanging right in front of me. All I need now is a dark shirt and black shoes. Ideally, I could wear a black felt hat too. Never dreamed of one, but if I’m supposed to look like a clown, why not go all the way?

He took the suit off the hanger and tossed it onto the wide bed. Opposite the king-sized bed stood an ornate dresser on curved legs. Inside, Alex found a black shirt still in its store packaging and a new white tie.

The shirt, pants, and shoes fit him poorly—in size and in age. Still, he put them on and went into the bathroom. Studying his reflection carefully, Alex took a beautiful bottle of perfume from the shelf and, ignoring the silhouette of a woman on the label, squeezed the atomizer a couple of times. Bathed in expensive fragrance, he gave his reflection a thumbs-up and said:
“Nice.”

Wearing the unbuttoned jacket once owned by a successful older businessman, Alex sat at a nightclub table with a group of young French people. The Parisians were slightly older than him and peppered him with questions in English about youth life in Russia.

“We don’t have punks, rockers, or goths,” Alex said, answering yet another question about Moscow subcultures. “In Russia, a guy’s life splits into two parts—before the army or prison, and after. The lucky ones, like me, who got into a gang early became professional criminals by eighteen. The rest—those without the guts—became gopniks.”
“What are gopniks?” asked a thin girl with a strand of black hair covering half her face.
“Street trash banded into small crews that operate in their own neighborhood,” Alex replied.
“And what do these crews do?” she asked. Neither she nor her friends understood his untranslatable slang.
“They loiter around shaking down passersby for pocket change or beating up drunks and homeless people. Some even dress it up with ideology, calling themselves the city’s sanitation workers.”
“Got it—like English football fans,” one of the guys summed up. “Hooligans, basically.”
“And what are you going to do in Paris?” the thin girl asked. “Want to join us?”
“You’re good people—not mean, but very sad. I like to laugh, joke, and pull pranks. Thanks for the evening, but my road doesn’t run with yours,” Alex replied. He finished his beer and left Le Picpus.


Chapter Four

Alex went down to the lower level of Gare de Lyon just as the clock on the tower—resembling London’s Big Ben—struck seven a.m. After the brutal night he’d spent at the goth club, he looked worn down. His head was splitting from the beer, and the wrinkled suit—clearly borrowed from someone else’s shoulders—made him look older than his years.

Stevo and Besik spotted him, exchanged surprised glances, and moved to intercept.

“Where the hell have you been?” Besik asked, blocking his path.
“Get lost,” Alex snapped, shoving past them and walking on.
“Money,” Stevo shouted after him.
“I don’t have time for you, filthy beggars,” Alex replied without turning around. He raised his fist and slowly extended his middle finger.
“Maybe we teach him a lesson? Right now?” Besik suggested.
“Too many people,” Stevo said calmly. “We’ll catch him at night, under the de Gaulle bridge, and spill his guts.”
“We promised to dump his body in the Seine. Next time, we will,” Besik agreed.

Alex, already nearing the food distribution table, walked past dozens of cots crowded with homeless men and women and didn’t hear a word of it. He wasn’t hungry. A baguette with cheese and coffee in a plastic cup held no appeal.
In the long line of refugees of every nationality mixed with local clochards, three men caught his eye—faces that clearly belonged somewhere in the former Soviet Union.

“One of them is definitely Georgian,” Alex thought. “Hawk nose, talks with his hands like an Italian. The other two—probably Moldovans. Sluggish replies, nervous glances. Let’s test it.”
He stepped closer.
“Hey, brothers. Thinking about making a couple hundred francs?”
“Got ideas?” the Georgian replied.
“What’s your name?”
“Otari.”
“Otari, I’ve got ideas. Just not for cowards.”
Otari straightened up, puffed out his chest, and stepped forward.
“Who are you calling a coward?”
“Easy. Don’t burn out before the race even starts. Here’s the deal: we go to the flea market at Porte de Montreuil. Algerians run the place. We look around. If an opportunity comes up—we make some money.”
“So no clear plan? Just scouting?” Otari asked.
“Do hunters in the forest ever have a guarantee?” Alex shot back. “Do they know for sure they’ll find prey—and not become prey themselves?”
“Fair enough,” Otari nodded.
“That’s how I work. I move like a hunter. If I see prey, I react,” Alex said, then turned to the Moldovans. “You in?”
They exchanged glances.
“Plenty of time till free dinner,” one of them said. “We’ll be back by nine.”
“The market’s open from seven to seven. We’ll make it,” Alex smirked.

Less than an hour later, the four of them wandered lazily between the stalls, pretending to browse old junk. At the intersection of two aisles stood a group of Algerians hustling tourists with a shell game.

Alex stopped nearby and said quietly when the others caught up:
“When I was living on the streets in Odessa, I was the youngest in a crew like that—and the fastest. I know all their tricks.”
“You ran shells?” one of the Moldovans asked.
“No. I held the cash. Two big guys protected me from thugs, and I ran from the cops on my own.”
“Why was the money with you, not the older guys?” Otari asked.
“Because I was the quickest. Before my father sent me to boxing, I did acrobatics.”
“Go play. We’ve got your back,” Otari said.
“Not so simple,” Alex replied. “They won’t let me win big, and I’m not playing for scraps. First I need to see who’s spinning, who’s holding the money, how good they are.”
“And then?” a Moldovan asked.

Alex watched the scammers closely. When he caught a subtle hand signal between two of them, he murmured:
“The cashier’s the one in the red knit cap. I’ll try to turn one into two.”
He pulled two crumpled five-hundred-franc bills from his pocket.
“Step aside. If I win and they try to hold me—cover me.”
Otari and the Moldovans moved toward a souvenir stall with a clear view.
Alex squatted by the low table.
“If I put down a thousand francs and guess where the ball is, I get two?”
“Of course,” the Algerian laughed. “Fair game.”

Alex handed over the bills and focused. The Arab moved the plastic cups fast, then suddenly looked up, as if noticing something above—counting on the foreign kid to glance up too. At the same moment, he palmed the foam ball with his left hand.

“Where’s the ball?” the hustler asked.

Alex silently flipped the middle cup with his left hand and grabbed the Arab’s wrist with his right. Squeezing hard, he lifted the remaining cups one by one.

“You’re cheating. No ball under any cup.” He tightened his grip. “You owe me two thousand. Or I break your hand.”

The foam ball dropped onto the asphalt.

The Arab yanked free and screamed:
“He lost and now he’s demanding money!”

About ten Algerians closed in around Alex. They shoved him in the chest, punched his ribs and shoulders at half strength, trying to push him away from the table.
Otari and the Moldovans watched in confusion. Alex broke out of the circle and walked away without looking back.

“What a damn idiot,” he cursed himself. “Lost exactly what I made all night. Can’t be this naive.”

Then his eyes caught a tool stall. On the counter—planes, saws, hammers… and axes. An idea flashed. A dangerous smile crept across his face.

“You’re going to regret messing with me,” he said out loud, dumped a handful of francs on the counter, and bought an axe.
“Stay back,” he snapped at Otari and the others.

The Algerians were still standing with their backs to the crowd, sweet-talking another tourist. Alex came up behind them, yanked the red cap off the cashier’s head, and tossed it at his feet.

The thickset man turned around.
Alex swung the axe and smashed him with the blunt end on the shoulder. The joint cracked. The arm went limp. The man screamed and dropped to his knees.
The others froze—then, seeing Alex scan for his next target, scattered in panic.
Otari and the Moldovans had bolted even earlier.

Alex lowered the axe, crouched down, and emptied the victim’s jacket pockets—an ugly mix of francs, dollars, pounds, and marks.
“You tried to play me, scum? Lesson learned. I see you again—I crack your skull,” Alex said, then kicked the man in the groin.

The body toppled sideways.

Alex walked calmly toward the exit.
“And my brave friends ran off without waiting for the ending. With friends like that, who needs enemies?” he thought, passing the stalls.

He handed the axe back to the stunned vendor and kept walking.


Chapter Five

Gare du Nord lived its usual life: boarding announcements echoing under the vaults, the hum of footsteps, the rattle of suitcases over marble floors, the smell of coffee and fresh pastries mixed with a faint trace of rain drifting in through the open doors from the street.

Beneath the high arches of the neoclassical fa;ade, built back in the mid-nineteenth century, passengers crowded together—tired, hurried, half-asleep. Some were coming from work, others from Lille or Brussels. Monumental statues above the entrance, depicting European cities, looked down with indifference at the constant human flow. The station received and released trains as it had done for more than a century and a half.

Alex stood at a caf; counter, lazily sipping orange juice through a straw. A backpack hung from his shoulders—visibly heavy, yet his light movements betrayed the fact that it was almost empty.

He watched the platforms where white-and-blue Eurostar trains were lined up. One train had just unloaded passengers at platform six, while a crowd was slowly gathering near platform four. Fifteen minutes remained before the Paris–London high-speed train departed.

Deeper inside the hall, Alex noticed an elderly American couple. They looked lost: the man clutched the tickets; the woman scanned the space helplessly. Alex smirked.

He headed toward the platforms at an unhurried pace, then subtly sped up and passed the couple. When they lagged two steps behind, he deftly dropped his wallet, as if by accident.

“Hey, young man, you dropped your wallet!” the woman called out.

Alex turned around, lightly patted his pockets in mock surprise, picked up the wallet, opened it, glanced inside, and smiled as he showed an ID card.

“Thank you, ma’am. You’re a true Good Samaritan.”

The woman smiled back—open, instinctively kind, the way people smile who spend their mornings with binoculars instead of newspapers, tracking birds along migration routes and keeping folded notes full of wings and colors. Her husband did not smile. He was already tugging her along, his grip firm, practiced, the reflex of a man who had spent a lifetime teaching others where to put their fingers and when not to pull the trigger.

They turned toward the train when Alex suddenly called after them in English:
“Hey, Americans—wait a minute!”

The couple stopped.

“There were three hundred francs in my wallet,” Alex said calmly. “They’re gone now. Please return the money.”

The woman blinked, genuinely confused.
“I didn’t take anything. I only picked it up.”
“So now I’m walking around the station broke?” Alex spread his hands, voice light, almost amused. “Fine. If you won’t do this nicely, I’ll call the police.”

The loudspeaker crackled to life, its mechanical voice echoing across the platform:
“Eurostar high-speed train Paris–London departs in five minutes.”
The woman exhaled sharply.

“Stive,” she said, irritation creeping in, “the trip is only two hours and fifteen minutes. The next train won’t be for several hours. We can’t miss this one.”

Stive’s jaw tightened.

Rage flared in his eyes—at the insolent punk, at his wife’s reflexive trust, perhaps at himself for letting the situation unfold at all. Thirty years on the range, retired now, a former police firearms instructor who had drilled recruits until safety became muscle memory and hesitation meant failure. He knew intimidation. He knew posture, timing, and threat assessment. And he knew exactly what this was.

If it were up to him, he would have pulled his beloved .50-caliber Desert Eagle from its shoulder holster and put an Action Express round straight through the kid’s forehead—clean, decisive, textbook.

But the gun was back home.
Locked in the safe of a comfortable mansion in the tiny town of Clinton, Tennessee, on the slope of the Smoky Mountains—among dozens of revolvers, rifles, and neatly stacked crates of ammunition. A house with a porch that faced the trees, where his wife watched hawks and warblers while he cleaned weapons he no longer officially needed.

Here, on a Paris platform, with the clock ticking and London five minutes away, he had only his temper—and that wasn’t a weapon he could afford to use.
Grinding his teeth, he sharply pulled out a bill from his wallet and shoved it toward Alex with open contempt.

“Here. Take it. And don’t go dropping wallets full of money again.”

Alex found himself holding a hundred-dollar bill—more than he had expected. He slipped it quickly into his pocket, watched the couple until they boarded, and when the carriage doors closed and the train glided away, he checked his watch.

There was a little over an hour and a half until the next departure. Alex headed toward the waiting hall. Passing a glass kiosk at the boundary between the platform and the main concourse, he heard Russian being spoken.

Two females stood by a coffee stand. One was a girl of about fourteen—slender, fragile, yet beautiful in her own way. Light-blond hair fell to her shoulders; her large, deep eyes held a guarded alertness. She stood straight, with the posture of someone used to being strong. Her clothes were simple but neat: jeans, a gray sweater with stretched sleeves, a light jacket.

Beside her stood a woman in her forties. Once, perhaps, a stunning beauty—now tired, gaunt, with shadows beneath her eyes and a softness that neither her old coat nor long dress could hide. Yet something alive still flickered in her gaze: stubbornness, coquetry, a lingering desire to be appealing.

“Mom, we beg passersby for money. We barely have enough for food, and you want to buy cigarettes that cost more than my breakfast,” the girl said firmly, without malice. Fatigue and mild irritation rang in her voice.

The woman rolled her eyes, crushed an empty pack of Monte Carlo cigarettes in her hand, and tossed it behind the kiosk.
“I want to smoke,” she snapped. “I’ll drink coffee and have a cigarette instead of lunch.”
“I know that won’t be enough for you,” the girl’s voice softened. “I’ll eat, and you’ll watch me with hungry eyes… I’ll give you half anyway. Like always.”
The woman said nothing.

Alex smiled to himself. There was something touching about the scene. He decided to introduce himself.
As he walked past, he pulled an old trick.

“Mom, look! That French guy dropped his wallet!” the girl said loudly.
“Pick it up quickly and bring it to me,” the woman whispered.

But the girl didn’t move. She looked at her mother, then at the wallet, as if weighing something. Finally, she bent down, picked it up, and caught up with Alex.
“Monsieur, you dropped your wallet,” she said in French.

Alex stopped, turned around, and took the wallet without even looking inside. Then, unexpectedly, he replied in Russian:
“Thank you. It’s mine. Are you just passing through, or do you live in Paris?”
The girl’s eyes widened in surprise.
“My mom and I came from Ukraine two days ago. We don’t know yet—whether we’ll stay here or go on to England.”
“What’s your name?”
“Alyona.”
“Come on, Alyona,” Alex said with a faint smile. “Introduce me to your mom.”


Chapter Six

Two young men and a woman were sitting on a bench at the Porte de Vanves bus stop. The guys kept scanning the street, while the woman stared straight ahead, chewing gum with mechanical intensity.

“Are you sure he’ll show up today?” the brunette asked the skinny guy sitting next to her, no older than twenty.
“No,” he said. “But that Georgian who once worked with him said Alex drops his merchandise at this flea market every Saturday.”
“The Georgian told him…” the girl drawled mockingly. “We’ve been sitting here for two hours. I’m freezing and I’m hungry. Maybe he won’t come at all. Or maybe he already came—just from the other side. And why are we waiting for a bus? He could’ve taken the metro.”
“He won’t take the metro,” the tall, broad-shouldered guy cut in. He stood up, looked down the street, checked his watch, and went on. “Cops can stop him underground and check his bag. And you can’t jump turnstiles with a duffel—he never pays for transport on principle. A bus is different. Easy to get on with gear, and if there’s a check, worst case they kick you off. Bus fifty-eight will be here soon. The market opens at seven, but most vendors don’t even unpack until ten.”
“You’re such a bore, Vitya. You always have an explanation for everything,” the girl said lazily. Then she nudged the skinny guy with her shoulder. “Vitalik, go buy me something to eat.”

Vitaly didn’t argue. He obediently crossed the street toward a Chinese grocery with the exotic name New Song Heng.

The moment he disappeared through the door, a large plaid duffel emerged from the rear exit of a bus pulling up to the stop. A fair-haired young man followed. Before Viktor and the girl could even get up from the bench, Alex had already slung the bag over his shoulders, slipped his arms through the straps, and carried it the same way he’d carried a gym bag for years—stuffed with boxing shoes, gloves, trunks, and a towel.

“Inga, looks like that’s him,” Viktor said.
“Seems like it. But if we follow him now, where will Vitaly find us?” she asked.
“You wait for your boyfriend. I’ll tail Alex and try not to lose him. You’ll find me at the flea market—it’s five minutes from here, around the corner of that building.” Viktor pointed at a brick five-story block from the early 1900s and hurried off.

Inga headed for the Asian grocery.
________________________________________
Wooden shelves in the cramped shop were stacked to the ceiling with cans and spice boxes. A large crate stood in the middle of the floor. Vitaly was bent over it. Inga walked around him and saw him sorting through overripe bananas.

“What are you doing?” she asked, already realizing he was searching for edible fruit among the rot.
“Can’t you see? Looking for food for you,” Vitaly said.
“Look around. There’s a box of yellow ones. There—green ones. You could’ve bought a single normal banana and been back already. Let’s go. Alex just arrived,” Inga said with open contempt and walked outside.
________________________________________
Vitaly and his girlfriend found Viktor and Alex by a stall selling antique clocks. The men were talking in Russian, paying no attention to the tourists wandering through Porte de Vanves in search of cheap antique junk.

“Buddy, no need to puff your chest,” Viktor was saying calmly. “We’re with friends—there they are. We’ve been waiting for you since seven. Your Georgian acquaintance said you’d definitely show up before ten.”
“Who are you, and what do you want from me?”
“I’m Viktor. This is Inga and Vitaly. We want to work with you.”
“What can you do?”
“I can fight. Spent my whole childhood and teens in a kickboxing gym in Mykolaiv.”
“Not what I need. I can fight myself. And you?” Alex nodded at Vitaly.
“After the army, I spent a couple of years doing robberies in Belarus. Our crew controlled the highway from Brest to Minsk. We hijacked cars from Russian fans of Western European junk. It was profitable until the cops got serious. Lukashenko decided to clean up crime—setups, undercover ops, shoot-to-kill without trials. My whole group got wiped out in one sweep.”
“Lucky?”
“Or did you sell them out?”
“Neither. I was an ‘office worker,’” Vitaly said, making air quotes. “Forged documents—stamps, seals, photos for licenses. I didn’t take part in the hits.”
“And the girl?”
“Inga’s with me. She’s from Riga.”
“I don’t know how to do anything, but I learn fast,” Inga added without stopping her gum.
“Why me?”
“The gypsies say you’re the most successful thief in Paris. You steal small stuff—razors, booze, perfume—but you steal a lot, and often,” Viktor said.
“Wait here. I’ve already dumped the goods. The fence is counting what he owes me. I’ll get the cash and decide if I need a crew,” Alex said, disappearing behind the wooden booth of the antique dealer.
________________________________________
“Auguste,” Alex said to the curly-haired Jewish man in his fifties as he counted the francs. “See those three by your stall?”
“I see them. So what?”
“They’re Russians from different former Soviet republics. Want to join my crew. I’m not sure if it’s time to scale up or not.”
“You know, Alex,” Auguste said, “my advice to you is simple: never stop at what you’ve achieved. You’re good at stealing small things—who says you can’t become a thief with a capital T? Today you bring me cheap perfume from a suburban grocery. Tomorrow—expensive stuff from the Champs-;lys;es. The day after—gold and gemstones. We’re business partners. We can grow together.”
He paused.
“Take a closer look at that trio. If they’re any good, I’ll only be happy. But remember this: a lone wolf is fed by his legs. What you steal yourself, you carry yourself. Four young, good-looking people walking down the street with duffel bags—that looks suspicious. A crew needs transportation.”
________________________________________
Alex stepped out of the booth and squinted up at the sky. The sun stood straight overhead, glaring white, merciless. Not a breath of wind, not a single cloud in the endless blue to break the July heat pressing down on the flea market.

“Follow me,” Alex said as he passed the newcomers.
“Where?” Inga asked casually.

Alex stopped, turned around, and said clearly:
“I’m inviting you, mademoiselle, to follow me behind that large building.” He nodded toward a long nine-story block. “There’s a shady little park there—Julie Bartet Square. Benches, a drinking fountain, toilets. You can rest, drink, and take a piss. Any more questions?”
“No,” Inga said, embarrassed.
“Good,” Alex said and moved on. After a few steps, he stopped abruptly, turned back, and added, “And from now on—if you want to work with me, you do what I say. If I want your advice, I’ll ask.”
________________________________________
As the quartet rounded the corner of 1 Ernest Renan Street, Viktor noticed the side wall of the building and elbowed Vitaly.
“Check this out. Looks like a Renoir imitation,” he said.

Alex glanced back. From the concrete foundation—where someone had sprayed Bitch in black on gray—rose a mural spanning six stories: a living room scene.
A white cat, two stories tall, stood on a light brown floor. Above it loomed a table covered with a white polka-dot tablecloth. On it—a vegetarian dinner: carrots, red berries, apple and peach slices, a bottle of wine, and a vase with a tulip and a fern branch. A dim bulb hung above in a green lampshade. A pink bird perched on the bottle.

“Why do you think it’s Renoir?” Alex asked without looking away.
“We’re on his street, aren’t we?” Viktor said.
“First of all, this is Renan Street, not Renoir. Second, this is closer to avant-garde. Renoir was an Impressionist. He painted people. You get it?”
Viktor didn’t answer. Inga couldn’t help herself.
“You know art? That’s surprising.”
“I don’t know it. I just like it. Heard about avant-garde and Impressionism from a German woman I lived with for a while,” Alex said evasively.
“And how was the German?” Inga asked playfully.
“If you mean sex—advanced.”
________________________________________
They sat on a bench in the shade of an evergreen rhododendron. Thick leaves shielded Inga, Viktor, and Alex from the heat. There wasn’t enough room for Vitaly, so he squatted nearby. Despite his wiry build, sweat streamed down his face. Tiny droplets gathered on his nose, and he flicked them into the sand with his fingers.

“Listen,” Alex said. “You too, Inga. I’ve got an idea for a group. But to pull it off, I need more than people—I need wheels. I don’t have a car. No wheels, no business.”

Vitaly stood up, stretched his stiff legs, and said:
“Car’s not a problem. I know guys who sell real Lithuanian documents and plates. We’ll see what models they’ve got papers for and steal one of those. Put Lithuanian plates on it—we can drive all over Europe. With our shitty French, no local cop will ever suspect we’re not Lithuanians.”
“That’s a good idea,” Alex said, energized. “Find the Lithuanians. Get the list. I’ll handle the theft. Viktor provides muscle if the owner gets stubborn. If it goes clean—we work together.”
“And me?” Inga asked, fear creeping into her voice.
From the first minutes she’d understood: Alex wasn’t impressed. That almost never happened—except in the presence of serious rivals.
“There’s no role for you in the first job,” Alex said calmly. “Don’t panic. You’ll get your share of work later. Plenty of it.”


Chapter Seven

Bistro Paul Bert was located on a narrow one-way street, roughly halfway between the Gare de Lyon and the world-famous P;re Lachaise cemetery. Along the winding paths of Paris’s oldest necropolis, shaded by tall trees, tourists still came to pay their respects to Moli;re, Balzac, Chopin, and ;dith Piaf.
But Alex had very different names in mind.

For two blocks in either direction, parking was prohibited, as clearly indicated by road signs and markings. Nevertheless, at least five compact cars were lined up along the curb. Parking tickets were visible beneath the windshield wipers of sedans and coupes alike.

On the opposite side of the street, a delivery van stood parked. Alex was using it as cover. He leaned against its side, watching the entrance to the bistro through the cab’s windows. In his hand was a sheet of paper. Each time another coffee-and-croissant enthusiast slowed down near Paul Bert, Alex checked the car’s make and model against the list Vitaly had provided.

Twenty meters away, near an electronics store called TED, Viktor paced back and forth. In one hand he held a vanilla ice cream; in the pocket of his trousers, he clenched a brass knuckle.

Near the entrance to the bistro, a yellow diagonal cross and the word Delivery were painted on the asphalt. Another sedan slowed and stopped directly over the markings. The driver switched on the hazard lights, hurried inside the caf;, and returned a minute later. He paused by the driver’s door, lit a cigarette, then got in and drove off toward the city center.

The caf; owner burst outside in a rage. Waving a plastic chair, he hurled curses at the departing car. When the driver failed to react, Monsieur Bert slammed the chair down squarely in the delivery zone and stormed back inside.

A few seconds after the gray-haired owner disappeared through the door, a brand-new Audi A6 rolled to a stop in the street, barely half a meter from the chair. The car blocked traffic completely. Horns erupted behind it, their echoes ricocheting off the Renaissance-era buildings.

Alex compared the make with his list, slipped the paper into his pocket, and stepped out from behind the van. Viktor dropped his half-eaten ice cream onto the sidewalk and slowly headed toward the caf;.

The Audi’s driver turned on the hazard lights without switching off the engine, got out, and walked toward the bistro. Alex slid into the driver’s seat and drove away. Viktor passed the door and stopped by the wide front window.
Inside, the elderly owner stood behind the counter, gesticulating furiously. From the fragments of conversation Viktor caught, it was clear that Monsieur Bert was refusing to sell a box of almond macarons to a customer as punishment for improper parking.

No one knew how long the two stubborn Frenchmen might have argued if the Audi’s driver hadn’t suddenly noticed the suspicious silence outside. He turned toward the window and realized—his pristine white A6 had vanished. In its place, framed by the doorway, stood the sly grin of a stranger.

Viktor nodded politely to the two men and, licking melted ice cream from his fingers, strolled out of sight.
________________________________________
In the spacious hall of the mansion at 37 Rue de Dom;ne, Vitaly and Inga lounged on a sofa covered with a white sheet and surrounded by pillows. Without any concern for their friends, Vitaly tried to hug and kiss the girl, but Inga dodged him, pushing his hands away from her waist.

Viktor and Alex sat in two armchairs with curved legs. Between the chairs and the sofa, on a thick Persian rug, stood a coffee table. While Viktor watched the couple’s antics with mild curiosity, Alex unpacked his backpack, laying items out on the table one by one: a wooden block, a homemade leather pouch with two straps, a rigid magnetic security tag, a set of awls of various diameters, a small bundle from a bicycle shop, and a large paper bag bearing the Christian Dior logo.

Then he took out a suit jacket and trousers and draped them over the back of a chair. Despite the midday hour, the room—already filled with soft sunlight filtering through sheer curtains—was further illuminated by two dozen glowing bulbs in the crystal chandelier above the table.

“At our first meeting,” Alex began, once the couple finally quieted down and turned their attention to the strange collection of objects, “I told you I had ideas for teamwork. The Audi job showed me you can follow a plan. Now I’ll tell you what we’ll be doing over the next few weeks—maybe months.”

He paused. From the outside, it might have seemed like Alex was still weighing whether to trust these new acquaintances with the details of a carefully planned operation. Something else was on his mind entirely.

Inga is clearly losing interest in Vitaly, he noted silently. If she tries to jump to Viktor or to me, the crew will crack. I’ll have to manage it—carefully. Including myself.

“We’ll start simple,” he continued. “We’ll steal high-end perfume on the Champs-;lys;es and men’s suits from Galeries Lafayette.”

Alex picked up the leather pouch.
“Perfume packaging is fitted with electromagnetic tags—paper strips with foil inside. When someone walks through the exit gates, they disrupt the magnetic field and trigger the alarm. To prevent that, I made this bag. Double lining, ordinary kitchen foil. The signal doesn’t pass through it. Tested.”
“Inga, come here.”
The girl stood up from the sofa and walked toward Alex, swaying her hips.
“Are you wearing underwear?”
“Of course,” Inga replied, surprised. “Strange question.”
Alex pointed at the pouch.
“Put it on. Straps around your legs.”

She slipped off her sandals and stepped onto the soft carpet. Bending over the table, she fastened the straps—revealing through the opening of her blouse not only her breasts, but her flat stomach and a thin strip of underwear. Viktor and Vitaly both lingered on the sight. Vitaly reached out to stroke her thigh but received a sharp slap on the wrist.

Once the pouch was in place, Alex nodded.
“Walk around.”

Inga took a few steps. Alex turned to the men.
“See? Even sitting at skirt level, you can’t see the pouch. And she moves naturally. Neither cashiers nor guards will suspect anything. Inga, lift your skirt—I’ll explain how it works.”

Her cheeks flushed slightly. Instead of lifting the skirt, she unzipped it and stood there in her blouse, underwear, and the pouch.

While Viktor stared and Vitaly’s irritation grew obvious, Alex crouched in front of her and gave her inner thigh a light slap.
“Spread your legs half a step.”

Any time, any width, she thought, and did as he asked.
The pouch opened.

“Velcro along the top edge. Legs together—the pouch is sealed. Legs apart—it opens. It fits six bottles, about 2.5 by 8 centimeters each. Roughly three thousand dollars. Tested. The only downside—I spent a few days walking around at home without pants.”

Alex picked up the wooden block.
“It’s the same size as six bottles. Hide it and walk.”

She did. Everything looked natural.

“Clear?” Alex turned back to the men. “Later we’ll rehearse roles. Inga will drill the packing until it’s automatic.”

He picked up the black plastic clip—the security tag with a spring and metal balls.

“This is radio-frequency protection. I took one apart, figured out how it works, bought ferromagnets at the flea market, and built a demagnetizer. You don’t need the details.”

He turned to Inga.

“Take off the pouch. Grab the small bag. Change in the kitchen. No underwear.”
Without a word, Inga took the bag and walked out, hips swaying.

Vitaly followed her with a tense stare.
“How did you get that tag?” he asked. “It’s strictly controlled.”
“I cut it off an expensive suit along with a piece of fabric, put it in my pocket, and walked out,” Alex replied casually.
“The alarm should’ve gone off,” Viktor said.
“It did. I was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. The staff looked me over and waved me through. It never occurred to them I was stealing a tag. There was nowhere to hide a suit on me.”
“You’re a psychologist,” Vitaly muttered.

Alex didn’t care whether it was sarcasm or praise. He knew one thing: people are judged by actions, not words. As his father used to say, 'When deeds speak, words are nothing'. By sixteen, Alex had learned that lesson well.

“A thief has no other choice,” he said. “Removing the tag takes seconds. The real problem is getting the suit out. That’s Inga’s job. We’ll play a wealthy couple. I’ll pick several suits and go to the fitting room. Inga will wander the store, bored. Inside, I’ll remove the tag from the most expensive suit and call her in to ‘judge the fit.’ She’ll hide it under her clothes and leave. Viktor—you’ll play security and walk out with her. I’ll stay a bit longer to avoid suspicion. Vitaly—you’ll be waiting with the car. Once they’re in, you leave immediately. I’ll return later by public transport.”

Inga entered the living room.

A snow-white tank top of thin elastic fabric clung to her body like a second skin, emphasizing every curve. The material stretched tightly across her chest, clearly outlining its shape, while a long zipper ran from her throat to her waist, adding a sensual accent. Black cycling shorts made of dense compression fabric hugged her hips and thighs, highlighting toned muscles and slender legs. The contrast made her figure striking.

Every movement drew the eye. Viktor and Vitaly didn’t even try to hide their stares.
“Now—the details,” Alex said, taking the suit he’d worn to the gothic bar from the chair. Approaching Inga, he unzipped her top while addressing the others. “Under this outfit, we’ll hide a men’s suit.”
He noted with satisfaction that Inga had followed instructions precisely. Once the top came off, only two thin straps from the shorts remained on her shoulders.
“I’ll wrap the jacket around her waist and pull the top over it,” Alex explained, rotating her like a mannequin. “The elastic will press it flat.”
Ignoring Vitaly’s look, he worked efficiently.
“Today you’ll put the trousers on yourself—or with Vitaly’s help. The shorts come off easily. Fold the pant legs upward in three layers. The fabric will hold them against your thighs the same way it holds the jacket.”
“Got it,” Inga nodded.
“Good. If you need help, Vitaly’s there. But going forward, I’ll handle it.”
“I don’t care who hides the suits on me,” Inga said. “Just smooth the folds—they rub my skin.”
“I will. And I’ll show you how you walk out like this.”
“I doubt security won’t notice the bulges,” she said.

Alex smiled.
“That’s where you’ll be surprised. Come to the kitchen. I promise—we’ll impress our partners.”
He took the Christian Dior bag and left with Inga, closing the heavy oak door behind them. The stained glass mosaic faintly resembled Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
“Take off the shorts. I’ll turn away,” Alex said.
“No need. You’ll see me naked sooner or later—here or in a fitting room. What’s the difference?”
“Good,” Alex nodded. “Business comes first. That’ll be our motto.”
Inga pulled on the men’s trousers. Alex knelt beside her and carefully folded the legs, so they ended ten centimeters above her knees.

As she pulled the tight sportswear back on, he smoothed the fabric until the trousers vanished beneath it. Then he wrapped the jacket around her waist and, once the top was zipped again, took clothing from the bag.

A black leather jacket, skirt, stockings, a white silk blouse, a leather cord with a ring, and gold-framed sunglasses.
“I didn’t buy shoes—I didn’t know your size,” Alex said, helping her into the blouse.

Inga looked at herself in the mirror, then suddenly kissed Alex passionately.
“How do I look?” she asked, wiping lipstick from his lips with her fingers.
“Stunning. But enough,” Alex said, stepping back. “If you keep flirting, this crew will fall apart before it earns a cent. What matters isn’t how you look—it’s whether you can walk like this without drawing attention.”
“Let’s test it,” Inga replied, heading toward the living room.


Chapter Eight

The evening breeze pleasantly cooled the heat of the skin. On the gallery’s rooftop, among bar counters and tables with champagne, a distinct atmosphere reigned. This was where those who knew luxury gathered: the bohemian crowd, businessmen, models, financiers, and anyone who could afford it.

The bar offered not only expensive drinks but also the best view of the French capital.

Before the visitors’ eyes stretched the living, breathing Paris—not the postcard version, not the advertised one, but a city pulsating with life. The sunset sky glowed ochre with streaks of lilac and pink, as if an artist had brushed across domes and rooftops.

To the west, behind the river and the trees of the Champ de Mars, the Eiffel Tower stood solid, like a cast-iron lighthouse. Its brown girders darkened slowly, touched by the glow of aeronautical lights. It did not strive for the sky—it watched over the city.

Slightly to the right, bathed in sunset light, the golden dome of Les Invalides gleamed. To the north, high above the city, over the roofs of the Parisian hive, the hill of Montmartre and the snow-white Sacr;-C;ur sparkled as if washed by rain, pristine. And far to the southwest, apart from the sacred sites, the Montparnasse Tower rose alone—black, concrete, like a mistake in Paris’s architectural score. No other European city would allow such harshness—but here it stood, silent, heavy, alien.

Below, the streets pulsed with evening life: cars streamed through arches and boulevards, figures hurried to terraces of caf;s. Paris was noisy, but up here, it was silent—as if the city were observing itself from above.

Inga, Alex, and Viktor stood at the edge of the terrace, lazily surveying the majestic panorama of the City of Love.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Inga’s gaze swept over the view, but her voice carried neither admiration nor surprise.
“Mm,” Alex replied vaguely, twisting a glass of white wine in his fingers.

Viktor said nothing. He was too focused to enjoy the view. One hand gripped the lapel of his jacket, hiding a microphone; the other fidgeted with a cuff button. He looked like a typical bodyguard—collected, tense.

The microphone was a dummy. No connection, no team on the other end.
Alex glanced at his watch.

“Time to go down,” he said, placing the glass on the marble counter.
They descended in the art-deco elevator: brass panels reflected soft light, and the walls were adorned with geometric patterns. The cabin was strict and elegant.

Alex’s small team had arrived at the gallery by six o’clock on a Friday evening, and the day was no coincidence.

On Fridays, from three to five, the gallery hosted free fashion shows. A long-standing tradition, it attracted hundreds. Middle-class Parisians and tourists came to glimpse the newest collections, to catch the moment when art and style merged.

When the show ended, the crowds dispersed. People streamed through floors, some heading to caf;s, others to shop windows, some simply wandering, enjoying the atmosphere.

Navigating the third floor with ease, Inga, Alex, and Viktor moved through the crowd. Their walk appeared relaxed, almost lazy, yet Alex knew from experience that both Inga and Viktor were tense inside.

The flagship Lafayette store stretched seventy thousand square meters along Boulevard Haussmann—from Rue de Magador to Avenue d’Antin.
Here, on the third floor, among boutiques of world-renowned brands dictating style and elegance, the first chapter of their shared story was about to unfold.
Inga held Alex’s arm, moving gracefully, with a faint predatory smile. The grand glass windows reflected her silhouette: a white silk blouse, buttoned only at the top, neatly tucked into a black bell skirt. A thin leather strap around her neck connected to silver glasses dangling on her chest—subtle but asserting her Dior-inspired style.

Alex, in a light silver suit, looked as if he had just stepped off a runway. His white shirt was casually unbuttoned at the collar, jacket lapels lying over it. The trousers ended at bare ankles, and canvas shoes on bare feet added ease to his image.

Behind them walked Viktor. His stance, his movements, even his facial expression told the world he wasn’t there to shop but to ensure his companions’ safety. He scanned the crowd, occasionally touching his ear, creating the illusion of a connection to someone unseen.

The trio was following a forty-thousand-dollar suit.

As they passed under the glass domes, soft daylight filtered in. The floor tiles reflected the gleam of display windows, each shining with color, style, and polished commercial aggression.

To the left, the streamlined forms of Louis Vuitton; to the right, the neat pastel walls of Prada. Music drifted softly—subtle but expensive, like the scents in the perfume sections: amber, bergamot, leather, musk.

In mirrored elevators, couples froze, checking their reflections in expensive coats. Up escalators rose families; down, solitary fashionistas. Every visitor seemed to measure themselves against the space.

The gallery was a stage set to perfection. Only the actors weren’t performing—they were buying, showing off, and judging.

Alex and Inga entered the Kiton boutique. Viktor stayed at the entrance, turned toward a display, legs slightly apart, projecting full control.
Alex slowly ran his fingers over dark-toned fabrics. Inga studied lighter shades. Selecting two suits, she headed to the fitting room where Alex had just disappeared with his picks.

The manager motioned to a salesperson and whispered something. The man approached Inga.
“May I help you?”
Inga turned her head slowly, regarding him as insignificant, and coldly replied in Latvian:
“Go away.”
The salesperson tensed slightly but said nothing, returning to the manager.
Inga knocked on the fitting room door.

“Darling, open up, it’s me,” she said in Latvian.

The door opened slightly. Alex stood inside, in underwear and shirt, surrounded by mirrors. Inga slipped inside and closed the door behind her.

Viktor played his part well. He entered the boutique and began checking fitting rooms. Reaching the one where his companions hid, he knocked, then tried the handle.

A voice from inside:
“Aivars, patience!”

Viktor froze, muttered something into the microphone, and calmly exited the store.
Moments later, Inga glided out, hips swaying. Three minutes after that, Alex emerged from the fitting room. The lower buttons of his shirt were undone, the jacket casually thrown over a shoulder.

The customer nodded politely to the manager and left the store.


Chapter Nine

The Audi A6 with Lithuanian plates stood at the curb near a paid parking lot not far from the Ch;teau de Vincennes. Inside sat Alex, Inga, Viktor, and Vitaly. Moonlight slid across the polished hood, and the rare headlights of passing cars briefly pulled their faces out of the darkness.

“Did you know there’s still a military academy next to the castle?” Alex said quietly, studying the perfectly groomed moats at the base of the walls.
“I know,” Viktor replied. “And I know the moat in front isn’t filled with water, but with sand. The kind cadets rake every morning, like a Japanese garden. And those windows on the southern tower—huge, almost floor-length. They raise questions. Not a fortress, more like a ceremonial fa;ade.”

The car interior drowned in half-light. Moonlight ran across the dashboard, flickered on the buttons, and froze again on the hood. Against the backdrop of a seven-hundred-year-old castle, the car looked like a foreign body from the future, parked at the foot of the past.

Viktor followed the conversation in silence. His gaze wasn’t fixed on the fortress but on the car’s interior. He ran his fingers over the panel, glanced sideways at Alex, and shook his head with irritation.

“Boss, maybe it’s not worth trading the Audi for this junk,” he said, flexing his knuckles. “Our car is worth at least thirty grand. A new Turkish-made Peugeot J9 Karsan is twenty. That minibus is ten years old—worth maybe ten. The Ford Transit’s another ten. We’re losing at least ten thousand.”

Alex traced a finger across the fogged glass, as if weighing the thought, and answered calmly, without emotion.
“For any economically unprofitable trade, there are reasons. In our case—two of them.”

He turned to the others, lazily leaning back in his seat.
“First, it’s time to move on. You can’t keep pulling the same trick forever. Our crew is already being talked about by both the criminal world and the police in Paris. In three months, we’ve hit around twenty perfume and clothing stores. Resellers can’t move the suits and fragrances fast enough—prices are dropping. It’s time to change direction.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.
“If you’re with me, get used to it. Two or three times a year we’ll abandon a well-worn track and lay a new one. Remember this: if we stay in one line of work longer than six months, we get caught and locked up.”

Silence settled. Vitaly narrowed his eyes, staring toward the dark alley.
“There they are,” he said shortly.

Out of the darkness, almost noiselessly, two vans rolled onto the road: a Peugeot Karsan and a Ford Transit. Their headlights blinked dimly, and the vehicles stopped a few meters from the Audi.

Alex opened the door first and stepped out. The others followed. Four solidly built men approached at an unhurried pace, shook hands, exchanged nods. Two of them kissed Inga on the cheeks in a friendly way. Everything was quiet, calm, wordless.

Documents were spread out on the hood of the sedan. They double-checked, signed, exchanged. The formalities took only a couple of minutes.

The Audi A6 started up, headlights cutting across the asphalt, and a moment later the car vanished into the night.


Alex and his guys remained by the Peugeot. Viktor ran his palm over the hood and gave a thoughtful grunt.
“You never named the second reason we needed this barter,” he said, looking at Alex.
“I’m sorry to see that car go too,” Inga added, folding her arms across her chest.
Alex shrugged.
“It’s wanted.”

Viktor and Inga exchanged a glance.
“The Audi with Lithuanian plates has been flagged since our first job at Lafayette. It was only a matter of time.”

Vitaly let out a nervous chuckle.
“The guys who drove off in it—won’t they come back at us for this?”
“They won’t,” Alex said, pulling out a cigarette and flicking the lighter. “The police won’t be able to link them to the thefts. They don’t match the description. The witnesses saw us, not them. And second—there’s a high probability the car leaves France tonight and heads east, to the CIS.”

Inga tilted her head, watching Alex closely.
“You never talked about the police before. Were you arrested?”

Alex exhaled smoke slowly. A trace of a smile touched his lips.
“Arrested—once. Wanted—almost a year.”

Viktor leaned forward.
“What for?”

Alex took another drag, stared into the night, silent—as if choosing one story out of dozens, one he could tell. At the last moment, he changed his mind.
“I won’t tell you. Too early to share the past.”


Chapter Ten

The Peugeot moved slowly along a dark highway winding through dense forest. Alex was at the wheel; Alyona sat in the passenger seat. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the steering wheel in time with House of the Rising Sun.

As he quietly sang the second-to-last verse—

One foot is on the platform
And the other one on the train.
I’m going back to New Orleans
To wear that ball and chain,
Alyona placed her hand on his wrist.

“What are you singing about?” she asked. “Joan of Arc?”

Alex smiled.
“Why her?”
“I only understood the name Orleans,” she said. “You mentioned it more than once. That’s where they burned her at the stake. I’ve been there — I saw her huge equestrian statue in the city center, and that black statue, life-sized, near one of the churches in Orl;ans.”

Alex shook his head.
“No. It’s not about France, and not about a woman burned by the Inquisition. It’s about a man who already knows how this ends. One foot on the platform, the other on the train — going back to a place he can’t escape. Not a city. A sentence.”

Alyona was silent for a moment.
“So… prison?”
“Something like that,” Alex said. “Only the chains are the ones you put on yourself.”

A beam of light flickered between the trees.

Alex slowed down and smoothly pulled over. A Ford Transporter stopped behind them, with Vitaly at the wheel. Viktor emerged from the darkness. He walked up to the Peugeot, opened the cargo door, and sat down on the floor. Vitaly and Inga followed.

“About half a kilometer from here, deeper in the forest, there’s a parallel road,” Viktor began. “It services around fifty villas owned by wealthy people. Beyond the line of houses, there’s a river. Between the villas—one hundred, sometimes two hundred meters. A dirt road fifty meters from here connects both routes. We can reach the house we need quickly.”

“No proper road?” Vitaly asked, surprised. “What, the bourgeois drive on dirt?”
“There is,” Viktor smirked. “Even two. But they’re at opposite ends of the settlement, and both have security posts.”

Alex nodded, assessing.

“What about the house?”
“All the signs of long-term absence you mentioned are there,” Viktor counted on his fingers. “Last year’s leaves untouched. Grass not cut. Dandelions and weeds growing between the concrete slabs of the paths. The electricity meter isn’t moving—means the fridge isn’t running, and there’s either no alarm or it’s disconnected.”
Alex leaned back and glanced in the mirror.
“Alyona, take the wheel. We’re taking the house.”
________________________________________
The wine cellar in the basement was cool and smelled of wood. Massive oak shelves stretched deep into the cellar, stacked with bottles. Light from a wall lamp cast long shadows, making the space feel even gloomier.

Alex stood before a wall of bottle necks. In his hands he held a heavy black object about the size of a loaf of bread. An identical one lay nearby, on a cabinet beneath a rack of wine glasses hanging upside down. He frowned, studying the find.

Inga descended the stairs silently, pressed herself against his shoulder, and wrapped her arms around his waist.

Alex didn’t look at her. He continued examining the strange object—black, cold, solid, with a flattened hexagonal cross-section.
“I can’t figure out what this is,” he muttered. “The shape reminds me of Orthodox coffins. I tried scratching it with a fingernail—it feels like some kind of ultra-durable coating. Heavy ingots, cold to the touch, like gold… but black.”

Inga slid her hand across his back.
“Better try me by touch,” she purred. “I’m like gold too. Just much warmer.”

Alex turned and, without changing his expression, stopped her next attempt to press against him.
“Inga, we’ve already discussed this,” he said evenly. “I have a girlfriend. Alyona is behind the wheel of the Peugeot, five meters from the front door.”
“So what? I have a boyfriend too. Vitaly’s crawling around upstairs right now. How does that stop us from fucking here? And afterward—at least occasionally, in different places.”
“It doesn’t stop you,” Alex said. “It stops me.”
His tone was hard. Inga tilted her head, studying him, but didn’t push further.
“We’re done with this conversation,” Alex continued. “Back to business. Have you taken out the paintings, the dishes, the silverware, the carpets?”
“Yes. The guys are on their last run.”

Alex nodded.
“Go upstairs. As soon as they’re back, send them down here. I’ll pick the oldest bottles and load them into grape baskets. We can’t take the whole collection anyway.”

Inga looked at him silently, then turned and went lightly up the stairs.

Alex weighed the strange black brick in his hand once more. Cold. Heavy.
“What the hell is this?”


Chapter Eleven

A muted, almost intimate atmosphere reigned in the kitchen of number three on Robert Alley, thirty kilometers from Paris. Seated at the table were Alex, Alyona, and Auguste—a short, stocky French Jew whose deeply lined face betrayed his age: well past sixty.

On the table stood an opened bottle of red wine, Ch;teau Citran Haut-M;doc, and three glasses filled about a third of the way, their ruby glow flickering in the dim light of the lamp hanging overhead. Nearby were plates of aged Comt; and Emmental cheeses, dry-cured Parisian salami, and thinly sliced pork neck. At the center of the table, like grim coffins, lay two black hexagonal ingots. It seemed to everyone present that their matte surfaces absorbed light rather than reflected it.

Alex leaned slightly forward, his fingers nervously gripping the thin stem of his glass.
“Auguste, we’ve known each other for several months now,” he began calmly, though there was a guarded alertness in his eyes. “Whenever I needed to move jewelry, I called only you. Do you know why?”

The Frenchman listened in silence, never taking his eyes off Alex, occasionally lifting his glass for a sip.
“Because I value your honesty,” Alex continued. “In all this time, you’ve never cheated me. And I hope that won’t change.”

Auguste nodded. The corner of his mouth twitched into a faint smile.
“Don’t doubt it, Alex. I always pay top price for quality goods. Trust from a supplier like you is worth more to me than any money.”

Alex slowly set his glass down. His fingers slid toward one of the black ingots.
“I invited you here to show you this.”

He tensed and, with effort, nudged the ingot toward the jeweler.
“They look like Orthodox coffins carved out of stone. But I doubt it’s stone. They’re heavier than any rock of this size, and cold as ice. That’s unnatural for stone.”

Auguste frowned, his eyes narrowing. He studied the object with professional intensity. Placing his palm on the ingot, he tried to lift it—but it didn’t budge.
“Damn…” he muttered, surprise creeping into his voice.

He stood up, bent over, and gritted his teeth as he grabbed the ingot with both hands. This time he managed to lift it. Veins bulged at his temples from the strain.
“Interesting…” he drawled, turning the object over as if trying to unlock its secret. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Carefully, Auguste set the ingot back down and wiped his hands with a napkin, as though trying to rid himself of a strange sensation.

“I’ll take them to my workshop. In a couple of days, I’ll tell you what they are.”

Alex nodded. His gaze remained steady, but unease was growing inside him.
“Take them. But don’t come back here. I’ll come to you the day after tomorrow.”

The jeweler pulled a worn leather satchel from beneath the table, neatly placed both ingots inside, snapped the clasps shut with a dull click, and stood up.
Passing through the living room, he gave a brief nod to Inga, Vitaly, and Viktor. They were sprawled on the couch, drinking beer, cracking pistachios, and watching L;on—an action movie about a big guy with an automatic rifle saving a pretty underage girl. From their faces, it was clear: each of them wanted to be that hitman.

Inga shelled pistachios without taking her eyes off the screen. She didn’t know the actor’s name—and didn’t care to. In that silent, restrained killer, she saw what she’d been missing for a long time: a real male. Not a pretty boy. Not a Frenchman. A man you could bend for. She found herself wishing she were in the girl’s place.

The door closed behind Auguste with a soft creak.

From the kitchen came Alex’s voice, sharp as a whip crack:
“Viktor, Vitaly—where are the cars parked?”

Without looking away from the screen, Vitaly lazily replied,
“On the parallel street.”

Alex snapped his head toward the living room, irritation flaring in his eyes.
“Parallel to what? Robert Alley or Avenue de la Mar;chale?”

Vitaly sighed heavily, set his beer aside, and reluctantly walked into the kitchen.
“Both the Ford and the Peugeot are two houses down. On Duke de Tr;vis Avenue.”

Alex closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if trying to drive away the bad feeling tightening in his chest. Then he leaned back in his chair, nervously tugging at the edge of the tablecloth.

“Don’t relax. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

Alyona looked at him. A hint of anxiety clouded her eyes, but she said nothing—only tightened her grip on her glass.
“Tell Viktor and Inga to keep their money and documents on them. We’re staying the night here. You’ll sleep upstairs. We’ll be in the basement,” he said, switching to English for the last word. Then, realizing there was no exact Russian equivalent, he clarified, “In the garage.”

Vitaly nodded and returned to the living room, his footsteps dull against the wooden floor.

Alex stood up, drained his wine in one gulp, set the glass down with a soft knock, and glanced toward the living room.
“Hey. Turn the volume down. And kill the lights.”

Viktor frowned, his brows drawing together, but he didn’t argue.
“Don’t forget—the neighbors think this house is empty.”

Alex slipped the corkscrew into his pocket and turned to Alyona.
“You coming with me?”

She stood. Her smile was gentle, but a shadow of worry flickered in her eyes.
“Yes. Should I bring the wine?”

Alex nodded, his expression softening.
“And the sausage and cheese too.”
Outside, the night air was heavy, saturated with dampness and autumn chill. Inside the spacious garage—crammed with stolen goods—it was warm, and the air carried a faint scent of old wood, ripe fruit, and wine.

The chaotic pile of objects—televisions, VHS players, ceramic vases, bronze figurines, lamps with faded shades—gave the impression of an abandoned museum. Baskets of red wine bottles stood near the stairs leading up. Rolled carpets were stacked against one wall; dozens of paintings in heavy gilded frames leaned against the other. Right by the garage doors, like a throne amid the chaos, stood a massive Renaissance-era sofa. Its ivory upholstery, delicately carved legs, and ornate Baroque detailing made it the only truly luxurious object among the stolen goods.

Alex methodically selected the most valuable paintings, his sharp, cold gaze sliding over the canvases. Nearby, Alyona lounged on the sofa.

A few minutes earlier, she had brought down a tray with snacks, set the food on a low table, slid the tray under the furniture, grabbed the first bottle of wine she found in a cardboard box, and sank onto the velvet couch.

Alex picked up one of the paintings and turned it toward her.

As the girl studied the old French landscape—a river, a medieval castle, a group of women resting in a meadow—her boyfriend pulled a switchblade from his pocket. With a soft click, the blade flashed under the neon lights, and Alex carefully ran it along the edge of the canvas, separating it from the gilded frame.

Alyona lazily swirled her wine and smirked, her voice warm with a hint of teasing.
“Alex, leave those ladies alone. Come here instead.”

He looked at her, his lips curving into a dreamy smile, and let the painting go. The landscape hit the concrete floor with a dull thud, face down. The blade snapped back into the handle. Alex pocketed the knife and stepped toward her, his eyes burning with tenderness and desire.

On the sofa, they drank wine and kissed, their breath mingling with the scent of old wood and alcohol. Passion overtook them, and soon they forgot about the paintings and the loot. They deftly helped each other out of their clothes, and in the dim garage, among Renaissance art and antiques, the young lovers dissolved into their youth, their carelessness, into a world where only the two of them existed.

The night silence was torn apart by the wail of approaching police sirens—harsh and merciless, like a whip crack.

Alex bolted upright, his heart pounding. For a split second he listened, eyes wide, catching every sound. Then he snapped into motion, grabbed Alyona by the waist, and with adrenaline-shaking hands pulled her to her feet.
“Run!” he shouted, his voice breaking as he lunged toward the door leading into the house.

There was no time to dress. Heavy police boots thundered overhead, echoing through the empty house. The exit through the main floor was cut off.

“Too late!” Alex snarled, his face twisting like a wolf trapped in a snare.
He jammed a chair under the door handle, grabbed Alyona’s hand, and dragged her toward the side door leading into the backyard.

The night air slammed into their overheated bodies like ice, making Alyona shiver.
They burst into the backyard and froze, looking around. A green lawn with a wicker table, chairs, and a stone-lined fire pit was enclosed by a tall hedge of densely planted thuja. Above the neatly trimmed tops of the trees, the roof of a neighboring estate beckoned—close, but unreachable.

Alex looked back, searching for a way out, and his heart clenched: beyond the one-meter stone wall separating the yard from the alley, three blue gendarmerie sedans were visible, their flashing lights slicing through the darkness.

There were no options. Breaking through the green wall was their only chance.
Without hesitation, Alex lunged forward, gripping Alyona’s hand, and they plunged into the dense evergreen hedge. Branches tore at their skin, leaving burning scratches. Their naked, vulnerable bodies were slashed across chest, arms, and legs. Alyona stifled cries of pain, but her eyes burned with determination—she knew even a moment’s delay would cost them their freedom.

Bare, scratched, stinging with cuts, they forced their way through the hedge and spilled onto a ÷óæîé lawn, gasping for breath.

Behind them came a crash—police climbing over the stone wall, boots crunching on gravel. One cop rushed after the fugitives but stopped short when he saw the impenetrable green barrier. Two others stormed the house; another pair went into the garage.

One officer remained by the patrol cars, his silhouette outlined by the flashing lights. He held a radio and reported irritably:
“Yeah, boss, they got away. From the street I saw three—two guys and a girl. Fast as hell.”

The walkie-talkie hissed something unintelligible.
“No, definitely three. If there were five, then two of them ran even faster. Anyway, after we clear the house, I’ll check with the corporals—maybe someone saw the other two.”

The reply was vague. The lieutenant sighed, shoulders sagging, and clipped the radio back onto his belt.
________________________________________
At Alex’s main base—the villa on Dom;nil Street—an oppressive silence hung in the air, heavy as fog.

Alex and Alyona sat on the couch, wrapped in blankets taken from the armchairs. Their skin, covered in thin, bleeding scratches, glistened in the dim lamplight. Fresh abrasions burned red on elbows and knees, and blood slowly soaked into the white fabric, leaving dark stains on the light-brown upholstery.

Inga, perched on Vitaly’s lap, idly flicked a lighter between her fingers. Her eyes were empty, but her hands trembled. Viktor sat in the adjacent armchair, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling, his face tense, replaying the night’s events in his head.

On the table lay a pitiful pile of loose change, a couple of keys, and a crushed pack of cigarettes—all they’d managed to grab in the chaos.

Inga broke the silence, her voice shaking with restrained fury:
“Damn it… Had to be Auguste, that bastard, who tipped them off.”

Vitaly nodded, his fist clenching.
“You called it, Alex.”

Alex shook his head, his eyes dark with exhaustion and disappointment.
“Which means those ingots I handed to the fence were worth a fortune. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have burned every bridge.”

Alyona took a sip of wine, winced as she touched a burning scratch on her shoulder, and said softly,
“I don’t get why the cops turned on the sirens. They could’ve crept up, sealed the exits, and taken us. Pinned us to the floor at gunpoint—and that would’ve been it.”

Alex gave a bitter smile, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Western cops—especially patrol units—always turn on the sirens before a raid. It’s a ritual. They know startled thieves might grab a gun, and they don’t want shootouts. So they warn you: ‘Woo-woo-woo, we’re coming. Boys, scatter.’”
Vitaly slammed his fist into the armrest, his face flushed with rage.
“Exactly. They wanted us gone so they could help themselves. We didn’t take anything valuable. There was junk in that garage worth tens of thousands, and with the paintings—hundreds.”

Viktor exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, his voice dull.
“Right now they’re probably cutting up masterpieces, rolling the canvases, stuffing them into their cars.”

Alex shook his head, his tone sharp but tired.
“Viktor, this isn’t Russia or Ukraine. There, sure. Here—no. They might pocket cash. But paintings and antiques? That’s pure headache. Imagine a cop trusting a fence who’d sell him out in a minute if he got caught.”

The silence that followed was crushing, heavy as lead. Alex saw the defeat in his crew’s faces, their shoulders sagging under the weight of loss. He straightened, his voice firming up to shake them awake.
“I’ll be honest—I think Auguste screwed us too. Over the next couple of days I’ll visit every jewelry shop and figure out what’s what. If he vanished after setting us up, I’ll find—as Ostap Bender once said—other relatively honest ways of taking money from the population. And listen to what my father told me before he died. He was an accountant; money revolved around him his whole life. When we were fleeing bandits from Moscow to Odessa on broken roads, he said in English: ‘No matter how much money you make, the world is designed to take it away.’ Got it?”
________________________________________
Over the next few days, Alex went from jewelry workshop to small pawnshop dealing in used jewelry. The results were bleak—either the owners and clerks didn’t know a jeweler named Auguste, or they pretended they’d never even heard the name.
Alex stepped into a small jewelry shop on the outskirts of Paris. A bronze bell above the door chimed softly behind him. The place was cramped but cozy: wooden display cases, glass shelves, gold and silver pieces glinting softly. The air carried a faint smell of polish and metal that stung the nose.

Behind the counter stood a skinny young man in a kippah, lazily flipping through a magazine. He hadn’t even opened his mouth when, from behind a cloth curtain at the back of the shop, an elderly jeweler emerged—around seventy. A gray beard, thin-framed glasses, and the weary eyes of someone who had seen too much marked him as a seasoned professional.

Alex stepped closer, his heart beating a little faster with anticipation.
“Good afternoon, sir. Are you familiar with a jeweler named Auguste?”
The jeweler squinted, his gaze sharpening like a blade.
“What Auguste?”
“He’s about sixty. Same background as you. Medium height. Glasses. Big nose.”

The old man smirked, a sarcastic twitch of his lips.
“Young man, ninety percent of Paris jewelers are my background. And all of them wear glasses and have big noses.”

Alex forced a slight smile, though his eyes remained serious.
“But I know who you mean,” the jeweler continued, tilting his head as if appraising him. “And you’re lucky if you owe him money. He’s left Paris.”

Alex tensed, his fingers curling into fists.
“Where to?”
“All I know is—far. Maybe America. Or Canada. Or maybe Australia.”

The jeweler thoughtfully played with a massive gold ring on his finger, his eyes turning sly.
“They say he found a treasure. Not just any treasure—rare gold. People are talking insane numbers.”

Alex narrowed his eyes, his heart skipping.
“You believe stories like that?”
“Usually no. It’s hard to imagine that these days someone could just stumble on ten kilos of unclaimed high-grade gold.”

He looked straight into Alex’s eyes, his gaze heavy, piercing.
“But then again… he abandoned his workshop. Didn’t even put it up for sale. And buyers would’ve lined up the same day.”
He paused, letting the words sink in.
“Why do you need him?”

Alex raised an eyebrow slightly, masking his inner turmoil.
“Why do you assume I owe him something?”
“Because you’re too young to do business with a man like that. And he wouldn’t borrow money from you.”

Alex gave a restrained chuckle, his eyes still cold.
“It’s not about debt. I gave him two black ingots, five kilos each, to identify. He promised an answer in two days. It’s been eleven. I’ve visited more than fifty jewelers looking for him.”

The jeweler raised his eyebrows; understanding slowly dawned on his face.
“So it’s true…”
“What is?”
“You’re the one who gave him ten kilos of black gold?”

Alex froze. His blood went cold.
“Black gold is what we call oil.”

The jeweler snorted, amusement flashing in his eyes.
“Judging by your accent, you’re Russian. Well, kid—remember this: nowhere else in the world do they call oil black gold.”

He removed his glasses and slowly wiped them with a pristine white handkerchief, savoring the moment.
“Black gold is an alloy of gold with cobalt and chromium. Ratio: seventy-five, fifteen, ten.”

He put the glasses back on and looked at Alex over the frames, his voice dropping.
“And it’s worth a quarter more than regular gold.”

Alex remained outwardly calm, but inside his chest tightened with realization.
“How much?”
“Ten kilos of regular gold—about half a million dollars. Black gold—seven hundred and fifty thousand.”

The jeweler paused theatrically, watching Alex’s reaction.
“So I doubt we’ll ever see Auguste again. Or your gold—wherever the hell you found it.”

Alex said nothing. His face was unreadable, but inside a storm raged—anger, disappointment, and cold resolve.

He turned and walked out of the shop without saying goodbye, his footsteps echoing loudly in the silence.


Chapter Twelve

Alex gripped the steering wheel of the Peugeot so hard his fingers turned white. His eyes were locked on the road as he tore through the narrow streets, barely noticing the flashing lights of nighttime Paris. Inside him, a storm was raging — anger at himself mixed with bitter disappointment.

Ten kilos of gold. Ten damn kilos.

That was a ticket to a life where money stopped being a problem.
And now? Now that big-nosed jeweler with glasses and quick hands was enjoying my money somewhere across an ocean — Atlantic or Indian, it didn’t matter.
Alex slammed his palm against the steering wheel.
I lost.

He felt like an idiot. A sucker. A na;ve kid who’d been played clean.
Why the hell did I trust him?
His teeth ground together. A burning emptiness spread through his chest.
He didn’t want to see Vitaly. Or Victor. Or even Alyona. Their sympathy — or worse, disappointment — would finish him. He wandered through the city until dusk thickened into full night. Streetlamps spilled dull yellow light onto empty sidewalks. Somewhere near Montmartre, a drunk almost stumbled under his wheels, shouting something after him — Alex didn’t even turn his head. His thoughts were far away.

When the dashboard clock crept toward midnight, he suddenly realized he’d left the city and was flying northwest along the highway. Ahead, lights shimmered in the darkness — Rouen.

He floored the gas.

Maybe speed will scrub this anger out of me — even for a second.

Speed limits didn’t exist. There was only him, the road, and the storm inside. On tight curves the car fishtailed, tires shrieking, but Alex didn’t slow down. He rode the edge, his heartbeat synced with the engine’s roar.

An hour later, a warning beep snapped him out of it. The tank was nearly empty. A red fuel icon blinked mockingly on the dash. Alex swerved into the first gas station he saw.

It was self-service. A couple of trucks stood nearby — long-haul drivers asleep in their cabs. Behind the kiosk window sat a young cashier, watching closely as Alex filled the tank, didn’t pay, jumped back into the car, spun the wheels, and vanished onto the highway.

Soon, exhaustion dropped on him like a weight. Sleep crept in. The road blurred into streaks of light and shadow. Road signs flashed past — the town of Boos, the turnoff to Rouen Airport. He knew exactly where he was.

The A14 autoroute de Normandy carried him into Vexin Regional Park. Dense forests stretched on both sides — dark, heavy, as if guarding their secrets.
Damn it. I need to stop. The adrenaline’s gone. I could fall asleep at the wheel.

Stopping on the highway was risky, so he took the first side road — missing the fact that there was no direction sign. Two hundred meters later, the road dead-ended into a truck parking area.

“Figures,” he muttered with a dry, exhausted smirk. “Fate keeps throwing truckers at me.”

He parked between the first rig near the exit and the edge of the forest. In the rearview mirror, he watched drivers moving quietly — someone eating in a cab, someone heading for the restroom, someone dumping trash into massive bins. Gradually, the lights dimmed. Night swallowed everything.

Alex reclined the seat, closed his eyes — and dropped instantly into a deep, restless sleep filled with fragments of gold and betrayal.
03:30 glowed on the dashboard.

He snapped awake two hours later, breathing unevenly.

Dead silence outside. No lights in the trucks. No drivers.
His hand slid instinctively to the knife in his pocket.
The forest stood black and mute.
Perfect damn timing.

He slipped out of the car, moving soundlessly, with a predator’s ease. Knife in hand, he moved between the rigs, inspecting tarps. One trailer caught his eye — a tight blue PVC cover, stretched like it was hiding something worth hiding.
He stepped onto the rear wheel, pulled himself up, and made a clean horizontal cut. The blade whispered through the material. He slid inside.
The trailer smelled of plastic and cardboard. He ran his hand along the boxes.

'Come on… what’ve we got?'

He cracked open a crate and flicked on his flashlight.
Coffee. Stacks of coffee tins.

His face twisted in disappointment.
“Could’ve been better,” he muttered.

He took nothing. Slipped back out. Minutes later he was behind the wheel again — and sleep claimed him once more.

Morning came cool and bright.
Sunlight filtered through the garden outside the villa on Rue de Dom;nil. The air still carried night dampness. Inside, the kitchen smelled of fresh coffee and toasted bread.

Alex climbed the front steps. His stride was steady, but fatigue bent his shoulders. His jaw was tight. His eyes were cold.

Alyona rushed to the door.
“Where were you?” she blurted out. “We were losing our minds. What happened?”
Victor, Vitaly, and Inga stood up from the table — alert, waiting.

“A raid we barely escaped,” Alex said flatly. “The result of a betrayal. August sold us out and vanished.”

Silence dropped hard.

Vitaly crossed his arms.
“So what — we’re gonna look for him?”
Alex shook his head.
“No.”
Victor frowned.
“Just like that?”
Alex looked straight at him.
“He played me. That’s it.”

Inside, his thoughts lined up cold and clean:
"He outplayed me.
That means he’s smarter.
That means I was green.
So I move on."
Victor exhaled slowly.
“That’s what the criminal world is,” he said quietly.
Vitaly didn’t speak.
But the thought burned clear in his head:
'No friends. No trust.'

Alex continued:
“Chasing him would be stupid. He’s gone. And even if I found him, I’d lose time. Ground. Momentum.
We don’t hunt people who outthink us. We learn — then we work people who don’t.”
Vitaly folded his arms, his brow tightening.
“So you already know what’s next?”
Alex nodded. His eyes were tired, but clear.
“I wouldn’t be talking if I didn’t.”
He dropped onto the armrest, rubbed his face, squinting as the light hit eyes that hadn’t seen sleep.
“Last night I ended up at a truck stop. By accident. Started nodding off, took a side road with no signs, and rolled into a rest pocket — thirty semis, maybe more.”
Victor narrowed his eyes.
“And?”
“I walked the lot. After midnight. Cut a tarp and climbed inside one of them.”
A beat.
“And you didn’t take anything?” Victor asked.
“Coffee. A few boxes. That wasn’t the point. I wasn’t there to steal — I wanted to see how they think.”
Vitaly leaned in slightly.
“And?”
Alex smiled, thin and sharp.
“What those two drivers did after they spotted the cut doesn’t matter. What matters is what French truckers do before they roll.”
He let the silence stretch.
“Before departure, they walk the rig. One checks wheels, lines, hydraulics, coupling. The other checks the tarp — and the cable.”
He looked at them one by one.
“Thin steel cable. Plastic-wrapped. Lead seal on the ends. If the seal’s intact and the tarp looks clean — nobody opens the trailer.”
Another pause.
“That’s our door.”
________________________________________
The forest smelled of wet earth and pine resin. An owl called somewhere deep in the dark, the sound dissolving into fog. Moist air pressed close. In the flashlight beams, trailers loomed between the trees — massive, silent shapes, like grounded animals.

Alex moved first. Smooth. Controlled. Victor followed. Then Inga. Vitaly brought up the rear. They stepped into each other’s footprints, breath held low.
Twenty steps from the nearest rig, Victor killed the light.

Darkness closed in.

They stood still. Listening.

Alex shut his eyes and counted to sixty — the way he’d been taught two years earlier in Afghanistan: how to hear silence.

Silence could cover you.
Or give you away.

When the minute passed, Alex brushed Victor’s shoulder.
The light came back on. Dim. Narrow.
They moved.

At the edge of asphalt and trees, Inga peeled off behind a trunk, eyes locked on the group. Victor reached the trailer first. Alex beside him. Vitaly last.
Bolt cutters flashed once.
The cable snapped — a soft metallic ring.
Vitaly took one end. Victor the other. They slid it free.
Alex disappeared under the tarp.
Seconds later, a hand emerged. Thumb up.
Victor followed him inside.

Bundles came out fast — leather jackets, tight, strapped in nylon. Inga and Vitaly took them and vanished into the trees.
No talking. No wasted motion.

When Alex climbed out, the stacks were already waiting in the dark.
Victor fed the cable back through the loops. Alex slipped a silicone medical tube over the cut. Victor held tension while Alex wrapped it clean with clear tape.

“Done,” Alex whispered, running his fingers over the joint.
'Perfect', Victor thought.
They melted back into the forest.

Alex set the pace.
“Move,” he said softly.
“Dawn’s in under an hour. We’ve got three more runs.”


Chapter Thirteen

Sunlight filtered through the small window of the immigrant dormitory, washing the cramped room in a dull, colorless glow. Two narrow beds stood against opposite walls. A battered wardrobe leaned slightly to one side. An old round table occupied the center like a stubborn relic.

Schoolbooks lay scattered on the desk. Math. Biology. French. An open grammar book rested against an empty glass vase, its pages stirring faintly in the draft.

Alyona sat at the table, pen moving steadily across her folded note. In her other hand she held a pocket Franco-Russian dictionary. Her lips moved without sound as she repeated the words, eyes fixed on the text.

A sharp knock froze her hand in mid-stroke.
“Come in. It’s open,” she said in French, keeping her eyes on the page.

The door opened slowly.

Ruslan stepped inside.

He was tall and lean, dark-haired, with a heavy, unblinking stare. A Chechen. Not long ago he had worn a beard, combat boots, and carried a battered Kalashnikov somewhere in the Caucasus mountains. Now his beard was trimmed short, threaded with gray. His eyes hadn’t changed.

He paused in the doorway, listening to the corridor. His fingers brushed his stubble.

“Your mother home?” he asked in Russian, with a strong Caucasian accent.

Alyona’s stomach tightened.
“No. She’s at the hospital.”
“For long?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a few hours. Maybe overnight.”
“Sick?”
She stood slowly, keeping her voice even.
“No. Treatment. She’ll be back.”

Ruslan stepped forward and slammed the door behind him.

Alyona moved toward the center of the room, leaving space behind her.
“Do you need something from my mother?” she asked, deliberately naive.

Ruslan smiled.
“You know what I need. And it’s not from your mother.”

He lunged.

His hand closed around her wrist. Iron grip.
“Let go!” she screamed.
“Don’t fight,” he whispered. “It’ll only hurt more.”

He slapped her hard on the cheek.

She hit the floor, tasted blood, rolled instinctively and tried to rise.

Ruslan was already on her.

His weight crushed her down. His breath burned against her neck. Her dress twisted under his hands as she kicked and clawed, slipping on the smooth linoleum.

She screamed.

His hand clamped around her throat.
“Shut up, bitch,” he hissed.

Dark spots flooded her vision. Panic gave her strength. When Ruslan’s hand hit the floor inches from her face, she clamped her teeth onto his forearm, biting through skin and flesh with all the strength she had.

The rapist howled and drove a fist into her ribs.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor.
“Hey! Everything okay in there?”

A knock was loud and insistent.

Ruslan froze. Then he scrambled up, shoved past someone at the door, and vanished down the hall.

Alyona lay on the floor, gasping. Her body shook uncontrollably. She pulled her dress down with trembling hands.

A woman from the next room leaned in.
“Are you alright?” she asked in French.

Alyona nodded.
“Call the police?”
“No,” Alyona whispered. “I’ll handle it.”
The neighbors hesitated, then drifted away.

Alyona closed her eyes. Tried to stand. Failed.
She pulled out her phone and dialed.

When Alex answered, her voice barely held.
“Where are you?”
“Do you need me? What happened?”
“Come now. My neighbor tried to rape me.”
“I’ll kill him.”
“He didn’t finish. I screamed. He was choking me. The neighbors scared him off.”
“Do I know him?”
“Yes. Ruslan.”
________________________________________
The courtyard between the dorm buildings was empty.

Two wooden benches stood around a battered table. Six men sat there. Four were absorbed in a backgammon game, dice clicking sharply. Two leaned close, whispering.

Ruslan sat among them, tapping the dice with restless fingers.
From the archway, Alex, Victor, and Vitaly stepped out.

They moved without hurry.

“Go straight at them,” Alex said quietly. His eyes never left Ruslan. “They don’t know you. I come from behind. Victor, if anyone moves, drop them. Vitaly, hold my knife and stay back.”

Victor and Vitaly split wide, drifting closer like passersby.

Ruslan glanced up. The Slavic faces didn’t register as danger.

Alex closed the last three steps fast.
He struck Ruslan in the ear.

Cartilage snapped. Ruslan collapsed sideways with a hoarse cry.

Alex wrapped an arm around his neck and dragged him down.

Two men jumped up.

Alex drove a knee into Ruslan’s skull. Hard. Ruslan went limp.

One of the men stepped forward. Alex crushed his throat with a punch. He folded, gasping.

Another reached for a knife.

Victor hit him under the chin. The man flew back into the table. Dice scattered.
On the other side, Victor met two attackers.

A knife flashed.

Victor slipped inside the swing, smashed a shin into ribs, then slammed the man’s face into the ground.

The second hesitated.

Victor feinted. Then spun and drove his heel into the man’s neck. He dropped.
Vitaly kept his blade high, forcing a third man back. Seeing the others down, the man ran.

Alex knelt on Ruslan’s chest.
“Victor. Gag him. Switch with me. Vitaly, sit on his legs.”

Victor shoved a silk scarf into Ruslan’s mouth and pinned his head.

Alex drew a metal awl.
He drove it into Ruslan’s knee with a sharp palm strike.
Then the other.

“You’ll limp forever,” Alex said calmly. “And if you’re still here by morning, I’ll put one in your head.”

Without looking back, the three accomplices slipped into the archway between two scarred nine-story dormitory blocks, home to both legal and illegal migrants.


Chapter Fourteen

The night over Normandy was moonless. Damp air, heavy with the salty tang of the English Channel, wrapped itself around the highway where trucks glided past one after another like shadows.

A dense convoy was moving toward the port city of Saint-Malo. Keeping its distance behind the last rig was a dark-blue Peugeot carrying Victor and Alex. Trailing slightly behind them was a Volkswagen Transporter with Valera and Inga inside.

Alex was driving. His hands rested lightly on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the taillights of the nearest truck. Everything was going according to plan.

Suddenly, one of the trucks slowed down and, without signaling, began to ease off the highway.

Alex narrowed his eyes.
“Strange…” he muttered and switched on the right turn signal.

The Peugeot, followed by the Volkswagen, left the main road, following the truck toward a small, half-asleep town—Val-Couesnon.

Less than three minutes later, the town seemed to surface out of the darkness: black silhouettes of houses, time-faded shop signs, sparse streetlights. The truck was moving fast, as if the driver knew every turn by heart. Turning onto Rue de Bonfontaine, it reached the intersection with Passage des Roches and veered left—toward an old cemetery surrounded by a wrought-iron fence.

Alex frowned, checking the map on the tablet mounted to the dashboard.
“Victor, this is unusual. Why would a lone camel break away from the caravan?”

There was restrained unease in his voice.

Victor glanced at the screen.
“If the map’s right, Bonfontaine turns into Avenue du G;n;ral Lavigny, then a left onto Cleire Avenue, and five kilometers later you’re back on the highway to Saint-Malo. Maybe he’s just looping around—to grab a bite or take a piss?”

“Viktor, I don’t suffer from geographic cretinism,” Alex snapped. “Left, then right—you can get back onto the same road. The real question is why he turned toward a cemetery.”

The man squinted.
“Boss, he’s slowing down.”

Alex eased off the gas, switched off the headlights, and parked about a hundred meters behind the truck. Both cars sank into complete darkness.

Alex reached into the glove compartment, took out the binoculars, and raised them to his eyes.

“I see it… cemetery on the left, a couple of private houses on the right. No cafe, no motel, no gas station. What the hell is he doing here?”

One of the drivers stepped out of the cab and, without looking back, disappeared through the gate of the nearest house. The second stayed by the truck, scanning the surroundings.
“What’s he doing?” Viktor whispered.

Alex didn’t answer. He peered through the binoculars into the darkness, studying the truck’s silhouette a hundred meters ahead. Thick clouds hid the moon. He waited patiently—waiting for a break in the clouds, a moment when faint moonlight might slip through and illuminate the scene, if only for an instant.
“Low visibility… but it looks like he’s removing the seals from the cable.”

A minute later, the driver returned—but not alone. Seven people followed him out.

“Six,” Alex corrected himself as he watched. “Men and women. Short. All in dark clothes. They’re slipping under the tarp fast. The seventh stayed by the road and handed something to the driver.”
“Robbing the truck is off the table now,” Viktor said quietly.

Alex nodded, never taking his eyes off the scene.
“That’s obvious. What isn’t obvious is what comes next.”
“Go to the others. Tell them to head back to Paris. Wait for me there tomorrow evening.”

Victor hesitated, then said firmly, “I’ll tell them to return—and I’ll come back. You’re too valuable to leave without cover.”

Alex didn’t respond. He raised the binoculars again. His eyes darkened, like the sky over all of Brittany—same darkness, same uncertainty.
________________________________________
Alex got out of the car first, closing the door almost silently. The rubber seal swallowed the sound. He scanned the parking area near the terminal—everything looked calm. Too calm. The ferry crossing was dozing, like the whole city: sleepy streetlights, rare cars, a sea breeze carrying fine mist that settled on the side mirrors.

“Go into the terminal,” he said over his shoulder to Viktor. “Check the ferry schedule. Departure times and destinations.”

Viktor nodded, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked unhurriedly toward the automatic doors. Alex took the binoculars from the glove compartment, wiped the lenses with the edge of his jacket, and methodically scanned the area: security, ramp, truck parking, the shadow of a ship in the morning haze.

Five minutes later Victor returned, his boots barely slapping against the wet asphalt.

“Brittany Ferries. Departs daily at 10:30 a.m., course—Portsmouth. Arrival at 6:20 p.m.”

Alex grunted and shifted his gaze toward the terminal, hidden behind awnings and stacks of cargo containers.
“No point watching from here. Visibility’s garbage. We’ve got two options,” he said, looking toward the coast. “Either we climb the city fortress wall and wander around like tourists with cameras, or we go over there—to the bastion behind the yacht club. From there you can see the entire port.”
“The wall’s closer,” Viktor said, squinting. “But two guys standing in a city fortress, staring at a port through binoculars, might look suspicious. Imagine it—two idiots peering through a cannon embrasure at a pier where containers are being loaded onto an international ferry. The bastion’s calmer. And the angle’s better. Wider field of view.”
“Exactly,” Alex nodded. “With binoculars, distance doesn’t matter. What matters is covering the whole loading area. Let’s go.”

They were about to get back into the car when Alex suddenly froze. A truck was pulling out of the terminal gate—their rig, without the trailer. Another followed, also running light.

“So that’s how it is…” Alex said slowly. “They’re loading trailers only. No tractors.”

He turned to Victor. Sparks of understanding lit his eyes.
“In the UK they drive on the left. On the other hand, local truckers will meet the trailers and haul them to the end customers with their right-hand-drive tractors. Which means once the trailer is on the ferry, the fate of the live cargo is no longer the sender’s concern.”
________________________________________
Alex and Viktor reached the top of the memorial bastion closer to noon. The old-World War II fortification loomed over the port like a stone memory of war. The grass at the base of the wall was scorched by the sun; the concrete slabs bore the marks of time—rust stains, chips, embedded metal rods.

They settled near the edge of the cliff, lying in the grass and passing the binoculars between them. The port spread out below like a map: cargo yards, steel ramps, ship decks, warehouse roofs—all precise, arranged in the brutal geometry of logistical hell.

“Damn, you really can see everything from here,” Viktor muttered, lowering his hood. “Like it’s in the palm of your hand.”
“Artillery bastions were built for that exact reason—to see everything. Ports are strategic points. Logistics, trade, invasions. History here doesn’t smell like archives—it smells like gunpowder.”

He took the binoculars and focused. On the terminal grounds, a tractor unit carefully rolled up to the ramp, pulling their trailer behind it—massive, dark blue, like the body of an industrial refrigerator. The giant slid into the belly of the ferry.

Alex silently handed the binoculars to Viktor.
“Watch the port staff,” he said quietly. “See if anyone tries to inspect the cargo.”

Viktor watched without blinking. The vehicles moved smoothly, security chatted lazily—but no inspection took place.
“No,” he said at last. “They didn’t touch a single tarp. Nobody checked anything.”
“Then it went through clean,” Alex concluded. “Our little Vietnamese friends will be in England by evening. And there, generous benefits, free healthcare, and decent education for their kids will be waiting for them.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes for a second. The wind carried salty air from the sea. It smelled of salt, metal, and the road that still lay ahead for him and Viktor.


Chapter Fifteen

The Parisian sun was blinding, reflected in the shop windows of the Chinatown district. The quarter was usually loud and restless, but this street was strangely silent.

The alley reeked of a thousand sizzling flavors—chicken wings crisped repeatedly in the same thick hemp oil, pig’s trotters frying until the air shimmered with their rich, fatty aroma, spices hanging heavy and pungent, a mix of sweet, burnt, and smoky notes that clung to the walls, the ground, even the humidity of the night. Every breath tasted of charred skin and garlic, with a faint whisper of five-spice powder and frying oil that had seen hundreds of batches. The air was dense, sticky, alive with the smell of food cooked, overcooked, and cooked again—like the entire street had been braised for years in a single, intoxicating aroma.

Alex and Victor stopped in front of a massive door with a faded sign that read CLOSED.

“Looks like they weren’t expecting us,” Victor said, glancing down the empty street.

Soft, barely audible footsteps rustled behind them. Alex slightly turned his head. He already knew—they had been followed from the moment they arrived.

A stocky Vietnamese man in his early twenties stepped out of the shadows. Without a word or any unnecessary movement, he opened the door and motioned them inside.

“That little bastard—was he tailing us or just standing in the corner?” Victor muttered. “I was wrong. It seemed we’d been watched from the moment we arrived.”
“Forget it,” Alex said curtly and went in first.

Inside, the light was dim, the air was heavy with the smell of tea and cheap tobacco. The Vietnamese man led them to the far end of the hall, behind a folding screen. In a small booth at a low table sat two men. One was elderly, thin, with sharp, angular features. The other was younger and heavier. The older man whispered something. The younger nodded, replied briefly, and lifted his eyes to the guests.

Alex and Victor sat opposite them. The Vietnamese man placed tiny porcelain cups in front of them.

“What’s this?” Alex asked, lifting the cup.
“Green tea with dried lotus stamens. Very old recipe,” he said after a brief pause, studying Alex’s face.

Alex narrowed his eyes.
“Listen. We don’t have time for tea ceremonies. Tell your boss this: I’m offering transport for his people to England. Reliable. Reasonably priced. If he’s interested, we stay—maybe drink coffee. If not, we turn around and leave.”

The younger man translated. The elder paused, then spoke in broken English.

“You Russians never change. Always rushed. Always reckless. My father used to say the same. He met Soviet officers back in the early seventies. My offer is five thousand francs per person. No bargaining. That’s the maximum.”

Alex nodded and extended his hand.
“We’ll start with four people. Payment before loading into the trailer.”

The older Vietnamese frowned.
“No. My man pays after the trailer is loaded onto the ferry.”

Alex stood abruptly.
“Goodbye, old man. Look for fools elsewhere. Victor, let’s go.”
They stepped back onto the street.
“To work with people like that, we’ll need something more serious than a switchblade,” Victor muttered.
“We need a gun. Better two,” Alex replied.

After the guests left, a heated argument flared up behind the screen. The elder was furious. The younger stood his ground. Eventually they reached a compromise, and the younger man took out his phone.
“When and where will you be ready to receive the passengers?”

Something was said on the other end.

“Good. Laval. Motel F1. The day after tomorrow. Eight p.m.”

Manh Vui Laun ended the call. He was the son of the head of the Vietnamese community in Paris.
________________________________________
Late at night, beneath the arch of General de Gaulle Bridge, Alex and Victor waited for the gypsies. Stevo and Besik were late.

Under the bridge, Paris stopped pretending.

The city’s polished lights died a few meters above their heads. Down there was damp concrete sweating cold, graffiti bleeding through older graffiti, broken bottles, and cardboard sprawled across the ground like graves for people who weren’t dead yet.

Somewhere deeper in the shadows, a man coughed until it sounded like his lungs would tear. Someone laughed too loud and for no reason. An older woman moaned, slow and raw, as if she’d forgotten the difference between pleasure and despair.
Rats the size of cats owned the embankment. Fat. Confident. Untouchable. They didn’t flinch at Alex or Victor. Men meant nothing down here.
Water leaked from the bridge joints, dripping slow and steady, like a countdown no one could stop.

The Seine crawled past, thick and foul, carrying the city’s sewage toward the English Channel, dragging Paris’s rot into the open sea like evidence nobody wanted to keep.

Up above—traffic, headlights, normal lives.

Down below—business.

The kind that never reaches the newspapers unless someone bleeds out before the ambulance arrives.

Alex leaned against the cold stone, eyes half-closed. Victor stood nearby, shifting his weight.

“Do you know the difference between productive and unproductive determination?”
Alex asked.
“No.”
“The first is reaching your goal with minimal losses. The second is sacrificing yourself for your own pride.”
Victor snorted. “Where do you pick up lines like that?”
“An Afghan war veteran used to give lectures. Sometimes useful ones. Even though he himself was a complete bastard.”
“Like what?”
“Once they sent me across a rooftop to climb through a vent on the ninth floor. I went down on a rope. Strong wind. The rope swinging. The window frame was loose. I didn’t go in. Suicide isn’t heroism.”
Victor laughed quietly. “Only an idiot rams himself into a locked gate.”
Alex checked his watch. “The gypsies are late.”
“They’ll come. They need money. We need a pistol.”

Five men approached from the stairway. Stevo led the way. Besik followed. The others moved like shadows behind them.

“Evening, Romale,” Alex said, stepping forward. “You bring the gun?”
Stevo grinned. “Show the money. Then you’ll see the goods.”

Victor pulled out the bills—one thousand francs—and handed them to Besik. He began counting. Stevo produced a pistol. Alex reached out—

A flash of metal.
A stiletto slid from Stevo’s sleeve.

Alex jerked back, but too late. The blade drove into his chest, left side.
Victor froze as Alex dropped to his knees. The gypsies bolted up the stairs and vanished. Victor rushed forward and caught him.
“Don’t pull it out,” Alex gasped.
Victor was already calling an ambulance.
“Stab wound. Under de Gaulle Bridge. Yes—Gare d’Austerlitz side.”
He lifted Alex and carried him upward. Above—traffic lights, hissing tires, life. Below—blood and foul water.
“Hold on, brother,” Victor whispered. “Please.”
Soon came the wail of a siren and screeching brakes. The ambulance stopped at the curb. A paramedic and orderly ran toward them.
________________________________________
On the stair landing, the medics laid out a stretcher. Alex’s jacket was cut open, his chest soaked in blood. The paramedic pressed cotton pads against the wound and taped them down.
Alex’s face had gone pale, his stare fixed. A long stiletto protruded from his chest, like a scar from the past come back to collect a debt.
Victor climbed beside the paramedic, his fists clenched white.
“Where are you taking him?” he asked.
“Salp;tri;re. Nearest hospital where we can operate.”
Inside the ambulance, the paramedic started an IV, then turned.
“Your friend’s name?”
“Alex.”
“Last name?”
“Don’t know.”
“Yours?”
“Ivanov.”
The orderly chuckled. “Figures. All Russians are Ivanovs.”
The rear doors slammed shut. The siren wailed. The ambulance disappeared around the corner, leaving Victor alone. Soaked. Furious. And very, very afraid.
________________________________________
The dim hall of the Chinese restaurant was decorated with ceramic dragons, engravings of mountains and forests, and elegant porcelain vases painted with peacocks.
Reclining on a couch, Manh Vui spoke onto the phone.
“Nguyen, tell Mr. Laun the shipment is delayed. The Russian who came was stabbed.”
A pause.
“Yes. We need to verify. Go to Salp;tri;re. Find out if he was admitted. I trust his partner, but trust doesn’t mean not checking.”
________________________________________
The emergency ward of the hospital, founded in the seventeenth century by the Sun King Louis XIV as a shelter for the poor, smelled of antiseptic and muted human misery. Elderly immigrants, exhausted Arabs, Asians in worn jackets waited stubbornly, as if lottery tickets were being handed out behind the doctors’ doors.
Alyona stood at the registration desk, face tense, lips pressed tight. Her quiet voice sometimes cracked with fury.
“Yes! Alex is my husband! What’s not clear!? Let me see him!”
The French nurse behind the desk—eyes hollow with fatigue—looked up.
“Lower your voice. I can’t let you in without documents proving your relationship. We don’t even have his last name. He refuses to speak to the police. We need ID—or a marriage certificate. At least driver’s licenses with matching names.”
Then she added tiredly, shuffling papers:
“And anyway, there’s no need. Here’s the latest update.” She waved a sheet. “The knife missed the heart by a centimeter. Surgery was successful. He’ll be discharged in a couple of days.”
“Where will he be taken?” Alyona asked.
“Home address.” She checked the file and looked up. “Which we don’t have, by the way. Where should we send him?”
“Claude Bernard Alley, number five. Room two ten.”
“Phone number?”
“No need to call. I’ll be here every morning.”
The nurse nodded, then softened.
“Show me any document. Even in Russian. And swear on the Bible it’s a marriage certificate.”
“I’ll bring it in two hours,” Alyona said, trembling with relief. She turned sharply and left—unaware that a few steps behind her, in the shadow of a column, stood a young Vietnamese man.
He wasn’t hiding.
He was watching—cold, predatory, emotionless.
When Alyona exited the building, he followed.

The next morning, Alex’s girlfriend entered the hospital before eight. The corridor was already awake. She passed rows of plastic chairs bolted to the walls. Some were empty, others held people who looked as if they had slept there—or never left. Old men with yellowed fingers wrapped around paper cups. Woman in headscarf murmuring into payphone. A young African man staring at the floor, one shoe unlaced, as if he had forgotten halfway through tying it why it mattered.
The smell was sharp and layered: antiseptic, stale coffee, disinfectant trying and failing to mask human decay. Somewhere nearby a machine beeped with mechanical patience, counting out someone else’s last seconds. The wheels rattled as an orderly pushed a metal cart piled high with used sheets and dirty trays, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his expression erased by routine. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too white. They flattened faces, stripped them of age and nationality, turned everyone into the same exhausted shade of gray. On the walls, faded posters warned about smoking, infection, hygiene—as if the people here had come by choice.
A man coughed behind her, deep and wet. Further down the corridor, someone cried out once, sharply, then went quiet. No one reacted. In this place, pain had learned to wait its turn.
Alyona passed an open doorway and caught a glimpse of a body under a thin blanket, feet bare, toes blue with cold. In another room, a nurse leaned over a patient, speaking softly, her voice professional, almost kind. Kindness here was measured, rationed, like morphine.
She moved on, her footsteps muted by linoleum polished smooth by decades of fear, hope, and indifference. Each door had a number. Each number hid a story that had gone wrong.
Somewhere ahead—behind one of those doors—Alex lay breathing, alive. The thought tightened her chest. The corridor suddenly felt longer, narrower, as if the building itself were testing her resolve.
She straightened her shoulders and entered the ward. A thick curtain surrounded Alex’s bed. She gently parted the fabric, trying not to wake him, but saw a doctor already there. A nurse stood beside him, writing down dictated notes.
Alyona froze.
“I want to tell you, young man, that you’re incredibly lucky,” said the elderly French doctor with gray temples, pausing the exam. “Although twelve centimeters of steel in the chest is hard to call luck.”
He smiled faintly, straightened, and continued.
“Still, you’re fortunate. First, the attacker missed. The blade passed just one centimeter from your heart. Second, whoever didn’t pull the knife out saved your life. Otherwise, you would have bled out before the ambulance arrived.”
Alex, still pale, nodded slightly.
“Thank you, doctor.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s my job.”
The doctor studied him with mild sympathy.
“But here’s some advice. Don’t let potential killers get close.”
“That’s not so easy,” Alex rasped. “I don’t know in advance who wants to kill me.”
The doctor squinted.
“What matters isn’t knowing who wants to. It’s knowing who can.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Look. When you cross the street and see a speeding car, you stop. You know the driver doesn’t want to kill you, but the car can. Same with people.”
He paused.
“Don’t fear those who might want to hurt you. Most won’t dare. But never let close those who are physically or morally capable of doing it.”
Alex nodded slowly.
“You have three minutes,” the doctor said to Alyona. He adjusted his coat, nodded to the nurse, and stepped behind the curtain.
Alyona leaned over Alex and kissed him. Tears fell from her lashes onto his face and the bandages around his chest.
Alex looked up at her.
“No tears. No pity. What happened is my fault alone. Did you hear what the doctor said?”
“Yes. You shouldn’t have taken that risk.”
“First serious wound, and a good piece of advice with it. I’ll remember both.”
Alyona kissed him again.
“Tell Victor not to go on the highway,” Alex said after a pause. “My order. Don’t touch trucks until I’m back on my feet.”
Alyona nodded.
“Anything else?”
Alex thought for a moment.
“Let Vitaly work abandoned houses with Victor. You help too, but don’t command. Let them decide what to take, where, and who to sell to. Most important, don’t let them take risks. Be my eyes and ears.”
“Understood.”
“And one more thing.” Alex struggled up on his elbows. “Try to get the dagger they pulled out of me.”
Alyona raised an eyebrow.
“Why? If you want to stick something sharp into Stevo’s chest, buy a switchblade or a Finnish knife. Cheap and nasty.”
Alex smiled faintly.
“If Stevo had struck a little more to the right, I’d be dead. That knife matters to me now.”
“A trophy?”
“Yes. Besides, it was a strange color. Whitish. Might be silver. If so, it’s old work. And that’s money.”
Alyona nodded thoughtfully.
“I’ll try, if the police didn’t take it.”
She looked him in the eyes.
“And the gypsies?”
Alex grinned. Cold light flashed in his eyes.
“Nothing. We act like nothing happened. We can’t go to open war. They’re more numerous, tightly knit. But if a chance appears, we won’t miss it.”
Alyona nodded slightly. She thought the same. Wise beyond her years, she understood that when a man thinks exactly as you do, it’s better to stay silent.
Alex exhaled deeply.
“Before the attack, I thought a knife was enough for a thief. I was wrong. To survive, you need a gun.”

He closed his eyes.
“French law requires firearms to be kept in safes. More often than not, pistols end up in nightstands or under pillows. During raids, look for weapons.”

Alyona brushed his cheek with her fingers.
“All right, my love. I’ll do everything you said. Get better.”
She bent down and kissed him. When she slipped behind the curtain, Alex smiled faintly after her.


Chapter 17. Highway Operation

Laval lay at the junction of three provinces—Brittany, Normandy, and Anjou—a small, unremarkable town of forty thousand people that most travelers passed without noticing. Of its thirty cheap hotels and roadside hostels, Alex had chosen the cheapest one of all: an F1, the kind of place where nobody asked questions and nobody remembered faces.

The hostel room was cramped and stale. Peeling walls, a low ceiling, and a persistent smell of sweat and old bodies soaked into the air as if the place itself exhaled fatigue. Two metal bunk beds left almost no free space. The Vietnamese migrants seemed accustomed to such conditions, but for the two Balts, the Ukrainian from the south, and Alex himself—tall, broad-shouldered—it was torture. Everyone had to sit leaning forward, shoulders hunched, knees drawn in.

Alex spread a folded paper map on the floor. The paper was creased, softened by use. He tapped one of the routes with a ballpoint pen.
“The truck rest area is forty kilometers from the ferry terminal in Saint-Malo,” he said. “Victor and I checked it earlier. No weigh stations between there and the port. That means the driver won’t be forced to unload cargo to compensate for extra weight.”

He looked up at Inga and Vitaly.
“Tonight, the Asians arrive here. You pick them up in the Volkswagen and head toward M;nil-Roch. But before that—watch carefully.”
He traced a thin blue line with the pen, drawing a path through streets that had once seen crusaders and musketeers, and now only saw delivery vans and tired pedestrians.
“You leave here, take this road, then the first right—Boulevard de la Lande. Cross the bridge in the city center and stop near the grocery store. That’s where you wait for us.”
“And you?” Vitaly asked.
“We stay here with their boss and his guards for about thirty minutes. Make sure they don’t follow you. Then we’ll drive around Laval, check for a tail. If it’s clean, we’ll join you.”

Vitaly scratched his chin.
“And if they’re waiting for us on the highway?”
“There are three roads leading to Saint-Malo from here,” Alex said calmly. “They don’t have enough people to cover all of them.”
________________________________________
They left the hostel separately.

Alex and Victor drove through Laval slowly, without hurry, blending into the late-night traffic. The town was quiet but not asleep. Sodium streetlights cast dull orange halos onto wet asphalt. Shop windows reflected the Peugeot’s headlights like tired eyes.

Alex parked near the Ch;teau de Laval, the medieval fortress looming over the river Mayenne. He killed the engine and lit a cigarette. The smell of tobacco mixed with damp stone and river water.

From here, he could see the road clearly.

A few cars passed. A delivery van. A battered Renault with loud music leaking through its windows. No one slowed down. No one circled back. No headlights lingered too long in the mirror.

Relax, he told himself. Too early for paranoia. But never too early for caution.
Victor stood a few meters away, pretending to examine a street map taped to a public board. What he actually watched were reflections—windows, windshields, puddles on the road.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

Nothing.

They drove again, looping through narrow streets, crossing the bridge, doubling back, switching lanes without reason. Alex checked the rearview mirror constantly. No tail. No second car. No pattern.

Only when they left Laval behind did the tension ease—slightly.
________________________________________
The night air near the highway was heavy with exhaust fumes and wet earth. The truck rest area near Ch;teau de Montmuran looked lifeless: a few parked trailers, dim lights, the distant hum of engines cutting through the dark.
A narrow road—La Croix-du-Moulin—ran parallel to the rest area, separated from it by a dense strip of forest, twenty meters wide. Trees absorbed sound. Shadows swallowed movement.

Two cars stood on the roadside: the Peugeot and the Volkswagen.

Four Asian men clustered near the German minivan, silent, hunched, clutching small bags. Their faces were tight, eyes darting. They understood very well what kind of night this was.

Alex stayed near the Peugeot with his team.
“Victor,” he said quietly, “you take position in front of the truck’s engine.”
Victor nodded, slipping the Glock behind his belt.

“Keep the gun ready. If the driver tries to step out—don’t hit him. And don’t shoot. Just point it at him and tell him to get back inside. If anything feels wrong, we abort and try again tomorrow night.”
“And if it doesn’t work tomorrow either?” Inga asked.

Alex exhaled smoke.
“Then we keep trying until the rice-eaters reach Foggy Albion.”
He nodded to Vitaly.
“Collect the money. Time to load them into the Swiss driver’s trailer.”
Vitaly pulled out a folded note and began calling names quietly. One by one, the migrants stepped forward, handed over cash, and disappeared into the dark belly of the truck. No one spoke. Only the sound of boots on gravel, the rustle of canvas, the muffled clang of metal.

Alex watched closely.
Everything went smoothly.

When the last man vanished inside, Alex turned to Vitaly and Inga.
“As soon as you’re done, head straight back to Paris. Victor and I will stay and watch the ferry departure. After that, we’ll drive along the coast. Check the ports.”
“Which ones?” Victor asked.
“Cherbourg. Le Havre. Calais. Dunkirk.”

The truck door slammed shut. The driver returned from dinner, wiping his hands on his jacket. His partner was still eating somewhere inside the roadside cafe.

Now there was nothing left to do but wait.

And waiting, Alex knew, was always the most boring and dangerous part.


Chapter Eighteen

On the outskirts of Le Havre, far from curious eyes, Alex and Victor reached an abandoned stretch of road. Just before the turn from the deserted Rue Henri et Serge Ferkoc onto the forgotten Eug;ne Friot alley, a triple row of pine trees shielded the container terminal’s fence from view.

A nearly three-meter-high chain-link fence ran along the entire industrial zone, but here the trees and dense brush almost completely concealed it from the road.
“Stop,” Alex said.

Victor slowed the Peugeot, killed the engine, and turned to him with doubt written all over his face.
“I still don’t get why we’re here. We’re doing fine as it is. We could move illegals to England by truck forever. Why get tangled up with ports and containers?”

Alex stepped out of the car, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out bolt cutters and a coil of wire, speaking as he moved.

“Think about it. How many people can you cram into a truck? Four? Six, if you’re lucky. And don’t forget weigh stations. Before entering them, you need to unload cargo just to hide the extra weight. That’s nerves, every time. First—you have to stalk the right truck. Then you wait for the drivers to fall asleep. Then you shove clueless migrants into the trailer and pray they don’t make noise on the road. Remember Saint-Malo? When the dog sniffed out the Pakistanis?”
Victor nodded grimly.
“And all that—for a thousand bucks a head,” Alex continued. “But a container? One container fits thirty people. Send it across the ocean and forget about it. What happens to them on the way or at the unloading port—we’ll never know. No problems. And three thousand per head.”

Victor exhaled.
“You’re right. Better to ship them by the dozens to America than one by one across the Channel.”

Alex ignored the comment and pointed toward the road.
“Look. From the street, the fence isn’t visible here. Neither the cut nor us will catch anyone’s eye. Park on the shoulder. Grab the bolt cutters. You follow me. I cut the fence—you pull it apart.”

Victor nodded and followed Alex into the shadow of the pines.
The wire resisted stubbornly. After fifteen minutes, Alex had cut a vertical slit. Victor spread the edges, and they crawled through. Once inside the terminal grounds, they pulled the mesh back together and tied it with wire. From five meters away, the seam was nearly invisible.

They moved along the mechanical workshops at a brisk pace.

As they neared the edge of the port administration zone, Alex slightly turned his head back and said without slowing:
“We run across the road—closer to the pier.”
“What’s the point?” Victor whispered. “Let’s crack open any second-row container, see if it can be done quietly, and get out.”

Alex stopped and turned.
“Quiet won’t work. At night, one car an hour might pass here—or none. The closer we are to ship loading, the less chance anyone hears us. Cranes, diesel forklifts, sailors securing containers. Where there’s noise, there’s cover.”
Victor nodded, and they sprinted.

Ten seconds later they vanished into the metallic jungle.

Between three-story stacks of containers, silence ruled. Victor followed behind Alex, heavy bolt cutters in hand. Both scanned the corrugated steel walls carefully.
“How do we know where each container is going?” Victor asked under his breath.
“Don’t know yet,” Alex replied without turning. “But like with trucks, there have to be shipping documents inside. They’ll tell us.”

Alex’s gaze caught a fresh red marking in the upper corner of one container—and beneath it, a neatly painted rectangle of the same color.
“See the rectangle?” he said. “Dockworkers painted over old letters and added new ones. OLGB. I’m almost sure that’s the destination port code.”
“OLGB?” Victor smirked. “Maybe it stands for the prestigious film award: Oscar for Lesbians, Gays, and Bisexuals?”

Alex ignored the joke and said,
“Let’s find out. Cut the lock.”

Victor snapped the padlock. Alex tore off the lead seal and turned the handle.
“Close the door behind me,” he said—and disappeared inside.
________________________________________
Inside the container, darkness was thick and absolute.

Alex felt for his flashlight, clicked it on, and a narrow beam revealed rows of cardboard boxes wrapped in clear stretch film, stacked neatly on pallets.

Each box bore the stamp: Petrus Pomerol 1990—Grand Vin.

He knew the wine was worth a fortune. But he wasn’t interested in the cargo.

Methodically checking each pallet, he finally spotted a large yellow envelope clipped to a box with a heavy industrial staple. He removed it carefully, opened it, and under the flashlight beam saw what he’d been hoping for:
OLGB – Long Beach, Los Angeles, USA

“Bingo and jackpot at the same time,” he muttered.

He put everything back exactly as it was and climbed out.

Victor waited outside, nervously scanning the rows.
“Find what you were looking for?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Alex nodded, still thinking.
“So, what do the letters mean?”
“OLGB is Long Beach, Victor. America. We just found a direct route across the ocean.”
“That’s great,” Victor said quietly. “But I can tell something’s bothering you.”
Alex stared at the locking mechanism.
“Studying the lock. Figuring out how to open it without breaking the seal.”
“You think that’s possible?”

Alex didn’t answer immediately. He crouched, shining the flashlight directly onto the hardware.
“Not just possible. Easy.”

He pointed at the hex bolts securing the handle assembly.
“We use a battery-powered angle grinder. Cut off these bolt heads. Then punch the remaining shafts inward. Remove the handle plate—the seal stays intact. Bring people inside. Give them new nuts and a wrench. Close the doors. From the outside, insert the bolts again. From the inside, they tighten the nuts. Then we touch up the bolt heads with matching paint.”

Victor stared.

“Seal intact. Handles intact. And the live cargo already inside," Alex said.
Victor frowned.
“What about dogs? Saint-Malo, remember?”

Alex nodded. The memory still sent a chill through him.

“Flowers,” Victor said suddenly.
“What flowers?”
“To throw the dogs off the scent, give the passengers heavily scented flowers — peonies, night violets, roses. Anything will do, so long as it’s cut straight from a garden.”

Alex smiled.
“Good thinking. Why didn’t I come up with that myself?”
He glanced at the sky.
“Two hours till dawn. Let’s open a couple more containers—for statistics. We need a list of codes and destinations.”
________________________________________
Daylight was taking over. South of Rouen, their van sped along the A13 autoroute toward Paris. Victor drove in silence while Alex scribbled notes in his folded note.

As they crossed a bridge over the Seine, Alex looked up.

“Hey, brother. That’s the Seine, right?”
Victor nodded.
“Yeah. Rouen’s behind us.”

Alex thought for a moment.
“Rouen… river port city, right? Must have a container terminal. We saw barges near ocean ships in Le Havre. That means containers can be shipped down the Seine straight from inland France.”
“So?”
“So, security at the Rouen terminal is probably weaker than at an ocean port. Turn around. Let’s take a look.”
“River delivery adds a day,” Victor noted, already slowing.
“That’s fine. We’ll build a tiered pricing system. Saint-Malo to Portsmouth—eight hours, a thousand bucks. Le Havre—five hours, eleven hundred. Calais—train through the tunnel, one hour, business class for fifteen hundred. Rouen will be the poor man’s route. Half a day to Le Havre, a day at the terminal, then ferry to England—eight hundred. Two days total. Cheap bastard tariff.”
“And if we find containers going to America?”
“Then we offer an overseas option. America. Australia. Argentina. Long trip—but tempting. Want to disappear from EU cops? Pay five times more. In our business, the key is choice. Whoever pays decides how and where they go.”
The van turned toward Tourville-la-Rivi;re, passed a shopping center, and the second bridge over the Seine opened before them.
“Same river again?” Victor laughed. “What does the map say? Right to Rouen or straight on the A13?”
“According to the map, the terminal’s on the eastern edge of the city. Straight ahead—to Robert the Devil’s Castle.”
“Robert the what?”
“The Devil,” Alex laughed. “What can I do? That’s how the frog eaters pronounce it.”
“And what’s at the castle?”
“A panoramic view. Like from any medieval fortress. Back then, the nobility built their castles on high ground not just to make them harder to storm, but to see what was theirs. On a clear day, from a tower like that, you can watch the land stretch out for dozens of miles.”
He tapped the map with his finger.
“From the tower to the loading area—it’s less than a mile. While it’s daylight, we scout everything. At night, we watch security.”


Chapter Nineteen

Alex and Victor stood atop the round tower of Robert le Diable’s castle, locally called the Donjon. From here, all of Rouen lay spread out like on a palm: the container terminal, the smooth ribbon of the Seine, and hundreds of square kilometers on both sides of the winding river.

The terminal was lit by sparse streetlamps — a detail that clearly worked in their favor. The river port was operating at a quarter of its capacity that night.

Alex glanced at his watch — exactly four a.m.

Victor silently sipped coffee from his thermos, holding the warm metal lid in one hand. In the other, he gripped binoculars, scanning the terminal perimeter for rivals or a stray police patrol. The night watch on the roof of the half-abandoned castle had grown boring, and Victor’s thoughts drifted into the past.
He missed Nikolaev — the southern, sun-soaked city of shipbuilders. His childhood and youth had unfolded there. Acacia and maple trees, endless longitudinal and transverse streets, the old yacht club with its fountain, and the massive Victory Park with its sandy beach at the confluence of the Southern Bug and Inhul — all pulled him back.

Images of the sports halls where he spent evenings emerged. And, of course, his taekwondo coach — Nikolai Petrov, strict but kind. His favorite joke resurfaced with a smile:
“See those pipes?” the coach would say, pointing at the water heating under the wide windows of the gym. “Try not to hit your head on them. Your head will heal, the dent in the pipe won’t.”

The memory of their parting was bitter.

After four years of taekwondo, refined to automatic precision — kicking an opponent in the head had become easier than spitting on the pavement — he suddenly wanted to try his hand at regional karate competitions. He didn’t warn the coach, didn’t want to hear arguments against it. And it backfired.
He won the tournament among eleven-year-olds. The next day, the organizer called Nikolai Petrov, congratulated him, praised the student, and proposed a contest between their clubs.

The coach did not appreciate the surprise. He thanked the sensei and told Victor to find a new gym.

The boy, bitter in his mouth, moved to aikido.

There, he sat on his knees for long stretches, listening to instructions, tracing strange figures in the air with his hands, falling onto the tatami dozens of times per session. Perhaps he could have become a master someday, no worse than Steven Seagal — but he was not willing to wait.

And he switched to kickboxing.

There, he found himself. No bows, no lectures on samurai honor, no endless kimono washings. Only the fight. Only the work.

Within a couple of months, boxing master Valery Khadzhigalo, a Crimean Tatar, had honed his punches to perfection, while Victor’s kicks to body and head had been landing hard since he was seven.

Roundhouse kicks to the head came from him like machine-gun bursts: dollyo-chagi, mom-dollyo for two hours, four times a week. In the club, he had no equals.

Trophies and certificates stayed home. As did gloves. And himself.

His thoughts jumped to a year ago in the Bulgarian resort town of Pomorie, where their family spent August for the second year in a row.

He saw himself from the outside — eating with his parents on the open veranda of the restaurant Kozii Rog. A plate of napuneni chushki — the Bulgarian take on stuffed salad peppers — and a glass of orange juice sat before him. His parents sipped local white wine. His mother, melted from heat and meal, lazily leafed through a long-read Dumas book on The Three Musketeers, and his father didn’t take his eyes off the shapely legs of the corn vendor.

The passing corn vendor shouted in Bulgarian:
“Sochna, mlechna tsarevitsa!”
“Son, you’ll be eighteen in six months,” his father said, staring at the girl’s tempting backside. “And school… well, you know your grades. Below average. That means no university is going to take you.”

He shrugged.

“The president keeps promising to abolish conscription, but for now it’s still mandatory. No studies, no exemptions—straight into the army.”

He gave a dry smile.
“So, looks like your youth in boots is guaranteed.”
“I won’t disappear,” Victor shrugged. “Hazing won’t scare me.”
“You’ll serve, come back. And then what? Racketeering? Police?” his mother asked without lifting her eyes. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a country where money is just rationing coupons? Ukraine has no future.” 
“Your mother and I won’t start over. Our business will feed us, but it won’t take us anywhere. Don’t settle for small things like we did. You don’t owe us that. You’ve got the whole world ahead of you. “Remember when one of your friends parodied an aria from that rock opera about Joaqu;n Murieta—the bandit who’d been executed in California back in the mid-19th century?” his father asked, and without waiting for an answer quietly sang, almost to himself, “Coming back brings bad luck. I remembered it while walking through Paris. I’ll never forget you. You’ll never see me again.”
“Are you advising me to seek my fortune in France?” Victor asked.
“You have a head on your shoulders. Try. If it fails, you’ll come back.”
“Why not England? I learned English at school, but I don’t understand a word of French.”
“But you read at least one book about France,” his mother nudged a copy of Dumas toward him. “I haven’t seen you with English authors. Not to mention German or American.”
“I also read Giovanni’s Spartacus in Italian,” Victor replied calmly. “If you push me out, I won’t resist. Will you at least give me some cash for the start?”
“A thousand euros set aside,” his father said. “And we planned the safest route.”

Alex’s voice broke the tower silence: “Check it out,” he said, lowering the binoculars. “Six hours of observation, not a single guard. Looks like they don’t give a damn about security.”
“Well, if there’s no guard, then over there,” Victor set the binoculars vertically on the embrasure and pointed to the container yard, “I suggest we climb over the fence and see where they ship the containers.”
Alex nodded.
“Let’s go.”

Without fuss, they descended from the tower, quickly reached the abandoned tourist parking lot, and within ten minutes stopped near the stadium of the Mulino district — the eastern suburb of Rouen.

No more than a hundred meters to the port fence remained.

The fence proved no obstacle for Alex and Victor. A hole in the barrier, apparently made by locals to shorten their route, gave access from the stadium via a worn footpath.

Slightly hunched, hands in pockets, small backpacks on their shoulders, the two walked through the terminal, blending in as night-shift dockworkers.
No one stopped them. A forked electric forklift passed by with a low hum. The operator spotted them and shouted something. The tone left it unclear if it was a question or a greeting.

Victor waved politely, pointing at his ears, shaking his head as if he hadn’t heard. The forklift slowed; the man, smiling, gestured for a cigarette.
Alex approached, pulled out a pack and handed him three or four sticks. The man pressed his index finger to his thumb, satisfied, and drove off.

“What was that gesture?” Victor asked.
“Contentment with what he got. In his case — three cigarettes instead of one.”
“French friendliness and naivety are off the charts,” Victor chuckled.
“And we have to use it while we can,” Alex replied.

They walked among the container rows, and Victor dictated the codes painted on the sides.
“Boss, write down the port codes: NFK, DRW, GOT, OSA, LED, KEL, HAL.”

Alex paused, set aside the folded note.
“That’s enough. I get it. These cargos are sent all over the world.”
“You memorize all these three-letter codes?” Victor asked, astonished.
“Don’t be dense. Geography, that’s all. DRW — Darwin, Australia. NFK — Norfolk, USA. HAL — Halifax, Canada. LED — St. Petersburg, still called Leningrad here. OSA — Osaka, Japan. KEL and GOT — Europe. Simple as easy as taking…”
“… a piss,” Victor smirked.
“Exactly. Let’s get out of here.”

By the time they hit the highway, the sun had risen, though still low on the horizon. Alex drove. Victor poured coffee from the thermos into the metal lid-cup and handed it to his partner.

“When you drink yours,” Alex said, carefully holding the hot cup, “keep your eyes on me. Not the road. If you stare at the asphalt, you’ll drift off — and you won’t notice if I do. Watch my face. Keep me awake. Ask questions. Worst case, if I start nodding off, hit my wrist. We’ve got two hours left to Paris.”
Understood, boss,” Victor said. “Did you come up with that yourself — watching your face instead of the road and hitting your wrist?”
“No,” Alex said calmly. “I wouldn’t have thought of that on my own. It’s a method taught in army ground-force academies. A veteran told me about it — a year and a half ago.”
Victor frowned, keeping his eyes on Alex’s face instead of the windshield.
“Army academies?” he said. “What’s the point?”
“When truck columns move,” Alex said, voice steady, measured, “fifty miles an hour. Fifteen feet between vehicles. No more. In the back — a full infantry platoon. One sudden brake, one dozing driver — and the entire column of thirty regimental trucks folds over like dominoes.”

Victor exhaled softly.
“So, the officer sits up front.”
“Exactly. The platoon commander sits next to the driver. He doesn’t watch the road. He watches the driver’s face. Eyes blink too slow — he taps the wrist. Eyes close — he hits harder. Ebonite stick. Simple. Effective.”

Victor gave a short, dry laugh.
“Brutal.”
“Alive,” Alex said. “That’s the difference.”

Silence filled the car for a moment. The road hummed under the tires, the engine droned evenly. Two hours to Paris.

Victor glanced at Alex again.
“You said a veteran told you.”
Alex nodded once.
“One officer. Didn’t talk much. But what he did say — stuck.”
Victor adjusted his grip on the cup.
“Alright,” he said. “I’m watching. If you blink wrong — you’re getting smacked.”
Alex allowed himself a faint smile.
“Good,” he said. “That means I’ll make it.”

Alex took a small sip, held a pause, and then said:
“We’ll expand the team. At least triple it. Turn our quartet into a real crew.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror. No city cops, no gendarmes following. Increasing speed thirty above the limit, he added:
“First — hire ten to twelve new guys. Split the crew into three parts. I stay in Saint-Malo with my group. I like the city. I’ll rent an apartment there. With Alyona, we’ll smuggle Asians to England and Ireland.”
Another sip.
“You, with the new guys, take the Americas-Australia route. Easier for Eastern Europeans — demand is high. Vitaly handles Calais and Dunkirk. From there — either through the tunnel to England, or by ship to Scandinavia.”
Victor nodded, respect evident in his eyes — the plan seemed ambitious and well thought out.


Chapter Twenty.

A faint tension hung over the semicircular square in front of Lyon train station. Travelers with suitcases and bags sat on benches—some alone, some in groups. Some read newspapers, others chatted with companions, and a few sipped coffees from plastic cups.

Among the crowd, small clusters of men without luggage stood out. Their ages ranged from twenty to fifty. Ethnic clothing marked their origins. Different diaspora groups kept their distance from each other, though occasionally delegates crossed group boundaries for a few words.

Three groups dominated by size.

Opposite the Novotel, the Gypsy community gathered—no fewer than twenty Roma squatting in a half-circle. Across from the cafe L’Esplanade, North African men spoke in a mix of French, Arabic, and Berber. Near the Catholic chapel of the Lamb of God, a substantial group of Balkan refugees had assembled—Serbs, Croats, Bosnians.

Southeast Asian and Central African delegations were represented by small clusters of three or four.

The Gypsies at the hotel listened intently to Stevo, eyes scanning the square. The Balkans near the chapel argued loudly in Serbo-Croatian, interrupting one another.

The sliding doors of Alex, the coffee shop on the first floor of Lyon Station, parted to the sides. Alex, Victor, and Vitaly stepped out, each gripping a paper cup of steaming coffee. White letters ran from top to bottom on the cups: ALEX — the boss’s name. Not just coffee — pure bragging, a signal to anyone who knew.

As they emerged, eyes from across the semi-circular square snapped to them. Every glance felt like a silent acknowledgment: they were expected. Alex let a faint, controlled smile curve his lips, scanning the crowd. Victor’s hand tightened slightly around his cup, and Vitaly’s posture straightened. The square was alive with subtle tension — a mix of curiosity, calculation, and quiet wariness. Every man standing without luggage, every group huddled in half-circles, now seemed to measure the newcomers. And Alex knew, as the day would soon prove, that the eyes were right — they had been waiting for this moment.

Alex smiled broadly, taking in the square at a leisurely pace. He waved to Stevo’s gang, and it was hard to tell whether the gesture was friendly mimicry or edged with something more vindictive, then headed toward the chapel. Stevo pointed at him, and one of his men fell in step behind.

The North Africans went quiet. Attention shifted to the Russians and the Gypsy trailing behind. Alex approached the Balkan group. They parted, forming a half-circle.

The Gypsy stayed slightly back, three steps from the ring.

The companions closed the gap, and Alex stepped into the semicircle of men near the chapel, smiling confidently, as if among old acquaintances. He scanned the sun-darkened faces, lined with fatigue, and fixed his gaze on a bulky man sitting on a bench.

“Hello to all the Slavs,” he said in Russian. “And to you, Miloslav Stankovich—Be well.”
“Good day,” Miloslav replied in Russian, nearly accentless.
“You called me—I came. What do you want?” Alex asked.

Mile didn’t hurry to rise. His massive frame nearly filled the bench, his gaze heavy as concrete.

Serb Stankovich had once been a police officer in the small Croatian town of Dubrovnik. Ten years earlier, he had come to the Adriatic coast for a two-week vacation at a Ministry of Interior sanatorium—and a week later married a local beauty.

Who could have guessed that five years later war would erupt between two brotherly peoples?

Over those years, his daughter Zlata had grown, and his son Lazar was ready for school.

In August 1991, immediately after Croatia declared independence, armed formations appeared in Dubrovnik. Initially, Mile didn’t believe it. He continued his police duties, wore his uniform, greeted old colleagues, tried to stay within “service,” not politics. But everything changed when his peers—former comrades—started giving him sidelong glances, whispering “chetnik,” and one day confiscated his service weapon.

A week later, he was summoned “for a talk” at the station, only to be beaten by three young members of the territorial defense. Not killed—just a warning. Or maybe “a greeting.”

The next day he left. He loaded his children, wife, two blankets, and a supply of bread into a Golf and drove through night fields out of Dubrovnik. No job. No protection. No homeland.

They crossed into Bosnia, ending up in Trebinje, a small Serbian town in eastern Herzegovina, controlled by the so-called Rep;blica Srpska. Here, he was not a stranger. Here he was one of his own—Serb, abandoned, betrayed, but unbroken.
Within a month, he wore a uniform again—military this time. He joined the Rep;blica Srpska Armed Forces, among many like him: refugees with epaulettes, trained in Yugoslavia, abandoned by their own, hating everyone.

He fought near Trebinje, Mostar, on the approaches to Dubrovnik—against people he had recently shared coffee and patrols with.

He fired down the streets where his wife had grown up. In trenches, he hid photos of his children under his flak jacket, calling their names in sleep. Once he found his former partner’s body among dead Croatian soldiers. He said nothing. Simply removed the cross chain and tossed it into the mud.

When the war ended in 1995 with the Dayton Agreement, Mile understood there was no returning. Dubrovnik offered only a tribunal, Trebinje—smoke of extinguished conflict and eternal poverty.

So, he moved north, through Serbia, Hungary, and Slovakia—to Paris.
He was neither an immigrant nor a political refugee. He was a soldier without a country, an officer without a flag, a father unsure what to give his children except a hard gaze and a worn rifle.

And then Alex appeared. From rumors reaching him through the Gypsies, Mil; learned that in less than six months, this kid had risen from doorman at a marginal eatery on the outskirts of Europe’s cultural center to a successful smuggler of living cargo.

Raising a grim gaze to the young Russian gangster, Mil; said quietly:
“Alex, I understand you’ve climbed high on the Asian routes to England. I respect business. We should join forces. I can move up to a hundred people a month. Your share—half per head.”

Alex kept smiling, but his eyes remained steady, betraying neither surprise nor interest.

A loud voice from behind broke in, choked with indignation:
“You out of your mind? Offer that kind of cut to Gypsies. Let them give you half the profit on the powder!”

Victor barked instantly, without breaking his gaze from the others:
“Shut it, Vitaly.”
But Vitaly didn’t stop:
“We’re flooded with volunteers! People crawling on their knees just to get on the waiting list!”

Stankovich didn’t even glance at Vitaly. His eyes stayed on Alex.
“Control your pup,” he said. “Or I’ll take care of it.”
Vitaly stepped forward, chest out:
“You won’t touch me.”

Alex sharply raised his hand without turning, thumb and forefinger snapping together — a wordless command to seal his mouth.

Vitaly zipped his lips, and Alex drew a line under the negotiations. “Mile, you made your offer. I refused. There’s nothing left to discuss.”

As if confirming the conversation was over, Vitaly noticed movement behind. Two men approached—dark-skinned, black jackets, Algerians. Not waiting, he quietly stepped out of the circle and headed for the street urinal—a pyramid-shaped structure against the chapel wall.

Mile slowly rose. His silhouette, massive and threatening, emerged from the shadows. He stood a meter from Alex, a full head taller. His shoulders, broad as a doorway, seemed immovable. His voice no longer sounded like a proposal:
“Don’t rush, Alex. This isn’t business. This is a chance you can’t refuse. I was a Serbian cop fifteen years. Four of those I fought for Republika Srpska. Kids like you—quick and daring—I’ve seen hundreds. They’re either two meters underground or broken, obeying my terms.”

He stepped forward and tried to grab Alex by the throat.
But couldn’t.

Alex’s punch to the groin was short, fast, precise. Mile bent over, grabbed his balls, and growled.

And then it all erupted.

Fists, boots, screams. Alex hit everyone in reach, like a man starved for a ring. Swift. Precise. Enjoyed.

Victor spun like a top, striking with his feet anyone trying to enter the circle. The chaotic roar enveloped the square. Alex suddenly felt a sharp pain in his right side. He spun and drove his fist into an Algerian’s face. The man fell on his back, scrambled up, and bolted.

Vitaly peeked from behind the urinal, saw the fight ongoing, then ducked again.
“Victor!” Alex shouted over the noise. “Back off! Just the two of us!”

They began retreating toward the center of the square, eyes fixed on the enemies. Unexpectedly, the Yugoslav gang began scattering.

Victor glanced back — four officers burst from the station, a compact, menacing wave. Black tactical vests, helmets with darkened visors, batons swinging at their sides, boots pounding the pavement. One carried a riot shield, scuffed and battered, catching the streetlights with each heavy step. The sound of their approach rattled in Victor’s chest.

“Alex, run! Cops!” he shouted.

The boys twisted and ran, weaving between benches, trampling abandoned coffee cups, dodging frozen Gypsies, Arabs, and blacks.

Alex and Victor rushed past the Lamb of God chapel, turned down an alley on Rue Roland Barthes, stopping only in Philippe Farin square.

The shady alley remained empty, as if the city hadn’t noticed: neither the fight in the center, nor the dispersal of Gypsies and North Africans by four riot squad officers, nor the fleeing Balkans and Russians. Above the rooftops, a dull hum of a police siren faded toward the eastern outskirts, where most combatants had fled.

“Lost them,” Victor exhaled, relief in his voice.

Alex bent over, hands on his knees. His chest heaved, sweat glistening on his brow in the dim streetlight. He exhaled hoarsely, as if every last breath had been wrung from him.

“They didn’t really try to catch us,” he rasped. “But… damn… I pissed myself… Never happened before.”

A pause. He continued, not looking at Victor:
“Halfway through the fight, felt… warm down my legs. Thought I’d freak out.”

Victor knelt beside him, eyes resting on Alex’s right side, where the shirt’s fabric darkened to a rich crimson.
“It’s not piss, brother,” he said softly. “Knife again. Right side, just under the ribs.”

Alex straightened slowly, eyes widening, breath erratic. The world tilted. The ground he’d felt a second ago slipped beneath him.
“Call an ambulance…” he whispered. “…and take the stiletto from me. Second time in hospital, they won’t give it back.”

He tried to reach for the knife himself, fingers trembling like an old man’s. Moments later, his legs gave way, and he collapsed into Victor’s arms.

“Surprised you didn’t use it,” Victor muttered, laying Alex on the asphalt. “Would’ve helped.”

He carefully drew the thin stiletto from Alex’s belt—a painfully familiar blade he never parted with.

Victor dialed emergency services, eyes locked on Alex’s pale face.
“Hang in there, brother,” he murmured, pressing his own T-shirt to the wound. “Help’s coming.”

Somewhere in the distance, almost at the edge of hearing, a siren wailed again.

Vitaly never came back.

While the shouts and blows echoed across the square, he crouched behind the reeking shell of the street urinal, barely breathing. From there, half-hidden by chipped enamel and graffiti, he watched everything in fragments: bodies surging, arms swinging, someone going down. He had seen the Arab with the knife in time. Close enough to warn them. Close enough to shout.

He hadn’t.

When sirens cut through the noise and people began to scatter, Vitaly waited. He counted slowly, forcing himself not to move. Only when the square started to empty did he straighten, smooth his jacket, and step out as if he had simply been a passerby who’d lingered too long.

He slipped away down a side street, keeping to the shadows, careful not to run.
Inside, beneath the thin crust of fear and shame, another thought took shape—quiet, shameful, but stubborn. If Alex didn’t make it… if this was how it ended… then maybe no one would ever ask where Vitaly had been, or why.

He didn’t look back.

Catching his breath, Vitaly edged down Raguinot Passage, staying in the shadows, telling himself it was just another day.

If God wills it… if Alex wouldn’t survive another knife in his chest… good. Vitaly told himself. I’d take the reins and Victor will be my worthless little lap dog.


Chapter Twenty-One.

Alex and Alyona drove along the night highway toward Le Havre. The headlights cut through the darkness, revealing a narrow ribbon of road, then disappearing into the endless black beyond the curve, only to light up again, as if the car was carving its path with light. The cabin smelled of coffee from the thermos and something warm, faint, almost imperceptible—maybe her hair, maybe the silence she carried.

Alex kept one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing against her knee, as if checking that she was still there, hadn’t vanished. They had been driving for over an hour without exchanging more than a few words, and all the while he felt the depth of his love for her. Not a flash, not a sudden pang, but a constant, steady knowledge he had somehow always carried. He had just never allowed himself to admit it.

He looked at her face, bathed in the warm glow of the dashboard. Calm, slightly tired, yet guarded in some indefinable way. Alyona stared out the side window, as if seeing something far beyond the road.

“Listen…” Alex hesitated briefly, then continued. “You never told me. How did you end up in France? And what happened… before that?”

Alyona slowly turned her head to meet his gaze. There was no surprise in her eyes, no irritation—just silence. The kind of silence that hangs between two people when it’s finally time to speak the truth.

She lowered her eyes, gave a faint nod, and said:
“Do you want the truth?”
“Only the truth,” he replied gently.

She exhaled and began, unfiltered, words tumbling without polish, chronology faltering at times—simply opening herself.

“It started when I was eleven. My mother left for Russia with a truckload of Nemirov vodka, from our family distillery. She told us—me and my father—it would be brief. Father begged her not to go, but she only shot back bitter words about his meager teaching salary and our pitiful life on her. I remember him saying, ‘What more do you need? There’s a house, chickens, pigs, a cow, your daughter’s growing up, I’m always home.’ And she shouted back, ‘Chickens, pigs, a cow! Did I marry to milk cows all my life and clean after pigs? I want a car, I want the city, I want to walk into expensive shops, dress like a lady, not a peasant. You married the prettiest girl in the district and can’t give her what she deserves!’

The next day she climbed into the passenger seat of the truck and left. Father cried for a full day, face down on the bed. Three days later he died. And she… she never came back. Not in a month, not in a year. I lived alone for nearly two years. Garden, animals, firewood… We had chicken, turkeys, and a cow. I cooked, stoked the stove, and learned to survive. Neighbors helped sometimes, mostly I managed on my own.”

“Father died of a heart attack,” Alyona said after a pause, emphasizing that he had been adamantly against her mother’s vodka schemes. “Evening, he sat in his chair before the TV and never got up. I found him in the living room the next morning.”

Alex stayed silent. His chest tightened painfully, but he didn’t interrupt.
“At first, I lived in fear. Big house, silence everywhere, winter, forest. But then the fear passed. I started doing everything myself. Cleaning, milking the cow—her name was Dusya. The chickens laid poorly, especially in winter, but sometimes the eggs saved us. I chopped firewood myself. Father had taught me. He always said, ‘You’re like a boy. You can handle it.’”

She smiled briefly at the memory.

“Since I was eleven, I knew how to kill a bird. First time… it was April. My food supplies were running out and a neighbor knew it. I was surprised—she didn’t come to ask if I needed help, she sent her husband. Uncle Petya—man around sixty—entered the yard through the gate. Good thing I was outside. He offered to help with chores. I said I could manage, and he started to grope me. Smelled of moonshine. “I backed toward the chicken coop and pressed my spine against the warped wooden door. There was nowhere else to go. A chopping stump stood nearby, an axe buried in it from earlier work.

I wrapped my right hand around the axe handle. My left closed on the neck of a chicken walking past—warm, light, trusting. I felt its pulse under my fingers. I didn’t look away. I didn’t rush. I wanted him to see that there was no fear in me.

I brought the blade down in one clean motion.

The head stayed in my hand. The body tore itself free and ran, blind and screaming without sound, ten meters across the yard before collapsing in a twitching heap.

That was when he understood. Not what I had done—but what I could do.
He went pale, his face emptying of blood. He turned his head away, as predators do when they realize they’ve misjudged the prey. Then he left.
He never came back.”

Alex loosened his grip on the wheel unconsciously. He could see the scene as if he were there—the little girl, the axe, and the look in her eyes already stronger than fear: determination.

“When mother left, at school at first they bullied me,” Alyona continued quietly. “Teachers were sympathetic, but kids… kids were cruel. Called me an orphan. Once a girl on the back bench pulled my braid and the class laughed. I stood up and hit her over the head with a book. Then in the principal’s office I said: ‘They’re harassing me. What choice did I have?’”

Alex didn’t speak. He didn’t interrupt. He only squeezed her knee harder, as if to say: I’m here.

“Then she appeared. Said she was sick. Claimed she’d sent letters and money. I never received a single letter, never any money. She blamed the postmen. I didn’t believe her, but by then it didn’t matter. I felt nothing. No anger, no joy. Soon, under the pretext of repaying the distillery, she borrowed ten thousand dollars from the neighbors. But she tricked everyone again. Instead of paying back the debt—we were really stuck with that ten grand—she paid a firm in Kyiv, which promised to smuggle us to England. We didn’t reach England. First Poland. Shegini. Crossed the Ukrainian-Polish border at night, without papers. Then a couple of weeks in Legnica, at a hotel run by a woman named Barbara. And then… a Pole, Kazimir, appeared. Mother negotiated with him all night—so he would get us across the border.”

Alyona paused, lowering her head. Alex slowed the car.

“As a result of their negotiations, he brought me to his friends. He said in the morning I’d cross the river with my mother. But he didn’t take her. Only me. The house had several monitors; the Poles were watching the border crossing. I spent the night there. Kazimir abandoned me, and I was alone with four men. Luckily, they couldn’t decide what to do with me—they argued among themselves and left me untouched… But that night, I’ll never forget.”

Alyona shrugged. Alex eased off the gas and took her hand. He felt her trembling and said nothing. Just held.

“In the morning, they took me to the river. It was spring. Cold water up to my chest. We crossed on foot. I was a child. Still a child. But after that morning—I wasn’t. On the German side, some people were waiting. They put me—the girl—into the trunk. I can’t even say how long I rode there, in complete darkness under some cloth. It felt like eternity. Then Berlin, then a camp, then… France.”

Her voice trembled.

“I don’t know how we survived. Mother still says she did it for me. And I… I still don’t know if I forgave her.”

A pause fell over the car. No awkwardness—just something warm and unbearably heavy.

Alex looked at her. Alyona didn’t boast in her story. Only facts. Only life lived.

“I love you,” Alex whispered.

Alyona looked at him silently. Her eyes carried exhaustion, warmth, fear, and gratitude.

“But now you know who I am,” she replied, adding softly: “Do you want me to tell you more about crossing the border between Poland and Germany?”
“If you want to get it off your chest, tell me.”
“I do. I’ve never told anyone.”

For three or four minutes, silence reigned in the car, broken only by the soft hum of the engine and the rustle of the tires.

“Thirty kilometers from the Polish town of Legnica, right at the border, there’s a small town, P;cnik. Just beyond it flows the Nysa ;u;ycka River. When I was brought there, mother was already with Kazimir. I hadn’t slept all night and was barely standing. Mother rushed to me, but I pushed her away and went first toward the river. She called after me: ‘Alyona, are you okay?’ And I said, ‘You tell me.’ She: ‘Forgive me, we had no choice.’ I: ‘Shut up.’ That’s how it went.”

Alex listened, silent.

Alyona paused, as if weighing whether to dig further into the trauma. Feeling relief sharing it with someone who loved her, she continued:
“‘How deep is the river?’ I asked Kazimir. ‘My mother can’t swim,’ he lied, said knee-deep, and that we’d easily ford it. ‘About thirty meters,’ he said.
As soon as I stepped into the water, a whirlpool formed around my legs. I shouted to Kazimir on the bank, and he lectured me about fording rivers: ‘Rivers are always like this. If shallow, the current is strong; if deep, it flows slowly. You can go ten meters downstream and swim across rather than wade. I kept my promise. Goodbye.’
“He left?”
“Yes. Into the forest. Gone. We stayed. Mother said, ‘Alyona, you might slip and twist your ankle. I’ll go a bit to the right, where it’s deeper.’ I said, ‘I’ll go where it’s deeper but easier. Go.’ She stepped half a meter aside and within a few steps was swept by the current. I heard her scream: ‘Alyona, save me!’”
“Did you jump in after her?”
“Of course. I dove, grabbed her by the hair, turned her back to me, and paddled with one hand while holding her with the other. The current was brutal; she thrashed and flailed, arms flailing wildly, legs kicking against the flow, but I dragged her to the shore. When I felt the ground beneath my feet, I said, ‘Stand. Consider that I’ve paid you back for giving birth to me.’”

Alyona gave a faint, humorless smile.

Alex swallowed hard. He felt as if he were swimming with her, feeling the icy water, the furious current, and the ache in his chest.
“And then?”
“We got out. But the bank was steep—about three meters up. Tree roots jutted from the slope. I said, ‘We need to get up.’ She: ‘I can’t.’ I said, ‘Stay if you want to be sent back to Ukraine.’ She started climbing.
“Did she follow you?”
“Yes. Clutching my hand, the earth, anything she could. We barely made it. On top—fields. In the middle, a man. Smoking. Mother whispered, ‘What if it’s a scarecrow?’ I said, ‘You don’t see his cigarette?’ We approached. He was waiting. Led us to the car. Then—Germany.”

The car was swallowed by silence while Alex saw everything in his mind. Only the wheels clattering, breathing, and the distant hum of the highway.

Then Alex spoke, slowly, almost in a whisper:
“Now I understand why you stayed silent all this time. Everything you’ve told me—it’s not just a story. It’s you. Who you are.”

He turned to her. Alyona’s eyes were full of tears, yet she did not cry.
“And if you don’t mind… I want you to never go through anything like that alone again.”

She nodded, slowly and decisively. Her fingers rested over his on the wheel.
“How did you get from Germany to France?”
“The man waiting by the river drove us to the nearest train station, put us on a train to Hamburg. He gave us money—bus tickets to Paris, some food. He said plainly: ‘So you don’t starve and roam the streets with your hands out.’”
“I see… And when did you arrive in Paris? Where exactly?”
“To Montparnasse station. And three days later… we were at the North Station.  Mom dreamed of going to London from there. But it didn’t happen—we met you. That same day I told her I was staying in Paris and offered her a choice—me or the ‘Misty Albion.’”

She turned to him for the first time that night, a faint smile on her lips.
“And since then, I’ve never been alone,” she whispered.


Chapter Twenty-Two.

The Peugeot’s headlights carved a bright rectangle out of the darkness. The car slowly turned off Rue de la Maison-Blanche onto an empty parking lot in front of the port logistics center.

Inside the cabin, Alyona sat beside Alex. Victor and four middle-aged dark-skin men lay on the floor under a soft gray blanket in the rear of the cargo hold. They were silent, breathing heavily one after another, as if afraid to disturb the night.

Almost simultaneously, an old Volkswagen pulled in behind them. Vitaly was at the wheel, Inga in the passenger seat. Both vehicles stopped in the shadows, away from an abandoned trailer and two battered late-’80s Citroens—rusted, headlights smashed, like monuments to traffic long dead.

Alex scanned the parking lot carefully.
“Alyona, Victor—let’s go,” he said shortly.

They stepped out of the van and closed into a tight circle. Alex unfolded a rough sketch of the area, lighting it with a pocket flashlight.
“We go recon—four of us. Inga, you stay here. Move the passengers from my car into yours, get behind the wheel, keep the engine running. Watch everything. Anything feels off—call it in on the radio immediately. If it’s a real threat, take off on N316. Drive a couple of kilometers and stop. Clear?”

Inga nodded, then added flatly:
“Move them yourself. While you’re still here.”

Without a word, Alex brought the four men out of the Peugeot and seated them in the Volkswagen with the others. A minute later his team melted into the darkness, and Inga took the driver’s seat and started the engine.

The night air smelled of dampness and salt. Somewhere far beyond the port, the sea was breathing.

Alex and Alyona crossed the field. Dark clumps of trees loomed ahead, motionless, like sentries. Suddenly Alex stopped and snapped his hand up. Alyona almost ran into him and froze.

Footsteps sounded behind them. Quiet. Careful. Two… maybe three.
Then silence.

Alex swept his palm downward through the air. They crouched.
“One behind us,” he whispered. “There’s an ambush ahead. When we reach the rise, you break right—straight to American Road. Run to the van, grab the guys, and head for the African Road intersection. Got it?”
“What about you?”
“I’m going into the woods. I’ll pull them off you.”
“I’m not leaving you,” she said. Her voice wavered.
“Do what I said. They’ll kill us both if we stay together. Alone I’ve got better odds. On three. One. Two. Three.”

They sprang up and bolted in opposite directions.
Alyona—toward the road lights.

Alex—into the thick, dead black of the forest.

Footsteps thundered behind him—the pursuer chose Alex.

Twenty steps later, four North Africans rose out of the grass in front of him. A fifth, breathing hard, stopped behind him.

Alex raised his hands.
“Easy, guys. This is business. Nothing personal. I’ve got over two grand in my pocket. Take it, and we all walk.”

One of the Algerians stepped forward, smiling slowly. Not friendly. Satisfied.
“You really don’t understand.”

He glanced at the others, making sure they were listening.
“The gypsies couldn’t make a deal with you under De Gaulle Bridge. So they sent us. We delivered their warning at the square by Lyon Station.”

He leaned closer.
“How’s your right kidney? Still working?”

Behind the leader, someone in his task group let out a low, derisive laugh, savoring the tension in the air.
“The Yugoslavs tried to bring you in. You got cocky. You paid for it. If the Paris cops hadn’t shown up, you wouldn’t be standing here now.”

He straightened, voice louder now — for the group.
“And now you owe us for the Port de Montreuil public market. My Algerian brothers remember your axe. Every one of them.”

He took one last step forward.
“I’m not here to bargain. I’m just the courier. Bringing their regards.”

Alex didn’t wait for the shot. He vaulted sideways out of the line of fire, rolling through the tall sagebrush. His hands slammed into the dry earth, bracing, and he sprang up, driving off with explosive bursts. Feet pounded the dirt in jagged, uneven bounds, each step a desperate gamble to throw off anyone tracking him.

Around him, bullets whistled and ricocheted, kicking up clouds of dust; the brittle sage snapped under the pressure. The clamor of gunfire and rustling feet reached him, yet his heart hammered so violently he barely heard a thing. He zigzagged in sharp, erratic lines, arms pumping, eyes locked on the fence ahead. Every twist and leap shredded his muscles; every landing demanded perfect balance. He surged forward, relentless and almost airborne, a streak of motion against the fading light and whispering sage, living purely in the rhythm of survival.

Gunshots ripped the night apart. Bullets tore through the air, chewed up grass, rang off metal.

Back in the parking lot, Vitaly saw the key still in the Peugeot’s ignition, jumped behind the wheel, and started the engine. The car had just begun to pull out when Victor appeared in front of the hood. Vitaly slammed the brakes. Victor jumped into the cabin.
“There!” he shouted, jabbing a finger into the darkness. “Alyona’s running. We wait for her!”
“They’re shooting!” Vitaly yelled. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

Victor answered by pressing the cold muzzle of a pistol to his temple.
“Stop. Now. Or you’ll be lying in the grass with a hole in your head.”

Vitaly froze. His pants darkened.
“Back it up. We wait for both,” Victor said with a contemptuous grin.
“Alex might already be dead…” Vitaly muttered. “And without him, we don’t need Alyona.”

When he saw Victor’s finger slide onto the trigger, he cut himself off and stomped the brake.

“Alex said in case of danger, Inga leaves. Not you. Not me. Only her—with the passengers. Sit. And wait.”

Alyona burst into the cabin and slammed the door.
“Ambush. They were tailing us from the parking lot. I don’t know why Inga didn’t warn us.”
“What about Alex?” Vitaly asked.
“He’s alive. If they’d killed him, there would’ve been one shot. They fired at least ten. That means he was running.”
“I think so too,” Victor nodded. “Otherwise, the Algerians would already be here. If they’re not, they’re still hunting. We go meet him.”

The Peugeot crawled along the highway.

“Where to?” Vitaly asked.
“American Road, to the African Road intersection.”
“Why?”
“Alex ran the opposite direction from Alyona. He pulled them off her.”
“Yeah,” she confirmed. “He said he’d come out near the fence, close to the intersection.”

Vitaly drove at ten miles an hour. As they approached the crossroads, Alex burst out of a ditch, barely visible in the headlights, and leapt into the cabin. The sliding door slammed shut, and the minivan surged forward, leaving running shadows behind.

“How many men were in ambush?” Alyona asked.
“Five,” Alex said.
“How’d you manage to slip past them?”

Alex smirked, catching his breath.
“Arabs watch too many Hollywood movies. Before killing their enemy, they feel the need to explain in detail exactly why he’s about to die.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Vitaly asked, puzzled.
“Everything,” Alex said. “First you shoot. Then, if you’re feeling poetic, you explain it to the corpse.”


Chapter Twenty-Three

The port of Rouen never truly slept. At night it only shed its daytime disguises. The cranes froze mid-gesture like prehistoric birds, containers stacked in rigid rows like mausoleums, each one sealed, numbered, forgotten. The Seine slid past the terminal black and indifferent, carrying reflections of sodium lamps stretched thin and broken by ripples. Somewhere upriver, cargo ships waited their turn to move, engines idling, crews smoking on deck, unaware of what was happening ashore.

Down on the terminal, the night was far from silent. The rare portal cranes that serviced only the biggest ocean-going ships were already asleep, their long booms frozen against the sky. The gantry cranes used for stacking containers along the yard stood idle as well, dark and motionless. Only one ship-to-shore crane was still awake, its structure creaking as it worked steadily over the quay, loading containers onto the self-propelled barge Aladdin. Steel cables clanked, and metal rang against metal. Somewhere nearby, a forklift snarled, its diesel engine coughing as it threaded between container rows. Voices flared briefly, then dissolved into the open space. The noise came in uneven waves—industrial, routine, indifferent—just loud enough to swallow sounds that were not meant to be heard.

Against the dark surface of a tightly sealed, deep-blue container, four white letters stood out sharply: ONFL.

Victor stood in front of the metal monster the way a man stands before a bank vault. Slowly. Methodically. He cut through the bolts one by one. In the silence of the night, the shriek of the angle grinder seemed loud enough to carry for miles.

In reality, it didn’t.

Hundreds of containers stacked three levels high formed a kind of metal city, complete with its own streets and alleys. In that steel labyrinth, sound either vanished upward or died at the next corner.

At night, only a skeleton crew worked at the river port of Rouen: a crane operator, a rigger, and a forklift driver. That night, while Victor was opening the container, the small night shift—men from Moulineaux—were loading containers onto the river barge Aladdin.

A sharp snap—and a bolt head, glowing red, dropped at Victor’s feet.
“One,” Victor muttered quietly, glancing at the cutting disc. “Plenty left in you for a second.”

Another snap. The second bolt lost its hex head.

The container door cracked open—and a wave of human breath spilled out.
Victor froze.

Inside, pressed together like sardines, sat dark-skinned men with anxious eyes. Eastern faces. Middle East. Not his people.

Victor exhaled, swung the doors wide, and turned around.

Behind Victor stood one of his “clients” — a thickset man in his forties, broad-shouldered, steady on his feet. His face was expressionless, the kind trained not to betray thought or emotion. The unmarked jacket he wore might once have been part of a uniform — or chosen precisely because it wasn’t. Three others waited behind him in silence, moving with the quiet precision of men accustomed to operating in teams where every step counts. Their eyes scanned the surroundings, calculating angles, entrances, and exits — a practiced habit, invisible to anyone untrained.

“Tonight’s shipment is canceled,” Victor said flatly. “The container’s already occupied. At least ten Muslims inside. Someone beat us to it.”

The man gave a small shrug, as if discussing a minor logistical inconvenience.

“That’s solvable. Let us in. We’ll deal with it on the way to Norfolk.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

Victor looked at him the way a teacher looks at a student who’s just failed an exam.

“That would kill my business. Rule is — passengers are untouchable. Even if they’re not ours.”
“Then dump them and load us. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that if I throw them out now, their people will pick them up straight off the highway. Someone is watching—not us, this container. And if we leave them out in the open, an ethnic crew will be here within the hour and wipe us out. No. We’ll do it differently.”
“How?”
“Tomorrow this container gets transferred in Le Havre onto an ocean carrier. We drop them there and load you instead. By the time the sons of Mohammed finish calling their contacts, you’ll be at sea—and we’ll be in another terminal.”

Without another word, Victor turned and led the group back through the sleeping port toward the minivan.

While the passengers settled into their seats, Victor pulled out his phone and dialed.
“Alex, we’ve got a situation. The Algerians loaded my cage.”
“I hope you didn’t touch them,” Alex’s voice came back quietly.
“No. I didn’t throw them out. Figured we’d unload them tomorrow in Le Havre and put our people in. And when the Arabs come to collect theirs—we give them a little show. Payback for Dunkirk.”
“How many guys should I bring? Five or six enough?”
“No. Too many. Bring two. I’ll explain the plan in person. Trust me—you’ll like


Chapter Twenty-Four

The low sky hung heavy and gray, like molten lead. A cold dampness seeped up from the ground. The grass was wet from a recent rain, clinging to clothes, soaking through fabric, numbing muscles that had gone still for too long.
Five men lay hidden beneath the trees. The earth beneath them was hard and unyielding, smelling of mud and rusted leaves. From time to time, pale moonlight broke through gaps in the clouds and washed over their backs, then slid away again, leaving them half-erased in shadow.

Alex, Victor, and three of Victor’s men lay in a narrow strip of woods, balanced on a thin line between light and darkness. Ten meters behind them was a hole in the fence. A hundred meters ahead, inside the terminal, stood the container with five strange “clients” bound for Norfolk. And twenty steps in front of them, on an empty parking lot designed for two hundred cars, the Muslims—unloaded from the container—sat on bare concrete, dark shapes against the open space.
One of them was speaking nervously on the phone in Arabic.

Ten minutes earlier, two of Victor’s men had finished unloading the Muslims, climbed into the minivan, and driven off—leaving the group of Arabs waiting for their people.

The air was thick with tension.
“Show’s about to start,” Victor whispered.
“Your guys armed?” Alex asked.
“Only me and my second.”
“Tell him to hand one over.”
“Petro. Give the boss your piece.”

The man crawled over silently, passed Alex the pistol, and slipped back into the shadows.

Alex checked the slide and spoke in a low voice:
“Listen carefully. Victor and I do the work. No one else moves. You engage only if one of us goes down. If I’m hit—you crawl in, take the gun, and keep shooting. Let them think we’re impossible to kill.”
“Doubt it’ll come to that,” Victor smirked. “The Algerians think only those two guys were here—and they already left.”

Alex stiffened, staring at the approaching headlights.
“Guests. Heads down. Don’t move.”

A Ford Transit and a Renault 19 rolled into the staff parking lot from the ring road. Five men got out. Alex recognized two of them.

Loudly, confidently—like everything was under control—they greeted the passengers and headed toward the tree line.

At the front walked the young man who had chased Alex and Alyona months earlier. Behind him came the passengers in a loose cluster. Bringing up the rear were four armed Arabs, including the man who had led the ambush in Rouen.

“Plan change,” Alex whispered, turning to Victor’s men. “All of you—over the fence. Victor and I stay here. We let the guide and the passengers pass. The rest—we greet. Once we open fire, you jump out and keep them inside the terminal as long as you can. Don’t touch the passengers. Do whatever you want with the escort. Let them be afraid.”

The three men vanished into the darkness.

Alex and Victor waited.

Their heartbeats were steady. Calm. As if ambushes were routine.
When the last of the passengers disappeared into the trees and their armed cover closed to fifteen steps, Alex gave the signal.

They opened fire together.

Low shots. Close to the ground. Aimed at legs. No panic. Just calculation.
Four Algerians collapsed into the grass.

The passengers scattered in terror between the fence and the strangers beating their escort.

When they finally burst out of the tree line at a full run, transport surged toward them.

Within a minute, the passengers were inside the Ford Transit.

Alex’s Peugeot came around the bend, followed by Victor’s minivan. A door flew open, headlights flared—and Alyona’s face flashed behind the wheel.
Alex and Victor jumped in on the move. The others piled into the second van one after another.

Alex’s minivan accelerated hard. The Ford with the Arabs was already gone into the darkness. Somewhere behind them, shouting echoed. On the parking lot, Algerians scrambled to collect their wounded.

Four patrol vehicles from the field gendarmerie screamed past in the opposite lane, blue lights flashing.

“Hope the Arabs make it out,” Alex said.
“Let’s hope so,” Alyona replied. “Otherwise, someone’s going to talk during questioning—and they’ll give us up.”


Chapter Twenty-Five

On the outskirts of Le Havre, right at the edge of the English Channel, stood a one-story yellow house with a red-tiled roof. Stendhal Street split into two sections: the first, about two hundred meters long, ran straight into a sea cliff, where pale rock sloped down toward a narrow strip of sand below, exposed at low tide and washed by slow, heavy waves.

From the top, the coast stretched in both directions, and on clear days the Channel opened wide enough for England to show itself on the horizon—faint, distant, almost unreal. Along the second stretch of the street, which turned right and followed the shoreline, stood the homes of the wealthy: low, expensive houses with broad windows facing the water, built not for shelter but for the view, their glass walls turned toward the Channel and whatever lay beyond it.
From that turn, a nameless gravel road branched off in the opposite direction. It ended at rusted iron gates leading to an empty pasture. A sign hung squarely in the center of the gates: NO ENTRY.

Along the dead-end stretch of the street, pressed tightly against the fence of the inner yard, stood about a dozen passenger cars, bumper to bumper. Inside the yard was one more vehicle, a brand-new black BMW 520i.

A Peugeot turned off the street toward the house. Gravel crunched under its tires. The car stopped, and two solidly built men stepped out. They opened the trunk and began unloading crates of cognac, wine, and provisions.

Victor came out of the house, noticed the Peugeot, turned back, and shouted something inside. Seconds later, three more men appeared on the porch. They took the crates from the car and carried them into the house.

Inside, in a small living room of about twenty square meters, stood a long dining table with a kitchen table pushed against its end. Along both tables sat around fifteen young men, twenty to thirty years old. All were closely cropped, dressed alike in short black leather jackets, jeans, and army boots.

They drank vodka and cognac, snacked on dry-cured sausage, cheeses, smoked fish, and sauerkraut. They spoke loudly in Russian, laughed, cracked greasy jokes at Inga’s expense. At the center of the table sat Alex. A stiletto lay in front of him. Alyona was on his left, Victor on his right.

Alex looked cheerful, self-satisfied, proudly at ease. He stood up, raised his glass, and tapped it with the stiletto. The room fell silent. Then he drove the blade straight into the tabletop.

“Four years ago,” he began, “I was the youngest in Mamonov’s crew—a vory v zakone, hard as a hammer, cold as ice. He stayed at the center, hated being anyone’s pawn, controlled everything—from raids to wiping out competitors. His decisions were never impulsive. Always calculated. Always aimed.”
“That was the first time I was invited to a banquet. Mamonov raised a toast to our crew—tight-knit, loud, already making a name for itself. Many leaders from Moscow and the surrounding regions were there. I won’t name names. But even then, it was clear something serious had been born.”
“I don’t get it,” Vitaly slurred slightly. “What was the occasion?”
“New Year’s,” Alex replied with a smile.
“Just another New Year?” someone shouted.
“If I wanted to joke,” Alex said, “I’d say it was the first time I saw naked women. They were lying on the tables like serving trays—and we ate right off them.”

Laughter broke out. Someone added a crude remark.

“But seriously,” Alex continued, “what stuck with me was Mamonov’s speech about the birth of a real crew. He called us wolves, living by the law of the forest. He built a fighting organization of two hundred men. Today I’m celebrating the birth of our crew. It’s smaller than the one I started in—but the fighting spirit is the same, and I’m damn proud of that.”
“Smuggling refugees to England became our first real key to a new business. Last week we only cracked the door open. Three days ago—we kicked it wide open. Not everyone here knows this, but we successfully shipped our first group of illegals across the ocean. Two teams. Clean. Coordinated. And when someone tried to interfere—we hit back hard.”
“To Alex!” Victor proclaimed, raising his glass.
“To the boss!” came from all sides.
Alex smirked.
“I drink to you. You are my crew.”

Voices rose again. Stories spilled out—about prison camps, draft offices, empty refrigerators, and a homeland left far behind.

Alex reached for a cigarette. Before he could light it, Alyona glanced sideways and said quietly:
“Don’t smoke in the house. Go outside.”

He nodded and stepped out the back door.

Leaning against the passenger door of his new car, Alex lit up and stared thoughtfully at the English Channel. Between him and the water lay a high cliff and fifty meters of sandy beach. In the distance, the lights of ships heading for England shimmered.

A faint smile touching his lips as he followed his own thoughts. He remembered a recent conversation with Alena.
“You know,” she had said, “that the street where Victor bought his house is named after a famous writer. But I’m sure you don’t know that Stendhal is a pseudonym. His real name was Marie-Henri Beyle.”

Alex smiled, exhaled smoke, and answered her then:
“I only know one thing about Stendhal.”

Alena raised an eyebrow.
“What’s that?”
“A joke. About a sandwich - la Stendhal.”
She laughed softly.
“How’s that?”
“When half the bread has red caviar on it, and the other half has black.”

Alena shook her head, amused.
“That’s all you know about Le Rouge et le Noir?” she asked, pronouncing the title in French.
“That’s enough,” Alex said. “For my education.”

Behind him, a door opened. Soft footsteps followed.

Light, almost feline, Alex thought. Sneaking up on me. So, Inga finally decided to have a serious talk.

He was right.

“Victor picked a great spot for his residence,” Inga’s voice came from behind him.
“Absolutely,” Alex replied without turning. “The view’s perfect at any time of day. Provincials don’t get nature’s beauty—they make a living off it. Only big-city people know how to appreciate a view like this.”

She stepped closer and pressed her breast against his back.

Alex flicked the cigarette into the sand, turned, gently took her by the waist, and eased her away.
“Don’t. We’re just friends.”
“You know I love you,” Inga said softly. “Why can’t you, at least slip with me from time to time?”
Alex ran his hand through her hair.
“It’s hard to explain, but I’ll try. Before I met you, I met Alyona—and I fell in love with her. With her youth, her innocence, her loyalty. I always kept my distance from you not only because of that, but because I see you as a business partner. And a friend. Like Vitaly. You don’t fuck friends. And you definitely don’t fuck business partners. So let’s leave things the way they are.”
“I’m sorry you can’t see that I’m prettier and more fun than Alyona.”
“I see it, Inga. I see everything. But I’ve got more than eyes. I’ve got a head and a heart. And both tell me Alyona is the only right choice.”

Alex walked to the cliff’s edge, stopped, and relieved himself.

'Better no beauty than a piss from above,
Let it pour, and give the world a shove,' he recalled a saying from childhood.

Inga stood by the car for a couple of minutes, swallowed the tears welling up in her eyes, then went back inside—nearly colliding with Vitaly, who was waiting behind the door.

Drunk, he grabbed her by the hands and accused her in a slurred voice:
“Again chasing Alex. Clinging to him like a burr. You can see he doesn’t need you.”

Pulling free, she snapped back:
“Just like I don’t need you—but I’m still with you.”
“Inga, I love you. I need you,” Vitaly pleaded.
“I know. Last night I was ‘needed’ once. The night before—twice. And just so you know, I didn’t enjoy it,” she said, pushing past him into the living room.
“If you leave me, I’ll kill you both,” he groaned after her.
“You won’t kill Alex even if he’s asleep,” she replied mockingly. “You couldn’t kill a cat. Don’t worry—I’m not leaving. We’ll keep working together. And occasionally fucking.”

Vitaly stood alone in the entryway for a moment. He cracked the front door open and saw Alex standing at the edge of the cliff.

'Sneak up and push him, a wild thought flashed through his mind. What if he turns around? Then he throws me down. No. Not an option'

Vitaly closed the door and waited.

Less than five minutes later, Alex came back inside. Seeing Vitaly standing in the dark didn’t surprise him.

'The Latvian was spying and eavesdropping' Alex thought.

He clapped Vitaly lightly on the bony shoulder.
“Don’t worry. Inga stays with you as long as you work under me. Tomorrow, sober, we’ll talk business. I don’t like your numbers. I told you—twenty thousand a month from Calais, the same from Dunkirk. Be ready to explain why you brought in only half this month.”


Chapter Twenty-Six

The courtyard of the refugee hostel in Saint-;tienne-du-Rouvray was empty. Damp air drifted in from the banks of the Seine; garbage piled up somewhere in the alleyways, and the place smelled of cheap alcohol, mildew, and quiet despair. Fifteen years ago, these concrete boxes had been built for students. Today, they housed people who had no choice.

At a table in the shade of a spreading chestnut tree sat Stevo and Besnik. They drank bottled beer and ate pistachios, tossing the shells at their feet.
The Gypsies had no idea that just a few months earlier Chechens had played backgammon at this same table—or what brutal karma had caught up with those Caucasians afterward. The hard faces of the Romani men showed tension. Besides the beer bottles and nuts, a switchblade lay on the table in front of them.
A tired woman entered through the wide arched passageway of the twelve-story building. In each hand she carried three or four plastic bags from the cheapest supermarket in Paris—Leader Price.

Stevo looked her over, narrowed his eyes, then jerked his chin toward the passage between the buildings.
“There she is. Alyona’s mother. Go get her.”

Besnik nodded and stood up. He moved toward Galina unhurriedly, confidently—like a predator closing in on prey that wouldn’t resist.

She was indeed Alyona’s mother. By her figure she might have been forty; by her face and posture, closer to sixty. Exhausted, hunched over, groceries in one hand and bottles of cheap wine in the other. Her tangled hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in days. Her eyes reflected nothing—just emptiness.

“Madam, would you be so kind as to come to our table,” Besnik said in a falsely polite tone. “My friend would like a word with you.”
“If he needs something, he can come himself,” the woman snapped, without slowing or changing direction.

Besnik stopped. Without a word, he pulled out a knife. The button clicked, and a sharp, gleaming blade snapped out of the handle. In two steps he was beside her, pressing the tip of the blade against her left eye.

“I said—go to the table, bitch.”

The woman sighed heavily. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She turned and slowly shuffled toward Stevo, dragging her feet.

“Sit down, beauty,” Stevo said, not removing his foot from the bench.
“I don’t have time,” she said flatly. “Why did you call me?”
“I’m looking for your daughter’s boyfriend. You know where he is?”

She looked up at him.
“No idea. My daughter disappeared six months ago. No word, nothing. She just sends money—two hundred a month. Enough for food. That’s it.”
“And what else do you need money for?” Stevo smirked.
“For coke. At least a hundred milligrams a day.”

Stevo raised an eyebrow, snorted, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small zip-lock bag with white powder.
“Tell me where she is and you get fifty milligrams. No lies—four more just like it.”

Galina looked at him. Then at the powder. Then back at him.
“I don’t know the exact address. Just the city. That’s where she sends the money from.”

Besnik leaned forward.
“Don’t stall. Or you’ll lose an eye.”

She looked at him like a child who had gotten on her nerves.
“Think that scared me? I’ve got two eyes. Take both — the French will park me in a disability hospital for life. Give me the fix, I’ll tell you the city. Screw me anyway — won’t give more.”

Stevo handed her the bag. Her hands trembled as she took it and slipped it into her pocket.
“She’s in Saint-Malo. Her boyfriend’s there too.”

Both Gypsies stood up. Stevo kicked an empty bottle under the bench; Besnik slid the knife back into his pocket. Without another word, they headed toward the archway.

Galina was left alone. She sat down on the bench the same way she had sat on a prison bunk in the Russian backwoods three years earlier—without tension, without emotion. She took a small mirror from her bag, poured out half the powder. Rolled a fifty-franc bill with Antoine de Saint-Exup;ry on the front—quick, automatic.

One inhale—and the world became a little brighter, at least for a couple of hours.


Chapter Twenty-Seven

The sky was sealed shut with leaden clouds; a fine drizzle had been falling since early morning. Damp chill crept along the empty streets, and cold rose from the wet stone. November of 1998 was brutal in Paris—though Parisians would say it was just like any other. Fifteen days out of thirty it rained, humidity never dropped below eighty percent, and the temperature never climbed above fifty degrees Fahrenheit.

On Armistice Day, marking the end of World War I, Alex, Victor, and eight solidly built men in black leather jackets stepped out of the Novotel hotel at the northern edge of the square. They moved quickly and in sync, like the French national team during their 1998 World Cup matches.

Alex’s crew headed toward a row of benches behind a concrete parapet that bordered the square from the north.

Among four clearly dark-haired men seated on the bench, one curly blond stood out. In front of Stevo, facing the Novotel and shielding those seated with their backs, stood six more men in a loose semicircle.

Alex and his men approached without a word. As they moved, the men drew pistols and trained the barrels of Berettas, Glocks, and Walters on the heads of the Romani guards.

Stevo noticed the frozen looks in his men’s eyes. He stood up and spun around—and in that same second Alex and Victor vaulted the parapet and landed on the benches. As if on command, they pressed their guns to Stevo’s and Besnik’s heads. The gangsters from Saint-Malo and Le Havre covered everyone else.
A few random passersby, sensing trouble, hurried toward the far end of the square. Those who stayed—mostly migrants, homeless men, and curious tourists—watched from behind the benches. Some stood, others squatted. Silence settled over the square, broken only by the hiss of skate wheels as teenagers rolled away toward the Church of the Holy Lamb.

Alex was sure that most Slovak Gypsies would understand him if he spoke Russian. Raising his voice so everyone could hear, he said:
“Stevo, I closed my eyes to the incident under the bridge. I shouldn’t have insulted you in public. I figure you stuck a stiletto in me for my rudeness, and that made us even. But you keep pushing. You want a cut of my business?”

He paused briefly, glancing at Besnik, then continued:
“I made it clear to the Balkan crews that I don’t care about pimping. I told the Algerians weapons aren’t my line either. Now it’s your turn, Stevo. Sell your poison all you want—but stay out of the ports. If I see your people anywhere near container terminals again, I’ll shoot them on sight. No warning. Am I being clear?”

Stevo stayed calm, though tension crept into his voice.
“You misunderstood my invitation. I wasn’t trying to get into your business. I sent a man because I knew if I came myself, you’d see it as an intrusion and the conversation would end before it started. I have a request. Lower the guns—my people aren’t involved. Let’s step aside and talk man to man.”

Alex lowered his pistol and signaled the others to do the same. Switching to French, he said:
“Victor, you’re in charge. If this is a setup—kill them all.”
“I will, boss. Gladly and without regret,” Victor replied.

Alex and Stevo walked slowly toward the center of the square. A light breeze lazily flipped wet plane-tree leaves. Commuters with bags and suitcases crossed in front of them—freshly arrived from Gare de Lyon.

Stevo pulled up the hood of his rain jacket and, staring at the ground, spoke:
“I sent a messenger because I knew if I showed up myself, you’d take it as aggression. I didn’t want that.”

Alex nodded.
“You’re a serious gangster, Stevo. I respect you personally. You didn’t send a jackal to stab me in the back—you came yourself and hit me looking me in the eye. That’s wolf code. Get to the point.”
“Besnik and I want out. The guys don’t know—and if they find out, they won’t let us go. More likely, they’ll drown us in the Seine. England’s no good—Gypsy diaspora there is huge, almost a quarter million Roma. We want to go overseas. Australia if possible. America if we can. Argentina as a last resort. We’ve got the money. I want to get married, have kids, live a normal life. If you help us—we’ll pay whatever you ask.”
“If you publicly sign a treaty of eternal peace between our crews,” Alex said evenly, “I’ll send both of you to Australia. Free of charge.”

Stevo extended his hand and lowered his voice.
“I’ll sign. And as a gesture of goodwill, I want to warn you—there’s a Russian in Chinatown. Big guy, looks like a former soldier. The Vietnamese say he’s asking about you. Claims he knows you.”

Alex’s expression didn’t change.
“I know who that is. When you’re ready to make peace—send word. We’ll set up a meeting.”

He turned and walked back to his men. A minute later, Alex’s crew disappeared into the archway by El Esplanade restaurant, moving down Guillaume Street toward Avenue Daumesnil.


Chapter Twenty-Eight

Through the wide window of the grill restaurant Long Garden, an unpleasant view opened onto the two-star Kyriad hotel across the street.

The wind toyed with the fallen letter K from the neon sign; the peeling brown paint on the word HOTEL looked ready to tear itself free and fly away for good.
The bleak visual scene was reinforced by constant noise.
Half a kilometer from Long Garden, day and night, the port cranes of the Dunkirk container terminal thundered relentlessly. From the same direction came the piercing beeps of forklifts reversing, the metallic clatter of chains and cables, and the amplified voice of a loading dispatcher barking orders through megaphones.

Inside the restaurant it was warm. The air smelled of grilled meat, pesto sauce, and garlic.

Vitaly, Inga, and Afghan were seated at a table by the window. A bottle of Protos Grand Riviera red wine stood between them, along with three glasses. On their plates lay cooling steaks of various doneness and the remnants of spaghetti in sauce.

Once the waiter had delivered their meals, Afghan reached out to Vitaly. “Afghan,” he said, firm and steady.

Then, turning toward Inga, he offered his hand again. “And for you, young lady—I’m Anton.” He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to it, his eyes holding hers a fraction longer than polite.

The conversation moved slowly. Each of them studied the others with different intentions.

Inga made no effort to hide her interest in Afghan—muscular, calm, self-possessed. His restrained confidence appealed to her.
Vitaly, on the other hand, was tense. He felt it instinctively: this man was far more dangerous than Alex.

“A historic place we’ve met in,” Afghan said after greetings and introductions to Alex’s associates.
“What makes it historic?” Inga asked—more out of politeness than genuine curiosity.
“Almost sixty years ago, Hitler ordered that two hundred thousand British and a hundred and forty thousand French soldiers be allowed to evacuate to England. The Wehrmacht had them pinned against the English Channel and could’ve wiped them out without breaking a sweat.”
“Did he suddenly discover humanity?” Vitaly asked, surprised. He had finished high school in the post-Soviet years.

Anton glanced at the newcomer with contempt and smirked.
“Yeah, right. Like a wolf would pity a mare.”

Pearls before swine, he thought, and briefly explained the political calculation behind the decision.

“He expected the British to learn their lesson and offer peace.”
“Wow. That’s fascinating,” Inga said. “You know so much about history—and politics.”

She leaned forward over the table. Through the neckline of her blouse, a breathtaking view opened up to Afghan.

The waiter brought their order, and silence settled over the table for a few minutes.

Afghan was a little over thirty. For the past two years he had been on the federal wanted list and never stayed anywhere longer than a week. The forced nomadic life left no room for relationships, and his eyes lit up every time they lingered on eighteen-year-old Inga.

“You mentioned you’ve known Alex since childhood,” Vitaly brought the conversation back.
“No,” Afghan corrected him. “I said I’ve known him for four years.”
Inga, resting her chin on her hand, asked:
“And who is Mammonov? And what was the banquet where he called you wolves all about?”

Afghan chuckled.
“Well, looks like Alex told you everything. Guess the naked girls on the tables made an impression.”

But when he spokes of his former boss, the smile quickly faded.
“Mammonov was a thief-in-law—a made boss. He controlled Moscow’s Eastern District until the cops beat him to death during an arrest. The banquet was to mark the creation of the crew, and it happened to coincide with New Year’s. A week before that, we pulled off a very successful raid—robbed a railcar full of black caviar. Alex distinguished himself that night, by the way.”

Vitaly stiffened.
“You still haven’t said what you want.”
“I want to work with you. This is my kind of business—dangerous and profitable. Adrenaline and money. I was taught how to organize ambushes at an academic level. I graduated from the most prestigious military academy in the Union—the Moscow Higher Combined Arms Command School. Then I put it into practice in Afghanistan. And later in Moscow.”
“I can’t take you in,” Vitaly said. “My five-man unit is complete. Try Alex. Maybe he’ll give you the port in Cherbourg—no one’s assigned there yet.”
“Or maybe you give me Calais,” Afghan said evenly. “And I give you a percentage.”
“How do you even know Calais and the tunnel are under me?” Vitaly asked, genuinely startled.
“From the Vietnamese,” Afghan replied curtly.
“I can’t give up Calais. I’m barely staying afloat. I hand over half my profits to Alex every month.”
Afghan smirked.
“Fine. I’ll discuss it with Alex then. Where do I find him? Everyone’s staying quiet.”
Inga cut in:
“Saint-Malo. He’s in the fortress. Wait for him at the southern gate—de Dinan, I think. He drives a black BMW. That gate’s technically an exit. Don’t let the No Entry sign bother you—Alex doesn’t give a damn about prohibition signs. He might even drive in through it.”

Vitaly shot Inga a disapproving look.

She smiled openly at Afghan, clearly enjoying the feeling of being desired.
Having learned everything he needed, Afghan stood up and left without a word. He didn’t pay. He didn’t say goodbye. Vitaly watched him go.

“Why did you give Alex up like that?” he snapped. “Can’t you see who that is? Alex at least treats us like people. To that one—we’re tools. He’ll use us, kill us, and forget us. He’s a monster wearing human skin.”
Inga smiled dreamily.
“Exactly. He’s magnificently dangerous.”

Vitaly grabbed his phone and dialed.
“Alex, it’s me. One of your old acquaintances just paid us a visit.”
“Afghan?” Alex asked.
“Yes. He also introduced himself as Anton.”
“Early thirties? Might’ve said he knew me from working under Mammonov.”
“That’s him. He knows you’re in Saint-Malo.”
“Don’t worry,” Alex replied calmly. “We’re old friends. I’ll meet him like a fellow soldier.”
“Got it. Not worrying,” Vitaly said, slipping his Nokia 450 into the inside pocket of his jacket.
“What did he say?” Inga asked.
“He said not to worry. Sounds like they’re friends.”
“I don’t believe in their friendship,” Inga said quietly. “They’re wolves. And a wolf pack only holds together through strict hierarchy. Same vertical power structure as the army. Hell—Alex built the same thing in our operation. With Anton in the picture, we should pray they kill each other. And maybe take that Nikolaev wolf cub—Victor—with them. Then you’d take Alex’s place, and Otari would take yours.”
“You sold Alex out for that?” Vitaly asked.
“Of course,” she said coolly. “You didn’t think I was batting my eyes at the hardcase all evening for nothing, did you? I was earning his trust, playing dumb.”

She placed her hand over Vitaly’s and looked him straight in the eyes.
“You’ve got the brightest mind in the crew. You’re the one who should be leading it.”

A gray, viscous fog crept in from the sea and merged with the low sky. A damp wind carrying the smell of salt and seaweed tugged at Afghan’s jacket. He stood on the ramparts of Saint-Malo, leaning against the cool, rough stone, and stared not toward the pier where a massive Brittany Ferries vessel dozed by the quay, nor toward the two dozen snow-white yachts rocking gently on the waves.
He was looking down—at the narrow, elongated Rue de Dinan.

Along the street, squeezed between uniform four-story buildings with gray facades, a slow stream of cars and delivery vans crept forward. The city was waking up in muted shades of gray, and no one noticed the lone figure on the wall.

One car caught Afghan’s attention as it emerged from a side alley. Gleaming with beads of morning drizzle, a black BMW 5 Series rolled toward the fortress gates. There were two people inside. Anton narrowed his eyes—the passenger was Alex.
Afghan pushed off the wall, stepped aside, and crossed the bastion.
Inside a cannon embrasure, with her back to the port, sat a slender young woman with Asian features. She was posing for Viktor.

The BMW had already passed through the gates and was now crawling along the wall in a stream of tourist traffic. Anton watched Alex’s car from a height of five stories. He walked unhurriedly along the ramparts, slowly closing in on the young couple. Afghan pulled a folded note from his inner pocket, unfolding it carefully. On it were a few English words and phrases — remnants of lessons learned in school and military academy. He hadn’t used English in a decade, not since leaving Russia, but it was enough to jot down the license plate.
 
“Monsieur, could you take a picture of us, please?” the Chinese girl asked in French as she jumped down from the embrasure.
“I don’t speak French,” he replied in English, without lifting his eyes from the folded note.

A petite, attractive Asian girl touched his arm and gestured to explain. The man with the camera stepped closer and placed it into Anton’s hands.

Reluctantly, Afghan slipped the folded note back into his jacket, extended his hand for the camera—and in the next instant, the girl snapped a handcuff bracelet around his wrist. The other cuff was already locked to her own.

Anton instinctively jerked his arm—and immediately felt something solid press into his back.

A heavy-caliber pistol barrel was something Afghan could never confuse with a finger. Of that he was absolutely certain.

“Don’t move, Anton,” Viktor said calmly. “Stand here next to Han and admire the ferry. Beautiful morning for sightseeing.”
“I’m not here for the scenery. Where’s Alex?”
“While you were jotting down memoirs in your folded note, he got out of the car under the gates below us and is coming up to the wall right now. Look to your right—you’ll see for yourself.”

Afghan turned his head and saw Alex rising along the narrow stone staircase, as if emerging straight out of the wall. The young man had hardened over the past three years. He walked with confidence.

A faint smirk played on his lips as he spread his arms in a friendly gesture, as if about to embrace an old friend.
“Good to see you, brother. Let’s hug.”

Alex stepped forward and spread his arms wide, open and careless, like a man greeting an old friend.

He stopped short, eyes dropping to the cuff locked around Anton’s wrist.
“Oh—bracelets?” Alex said lightly. “Sorry. Precautions.” He nodded at Viktor. “Let him go. I’m sure my teacher came without an invitation, but with peaceful intentions.”

Viktor removed the handcuffs from Anton and Han, handed the camera back to the girl, and shot Alex a mocking glance.

Lowering her eyes, the Vietnamese girl gave Alex a small bow and asked softly in French:
“May I go?”
“Only after a kiss on the cheek.”
“Ask Viktor for permission,” Han replied. “I’m his property.”

The men laughed. Alex kissed the girl on the cheek, and she hurried lightly toward the stairs. They watched her go, then returned to their respective problems.

Afghan—to the execution of his plan to infiltrate Alex’s crew, seize power over the entire outfit, and eliminate its leadership.

Alex—to doing everything possible to prevent the realization of that plan by a senior authority from Mammonov’s former criminal organization.
“So,” Alex said, “you came looking for a job?”
“You guessed it. I once brought you into the game—now I’m expecting reciprocity.”
“Reciprocity, huh? Let’s clear something up. First, it wasn’t you who brought me in—it was Mammonov. And second, I clearly remember you once telling Mammonov’s brother-in-law, Potap: ‘A gang isn’t the KGB. You don’t submit an application. You get into an organized crime group by invitation only. Like the GRU.’”

Seeing the confusion on Victor’s face, Alex added, “With the KGB, you could walk in and offer yourself. The GRU picked people itself—serving officers who’d already proven they were good at something.”
“So that’s a no?”
“No. You’re too dangerous. Smart, well-trained, enormous experience. I’ll be honest—if I take you in, I’ll be raising my own competitor. Then we’d end up at war with each other. Neither of us needs that.”
“Too bad. I was hoping we’d work well together.”
“No offense. I won’t take you into the crew—but I can help you with something else.”
“With what?”
“We’re planning to send a couple of old acquaintances across the ocean. If you want, I’ll add you to the list. Brotherly gesture. No money—same deal as for them.”
“Where’s the ship headed?”
“They wanted Australia. Almost a month at sea—hard physically and mentally. I’m thinking of persuading them to go to Canada instead. You willing to take the risk?”
“I am. Can’t get worse.”

Alex stood silent for several minutes, gazing at the port and Fort d’Aleth on the hill beyond it. He thought of his parents, his grandmother, Tatyana, and his hometown. Faces and names of friends surfaced—and among them, his first criminal mentors, Algis and Mantas. He hadn’t seen the two Lithuanian carpenters since Operation Mint. The memory made him smile.

He turned back to Anton.
“Tell me what you know about Sergey, Algis, and Mantas. I don’t care about Mammonov or Elefant. I don’t even want to know whether they’re alive.”
“I don’t know much about Sergey,” Afghan replied. “He vanished right after the cops took out Elefant and killed the boss during the arrest. Looks like your buddy was a snitch. As for the Lithuanians—they’re dead.”
“Dead?” Alex said sharply.
“Dead as it gets. And you were the last person to see them alive.”
“Wait. You told me the gang from Railway-town intercepted the Swiss watch shipment, paid us for the help, and the Lithuanians took their share and ran back home. So you lied to me?” Alex fixed Afghan with an icy stare. Behind Anton, Viktor stepped back and reached into his pocket for his pistol.
“I did it on Mammonov’s direct orders,” Afghan said. Seeing Alex’s eyebrows rise in shock, he added, “I put morphine in the vodka you brought to the carpenters.”
“And made me an accomplice to murder,” Alex said through clenched teeth. The muscles jumped along his jaw.
“Yes. But I didn’t want to do it without your involvement. I believed you had the right to know what you were stepping into. I tried to shape you into someone like me—ruthless, confident, a true leader.”

Silence settled over the ramparts above the city gates.
“Go back to Paris,” Alex finally said. “Stay around Place Henri Frenay. As soon as my people find a suitable container, I’ll send a van for you. Your fellow travelers will find you themselves. We’ll meet at the port before loading. I always see acquaintances off personally.”
“How long will it take?” Anton asked.
“A week. No more.”

Alex turned toward the bay.

Afghan headed for the stairs. Alex and Viktor remained on the wall, watching the water retreat from the harbor, leaving yachts and motorboats tipped awkwardly on their sides. The tide was at its lowest.

Viktor understood his friend’s state and didn’t interrupt his thoughts.
Below them came the drawn-out blare of a car horn and a stream of French curses. Viktor peered through a loophole.

“Guy clipped an old man with his bumper,” he commented.

Alex shook his head as if trying to cast off the thoughts stirred by Afghan’s story. After a few more minutes, he pulled out a folded note, tore out a page, scribbled something quickly, and handed it to Viktor.

“Here’s a list of five codes for the cities we need. The moment you spot a container with these letters in your ports—call me.”
“Don’t you think you’re being too kind to an old friend?” Viktor said, slipping the paper into his pocket. “He set you up with the Lithuanians, and you’re sending him to Canada on your dime.”
“He did far worse than drag me into a wet job,” Alex said quietly. “He left me an orphan.”

Viktor recoiled in shock.
“A year before I met him, he squeezed my parents so hard we had to flee the country. Then they were arrested in Odessa, sent back to the Moscow region—and he and Elefant killed them.”
“How do you know they’re dead?” Viktor asked. “You said they had a business. Maybe they’re serving time for financial crimes.”
“Afghan transferred our apartment to Potap, the boss’s relative. Mammonov had my parents’ passports. They were sure my parents wouldn’t be coming back.”
“And you stayed close to them all that time—and did nothing?” Viktor asked, stunned.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not Afghan. He wanted to make me like himself, but I realized in time it was the wrong path. In Mammonov’s crew I learned the most important thing—survival requires flexibility. You have to take hits, maneuver, adapt to the people around you. The inflexible see every problem as final and charge headfirst instead of stepping back. Those who are too rigid either break—or get broken. I postponed revenge. Promised my grandmother I’d come back for it. Looks like I’ll never see Darya Petrovna again. There’s no one left to take revenge on in Russia.”

Alex turned toward the bay. His eyes glistened with tears. Beyond the western wall of Saint-Malo, the tide was ebbing, exposing the muddy seabed, and the yachts of townspeople who couldn’t afford membership in the local yacht club lay heeled over on their sides.

“Prepare a paper stencil with the letters HAL, a clean sheet of paper, and clear tape,” Alex said, watching a flock of seagulls circle above the foamy churn left by a ship’s propellers. “Bring white paint for the letters—and brown and blue for the containers.”
“I don’t understand what you’re planning,” Viktor said. “Maybe fill me in?”
Alex turned to him.
“I promised Afghan I’d send him across the ocean. And I gave you codes for Novosibirsk, Krasnoyarsk, Moscow, Murmansk, and Kaliningrad. We’re sending Anton back to Russia—where he’s wanted for the murder of an KGB lieutenant colonel. Stevo and Besnik will keep him company. Those two won’t make it out of Russia—if they even make it there alive.”
“You think Afghan will kill them on the way?”
“Depends where we send them. Murmansk or Kaliningrad—maybe not. Not too far, and they’ve got enough food for the trip. Siberia?” Alex said grimly. “That’s a two- to three-week hellride—they won’t just die—he’ll eat them.”
“And in Russia they’ll execute him for killing an officer?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Alex replied. “Yeltsin abolished the death penalty three years ago. Even if he kills the Gypsies too, he’ll only get life.”

Dim light from sparse floodlamps, damp concrete, the heavy stench of fuel oil and tar — the port at night wrapped everything in a thick, viscous silence.

Victor walked ahead, leading the way. Behind him came Afghan, Stevo, and Besnik. They moved along rows of towering, darkened containers when Alex stepped out to meet them in a narrow passage between stacks.

He was wearing a tracksuit and sneakers. A handheld angle grinder with a cutting disc hung from his belt, along with a hammer. Alex looked relaxed, but his eyes were sharp and focused.

“Evening, gentlemen. We’ve found an excellent option,” he said. “You’ll be sailing to Canada in comfort.”
“Where exactly? And what’s inside the container?” Afghan asked.
“Eight Peugeots straight from the plant in Aulnay-sous-Bois, near Paris. A perfect setup. You’ll be able to sleep inside the cars — warm and comfortable. Tonight, the container will be loaded onto a barge. Tomorrow morning, in Le Havre, it’ll be transferred onto an ocean-going container ship and sent to Halifax.”
“Halifax is in England,” Stevo frowned. “West Yorkshire. There’s no port there. I know that.”
“This one’s Canadian Halifax. Nova Scotia,” Victor cut in. “There’s a port there.”
“Absolute silence until you reach the English Channel, and at least half a day beyond that,” Alex warned. “If you’re spotted in French territorial waters, they’ll send you straight back — no questions asked.”
“And don’t come out until you reach Canada,” Victor added. “Better yet, wait until unloading. All the cars are headed to a Peugeot dealership in Montreal — French-speaking province. Let them roll you out right inside the vehicles.”
“Your container is right above us — second tier,” Alex said, shining his flashlight upward. “See the marking near the roof: MON via HAL? That’s the route — Montreal via Halifax.”
“I found this container for you,” Victor said proudly. “We could’ve sent at least eight people with it and made forty grand. But for the boss’s friends — free of charge. You’ve got supplies?”
“Enough for ten days,” Stevo nodded.
“Stay here while I open the doors,” Alex said.

He climbed the lower container using the locking bars, secured himself with a strap to the vertical locking rod, cut through the bolts with the grinder, and knocked them inward using a hammer and punch. He cracked the door open, shone the light inside, looked around, and climbed in.

Inside the steel belly of the container, Alex found the shipping documents and the car keys. He tucked the papers inside his jacket and slipped the keys into his pocket, then climbed back down.

“Just as I said — eight brand-new Peugeots,” he announced, handing out the keys: three to Afghan, three to Stevo, and two to Besnik.
“The key fobs show the model and color,” Alex said in French to the Gypsies. “Sleep in the cars. There’s fuel in the tanks — but under no circumstances start the engines, even if you get cold. Carbon monoxide will kill you faster than the cold.”
“There’s fuel?” Stevo asked. “Why?”
“Two liters each. Just enough so they can drive off the ship under their own power.”
“Repeat that in Russian,” Afghan asked.

Alex repeated everything in Russian. Meanwhile, Stevo and Besnik hoisted their bags onto their backs and began climbing up the containers toward the open doors.

Watching the Gypsies head off on their final voyage, Alex quietly said to Anton:
“Under the driver’s seat of the red Peugeot, you’ll find a bag. Inside — extra rations: smoked sausage, cheese, chocolate, and a bottle of whisky — to keep warm.”
“Thanks for the concern,” Afghan said with faint irony.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Alex narrowed his eyes. “Along with the food, you’ll find a priceless gift — an antique Sicilian silver stiletto. I kept it after my first job in France. Now it’s yours. I hope you won’t need it. But if there are problems with your fellow travelers — use it without hesitation. The Gypsies won’t give you a second chance.”
“Doesn’t look like they’re dangerous,” Afghan replied.
“You’re a grown man. I warned you.”

Afghan knew he would never return to Russia. He nodded to Alex in gratitude and shared the location of the weapons cache.

Anton climbed into the container. Once all three were inside, Alex handed them an adjustable wrench, the bolts, and his flashlight.
“You know what to do,” he said. “And once again — silence until you’re out at sea.”

He closed the doors, reinserted the bolts, and locked the handles. Victor climbed up onto the container, painted over the bolts and the MON via HAL marking, then tore off the sheet of paper taped on top.

Beneath it, white letters gleamed in fresh paint: OVB

“Have a safe trip to Novosibirsk, boys,” he muttered quietly.
“Siberia is waiting.”


Chapter Twenty-Nine

The sunny July morning held no hint of trouble. A light sea breeze still invigorated the face, but it gradually faded, leaving behind a clear, warm day—for the few residents of Saint-Malo and the thousands of tourists who had packed the ancient city to bursting.

At exactly nine o’clock, the hands of the Victorinox on Alex’s wrist met in a strict vertical line as he clicked shut the door of his black BMW in the parking lot near the yacht club in the Sablon Bay.

Climbing the concrete stairs carved into the cliff, he suddenly recalled one of the countless paradoxes of the English language. On this pivotal day, step by step approaching the observation deck of the World War II-era bastion, Alex tried to understand: why do the English stubbornly call every motorboat a yacht, regardless of its size or whether it had sails?

'Amazing. Over twelve pontoons, more than a thousand boats moored — all motorized, not a single sail. And yet it’s a yacht club. Yachts without sails are like decks of cards without aces'

He reached the observation platform of the Memorial Complex and leaned on the cold metal railing. From there, the panorama unfolded — the city limits, the ferry terminal, the racetrack, the inner port, the oil depot, and the chemical plant with its yellow tanks. Everything lay in plain view.

Alex raised his binoculars.

And immediately spotted what he was looking for. A lone trailer — into which his men had loaded a dozen Vietnamese two hours earlier — stood in the middle of the loading area. Around it were five police officers, two of them with German Shepherds on leashes.

'Shepherds. Not trackers. They know what to look for. And where'

One of the officers cut the seal and flipped open the lock. The dogs lunged at the trailer, barking fiercely. Within seconds, the Vietnamese began jumping out, one by one. Everything happened quickly: each to the ground, two at a time cuffed, then led to the terminal building without a chance to look around.

'Someone squealed,' Alex thought, lowering the binoculars. 'No doubt about it. The house is already working. Raid. Search. Maybe worse.'

He spun sharply and strode quickly toward the parking lot.
'The main thing is to save Alyona,' he thought on the run. 'Everything else comes later. I’ll handle it.'

Alex jumped from the second-to-last step, slid into his car, and tore the BMW out of the lot. The engine growled like a beast robbed of its prey. He didn’t turn on the music or check the rearview mirror. All his attention was on the road.

The streets of Saint-Malo that morning felt too narrow, too sluggish, too… unsuitable for fleeing danger. At every intersection, he expected to see black-and-blue flashing lights. But there were none. The police weren’t chasing him — which meant only one thing: they were already there.

When he turned onto Claude Bernard Alley and saw the familiar gray gendarmerie at the entrance to his building, his heart tightened for a second — then relaxed.

Sitting behind the wheel of his black sedan in front of the building where he had bought an apartment several months earlier, Alex spoke on the phone. Victor’s voice came through the receiver:
“Do you think someone in our group tipped off the police about the nighttime loading?”
“Precisely. The traitor is in my crew,” Alex replied calmly.
“How can you be so sure?”
“When we loaded the Asians at night, there were four of us,” Alex continued. “Besides me, only two others knew which trailer they were put in. I drove both of them home, and they should have been waiting in the apartment. The trucker never approached the parking lot. He sat with me on the country road and couldn’t know we were loading people. I paid the Frenchman for smuggling half a ton of contraband to England. And the cops were waiting for the trailer with the Shepherds. That means they were confident there were people inside.”
“Could the passengers have given you away?”
“Impossible. First, they didn’t see me. Second, the gendarmes got to my apartment faster than I could ‘fly’ there in my BMW. They could only have learned it from one of my men.”
“Be careful. Don’t go back home, just in case.”
“Too late. I’m already surrounded,” he said calmly into the phone.

In the courtyard at Rue de Toulouse, 15, Alex’s car was encircled by armed gendarmes. He glanced in the side mirror and saw a police van blocking the exit.

“Bro, we’ll get you out of jail with Alyona,” Victor said.

An officer approached the car, smiled, and tapped the glass lightly with his pistol, signaling Alex to step out.

Alex gave a slight smile, nodded at the cop, and continued the conversation:
“Don’t stop working. I won’t give anyone up.”

He got out and was immediately handcuffed. Standing next to his BMW, Alex watched as the police carried out plastic bags filled with money, jewelry, and designer clothing from his apartment. Two officers carefully carried four Renaissance-era paintings.

Then a female officer appeared, leading Alyona and a young man from the Saint-Malo group.

“Oleg tipped us off,” she shouted in Russian to Alex.

A tall, slim brunette with a red armband reading POLICE reached out to cover Alyona’s mouth with her gloved hand, but Alyona shook her head free and added:
“He left ten minutes before the cops arrived.”

Alex assumed he’d be placed in the same van as Alyona, but the gendarmes had other plans.

With his hands cuffed behind his back, he was escorted into the apartment. The door stood wide open. Boxes lay scattered across the floor like frozen victims. From the kitchen and bedroom came the voices of forensic experts and investigators, camera clicks, and the crunch of glass underfoot. The room held that special acoustic chaos unique to a raid.

Alex paused in the doorway of the living room.
“Careful with this vase from the eighteenth century,” a man in gloves called from the bathroom, handing it to a gendarme.
“And this canvas, marked from a London gallery,” a thin woman of about fifty added, handing a still life to the same officer. “It was stolen five years ago.”
The gendarme looked puzzled at the investigator, then, with both hands, gestured irritably toward the items as if to say:
“Take it! Everything! We’ll deal with the legality of these antiques and artworks later.”
“Go figure, idiots. Five years ago, I was in eighth grade in one of the Moscow region schools,” Alex muttered quietly from the doorway with a faint smile.
The investigator turned and announced loudly, with undisguised delight:
“And here’s the young owner of the apartment. Sarah, give the boy the list of seized jewelry to sign.”
“Pharaoh, you really should’ve stopped at ‘give the boy.’ I’m not interested — so, Sarah, don’t bother. I’m not signing anything,” Alex said with a smile, walked into the living room, and sat on the sofa.
“Alex, is it Aleksey or Alexander?” the investigator asked, opening his folded note and sitting beside him.
“Call me whatever you like,” Alex replied.
“Of course. Are you the owner of this residence?”
“Yep,” he nodded. “Although right now it looks more like a gang-raided den than an apartment.”
“I officially inform you that a sanctioned search is being conducted as part of an investigation into illegal possession of cultural valuables and human smuggling.”

Alex shrugged.

“You’ll have to prove both,” he said. “Looking for weapons too?”
“Already searching,” the senior inspector replied with professional dryness.
Alex smirked — just one corner of his mouth.
“Well, good luck.”

He felt no regret for the vases, the canvases, or even the stacks of cash hidden beneath a false bottom in the dresser. All of it was expendable. He watched the proceedings like a mathematician observing an equation with a known solution: the main thing was that Alyona was safe — serene as the Mona Lisa in the Louvre.
The rest — was fixable.


Chapter Thirty

The central police station of Saint-Malo stood just beyond the old walls, a squat, utilitarian building of pale stone and concrete, erected in the years after the war, when speed and function mattered more than beauty. It faced the inner city rather than the sea, as if deliberately turning its back on the romance of corsairs and postcards. By day it blended into the administrative landscape; by night it revealed its true purpose—lighted windows, locked doors, and the quiet, methodical work of the state. Inside, time seemed to slow, measured not in hours, but in procedures.

Today Saint-Malo looked like an ancient city—stone walls, narrow streets, postcard symmetry—but it was all a careful postwar reconstruction, a disciplined replica rebuilt from prewar drawings and photographs. Memory, not continuity, had shaped the city. And now, inside one of its functional postwar buildings, memory was being tested again: men were asked to recognize other men, to point to a face and say him. The state trusted recollection the way it once trusted blueprints.
Behind the Guezelle mirror stood five young men: Alex, with a plastic rectangular badge marked ONE; three strangers, with badges TWO, FOUR, and FIVE; and a member of Alex’s gang, arrested alongside Alyona, wearing badge THREE. A height chart with markings covered the entire width of the wall behind those being presented for identification.

In the dimly lit room on the other side of the one-way glass, four people were seated.

One was a local lawyer — a native of Brittany, dressed in the latest Parisian fashion. The imposing man wore gold-rimmed glasses and clutched a dark brown crocodile-leather briefcase. The second was an inconspicuous investigator, a red armband on his right sleeve. The third was a Vietnamese man, one of the passengers from the van detained at the port of Saint-Malo, and the fourth was a uniformed police officer, one of the guards from the temporary detention facility.
The Vietnamese studied the men behind the glass carefully. The investigator watched the illegal alien’s reaction, while the lawyer tried not to miss a single word spoken by either the investigator or the prosecution witness.

“The man who put us in the van was number three,” the Vietnamese said in broken French.
“Look closely,” the investigator said softly. “Maybe you’re mistaken, and it was number one?”
“I protest!” the lawyer interrupted. “This is unacceptable pressure on the witness!”
“No, I’ve never seen number one before,” the Vietnamese replied confidently.
“Take him away,” the investigator told the officer at the door.
“Three out of five clearly identified suspect number three,” said the lawyer. “I see no reason to question the others and demand the immediate release of my client!”
“Don’t rush,” the investigator replied calmly. “The illegals didn’t recognize your client, but they did identify the man arrested in his apartment. That establishes a connection.”
“I insist the connection is between this man and the woman detained in the same apartment, not between him and my client,” the lawyer objected.
The investigator gave the lawyer a contemptuous look, then turned to the guard and, nodding toward the lawyer, muttered:
“This lawyer is a real jerk. Let your men go. Send number one to a cell, and number three and the gang leader’s girlfriend to separate interrogation rooms. I’ll question them in turn.”

The guard led Alex to a cell and, without a word, slammed the heavy door behind him. The space was cramped, filled with smoke, and smelled of stale food. From a speaker suspended from the ceiling came deafening African music: clanging trumpets, shrill flutes, and drumming.

Alex froze in the doorway, observing the cell. On the right stood a bunk bed. On the top bunk, stretched out like a relaxed madman, lay a bearded man of about thirty, wearing worn, long-unwashed prison clothes. He was masturbating furiously, paying no attention to the newcomer.

Opposite the bed stood a plastic table, above it on a wall-mounted shelf — a small, cracked TV. Between the window with bars and the table hung a three-tiered shelf. Plastic bottles of water, ketchup, and mustard were arranged on it. Higher up, bags of sugar and crackers. Under the slightly open window, underwear was drying. Below the window, two chairs held the neighbor’s clothes.

Alex silently tossed his backpack under the table and lay down on the lower bunk. The music grew louder. From above came hoarse groans and growls, and the entire bed trembled with small shakes. Alex cursed, sat up, and pulled from his backpack a plastic cup, toothpaste, a toothbrush, a towel, and several sets of underwear and socks. He arranged everything neatly on the shelf, almost mechanically. He slid the empty backpack under the lower bunk.

He lay back down, closed his eyes, but within thirty seconds felt the bunk begin to shake again. Heavy, wet sobs came from above, and everything was clear without words. He turned onto his back, then side, then stomach, covering his head with a pillow. The music faded, but the trembling from the upper bunk did not stop.
Alex’s patience snapped. He abruptly threw off the pillow, rolled onto his back, and kicked the metal frame of the top bunk with force. A short moan of pain came from above, and the neighbor’s body froze. Within a second, he began descending, stumbling with each step like a disturbed animal in its den.

Alex quickly stood, stepped back, pressing his shoulder blades to the wall by the window. Bright sunlight poured into the cell, and only the underwear hanging on the windowpane cast a narrow strip of shadow.

The enraged Arab shouted something and raised both hands, advancing on Alex.
But Alex did not wait. He stepped forward and, with almost no wind-up, delivered a series of short strikes: left jab to the chest, right hook to the side, left again to the liver, and right to the solar plexus.

The man screamed in pain, bending with each blow. After the fourth strike, he folded in half. Alex moved forward and drove a knee into the man’s head. He flew back to the door like a sack of trash.

Seconds later, the guards burst into the cell. Two of them grabbed the groaning inmate by the arms and dragged him into the corridor. Alex dropped to his knees, interlaced his fingers behind his head, and froze. Two more approached; one pressed his face to the floor, the other snapped handcuffs on his wrists. Without a word, the two Frenchmen led him out of the cell.


Chapter Thirty-One

In the small caf; El Quest, on Place Chateaubriand, Alyona sat alone at a corner table by the window. In front of her stood a cup of black coffee; on the saucer lay a croissant cut in half, its cheese filling already cooling. She drank the coffee slowly, in small, deliberate sips black, without sugar and did not touch the pastry.

Waiting for Alex’s lawyer, she looked out through the glass. The square lived its usual, muted life: tourists drifted past in loose clusters, pausing to study menus or lift their cameras toward the stone fa;ade of the town hall. The French tricolor hung almost motionless above the entrance, stirring only when a gust slipped through the narrow streets feeding into the square. It was November, and the open terraces of a dozen restaurants around the square stood empty, despite their glass walls and heavy fabric awnings. Cars edged into parking spaces with cautious precision, mirrors folding in, engines idling for a second too long. Alyona watched it all without really seeing it, as if the glass separated her not just from the square, but from the day itself.

The lawyer approached the table unexpectedly, as if he had entered the caf; through a back door, though perhaps not. He might have been sitting there before Alyona arrived, secretly observing her. Leaning back in his chair, he spoke calmly about Alex’s case, as if discussing the weather rather than someone else’s fate:
“Currently, the police have serious evidence against your husband. The witness who turned him in cannot appear in court — it would be too dangerous for the informant. However, the Vietnamese recognized your subordinate. And while the detained illegals remain under police control, they still pose a threat.”

Alyona frowned.
“What kind of threat?”
“The guy taken from your apartment is looking at ten years. If he’s offered a deal — freedom in exchange for cooperation — he’ll quickly forget any thieves’ code of honor. Then Alex will go straight to the stage. Things will be even worse for you if he’s the one who tipped off the police about you.”
“What am I supposed to do? I can’t reach him in prison,” Alyona said.

The lawyer pulled a sheet of paper, folded into quarters, from his inner pocket and placed it on the table. She took it cautiously, without unfolding it.
“This is a list with addresses of the Vietnamese. In France, they may be at the disposal of investigators or the courts at any time. If they disappear, the case falls apart. What you do with them — that’s up to you. But they need to vanish, and fast. Without them, the word of the snitch — or a partner who cut a deal — is meaningless. The fact that he was caught in your apartment doesn’t mean much. At interrogations or in court, you can claim there was an affair between you. Or platonic love.”

Alyona didn’t react to the remark about the affair immediately. She stared at the paper for a long time before asking the next question:
“How much do we owe you?”
He answered without hesitation:
“For defending you — ten thousand euros. For your husband — another forty. The faster you pay for yourself, the sooner I can start working for him.”

Alyona silently unfolded the sheet and scanned the names and addresses quickly.

There was not a trace of doubt in her voice when she said:
“I’ll get the money, take care of the illegals, and contact you.”
The lawyer nodded, stood, and left the caf; without looking back.
Alyona remained at the table, eyes on her half-drunk coffee. After a minute of thought, she took out her mobile phone, dialed a number, and, once answered, said:
“Victor, it’s me.”
“Glad to hear you.”
“Are you home?”
“Yep.”
“We need to talk. Can you come to Caen?”
“I can be there in an hour.”
“Let’s meet at the Market Square, at the Greenwich restaurant, in two hours.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Bring cash — as much as you can. I need to pay the lawyer.”
“I’ll bring everything I have on hand.”


Chapter Thirty-Two

Caen met Alyona without ceremony. The vast silhouette of William the Conqueror’s castle still ruled the city’s skyline, but everyday life unfolded well beyond its walls, in districts shaped by postwar reconstruction and quiet routine. Here, among practical streets and unremarkable fa;ades, restaurants catered less to visitors than to people who lived and worked nearby—places chosen for privacy, not views.

The French restaurant smelled of fish baked in a creamy sauce. When Alyona entered El Greenwich, a waiter was bowing slightly at Victor’s table.

“Norman cuisine harmoniously combines seafood and dairy products — perhaps this is unmatched anywhere in the world. It’s renowned for its richness and variety, and only those on strict diets should abstain,” cooed the sweet-voiced Frenchman hypnotically. “You, young sir, have nothing to worry about. You are in excellent shape and can try everything on the menu. From the wine list, I recommend our signature calvados, made exclusively from local apples. Allow me also to suggest a cheese platter from the finest dairies in France, including Camembert and equally delicious Pont-l’;v;que, Livarot, Neufch;tel, and Pav; d’Auge.”

Alyona stood behind the waiter, patiently waiting for him to finish his fiery speech.

“Our gentle Norman climate, evergreen pastures where cows graze year-round, and the oxygen-rich waters of the English Channel ensure the highest quality of Normandy’s products.”
“Put the second fork back, give the lady behind you a seat, and bring us—” Victor’s gaze shifted to Alyona. “Fish or poultry?” he asked, like a flight attendant on an airplane.
“Poultry,” Alyona replied, taking her seat.
“For the lady — duck stuffed with cherries, baked in red wine. For me — mussels in cream. And for the aperitif — a couple of glasses of kir. But mix the white wine with the blackcurrant liqueur, not red,” he instructed.
The meal began in silence, broken only by the clink of cutlery. But the quiet didn’t last long.
“What is he being accused of?” Victor asked, putting down his fork and looking at Alyona from under his brows.
“Organizing a criminal group for the purpose of human trafficking into neighboring countries,” she answered calmly.
“Does the investigation have real evidence?”
“There are the snitch’s statements… unexplained suspicious income that they try to link to the crime… and five Vietnamese, released on minimal bail.”
Victor smirked.
“They’re trying to turn confiscated property into evidence?”
“Yes. They seized valuables worth several hundred thousand dollars. Everything documented — written down and photographed. Money, jewelry, porcelain, paintings.”
Victor rubbed his chin, as if trying to erase the unease forming there.
“How can we help him?”

Alyona wiped her lips with a napkin and looked him straight in the eyes:
“First — money for the lawyer. Then — deal with the witnesses. The Vietnamese identified Sergey, and he might cut a deal and testify in court. Understand, for a snitch, there’s a huge difference between secretly informing the police and testifying publicly. If the passengers give testimony in court, we’ll have to prove Sergey’s guilt. If they don’t appear in court, then the court will only hear the informant. And he knows that’s equivalent to a death sentence.”
She took the folded sheet from her bag and placed it on the table.
“Here’s the list of Vietnamese and their addresses.”

Victor took the paper, glanced over it, and after a pause said:
“I have ten thousand euros. I’ll give it to you. But… forgive me, Alyona, I need Alex himself to say what to do with the Vietnamese. Your word alone isn’t enough.”
“Ten thousand? We need at least five times that,” she said sharply but without malice. “And don’t take everything literally. ‘Get rid of’ doesn’t mean kill. They’ve already paid for the move to England, and we have to deliver them as agreed. Alex will be released and decide whether to return to business; we cannot allow ourselves a tarnished reputation.”

Victor nodded, agreeing:
“I’ll send them. Find them in Paris, bring them here, and I’ll handle the rest. As for forty thousand… that’s trickier. Immediately after your arrest, Vitaly started taking over the business in Saint-Malo. He’s already sent his men to me twice — demanding a share.”

Alyona squinted.
“Who exactly did he send?”
“Two Georgians. Big, cocky guys, acting like they own the place. They talk as if we’re in Tbilisi. I kicked them out. But they promised to return.”
She paused, pursing her lips.
“Vitaly has about ten men now. If he wants, he could crush you. Are you sure your people won’t run to him?”
“They’re loyal to me,” he said with a hint of stubbornness.
“Thank you, Victor. For the lunch, and the money,” she said, standing. “Hand over the cash. I’ll deposit it into Alex’s prison account — he can pay the lawyer and at least not starve.”

He pulled an envelope from his inner jacket pocket. Alyona took it and tucked it into her bag. As she reached the doorway, Victor squinted as if remembering something:
“I never asked… How did they let you go?”
She had already opened the door but turned her head over her shoulder:
“They had nothing on me. When the investigator asked about money, I said Alex is the son of wealthy parents from Russia.”

A smirk crossed her face before she stepped out.


Chapter Thirty-Three

Alex sat on a metal chair bolted to the floor in a concrete cell with no windows. The floor of the single cell was covered by a thin, almost flattened mattress that barely fit in the cramped space. In the doorway stood a female psychologist, a guard behind her on duty.

“Alex,” she began, “why did you beat your cellmate so brutally?”
He lifted a tired gaze to her, his voice artificially polite.
“I didn’t beat him. I just politely asked him to turn down the music and stop shaking the bed.”
“And why was he shaking the bed?”
“Because he was constantly… well, pleasuring himself. After finishing, he’d rest for five minutes and then start again.”
“Did that bother you?”
“It didn’t matter what he was doing. Only the music kept me from sleeping. They interrogated me all night. No food, no water. Don’t I have the right to at least get some sleep?”
“You do,” she agreed. “Do you know your cellmate was hospitalized? He sustained serious internal injuries.”

Alex shrugged.
“I didn’t know.”
“Tell me under what circumstances he was injured.”
“Ah, that…?” Alex smirked. “Simple. I lightly kicked his bed, he jumped at me, tried to hit me. I defended myself. Grabbed his arm, flipped him over me — a standard move, nothing special. The cell is small, full of metal and furniture. He probably hit something — a table, a chair, maybe the bed. I wasn’t paying attention.”

The psychologist was silent for a moment, studying him closely.
“Alex, have you been in prison before?”
“No.”
“Then know this: in prison, people must learn to live alongside others. You could be locked up together for months, maybe years. If you don’t learn to coexist peacefully, it will be very hard for you.”
“First, I’m innocent. Second, I’m a very peaceful person,” he replied calmly. “As long as nobody touches me, I won’t touch anyone.”
“Alright. For the fight, you’ll stay in solitary three more days. In the meantime, we’ll assign you a suitable cellmate. I hope this won’t happen again.”
“I promise. I won’t hurt a good person.”
She nodded, turned, and left. The door slammed shut, leaving Alex in the half-dark of his concrete confinement.
________________________________________
After five long days, swaying on unsteady legs, he entered the cell. The guard removed his handcuffs at the entrance and, locking the door behind him, threw over his shoulder:
“Your new cellmate is a Turk. His name’s Ahmet. One of the most balanced prisoners. Try not to ruin your relationship with him, or you’ll rot in solitary for the rest of the investigation. There won’t be a third chance.”

By the table stood a stocky, tanned man of about fifty, stirring something on a hot plate, filling the air with the aroma of spices and stewed meat. Turning, Ahmet looked at Alex and waved warmly.

“Come in, son. Sit. You must be hungry. Solitary doesn’t feed you. How long were you in there?”
“Five days. Plus a day in the interrogation cell,” Alex said wearily.
“Lamb beans?”
“I’ll eat whatever you offer.”
“Good.”

Ahmet placed the food in two plastic dishes and set one in front of the new cellmate.

Alex stirred with his spoon, inhaled the scent, and paused.
“Listen, Ahmet… how does all this work here? Food, stove — don’t they feed you from the cafeteria?”
“I don’t know about real prisons — I’ve never been. Here, in the detention center, everyone’s in charge of themselves. Either you eat the meager menu, or you order ingredients and cook yourself.”

Alex pushed the plate away.
“Wait. How can I order anything if I don’t have a cent? Not a franc, not a cent.”
Ahmet nodded.
“Everything goes through a prison account. Relatives or friends fund it, and you spend. Food, clothes, cigarettes — all at your own expense.”
“I didn’t know. In Russia, prisoners are fed by the state. I can’t take your food. I don’t have a way to pay yet.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Ahmet laughed good-naturedly. “I like cooking and don’t mind sharing. A good conversation doesn’t cost anything. So… what are you in for?”

Alex studied him and smiled.
“For no reason. They arrested me with my girlfriend. She’ll be released soon — nothing against her. I think the lawyer will explain how to open that damn account… and how to make sure I survive here.”
“That’s perfect,” said Ahmet. “Eat, please Cold lamb isn’t lamb anymore.”
They ate together. No words were wasted.
________________________________________
The meeting room for the lawyer was spacious, yet still carried the oppressive air of isolation. Alex sat at the table, hands placed in front of him. Across sat his lawyer, tidy, composed, with a stack of papers and the weary face of someone accustomed to haggling over time.

“We’ve coordinated with Alyona,” the lawyer said without looking up. “I promised to focus on your case immediately after receiving the advance. But time is running out. If we delay any longer, no amount of money will help. We could lose everything.”

Alex nodded, not interrupting.
“Have you seen Sergey during yard time?” the lawyer continued.
“No. Not once. Not in the courtyard, gym, or corridor. Why would I?”
“To dissuade him from cutting a deal with the authorities. They won’t let me approach him. He has another lawyer assigned. You’re the only one who can influence him. Find him and tell him you’re already working to dismantle the case. He must stay silent. At all costs.”
“And where will I find him if he doesn’t appear anywhere? Maybe they transferred him?”
“He’s here,” the lawyer cut in. “Easier for the investigators to keep you close. I think he’s in the wing with already sentenced prisoners.”

Alex frowned.
“What do you mean — with the convicts?”

The lawyer pulled out a blank sheet and quickly sketched a prison plan.
“The detention center is shaped like a ‘T’. The crossbar — pretrial detainees. In the ‘leg’ — fifty or so high-risk, already sentenced prisoners. The yard is here, at the top. And near the ‘leg’ — a covered outdoor cage. Those who may never be released walk there. I’m almost certain Sergey is among them.”
“Why?”
“Because they want to isolate you from each other. Fear of collusion. Or… an ‘accident’,” the lawyer said, gesturing air quotes with his fingers.

Alex rubbed his temple.
“I still don’t understand where I can see him. And how do I convince him?”
“There’s only one place both sides can access — the library. Second floor, center of the building, where the ‘leg’ meets the ‘crossbar’. Two entrances. Guards inside. Request access. Visit regularly. Wait for him there.”
“And what should I say?”
“Tell him you’re already handling the Vietnamese. Soon, the investigators will lose their witnesses. If he keeps quiet, he’ll be released as soon as the last of the five leaves France. He’ll be released — and so will you. Understand?”
Alex looked up and nodded briefly.
“Got it. I’ll do it. And if he refuses?”
“Tell him an illegal can’t survive a week in France without community support. And a snitch — not a day.”

The lawyer began gathering papers. He crumpled the prison plan and lit it with a lighter. The paper flared as a guard entered the cell.

“No open flames here,” he grunted.

Alex silently took the burning sheet, held it over the table, and rubbed it to ashes with his hands. His expression remained calm, but the corners of his mouth betrayed a satisfied smirk.


Chapter Thirty-Four

The terrace of L'Amiral stretched along the harbor like the deck of a moored ship. Afternoon light slid across the water, breaking into shards against the slow swell, while pleasure boats tugged gently at their lines. Beyond the marina rose the southern ramparts of Saint-Malo — massive, timeworn granite glowing honey-gold in the sun, indifferent to the centuries of wars and betrayals they had witnessed.
Waiters moved between tables with quiet efficiency, glasses chimed softly, and gulls circled overhead, crying whenever fishing boats nosed back into the port. It was a peaceful summer afternoon — the kind in which conspiracies could be mistaken for flirtation.

The summer breeze carried scents of the sea and freshly baked bread. Otari, a tall, broad-shouldered Georgian, sipped his cider with the air of someone who already understood everything — yet was waiting for it to be spoken aloud.

“Inga, my sunshine, don’t torture me. Be honest — why risk your relationship and call me here?”
“To have lunch,” she replied without looking at him.
“Just lunch?” he smirked. “We’re sitting in the very heart of the city, in a French harbor restaurant… and you brought me here for pizza? Or were you planning to offer me something else?”
“Many things could be offered,” she said with a hint of sadness. “Right there in any of the hotel behind walls. But, unfortunately, I’m busy. I don’t run two fronts — upbringing doesn’t allow it.”
“As you Russians say, the husband is not a wall — you can push him aside.”
“He’s not my husband.”
“All the more reason. Come to me, you won’t regret it.”
“I know I won’t,” Inga placed her hand on the Georgian’s hairy wrist. “But Vitalik is very vindictive. He won’t let my betrayal go. He’ll hold a grudge and get back at me — at both of us. And I — I’m young, I want to live.”
“He won’t hurt me or you. I can squash him with one hand.”
Inga looked at him seriously:
“Alex thought the same. And where is he now? Three blocks away behind bars in the local jail? Or pumping muscles in the gym? Won’t help him. He and his buddy, Sergey, are down for ten years. With Vitalik, there are no jokes. His head works like a chess player’s — several moves ahead.”

Otari leaned forward slightly:
“So, what do you want, beautiful?”
“Not ‘what,’ but ‘who.’ I want you, badly. But while he’s around, I can’t allow myself.”

He looked at her with tenderness tinged with steely determination.
“Ah, words like that… I’ll do anything. Just to make you mine.”
Inga did not smile. She slowly withdrew her hand but let her fingers linger against his wrist for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“Anything?” she asked quietly.

Otari held her gaze. Something in her tone had cooled the air between them.
“Try me.”

She glanced toward the harbor where a tugboat was easing a container barge into position.
“Eight months,” she said. “Eight months you’ve been running Alex’s routes. You know every patrol pattern, every quiet beach, every captain willing to look the other way.”

Otari said nothing. Men like him trusted silence more than questions.
“Tell me,” she continued, “does it never bother you — building an empire for someone else?”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Careful, Inga. Those are dangerous thoughts.”

She met his eyes calmly.
“No. Dangerous is growing old while another man collects what should be yours.”
“Say it plainly,” Otari said at last.

Inga didn’t hesitate.
“Vitaliy has to disappear.”
“And Alex?”
“Alex is already gone,” she said coldly. “Prison is just taking longer to admit it.”
“If Vitaliy falls,” she went on, “the coast fractures overnight. The Georgians will follow you — they already do. The Vietnamese care only about passage. Money chooses the new master faster than loyalty ever could.”
“And you?”
“I choose the future.”

A waiter approached, hesitated — sensing the tension — and silently replaced their empty glasses. Neither of them looked at him.
“Ports are like fortresses,” he said slowly in Russian, ignoring the waiter at the table. “They don’t belong to the strongest—only to the last man standing.”
________________________________________

Chapter Thirty-Five

The prison library occupied a former administrative room: low ceiling, tall barred windows glazed with frosted glass, and rows of heavy wooden shelves bolted directly to the walls. The air smelled of dust, paper, and disinfectant. The furniture was utilitarian — scarred tables, mismatched chairs, everything designed to endure time rather than comfort. Fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead, flattening colors and shadows alike.

Alex sat at one of the tables with a volume from a French Renaissance encyclopedia opened in front of him. He turned the pages slowly, studying the reproductions of old masters. His eyes lingered only on the short, clear captions beneath the paintings.

Nearby, two solidly built, middle-aged men sat shoulder to shoulder. They whispered to each other, then fell silent, glancing at Alex more often than they thought they were noticed.

A thin librarian approached, his movements quiet, his voice soft, almost gentle — as if the room itself demanded restraint.

“You’ve been coming here for a week,” he said. “Every day you flip through art books. Need some help? Just tell me what you’re looking for.”

Alex lifted his head and replied quietly.
“I don’t read French very well. I just look at the paintings. Da Vinci. Rembrandt. Rubens. Van Eyck… the great masters.”

The librarian smiled faintly.
“And how do you know which painting belongs to whom?”

Alex shrugged.
“Simple. If it’s a perfect portrait with no background — that’s Da Vinci. If there are plump women, Rubens. If everything’s dark and the men wear lace collars and cuffs — Rembrandt. And if there are too many tiny figures and it’s hard to tell what the painter meant…”

He paused, then said the name carefully, syllable by syllable:
“I-e-r-o-n-y-m-u-s. Bosch.”
“I see,” the librarian nodded with a smile. “But if you need anything, just ask.”
The Frenchman walked away, then approached the two men and whispered something.
An irritated phrase in broken French, mixed with Russian swearing, cut through the air. The librarian shook his head reproachfully and returned to his desk.

The men got up and moved to Alex.

“Russian, huh?” the first man said with a slight grin. “What got you in here?”
“Caught by mistake,” Alex replied. “I didn’t do anything.”
“We’re ‘innocent’ too,” the second man smirked. “But we got twenty years — no parole.”

The first leaned closer:
“Rephrasing: what are you charged with? And how much do you face?”
“Burglary from wealthy homes. If proven, five years.”
“Ah, so you’re a house thief,” the second man brightened. “Perfect.”
The first added:
“And since you’re a thief, you should know the rules. By the thief’s code, you must ‘warm the house.’ Got it? A quarter of everything you have goes to the common fund. Here’s the account number. Transfer a thousand euros.”
Alex shrugged.
“I’d love to, but it’s my first time here and my account is empty. And outside — nobody. Although… I have an idea to get some money.”
“Speak,” the second man said cautiously.
“My partner is in your wing. I need to talk to him. He knows part of the info, without which the money can’t be obtained.”
“Sergey? We know him. Quiet guy.”
“Tell him to come here tomorrow, right after noon. If he agrees, maybe I’ll transfer the money to you.”
The first frowned:
“‘Maybe’? Don’t wriggle like a slug. If he has the money, we’ll get it even without you.”
Alex slowly shook his head:
“Sergey only knows half the code to the safe deposit box. I know the other half. None of your men will get a cent without these numbers. So — either you help and I pay you, or we starve together. Your choice.”
He snapped the encyclopedia shut, stood, and walked to the librarian, leaving the men deep in thought.


Chapter Thirty-Six

In the late 1990s, security at the Calais rail terminal was still rudimentary, built more on routine than on technology. The perimeter was marked by a single chain-link fence, patched in places and topped with nothing more than a thin coil of wire. Streetlights stood at long intervals, roughly every hundred meters, leaving wide stretches of the fence in half-shadow once night fell.

There were no cameras worth mentioning, no motion sensors, no electronic access control. Security relied on presence rather than systems. Once an hour, guards walked the perimeter with dogs, their boots crunching on gravel, their flashlights sweeping lazily across wagons and service roads. Between patrols, the terminal belonged to the wind, the hum of transformers, and the steady clank of steel on steel.

The volume of traffic already exceeded the capacity of such measures. Dozens of shuttle trains and freight consists moved through the terminal each day, wagons lining up in long, anonymous rows. In that environment, security wasn’t breached — it was simply outpaced. What mattered wasn’t stealth, but timing: knowing when the dogs had passed, and how long it would be before they returned.

A single chain-link fence separated the Calais rail terminal from the sleeping outskirts of the city. Tall lampposts stood far apart, casting islands of yellow light that dissolved into long corridors of shadow between them. Once an hour, a guard made his slow round with a dog, the beam of his flashlight drifting along the wire before vanishing again into the dark. The rest of the time, the wind ruled the open tracks, rattling loose metal and carrying the distant clang of coupling wagons. It wasn’t the kind of place you broke into — you simply waited for the patrol to pass and walked in, as Vitaly and Otari did now, five silent Africans moving behind them toward the trains bound for England.

Only fifty meters separated them from the terminal’s parking lot. The wind carried the muffled barking of dogs from a large cube-shaped building nearby. From the distant bars where British passengers drank beer and whiskey before their return to England, faint laughter and clinking glasses floated across the lot. In the terminal office, guards shuffled cards, muttered jokes, and occasionally slammed a hand on the table. Life went on around them, unaware — and irrelevant.

“What’s going on there?” Otari whispered, scanning the shadows.
“That’s the veterinary inspection,” Vitaliy replied quietly. “They check the animals before sending them to England.”
“Far?”
“Almost there. See the lot? Lead the guys there and place them one by one in the trunks of the cars.”
“How will I open them?”
“All the cars are unlocked. The area’s guarded, but no one thinks they’re being used as a hideout.”
“And the owners?”
“See the light in the building on the right?”
“I see it.”
“There are thirty bars and restaurants inside. Car owners sit there, waiting for trains. Forty minutes until the loading onto the platforms. I’ll wait for you back here in twenty.”

Otari’s dark eyes flicked toward the lights. “If the English are drinking, how will they get their cars onto the platforms?”

Vitaliy smiled faintly. “That’s why they’re drinking. The drivers leave the keys in the ignition for the professionals — the ones who will actually load the cars onto the trains. The drivers and their passengers? They’ll ride in the seated carriages.”

Otari nodded, gestured for the Africans, and disappeared into the tall grass with them.

Vitaliy lay on his back, checking the time, hands under his head. The smells of diesel and salt air mingled with the distant aroma of grilled meat. He could hear laughter, card games, the metallic clatter of a glass. All of it — alive, mundane, indifferent. And he, lying there, would not live to witness it again.

Sleep came, but it was shallow. He dreamed of Inga, swimming in warm water. The water darkened; he tried to breathe. The fog closed in, thick and suffocating.
Pain ripped him awake. Otari’s presence was calm, almost clinical. Kneeling on Vitaliy’s chest, he pressed the belt tighter. Each struggle, each flinch from Vitaliy was catalogued by Otari, a mental checklist of inevitability. His mind was elsewhere, simultaneously alert to the rhythm of the world around — laughter, card shuffles, voices raised in toasts — and focused entirely on the precise, measured motion of his hands.

Time stretched. He noted the beat of a distant music from a bar, the faint shudder of a car being loaded onto a train, the bark of a dog. Life, ignorant of the dark ritual performed in its midst. And yet, in the midst of it, he felt the cold surge of satisfaction — the unambiguous clarity of power, control, and inevitability.
Minutes later, he carried the body to the edge of the lot. Laying Vitaliy gently on the asphalt, he opened the trunk of a waiting car and slid the corpse inside with deliberate care. Pausing, he let his gaze drift once more to the terminal — card games, glasses raised, casual laughter — then closed the lid quietly.
Without turning back, Otari walked toward the wire fence, his boots whispering against the gravel. And as he passed the dim lights of the parking lot, a voice hummed softly, a Georgian melody rising over the night:

"I saw a rose in the forest,
That was shedding dew like tears.
Is it you who blossomed so far away,
My dear Suliko?"
________________________________________


Chapter Thirty-Seven

Alex and Sergey sat at a table with open books in front of them.
“Alex,” Sergey began, “two big guys were asking me about some safe code. What’s that story?”
“Forget them,” Alex waved it off. “I needed to meet you. That’s why I invented the safe full of money. Supposedly, you know one half of the combination, I know the other.”
“Got it. And what’s happening now?”
“The investigators will soon offer you a deal: freedom in exchange for testimony against me. Don’t fall for it. Our guys have found five Vietnamese and already moved them to England. If you stay silent, the case against us will collapse. No witnesses. But if you testify against me, no witness protection program will save you.”
“So, the entire accusation rests on them?”
“And you. They’ll have only one last hope — you. So buy time. First, request an emergency meeting with the investigator, under the pretext of future cooperation. During the meeting, request a transfer to another prison and the appointment of new counsel..”
“Why another prison?”
“These Russians in here aren’t just thieves. They were sentenced to twenty years for armed robbery and murder. They’ll try to squeeze money from you. Once they realize they won’t get it — they’ll take revenge. They can’t reach me, but you — you’re in the crosshairs.”
“Understood. I’ll ask to meet the investigator today. Then — everything according to plan: new prison, new lawyer, stall tactics.”
“See you on the outside, brother.”

They hugged. Sergey left by one exit, Alex by another.


Chapter Thirty-Eight

They had chosen September 11, 2001, two in the afternoon, to celebrate Alex and Sergey’s release.

Alyona, Alex, Sergey, Victor, and Han gathered in Victor’s living room — two bottles of five-year-old Pinot Noir on the table, untouched glasses in their hands.

The television showed New York.
“Those damn Arabs ruined our celebration again,” Victor grumbled. “We wanted to toast the release of the guys, and here’s this chaos on TV.”
“Turn it off,” Alyona asked. “We have enough problems of our own.”

Victor reached for the remote and switched off the television.
“Alex, what’s next? Rest, then back into action?”
“In prison, I dreamed of breaking Vitaliy’s neck. But he disappeared. Plans have to change.”
“His disappearance surprised me too,” Victor said thoughtfully. “He couldn’t have known you’d be released soon.”
“Still, he’s nowhere to be found.”
“Who’s in charge in Saint-Malo now?”
“Otari,” Victor replied.
“How many people does he have?”
“Six or seven. Half are his compatriots.”
“What do you think, Alyona? Do we take them out?”
“We can. But should we?”
“Why not?” Victor leaned forward. “Me and the guys will support. We’ll set up a couple ambushes like we did to the Algerians at the port.”
“We can’t risk it anymore,” Alyona said quietly.
Alex frowned.
“Since when are you afraid of direct confrontation?”
“Since I found out I’m pregnant.”
Sergey stood and raised his glass:
“Well, that’s something… news. We must drink to that.”
He, Han, and Victor emptied their glasses in one gulp. Alex stared at Alyona in stunned silence.
“When did you find out?”
“A week ago. I was caught trying to steal a ring in a jewelry store. At the station, I stayed silent — no name, no age. To determine my age, the police took me to the hospital. They said I’m no older than sixteen. And… I’m three months along.”

Alex slowly dropped to his knees before her and kissed her hands.
“I obey and submit, my queen. From now on — everything by your rules.”
________________________________________

A week later, Alex, Alyona, and Victor stood at the edge of the rocky cliff behind Victor’s house. Far off, beyond a bluish haze, the outlines of the English coast were just visible. The sea roared below, the wind toyed with strands of Alyona’s hair — yet there was no calm in her eyes.

“We got married,” Alex said, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “At Saint Vincent’s Cathedral, in Saint-Malo.”
“Congratulations,” Victor said. “Why am I hearing about this after the fact? Where’s the celebration? And why do you say it as if it were a sentence?”
“We didn’t have time for celebrations,” Alyona replied evenly. “It was a forced decision.”

Victor barely had time to make a crude joke about a shotgun wedding when Alex clarified:
“We rushed to get married before the court hearings. It didn’t help. The French denied us residency and gave us thirty days to get out. We decided not to drag it out.”
“They’re deporting you because of the arrest?” Victor asked.
“Not directly,” Alex shook his head. “They didn’t prove anything, but they said I’m a potential risk. It’s easier for them to deport me than to try me and keep me.”
“And even though he’s not charged with anything,” Alyona added, “if he ignores the deportation order, he’ll be jailed. And then it becomes a completely different story — with far slimmer chances of a happy ending.”
“And what does the marriage have to do with it?”
“Unmarried refugees from different countries are deported separately,” Alex explained. “We have different citizenships. If they split us up, we could lose each other forever. Marriage was the only way to stay together.”
Victor said nothing. Only the wind whistled through the coastal brush, and the waves crashed against the rocks below.
“So what now?” he asked at last. “Is there a plan?”
“Find us a container,” Alex said. “To any American port. Boston, New York, Baltimore — doesn’t matter. Just across the ocean.”
“I’ll do it,” Victor promised quietly. His voice carried the weight of a life being left behind.

Two days after the conversation on the cliffs, Victor went down to the basement of his house, passed the racks of wine, and opened a wall safe. He took out a folder of documents, pulled out a French passport, studied his photograph, and stood there in silence for a long time. Then he exhaled, dropped the passport into a trash bin, and set it on fire.

When he came back upstairs, Alex and Alyona were sitting in the kitchen.
“The container’s ready,” he said. “Departure in a week. From Le Havre to Baltimore.”

Alex nodded. Alyona didn’t ask how much it had cost — money no longer mattered.
“There’s one more thing,” Victor said, not looking at them. “I burned my French passport. I’m going with you.”

Alex raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t know you had one. Where did it come from?”
“Before they sent me to France, my folks gave me five thousand euros. After a week of drifting around Marseille — I got there on a cruise ship from Varna — I met a slightly drunk French woman in her early thirties at a bar. In broken English, I offered her a deal: marriage in exchange for five grand.”
“And everything you built here?” Alyona asked.
“It’s not mine anymore. Too many faces I don’t want to see. Too many streets I can’t walk down without looking over my shoulder.”

He smiled — faintly, a little sadly.
“Besides,” he said, “you’re the only family I have left.”


Chapter Thirty-Nine

The darkness inside the container was thick and inky. In the dim glow of flashlights slicing through the gloom between the Euro-pallets, the outlines of six people could just be made out. Alex settled near a stack of cardboard boxes, carefully laying out a hand drill and a set of bits. Beside him, Alyona unpacked food from her backpack. Miloslav Stankovi; — a massive Serb with a stone-set face — pulled two water canisters from a duffel, while his son Lazar nimbly climbed onto the boxes and crawled toward Victor, who was on his knees, feeling his way toward the far wall.

“What do you want?” Victor muttered without turning around.
“I need the toilet,” Lazar whispered.
“Couldn’t you do that earlier? Before the door closed behind us?”
“Leave the kid alone,” Mile cut in hoarsely.
“He’s right, Victor,” Alex said calmly. “Don’t pick on him. We’re in here for a week. Let him use a bag and tie it tight. Otherwise, we’ll suffocate.”
Victor snorted, turned around, and crawled back.
“Why’d you come back?” Alex asked, surprised.
“I don’t want to watch.”
“Then let’s drill the ventilation.”
“I’m with you.”

Alex took the hand drill, fitted a thick bit, and moved along the pallets after Lazar. At the far wall, on the top tier of boxes, he dropped to his knees and began drilling ventilation holes into the ceiling, careful not to hit the teenager sitting below. Fine metal shavings rained down onto Lazar’s head; the boy only grunted. Victor lay nearby, waiting his turn.

Suddenly, static crackled from Victor’s pocket — the walkie-talkie came alive.
“What is it?” Victor whispered.

A voice answered through the speaker:
“Bad news. Because of the storm, the container ship Atlantic Concert is delayed by two days. What are you doing — staying inside or getting out?”
“Hold on,” Victor said. “We’ll talk it through.” He switched off the radio and turned to Alex. “The ship’s late. Sergey’s asking whether we stay put or pull out and try again the day after tomorrow.”

Alex froze. The shavings slid from his face onto the pallet.
“If we get out, we take the risk twice — on the way out and on the way back in. And there’s no guarantee the port crew hasn’t already noticed something. A second break-in makes noise. On the other hand, our food is calculated for exactly a week… If we can resupply during the delay, we stay. If not, we leave.”
“Through the roof,” Victor nodded. “If nobody stacks another container on top, my guy can lie flat up there and stay invisible. But what can you pass through a two-centimeter hole?”

Silence filled the container — the kind where freedom and arrest, maybe even life and death, hang on a single answer.

“Sausages,” Victor said suddenly. “Or hunter’s salami.”

Alex let out a breath and smiled, clapping his friend lightly on the shoulder.
“You still surprise me sometimes. First the wildflowers, now sausage. Tell Sergey we’re staying — and take the drill. I’ll go explain the news to Alyona.”

Alex crawled back. Lazar followed him. Victor switched the radio on again.
“Sergey, we’re staying. Buy hunter’s sausages, breadsticks — anything that’ll fit through a two-centimeter hole. At night, come back onto the roof and pass it down. Knock three times on the wall — we’ll answer twice.”
“Copy,” came the reply from outside.

Victor kept drilling into the roof, while Alex made his way back toward the center of the container. Alyona sat on a blanket, her back against the wall. Stankovich watched Lazar closely.

“Bad news,” Alex said. “A storm. The ship’s delayed. We stay here.”
“And if we hit a storm in the open ocean?” Alyona asked anxiously.
“Don’t jinx it,” Stankovich muttered.
“Dad… we’re not going to sink, are we?” Lazar asked, his voice trembling as he grasped what the Russians were talking about.
________________________________________

Sergey came to the fugitives’ aid the following night.

He moved like a shadow between the ranks of a silent army of metal giants lined up in the port. Flinching at every sound, he pressed his whole body against the corrugated steel. Rusted containers, scarred with faded stencils and battered logos of long-forgotten shipping companies, loomed on both sides of the narrow passage like iron colossi ready to collapse on him. Their dark silhouettes cast dense, almost tangible shadows under the unsteady glow of the port floodlights, whose yellow beams struggled through the night fog, heavy with the smell of salt and rust. Somewhere in the distance, cranes creaked, and the dull clang of metal echoed through the quiet, a reminder that the port never truly slept.
Hardened by a prison sentence for a serious crime—served largely because of a weak lawyer—Sergey had remained loyal to his boss, though the experience had clearly dulled his courage and resolve.

Guided by small, familiar details, he found his way back to his friends’ temporary refuge and carefully knocked his knuckles against the cold steel skin. A moment later, a soft, barely audible—but perfectly precise—reply came from inside.
Without wasting time, choosing his footholds with care, the courier climbed the corrugated door and soon reached the roof. At first, he tried moving on his knees. After a few steps, he realized it was a mistake. The raised ridges and grooves bit painfully into his joints. The metal burned through the fabric, and within moments his knees were knocking hard against the ribs of the roof. He tried shifting his weight to his elbows—it was worse. In the end, he flattened himself completely, pressing his body to the steel and crawling forward, sweeping his flashlight ahead of him. Blood pounded in his ears. Every meter came with effort, as if the roof itself were resisting him.

The beam wavered left and right, like windshield wipers on wet glass, until it caught on a small clearing of a dozen holes drilled through the metal.
Sergey brought his face close to one of them and shone the light inside. From the darkness—like something rising out of hell—an impatient, very much alive index finger emerged.

Sergey touched it with his palm and gave it a brief squeeze, the way a three-year-old might greet an adult.

The finger vanished, and immediately the first smoked sausage slid into the hole. Then another, and another—linked together by their tied ends, like a festive New Year’s garland, only made of meat. Before long, three kilos of cured delicacies disappeared into the black belly of the container.

Suddenly, a dog barked.

Loud. Abrupt. Uncomfortably close.

Sergey slowly lifted his head and saw two guards approaching the container. One wore a black hooded jacket; the other held a radio and a long leash. A German shepherd was already at the doors, its nose rubbing against the painted steel.
Sergey pressed himself flat against the metal, hardly daring to breathe. His heart hammered in his temples.

The first guard bent down and checked the seals on the doors.

“Easy, Phantom,” the handler said from behind him, then asked, “Seals intact?”
“Yeah. All good.”
“Probably smelled rats,” the handler said, stroking the dog between the ears. He tugged the leash and continued the patrol.
“On the way back, we’ll check the other side,” the second guard said, then reported over the radio that everything was clear.

Five minutes later, the guards passed along the parallel row and carefully inspected the doors, locks, and seals of the same container from the opposite side.

Another minute—and the port swallowed them in noise and darkness.

Sergey finally drew a full breath and went back to passing the supplies. At that moment, a drunken voice came from inside—Alex’s:
“Grey, next time bring cigarettes. I smoked a whole pack on the first day. Took three—thought it’d last the week…”

Sergey bent toward the hole.
“What, are you drinking in there?”
“Nonstop,” Victor’s voice came back—heavy, but cheerful.
“You’re unbelievable,” Sergey muttered. “You packed food for exactly a week, but booze—sounds like you stocked up for a wedding.”
“We didn’t bring any alcohol,” Victor replied. “It was already here. Fifteen thousand bottles of Hennessy. Welcome to paradise.”

Sergey exhaled and let out a thin, almost animal sound—a restrained howl, equal parts longing and envy.
“Guys… I want to be there with you.”

Alex answered at once:
“We’d love that. Find someone to lock the door behind you, grab a sleeping bag, and you’re welcome.”

Sergey went quiet for a moment, then said:
“There’s no one. That’s the problem. No one I can trust—with you, or with myself.”

Silence settled again over the fugitives’ temporary refuge. Somewhere far off, a ferry sounded its horn as it departed for Portsmouth. The port choked on damp air, blind night, and the smell of diesel fuel, and Sergey—pressed against the cold roof—felt how a thin but unbreakable line was forming once more between him and those inside. The real adventurers.


Chapter Forty

The container holding the fugitives stood on the fourth level above the deck. Two more identical steel boxes rose above it. All around them were thousands of others, stacked in tight ranks like giant bricks in an iron wall. Their combined weight pressed not only on the ship’s structure, but on the minds of those hiding inside.

On the third day at sea, Alex lay stretched out on the pallets, staring at the ceiling. His left arm rested gently around Alyona, who lay on her side, her stomach pressed against her husband. She had been silent for hours, listening to the engine’s drone, the steady sway of the ship, and the rhythm of her own heartbeat, before she finally spoke.

“Alex… can you see the sky above us?”
“Yes, my love. I see the sky. And the stars. Sometimes even planes. They fly high, as if they’re hurrying toward us.”
“Then why are they always coming toward us, never catching up? We’re moving toward America…”

Alex smiled without opening his eyes.
“Maybe it’s because planes love the Sun. At night they fly to Europe, toward the sunrise. By day, they follow it to America. They don’t want to lose sight of the light. They want to stay with it.”

Alyona laughed softly.
“How romantic… little airplanes in love with a huge Sun…”

Her voice faded, her breathing evened out, and soon she was asleep. Alex remained still, staring at the black ceiling of the container, as if it were possible to break through it and reach the stars. A single tear slid down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket, and flicked it. A spark jumped—but no flame followed.
Over his knitted cap, an elastic band held a small headlamp in place. Alex switched it on, aimed the weak beam downward, and shook the lighter. Through the transparent casing, the shimmering mix of propane and butane was visible. He sighed, fully aware of what was happening. Carefully easing his sleeping wife’s head onto his folded sweater, Alex climbed down onto the metal floor.
Five steps from where he had been lying, an argument had flared between the Serb and Victor moments earlier.

“We had an agreement,” Victor said, barely keeping his voice down. “Water and food split evenly. We still have five days to New Jersey, and there’s only one canister left. Why do you give your son water every time he asks? We calculated one liter per person per day. Lazar drank his share in four.”

Stankovi; loomed over Victor, contempt ringing in his voice.
“He’s my son. And he’ll drink as much as he wants.”
“Your son is thirteen,” Victor said, stepping back half a pace, “and Alyona is sixteen. She’s only two years older than him. And she’s pregnant. She needs water more than anyone here, yet she’s sticking to the ration. If she starts running short, Alex and I will cut our share. You should do the same for your son.”
“Save it on yourselves.”

For a moment, both Victor and Alex thought Stankovi; had calmed down. They were wrong.

The hulking man gave a crooked smile, lowered himself to the floor, and—deliberately ignoring the proposal to cut his ration—went on:
“My son will drink as much as he wants. It’s because of you that we wasted two extra days in port. So you tighten your belts.”

Victor shook his head. His voice turned cold.
“Then start saving food. My people fed us the whole time we were stuck in Le Havre. You won’t have enough anyway. You burn through food the same way you burn through water—as if every day were your last, with no limits. If I’d known you were such a… bastard, I’d never have taken you with us.”

Stankovi; sprang to his feet and loomed over Victor, muscles swelling under his jacket.

Alex stepped in instantly.
“Mile, cool it. This isn’t the time to fight. Not over water. Not over food.”
From the depths of the container came Alyona’s weakened voice:
“Alex… come up here… something’s wrong.”

Alex climbed quickly over the crates to his wife and gently touched her face.
“What is it? Your temperature feels normal.”
“Everything hurts inside… the baby won’t stop moving. He used to stir before, but today it’s constant. My lower belly hurts—jerking, all the time… like hiccups. I’m scared. I think I’m going into premature labor.”

Alex went pale.
“Does that really happen?”
“Yes. Babies are sometimes born after seven months… and I’m exactly at seven.”

He squeezed her hand.
“We can’t handle this on our own. We have to get out. Turn ourselves in. The crew will help.”
“You’re right. If labor starts in here… neither I nor the baby will survive.”

Alex nodded, kissed her on the forehead, and began to crawl away.
“Where are you going?” Alyona asked, fear rising in her voice.
“For a hammer,” he said. “I’ll bang on the door. They’ll hear us.”

Alex pulled a hammer from his backpack, climbed over the crates to the far end of the container, and began pounding on the door.

The metal screamed at the very first blow. The crash that rolled through the container was like a gigantic church bell torn from its tower and hurled straight into a crowd. Each strike reverberated through the walls, the floor, through their bodies—sending a piercing vibration up the spine, crushing pressure into the chest, sealing the ears. The air itself seemed to thicken, losing its transparency and turning into a dense, pulsating mass. Echoes ricocheted inside the container, slamming off cold steel walls, unable to escape, returning as a furious, deafening roar. Under the hammer’s blows, the massive iron beast shuddered and groaned, emitting a low, almost animal growl, as if resisting the violation. In the damp night air, soaked with rust and sea salt, every strike sounded like an ominous omen—as though opening the container might unleash something forbidden, long hidden in its belly.

Alyona squeezed her eyes shut until they ached, clenching her teeth. She pressed her hands to her stomach, instinctively shielding the child from the sonic assault. Each new blow exploded in her ears.

Alex kept striking without pause, because he knew—this was their only chance.
“Are you out of your mind?!” Stankovi; bellowed from his pallet. “They’ll hear us!”
“That’s exactly what I want,” Alex answered, never stopping.

The Serb leapt up from the inflatable mattress and grabbed Alex’s raised arm mid-swing.
“They’ll kill us!” he shouted.

By then the echo had died away into the corrugated steel, and lowering his voice from a scream to a harsh, urgent growl, he added:
“Just like the Ukrainian crew killed the Africans on the container ship Mac Ruby in ’92. Eight refugees dumped into the ocean on the way to your beloved Le Havre.”
Alex froze, the hammer still in his hand. The air inside the container grew heavier—not from noise now, but from words. Alyona, lying on the crates, stopped moving as well. Everyone remembered the tragedy from seven years earlier, and what had once seemed a distant horror suddenly stepped closer, casting its shadow directly over them.
“It started the same way,” Mile went on more quietly, as if unwilling to disturb the dead. “One man asked for water. Another knocked on the wall… At night the ship stopped. The chief mate and the cook dragged the illegals out to the stern and shot five of them with a rifle they’d traded for an old tape recorder in an African port. When the bolt jammed, they finished the rest… with metal rods.”

Inside, it became as silent as a grave. The thick walls seemed to swallow even their breathing. Only gusts of wind whistling between the rows and levels of the container city reached them from outside. Somewhere in a corner, condensation began to drip, each drop sounding like a metronome, counting down the seconds of their lives.

Lazar sobbed—and began to cry softly.

Alex lowered the hammer, staring at the sealed door. Alyona clutched her stomach again—but now not from pain, from fear. The fear was sticky, viscous, muffled, like the air after an explosion.

“But…” Alex said quietly, never taking his eyes off the lock. “If it’s not labor, it’s still death. Here. No air. No water. No help.”

The Serb looked away. Silence thickened.

Alex hesitated for a second—but did not retreat.
“The Mac Ruby crew went to prison. Times have changed. I don’t believe they’d do the same to us.”
“Do whatever you want,” Stankovi; said, lowering himself onto a crate, “but I’m not coming out. I’m staying until America. And I won’t let you out either.”
He fell silent, his gaze moving from Alex to Victor.
“Know why the lighter wouldn’t catch?” Alex said softly. “There was gas. There was a spark. What was missing was oxygen. We’re boxed in by other containers—the air doesn’t circulate. Every breath we exhale stays here. We’re dying slowly of carbon dioxide.”
“I’m still not coming out,” Stankovi; muttered through his teeth. “The sailors will kill us for sure. Do you know what the captain will have to pay U.S. immigration for stowaways? Forty-five thousand each. He’d sooner dump us overboard.”
“You’re afraid for your son? I’m afraid for my wife—and for the child she could lose right here. To hell with that fifteen-thousand-dollar fine per head. We can barely breathe as it is.”
“Papa… will they really throw us away?” Lazar whispered.
“I’m certain of it.”

The boy began to cry again—quietly at first, then in shuddering sobs.
Stankovi; looked at his son with pity… then at Alex with naked fury. He lunged toward the open crate of cognac, snatched a bottle of Hennessy, and while Alex rummaged through his backpack, raised it high over his head.

Victor reacted instantly. He sprang forward, braced his hands against the crates, and drove both feet into Stankovi;’s back. The Serb crashed between the pallets.
Alex turned, not understanding what had happened.
“He was about to smash that bottle over your head,” Victor said, catching his breath.

Soaked in spilled cognac, Stankovi; rose unsteadily. In his fist he clutched the jagged neck of the broken bottle.

“Now you’ll both wash in blood,” he growled. “I tore Croats apart with my bare hands. There won’t be enough left of you to bury.”
“Think you can manage?” Alex asked, passing a large drill bit back over his shoulder to Victor.
“Bare hands are enough for a gorilla.”

Stankovi; swung, aiming for Victor’s chest. Victor pivoted, striking the Serb’s wrist with his left hand, and a moment later his fist connected with Stankovi;’s jaw. The giant crumpled, unconscious.

Alex carefully returned the drill to his backpack and pulled out the chisel.
“Bravo, Victor. Now calm Lazar, or we’ll drown in his tears,” Alex said.
“You going to punch through the wall?” Victor asked.
“Yes. It’s the only way. I finally understand why they haven’t heard us. The crew is either in the engine room—the roar of the engines masks everything—or on the bridge, sealed like a submarine. Only by breaching the wall can we reach them.”

Alex crawled toward the door, beside which they had improvised a toilet. His hands gripped the chisel and hammer, his soul clinging to hope.

At the far end of the stacked pallets, he slowly lowered himself to the floor, knelt, and began clearing the detritus accumulated over the past days. First he carefully pushed aside a dozen plastic bags of waste, then moved the urine-filled cognac bottles to the corner. The air was heavy, pungent with ammonia and rust. Standing in a stable stance, he retrieved the hammer and chisel from his backpack and began hacking into the steel door of the container.

Progress was slow. Each strike echoed through his chest, bouncing off the iron walls, reverberating as if through his own ribs. When half the opening was complete, and he and Victor struggled to bend the jagged metal outward, Alex froze. Behind the steel hid a monoblock refrigeration unit.

The cargo was non-perishable, and the unit was powered down. Silent as a dead heart, it had gone unnoticed by Victor’s assistant—Sergey, who had specifically recommended this container to the fugitives.

None of the passengers suspected that the four days of the voyage had been spent inside a refrigerated box.

Frustration hung in the air, but no one spoke of it. After a sip from a bottle, the men silently moved to the opposite door. The second chance—their last hope.
Stankovi; remained aloof. Since the jaw strike, he kept to himself. Only once, when he saw Alex and Victor struggling to bend the cut metal inward, did he step forward, silently help, and then retreat back into the shadows.

Little Lazar cried almost the entire time—not wailing aloud, but quietly, curled into himself, as if trying to vanish. He buried his face in the sleeves of his neat, sturdy jacket—not from shyness, but because he didn’t know where to hide from himself.

Alex watched him with wary sympathy. He saw a boy who wasn’t an orphan, not abandoned—the father was present, attentive, holding his hand—but that didn’t erase the fear gnawing at him. Somewhere beyond the silence, his mother and sister were out there… alive? Safe? With whom?

For Lazar, who had already witnessed corpses of children and adults in his short life, the unknown was far worse than any visible threat. Not knowing their fate had become a living torment, as real and heavy as the metal walls surrounding him.
The boy was afraid of everything — the silence, the noise, the voices, a lingering glance, even a casual touch — as if any movement might carry an answer with it. And it was an answer he was not ready to hear.

Alex understood. Understood better than he wanted to. It was one of the rare moments when he himself was afraid — afraid for Alyona, for the tiny life she carried beneath her heart. For the first time, the decisions he made were not his alone to survive. He had something to fight for now, a choice in how to save the people who loved him and had stayed loyal. Lazar had only his father — and the fear lodged in his chest like a shard of ice.

As Alex hacked at the metal with the chisel, he kept measuring the opening against his own body. Would he fit? He was certain that if a man his size could squeeze through, Alyona would manage too.

But as his namesake Suvorov once said, “It was smooth on paper… but they forgot about the ravines.”

One look was enough for Alyona.
“Make it wider, my love. My belly won’t pass.”

It took another half day to enlarge the opening in the container door. After that, they began gathering their things.

Alex walked over to Viktor.
“Come with us,” he said.

Viktor shook his head.
“I understand everything. Since Alyona got pregnant, she’s become your whole world. I’m not first anymore — and I shouldn’t be. It’s the way it’s meant to be.”

Lazar knelt before the jagged opening, staring down into the dark. Ten meters. Fourth tier. Below — the deck, the ocean, freedom, and the unknown. A narrow path of Hennessy crates led to the gap like a runway laid straight through the center of the container. The slab of metal Alex had cut free was bent inward, resting on the crate closest to the exit.

Alex, Alyona, Viktor, and Stankovich stood beside it. A backpack lay at Alex’s feet.

“You planning to take a running jump?” Stankovich muttered.

Alex turned to him, calm.
“Alyona can’t sit on my shoulders — not facing forward, not backward. Her belly’s in the way. She’ll have to crawl out on all fours, backward. Once both her feet are on my shoulders, I’ll start climbing down. The container will ‘give birth’ to her — and I’ll carry her the rest of the way. When she straightens up, you and Viktor hold her hands from above. Got it?”

Viktor pulled him into a fierce embrace.
“Funny… the container giving birth to Alyona. Don’t worry, brother. We’ll do it exactly the way you said.”
“Goodbye,” Alex said. “Thank you. For everything. We probably won’t see each other again. Good luck with your new life.”
“And to you and Alyona — all the best. Maybe our paths will cross again. What names should we look for?”

Alex leaned close and whispered to Viktor:
“Look for the Semyonovs. Alexey and Alyona.”
“That’s sharp thinking,” Viktor admired. “Nothing escapes your notice.”
Lazar, still staring into the darkness beyond the doorway, spoke to his father:
“Dad… it’s really high. We’re on the fourth floor… it’s scary.”

Stankovich pulled his son close.
“We’re not going out, son. Everything will be fine. Don’t be afraid.”

Alex approached and extended a hand to Stankovich.
“Don’t hold a grudge, Mil;. Everyone has someone they’re willing to protect. I understand.”
“I hope the crew leaves you alive,” he replied shortly.
“I’m sure they will. Close the hole from inside. Then no one will find you until New Jersey.”

Alex lay on his stomach and edged out through the opening. Half his body still hung in the gap when he said,
“Hand me the backpack.”

Viktor passed it through, straps first. Alex reached in, grabbed it, and flung it over his back. Vanishing into the night, he called out,
“Now help Alyona through.”

The two men lifted her carefully. She got onto all fours, crawled slowly toward the opening, guided by Alex’s voice and the steady hands of Viktor and Mil;, moving feet first.

The wind roared between the rows of metal giants. Clouds hung low over the containers, and rain, freezing in midair, struck the steel with clanging splashes. The massive container ship tore through storm-tossed waves. Its great length prevented the ocean from rocking it heavily, yet the waves relentlessly tried to lift the Atlantic Concert over two crests and snap it like a matchstick.

Clinging to the vertical bars of the door’s lock, Alex descended inch by inch. His hands gripped the steel so tightly that blood no longer reached the fingertips. The climbing harness, snug around his waist, looped twice around the slick bars, acting like the last tether of life, holding him from being flung backward into the dark abyss below.

Through the hole he had cut, Alyona slowly appeared. She crawled backward. The space between her body and the jagged edges of the opening was catastrophically narrow—barely a finger’s width. Inside the container, Viktor’s and Stankovich’s hands reached through, gripping her forearms tightly.

Once she reached the very edge, Alyona placed one foot on her husband’s shoulder and, balancing on him like a tightrope walker over an abyss, set down the other. Alex’s soaking jacket betrayed him, slipping beneath her feet. Suddenly, as if fate itself mocked them, her foot slipped—her desperate scream drowned in the howling wind, and she fell almost half a meter.

The monstrous momentum of her body jerked the men inside the container mercilessly. With a dull thud, their foreheads slammed against the cold iron door, and cursing in their native tongues, they clutched her arms even tighter, as if their own lives depended on it.

Alyona found her footing again, pressing her feet to her husband’s shoulders, then grasping the metal bars with both hands.

“Alex, I’m okay!” she shouted over the roar of the wind. “Come down.”

Like a sleepwalker, he began his slow descent, feeling the icy wind pierce him to the bone. Struggling to lift her head, Alyona looked into the ragged blackness of the hole. There, ghostlike, Viktor’s and Stankovich’s faces hovered, and in their eyes she saw not only anxiety and exhaustion, but something unexpectedly warm, almost familial. She could not hold back her tears. Thick, bitter drops ran down her gaunt face, mingling with the cold rain.

“Thank you…” she shouted over the ocean’s roar. “You just saved my life!”
Descending from the third tier to the second and reaching the container roof, Alex paused briefly. Alyona pressed close to the door, and he unbuckled his harness. Unable to refasten it to the lower container, he tossed it aside and continued his perilous descent until he finally felt the firm, icy deck beneath his feet.
Exhausted, he crouched on the thick metal plating and carefully helped his wife slide off his cramped, cramping shoulders. They fell back softly onto their backs—right onto the wet, slippery deck in the narrow, wind-whipped space between the massive, indifferent containers. The icy rain lashed their faces without mercy, and the sliver of gray sky glimpsed between the steel walls seemed close and hostile. Yet for the first time in long, torturous days, the long-awaited freedom stretched above them.

“How are you?” Alex asked, barely breathing.
“The trembling in my legs has passed,” Alyona whispered, shivering from the cold.
“We need to find the others.”
“Yes… We’re both soaked. I didn’t feel the cold while climbing, but now…” She shivered. “I’m turning into an icicle.”

They rose on unsteady legs, still swaying slightly.
“I don’t know where the superstructure is,” Alex said. “Let’s head toward the bow.”
“If we don’t know where we’re going, let’s move with the ship’s forward motion. Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Alyona suggested.


Chapter Forty-One

The night watch was a time of silence, routine, and half-sleep. Beyond the wide windows of the bridge stretched what seemed like an endless black void. The ocean merged with the sky into a single, mute monochrome. Only the deck lights and the red beacons on the antennas broke the darkness into small islands of light.
For the crew, it was an ordinary night shift. Inside the bridge, the dim, muted glow of the instrument panels flickered softly. It didn’t strain the eyes or interfere with watching the dark outside. At the control console sat the officer of the watch—a lean man in his forties, with a tired but focused face. In the corner, silently chewing on an apple, stood the helmsman: a stocky, bearded Greek, with hands more like sledgehammers than fingers.

Before them glowed a semicircle of digital displays and analog instruments. The main ones were the radar, the navigation display, the echo sounder, and two compasses—gyro and magnetic.

Separate from the main console, mounted on a pedestal in front of the helmsman, were the autopilot controls, the shortwave radio panel, and a row of alarm buttons—for everything from the engine room to the fire system.

Everything moved along in its usual, measured rhythm. Waves broke against the hull, and the automatic collision-avoidance system steadily refreshed data on vessels along the horizon.

And then—sharp metal screeching as a door on the port side was thrown open. Cold air rushed inside, carrying the smell of wet salt—and a long-forgotten sense of alarm.

Two figures stood in the doorway. A young man, no older than twenty, soaked through, his face carved with exhaustion. Beside him—a pregnant girl of about fifteen, barely able to stay on her feet. In their eyes lived crushing fatigue, fear—and hope.

“Good evening,” Alex said in English, stepping forward.

The helmsman dropped the apple. It hit the floor with a dull thud, bounced once, and rolled across the metal deck, leaving a wet trail behind it. For a few seconds, everyone on the bridge watched its movement in silence—as if the apple helped them grasp the reality of what was happening.

The pause was brief.

For Alex and Alyona, it felt like an eternity.

Then the shouting erupted. Both bearded men began speaking at once—fast, agitated, in a language the couple didn’t understand. Their hands flew in all directions, pointing at Alex and Alyona, then at each other.

Alyona pressed herself against Alex, her fingers digging into his jacket. He glanced back, peering into the darkness behind them.
“If I were alone,” he said quietly, “I’d run.”
“Together, we won’t get far,” Alyona whispered.

Breaking off their argument, the officer of the watch jumped up from his chair and, turning to the unexpected guests, blurted out in English with a faint Balkan accent:
“What the fuck?”

Alex had no answer to such a comprehensive question. Alyona didn’t understand English at all.

Once the initial shock passed, the night watch shifted into automatic mode, following procedures for extraordinary situations at sea. Like a drill repeated dozens of times: the officer hit the internal alarm button, summoning the captain and the chief engineer; the helmsman rushed to the door to shut out the night gale.

While waiting for the captain and the chief engineer to arrive, both men looked at the couple no longer as apparitions, but as a problem—one that demanded an explanation.

“How?.. From where?.. Why?..” the officer rattled off.
“From the container deck,” Alex rasped. “We were locked inside. Please… she’s going into labor.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed. Instruments, alarms, routine—everything vanished in an instant. Only reality remained: raw, living, and nowhere described in the ship’s manuals.

The captain arrived on the bridge. A bearded man in his fifties, he exchanged a few quick phrases with the officer and then turned toward the stowaways.
Alex didn’t catch their words, but he understood the main thing—the crew was Greek.

“My name is Alex. This is my wife, Alyona. We hid in a container to get to New Jersey. Because of the carbon dioxide buildup inside, she became ill, and we decided to turn ourselves in.”

The captain gave a short nod to the officer. The officer grabbed the radio microphone.
“Atlantic Concert calling Halifax Port. Over.”
“Halifax Port, receiving,” a voice replied.
“We have an emergency situation. Two illegal passengers have been found on board.”
“According to our data, you are bound for New Jersey. Deliver them there.”
The officer glanced at the captain. The captain shook his head.
“One of them is pregnant. Very young—almost a child. Late term. Complaining of severe discomfort.”
“Understood. We will notify the Coast Guard and the duty officer at Shearwater Air Force Base. However, you are far out. Our data puts you at four hundred thirty nautical miles. Coast Guard helicopter range is two hundred; Air Force rescue helicopters—two hundred fifty at most. What is your speed?”
“Twelve knots.”
“Copy that. A Sea King won’t be able to intercept you for at least fifteen hours. Hold steady—we’ll do our best to arrange an evacuation.”
“Understood. We’ll do everything possible to keep her alive.”
The captain picked up the shipwide intercom microphone and ordered,
“Chief officer to the bridge immediately.”
Then he turned to Alex.
“How many of you were in the container?”
“Two.”
“We’ll feed you and take you to a cabin. Get some rest. After lunch, you’ll show us where your container was.”
“There’s no one else there,” Alex said with certainty.
“That’s beside the point,” the captain replied. “Before we reach port, I need to know what damage was done to the container and the cargo. More importantly—whether there are any other passengers on board, and if they’re alive.”
The door opened again. The chief officer stepped in—a tall, gaunt man with a graying beard.
“Passengers? Well, I’ll be damned. Didn’t know we’d turned into a cruise liner.”
The captain smirked.
“We’re no longer first class, but we haven’t sunk to steerage just yet.”
“Have you contacted Halifax?”
“Yes. They promised to pick up the mother-to-be by tomorrow evening.”
“Where do we put them?”
“In the best cabin—the one for inspectors. Tell the cook to feed the woman like a queen. Fruit, vegetables, juices. Plenty of vitamins and calories. The husband gets treated like any other crew member. Allow them deck walks—an hour after breakfast and before dinner. And assign someone to keep an eye on them.”
“Aye, Captain,” the chief officer said, then turned to the passengers and gestured for them to follow.

The captain watched them go, then faced the watch again.
“What do you think—were they really alone in there?”
The men considered it.
“If the container was low in the stack, maybe. If it was higher, she’d never have made it out.”
“How would they know where the container would be stowed?”
“That’s what bothers me. Feels like we’re hearing only part of the story.”
“We’ll find out tomorrow.”


Chapter Forty-Two

Warmth and light greeted them like an embrace. Two neatly made beds, a leather sofa, a table, a chair. A television mounted on the wall, and beneath it a cabinet with a VCR. Shelves sagged under the weight of old videotapes. A half-open door led to the shower.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” the chief mate said. “Clean linen’s in the wardrobe. Shower’s through that door. Take your clothes off and leave them outside — they’ll be washed. A deckhand will come by in half an hour to collect them. They’ll be dry by morning. It’s warm in here, and there’s a curtain, so feel free to walk around naked while everything’s drying.”
There was a knock. The chief mate opened the door — a sailor stood there with a tray of food.
“This is for you,” the mate said. Then, turning to the sailor, he added, “Come back in twenty minutes. Take their clothes and see to it.”
The sailor nodded and left.
“Excuse me… what nationality are you?” Alex asked.
“The crew’s Greek,” the chief mate replied proudly. “We’re sailors with three thousand years of history.”
“I thought so.”
When the door closed behind him, Alyona said quietly,
“You’re half Greek yourself. Why didn’t you say so?”
“I was ashamed,” Alex admitted. “A Greek who doesn’t know a single word of Greek. When the first officer and the helmsman were shouting at each other, I didn’t even realize what language they were swearing in.”
Alyona took a towel and went into the shower. Alex peeled off his wet clothes, leaving only his underwear, sat down by the cabinet, and began sorting through the old videotapes. The worn labels and faded covers pulled his thoughts backward — to the films once shown in underground video parlors.
The Incredible Career of a Gangster… He smirked, holding a cassette of Scarface, Al Pacino staring out from the cover. Just like Tony Montana, I started from nothing. Five years ago I was shaking down video parlors and tire shops in Moscow and the surrounding region. Then I robbed freight cars in rail yards, collected tribute from truckers on highways and rest stops. Three years ago I smashed vending machines in Germany. Then I joined the French underworld — and rose fast. Controlling the shipment of illegal migrants from four Channel ports earned me half a million euros. After one partner’s betrayal, I served six months inside. End result: empty pockets, two bullet scars, three knife scars. And you know what? — he asked himself, and answered honestly — All of that is nothing compared to what I have now. I have Alyona. And soon I’ll be a father.
________________________________________
On the roof of the upper tier of containers, just behind the ship’s superstructure, four figures were about to make a decision that could change their lives forever. The sea rocked gently beneath the steel belly of the Atlantic Concert, while along the deck a massive rotorcraft drifted slowly past.
A Sikorsky S-61 — nicknamed the “Sea King” — moved along the hull like a predator searching for prey. Pilots of the 428th Anti-Submarine Squadron of the Royal Canadian Navy were assessing the possibility of a landing. The container tops behind the superstructure offered enough surface area, but the helicopter commander doubted whether the metal roofs could bear a load of eight and a half tons.
There was only one option — hover astern and winch the woman aboard using a cable and harness. The helicopter made a smooth turn beyond the stern and, whipping the salty, damp air into a frenzy, came to a hover above the container ship.

Against the sky, framed by the open helicopter door, a rescuer’s figure was visible. A blue helmet sat on his head, its black visor pulled down, hiding his face almost to the lips. From a distance, it looked less like a man than a giant dragonfly, coldly studying its prey.

While Alex and Alyona stared at the figure, the chief mate’s radio crackled to life in his hands.

“Atlantic Concert, this is Sea King–428. I see four people at the stern. I can take only one.”
“Two require evacuation,” the mate replied without taking his eyes off the helicopter. “A pregnant woman and her husband.”
“Is the man’s life in danger?”
“No. Only the woman is at risk.”
“Then only she flies. The rest stay.”

Shouting over the roar of the turbines, Alex translated the pilot’s words for his wife. Alyona went pale. The twenty-meter rotor blasted powerful streams of air across the deck. The storm wind tore at her hair and clothes, burned her hands and face, but she seemed not to feel the cold. In that moment, all physical sensations dulled. What took their place was the terror of separation.
“I won’t fly without you,” she whispered, gripping her husband’s hand. “They’ll take me to Halifax. You’ll be sent to New Jersey. We’ll never see each other again.”

Alex nodded and looked up at the chief mate.
“She refuses to go alone.”
“Sikorsky,” the mate shouted into the radio, “the woman refuses evacuation without her husband.”

The radio crackled almost instantly. In the pilot’s voice — watching the scene from the cockpit — there was unmistakable strain.

“I have ten minutes to lift one passenger. I’m at the edge of my range. You have one minute to decide. Choose: either she flies alone, or I return empty.”

The world around Alex froze. The sound of the rotors seemed to retreat into the background of his mind. This was one of those rare moments when he was no longer in control. All responsibility lay with him — and there was no real choice. He was not ready for that.

He turned mechanically toward Alyona. His body felt heavy, weighted down. He no longer felt the wind or heard the noise. He looked into her eyes — alive, frightened. He knew she was waiting for him to say, Go. But his lips would not obey. Because of every instinct in him — the old Alex, the one who had survived too much — was screaming: Don’t let go. Never.

His thoughts were interrupted by the chief mate. He opened a leather folder, took out a sheet of paper, and handed it to Alex.

“This is a refusal of evacuation. If she’s decided to stay — she needs to sign.”
Alex looked at Alyona again. Their eyes met, and he saw that there was no panic in her gaze, no confusion — only resolve.

She knew she wouldn’t manage without him — and she was ready to take the risk.
“I’m not flying.”
“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.
“I feel much better than I did in the container,” she nodded. “I’ll manage.”

Then she took the pen and, without hesitation, signed the refusal.
As she handed the document to the chief mate, a gust of wind tore the sheet from Alyona’s fingers. The reaction of the forty-year-old Greek stunned everyone: in a single motion he caught the paper — the same way, as a boy growing up on one of the Eastern Sporades islands, he had snatched flies out of the air in his parents’ house.
“The woman has officially refused evacuation,” he said into the microphone, waving the sheet toward the helicopter commander. “Return to base.”

The helicopter tilted slightly, its side door slid shut, and over the radio came:
“Atlantic Concert, fair seas and a following wind!”
“He wished us calm seas and a following wind,” Alex translated, then added, “It’s a traditional blessing from the days of sail.”

Without taking his eyes off the sky, the chief mate replied:
“Safe landing to you, Sea King–428,” tucked the radio into the breast pocket of his heavy jacket, and, while Alex watched the helicopter fade into the clouds, said to Alyona, “Now hold on. Until Halifax, no one will be able to help you.”

The two crewmen and the young couple carefully made their way across the wet metal toward the ladder leading down to the deck. Alex glanced back. The helicopter was already racing away from the ship, shrinking into a trembling dot on the horizon.
He felt no regret over Alyona’s decision. They were together — and that was all that mattered.

They returned from their evening walk on deck tired but happy. The cold wind had left a faint flush on their cheeks, and their faces glowed with smiles, as if the anxiety of the past days had retreated, if only by a step.

“I’d only ever seen dolphins on TV before!” Alyona said excitedly as she crossed the cabin threshold. “And a whole pod followed us! At least forty of them. Can you imagine? I thought they only lived in warm seas…”

Alex just smiled and sank down onto the rubberized floor by the cabinet. He took out a videotape and studied it for several seconds with such concentration that it seemed as though something far more important than evening entertainment depended on the choice.

A tray of food waited on the table. Alyona picked up an apple and took a small bite.
“Want an apple?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled as she chewed.
“If there’s another one, toss it to me. If it’s the only one and you’re offering to share, better eat it yourself,” Alex replied lazily, without looking away from the tapes.

She laughed softly, but didn’t have time to answer. Her gaze suddenly fixed on the porthole. Alyona set the apple down on the table, stepped closer, pulled the curtain aside—and froze.

“Alex…” she whispered, her voice trembling. “There’s a grate. Metal bars. They weren’t there when we went out. They appeared within the last hour.”
Alex stood up and moved beside her. Squinting, he peered through the glass.
“We might not have noticed them at night.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I looked out this morning while you were showering. There was nothing there.”

At that moment, a harsh metallic crackle sounded from outside—the unmistakable rasp of welding.

Alex lunged for the door, slammed the handle down, shoved hard. Useless. The door didn’t budge. He tore the curtain from the door’s porthole and saw a man on the other side, wearing a welding mask. Unhurried, disturbingly calm, he was sealing the door from the outside, as if he weren’t walling people in but simply doing routine maintenance.

“The door won’t open anymore,” Alex said quietly, stepping back.
“Knock!” Alyona screamed in panic. “Make them open it! Tell them I’m scared!”
Alex pounded on the door with his fists, kicked it, rammed it with his shoulder—but the welder remained deaf. He finished the seam, clicked off the torch, lifted his mask, and walked away, dragging the welding unit and gas cylinders behind him.
“Alex… what does this mean?”

He stared in silence at the fresh welds, still gleaming on the metal.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “Not a single idea.”


Chapter Forty-Three

The cold morning of February 23, 2002, glazed the porthole with thin frost. Through the silvery film the port emerged: heavy cranes, naval ships, a pair of diesel submarines moored at the wall, and a light-green lattice bridge. The massive Atlantic Concert was slowly entering the narrows of Bedford Basin. From bow and stern, two tugboats escorted her, guiding the ship toward the quay.
By a twist of fate, Alex and Alyona found themselves in a city with a rich—and tragic—past. The young couple had no idea that their container ship was passing through the very place where, in 1917, the most powerful non-nuclear explosion in human history had thundered. When the French vessel Mont-Blanc, loaded with explosives, collided with the Norwegian Imo, two and a half thousand tons of TNT detonated. More than two thousand city residents were killed, nearly ten thousand wounded. The entire northern district was wiped out. Some whispered it had been sabotage—Lev Trotsky’s name was even mentioned, as he happened to be imprisoned in Antigonish, 150 kilometers from Halifax, at the time. Though sabotage was never officially confirmed, the theory still lives on in local lore.

Alex stood by the window, studying the cityscape. Alyona lay on the bunk under a blanket, as if waiting for something inevitable. Suddenly, he exclaimed with boyish excitement:
“Get up, Alyona. We’re in America. I saw it—we’ve arrived.”

She slowly turned onto her side.
“Why do you think it’s America? They were taking us to Halifax. That’s Canada. You told the Afghan guy and the gypsies they’d end up here—and now you’ve come yourself.”
“I saw a sign. It said ‘HOLLYWOOD.’”
“Where?”
“Above the roof of a shipyard workshop. Look for yourself.”
Reluctantly, Alyona got up and stepped to the porthole. Alex moved aside to give her room. She peered out.
“I don’t see any sign. Just the bridge and the port.”
He pressed his face to the glass again, scanning left and right. The sign was gone.
“We already passed it. I swear I saw it. There’s no Hollywood in Canada.”
“Oh sure,” she smirked. “Just like Karlsson who lived on the roof—‘he was there, but he flew away.’”
________________________________________

Down the gangway of the Atlantic Concert, now berthed at the Bedford Basin container terminal, men in dark uniforms climbed aboard one after another. Two officers from the Canada Border Services Agency. They were met by the ship’s captain and the chief mate. Off to the side stood the same welder-seaman, his mask in hand.

After a brief exchange of routine phrases, the male officer followed the captain, while his female colleague went with the chief mate.

The welder followed the mate to the cabin door, cut through the tack welds along the edge, and carefully ground down the scorched metal. Gray sparks flew from the grinding wheel, briefly lighting the dim corridor. Five steps behind him, shielding their eyes with the brims of their caps, stood the others.
When the last flecks of metal settled on the floor, the second border officer joined them.

A tall, lean man in a dark-blue uniform said quietly to his partner:
“The captain says there were two of them, and that the crew inspected all the containers from the outside and found no signs of other stowaways. I’m not convinced—but I see no grounds to keep the ship in port for a week or two to inspect ten thousand containers.”
“Agreed. If he lied to us, or if they really searched and found nothing, he can explain that to the Americans. For now, let’s deal with these two.”
The officer gestured for his partner to enter the cabin first, then blocked the doorway with his body and raised a hand, stopping the chief mate.
“Stay outside,” he said firmly. “And make sure no one disturbs us.”
The door clicked shut. The mate exhaled and turned to the welder.
“What are you staring at?” he muttered. “Go get some rest. Until they take the passengers away, this ship isn’t going anywhere.”


Chapter Forty-Four

The office of the military police at the Atlantic Fleet naval base in Stadacona was modest but comfortable, orderly without any excess. A desk stood by a frosted window; on it lay a pen set and a folder containing the case of the two undocumented migrants.

The female officer sat comfortably behind the desk, opened the folder, and studied Alena, who was seated opposite her.

The young woman—still almost a girl by appearance—held a paper cup of coffee in both hands. On the table in front of her stood a saucer with a small muffin.

“Tell me what you were doing in Paris,” the officer began in French. “Where did you live? How did you survive? Did you attend school?”

“In the first days, before I met Alex, we lived in train stations,” Alena replied, tired but composed. “During the day at Gare d’Austerlitz, at night at Gare de Lyon. That’s where we got food, too. Later Alex took us to the migration office. They gave us a room in a migrant shelter—Claude Bernard Alley, number five, room two-ten. I was sent to school, and my mother to French classes. I studied and received a stipend. My mother attended the courses. Alex supported us—emotionally and financially.”

“And how did he earn money?”

“He worked in a restaurant. As a doorman, sometimes as security.”

“Only that?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t see each other often. When my mother was in the hospital, he stayed overnight with me. I was studying. I was fourteen. I didn’t ask about his affairs.”

The officer nodded and moved on.

“When and why did you decide to leave France and come to Canada?”

“We weren’t going to Canada,” Alena said. “We were sailing to America. But I became ill. Because of the baby. So we surrendered to the crew.”

“That much I know,” the officer said. “Let me rephrase. Why did you leave France? And who put you in the container?”

“The second question isn’t for me,” Alena replied calmly. “My task is to give birth to a child. Alex dreams of a son. He’ll do everything to keep our child safe. We decided to leave when my husband was issued a deportation order. We were married in church immediately. We can’t go back there—neither he nor I. We want to start over in a country of immigrants, people like us.”

“Why couldn’t you return to Ukraine?”

“Because of my mother’s debts. I would have become collateral for her creditors. I would have been sold into sexual slavery—until my mother returned from France. And she wouldn’t have returned. I know her. In Ukraine, death awaits me. That’s the truth.”

“And Alex?”

“He is my husband. The father of my unborn child. He won’t abandon me. He has nowhere to go. No home. No family.”

“Why do you think, at twenty, he treats your pregnancy with such care?”

“Because he lacked love as a child. His parents were consumed by careers and themselves. And at fourteen, he was left completely alone. He knows what it means to be unwanted. That’s why I’m certain he will be an exceptional father.”

“Which church married you?”

“Saint Vincent’s Church. In Saint-Malo. An elderly priest serves there—Father Jean-Paul. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions. He simply blessed us.”

“What were you wearing that day? And what was the weather like?”

“I wore a white jacket and jeans. Alex wore his old leather jacket—the one he never took off—and khaki trousers with cargo pockets. It was December tenth. Snow was falling in heavy flakes. It was windy outside, cold even inside the church. But I remember—we stood before the altar, holding hands, and he whispered to me that he would never let me go again.”

The officer was silent for several seconds, making notes in the folder.

“Tell me honestly, Alena. Do you trust him completely? Are you afraid of him?”

“No,” Alena replied firmly. “He has never betrayed anyone. Not me. Not my mother. Not his friends. Not in France, not on the deck, not in the container. He has always kept his word. Where we come from, they say: he answers for his words.”

“Has he broken the law?”

“I’m not stupid,” Alena said. “I understand what he’s done. He crossed several borders illegally, hid in a container, crossed the ocean. But he’s not a criminal. He was trying to survive—and to save me. And I don’t want you to send him back to where he was.”

“And if we still have to deport him?”

Alena raised her eyes and looked at the officer for a long moment before answering.

“Then deport me too. We are a family. And a family cannot be divided.”

The officer studied Alena’s eyes carefully, trying to determine whether she was lying.

“Tell me under what circumstances Alex became an orphan,” the investigator asked.

Alena looked away. For a brief second her shoulders seemed to flinch, but her voice remained steady.

“It’s an old story. Eight years ago. More than half my life. A story he doesn’t like to talk about. I know it only because I heard it once—by accident. Back in Paris, during one of the riots, the power was cut in the working-class neighborhoods where poor French families, migrants, and students live. It was cold outside, and even under a blanket the dormitory was chilly. So we sat on the floor near the radiator. That’s when he told me how he became an orphan.”

She took a sip of coffee and continued.

“His father was a high-ranking member of the Communist Party of Moldova. After the collapse of the Union, when the republic became independent, nationalists came to power. The atmosphere turned hostile—especially toward Russian speakers and those considered ‘Soviet functionaries.’ What happened to Ceau;escu in Romania in eighty-nine inspired someone in Chi;in;u in ninety-two. Several Central Committee members were killed. His father was among them.”

She spoke calmly, unhurriedly, as if recounting a scene from a film.

“A month earlier, his mother—she was from Reutov, near Moscow—sent Alex to his grandmother. Intuition? Coincidence? I don’t know. When he arrived, everything was still normal. But two weeks later he learned that both his parents were dead. Not just killed—publicly executed. His grandmother died three years later, and he was left alone.”

The officer continued making notes in silence.

“You say he’s Moldovan?”

“By his father, yes. By his mother—Russian. He hasn’t been back to Moldova since. You could say he grew up in Russia. For almost a year he managed to hide from the police to avoid being sent to an orphanage. Then somehow he made it to Germany, and from there to France. That’s all I know about him, ma’am.”

“Then my next question. After the marriage—why did it become dangerous for you to remain in France?”

Alena looked at the officer. Now she spoke not as a girl, but as a woman capable of defending herself and those she loved.

“We couldn’t stay. And even if we tried, we wouldn’t have been allowed to. Alex received a deportation order. It said: thirty days. If you don’t leave—you go to prison. He has no citizenship, no registered address, no protection. He is nobody. He doesn’t even exist in the databases. Do you understand? No passport. No driver’s license. Thank God they have free hospitals there—otherwise he would’ve died long ago.”

“He could have applied for asylum.”

“Without a passport, how could he prove that his father was a member of the Moldovan Communist Party’s Central Committee?”

“And why didn’t he have a Moldovan or Russian passport? Or any document confirming his identity?”

“Because, ma’am, where we come from, passports are issued at sixteen. So are driver’s licenses. Children in the USSR had no photo identification at all.”

“But after the church wedding, you could have registered the marriage at city hall.”

“After the wedding? We did go to city hall. It was two blocks from the apartment we rented. They told us we had violated migration rules. A marriage concluded without legal status couldn’t be recognized as valid. I’m pregnant. He has no documents. We became a target for the police. They might have let me stay—but not him.”

The officer leaned forward slightly.

“Why are you so confident about all this?”

Alena smiled faintly.

“Because I spent more than a year living in shelters for refugees and undocumented migrants. I’ve seen how state systems really work. When you’re underage, pregnant, and don’t speak the language well—you’re nobody.”