Izhevsk Hill, Izhevsk, Russia

November 18th, 1991, 22h46’

56.8619° N, 53.2324° E

Pavel Ustinov ran like he had never ran before. His shoes stepped on slippery fern leaves; he fell face-flat to the ground, rolled a few rounds before banging his back against a pine tree. The back of his head was leaking blood. He immediately jumped up, as if all the pain from the fall didn’t exist.

His life depended on the next sixty seconds, and he knew it.

Pavel had never seen his fellow soldiers slain in such fashion before. It was a literal blink of an eye, before all seven of them collapsed like dominoes. Pavel couldn’t even see the face of the man who killed them behind that person’s black cloak, and he didn’t wish to. His breathing was erratic, his legs were falling apart. Just run, as fast as you can, don’t fight back, don’t look back, he told himself.

He could see their camp on the foot of the hill; orange light flickered from the wood fireplaces inside the tents. Forty-five seconds to reach it. He needed to warn them about this inhuman individual. He needed his superiors to come up with a thorough plan. He needed protection.

The pine needles swayed on the high tree in front of Pavel. He looked up, his pupils swollen in utmost fear. Within seconds, his head dropped to the cold snowy ground, his body soon followed.

The assailant was hiding behind the pine tree the whole time, waiting for Pavel to run across. He wiped blood off of his tactical knife with Pavel’s jacket, then fleetly buried him under the snow. No one could find out about what happened today.

The assailant under the name Boris Zhukov clicked his tongue. If it was twelve years ago, when his legs still worked as they should, when his eyes were still sharp enough to read fine prints from a poster from across the street, he wouldn’t have even given this soldier a chance to run. His heedlessness reminded him of how old he had gotten.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Zhukov walked in the opposite direction, facing the concrete fortress on the other side of the hillside. So that’s the puny Izhevsk fort. This fort won’t even survive another week, and everyone inside it will be dead meat by then.

As he kept on walking, he realized he was being followed. The steps of the man following him were very discreet and almost silent, but they could not deceive a man with forty years in the business. Must be an assassin. However, the assassin didn’t carry weapons with him nor did he intend on killing. Zhukov kept a safe distance from him; and when he finally reached a place deep within the forest, where no one else could interfere with them, he whispered as he took off his cloak.

“I know you were hiding under the ferns. I also know you’re not Pavlyuchenko’s man. Show yourself.”

The stalker was a man in the green uniform, indicating he was from Smolnikov’s troop. The uniform was nothing peculiar, but the rough cloth stuck on his left eye might not have been purely decoration.

“Pleasure to meet you, Sir.” The man emerged from his hiding spot, giving Zhukov a military salute, although he was unsure Zhukov could see him approaching from behind, “You must be Deputy Minister Zhu—“

It was only a split second before the assassin felt a hand half-squeezed onto his neck. Zhukov’s speed shocked him - he had never seen anyone moving so fast that his eyes couldn’t detect. If this man wanted the assassin dead, he would’ve been dead without knowing.

“Don’t call me by that name, young one. My name is Ivan Smirnov, and I’m a woodcutter.” He pressed his face close to the man; their faces were so close that the man in the green uniform could smell the foul in his breath. The stench of years of isolation in Siberia without access to toothpaste. The assassin had the opportunity to closely observe Zhukov’s face. He had a strange appearance, almost as if it was contrived. His grayish hair was pointy and wizened, to the point it felt like it could mummify itself. His heavy eyes sunken, as if they were pulled down by boulders. His beard was one that must have been subjected to years of neglect: straggly, bedraggled and spittle flecked. His face was drudged, worn, tanned from exposure to the elements. His words were threatening, but his voice was frail and fragile; the assassin thought such a voice was a perfect façade for one of the most powerful beings once swept across the country.

“My sincerest apology. Pleasure to meet you, Mister Smirnov. I came to greet you on behalf of Commander Artem Dzyuba.”

The assassin kept his composure. Perhaps, not mentioning his real name was beneficial for both of them. Boris Zhukov couldn’t let people know he was still alive, and simply mentioning his name could spell death for the unfortunate convict. Zhukov was the ultimate traitor to the Republic, the traitor to the regime. A commoner would never understand why somebody would give up a prestigious job in the Ministry, a comfortable life wallowed in the velvet of affluence, to live a life of a deserter, an exiled, an outcast. All of a sudden, Zhukov was left penniless, all feats and accomplishments wiped out from the records like they never existed, being alienated by his own circle of friends. The life of the poor is not a life worth living, and Zhukov dived into such life like a mayfly crashing onto a streetlight.

Zhukov locked his eyes straight onto the assassin’s eyes, trying to scoop out every ounce of casuistry and deceit inside the person’s mind. Finally, the ex-Deputy Minister of the Republic of Moskva let go of the assassin’s neck, who was now an honest man, according to his personal judgment.

“You don’t know how much danger I’m putting myself in to see the fucker.” Zhukov spat on the ground, “The old wretch better have a good reason for this.” Zhukov still hadn’t forgotten the hatred of deception, the betrayal that Dzyuba poured over his head a long time ago. He didn’t know either to thank or to just snap his old pal’s neck in half when he saw him. If it wasn’t for Dzyuba, Zhukov would never have even been considered to become a person of such strange, heretic even, power. But, of course, Dzyuba didn’t know that. Zhukov was sure that the old bastard sent him on that mission twenty five years ago was so he could die in his place.

And Dzyuba had the nerve to contact him again? Zhukov had wanted to dismiss the notifications as soon as he saw the desperate signals from Dzyuba over his private communication line. However, there were questions the old man needed answers for. “I feel ashamed of myself,” Dzyuba once told Zhukov, face-to-face, “I’m so shameful, that I couldn’t bring myself to ask for your help in times of trouble. You need not worry, for I won’t ever contact your for as long as I live.” He wasn’t surprised the distasteful man asked for his aid, but why now? Twelve years ago, when Zhukov was in the height of his power, Dzyuba didn’t call him. Eight years ago, when the ex-Deputy Minister’s army was strong enough to steamroll over Moskva and flatten it like a pancake, Dzyuba didn’t call him. So why now, when Zhukov had nothing left?

“Actually. . .” The assassin tried his best to not rub his neck, “The reason the Commander requested your presence was because he had passed away.”

Zhukov’s body became stiff. “Come again? Are you playing tricks on me, young one?”

“No. The Commander had instructed me to contact you and give you this letter, should he pass away. I wouldn’t have even been able to get up to this hill if it wasn’t for the Commander’s underground tunnel.” The assassin approached Zhukov, his steps were calm and unabated. Then, he knelt on his feet, his face bowed to the ground, his hands held up a letter wrapped in sandpaper. In Zhukov’s eyes, his posture was like a squire waiting to be knighted by a king.

Zhukov slowly opened the letter, held it up against the moonlight, eyes narrowed to read clearly. The old man thought that he had already forgotten how to get emotional, but he couldn’t help it. His throat choked, but he did not cry. He was trained to not cry. So, that bastard finally died, didn’t he? And here Zhukov thought that leeches would outlive any other human beings. In the end, Zhukov decided that it didn’t matter how Dzyuba had lived his life, they were still friends. Dzyuba was an important enough person in his life for his fossilized heart to wilt a little more when bastard bit the dust.

Then, he looked down at the man in his thirties, one with a large, bloody tarp, covering his left eye, one that seemed to have been hit by a bullet.

“You are Maksim Maksimov, aren’t you?” Zhukov asked.

Maksimov looked up. “Yes, Sir.”

“Don’t call me Sir, I’m a woodcutter. Have you read this letter?”

“I haven’t.”

“I don’t know if you have thanked Artem or not, but you should at least give him that.”

“Pardon?”

Zhukov picked up his cloak, wrapped the letter in it, and then looked up at the moon. The moon shone strangely brightly tonight. “This letter is your boarding pass to freedom. He just saved your life.”