Page 17 of The Pakhan's Bride

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Stepping out of the plane, I leave the airport and head for my car, which then drops me at the old finance building near Red Square. Three stories of concrete and paranoia. My people are already waiting—the usual suspects, arranged by loyalty and proximity to the coffee machine. Nobody looks up as I walk in, but I see phones drop, conversations clip short, the space tighten. I have that effect. I cultivate it. The conference room is pure Soviet—linoleum, stained oak, fluorescent lights. The table is scarred from a thousand impromptu interrogations. At least the satellite link is new.

They've covered the table with satellite prints, port manifests, stacks of paper coded with Cyrillic shorthand and what passes for forensic handwriting in my operation. Three men wait. Antonov is tall and hungry, the kind of man who won't stop climbing until he owns the mountain or dies on it. Orlov issmall, compact, but dangerous. He smiles with too many teeth and always sits closest to the exits. Sokolov is the best analyst in Moscow, but he stinks of garlic and never meets my eye. I can forgive a lot in a man with his skill set.

I take the head of the table but don't sit. It keeps them off balance. "Report."

Antonov goes first. "Odessa port, last six months. Twenty-six percent uptick in diplomatic clearances. Most flagged for 'state security'. No inspections, no scans, straight to air or rail. Primary route, Southern line. Most manifests list only 'official supplies', but the weight doesn't match."

I nod once. "Show me the tags."

He lays out four manifests. The names are bland, but the stamps are all from the same office. The Baranov seal, red and black, centered above a hawk. I watch Sokolov's eyes flick to my face, measuring my reaction. I give him nothing.

Orlov cuts in. "We ran the numbers. Baranov clan hasn't moved this much in years. Not since the Turkish pipeline collapse. They're pushing something big."

"People?"

Orlov shrugs. "Maybe. Could be hardware. Could be cash. The volumes are massive, but the containers are diplomatic. Even the Americans won't touch those."

I lean over the table. "You sound impressed."

He grins sheepishly. "Only with the scale, sir."

The last report is Sokolov's. He pulls up a series of surveillance photos, grainy and wet from a drone parked above the Black Sea. "Not just Odessa. We tracked Baranov affiliates at every major southern port—Batumi, Varna, Constanta. All using similar channels, all leveraging diplomatic staff. They've built up presence at every consulate in the lower Balkans. Over fifty new hires with state credentials."

I study the prints. "What's their endgame?" I ask, not really needing an answer.

Antonov shrugs. "If it's the old game, they're arming someone. If it's the new one, they're bringing someone in."

I finally sit. The chair creaks in weak protest. "I want access to the Southern Customs Hall records, all ports from Montenegro to Sochi. I want the full names on every Baranov diplomatic credential issued in the last eighteen months. I want eyes on every delivery from the southern corridor, and I want it last week."

The three men nod in perfect unison.

"And Sokolov?"

He looks up.

"If you leak any of this to the Americans, I will know. And you will be working border patrol in Vorkuta for the rest of your miserable life."

He chuckles but nods. The meeting breaks. My men scatter to their tasks, notebooks in hand, egos trimmed for efficiency. I stand by the window, rain still ticking against the glass. Moscow looks no better than before. I crush the thought, light a cigarette, and start plotting my next move.

A mere matter of four hours later, I'm at the gates of the Southern Customs Hall. Access should have taken a day, perhaps two, but the right threats make doors open quicker than they otherwise would. The Soviet architects built the Southern Customs Hall to outlast God and, judging by the smell, the plumbing. The corridors are stone arteries, every turn a dead end or a new circle of hell. Even after hours, the lights never go off. Some bureaucratic doctrine holds that paper is sacred and must be lit at all times, even if nobody reads it. I shoulder through the first door. It groans like a dying animal. My men follow, two at a time, eyes forward. Sokolov runs point, since he's got the best nose for files. The rest spread out, slipping pastguards with all the subtlety of wolves among sheep. No alarms, no panic. Nobody expects violence from men in suits. That's why it works.

The archive room is a tomb. Shelves sag with folders bound in string, the air heavy with mildew and the ghost of a thousand misfiled bribes. We bring our own lights. The fluorescents flicker, making every movement jitter in the corner of your eye. I set up at the main table, clear a spot with the back of my arm, and let Sokolov dump his haul. He's sweating already. The folders are fresh—blue, not the usual brown—marked with the new stamp. Southern corridor, priority clearance. The Baranov seal glares up from half the pages.

I snap on gloves. Paper cuts bleed more than you'd think, and I'm not here to leave DNA. The first manifest is routine—office furniture, computers, water coolers, all ‘official supplies' for the embassy in Batumi. Then the weight column—six metric tons. Either they're drinking the Black Sea dry or someone's padding the numbers.

The men work fast. I can hear them breaking small locks, shuffling drawers, muttering in the background. Orlov comes over with a handful of USBs and a smirk. "Found these in the head office safe. Passwords written on a sticky note, the idiots."

I plug one in. The machine boots slowly, dying of old age. The files are encrypted, but not well. The emails are between Batumi and Moscow, most in code, some so obvious it's insulting.

Shipment arrived. Everything accounted for. Your friend handled customs like a professional. She'll be rewarded.Signed, B.

B for Baranov. Probably Valentin or one of his daughters. Either way, it confirms what I already suspect. The Baranovs are building something. The emails reference multiple southern ports—Sochi, Burgas, Varna. Ports with gaps in oversight and friendly hands in customs. I open another file. It's a manifestdisguised as an import tax ledger, but the math doesn't add up. Values are inflated, items described too vaguely. Line after line reads like a cover operation. Satellite phones. Reinforced steel plating. Military-grade adhesives. Gear you don't move unless you're building bunkers or outfitting cells. Sokolov leans over. "Looks like infrastructure. Not weapons, not drugs."

"Bases," I say. "Or command points."

He nods slowly. "Someone's setting up a skeleton network. Secure zones. Possibly fallback locations."

I sit back, rubbing my jaw. "Who's funding it?"