Chapter 7The Worm
"But I am a worm, and no man: the reproach of men, and the outcast of the people." - Ps. 21:7

June 21, 2000
T-minus
84 days

It had taken a few more days after I saw Elena last to set the last of my business in order. I had updated versions of my various passports, and still had a healthy supply of cash left. I also had an address, but I had no idea how dated it might be. With my luck, Grigory might have already fled to another town, or even the country entirely. Or maybe he was dead, or was a plant to lure me in to a trap. But I did my best to not think about that.

To try to make my travels more discreet, I decided on taking the railways into Russia. It would be slow going – at least a week on the road, as opposed to a few hours flight – but I hoped there would be less scrutiny of rail passengers.

On the day I left Salzburg, I breathed easy. I had gotten out of the trap I felt I had been in. I no longer felt like unseen eyes were following my every move, documenting everything I did. I felt like I could almost relax while I was on the move. To capitalize the down time, I had bought a German translation of The Brothers Karamazov to help occupy my mind.

I wasn't sure the exact reason I had bought it – it had been my father's most beloved piece of literature, but I had disliked it when I read it in university. It had always felt so bloated, too unwieldy for me to really believe the changes in the characters. Their actions seemed almost uncaused, after which they (and Dostoevsky) tried to rationalize them. But when I saw it in a window display, something compelled me to try picking it up again.

Both the novel and the ride went quickly. I passed through Hungary, and the border guard barely glanced at my British passport.

It was the night after I had passed L'viv when I had my first nightmare in years. I couldn't remember much after waking up, except a feeling of crushing cold that froze my soul. As I blinked a few times I reached for Yomiko's rosary in my coat, where I still kept it. But it wasn't there.

My eyes awoke and I looked at the seat in front of me. There, reading the Ukrainian newspaper I had been using to brush up on some of my Russian, was the man I had seen after waking up in Taro's house. He looked exactly the same as he had before, and he whistled as he read. In his free hand he ran the rosary beads through his fingers.

"You shouldn't take what isn't yours," I said. It was only after I began speaking to him that I worried that someone might overhear me speaking to a hallucination. I glanced around, and the only other passenger was an overweight businessman about 30 feet ahead of me.

The nameless man looked up from the paper. "Ah, you're awake – good! I was getting a little bored with the paper – nothing I hadn't seen before, you know." As he spoke the beads kept gliding through his hand – two every second.

I rubbed the back of my neck, sore from having slept sitting up. "What do you want this time," I asked, "haven't you already said what needed to be said?" I groped for the novel, and finding it, thumbed to where I had left off. I studiously kept myself from watching my interlocutor.

He left me like that for a minute or two. "She's going to die, you realize that," he said. And as much as I tried to ignore it I couldn't – his voice was like a lead weight which hit my chest.

I looked up from the novel, and smiled sarcastically. "You should have told me that when it mattered."

I could still remember what had happened last time, how he could cow me with a word, but there was something to him that just made me mad, that made me want to contradict and negate. But he refused to be taken in by my bait. He sat in silence, looking through me.

"You already knew it 12 years ago, though you proclaim ignorance. But it always matters," he intoned, "it mattered then, it matters now, it will matter in two and a half months. Death may not be the worst of evils, but no man should deliberately place himself or another in its way."

I snarled at him. "You goddamn lie! Elena's out, just like she said! Her part's played out in this." I settled back into my seat, feeling uncomfortable on the old upholstery. "And besides," I continued, "she made a deal with me. She knew she was getting into the deep end, and I didn't tell her otherwise."

I looked out the window to my left. In the night, trees whipped by, interspersed with wide fields. In the distance the faint lights of small towns on the plain could be seen. The sound of the clattering tracks was loud in my ears.

I was silent for a little while. I kept expecting the man to say more, but there was nothing. It was only when I heard a faint murmuring that I turned my head back to him. I made out a small bit of what he was saying: "...O clemens, o pia, o dulcis..."

"Will you stop that!" I yelled, realizing what it was he was saying and hating him for it. He ignored me and finished. Kissing the crucifix, he locked his eyes with mine.

"You still don't get it, do you?" he said. "You think I'm some amalgamation of your guilt toward your father and your wife, a monster of the sub-conscious conditioning of your youth. No." He shook his head. "I'm far, far worse than that."

I started shrinking away from him. He stood up. "You think, for some reason, that to live with guilt is normal, that it is merely the result of your rational and ethical decisions crashing against the rocks of a religious childhood. But I say to you, that it is false, that man was not meant to live like that."

I pushed myself until my back was against the glass. "Must you torment me?" I spat out.

"You don't know torment, Charles! You've been given a thousand chances to be rid of it, and yet you persist on a course of your own damnation!" His voice dropped. "Can you really think any of them would rejoice in seeing you end like that?"

I cringed from him, curling my body to try and make myself smaller. It was humiliating, but I was scared of him. "I didn't do anything wrong, I didn't do anything wrong!" I hissed as I clenched my teeth and screwed my eyes shut. I rocked back and forth, waiting for the blow to fall with my hands over my head. When nothing happened, I ventured to unwind myself.

I was alone again. I coughed a few times, and wiped away the tears that had come to the corners of my eyes. I hurt, but it wasn't in any one place – it was as though my body had been racked. I checked my coat pocket again and, finding the rosary, clenched it to my breast. It took many hours before I could close my eyes again, and I didn't read any more of the novel. I hadn't even passed the murder.


June 26, 2000
T-minus
79 days

Kungur sprawled and squatted blackly among the foothills of the Ural mountains. As the train approached from the West, I could see the faint clouds of smoke rising into the morning sky from a few chimneys, though those were surrounded by a forest of silent stacks. Summer had arrived here, but the fields of grass and flowers ended as we came closer to the town, rreplaced by the gray and dark brown of asphalt and gravel.

The train wound its way through the industrial outskirts until it arrived at the small station that lay between the old factories and the center of town. There I grabbed my light baggage and stepped off. A few white clouds drifted thoughtlessly above, but the air had the oily smell of burnt coal, though the trains must have switched to electric power years ago. A few other people got off the train with me, but more got on. After a few minutes it whistled, and chugged off further East into Siberia. I had left my Dostoevsky on it.

I took a room at a hotel near the city center. When I was set inside of the room overlooking part of the old town, I got a map and sat down at the small writing desk near the window (from which I could see the domes of St. Nicola's Cathedral, and its whitewashed walls). I took out Kaji's letter, and jotted down the address he had given for Grigory – Apartment 411, Building B, 213 Gorky Road. Checking the map, I found the road near the industrial districts.

The next day I walked out there in the afternoon. As I passed from the tourist-oriented city center, the years set into the buildings badly. The Soviet past was close to the surface in those places – massive apartment blocks, thin and pot-holed roads, and graffiti everywhere. My Russian was decent enough and I could figure out most of it - "Foreigners out," "Fuck the Police," or "Eat the West." For a people who had only kicked the Communist government out less than a decade ago, I was surprised at the vehemency. But I looked around the neighborhood I was in – I suppose at least the Soviets had tried to alleviate the terrible conditions they created, even if most of the time it was too late anyway.

As I passed farther into the outskirts, the buildings grew taller and more decrepit, and I thought I could hear the sound of the factories pounding away in the distance.

I grew disoriented, and realized that I had lost my whereabouts. I couldn't see any street signs, and the few others I saw on the road kept their distance from me. I tried to take a few breaths and mentally retrace my steps, but it all got muddled at some point. A few stripped-down cars stood in silent judgment over me. And I thought I could still hear the pounding, syncopated, deep, and low, as if someone was creating World War III in the distance.

I came to a crossroads, but none of the ways looked better than the others. I went left, for no other reason than it was closer to me. I put a hand to me forehead, and I found it covered in cold sweat.

I felt like I was stumbling along, but none of the people I passed made a move to help. They turned away and went on with their lives. The failing apartment blocks leaned over me like ancient prisoners over a new convict, happy in their misery to have a new companion. After a time that felt too long, no matter what it was, I finally had enough of my confusion, and grabbed the next person I came across.

She was young, very young, 16 at the oldest. She wore old and ripped jeans, and a faded sweatshirt with the hood up, even though it was verging on hot that day. When I took her by the shoulder, the hood fell back, and I saw her wince at the light, even though the sun was now behind one of the buildings. She was scared.

"Let go of me!" she said. She tried to wrench herself free, but I kept on her.

"Gorky road," I croaked out. The resounds were coming closer, and from every direction, and now sounded like the footfalls of a giant. I needed to find Grigory.

"Pl-please let me go!" she said again, and she shivered.

"Gorky road," I repeated, slowly, like I would talk to an idiot.

Finally hearing what I said, she stopped fighting, and pointed behind her to her right. "That way," she squeaked.

I was about to bring her along with me, when I really took a look at her. She had two missing teeth, her hair was ragged and falling out, and she trembled like we were in a blizzard. I wondered what it was – heroin, maybe?

I let her go, and she ran off as fast as she could. "Jesus Christ," I said to no one. But following her frantic pointing, I passed two more roads and found Gorky. I checked my watch, and no more than 2 hours must have passed, though it had felt much longer.

Weeds and cracks ruled the sidewalk in front of the massive building at 213. A few of the windows were smashed, and looked like they had been for a long time now. The door was open, the handle lolling down with gravity. I went inside, and the pounding became distant again. As the door slammed back into its frame behind me, I could hear a lone dog begin barking at the sound.

If the exterior had looked bad, the interior was worse. I found the elevator, but the door opened into a dark and empty shaft. I looked down into the gloom and kicked a small rock into it, hearing it splash into a pool of water one or two more floors down.

Turning away from that I looked for the stairs. I passed through the cramped hallways, trying not to look too closely into the doors that didn't close all the way. Some of the jambs had been smashed in, and I could see that more than a few had been looted haphazardly. I found the stairs and went up several flights. Most of the lights were broken in the stairwell, leaving only a few recessed lamps blinkering on the concrete. I thought I heard someone scuffle their feet on the level above me, but when I turned the corner on the next landing, no one was there.

Denying the small knot of tension in my stomach, I proceeded to the 4th floor, and looked for Grigory's number. The hall was filled with old metal chairs, and I found it easier to just weave between them than shove them out of my way. Through the walls, I thought I could hear a group of men yelling with each other. But I found the door. I prayed he would be there.

I knocked on the door, and it was silent. I knocked again, more insistently this time. I could hear some shuffling behind the door. I pounded my fist against it for a third time. After a second, I heard a voice from behind it speak.

"Wh... who is it?" A man, who sounded only a little older than I was. But his voice wavered and almost cracked. He sounded scared. But it sounded oddly familiar, like I should have recognized it.

"I'm here to see Grigory Vassilievich," I replied. I received more silence from his end. I tapped my foot for a few seconds.

"Mr. Vassil-" I started, before I was cut off.

"I don't have the money yet," he said, rushed and breathless, "but I can get it soon, I swear. Just give me some time and-"

"Grigory," I said, trying to get his attention.

"-we can both go our separate ways, right? Just a few more days, I swear to God Himself, you can have your money, Antony, and-"

"Grigory!" I said louder. He stopped talking. "I'm not here for your money." I paused, waiting for a response, but got nothing. "I need to speak with you," I finished.

I heard the click of Grigory looking through the eyehole. I stared at the tiny glass bulb.

"What do you want from me?" he asked.

"To be let in, damn you!" I growled.

A few seconds passed, and I heard the sound of several locks and bolts being drawn. The door opened inwards, and the first thing that hit me was the smell. A rank stench of unwashed and disintegrating manhood wafted out, and I had to cough a few times. The doorway opened into a short hallway before branching to both directions. I heard Grigory move into the room to the right, and so I followed him in and closed the front door behind me, and my first view of his home surprised me.

Every surface was covered in trash, or old yellowing newspapers, or plates of half-rotten food, or other unrecognizable material. I could make out at least one copy of [i]TheProtocolsoftheEldersofZion[/i], its cover illustrated with a vicious stereotype of the "plotting Jew," on a rusting table in front of me. Around it in a small pile were a collection of old Soviet handbooks on Marxist Theory – I noticed Andrei Vyshinsky's name, Stalin's loyal dog, among them but didn't recognize the others. The orange wallpaper was faded, cracked, and peeling off in many places. Water stains, brown with age, hung like pieces of art. I turned to where Grigory had gone.

Grigory had his back to me, wearing a tattered and badly patched dark green coat, his hair all gone except for a tonsure of oily hair around his skull, walking shakily to two small wooden chairs. He turned around and sank into one. He was old and ugly, with wispy hairs growing from his ears.

Next to him was a low table with a pile of empty or half-finished bottles. The smell of bad vodka stung my nostrils, but at least it smelt cleaner than everything else. On the wall to my right was a small iconostasis, bad reproductions of classic icons with small bits of Orthodox kitsch, all surrounding the fading black and white picture of a teenage girl. He took a glass and poured himself a generous portion, then tipped it all into his mouth before pouring a second. His eyes turned to me, small and dark.

"What do you want from me?" he said, resigned but still eying me warily.

"You have access to information about the organization called Gehirn. I need to see it."

He seemed to draw into himself a little bit. It hit me that he might think I'm here to catch him, just as I had worried he might be for me.

"W-what? Ge-?"

I sigh. "Do you know of Gehirn?"

"Gehirn?" He stopped for a moment, "wait, yes, yes I think I remember." His face lost some of his fear and grew into a little sneer. "Some little yellow man wanted to know about them a few years ago. I remember him. He was weak, I could tell." Two things came into my mind, the first was that this was definitely the trail that Kaji had used, and the second was how satisfying it would have been to punch his goddamn lights out for saying that about my friend. But Grigory couldn't tell what violence I wished to do to him.

"I can pay you," I responded. His eyes lit up at that. "But I need to know if you're willing to help me, first."

"Help? Help? Sure, fine. I'll help you. But it'll cost you. Bribes have gotten even more expensive these days. The Jap paid good money for the help, though, but not enough. It wasn't enough. The bastard jewed me out of my payment. That's right. I should have asked for more," he said to himself, seeming to forget I was there for a moment. He looked straight at me. "Do you have dollars?" I nodded, and he grinned, showing me his decaying teeth. "Good, good." The change in his demeanor was striking. He started muttering to himself, and I heard 'Antony' several times.

"What can you get me on Gehirn?" I asked, but Grigory was in his own world now. "Gehirn, Grigory!" I said, forcing my voice a little harder. It surprised Grigory out of his thinking.

"Huh? Oh, whatever you want about them!" His hand was shaking excitedly, nearly spilling the clear alcohol.

"What do you mean?" I wanted desperately to loosen my tie, the heat and the smell were suffocating me so badly. When Grigory threw off the shit covering the other chair, I took it.

"I meant just that, whatever you want. GRU had a few people on the inside before that bastard Yeltsin and his toadies got rid of the best of us in '98. Dossiers, blackmail material, project listings, anything you want. There's got to be at least 20 boxes of the stuff in the archive."

I nearly staggered at that thought. "How important were your people?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know. No directors, but maybe they knew them."

"And where's the archive?" I asked. Grigory laughed in response.

"Oh no, not yet. You pay me first, and then I can get you in." He finished yet another drink. He was excited, shaking with it. He leaned in close to me, conspiratorially. "But how did you know to find me?"

"A friend told me I could get some help from you," I replied.

Grigory laughed dismissively. "I'm sure. Help. Yes, help!" He waved his arm in front of himself. "You think I can help myself, let alone anyone else? Hah!" He finished his vodka, and poured a third glass. He pointed at me. "Look at all this, this is all I have left. This is everything!"

I sat in silence.

He continued. "Everything, damn it all! Me! Grigory Vassilievich, one of GRU's best men." My ears perked at that, but I tried not to show it in my face. My mind raced, trying to remember his voice. I wondered if he could be Aurelius himself.

Grigory spat, but it was more breath than spit. "It all went wrong, I tell you. It all went wrong. It started with that traitor Gorbachev, that rightist! That revisionist! The snake! The generals should have shot all of them when they had the chance!" He was shaking hard. "If it weren't for them, I wouldn't be, I wouldn't be, like this." The smell of vodka on his breath nearly made me gag. "They took everything from me." His voice was subdued at the end.

"Where were you assigned?" I asked.

He had to swallow the swig in his mouth before answering. "Europe. Did my best to keep the capitalist pig-dogs awake at night and afraid." He laughed stupidly for a moment. "I was one of the best, you know. The best! Even Mischa thought I was better than him."

My throat was suddenly horribly dry. "You... you don't know the name Aurelius, do you?"

He looked at me quizzically. "I... I don't remember it, no." His eyes narrowed. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Viktor," I replied without hesitation.

Grigory took another drink, and gulped a little too greedily – he coughed twice. "You're not Russian, then? Well, you're speaking it well enough. But with that accent..." His brows furrowed as he thought. "You must be one of those DDR men, aren't you?"

I shrugged.

He spat on the ground again. "Traitors," he said, "just like those damn Poles. Fascists, the lot of them! Stalin should have shot every single one of them." I wondered how many people he had shot in his years in GRU. "But no, he was merciful enough to try and show them true socialism. And they betray their liberators! The Wall was for their benefit, you know! And now, and now look at us all. Mother Russia, beaten and on her back, her leaders splaying her legs for filthy capitalists and Jews to fuck for pennies!"

Grigory's eyes were unfocused now, and all I could see in them was hate. Seeing the cringing little man change like that made me think of a bit of Auden:

"Behind each sociable fun-loving eye
The private massacres are taking place -
The rich, all women, Jews, the human race."

Grigory put down his glass, and started drinking straight from the bottle. "What does the East have now? Democracy? Hah! They're all too stupid to know how to vote right in the first place. From the Czechs to the Romanians, they're all fools! They gave up the future of Marxism, the inevitable revolution, so they could play-act like they could control their lives. Bah!'"

I was growing tired of Grigory's ranting, but I wanted to get a little more from him. "Did you ever know the Western agent Aristotle?"

He stopped, just about to launch into another condemnation. A little clarity seemed to return to his eyes, a sharpness that had been dulled through years of sorry neglect and nursed injuries. For a moment I could imagine him as he might have been, tall and proud in a khaki uniform. "Aristotle? Aristotle. Wait, yes. Yes, I think I do remember that one. I... I was to find something out about him. He was... he was Spanish, wasn't he? No. Irish! No... I-I can't quite remember now."

Fuck. No, this couldn't be Aurelius, I thought. He was too small, too broken to have a relation to that giant I fought against. But this was frustrating. Someone from the heart of GRU, who could have told me who Aurelius was, unable to remember something so goddamn simple. But I didn't want to push him harder. Not yet. There would be time to put the screws to Grigory, but I had my new lead, loathsome as he was.

I stood up, reached into my coat pocket, and pulled out a thousand dollars. Grigory's eyes bulged from his skull at the sight. "Consider this a down payment. We'll meet again tomorrow morning at the statue of Starets Sergius. Do you understand?"

Grigory's eyes didn't move from the stack of cash in my hand. "Yes, yes of course, Viktor. Radonezhsky. Near St. Nicola."

I kept the money in front of him. "And you'll tell me what needs to happen so I can see this information on Gehirn." He nodded eagerly. "And you will tell no one about this, you understand me?" He looked at my face again, nodded. "You will regret it if you do," I finished. After I said it I wondered if it was necessary, but I figured I might as well establish right now who was in charge.

"Alright, alright, I'll be there, no problem," he replied.

I tossed the thin bundle at Grigory, who fumbled and spilled some of his drink to catch it. The stain darkened his brown pants on the tops of his thighs. He quickly started counting them. I snorted at his reaction, and walked out.

That night I found myself examining the city center on foot. It had been at least 14 years since my last visit to Russia, but that had been to Moscow, not to the outskirts like Kungur. My feet pulled me along, going where they would. I had no destination in mind, until I noticed in the near distance a few cyan onion domes. Pricked, I went nearer. I came to the Church of the Transfiguration, its windows beaming from within and its tall white walls illuminated from without, I could hear the Divine Liturgy from the inside. The sound was beautiful, but it made me even more aware of how far outside of that world I was. My beads burned on my breast.

A small group of people milled about outside. I wondered if they were like me, drawn to what they saw, but unable to bring themselves to walk the few feet into it. Maybe they had stained their souls too much to ask for forgiveness as well. I thought back to Grigory's icons, and wondered what he thought when he looked at them. Did he pray for mercy? Did he expect it? How did he look at that image of Christ crucified and reconcile it with himself? Did he even try?

And for the first time in my life I wondered. Did I ever try?

The memory of that nameless man appeared before my eyes, with a feeling of fear and resentment in my core. Yomiko had never condemned me like he had. I leaned against one of the walls and shut my eyes tight. No, she had always accepted me, even when I told her I couldn't go to Mass with her and the kids, or that I'd be gone for two weeks starting the next day, or the other hundred problems I had brought. Even through the terrible arguments, she had always loved me, and I her. But then why had she left, that last night?

'I have to go, I have to go.'

I found myself crying. But why? Why now? And why were people starting to look at me? I saw at least two faces hurriedly turn their eyes away when I met theirs. God damn it.

Embarrassed and ashamed, I went north from there. I passed a bronze statue of some bearded merchant, and after half an hour I found myself at a kind of pawn shop. Something moved me there, a premonition or omen, and 15 minutes later I found myself walking out of it with an old 10-round Makarov, an extra full magazine, and a holster for them. I had handled Makarovs before, and after I had stripped it down the parts had looked good enough to carry with me for a little while. Behind the building, I put the holster on underneath my coat, tightening it around my right shoulder and left ribcage. I wanted to test the pistol, but I couldn't think of a way to do it without alarming people.

But I had some more defense against any pursuers now. I almost hoped that I wouldn't need it.


June 29, 2000
T-minus
76 days

I kept hold of Grigory's attention with dollars. 200 here, 500 there, for good behavior. But he was antsy, constantly threatening to leave back for Kungur. He said he didn't feel good, that he was worried something might happen. I did my best to calm him down. The day before, I forced him to stop drinking so much. I wanted something of the insight he must have had once, and the vodka was only dulling him. The archive was held just outside of Perm, the oblast capitol about 100 kilometers north of Kungur.

Every once in a while I would try to press Grigory on his time in GRU. He sullenly refused to speak about most of it, though it wasn't from forgetfulness this time. I wondered if he didn't want to think about what he did, or what had happened because of it. I figured he must have lost someone to it as well – the woman from the photograph – a young wife? A daughter? A lover? But there was no answer from him. I decided that his help on the Gehirn material was too important to jeopardize with my personal questions. At least, until I got what I needed.

So it was that deep in the middle of the night, a mere sliver of the waning moon gleaming in the sky, that I stood with Gregory in the midst of a huge complex of old Soviet office buildings, the brick walls silently menacing. The car I had bought was hidden in an alleyway far behind us. It had cost a thousand dollars to get the gate guard to turn a blind eye to our entrance, but I still had plenty left to use.

Grigory pointed out an arched metal door with a flashlight. The building around it was long, with three stories above the ground. Dark windows on every floor at 15-foot intervals hid the interior from sight. "That's the entrance," he said, "it should be unlocked. I gave the guy enough for him to unlock it."

I kept my eyes on the door. "If it isn't, we'll break it down," I said. I didn't see any movement, or even the hint of movement from the windows. We were alone.

We made our way to the entrance, and Grigory tried the handle. It opened with a heavy clunk, and the door swung inside. We found ourselves in a small square hall, with metal stairs leading to gangways and the upper floors on all sides. Grigory's light swung around, and thin shadows followed it. I shoved the door closed, then barred it closed. Grabbing a wooden chair I braced it against the door. Grigory looked at me blankly.

"Why'd you do that?" he asked.

I straightened up. "In case we have any pursuers."

His eyes showed his nervousness. "You think there'll be others? You should have told me if you were being followed!" he whispered angrily. He looked at me like he wanted to hit me, but was too afraid of how I might return it to him. It just cemented my judgment that the coward couldn't be Aurelius.

Grigory looked around, a little scared. "Maybe I shouldn't be here, maybe I should-" I cut him off when I grabbed him roughly by the front of his shirt and pulled him close. He gasped. The sudden movement shifted the holster under my left arm a little bit, but I had secured it well. It wouldn't move again.

"I'm not being followed," I said, unwilling to let him run away, "it's just a damn precaution. Now get it together and show me the files I've paid you for."

Grigory nodded weakly. "A-alright."

I let go of him. "Now where are we looking?" I said.

He swallowed hard, then pointed his light to the staircase to my left, illuminating a green door. "Up there, then down the hall, then up to the top floor."

We went up the stairs, the metal shivering with our steps, and went through the door. We had entered the archive proper. Down the wide hallway, ancient metal filing cabinets stood vigilant over their contents – necessary statistics such as how many shoes an average Soviet citizen in 1987 bought.

Further on, we found the staircase leading up. Grigory lead the way, his flashlight producing shifting and changing shadows. I tried not to focus on them, their shapes reminded me of monsters. Grigory had to stop and take a few breaths before he reached the top. At the top floor we came to the same kind of hallway as below, but Grigory opened another door, leading deeper into the building.

I was surrounded by metal. Metal stacks filled with boxes, folders, and binders to the point of overflowing were laid out on a floor of metal grating. For a few seconds I stared down between my feet, unable to tear my eyes away from the yawning shadows underneath me. I had to shake my head to catch my focus again.

"Be careful," Grigory said, "the catwalks line the walls, but you can fall to the ground floor from the middle."

I grunted in response, and followed him around the outside of the room, which I guessed to be about the size of a basketball court. Our steps rattled with us. We were almost opposite of the door we had entered in when Grigory turned and checked the filing numbers on one of the shelves. He mumbled gently to himself, went down two more, and swung his light around. "Aha!" he said, "here we are."

I looked over his shoulder. Two shelves, covered in material. "Well," Grigory said, "here it is, Viktor." He started to turn away. "I'll be on my way-"

I clamped my hand on his shoulder. "Get me a chair and a desk," I said. Grigory's shoulders slumped, and he trudged off to do what I told him to, grumbling. I finally pull out my own light from my pocket, fumbling with the extra batteries around it, and turn it on. It sunk in that I was going to have a long night.

I took the latest box I could find – 1998. When Grigory came back with a small table, I put it down and started sifting. Grigory stood there for a little bit. "What do you want me to do now?" he asked.

"Stand watch," I said. He looked confused. "The windows in that hallway," I said, pointing towards where we had come from, "keep an eye on the road." He started walking away. "And turn your light off while you're there, got it?" I finished.

Shaking my head I went back to the material. I heard Grigory open and close the door on the other side of the room. I pulled out the last message in the file, from September of 1996. It was short, and consisted mostly of a few pictures of a middle-aged man, code-named 'LEON', going into a hotel with a woman half his age. I tried to ignore how familiar the scene looked to me. But this was irrelevant. I didn't much care for the general moral indiscretions of Gehirn's members, unless they lead to something else.

Appended to the photos was a small paper, dated from October of that year: 'Due to the recent budget cuts, we must reduce our actions in non-critical areas somewhat. General Samsonovich recommends the discontinuing of the Gehirn project – personnel are to be either deactivated or transferred to other assignments, and movable resources are to be diverted to the Caucasus. In my honest opinion, I think we're well rid of this sink.'
- Lt. Col. Fedor Aleksandrov

Budget concerns. I could relate. But "non-critical areas"? I flipped through a few of the files from '98, and I found a few technical schematics. One in particular caught my eye – a kind of cylindrical tube which, according to the attached note, was a prototype for a kind of escape pod. Another note attached behind that explained that the schematic was worthless, as the Russians didn't have the kind of industry for advanced parts the machine required. I wondered how many man-hours, how much sweat and effort and pain had been wasted to obtain that, only to have it be declared useless by the office bureaucrat?

I lit up one of the cigarettes I had bought in town, and almost gagged at the smoke, which burned the inside of my mouth and nose. But I kept smoking and lighting more of them.

I spent an hour going through everything from 1998. I mechanically pulled out the rosary, and dumbly, uselessly, fingered each bead as I read. Various code-names and agents came and went, but nothing that I needed. I stared at an inch-thick binder of written correspondence, and snorted as I thought 'Tolle, lege, tolle, lege." I opened it about two-thirds of the way through, and read with growing amazement.

To: Lt. Col. Fedor Aleksandrov
Date:
98/05/11
Subject:
LEON's comments

In the absence of further orders, I have maintained surveillance on subject LEON. LEON has continued planning UN expedition – I am unsure if LEON plans on leaving GEHIRN for this project, or if it is a way for him to make use of his time. LEON has informed the upper staff that sub-director Ayanami will be brought in from Kyoto in approx. 1 month, and will be the ex tempore Director while LEON is gone from September on.
In private, LEON shows great excitement for this project, declaring openly that "maybe the scrolls are right after all." I believe this is a reference to the item(s) LEON has mentioned several times before, the "Dead Sea Scrolls." As of this date, I still have no specific information on them – only that the inspector Valiere provides LEON with information concerning them in the utmost secrecy.
I conjecture that they are most related to the society 'SEELE', who seem to have a disproportionate influence on the leadership of GEHIRN, and, as I have mentioned previously, is presumably the body which inspector Valiere represents. I will continue, if no countermanding orders are given, to seek what I can on 'SEELE', and determine if they are connected to Western intelligence agencies, as my few observations seem to suggest.

Finally, I must make known my greatest displeasure at the silence I have received from your end. Unless I have an objective I cannot effectively carry out any intelligence-gathering. I hope the budget wrangling is dealt with quickly and with as little pain as possible.

SOKOLOV

"Yes, yes, yes!" I began shouting, and my voice echoed. A goddamn jackpot. I could guess whom 'LEON' was – Director Fichte. But the identity of the mole was more slippery. Even from the mid-1970's, Gehirn had a high number of Russian scientists and technicians, mostly emigre stock, but after the collapse of the USSR they had taken in many leading Soviet lights as well. I frantically searched to see if there was some kind of index, some way to tell who's material was where, but there was nothing. I had to go through the hard way and try to find everything I could by 'Sokolov.'

I started flinging away anything irrelevant – memos, photographs – and the sound of paper rustling on paper surrounded me. After an almost frantic search I found another one from him.

[i]To: Lt. Col. Fedor Aleksandrov
Date:
98/01/03
Subject:
Inspector Valiere

As I mentioned in my last missive, I expected the inspector to arrive within two weeks, and I was correct. While performing my duties in GEHIRN over the New Year (for which I was commended by LEON), Valiere arrived near the end of the usual work day. As I was performing tests on the capacity of lab rats to actualize AT-fields (that is, the capacity of our machinery to detect such AT-fields, as we know they exist), I had much time on my hands to wander the halls. It is part of my character here that I should wander these metal and concrete corridors, hearing much that others think I do no understand. So it was that I came across Valiere and LEON speaking to each other in a mostly-unused conference room. Valiere mentioned that one 'SEELE-11' had confirmed the extra budget needed to extend the Antarctic geological survey into the next southern summer. I will now transcribe the next few lines for your evaluation and signification.

LEON: Hah! Where'd the King get the money from, is what I wonder. (silence). Jesus, that was easy. Usually we have to wrangle with the committee for months. And it's a hell of a lot more than we asked for last time.
Valiere: 01 is most interested in what your people found there.
LEON: Hell, I don't know anyone who knows what we found who isn't. Katsuragi is jumping up and down for a chance to get down there and start digging.
Valiere (laughs): That sounds like him. Ikari is excited to see what comes up as well.
LEON: Him or her?
Valiere: Him, but I'm sure she's keeping her ear close to her daddy as well.
LEON: Well, they should be. (silence). Jesus, what if it is one of the moons?
Valiere: Well, that's what you're going to find out, no?
LEON: That's not... But what if it is? Then...
Valiere: There's the second.
LEON: How would we find the damn thing?
Valiere: I suppose that's your job. You found this one, didn't you?
LEON: Sure, but we have a cover for this search. And I'm still not sure how much I like relying on scraps of text to try and find a 15-kilometer asteroid.
Valiere: Why's that?
LEON: Well, I guess I'm afraid that if it ever got out, I'd look like a damn fool.
Valiere: I think once you find both, no one will care how you did it in the first place.
LEON: (silence). Yes, you're right. No one really cares how things happen, as long as they get done, don't they? (silence). Let's go check on Dr. Destrudo; see how the rats are doing?

With that, I hastily returned to my lab, and entertained the pair for a short while. I reiterated to LEON my preference for a test subject with a rational soul, but he rebuffed me, but without harshness. He understands the difficulties we go through here, but we must abide by the laws of the German Bundesrepublik.

I end this message with a plea for greater direction from Control. I imagine that the inspector is a front for another organization, but I am only one man, and cannot see everything. Please advise me on where I should continue, sirs.

SOKOLOV

Moons? The Hell? I was so confused at that I almost forgot that this was it – this was the link between Gehirn and Seele that I had been looking for, and I could infer several things about it: One, Seele held the purse strings (or at least the majority of it), and Fichte did not have the highest opinion of 11; two, Katsuhito Ikari was most likely a member, but I couldn't decide if he was 01 or 11, though Valiere's use of "as well" seemed to suggest he was another member entirely; and finally, whatever the "Dead Sea Scrolls" were, they were damn important to them. I wondered if the 'moons' were some kind of codeword, but Fichte's comment seemed to belie that – they were asteroids? But why would Gehirn spend untold amounts of secret funds to find asteroids? What was in them? And more importantly, why didn't they want anyone else to know they were found?

I checked my watch – almost half past 1 in the morning. I ran my hand through my hair. I had expected a long night, but I still disliked having to go through it. I was going through the files from 1997 when Grigory came back. He was rushed, and out of breath.

"There's someone coming," he panted.

"Jesus," I said as I got up, "what'd you see?"

He put a hand up for a moment. "I saw... a big van. It stopped right outside the front door and a couple of folks got out. I... I think someone may have seen me in the window." I got a better look at his face, flushed, not only from the exertion of running here, but I could smell the bad vodka on his breath.

"Damn it, Grigory!" I said as he cringed. I looked over the shelves – so much material, and I had only scratched the surface. My mind desperately turned between what to do, my body paralyzed. Should I try to take anything? I scooped up the two memos from Sokolov I had read and stuffed them into my journal. I was just about to turn off the flashlight when I heard one of the doors on the ground floor of the room slam open. I turned to my left and looked over the railing, and saw two suited men with high-powered lights. They saw my light, and turned their beams up to my catwalk. I pulled Grigory back from the edge and tried to hide a little. The Makarov felt even heavier in its holster.

"Mr. Tallmann!" I heard called out. The voice was British, and he was speaking in English. But what worried me most was the address – he knew my name.

"Mr. Tallmann, we're here from an old friend. We're here to help," he shouted up to me.

"What's he saying?" Grigory asked. I ignored him.

I started palming the pistol. Was it David? But he wouldn't send a goddamn goon squad to pick me up, would he? I looked around, and the different beams of light speared through the darkness of the room in the most beautiful manner.

I unlatched the Makarov. "What are you doing?" Grigory asked, a little terrified.

I took two deep breaths, trying to calm my shaking body.

I ran to the edge of the catwalk.

And I started shooting.