Disclaimer: The characters and story originally created by Dmitri Glukhovsky in the book and video game series "Metro: 2033" and its sequels do not belong to me. Those properties are owned by Glukhovsky, 4A Games, and Deep Silver. This work of fiction is intended for entertainment purposes and is not meant to be canonical, though I tried very hard to make it fit within the parameters. I do retain my rights for the creation of my own original characters and ideas. I do not make any money from writing this story.
Song Recommendation: "Black Lungs" - Architects, "The Last Time" - All That Remains
Chapter Thirty-Three: Strategy and Surprise
"Aahhh," Artyom sounded flatly as a medic was looking inside his mouth with a wooden stick and a flashlight.
"No discoloration, bleeding, or polyps, great." The masked man withdrew and made a tick mark on the chart next to him. "Any headaches, nausea, dizziness, the usual suspects from the surface?"
"I didn't even notice my leg was cut," Artyom looked down at the sizeable wound and shrugged. He guessed that all the stress and adrenaline had blocked out any pain he might have felt. Something from the rubble in the hotel must have caught him while he had been focused on Aleks and the Nazis. Or perhaps it was something in that haunted catacomb as he struggled to escape from the voices.
"Well good, I guess the extra reminders to everyone about sealing your mask properly have been paying off! Just wait here a minute and I'll be right back to wrap you up."
The medic set everything down on the small table next to the bed and sauntered off with a joyful swagger, seeming to enjoy his job thoroughly. Artyom hadn't met many of the people in the med bay before, having been deemed healthy and fit for duty at his initial assessment when officially joining the Order. He vaguely remembered an older nurse giving him some vitamins once but didn't even remember her name or see her working nearby. Most of these people weren't part of the Order, either, but were from Polis where many doctors and scientists had taken refuge. Someone had once told him that there had been three hospitals nearby to the stations that made up Polis, so many medical staff had been able to flee into the Metro to care for the survivors.
He sighed restlessly and looked at his watch. Mikhail had promised to return after dropping off their weapons at the armory and beginning to gather a few people for the strategizing conference. Key people that were going to be brainstorming ideas on how to recover Aleks from Nazi imprisonment. Mulling over the bits and pieces that Mikhail had let slip from his own musings, the options were either a firm show of force or a comprehensive stealth operation. Anyone who knew anything about the Fourth Reich, their stations, tunnels, prison camps, or officers, was on the short list for the rescue committee. Artyom wished he could have remembered more about his brief stint there but had tried so desperately to forget about that whole misfortune that he couldn't recall many helpful details.
Pushkinskaya, or Schiller as the fascists had re-named it, was actually quite a beautiful station were it not for its dreary new décor of red and black banners and propaganda posters. Although he hadn't entered that station for a leisurely visit like any other trip down the lines. Men of the Iron Legion had read Artyom's death sentence to the public right in the middle of the station hall. Then he had passed out from the exhaustion of their brutal interrogation and dreamt that Hunter had saved him; come through the whole place and slaughtered everyone without a sound and then disappeared again.
The other station he saw, and he was never certain whether it was Tverskaya or Chekhovskaya, was far uglier with wide pylons and a low ceiling. It held the prison cages, barracks, and the escalator which seemed to descend right into hell itself with the screams of the damned echoing up from below. The fascist guards and their executioner had built a wooden platform over the tracks on one side, the hanging rope crudely tied to a hook that was screwed into the ceiling. And just as the rope had tightened around his neck and was choking out his existence, the exuberant squad of Revolutionists came screaming down the tracks. Artyom had woken up on their motorized cart and been dropped at Paveletskaya. How could he have known back then that Aleksandrya had treaded the same sort of path? Or that she would circle back around and was likely enduring worse than Artyom ever had there - because they knew her personally.
He remembered the border officer he had shot in the back. Still to this day almost four months later not regretting his unconscious actions in response to the inhuman treatment they had shown to Mikhail Porfirevich and little Vanechka. Artyom would, in fact, do it all again if time somehow managed to revert itself. Even without such a flaw in the mysterious forces that ran the universe, he would do the same now in order to avenge Aleks. He tried not to imagine her sitting in his place in that filthy metal cage, awaiting death by asphyxiation. Hunter would show up and save her, too, or would the Revolutionists save the day again? After all, she technically worked for them, or did they work for her?
"Oh, hey, it's Artyom!" Bubbled a youthful voice, "Nice to see you again, friend."
Artyom blearily shook away his ominously momentous memories and turned to look into the face of Grigori Igorevich.
"You doing okay?" His voice changed to disconsolate concern.
"Uh, yeah, just a scratch," Artyom tried to summon a smile to dispel the tension and show that he wasn't in much pain despite the gruesome gash over his right shin.
"Bit more than that, looks like, but at least less than mine!" Grigori confirmed, patting his own leg which still had the plaster cast encasing it.
"Sorry about that," Artyom still somehow felt responsible for the ordeal on the surface that had gotten the poor boy injured in the first place.
"It wasn't your fault," Grigori scrunched up a confused brow.
"Yeah, but still." Artyom looked away but then suddenly remembered that he was trying to lay low and snapped his head back. "Hey, don't tell anybody that you saw me here."
"Sure," Grigori still seemed perplexed. "Why?"
Artyom struggled to come up with a reason that didn't reveal the actual situation. He glanced around the med bay, hoping to see something that could give him some inspiration.
"Embarrassed you got messed up on the job?" Grigori solved the problem with his own sly little smile. "I know how that is."
"Something like that." He breathed a sigh of relief; thankful he could save some mental energy and not tangle himself up in any more lies.
"How's your friend? Aleks. Everybody has been talking about her." Grigori looked around as if he was expecting to see her in the next bed.
"She's… fine… she's with Melnik, catching him up on what we saw on our mission. I was sent back here cause of this," he pointed to the bloody laceration.
"Oh, that's good news, then. Finally, someone to replace me as the 'new guy,' ha!" Grigori laughed heartily.
Artyom was somehow able to laugh in response, something about the young Ranger's cheerful personality was infectious. He was thankful for the relief it brought, clearing the air that had been condensing around his mind. Grigori's humor was genuine, naïve, and refreshing, unlike Ulman's somewhat forced one-liners and sarcastic observations.
"By the way, I just remembered that there's a message waiting for you. Someone from Exhibition called us at Polis just before the end of my shift. Check in with Fyodor at central command when you're done here, he's got my log with the details."
"From Exhibition? Did they say—Who was it? Do you know?" Artyom was suddenly alarmed. He had been feeling guilty about not contacting home to check in with Sukhoi. He'd sent him a letter a while ago just after the mission with the Dark Ones had finished but wasn't sure if the message ever reached him. He was sure he'd heard rumors that all his people were able to return home again but didn't know for sure.
"They didn't give a name, sorry, but it sounded like an older guy. Deep voice, not very talkative, just said to get back to him on a specific frequency." Grigori shrugged and searched Artyom's face for the same answer, hoping the details would jog a memory.
"Okay, well thanks, I'll head there straight away."
Although Grigori remained standing there staring at him with curiosity, Artyom went right back to his conjecturing without delay. It was possible that his stepfather was calling to admonish him, upset that Artyom had joined the Order, as he'd criticized Hunter just as many times as the magnanimous Stalker had visited. He had basically pleaded with Artyom to not follow the veteran Ranger's bloody and dangerous path. Sukhoi had often called Hunter a 'cowboy' and Artyom only ever vaguely understood that it referred to the culture of the Old American West where cattle ranches and lawlessness reigned supreme and a fatal shootout at high noon was a common occurrence. 'There's nothing to be gained by playing the hero,' he could remember his stepfather saying.
Finally, the medic returned with a tarnished metal tray full of first aid supplies and briefly eyed Artyom and Grigori as if trying to assess their relationship or topic of conversation. Seeming slightly intimidated or maybe suddenly remembering his own set of tasks to complete, Grigori began to back away slowly.
"I'll leave you to it, brother," he gave an animated wave of his hand and wandered off at his hobbling pace.
As the medic was disinfecting the wound and wrapping it up in gauze, Artyom laid back against the gurney and racked his brains for a conclusion. What reason could anyone have to contact him from home now? Maybe Sukhoi was just getting around to replying to his letter – to let Artyom know that everyone had returned to VDNKh and settled back down. Maybe he was sick and couldn't speak for himself? Someone else was calling to implore him to come back home. Or wait, someone else. That's right, it might not be Sukhoi at all. Not anyone from Exhibition. He remembered Aleks giving her orders to Nikolai at Lubyanka: if anything goes wrong, you'll contact Artyom and say that you're from Exhibition. Had something happened at Avtozavod? Was Nikolai just trying to check in with Aleks, or did he need to speak to Artyom? Maybe Nikolai could explain more about what happened with Andrei Ivanovich, if the men had a chance to talk at all since Venice. Perhaps Nikolai was hoping that Artyom could answer the same questions about the apparent betrayal of the oldest member of their clan. Or, god-forbid, he had found out about Aleks' capture and wanted confirmation, an explanation, or even an apology.
"All set. Keep it dry and come back every twelve hours to get those changed, alright?" The medic tapped Artyom's boot. "You're free to go."
"Thanks, I will," he promised half-heartedly, thinking to himself that things might be about to pick up again and he'd be swept off into a new whirlwind of activities without control. His own injury wasn't as important as Aleks' life.
He pictured her lying in this very same hospital bed, beginning to wonder what condition she might be in. How bad could the radiation level have been? Had her leg really been broken from the rubble that had pinned her down? What might she have been capable of if they had encountered the fascists without sounding the alarm or incurring those maladies?
"Did they give you a sponge bath?" Mikhail stepped into view and joked quietly with a playful smile. He had removed his armor and balaclava, revealing a square pale face, platinum blonde hair, and a few days growth of stubble. His light brown eyes were youthful but there were wrinkles around the corners of them and a thin white scar which cut off the end of his right eyebrow and then skipped down to the lower line of his jaw. It was nice to finally see the person he had been talking to and entrusting with his concealment all this time.
"No. Why, do I still smell?" Artyom sniffed under his arm. Usually, the detox chamber took care of most kinds of nasty odors but he admitted that he probably could use an actual bath at some point to get the rest of the grime off.
"We'll get you right, give Viktor some time to round everyone else up before the Colonel gets back. Let's make sure everything is ready before then, because once this really starts nobody is going to rest until it's finished."
"Right." Artyom began wrapping up his head with the black cloth the way Mikhail had shown him earlier, pulling the tail end across his face leaving only his eyes visible and then tying a knot underneath. "Grigori said there's a radio message for me, too, I've got to check on that in case its relevant."
"Alright, we'll head there next. Are you all set here?"
Artyom nodded and heaved himself onto his feet. The wound only stung for a moment as he rolled his trousers back down over the bandages. His rucksack had been stowed at the entrance to the med bay and his old set of clothing had been taken to be laundered so he didn't have much to gather. He exited the sector with Mikhail and they headed for the lift.
Central Command was in sector A1, where he and Aleks had reported to earlier that day. Most of the computer and telephone systems had been repaired and were operational. There was always a commotion of chatter, typing, and machinery beeping going on in the large communications room. Technical operators kept in contact with most of the patrol groups and helped to control the monorail dispatching. Artyom had seen Fyodor once or twice around that area but hadn't ever needed to speak to him personally about anything.
They reached the upper floor swiftly but before Artyom could take a step, Mikhail held his arm out to block his path. Artyom was shaken from his reflections and he looked around with interest for the cause of Mikhail's action. It only took a few seconds before he understood: Ulman's lively tone was listing off a tirade of minor complaints, echoing off the concrete walls to their right. Artyom pulled the top of the woven scarf down further over his face and prayed that he wouldn't be recognized. But his new partner seemed to excel in not being seen, and Ulman's laughter began to fade away from them.
"Ahh, I wonder how Artyomka is doing out there," Ulman mused with a lighthearted sigh.
"I'm sure it's all fine," the man he was walking with replied without emotion.
"I just think he should have a little more confidence in himself. He's been through hell already and I've seen guys go bonkers over less," Ulman's words blurred out into incomprehensible reverberations and then mixed in with the other noises that made up the melody of D6.
Artyom felt a little sting of guilt, relishing the compliment but wishing he had the ability and permission to tell his original partner all that had happened at Mayakovskaya and since. He thought it was a little unfair at times that Colonel Melnik thought of Ulman as a tactless gossip, because the more time that Artyom had spent with him, the more he could pick up on his intricacies. Ulman was very sensible and encouraging, and when he deigned to keep his mouth closed for a while, he was ultimately a hard worker and a capable strategist. It was likely that he used his humor and sarcasm as a way to unburden himself of stress and try to lighten the mood for everyone else who always seemed so serious or focused. He would have been able to adapt the right attitude in order to help with the rescue mission, Artyom thought to himself. Just then, he made an internal promise to catch Ulman up on everything when this mission had concluded, and his original partner would probably understand perfectly well why the Colonel had ordered his exclusion from the operation.
Finally lowering his arm, Mikhail motioned that the area was clear and that Artyom should remain quiet and follow behind him. Artyom had been taught all of these remarkable hand signals during his induction and formal training. He thought it was interesting that so much information could be communicated without words and was impressed by how well everyone here seemed to understand each other. Just like at VDNKh, and with the Red Arrow, the Order was like a family; living and operating together for the greater good, but also encouraging friendships, open discussions, and individuality to a certain degree. Each member of the Order seemed to have their own special skill or interest and everyone was utilized to the best of their potential and ability. Although the work was often hectic and draining, nobody besides Ulman ever complained much. Sure, men would share their exaggerated stories and speak plainly about their fatigue or aches and pains, but that was to be expected of all humans. For the most part, everyone here seemed to understand the enormous significance that their endless missions and patrols held, not just for their own survival but for the protection of the Metro as a greater entity.
"Mischa, come on, we're all here. What are we waiting for?" Whispered a harsh voice from a doorway near the end of the corridor.
"Shh!" Mikhail responded in an equally harsh whisper, grabbing Artyom's sleeve without looking and dragging him aside to speak to the person more closely. "I told you to sit tight, Arseniy. Melnik should be back any minute and I can't say any more about the purpose of this assembly."
"It's an emergency," Artyom whispered without any intent and Mikhail frowned at him.
The whisperer called Arseniy yanked Mikhail, and by extension Artyom, into the sizeable conference room which was situated just before the command center and main offices. Artyom tried to resist the force that was dragging him because they had been on their way to the radio communications office to check on the message that had been left for him. He tried to protest but Mikhail shushed him too and closed the door hastily behind them all.
"What's the rush?" A dark-skinned man asked from the rear wall that he was leaning against.
"It's not my meeting, you idiots. I'm following orders and you are too. The Colonel will be here shortly to explain the situation." Mikhail crossed his arms sternly and remained by the door as if to prevent anyone from leaving the room.
"Who's the sheik over there?" Arseniy gestured towards Artyom who was standing in the front corner.
Mikhail looked over at him and gave a small nod, indicating that it was okay to remove his disguise now that they were in secluded company.
"Chyornyj, what nonsense are you getting us into this time?" Sighed one of the men from the Church outpost. Artyom immediately felt ashamed and wanted to put the scarf back on again but suddenly the door flew open and everyone's attention turned to the entrance.
Colonel Melnik entered the room along with another Ranger but it wasn't Sam or anyone else from the Kremlin station group. His earlier adornment of armor and weaponry was absent, though his uniform pants and jacket were muddy and wrinkled. He took a deep breath as he glanced around at all the men gathered, lingering on Artyom last with a look that commanded his silence.
Artyom was complacent to sit this discussion out for the most part; he'd already said all the numerous intense and important things he needed to say to the Colonel and then even more details to his new partner. So, the commander and Mikhail knew equally about Aleks' background and motives and could assuredly lead the discussion. Additionally, Artyom hadn't been able to invent any of his own ideas about how best to go about her rescue. He had burdened himself so heavily with the emotional aspects of the task: carrying both of their fear and pain all the way back to the home base. Convincing Melnik to go after her and rallying the force had already taken great effort, and they hadn't even really begun yet.
The Colonel stepped up to the conference table and cleared his throat loudly as he set both hands down flat and leaned on them.
"Thank you all for assembling on such short notice. I know I've had to defer you from your duties so I'll get right to it. Some of you know exactly why we are here and as for the rest of you... well, don't think that I'm deaf to all the chatter going on about our newest recruit. I understand everyone's fascination, but it ends here and now."
Half of the group of about ten Rangers in the room had nodded their agreement and the other half looked confused and apprehensive, waiting for the Colonel to elaborate.
"All you need to know is this: one of our own has been compromised and captured by the Nazis. Not only is this a breach of diplomatic asylum but we have a duty to do everything we can to ensure that information regarding D6 is not disseminated erroneously. Aleksandrya Dmitriyev was taken from the area above Mayakovskaya and we've since lost contact. The sooner we retrieve her, the better our chances that they haven't gotten anything out of her yet. This meeting has been called to strategize for her recovery. Each of you have a purpose here, you have the most experience with covert operations or with the fascists directly and I'll need every man's input if this is to succeed."
The ones who hadn't had even the slightest inkling to the purpose of their summons took in the explanation with astonishment and grave looks. Artyom let out a small breath of relief as he had expected some of the men to protest such a task. Not everyone had been thrilled or even interested in Aleksandrya's arrival, nor her connection with Hunter. Perhaps it was only because the Colonel himself seemed so committed to the current process that the men had fallen silent in thought.
"Questions? Ideas?" The Colonel looked around the room again. "Vitya, go ahead."
"About how long has our target been in their possession?" The same Viktor who had been sitting with Ulman at breakfast earlier that day responded with a determined look.
"We don't have an exact time but no less than eight hours so far. I happen to know that she was injured in a building collapse, so I'd like to assume that they would treat her to some degree if they want her to last long enough for questioning." Melnik turned his head as another man raised his hand to be called upon next.
"Has there been any contact regarding negotiations in either direction? Ransom demands, radio propaganda?" A thickset stalker with a bushy brown beard spoke up strongly, Artyom knew him as Volkov.
"In this case, negotiations of any kind are off the table. Though we may be able to distract them with such conversation while our scouting team attempts to locate her. We may be able to play dumb as if we don't know that she has history with them."
"And you're sure it's history sir?"
Everyone held their breath for a minute, even the soldier who had asked the insensitive question seemed to regret it. Artyom thought that Melnik would find that kind of personal probe to have crossed a line but he remained calm.
"I have it on good authority that she ran from them three years ago with one of their security guards. Aside from the extra rumors, let's not forget whose endorsement she came to us under. I think Hunter is smart enough to figure out the truth about her." Melnik seemed to cut himself short, swallowing whatever words may have followed. He had referred to the missing Stalker in the present tense and it immediately felt uncomfortable in the room as almost everyone had picked up on it. Just as Artyom began wondering if any of the men might take it as a sign that they could ask for more details about her unclear relationship to their comrade, Mikhail spoke up.
"Do you think this has anything to do with him at all?" Mikhail looked over at Artyom for a second and through their silent eye contact he understood that his new partner was subtly trying to assess the commander's current opinion of their hopeful mission to find Hunter. And prying just enough to see if anybody knew anything about the mysterious hooded figure that Artyom had seen and interacted with on the surface.
"It doesn't appear that way. We can't rely on him any further. From now on, I want everyone to understand that Aleksandrya is her own person, not just the better half of some imagined entity. Beyond their acquaintanceship, it's not our business or concern to get into the specifics." Melnik crossed his arms in an unconscious signal that warned the entire room that he would not honor any more intrusive inquiries.
"If Aleks were a man, none of you would even think twice about it," Artyom mumbled under his breath.
"That's right," he was surprised to hear Viktor declare. "What difference does it make to any of you? Unless you're trying to be next in line or something? Did you ask so many questions when Tatiana was recruited? Or when Anna was promoted after her heroic defense of our outpost?"
"Well…" the man who had asked about her history tried to deflect and looked away uncomfortably.
"No one batted an eye when Dima returned from Yasanevo with the twins, when Zero or Idiot showed up, or when Artyom here fell into our little operation." Viktor finished, eyeing everyone strongly until most of them conceded with a nod or by turning their gaze elsewhere in defeat.
There was silence again for a long moment. The people in the room all stared at their hands, or the table, or the floor. Even Melnik seemed to have retreated deep in thought about something. Maybe he decided that he'd already said too much about her and was all too pleased to have someone else of note settle the matter for him. Viktor had been part of the Order for at least a decade and the majority of Rangers knew to listen well to his wisdom and good judgement.
"Mikhail, can you tell us about their current command structure?" The Colonel asked suddenly, snapping his head back up to attention and refocusing the discussion as if the momentary unpleasantness hadn't happened.
"Yes sir, the officer that Aleksandrya and Artyom encountered on the surface is the third in command of the Second Unit. Obersturmführer Iosef Romanovich Varnayev. From what I've heard of the young man's account, the fascists hold Aleksandrya in high regard but haven't forgotten the prior transgressions of her escape. She should be considered an HVT even if she hasn't been fully initiated with us yet. As you said, the asylum still stands and we're responsible for that."
"Have you ever met this Varnayev?" Viktor asked.
"Yes, but when I knew him in Chekhovskaya, he was only part of the station security forces. He's been loyal to the Reich his whole life, always striving for a position with the Second Unit. Truly a heinous excuse for a man." Mikhail growled and scrunched up his face, letting off an inaudible signal that he wouldn't say anything more about the officer in question.
But Artyom suddenly realized that his new partner just admitted that he had originally come from Reich himself. So, that's why Melnik chose him out of the lineup of soldiers at Kremlin. He wondered how many others had come from there or had defected from the Red Line or another faction. How long ago could Mikhail have made his own escape? Did he know Aleks or Ivanovich?
"We need ideas, some kind of plan, I'm open to any and all suggestions." Melnik began to pace across the front of the room like a caged animal.
"The radio," Artyom mouthed to Mikhail underneath his hand and the blonde Ranger nodded.
"Please excuse us, Colonel, there may be a radio message related to this occurrence." Mikhail pushed himself off from the wall and reported the request with clarity. Artyom thought it was a weak kind of excuse that would never work in the middle of such an important gathering but Melnik looked at both of them and somehow seemed to understand the relevance. He gave a nod and then turned back to the table to continue the discussion.
When they were outside the conference room again, Artyom only tied up the scarf with half effort since they weren't going very far anyway. He cleared his throat and took a breath, his curiosity bubbling to the surface and he thought about how to express his question politely.
"Why didn't you say at the beginning that you were from Chekhovskaya?" Artyom asked in a quiet voice to let Mikhail know that he was simply curious and not angry or in any way accusing him of deceit.
"Well," Mikhail thought for a moment, pinching at his stubbly chin pensively and raising his eyebrows. "Did Aleksandrya tell you where she was from straight away?"
"Sort of, but she didn't say too much about what it was like," Artyom answered solemnly, understanding the intention of the response immediately.
"Exactly. Because even if you disagree with them, even if you took great personal risk to escape from their stations and forge another path, you are still viewed with suspicion. Guilty by association," he said darkly. "You heard Fridrick in there, 'are you sure it's history,' what an asshole."
"Did you know Aleks? Or Ivanovich?"
"No, that was, apparently, after my time… but my memory isn't so great. And there's what, fifteen thousand they say on the Red Line? Well, there's maybe half that amount in Reich altogether, so it's more diverse than you might think."
"Maybe you saw them and just didn't know who they would turn out to be," Artyom mused aloud unintentionally.
"It's possible. I got out of there about eight years ago. It wasn't always black uniforms and red banners, you know. The Reich has evolved, been sculpted, and dissolved, and then grew back again like the head of a Hydra. They were always some brand of xenophobic but not to the organized and murderous extent that they are now. The current Führer has only been in power for a decade or so, and he wasn't always the top dog, either."
Artyom didn't have any further questions or thoughts, and simply nodded his understanding. At any other time his mind would spin off and begin constructing all kinds of scenarios about what it must be like to grow up in such a place. What the other iterations of the Reich might have looked like before what they were today. Ask Mikhail more about his upbringing there. However, the communications office was only a few steps away and he was eager to find out who the mysterious message was from.
Fyodor was on duty just like Grigori had said, and he produced the log book upon request and helped to point out which paragraph was addressed to Artyom.
"I can dial it up for you, now," the man spoke gruffly but had a vacant expression.
"Yes, please," Artyom stepped up and took hold of the large set of headphones that he was handed.
Some static and squeals poured into his ears as Fyodor made the connection. Artyom tried to think of what he should say but couldn't really formulate a plan until he figured out who wanted to speak to him, and why. Finally, the static gave way to a clear channel and Fyodor gave a thumbs up. Taking that as a sign that he should announce himself, he began uncertainly.
"Hello? It's Artyom Alekseyevich here, you left a message for me?"
"Artyom, good. Yes, I did." A familiar deep voice stated haltingly.
"Who is this?" Artyom asked cautiously, though he had his own suspicions and simply needed confirmation.
"Ivanovich," replied the voice in a hushed tone. Artyom was stunned silent for a moment, so the man began again, "Andrei Ivanovich from—"
"I know who you are. We saw you on the surface." Artyom replied darkly. He really didn't have anything to say to this particular person and couldn't fathom why he would be calling now. Mikhail leaned over the desk intently and Artyom wiggled his fingers at another set of earphones animatedly. "What do you want?"
"I… Listen, I can't talk long. I need to tell you the plan."
Mikhail set the headphones over his ears and put a fist against his mouth pensively.
"What plan?"
"For Aleks. I know where they are keeping her and I will send instructions to you for retrieval." Ivanovich's voice faded and came back, as if he was looking over his shoulder periodically.
"You're… trying to help?" Artyom scrunched up his face curiously even though the man on the other end of the line couldn't see him. Mikhail, too, narrowed his eyes skeptically.
"Of course, I am… I know how it must look to you. I returned here for my own reasons but Aleks doesn't belong here. She's in danger. They will kill her within a matter of days if you don't follow my directions."
"What am I supposed to—?"
"I can't tell you myself, they might catch on and… You must meet with a courier at Mayakovskaya tavern. He'll be wearing a red scarf just like hers. He will give you my letter. It will explain everything. Please, I know you care about her. Will you do this?" There was alarm and an insistent tone in the man's voice which Artyom had never heard before, his limited memory of this man conveyed a strong silent type.
"What time should I be there?" Artyom looked over at Mikhail who raised his arm to check his watch.
"Twenty-one hundred, and come alone if you can manage it, we don't want people to ask questions. Share my letter with your commander as soon as possible. I never met the Colonel myself but I understand from Hunter that he is an honorable man. You will both do what is right." Ivanovich commanded succinctly with his gravelly voice, less so giving an order and more so sounding as if he could envision that future.
"We will." Artyom could only confirm with this short reply and with no certainty, trying to manifest this favorable outcome that everyone seemed to be hoping for.
The line became static again as the other party disconnected. Artyom and Mikhail removed their headsets and stared at each other for a tense moment. Fyodor looked at them with a squinted eye but Artyom was quick to thank him for his assistance and make his way out of the office. He didn't really know what to think now, as it seemed all too convenient for this kind of solution to have just been dropped in his lap so suddenly. Assuming Mikhail or Melnik would have questions for him, he replayed the conversation in his head again so he wouldn't forget the details or the force of Ivanovich's concern for Aleks. His partner didn't say anything on their short walk back to the conference room, perhaps also incorporating this new development into his working memory of the situation and coming up with another excuse to tell the commander so that they could go meet with this courier.
They reentered the conference room amidst a slightly heated discussion about which tunnels were still passable in and around the stations of the Fourth Reich. Some papers and blueprints had been scattered about the table. Artyom and Mikhail presented themselves silently at Melnik's side in perfect form, waiting for a break in the conversation.
"Something to report, sir." Mikhail started when the chatter died down a little. Everyone fell quiet as the Colonel looked over and gestured for him to continue. "A member of the Resistance has contacted us and requested a covert rendezvous at Mayakovskaya tavern. This person works on the inside and knows where Aleksandrya is being held."
Melnik looked over at Artyom as if to confirm, or to get a tidbit from his experience with Aleksandrya to connect the dots.
"He was part of her clan, sir. The security officer that helped her escape. I think we can trust him." Artyom stated clearly, hoping the Colonel wouldn't ask for too much more information. Not that he didn't want to explain it to him, he just didn't want to do so in front of all these other people.
The Colonel switched his gaze back to Mikhail for his final endorsement of the idea, and Artyom didn't see what silent signal he gave to the commander but miraculously they were given clearance.
"Alright, go ahead to this rendezvous, but go in plain clothes! We don't want anyone getting wind of our movements. Mikhail you take point and keep your eyes and ears open." Melnik commanded with a one-armed gesture, practically shooing them out the door. "We'll be brainstorming in the meantime. Get back here as quick as you can!"
"Yessir!" Mikhail confirmed strongly with a salute, turning to leave and tapping Artyom on the shoulder.
"Thank you, sir." Artyom saluted even though the Colonel didn't turn around again. He let out a long breath and followed Mikhail out of the room hurriedly. It was time to get his own answers from Andrei Ivanovich, and hopefully his intel would prove accurate and beneficial.