MERCURY | Mafia Romance & Spy Thriller (Russian Gambit Series #0.5)

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙸

The air was crisp, and the first rays of the morning sun painted the sky over Moscow in brilliant hues of red and gold. Snowflakes fell gently, blanketing the city in a pristine layer of white. It was the kind of winter morning that held the world in a hushed whisper, where every sound was muffled, and every colour was dimmed.

Walking along the frosted banks of the Moskva River, Natalia Vetrova pulled her coat tighter against the chill. The Kremlin stood tall on the opposite bank, its walls and rooftops covered by a blanket of snow.

For a fleeting moment, she thought of Alexander—his intensely blue eyes and hard-cut features flashing in her mind's eye. Angry at herself, she swept the memory away. For all she cared, Colonel Alexander Sobolev could rot for all eternity in a bottomless pit of self-inflicted damnation.

She forced her thoughts back to the present, away from the stooges of the regime and those who suffered under their heavy-handed interpretation of justice.

Keeping her hands tucked in the pockets of her coat, she crossed the bridge over the Moskva River and walked past St. Basil's Cathedral to the Red Square.

The sight of the vast space made her blood run cold. The cobblestones beneath her feet were spattered with spots of dried blood. Those who had bled here had disappeared, the lucky ones had escaped, the others had been arrested, but ahandful of discarded placards still carried the message they had chanted last night: Crooks, liars and the president must go!

And as if even the ghost of dissent posed a threat to the regime, riot police in black uniforms still lined the square, their stoic faces unyielding against the light of the breaking day.

Brushing a loose strand of chestnut hair back into the collar of her coat, Natalia paused at the centre of the square. For a moment, she let her gaze wander over the remnants of the protest, then she slipped her phone from her jacket pocket and snapped a picture.

"No photographs," a police officer shouted at her from across the square, rushing towards her, his shorter, fatter colleague in tow.

"This is a restricted area. You're not allowed to take photographs here," he warned, closing in on her.

Natalia slipped her press badge from her jacket pocket. "Natalia Vetrova. New York Times."

"This area is off-limits to the press. For your own safety, I must ask you to vacate the premises."

Natalia gave him a terse smile. "Of course."

She pocketed her phone and turned, walking away before he could confiscate it.

Natalia's steps quickened as she left the haunting silence of Red Square. The morning sun cast long shadows, slicing through the columns of smoke rising from distant chimneys. Moscow carried on, seemingly indifferent to the echoes of last night's chaos.

She wondered briefly if what they were seeing now was the cusp of political change in Russia, or if it was nothing more than the last shuddering breath of a dying democracy.

Keeping her head down to keep the snowflakes out of her face, Natalia passed the stoic guards at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and then entered the serene expanse of Alexander Garden.

It was like a scene from a fairy-tale. The snow had dusted the branches of the ancient trees, and setteled on the neatly trimmed hedges and sculptured bushes—turning them into soft, rounded figures, each new flake adding a little more to their plump appearance. The snow-covered paths, usually bustling with locals and tourists, were quiet, and her footsteps left a solitary trail, marking her passage through this transient wonder.

As she walked, she noticed a solitary figure walking parallel to her path. A woman, her face partially obscured by a scarf, moved with a deliberate pace. Natalia's instincts, honed by years of navigating the treacherous turf of Moscow's streets, kicked in. The woman seemed to be watching her, her gaze lingering a moment too long to be casual.

Journalists in Moscow, at least those who did not shy away from the uncomfortable stories, had a tendency to die quick and violent deaths.

Natalia felt a shiver of unease run down her spine.

She subtly altered her route, veering towards a different path, her eyes still on the mysterious woman. The woman mirrored her movements, confirming Natalia's suspicions. There was a purpose to her presence in the garden, a purpose linked to Natalia.

She had to get out of here.

With swift strides, she turned the corner. Ahead of her, the Metro station appeared in sight, its bustling crowd a stark contrast to the eerie solitude of the park.

Natalia glanced back over her shoulder.

There was no one there.

Wondering if her work was finally making her paranoid, Natalia joined the throng of people, descending into the Metro's underground labyrinth. As she descended into its depths, a woman slipped past her. The woman from the park. Their hands brushed fleetingly. And then Natalia felt a piece of crumpled paper being pushed into her palm. Startled, Natalia glanced at it. It was a hastily scrawled message. A phone number.

Natalia looked up, but the woman was already swallowed by the morning rush.

She took a moment to master herself.

The train arrived, its doors opening with a familiar hiss. The crowd shuffled and pushed.

Natalia took her usual spot near the door, holding on to the cool metal pole as the train set off with a soft lurch. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting an eerie glow on the faces of her fellow commuters. She looked at them, checking if any of them could be a danger to her.

She glanced at her phone. There was no connection. She stared at the greyed-out bars as the train slid through the darkness of the underground tunnel, and then, two minutes later, emerged onto Smolenskiy Bridge, crossing the Moskva River.

Through the window, the cityscape zoomed past in a blur of colours and shapes.

Natalia dialled the number.

It rang.

Someone picked up.

"Konstantin Poliakov did not die of natural causes. He was assassinated," she breathed, her voice barely audible. "The order came from the Kremlin."

Natalia closed her eyes. She was a journalist. She had done this before. Dealt with these kinds of sources, high value and clearly in danger. Still, she had to thread with care.

"Do you have any proof?" Natalia asked, trying to keep her voice steady. In her line of work, allegations like these were common, but proof was always elusive.

The line went dead. A message pinged. Natalia opened it. It was a single image: A shrouded body on a gurney, surrounded by figures hazmat suits. Across the street, two men in overalls were fixing what looked like one of London's CCTV cameras, high atop a mast. And behind them, almost outside the frame of the image, was a parked car.

A black Aurus limousine with tinted windows.

The sight of the twenty million rouble car in London was rare enough.

But what struck her most was its licence plate, or rather, its distinctive format: three numbers, followed by a D.

This was a diplomatic car. And not just any. The number 252 was allotted to the Russian diplomatic mission.

Natalia stared at the photographs. There were a thousand different explanations for what she was seeing. But if the body under the shroud was indeed Konstantin Poliakov, if Poliakov had indeed been assassinated, and if the order to kill him had come from the Kremlin, then this was not just a story—it was a powder keg.