When the front door of the apartment suddenly swung open, Alexandra was at the kitchen bar, her mouth full, leaning over a plastic container of Caesar salad. Richard crossed the threshold, stomping noisily with his boots, she, wide-eyed, stared at him — sullen, with a bag and a backpack. Before making a muffled sound of joyful astonishment, she tried to chew her food.

“Mmm!” she managed, throwing the fork into the container, reaching forward.

Rounding the table, she dashed towards him into the entrance hall, from the other side of the enormous kitchen living room combo.

Richard put his bag on the floor and instinctually moved towards her, embraced her. The smell of salad dressing mingled with the sweet scent of perfume, he nuzzled her hair and closed his eyes.

He didn’t warn her — and himself couldn’t believe that everything had turned out like this. He had to come to her, to Moscow, interrupting the mission, only his partner and the chiefs of the Circus — MI6 — were aware of his movements.

The dangerous trick that Richard dared to try was a relationship. In his line of work, it’s impossible to be together when desired, to be genuine and candid, impossible to be oneself thoroughly … He was trying to learn to separate his personal life and his work — but, on occasion, struggled.

They had not seen each other since March, and now it was mid-September … They met a year ago; a year ago, his alchemical path had started, the path of the Poet, the journey to himself — to finally understand who he is — behind all the masks and fictitious identities he had to act out.

Richard and Alexandra — a spy and a writer of detective novels — had already experienced incredible adventures together — the kind that even MI6 agents seldom do. Now another test lay ahead — and Alexandra had no idea what awaited her.

“Pack your things, we’re leaving,” Richard said into the top of her head in English, still pressing her close.

She raised her head, she was looking up at him — her smile sad and ironic.

“Just like that?” she replied, in mock displeasure. “No foreplay?”

Richard sighed, his thin lips folded into a smile.

“Yes.”

She’s not surprised — nothing can surprise her. They deserved each other — each with secrets of their own and aces up the sleeves.

“Okay.”

Alexandra kept holding him around the waist, her hands clasped around and over his leather jacket, on his back, under the backpack. He missed this tight grasp, the way she usually put her hands under his jacket if it was unzipped.

“I missed you,” Richard added.

“Me too. A lot.” She was looking at him closely, so was he. “You’re running hot.”

“Well, I did miss you.”

“I’m serious. Take your backpack off.”

Alexandra took a step back, letting go, she still wasn’t taking her dark eyes off him, Richard let out a disappointed huff — and followed her command, put the things down on the floor.

As he removed his backpack, he frowned.

“And the jacket.”

“No time.”

She raised an eyebrow, and Richard spread his arms.

“You have fifteen minutes to pack your suitcase.”

“Richard!”

He laughed, finally entered the living room, sat down on the corner of the sofa, facing her. Alexandra stood opposite him, her hands on her hips, waiting for him to explain the rush.

Richard remained silent.

“Fifteen minutes?!” she exclaimed, bewildered. “I just came home, I haven’t even had breakfa-lunch-inner yet … You hungry?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s necessary. I’ll explain everything later. Please, do as I say.”

“The fucking Circus!”

“It’s not the Circus,” Richard replied grimly.

“The fucking Bulls!”

“Not the Bulls, either.”

“I’ll kill them all!” Alexandra lamented. “I’ve got just the serial killer in my new book, he eats human hearts — I’ll feed them to him!”

Richard couldn’t help smiling. He loved it when she cursed — with her low, hoarse voice, grotesquely, she played with intonations and sound accents. He learned to understand her sarcasm, her odd jokes, the loud, threatening, utterly serious declarations didn’t frighten him — because he knew that even though she was capable of murder, she wouldn’t do it.

Alexandra’s books are convincing — because the reality that she makes is indistinguishable from fiction. That’s the craft of a Poet and an alchemist.

“You can take the salad with you.”

“Very funny.”

She headed to the bedroom, stomping noisily on purpose, she rustled in the walk-in closet as she pulled out her mint suitcase — that, for some unknown reason, always turned out to be extremely heavy. Richard listened to the sounds from the adjoining room, sitting still, fatigue threatened to crush him to the ground like a concrete slab.

He’ll rest when they are safe.

“And where are we going?”

Richard startled, Alexandra was peeking out of the bedroom, the things were thrown all around the floor.

“Lofoten,” he said.

Clearly, she had been expecting something else.

“Lofoten?! But it’s like another planet there, it’s cold! I’ll—” she started pacing in a circle, like a tiger in a cage, flailing her hands. “Need to get warm clothing somewhere!”

Richard was giggling, she froze, her gaze burrowing into him.

“Jokes, clownery, Richard North?”

“Yes, I was joking.”

Alexandra kicked the lid of the suitcase, huffing theatrically. She understood that it was his way of explaining his desire to escape — somewhere far away from humans, civilization, intelligence services, and riddles.

“We’re flying to Japan,” Richard said.

“Even worse!”

His cheeks aching from laughter, he covered his face with his hand, it seemed this was the first time in all these months that he relaxed. He missed the way she couldn’t stand surprises — and when something didn’t go according to her plan.

“Fine,” Alexandra mumbled, dragging the open suitcase on the floor, going into the living room. “Japan it is. For long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wonderful, like nobody’s business. Is it because you have the Grand Prix this weekend?”

Richard nodded.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take your jacket off while I’m packing?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Salad?”

“No.”

“Water?”

“No, thank you.”

“Richard, is it really that urgent?”

He remembered her anecdote, oft quoted by press — about how an MI6 agent barged into her apartment and she demanded he take his clothes off — to make sure he’s unarmed … He hadn’t even kissed her yet — but while he’s sitting at a distance, nothing will tempt him.

Alexandra threw careful glances his way occasionally, she was coiling wires, packed the laptop, the tablet, tubes of makeup into her suitcase. The red notebook, the phone, and passport she placed on the table — in plain sight, so she wouldn’t forget.

When Richard put the backpack on, he winced.

The wheels of the mint suitcase noisily ran across the asphalt in the inner courtyard of the apartment block, they were headed to the arch that led to the outside of the building. Richard took the keys out of the pocket, a white off-roader beeped briefly, Alexandra squinted.

He counted seconds until her question.

“If the car’s here, why did you take the backpack and the bag with you up to the apartment?”

Richard opened the trunk.

“I picked them up on the way.”

“On the way — at my building?”

The suitcase and the red notebook followed Richard’s things into the trunk. She’s always perceptive, she’s impossible to fool — but he wasn’t trying to.

“Yes,” he turned and met her eyes. “I stored them in an apartment in the adjacent section, just in case, I hoped I’d never have to use them.”

“Just in case …” Alexandra drawled. “Oh, that mysterious stranger, Richard North.”

When Richard was on a mission of getting to know the writer Alexandra Stern, pen name Stella Fracta, he was playing the part of a little-known British actor Richard North from the theater troupe The Old Vic … The Circus arranged a fictitious biography for him, an apartment in Battersea in London and a spare one to watch the target — in Moscow. Alexandra treated him like a piece of furniture at first — despite all his tricks; he was just supposed to become her lover and infiltrate the Poets’ society, her alchemical circle which MI6 was so interested in. When he finally earned her trust, his world turned upside down.

He was in love before he knew it. Before he knew it, he was an alchemist — and became entangled in mystification, a story of heroism and treason.

Richard slapped down the trunk door and headed for the driver’s seat.

Alexandra sat next to him in front, she put her seatbelt on and turned to look back — at the child safety seat.

“I borrowed this car,” Richard rushed to explain as he started the engine.

“I don’t mind it if you have kids,” she chuckled. “I’m sure they’re as beautiful as you.”

He shook his head and started to drive. Jealousy and Alexandra were like oil and water …

It frightened him to think that he could have children — that he has no idea about.

2. Agent

[Russia, Moscow, Sheremetyevo International Airport]

They rounded the Sheremetyevo Airport complex, stopped at the open parking lot next to Terminal A. The evening sky was gray and dull, the sun, veiled with clouds, hadn’t set yet, but was doing little good. Richard left the car, Alexandra slipped out after him, they stopped in front of the trunk.

“Wait.”

Before Richard could touch the handle of the trunk, Alexandra took his hand and stepped closer, put her hands on Richard’s shoulders. He was like a hot iron to a touch, he tried to seem lively, but for the entire one and a half hour drive the unnatural blush on his pale, stubbled cheeks has been betraying him.

She pulled him closer by the neck, put her cool fingers onto his cheekbones, he leaned down and closed his eyes. The kiss was cautious at first, then he involuntarily opened his mouth, holding her by the head, drinking her in greedily, turning her back towards the trunk, pushing in.

There wasn’t enough air, his lips were boiling, Richard came to his senses and let her go, his breathing heavy.

Alexandra unzipped his leather jacket with one motion, under it, on the left side of his stomach, a dark bloody stain spread across the jumper.

“You idiot,” she growled. “You thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”

She smelled the fresh wound while still at home — and watched him all along the drive. He didn’t let her take the wheel.

Richard released a breath through his nose, hastily tucking the jacket’s flaps. He didn’t answer.

“Are you going to board the plane like this?”

“What choice do I have?”

“You need a doctor.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“I hope that this scratch already got cleaned and stitched, and you’re not going to pass out in the next few minutes.”

“There’ll be a doctor on the plane,” replied Richard after a pause, and added, “I’m not lying.”

He had already told her that they were expected at the business aviation center at the airport, for the private flight to Tokyo, and that they would then go to a hotel and stay there indefinitely. Richard decided to take Alexandra with him and continue the current mission with the Bulls, travelling in such a way that she would always be close by — because it was unsafe to leave her in Moscow. It took effort for him to convince the Circus to help him — by appealing to the risk of the Poets operation failing.

He didn’t give the chiefs the details — just informed them that the identity of the actor Richard North that was dating the Russian writer Stella Fracta was compromised, and that’s why it was better for Alexandra to be under his protection.

Though, when they were together, it was him who felt protected by her …

Alexandra walked demonstratively ahead, rolling her suitcase, clutching the red notebook under her arm as they crossed the parking lot and moved towards the terminal building, though she was still unable to take the heavy bag from him. Richard was following her and looking around — afraid that his guard was failing him.

His head was starting to spin, a mucky nausea was crawling up his throat.

They were greeted at the check-in counter and informed that the plane is ready for takeoff and waiting for them. Soon they were going up to the second floor — to the restaurant with a panoramic view of the runway — to meet Richard’s people, among who, as he claimed, was a doctor. There were no visitors at the restaurant save for two guests at one of the tables, with unfinished and, undoubtedly, not their first cups of coffee. The young dark-haired man jumped up and squinted short-sightedly when he saw the approaching figures, his companion remained seated in the armchair, leaning on the table tiredly — he was Richard’s age, but nearly all his hair had gone gray.

“Richard!” the dark-haired man called out in English. “You said you’re going to pick up equipment!”

“I did,” Richard replied loudly.

The gray-haired man turned his head, he stood, too.

“That’s not equipment.”

The dark-haired one pointed at Alexandra, Alexandra curved her lips into an ironic smile.

“Agent Alexandra, agent Dario, agent Adam,” Richard introduced.

“Why couldn’t you have said that you’re going to bring company?”

“Don’t ask unnecessary questions, Dario,” Richard cut off the dark-haired one. “We can go.”

“We’ve met before,” Dario went on, not taking his eyes off Alexandra, reaching out, “I just don’t remember where and when.”

“That’s fine. It was most likely at the Circus.”

Alexandra shook hands with Dario and Adam.

“You said there’s a doctor here.”

“I’m the doctor,” Adam spoke.

“He’s playing alive,” Alexandra motioned at Richard with her chin. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s a madman,” said the doctor, not smiling. “I’ll examine him when we’re on the plane.”

“You can talk later,” Richard grumbled, turning on his heels. “Let’s go.”

“I know I’ve seen you somewhere,” Dario wouldn’t let it go.

“Take the bags away from Richard.”

“Don’t listen to her.”

“Richard, drop the bags.”

“Speaking as the doctor, don’t listen to Richard.”

“Doctor, you’re on my team.”

“Doctor, it’s your first time seeing her.”

“I remember!”

Dario abruptly froze in the passageway to the escalator leading down, Alexandra nearly bumped into him with her suitcase. It took time for Richard to look back, Adam, who was walking behind, slowed his step, observing them with wary curiosity.

“Cats don’t drink wine!” Dario beamed. “You’re a writer, you’re the author of my favorite books!”

Alexandra opened her mouth in astonishment, Dario went on.

“Commissioner — Chief Inspector — Clément is my favorite detective! He got a promotion,” he explained to the clueless Adam and Richard as if they were supposed to know who Commissioner Clément was, “when he caught D’Angelo.”

Richard rolled his eyes, Adam blinked in confusion.

“For God’s sake, Dario, not you too!” Richard hissed, pointing towards the platform where the airport escort was waiting for them. “You’ll talk later.”

“Incredible!” Dario exclaimed, ignoring his panting partner. “The author, the creator of my hero-detective, is my colleague! My hero-agent Richard is my colleague!”

“Richard is your hero?”

“He caught the mole last year — of course he is!”

“How long have you been working, Dario?” Alexandra asked, bewildered. “Your reactions are so genuine.”

Dario hesitated.

“A year. Less. Since March.”

“The Bulls are your first mission?”

“Yeah.”

“And you have time to read books?”

“Of course, I love reading, I always dreamed of becoming a detective — like the young Dupin, the noir Marlowe, the eccentric Wolfe … But I ended up a spy, like Smiley.”

“Not bad either.”

“Yeah.”

When Richard first saw Dario Fisher and learned that he’s going to be his partner at the mission with the Bulls, he thought that Dario was a complete idiot. Fisher was full of idealistic urges, he blushed and paled easily, people like him are an open book. What kind of spy is that? Richard bristled. He’s incapable of hiding his emotions, he’ll give himself away in an instant!

Later he understood that he was wrong. When necessary, Dario controlled himself and executed instructions with great precision, he had yet to let Richard down even once — and trusted him unconditionally, regardless of what Richard said: Dario believed in him as a mentor even more than Richard believed in himself.

Dario’s initiative was the downside. It was him who brought doctor Adam Bradshaw along — who now, obedient and dejected, was following them to the boarding ramp, quietly listening to Dario and Alexandra’s chatter.

Richard couldn’t think of anything better than to say that Alexandra was an agent of the Circus. Dario was not aware of the Poets operation, he was only briefed on his own mission …

As soon as they were in the cabin, having crossed a hundred yards of the open platform of the airside, Richard sunk into the seat, stretching his long legs out under the table. He felt sick.

Adam, meanwhile, went to the restroom to wash his hands.

Alexandra helped Richard out of his jacket, Dario took the single seat near the opposite wall, he was looking curiously at the red notebook that Alexandra had thrown on the table. To Richard’s relief, he was quiet and then looked out of the window to watch the airport equipment moving around in the distance.

When the steward arrived to announce the preparations for takeoff and inquire about meal preferences, Richard, now shirtless, was grimacing in pain, the doctor didn’t even turn — he was busy treating the wound on Richard’s left hypochondrium, it was small in diameter, but deep.

The stitches hadn’t loosened, but there was excessive bleeding and inflammation around the orifice.

“Caesar salad, cherry juice,” Alexandra told the steward. “Adam, can he have chocolate ice cream?”

Richard laughed quietly, Adam nodded.

“And chocolate ice cream. Adam, have you been working for the Circus long?”

The doctor looked up at Alexandra, his face, with a barely visible web of mimic lines around the eyes, was tan and flushed, as if he had recently returned from vacation. He gave a strange, sad smile.

“I don’t work for the Circus, actually. I was abducted at Singapore airport and forced onto this plane to Moscow. And then I was held in the local airport — so I would help the injured Richard during your flight.”

Alexandra stared at Adam, he was dead serious. Tense silence hung.

“You took the Hippocratic Oath, you know!” Dario blurted out.

“To get onto a private MI6 plane at gunpoint,” Adam smirked, fixing the dressing in place with steady movements.

“You’re serving a noble cause!”

“For the British government!”

“For the entire world!”

“But I’ll get the noose or the firing squad for espionage!”

“Come on, not the noose!”

“What do you think they do to American citizens who work with foreign spies?”

“You’re unemployed anyway!”

“But I was planning to come back!”

“It was you who said that you can’t go back to the Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore!”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Be quiet.”

Richard closed his eyes tiredly, their argument was splitting his head. Alexandra covered him with a blanket, he was starting to shiver, the goddamn wound wasn’t mortal — but very unpleasant.

They were taking off — and he realized that he really wants to just drift off to sleep. As much as he missed chocolate ice cream, rest was the priority.

He has eleven hours to get back in shape until Tokyo — because he had no idea what would happen next.

3. A Dead Man

[Singapore, Singapore, Changi]

[Singapore, Singapore, Kent Ridge]

Two days earlier, in the morning, at Singapore Changi Airport there was a commotion — and not just because the legendary racing team Rote Stier, Formula One champions, were leaving the country after the Grand Prix at the Marina Bay Street Circuit.

Pilots, engineers, mechanics, managers, and other members of the star-studded team were crossing the bustling hall, heading towards the check-in counter. They drew attention not only of the fans shouting farewell congratulations, but of the other passengers — because the orderly crowd dressed in distinctive brand attire moved like a single organism.

Mechanic Richard Bateman, broad-shouldered and tall — over six feet — walked in step with everyone, his blue eyes were fixed on the floor, a baseball cap on his head, a brand jacket hugging his torso, a bag in his hands. He exchanged sparse conversation with colleagues, the morning flight after a busy weekend — with only one Monday off that everyone usually spent catching up with sleep — was the usual routine. He had shaved the day before and now looked younger, the skin of his cheeks and chin had time to grow unaccustomed to the razor and was now sore.

At the turn, in the passageway between halls, the crowd split — some of the Bulls fell behind, stretching into a column as they passed the rows of waiting chairs. There was another crowd approaching — faces that jumbled into a kaleidoscope from months of travel, Richard was maneuvering through bodies automatically, hardly taking his eyes off the glistening floor, the heels and backs of his colleagues were his navigation cues.

Suddenly, someone from the oncoming crowd moved in his direction, Richard instantly recoiled, his body was faster than his mind — but not only did the stranger not change trajectory, he collided with him, grabbing Richard’s right shoulder with one arm and with the other, pressing against his left side.

Richard extended his left arm, bent at the elbow, to push the stranger — in the same jacket and baseball cap as him — away, but it didn’t save him from the blade hitting his left hypochondrium. Richard instantly felt the knife pierce his flesh — and it was a mix of sudden pain and astonishment — as if he was an air balloon, burst with a needle.

The stranger had fair eyebrows and light brown eyes, he was average height, with an unremarkable face, he smelled of sweat and laundry detergent.

“You’re a dead man, Richard North,” he said, his voice toneless, he spoke English, but with an Eastern European accent.

Only a couple of seconds had passed — but they felt like a free-fall eternity. A moment later, the stranger disappeared into the crowd, Richard was staring after him, his heart pounded loudly in his throat, blood roared in his ears, counterpointing the cacophony of the airport sounds.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” someone called out, the voice was right next to his ear, but Richard didn’t turn.

His left side was pulsating oddly, as if hot water was pouring onto it from a faucet — or as if he himself was a faucet. Richard finally realized what had happened. He tried to press down on the wound, but the hall began to sway before his eyes, he couldn’t move his hand, he didn’t even have the strength to hold it at waist level.

“Richard!”

In the back of his mind, Richard knew he was wounded, but it was as if he, from outside his body, watched his undercover colleague Dario Fisher, a radio engineer in the Rote Stier team, call to him — being kneeled in the hall of the Singapore airport — and how Fisher fails to hold him — keeling over — upright.

Fisher took his jacket off and was pressing down on the wound, trying to stop the gushing blood, a crowd of onlookers gathered around them, filming the incident. Richard didn’t see the managers’ horror or the arrival of the ambulance — he blacked out.

He didn’t remember the Singapore hospital — National University Hospital — well, he came to after the surgery when the anesthesia had worn off. The sensations were comparable to a severe hangover and a simultaneous food poisoning — a throbbing head and a fervorous churning stomach. Richard’s worst hangovers occurred in Berlin, during the Station mission, the worst poisoning of his life was in Indonesia, when he had a task as a paramedic on a medical boat.

Richard saw Fisher sitting in the chair at his bedside, he closed his eyes hoping that it was just a vision, but it didn’t help. Richard regretted not seeing any visions or dreams when he was blacked out … Thoughts, multiplying exponentially, were already beginning to tear his skull apart from the inside.

He needed to know who had wounded him, and what he should do now.

Richard opened his mouth, but only an indistinct rasp came out.

“It’s Wednesday, 4 AM, you’re in Singapore, and you look like crap,” Dario said.

Richard glanced at the wide floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Kent Ridge Park, at the panorama of the pre-dawn city, he looked around the spacious, comfortable hospital room … Rote Stier tried to take good care of him — and he could only wonder how the incident would affect future events, including those of the racing world.

The stranger was wearing brand clothing, it appeared to be an attack on the team, even though Richard knew that the Bulls had nothing to do with it.

It was a warning — not an attempt to kill him. Had the stranger wanted to kill him, he would have aimed for another, more definitively lethal spot … He called him Richard North, only those who took part in the Poets mission knew Richard North — those who knew him as the British theater actor … and those who knew Alexandra.

At that notion, Richard turned cold. He opened his mouth again, he wanted to ask for the phone, he wanted to call right away, to warn her, hear her voice …

“Everyone’s gone to Nagoya, I barely convinced them to let me stay — and I promised to be in Suzuka by Thursday. They’ll fire me if I let them down.”

Richard wanted to say that it’s the punishment of the Circus he should fear — if he lets MI6 down, but his tongue wouldn’t budge.

“The phone,” he managed, finally.

Dario opted not to ask, he instantly got up and handed him the phone that was on the bedside table next to the wallet and documents.

The hand that rose from the bed next to his wooden body felt like it was not his own. Richard stared at the dark screen, thinking.

“And my clothes.”

“Planning an escape?” Fisher chuckled.

He stood next to the hospital bed, smiling — but not long. A few moments later, he was already rummaging through Richard’s bag to retrieve fresh clothes — without Rote Stier logos. Richard, meanwhile, remained still and stared off into space, still clutching the phone in his unsteady hand.

“I need to make a call. Wait for me outside,” Richard said.

Dario didn’t ask, he left, making a face, Richard sank into thought again, hardly noticing Dario leave the room.

If he calls Alexandra and warns her that she’s being watched — or that someone means to hurt her — he’ll make her act on her own. He was sure that she was okay now — but wasn’t sure about the future. His intuition was still handicapped by the anesthesia, Richard couldn’t stay focused for a long time, he couldn’t feel his body and couldn’t tell if he was afraid or nauseous …

If she flees Moscow, she’ll be found instantly — unless she uses a private plane … Richard didn’t want her to turn to her friend McKellen, the British historian who had, in the past, put up a brilliant play with Circus agents in lead roles — who had both a private plane and a bag of tricks for disappearances.

They would handle this on their own — and the time has come to use his position to, for once, do something for himself.

Richard sat up on the bed, after a few attempts, he managed to put his bare feet on the floor, he dialed the number — on the dedicated line of an encrypted channel — of Falcon, the head of MI6. He was only allowed to make a call like this in an emergency.

He reported the situation and explained what had happened — stating that, to save both missions — of the Bulls and the Poets — he needs to take Alexandra Stern from Moscow to Tokyo, where the Rote Stier team will arrive a week after the Grand Prix at the Suzuka Circuit — that he, obviously, wouldn’t make it to. He needs to do it himself as to not involve other agents or cause suspicion — and he will figure out how to explain the situation to Stern. He was instructed to take Fisher along — and work it out himself how he would arrange the absence of the radio engineer at the paddock as the team prepares for the weekend.

Richard understood that Dario Fisher was assigned to him so he would learn everything faster … The decision to brief Fisher on the Poets mission was left to Richard’s discretion — as he was answerable for the consequences with his own head.

He asserted to the Circus that the injury was minor, that he’s moving around the hospital room freely and there’s no danger; he thanked the team director Christian and assured him that he would not make any comments to the press or anyone else; to the head mechanic, Phil, he texted that he’ll skip the weekend and won’t risk jeopardizing the team with a hole in his flank, even if he escapes the hospital room to see Singapore — not just through the panoramic window; to the other colleagues who asked about his health he replied that he was alive and would be working fit in no time. The explanation as to why Dario Fisher is staying at the hospital came quickly: the team leaves no one behind.

With effort, Richard managed to pull his jeans on, he had even more troubles putting on his shoes … He stood in front of the window and looked at the light-flecked city, at the futuristic jungle, but was seeing something else.

He won’t be able to call her … He spent such a long time hiding from himself the fact that he can’t — build anew, this albedo castle of white marble, for himself, for the two of them. At the beginning of the year he was full of enthusiasm, of hope, he was sure he’ll make it — that nothing can stop them from being together, no intelligence services, no pseudo-alchemists and pseudo-poets, no force — of order, chaos, evil, good.

Now doubts crept in — that he was no Poet, that everything’s coming back on the trodden tracks of him running in circles, like a well-groomed beast, fulfilling orders, jumping through fiery hoops … He’ll be killed — before he has time to do anything; he’ll be killed — and he’ll never even learn what it’s like to be the architect of one’s universe.

He feared that with each day of delay, with each day of separation, they were drifting apart from each other, and he was drifting away from himself. At times, it felt like the opposite — that they were connected like never before and that he could feel her through the distance, even without their calls — sparse, spontaneous, when he had the chance, when she did …

He often imagined that she was next to him and perfectly aware of everything, that he wasn’t alone.

Wasn’t alone. So odd — he only started thinking about loneliness when he suddenly realized how good it is to have a kindred soul. Alexandra wasn’t the only person whom Richard — to his own surprise — missed.

The phone came to life in his hand, the message and its sender could not have come at a better time.

‘You can take whatever you need for the construction of the castle with you. Whatever you don’t need, leave here.’ There it is, the sign from above — even if the sender was a man formally considered dead by MI6, and the coincidence in which Richard only had to think of him to get an instant message seemed incredible.

“Dario!” he called.

Fisher came instantly, as if he had been standing behind the door and waiting until he would be called for.

“We’re flying to Moscow in two hours, distract the staff so I can leave the hospital. I’ll meet you down at the entrance.”

Dario nodded and left the hospital room without a word.

He somewhat reminded Richard of himself — ready to do anything if it was ordered by one of the chiefs. He had to admit — in certain scenarios, it was impossible not to take advantage of that.

4. Good Doctor

[Singapore, Singapore, Changi]

Adam Bradshaw’s two-week vacation was ending, he was about to check in for his flight to Dubai — the stop-over on his way to Washington — with the total duration of the flight being around a day.

He didn’t feel energetic or refreshed, his skin was still aching and peeling from the Singapore sun, he was drinking a lot and laying next to the hotel pool. He wanted a change of scenery, and he got it, but now he needed to go back to Baltimore.

Adam had no idea what he was going to do next. The scandal after which he was forced out of his position as the chief physician of the rehabilitation department at Johns Hopkins Hospital divided his life into ‘before’ and ‘after,’ and ‘after’ was utter uncertainty. The fact that a few months ago his wife had left him seemed a smaller catastrophe — though only recently he thought that there could be nothing worse.

His medical license was revoked — and that means he won’t be accepted to any other hospital, he can’t even continue his private practice. The world is full of injustice, and yet Adam Bradshaw for some reason never thought about revenge or giving evil back to evil.

He was often told that there are very few altruists like him — because they are the first to die. No wonder they called him ‘good Dr. Bradshaw’ or simply the Good Doctor.

He entered medical care not because he wanted to be a hero and save people — but because everyone in his family was a doctor, he never even considered an alternative: not a surgeon, not a paramedic, not a dentist — specifically a general practitioner, a multi-discipline specialist who cared for his patients over a long period.

When recovered patients and their happy relatives thanked him, he always replied that he was simply doing his job. When he detected a problem in time and referred a patient to the more specialized doctor, all the glory went to star surgeons, cardiologists, psychiatrists …

He never tried to take his father’s place — the former chief rehabilitation physician whose decades of leadership had maintained phenomenal order in the department with a team of physiotherapists, neurologists, psychologists — but naturally became his replacement. Adam’s father was three years dead, his mother was quick to follow. Adam hardly visited them in that time, his family life was falling apart at the seams, he and Eve kept fighting all the time, kept breaking up and coming back together, he went into debt to renovate the apartment, tried his best — but, for her, nothing was ever enough …

Even on the day of his mother’s funeral, she nagged him, complaining that she had married a general practitioner instead of some plastic surgeon from Mount Royal Terrace.

When it came to selling his family’s apartment, he refused.

The picture-perfect family life was a cardboard backdrop that Eve — there was a good chance that the reason was the compatibility of their names — wanted. She allowed herself tantrums that he chose to endure — to keep their crumbling, hole-ridden boat afloat, she always excused herself with good intentions and always put the blame on him.

Only when she left did he suddenly realize she was nothing but a manipulator that twisted the truth inside out, and her truth was never the truth … It was as if he had gone through abstinence syndrome, purified his body of her venom, so when she suddenly called him, bawling into the phone, obviously drunk and claimed to miss him, he, contrary to her expectations, didn’t fall for her trick.

He suddenly understood that if he takes her words in good faith now, all of it will happen again — the chidings, his self-loathing, her tantrums, and the revulsion of her infidelity.

She left him for his colleague, a cardiac surgeon, who ended up setting Adam up so that he was fired with a scandal. It was, of course, Adam’s own fault for giving a reason to accuse him of negligence …

Dr. Bradshaw was yawning, half-lying on a chair in the Singapore Changi Airport, his legs stretched into the aisle. The flight scheduled for 8 AM was delayed, he hadn’t slept all night, tossing and turning, stinking thinking crawled into his head — even though he tried not to wind himself up.

He would come up with what he’s going to do, he’ll start coming up with it as soon as he gets to Baltimore — for now there are twenty-four more hours during which he can stop imitating the tiresome refrain of his self-chastising’s voice.

“A doctor! I need a doctor!”

It was a conditioned reflex — like the dog of the Russian physiologist Pavlov — to a sound command. It was more than a habit … Adam stirred, literally thrown up in his chair, he jumped up right away, turning to the young man who had rushed into the waiting area.

“I’m a doctor,” Adam acceded.

Their dialogue had already drawn the attention of the passengers, both walking and sitting. Some understood the brief exchange in English, some were reacting to one man’s look of distress and the other’s determined compliance.

“Please, come with me,” the young man said.

Adam followed him, leaving his suitcase by the row of chairs, it was only later that he realized he would never see his belongings again … They walked from one hall to another, he barely kept pace and even started panting, the young man explained on the go that they needed to get to the business aviation sector, walking past the bright futuristic decorations of the airport of the future.

It was only later that he realized that the local medical services could have reached the plane waiting for them on the platform faster. At that moment, he wasn’t thinking of anything.

A steward closed the door behind them, inside the business jet was a man with a bloody stain on his clothes in his abdominal area, there was an open first aid kit on the table.

“I thought you ran away,” the man in the seat muttered instead of a greeting.

“Keep wishing. This is Adam, he’s a doctor.”

The young man introduced himself as Dario; the stranger’s name, at the moment, didn’t matter. Adam didn’t waste time and asked where he could wash his hands.

He realized that they were taking off only when he left the restroom.

“Hold on. My flight is in an hour, I don’t—”

Dario pulled a gun from behind his back and pointed it at the doctor. The stranger in the seat sighed hopelessly and put his hand over his face.

“You idiot,” he muttered through his teeth.

“Are you a doctor or what?”

“This is a kidnapping!”

“That’s right. We’ll bring you back when you’re done.”

He briefly motioned at the wounded man with his chin, urging action, Adam decided he had no other choice anyway.

He crouched on the floor and started to lift the stranger’s clothing, under the sweat-soaked T-shirt he found a post-surgical dressing, soaked in blood. Dario put the weapon behind his back.

“What happened?” asked the doctor.

“A stab wound, had surgery yesterday,” the man replied.

“He escaped from the hospital,” Dario added, sitting down behind Adam in the row of seats opposite the wounded man.

“The stitches have come apart,” Adam frowned. “I hope there’s thread and a needle in the kit. You’ll have to lie still afterward.”

“No can do.”

“How long is the flight?”

“Twelve hours.”

Adam looked the stranger in the eye.

“Do you want to live?”

“More than anything in the world.”

“Then you’ll do as I say.”

“I’m with the doctor,” Dario said.

The man didn’t answer, he swallowed and closed his eyes tiredly. Adam wanted to live too — but he didn’t tell them that until a bit later.

5. Don’t Move

[Japan, Tokyo, Chuo City]

The bed in the Mandarin Oriental hotel room on the thirty-sixth floor of the Mitsui Tower in central Tokyo had a firm, springly mattress. Richard preferred these kinds of mattresses to airy featherbeds — that one could on occasion drown in — but this time, lying down hurt. His rear end did the entire time of the flight, his lower back ached as if he were not thirty-six, but all of eighty years old … With a sigh he lowered onto the bed, laying back on the pillows, sprawled diagonally as he tried to remove his shoes by propping one foot against the other.

Alexandra shushed at him and grabbed the leg he raised over the bed, Richard overcame the urge to resist — and let her pull the shoes off. The next to go were socks, jeans, the T-shirt — which was already clean of the bloodstain on the left side of the stomach.

He didn’t want to move, he wanted nothing.

It was noon local time, his eyelids were raw, he was rubbing his eyes tiredly, trying to get rid of the drowsiness. He’ll go to the shower now — it’ll boost him … He just needs to crawl to the shower.

He lay there and stared at the ceiling, gathering his strength, Alexandra stood by the panoramic window with a view of the Tokyo Skytree, the tallest broadcasting tower in the world, hugging herself by the shoulders.

She turned.

“Should I shower with you?”

Richard pulled his lips into a smile, he had to tilt his head up to see her face.

“Yes.”

He missed her — and the long-awaited reunion was awkward and rushed. If not for that damn wound, he would have had sex with her right there on the plane — since they couldn’t do it at home because they had to hurry.

Alexandra came closer, didn’t sit down on the bed right away. Richard, in turn, kept laying and looking up at her.

He reached out.

“Anything you want, but don’t be stupid,” she said, taking his hand, interlocking their fingers.

Richard hemmed.

“Buzzkill.”

“I’m serious. No sudden moves and no acrobatics — and after, I promise you, you’re going to run and hide from me.”

“I won’t.”

His abdomen with a white square of the dressing rose and fell with his breaths, his body — a sculptor and an artist’s dream — was attractive — but he’s not going anywhere … Even if they’ll have to part again for a time, if wished, she’ll always find him.

She could find him anywhere — if she wanted to. They agreed to not see each other for these months, and only the philosophical God knew how much she missed Richard all this time.

Alexandra sighed and squeezed his hand tighter. The sun fell through the wide window onto the gray carpeting, lining it with flecks of light, reflecting off the polished surface of the table. Richard’s blue eyes, if looking at an angle, appeared to be lit up from the inside, the ends of his lashes were lighter in color.

She leaned in, her free hand trailed over his stubbled cheek. Richard pulled her to him by the back of her head, putting his fingers into her chestnut hair, he didn’t even have to sit up — she was already kissing him on the lips, hovering over him, he just held her tight as if she could leave.

At some point, he tried to roll over and onto her, but she stopped him. Her cool hands were pressed against his chest, the gaze of her dark eyes was determined and direct.

His stubble already left red marks around her mouth … Richard smiled.

“Don’t move,” she said.

He squinted playfully.

“So tie me up.”

“Good idea. I’ve never tied you up before.”

Her thigh lay across his thighs, he could flip her on her blades with a single movement, but didn’t. He placed his hands onto her back, under her T-shirt, pulling her close again.

There are fang extensions in her mouth. He seldom thought of them — he had gotten used to them almost since the beginning. He didn’t feel them at all when they kissed — even when she went down on him … Now it was as if he was kissing her for the first time, his head was spinning, he wanted to guttle her, he was already out of breath. Somewhere he found the strength to start wriggling around again, to pull her jeans off, push his hand down her panties as she was taking off her T-shirt, sitting on him in an uncomfortable pose, her knees pressed into the bed on both sides of his hips.

She almost never wore bras, and she had small breasts — but Richard liked her small breasts. He moved deeper into the bed, back to the pillows, impatient for her to take the rest of the clothes off, he pulled her towards himself with one hand, his other hand inside her. Her palms were already on his cock, he dug into her lips, holding her by the hair, exhaling moans into her mouth, throwing his head back when she started to trail kisses down his neck to his chest, to his chiseled abdomen, to his lower stomach.

Now it was he who grabbed her hair with both hands, trying not to move his hips, admiring her and immediately getting lost again, closing his eyes, dissolving.

Then he pulled her away from himself and kissed her on the lips again, she was already sitting on top of him, moving her hips rhythmically, his embrace left raspberry-red marks on her shoulders and back that will later become bruises — because her skin is prone to bruising — even under the black geometrical pattern of the tattoos … Suddenly, he gave a quiet cry of surprise through his brief moaning. He was already gasping, hoarsely, for air, she barely had time to pull away, still holding him by the shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to say.

He reached to her inner thigh again, but she stopped him, pulling his hand away, kissing his sweat-soaked temple.

“It’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

They only just started … He forgot everything, he lost control. With her, he lost control — but wasn’t afraid of this free fall anymore, everything was different. He trusted her — with both body and mind — and knew she did, too. It wasn’t even about the sex, though sex with a loved one — a privilege previously inaccessible — was one of the pleasant discoveries.

In many ways, it was as if he was born again … What it’s like to finish too soon, it turned out, was also something he had to learn. Disappointment, confusion, and something of abashment — since the clarity comes quickly.

Alexandra lay next to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, Richard hugged her, touching her forehead, the wet strands of hair stuck to it, with his lips. He closed his eyes, the exhaustion came back, the pain in his side pulsed vividly.

The painkiller was somewhere in the pocket of his jacket, discarded on the entrance hall floor.

He realized that, half-laying on the pillows, he can’t even move, though now he definitely needed to take a shower. Richard huffed, opened his eyes — but only to make himself more comfortable, feeling the cool body next to him, breathing in the scent of the sweet perfume and shampoo, mixed with the smell of the car, the airport, plane, the taxi, the salty sweat.

She never told him that she loved him … It was an odd thought — uncharacteristic for him, too sentimental — though neutral, more of the realm of unresolved questions. Even he said it — genuinely, not as a loud declaration or the way it’s normally said as a goodbye or in carelessness — but as an argument, as a thesis in dialogue.

It seems the latest events, the wounds, and flights, really did exhaust him. What damn difference did it make if she said it or not — if he knows that she loves him anyway.

Richard fell asleep almost right away, Alexandra lay next to him for some time, looking at the flecks of light that shifted on the beige wall opposite the bed. The escape, the wound, riddles again, this Circus again …

Alexandra hated the Circus — for what they did to Richard and for what they kept doing — though now he was immune to their manipulations and brainwashing.

He was a tool — a plastic doll in a plastic dollhouse, with stage scenery and genius — in its cynicism — direction … Behind the altisonant words about duty and honor, evil and good, chaos and order were ordinary human motives — though at a lower level of influence from the divine.

The problem was not that Richard and his colleagues served the powers that were not at all good and order — but in that the absolute trust and unquestioning execution of order turned them from humans into meat. Meat of professional liars and seductors, expensive in maintenance but yet a commodity, high-class specialists — loyal hunting dogs regularly bringing truffles.

When they first met, Richard seemed an empty shell to her, she never knew he was a spy — but saw that he was pretending — skillfully, so well that no one would ever figure it out … But she felt that he was lying. He looked at her with his beautiful blue eyes, he followed her everywhere, not imposing, but offering — and giving help — in solving the problem … The problem that he himself created — so she would run into his arms, seeking protection.

The Circus considered the writer Stella Fracta dangerous — because of the popularity of her book about alchemy — and the popularization of the secrets of the Poets’ society. The Circus will never understand that there are no secrets — there’s only the level of engagement in the Great Work, the level of understanding and trust — in oneself and all the symbols that guide the alchemist towards his purpose over his lifetime.

MI6 is too rational to believe that nigredo, albedo, citrinitas, and rubedo — are not just words and a magic recipe, they’re obvious keys and a process that describes any task.

When Richard’s world began to crumble — without asking for his permission — he suddenly understood. He stopped being a doll with broad shoulders, a taut ass and dry abs — but without a soul; he could no more unsee what he saw.

He simply understood that he never knew himself — and when the time came to choose, he had nothing to choose from. He suddenly understood that he was robbed — when they took his self, but gave him dozens of other biographies in exchange — and they were never enough anyway.

There will never be enough wardrobe sets — even the most exquisite ones — if he’s never been in his own skin — and doesn’t know his own reflection.

Richard remembered that he is someone, besides his undercover personas and missions, only when he fell in love. Alexandra herself had no idea she would fall in love — just a year ago she lay next to him like this and was waiting when this weirdo would finally leave — because Richard North was perfect and right in every way, but reeked of emptiness.

He revealed himself — she barely had to try. She just allowed him to get involved in her game, in her adventure, to see the world through her eyes — and in the end got an MI6 agent hook, line, and sinker.

She began to love him when he stopped pretending and hiding behind masks. When he admitted that he understands nothing — and asked her to help. When he shed his artificial guises and came naked, slightly frightened of his own nakedness, confused for want of habit — without prompts and safety nets.

He’s been to hell — more than once. He’s become a Poet — and watched everything crumble around him, everything he clung onto, everything that comprised his reality, be taken from him … He passed the first step of the Great Work — nigredo — and now it’s up to him to build his new reality anew, an alchemist’s reality, his albedo castle.

Richard is impatient … He’s used to everything turning out the first time. He’s used to people falling for his disarming smile and sweet appearance, he still, out of habit, makes kitty eyes and shakes his butt when he wants something. It didn’t work on Alexandra … She sometimes wondered whether it was the reason for his infatuation, attachment, obsession — when she simply didn’t notice him, didn’t fall for his tricks, didn’t react the way he expected.

It doesn’t matter. They have a lot in common — more than just compatible traumas that forge strong connections. She has a terrible temper — and not the calmest of lives … He has a circus leash on his neck, that’s no longer a jangling chain, it no longer digs into his neck with spikes and no longer strangles, but still doesn’t let him stray far.

He won’t shed the leash — because it’s not just his job, but his craft, that he excels at like no one else.

He can be anybody — that is his becoming. He creates worlds — through himself, lives in artificial reality, pulling others into it — like a real Poet.

Alexandra watched his long lashes tremble, his chest rise and fall under the corner of the blanket she covered him with when he fell asleep.

Now, the world under the name Richard North was in danger — and whatever it was, she would find it. Whether to destroy it or not was up to Richard.

6. The World

[Japan, Tokyo, Chuo City]

Richard woke up when the sun was down. He was alone in the hotel room, covered with a blanket, the lights of Tokyo glittered outside from the height of the skyscraper. Pain shot through his side at an awkward movement, he was wincing as he sat upright on the bed.

Next to him, on the empty half of the bed, lay a tarot card. The World — from the Rider-Waite-Smith deck, with a half-naked woman in the center, surrounded by four characters: a youth, a bird of prey, a lion, and a bull.

Alexandra had left him a message — and is most likely walking around the evening city or having dinner somewhere … Richard wouldn’t mind a meal himself, he couldn’t remember the last time he ate, on the plane he couldn’t eat a morsel.

He would know the approaching footsteps from a thousand, when the door of the room opened he was still sitting on the bed, with a card in his hand and the corner of the blanket on his hips.

There was a container in Alexandra’s hands.

“Soup?” she declared right from the threshold.

Richard wanted to smile, but grew even more pensive and simply nodded.

“We’ll brainstorm later,” she went on. “You’ll tell me who these people are.”

“I can tell you now,” Richard replied. “About everyone except the lion.”

Instead of soup, Alexandra handed him the water bottle from the bedside drawer. Richard put the card on the bed and began to guzzle. She stopped him halfway through the bottle.

He was looking up into her eyes, sitting on the bed, he didn’t close the bottle.

“That’s you in the center,” he started. “The man in the menagerie is me.”

“I think it’s the opposite,” Alexandra chuckled. “At the very least, because you’re naked, at most — because you’re the main character of the story.”

Richard frowned, vertical lines on his nose bridge deepened even more.

“Possibly.”

“What are you doing?”

“Dancing.”

He remembered that the less he thought about it, the more accurate the interpretation would be.

“With two wands.”

“I have two of something — for balance,” Richard said. “Two of something.”

The dialogue sounded strange, but they understood each other perfectly well. Richard smiled weakly.

“The eagle, hawk, falcon, whatever the hell it is — the Circus …” he mused. “Because Falcon is chief of the Circus.”

Wordplay, symbolically meaningful surnames — and coincidences.

“The bull is Rote Stier.”

“Interesting,” Alexandra said as she sat down on the edge of the bed.

Richard drank water again, she didn’t take her eyes off him until he finished the bottle.

His full bladder was already making its presence felt, but he stubbornly refused to get up from the bed, unwilling to leave the conversation halfway through.

“What’s left is to figure out who the lion is.”

“What is a lion to you?”

She always asked that way, as if she knew the answer — and he, like an indolent student, was slow on the mark. She never gave him a ready solution — she made him think on his own, search for answers in his own system of symbols.

“The proud king of beasts, self-centered,” Richard recounted, “he surrounds himself with material benefits, chasing renown. Someone from the elite.”

He had no ideas about who it might be … Throughout various missions, he was always surrounded by the rich and the power-hungry, spoiled hypocrites who he had to pretend to be friends with. He was presented to them at the negotiation table, planted in their bed — so he would find out their secrets and draw closer to the control room.

He had too many enemies from the past. The one intending to spook him, threatening him with exposure, could be anybody.

“You said he called you by name.”

“The man in Rote Stier attire was a mercenary, he said what he was told to say. He was faceless, and it’s impossible to trace it back to the client through him.”

“He called you Richard North.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. On one hand, it could be one of your acquaintances,” Richard smirked, Alexandra maintained a neutral expression. “Someone who saw us together — while we were together: at your events, on the street, in Moscow, in London.”

“On the other hand,” she continued his line of thought, “someone could have seen you in the news and on social media, an old acquaintance could have seen you — and recognized you. That’s why he called you Richard North, with the public name — and not something else.”

“Fair.”

Richard sighed, ahead of him lay remembering all the lions — which were many. Lions, lionesses … Alexandra knew almost all of them — indirectly, through reading his dossier — that he gave to her when he travelled to Dante’s Hell — left it on the threshold, like hope. He didn’t fill her in on the details of the mission with the Rote Stier racing team — but she knew that he had spent these months working as a mechanic, travelling from one city to another across Formula One facilities.

“He said I was a dead man. This could be important, too.”

It was Alexandra’s turn to sigh.

“What does a dead man mean?”

He looked up at her — before that, he was looking at her hands with long white nails, folded on her knees.

“That he’s going to kill me. Or wishes for my death or—”

“That Richard North doesn’t exist,” they said in unison.

“It means that he is threatening to expose me,” Richard winced. “He knows I’m undercover.”

“But you have several covers.”

“And he learned the one that’s known to many — and he definitely recognized me by my face.”

“But why in Singapore specifically?”

“No idea,” he huffed, throwing the blanket aside and preparing to get up. “Maybe it’s a coincidence. Both days, I was racking my brain for what the connection between the Bulls and the Poets could be, but I can’t come up with anything except a personal vendetta. There’s nothing tying Richard Bateman and Richard North — except myself.”

He opted to think in categories of his job, he was still hiding behind the masks of his covers. He was just Richard — and yet, wanted to be Richard North more than anyone else — because Richard North was with Alexandra, Richard North was a Poet and an alchemist.

Richard silently got up and went to the bathroom. On the marble surface of the sink’s sides, there were dressing supplies prepared, he turned the water on, looked through the wooden horizontal blinds of the full wall window that separated the bathroom from the room. Alexandra sat on the bed, deep in thought, holding the empty bottle in her hands.

He showered and treated the wound himself; when he left the bathroom, Alexandra was standing next to the panoramic window, in the same pose as in the morning, the night lights of Tokyo were flickering and shimmering in the distance.

Richard approached her from behind, touching the back of her head with his chin.

“Tomorrow’s free practice,” he said. “I did want to watch at least one Grand Prix as a spectator — but not at this cost.”

He was smiling, she could hear it in his voice.

“Formula One is completely different behind the scenes,” Alexandra affirmed.

“It’s an entire world. They’re a real team. And they’re as mad as we are.”

She once jokingly called the Rote Stier racing team alchemists … Richard saw it for himself.

In just a few years, British rookies under an Austrian license, associated exclusively with an energy drink, had become world champions— assembled an incredible team of enthusiasts and professionals. Rote Stier performed aerobatics — a good example of investments in technologies that provided circuses for the masses, bread — to all the participants of the enormous alchemical pot.

The drivers are always in the spotlight — their entire lives are made into a show. Their task was to demonstrate how dreams become reality, and that nothing is impossible — but they, as Richard understood, don’t mind. Max has reflexes of a cat that catches flies at the speed of light, Sergio has everything under control, as if he can see the future, and Daniel is always brimming with positivity, he has an endless supply of energy …

Richard also didn’t realize right away that Formula One is a showbiz with stars of its own. Engineering and design achievements broke their own records with every race, setting the trends and benchmarks for the rest of the automotive industry — and the entire world was watching, with bated breath, the inconceivable implementation of human design, endurance, and bravery.

The majority of the viewers don’t understand even a small part of the action — but they’re swept up in the wave of the drive, Formula One is a cult that people wanted to be a part of and stay in.

The drivers are rock stars, but there’s a whole team behind them — each member playing a vital role, irreplaceable during the season. They all work together, setting up pit boxes around the clock, delivering sets of tyres, spare engines, gearboxes, composites and fuel, assembling cargo containers around the clock, for them to then be shipped overseas for race weekends, they fine-tune the race car configuration nightly if they can avoid curfew … On the pit wall and in front of board monitors is a real spaceflight mission control center, every second counts, and every detail, every inch, and every movement matter during the pit stop.

Three people are involved in changing a single wheel: the one placing it, equipped with protective gloves — because the tyre is preheated out of the cover; the gunner, in bright yellow gloves, to give a visual signal about the end of the procedure by raising his hand; the one taking the wheel off — and tossing it aside, preferably not at a colleague — because it’s also scorching hot. The world record for the shortest pit stop was set by the team of a race car driven by Max four years ago.

The names of the mechanics and engineers aren’t released to the public, but the star drivers and the names of the Bulls on the pit wall are on everyone’s lips.

Each of the sixteen race weekends, Richard had been the tyre carrier on the left rear wheel. This Sunday, he’ll be substituted.

Phil, the chief mechanic, conducts the orchestra in the box, he’s always near the car and always on standby, aware of the action. Adrian and Rob, genius designers, are often in the box, but sometimes run away to the pit wall to catch their breath or avoid the congestion of mechanics, race engineers, and drivers. During the races, only those working directly with the race car are by its side — and everyone is wearing headphones, communicating via radio, typically within their own crew.

Dario Fisher is in charge of the headphone stand, radios and microphones, the transmitters in the drivers’ helmets, ensures uninterrupted communication. Right now, he’s on the Suzuka track paddock, likely having signed every headset on the stand and reminded everyone to put the equipment back at the end of the day — to avoid confusion tomorrow.

Chicken soup — the real European one — had already gone cold, but Richard ate heartily. Almost immediately afterward he grew drowsy, he resisted as much as he could, but in vain — and soon he fell asleep, his nose buried in the pillow, hoping that the next day he would no longer be a vegetable and would finally handle everything.

He never got around to unpacking his things, his dead phone lay on the bedside drawer next to the documents, time seemed to stop — because the chess game had already begun, and the opponent awaited his move.

For some reason, Richard was confident that the opponent — the very lion — acts by the rules of the genre and plays chess. It was important to understand what the next move should be.

7. Remote Control

[Germany, Berlin, Tiergarten]

“Tomorrow, go to the tailor and readjust the suit,” Rose said quietly.

She was curving her lips into a radiant smile as she touched Richard’s stomach with an outstretched finger and approached closely — so he would lean toward her face.

The top button was, indeed, out of place, the jacket hung loosely, he only today realized how much weight he lost lately — at least a stone. It was difficult to find a broad-shouldered athlete standing at over six feet clothes that wouldn’t be too wide in the waist or too short in the sleeves, and there was no time to order a new custom suit.

The same problem was with jeans and dress pants.

“Alright,” Richard replied, imitating her intonation, pretending to flirt, trying to catch her gaze. “As you say, dear.”

Rose and Richard Weiss, married diplomats, had been invited to a party hosted by Germany’s largest car manufacturer group in the building of the Corporate Representative Office for Federal Affairs on Potsdamer Platz. During the official part the guests maintained their dignity, smiled dazzlingly, handed out compliments and thanks, playing the usual social game. However, within a few hours, some of them, dressed in formal attire, will be high as a kite, ordering another private dance at one of the nightclubs, ties and wedding rings will dissolve into thin air as if by a magic trick.

A similar adventure lay ahead of Richard — as it did before his colleagues of the German Federal Foreign Office, whose habit was to party extensively and into oblivion. Rose will go home after the party — as a faithful and righteous wife, waiting until morning for her carousing husband.

No, he really did make a mistake with the suit. He hoped that this blasted button wouldn’t make a hash of the whole job …

“Rose, what a welcome surprise!”

The figure of the stranger, seemingly coming out of nowhere — though in reality, Richard and Rose had merely been pretending to be engrossed in cooing at each other — approached and had no intention of leaving.

“Moritz!” Rose exclaimed in joyful astonishment. “Glad to see you!”

She usually only displayed emotions for the public, she was a good actress — and Moritz Baer’s presence was not unexpected. It was for him that they came here … But he didn’t have to know that.

“Richard, this is Moritz Baer,” Rose went on. “The one who—”

“Who got into a fistfight with a stuffed bear on television,” Baer interrupted her with a laugh. “Yes, that’s me.”

He extended his hand, Richard shook it.

“No, not that one,” Rose replied. “Moritz, this is Richard, my husband.”

“How do you do, Richard.”

“Just fine, came to jack a car.”

He motioned his chin at the convertible in the center of the room, adorned with balloons and surrounded by models in racing suits.

“Excellent idea,” Baer chuckled. “Rose, I’ve always valued your business acumen. How do you feel about discussing work — even at this magnificent feast of life?”

Rose let go of Richard’s elbow, squinted pensively, crow’s feet surrounded her green eyes.

“More than likely it won’t be work,” Richard said in a whisper, but so that Baer would hear. “I don’t mind.”

Of course, he didn’t mind — that’s what they were working for! Then again, Baer is not as simple as he seems. A famous benefactor, the co-founder of a German pharmaceutical corporation who recently appeared on TV in a funny talk show storyline, he merely wore a mask of an outgoing softy.

“Sorry, Richard,” said Rose with a smile.

This meant her consent — and soon she and Baer moved to the row of snacks along the wall; Richard, meanwhile, wearing a bore expression, went in the opposite direction, circling the column, pretending to be captivated by the show in the middle of the room.

“… remote control. Turning on the headlights or preheating the interior is the most you can do! The car won’t budge without a passenger. Then again, it’s useful for managing an entire fleet, the monitoring panel will display the fuel consumption, the charge level, the run, all sensor data.”

“God, why do you need all that?”

“I was curious. They provide access to a car’s entrails — it’s a massive security hole if someone with all thumbs gets in. A true treasure trove of detective ideas!”

“Good thing I write historical plays …”

The young woman with rosé champagne hair pulled back into a ponytail and a young dark-haired man with a goatee stood at the drinks table, they were speaking English and paid no mind to Richard, who was stodging a canapé with tuna and capers in his hand. He reached for a glass behind their backs, the woman didn’t even turn her head toward him.

“Alright,” the man said. “Back to the sinners. That one, bowtie, fancy shoes …”

“Memorized three wine names, tells everyone he loves motorcycles — but knows jack shit about them.”

The man pursed his plump lips and hemmed.

“And his underwear, what color is it?”

“Red, Christopher. Of course, it’s red,” the woman chuckled. “That’s why he takes his pants off, to show them — not what’s inside.”

Richard chewed in silence, puzzled at their strange games. Were they guessing who is who at the feast of life? Fabian Jäger from the Department of Culture and Communication at the Federal Foreign Office, was, indeed, a show-off — and his underwear was indeed red.

At least when Richard was watching him do lines from the coffee table with his pants halfway off.

But she could simply be his acquaintance — not insightful.

“Oh, and that blonde — with the bear,” the man pointed his empty glass to the couple next to a sprawling, obviously artificial ficus tree in the far corner of the sparkling hall.

The woman sighed.

“Peppermints and unscented deodorant,” she drawled. “And she sticks a vibro butt plug up her husband’s ass, clicks the remote.”

“You think?”

“I’m sure!”

They laughed, Richard involuntarily shook his head. The man named Christopher finally turned to him, noticing his reaction.

“You know her?” he asked, in German.

He didn’t even bother to hide they were discussing the guests … Rose’s chapstick was, indeed, sweet and mint.

“No,” he smiled, answering in German, too. “And you?”

“We almost do!” the man replied. “Remotely!”

Remotely, with a remote, like with the remote-controlled car …

“And him?”

Richard meant Moritz Baer who stood next to Rose.

“Him — also ‘almost,’” Christopher said, his companion didn’t react. “And he’s no philanthropist.”

“Why?”

Much was said about Moritz Baer — but he had an exceptionally positive reputation.

“He’s a narcissist,” said the woman with pink hair. “An empty cardboard box.”

“Can you really tell who’s a narcissist, just like that?” Richard said, baffled.

For the first time, she looked at him, he was a head taller; she had dark eyes, he had blue ones.

“You can,” she said curtly.

Then she deprived him of her interest, turning her gaze back to Rose and Baer.

Christopher threw up his hands ironically in mock regret.

“Here, everybody’s a narcissist,” he said.

“No, not everybody,” disagreed the woman.

“Right, well, us, for example, we’re not narcissists …”

“She’s not a narcissist.”

“Right, the strict teacher, a perfectionist, probably a nag and incapable of love.”

Richard was curious. Rose was, indeed, a strict teacher and a perfectionist, though she didn’t stick a butt plug into him. Whether Rose was capable of love, Richard didn’t know.

“My favorite color and size,” said the woman. Then she added, “Just kidding.”

“You’ll hit her up?”

“I’m not a serial killer anymore, Christopher, no more married couples.”

“No such thing as a former serial killer.”

“I’m on an indefinite vacation.”

Richard failed to notice when he had stopped chewing his canapé, he hadn’t even finished the champagne … He, due to his profession, took everything literally — and they were merely joking.

“And what does her husband look like?” he asked.

All three of them were looking at Rose, Rose was already wrapping up the conversation with Baer, he hugged her by the shoulder clad in a beige suit, a friendly gesture — he was whispering something in her ear. Rose didn’t pull her head — with an impeccably neat blonde bob — away, even though she disliked the invasion of her personal space.

Rose always tried to keep her distance.

The woman with the pink ponytail smirked.

“Some narcissist in a suit, six feet tall,” she turned to Richard again, looking up at his handsome, clean-shaven face, narrow nose, thin lips. “Or even taller. With blue eyes and a taut ass.”

“That you can stick a plug with remote into!” Christopher chimed in.

Richard felt like they were mocking him.

“Like I said, a security hole,” the woman shrugged as she turned away.

He brought the glass up to his lips, Rose was, unhurried, making her way towards them.

“She’s coming!” Christopher lamented, whispering, in theatrical panic. “O the automobile God! She’s headed here, that’s your chance!”

Richard choked on his swallow, the wine burned his throat, he coughed, instantly red, he felt awkward — seemingly for the first time in his life.

When Rose Weiss came near, he was blinking rapidly and staring at her oddly.

“Let’s go, I’ve got something to tell you,” she said, reaching out and taking him by the elbow.

Christopher and the woman with pink hair raised one eyebrow in a twin gesture and watched him, already walking, place the empty glass back on the table.

He wanted to say goodbye, but his tongue wouldn’t budge. Richard put his hand over Rose’s, only briefly looking back.

The woman and the man blorted with laughter.

8. King of Beasts

[Japan, Tokyo, Chuo City]

The odd dream came to Richard on the night from Thursday to Friday, but only on Sunday did he understand its meaning.

He really did once live under the identity of Richard Weiss, on a mission dubbed the Station, working at the German Federal Foreign Office, and his partner — and, according to the script, his wife — was agent Rose Weiss. They came to the Station four years ago, the automobile party was a year and a half after the start of the operation … Another year and a half later Richard and Rose had to flee Berlin, covering their tracks, they nearly failed the mission — and barely averted a catastrophe — because they were compromised.

A year ago, Rose Weiss, who then already worked in counterintelligence and conducted internal investigations, was looking for the mole. Richard didn’t like to remember the devious scheme that framed him as the mole if he could help it … A year ago, during the manhunt, Alexandra shot Rose Weiss when they were fleeing from Moscow to London — since they had no other choice.

The woman with pink hair from the dream was Alexandra, the man with the goatee — their common friend Christopher, a former Circus agent who fabricated his own death to get away from MI6 and start his own craft. Why it was that Richard’s imagination opted to put them in the setting of the Station, he had no idea — until he turned on the hotel room TV.

Nothing happened over the past days. He was looking for signs, racking his brain about who might benefit from intimidating him and what reaction was expected of him — but made no move.

Richard couldn’t stand burying his head in the sand or lying low — but for now the time at the hotel looked like an attempt to hide from the problem.

Dario reported events from the paddock to him, Richard watched the news and broadcasts of the free practice and qualifying rounds on local TV. Now, representatives of the corporation Nonoda, which supplied power units for Rote Stier race cars, were speaking live from Fuji channel, as usual describing the magnificent prospects of the technologies of the future that became reality in the present. The president and the head of the Innovative Research Excellence department were answering questions about the new standards for Formula One power units according to regulations set to take effect in three years, as decided by the Fédération Internationale de l’Automobile.

Nonoda abolished maintenance of their own racing team — but was actively involved in the racing life with the technologies they developed. Rote Stier and Nonoda had a partnership, they joined forces and divided the area of operation, though in overlapping fields they were, undoubtedly, competitors.

The day after, the next one after the race, there was a tour planned for the Rote Stier team to Nonoda’s headquarters in Minato City, the district of Tokyo skyscrapers — where the chiefs would once again shake hands and employees will get entertained — by making it into entertainment.

Richard was eating ramen out of a plastic bowl, sitting on the bed, Alexandra was blow-drying her hair in the bathroom. They had already managed to visit the Hama-rikyu Gardens, a three-quarters-of-an-hour walk away — getting there by taxi — and pick up food on the way back.

The race was set to start at 2 PM local time, Nonoda’s presentation was coming to an end. The automobile corporation showcased not merely car manufacturing achievements, but also artificial intelligence, based on their own internal projects for monitoring, analysis, and assistance. Yusuke Kuma, head of the Innovative Research Excellence department in the center of Research and Development, talked about projects involving an accelerator based on the Nonoda Research Institute in Silicon Valley, about proprietary developments, the system Cooperative Intelligence, a neural network self-learning from user behavior with a name that grated the ears.

“Funny,” Alexandra chuckled, Richard looked up at her from the ramen bowl. “A year ago, some student sold them his artificial intelligence development that he’d worked out with the funds from Imperial College London. An excellent move: use the reputation of a government institution to develop their own startup that draws attention with its progressiveness — just like D’Angelo’s prototype.”

Giuseppe D’Angelo was a character from the book ‘Cats Don’t Drink Wine’ — a detective novel about a murder on Italian vineyards — that brought Alexandra popularity. A talented strategist and businessman who created his own Barolo empire by resurrecting ancient legends about the wine of the blood of kings and alchemy … Richard knew that story, he remembered the man the character was based on — and he just shook his head.

“… by popularizing science. As Henry Ford said, whatever we undertake, there has always been and will always be a gap between the mass consumer and the creator of innovation,” spoke Kuma from the podium. “As there has been and will continue to be an eternal struggle between classes, each member of which considers himself the bearer of true wisdom — scientific, intellectual, or folk — and will strive to keep the exclusivity and narrowness of their own circle, not accepting changes that come in force in the new age of technology.”

“Actually, Gedeon Richter said that,” Richard objected with his mouth full.

Alexandra smirked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“But that doesn’t stop us from advancing ideas and engaging in educational activities, blurring the boundaries, making the impossible possible,” the speaker continued. “That is the mission of any activist — to step over the line, pulling the valuable across, show it to the world and share it. I, too, once didn’t understand the point of popularizing science — thinking that that way, science is devalued, its supposed simplicity is shown — as if anybody can launch a rocket into space and make a discovery. But the truth is that the only thing stopping a layman from launching rockets and making discoveries is closed-mindedness — the belief that there is some difference between classes.”

“Actually,” Alexandra drawled. “Neither Ford nor Richter said that.”

“Hm?”

Yusuke Kuma was a thin, middle-aged Japanese man — the sort of person by whose appearance it was impossible to tell their real age — he spoke English well — though with typical Japanese articulation, and he conducted himself wonderfully on stage. Decades of development of Nonoda’s innovative technologies passed under his leadership, a couple of years ago he had been in a serious car accident and went through lengthy rehabilitation — to later step back on the rails with renewed energy.

“My Grandmaster Rublev said that — and I even remember that it was in his kitchen, over tea with his partron Hermann,” Alexandra explained. “And they were discussing his postgraduate who hated popularizers of science — who devalue the work of scientists, displaying their work like a piece of cake. And the point of the quote was not the normality of class division, but the ignorance of both sides of the argument.”

The hand holding the ramen by chopsticks froze over the bowl, the ramen slipped back into the broth. The fact that the quote belonged to Richter, a Hungarian pharmacist, Richard remembered from the speech of Baer whom he faced on the Station. At the very automobile party — when Richard met him — he’d been saying the same thing as Kuma was, right now, from the podium. The only difference was the language — Baer spoke German, the Japanese man on the television screen — English.

“They could have been quoting Richter,” Richard replied.

“No chance.”

“Could Richter and Ford have known Rublev and his partron?”

“Possibly.”

“Alchemists again,” Richard sighed.

For Poets, alchemists, there was no concept of time or space, Poets and alchemists knew each other even across centuries, communicated through art — passing knowledge and experience generation to generation. Ford and Richter were contemporaries, Rublev — the next generation, after him came Alexandra and Richard.

Partrons — partners and patrons — were co-players on the path of the Great Work, collaborative creations altered reality. Richard was no longer surprised that all alchemists are interconnected — and that through his partron Christopher he was connected to Christopher’s former partron, through knowing other Poets he can talk to Dante, Milton, Richard III, Goethe …

Was it a coincidence, then, that Baer quoted the words of a Poet — or could Baer have been an alchemist? Richard felt uneasy at the thought. Memories of Moritz Baer were unpleasant — because Baer became something of a personal enemy for him.

It seemed he wouldn’t forget this goddamn Station anytime soon.

“There you go,” said Alexandra with mock displeasure. “Now I won’t calm down until I remember the name of that postgraduate … I’m even curious. Because he’s involved in this, too — he was one of Rublev and Hermann’s talented students.”

Richard placed the bowl on the bedside drawer, thinking. In his mind, he went back to Berlin, to the Asia and the Pacific department of the German Federal Foreign Office.

Being an undercover agent in a foreign country is a role that one must play twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for an indefinite period until other instructions from superiors are received. Espionage — political, industrial — is work punishable by torture and death: if not from enemy’s retaliatory forces then from the hands of own colleagues — if extracting a spy from the country proves impossible.

Richard and Rose lived in Berlin under false names, pretending to be a married couple — Richard and Rose Weiss. They gathered and, with specified periodicity, transmitted information about the Office’s activities to MI6. Their positions didn’t attract attention, many sections in the internal system were closed to them, but they were at the ground zero of the events, in the political hive, at crossroads of communication paths.

The Weisses agents were the link between foreign ambassadors and political actors, key figures of world significance — even if the ambassadors, actors and figures didn’t know about it. Matters regarding other countries — examined in the context of Germany’s external affairs — were of more interest to MI6 than the affairs of a single country. Rumors and secrets, overheard and spilled at nightly get-togethers of diplomats and their high-as-a-kite buddies were even more useful.

Temptations were plenty. Richard used to think that he was sent to the Station because he fits the description of a young German diplomat, happily married to a German colleague, that he has the required knowledge and skills, that he’s responsible, incorruptible, and reliable … It turned out he was merely easy on the eye and had to be the one to dive to the bottom, into the depraved world of Berlin’s entertainment establishments, while Rose Weiss acted on the surface.

They made a good team, Richard was glad that it was Weiss specifically he was on a mission with. She was cold and demanding, she never made mistakes and, just like Richard, respected subordination and work ethic.

For a year and a half they lived in separate rooms and only kissed when the circumstances demanded it. Richard could recall only one time when he saw Weiss in her underwear, and even that was a ruse — when they had just settled into the Federal Foreign Office, and he had to visit Weiss in her office — in the Public International Law division — to once and for all settle his reputation as a lustful macho.

They were discovered by design — and Weiss’s bra was white, boned, but with no lace. The panties, as far as he could tell, were also without lace — because he couldn’t feel them under the dress pants.

Richard didn’t even think about making intentional romantic overtures towards agent Weiss — because he always had places to stick his cock, even when he didn’t want to.

During the Station he often, though only in his mind, cursed his plight of a sex machine, a doll in the front window that shakes its ass and always attracts attention. He had the appearance of a broad-shouldered bad-boy actor, blue and black shirts suited him, people found him even more attractive when he was unshaven and with unwashed hair than when he was an office dandy.

And, as Alexandra noted in his dream, people oft wanted to stick something up his ass.

Weiss introduced him to Baer at that party, Baer had a wide social circle, Richard considered Baer’s connections valuable — and made it known to Baer that he, too, could be useful … Sticking close to the German benefactor, they, like hunting dogs, brought fresh truffles to the Circus.

Then they found out that Baer is not merely a philanthropist and a thought leader, a co-founder of a pharmaceutical corporation, but a Russian spy.

They thought it was a genius idea to leak false intel directly to Russian intelligence through Baer. For six months they had their fun, delighting the Circus with a feeling of impunity and omnipotence — until Baer figured out what was happening.

He was a true professional, he would have left them no chance — if not for a pure stroke of luck that allowed them to flee. They paid a high toll — and failed to save their people, two more undercover agents …

Richard had to kill them — because if Baer got to them, the mission would have failed. They couldn’t have gotten everyone out at the same time — not while covering their tracks.

Moritz Baer was just like them, even stronger — he simply had a different master. Only a year ago did Richard understand the reason of Baer’s fury — he’d lost everything in an instant because of two British spies who got in his way, who wrecked the mechanisms that’d been working, running smoothly for years.

Baer built his empire wisely — but with the resources of Russian intelligence, who would take both his status and his life as punishment for a mistake. Richard didn’t know what became of him afterward — and didn’t want to know …

“There, I found it!” Alexandra exclaimed, showing Richard the phone screen, and he was yanked out of the whirlpool of memories. “‘The Word as an Instrument of Hermann Hesse’s Musical Self-Expression,’” she read aloud. “An article from God knows what shaggy year, PhD in Philology Vadim Rublev, with Boris Medvedev as the co-author, Moscow State University, the department of Theoretical and Applied Linguistics.”

He didn’t even notice her sit down next to him on the bed, he didn’t know how long she was researching the postgraduate … The TV was already broadcasting the countdown, everyone except team representatives and mechanics left the starting grid, one pair of red lights had gone out.

“Medvedev … and Kuma is also a bear in Japanese,” Alexandra smirked. “The Russian king of beasts.”

Richard stared at her as if he’d seen a spook.

Baer, too, was a bear.

9. Dreamer

[Japan, Suzuka, Suzuka International Racing Course]

[Japan, Tokyo, Chiyoda City]

Dario was trying to sleep, his forehead leaned against the window of the bus on the Suzuka track parking lot, waiting for the Rote Stier team to assemble — to depart for Tokyo in the early morning. They had spent the night in the motorhome, the sun was only just rising on the horizon, painting the sky in coral stripes and shades of orange — like their dark blue uniform with bright logo patches.

Another weekend had come to an end, a two-week break lay ahead. Max and Sergio were once again in the lead of the race, once again the Bulls made waves, the fans are pissing boiling water, the haters and the enviers are claiming it was the new technology for the carbon body coating of the race car which no longer retained tyre soot, significantly improving the aerodynamic characteristics — a development that had no equal in other teams.

The engine hummed, the bus hadn’t started shaking yet — and Dario decided not to move until the vehicle does. A neighbor’s shoulder would be a much more comfortable place to drop his head — because the resonance from the glass will be noticeable even through the baseball cap.

He’s learned to sleep wherever and however — but he knew precisely how it is better to sleep in order to wake up feeling refreshed. He’s stopped worrying about what people would think of him; when the minutes came when he could read something, he’s started putting on his glasses — with thick round lenses — which he had stopped wearing as soon as he finished school. He always had bad eyesight — but he opted to squint and pretend that everything was fine.

He had no idea how he got into MI6 — and he hoped that it wasn’t just because he had told the ophthalmologist the family recipe for biscotti.

Dario tried to join a police academy, but they wouldn’t have him — not after high school, when he was still ungainly, struggled with pull-ups and push-ups, lost his breath during runs, nor when he had bulked and prettied up and stopped looking like a bookworm. Until he came of age, he kept working at the family grocery store and bakery in Canterbury, helping his father behind the counter, but he never left hope of fulfilling his dream. Just a year ago, he couldn’t have imagined travelling the world as a part of a champion racing team, undertaking secret missions and meeting so many interesting people.

Dario Fisher — who used to not be Fisher at all — had always been a dreamer … He chose not to give up on his nature — since he knew it was impossible to change one’s ways — only to improve them. He was raised on adventure novels, detective stories, and science fiction, he believes in goodness and something more than a trouble-free routine life. He understood perfectly well that life was far from the poets’ idealistic images — but didn’t want to deprive himself of the pleasure of believing in an absolute and having a benchmark, something to measure up to.

The bus purred, Dario shuddered in the seat, lay on his other side, making himself comfortable on the shoulder of the team’s physiotherapist Brad — who, upon hearing the story of how Richard escaped the hospital to get to Tokyo on his own, was genuinely horrified. He was somewhat similar to Dr. Bradshaw, who was unwittingly dragged into spy games.

Adam Bradshaw, as far as Dario understood, decided to stay in Tokyo — if he, as it turned out, ended up in Japan completely legally … Richard seemed like a wizard to Dario, pulling documents and visas out from under the counter, arranging private planes and solving any problem as if he used magic, akin to the character from the novel ‘Cats Don’t Drink Wine.’

The fact that the Russian writer was a Circus agent astonished Dario for the first hour. Then he accepted the incredible coincidences as a given — for with Richard Bateman accidents became deliberate, it was as if he was capable of predicting the future, constantly amazing with some trick or other.

Richard could easily predict who and at what moment would enter the box, would drop a plate at the food stand, or call the coordinator’s name … At the recent weekend in Monza he warned Dario when an Italian seagull was about to poop on him: simply asked him to switch to the adjacent chair of an outdoor café.

Richard explained why the stranger attacked him in Singapore, now the puzzle began to come together. Richard North is the name on the mission where he worked alongside Alexandra Stern; Richard North the actor often showed his face in the news and social media — and some old acquaintance recognized him and was threatening to expose him. Richard called the perpetrator Lion and Bear — Dario took note of that, too.

Richard said that he intends to attend the tour to Nonoda’s office along with the entire team, somehow he explained his suspicious behavior and disappearance to the superiors, and come noon he promised to arrive at the hotel where the Bulls — ones who don’t visit home during breaks — would be staying for a week and a half — until the time comes to fly to Qatar, to the new Grand Prix.

Richard said that the person who ordered the attack was connected to the head of the Innovative Research Excellence department, Yusuke Kuma — and, consequently, they’ll have to find a way to get closer to him. Until they find out whether Kuma is an ally or an enemy, they must remain unnoticed, and the role of a guest, a member of a Formula One racing team, is the perfect cover. They’re in team uniforms and baseball caps anyway, and if Lionbear knows that Richard works in Rote Stier, it will be an outright action.

The riddle lifted Dario’s spirits — because the task looked like a real detective investigation, with the search for an unknown criminal with the available clues and puzzle pieces. It would have been more effective if he also had the explanation of what specifically they’d have to look for.

When they arrived at the Imperial Hotel — ironically, with a heraldic lion emblem on the logo — after four hours on the road, Richard was already waiting on the first floor in the lobby. He had only a travel bag with him, he looked much better than on Thursday, when Dario saw him last. Colleagues, eagerly spilling from the bus, accompanied by typical chatter as they entered the hotel, greeted him and congratulated him on coming back, he was laughing off their concerns and insisted that had no intention of dying.

They had half an hour to settle into their rooms before the whole team was scheduled to go for lunch. A structured daily routine with a schedule — with no need to make decisions independently — took the load off the already packed workdays, the weeks between racing weekends flew by unnoticed.

Dario dropped his things right at the entrance of his room, showered and was knocking on Richard’s door a quarter of an hour later already. Richard opened almost instantly — because the stomping of his partner’s hurried footsteps could be heard from the far end of the corridor.

“What’s the plan?”

Richard let Dario in, closed the door and stepped back into the room.

“For starters, I’ll tell you everything. This time, everything.”

“Wonderful.”

“Then you’ll act in plain sight, and I’ll have to keep a low profile. Only I will report to the Circus.”

“Got it.”

“I sent you a brief on Kuma. What do you say about him?”

Dario curved his lips, shrugging.

“A typical Japanese guy, a workaholic, a hereditary engineer, no family or kids, but nephews and other relatives, a perfect reputation and big ambitions — for making the technologies of the future.”

“According to his social circle and the press,” Richard added.

“I haven’t found anything suspicious,” Dario hemmed. “He works to maintain his image and stays in it.”

“You’ll have to get more on him — who he is, what’s behind that image. As soon as we’re at Nonoda, we’ll come up with a plan to do that, on the spot.”

Dario nodded. Richard pulled a phone out of his pocket, a few moments later he was showing Dario the screen, open to a browser page with an article about the German benefactor Moritz Baer.

“And this one?”

“This one’s dead,” Dario chuckled. “Kidding. An opportunist, seen everywhere, been everywhere, and when he found out that he’s got throat cancer, he shot himself.”

Bear was lanky, dark-haired, with spirited features, he would have been forty-six by now.

“He didn’t die,” Richard retorted. “He was a Russian spy in Germany for all the fifteen years of his career, and two years ago, after he was compromised, he fled and now lives under a different name.”

Dario was looking at him attentively, astonished.

“The working theory: Baer, also known as Bear, recognized me and used a mercenary to cause concern — but so he wouldn’t give himself away. On yesterday’s broadcasts with the Nonoda leadership, Yusuke Kuma said the same quote as Baer once did — and that’s not a coincidence.”

Dario was quiet, they stood opposite each other in the middle of the room, Richard went on.

“The quote belonged to the philologist Rublev, Rublev was Baer’s professor when Baer was called Boris Medvedev, and he studied in Moscow twenty years ago. Kuma isn’t connected to Rublev — we already checked that — but he might be connected to Hermann Hesse.”

“Hesse? The Glass Bead Game?”

“Yes, Hesse and the Game. Just remember it, you’ll understand later.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We need to find out whether Bear and Kuma crossed paths before. I didn’t find anything on the web or in the Circus database — but real people normally remember events differently.”

“Okay, I’ll do everything.”

“One does not simply get into Nonoda’s headquarters, the areas open to visitors are separated from the offices. We’ll be taken where it’s advantageous to take us — to exhibit us to the employees and to film good material for the chronicles — so we’ll need to take every opportunity.”

They were already on their way out of the hotel room, to meet up with the other members of the team in the lobby, but Dario couldn’t let go of a question.

“Bear — I get … But why Lion?”

The elevator doors with the hotel’s heraldic figure on the upper panel frame opened, Richard let Dario in first.

“The lion is a cliché about someone who wanted to be somebody,” he replied and added after a pause, “and the lion is big in Japan.”

10. Big in Japan

[Japan, Tokyo, Minato City]

“The Power of Dreams — a slogan that unites over two hundred thousand of our employees all around the world,” said the CEO of Nonoda, Toshihiro Minobe. “For three years now, the ‘new’ Nonoda has been rapidly transforming to bring the power of dreams to every home and every heart all around the world.”

Yusuke Kuma poured yet another portion of peated whiskey into an empty rocks glass, leaned back in the chair. The gigantic curved screen that turned the wall of panels into something resembling the cockpit of a spaceship showed the recording of today’s tour presentation for the Rote Stier team. The circular assembly hall on the second floor, rows of benches in a semicircle, and in the center — a motorcycle on a pedestal, three speakers … It was in Kuma’s habit to re-listen to all important public events as background noise, sometimes at one-and-a-half speed rate, barely paying attention to the visuals, relying solely on his hearing.

He wanted to remember everything — and not miss the details where, as it’s known, the devil is. The acoustic system in the office on the tenth floor allowed him to pay attention to the details — if it was necessary; in other cases, a cursory run-through sufficed.

Time had tumbled over midnight, the top levels of the headquarters in the Aoyama building were empty, the top management had long gone home, though on the lower floors there could occasionally be heard the tapping of fingers on a keyboard, the rustling of snack wrappers and the hiss of energy drinks.

The office had been in chaos all week — because of the Grand Prix in Suzuka and these incendiary fellows from the Rote Stier racing team. Within a week, three people from the event management department were sent on sick leave with tachycardia and brainfag — and a dozen more were likely concealing ailments. The deification of work never bothered Kuma — it was a part of his Japanese nature.

He smirked at the thought and put the whiskey to his lips. The only thing that set him apart from a typical Japanese — he never got shitfaced.

“Koto and mono,” Minobe went on, “useful experience and material objects — these are the fundamental values of the company, aimed at improving the quality of our clients’ lives. We are happy to share these values with you.”

Before taking the presidential seat, Minobe had been the head of the Research and Development center that united the Solution System Development Center and the Innovative Research Excellence department — where Kuma labored. The new era of Nonoda began with Minobe taking on the role of the CEO, the ‘challenger’ — within a couple of years he brought their electric vehicle production to the global level, announced the revolutionary development of solid-state batteries, capable of uprooting the automobile industry.

Utilizing external expertise and forming useful alliances was also a part of the development strategy — like the return to Formula One, but not as a racing team owner, but in the role of a power units supplier for Rote Stier.

To become, at once, indispensable — and amaze imagination every time … That’s Nonoda’s mission, that’s the mission of the Innovative Research Excellence department.

“And we fully support you, Mr. Minobe,” spoke Christian Pierce, the chief of the Bulls, and then nodded at Kuma, who was, at that moment, standing on the right of the makeshift stage. “Mr. Kuma rightly noted before yesterday’s race: the mission of popularization is, always, a building of a bridge between the manufacturer and the consumer, between the artist and the spectator. Golden hands create what we, the big circus, show.”

Kuma rocked the whiskey in the glass, it was challenging to drink the thick, smoky, wet wool-scented beverage even in small sips. Peated whiskey was remarkably good when served in the hollow of a scoop of vanilla ice cream …

“All of you remember the RS14 that Mr Doodle doodled for the Wings for Life charity auction,” spoke Pierce. “The artist made a work of art on an automobile industry manifesto — and Max and Sergio signed it on the rear-wing end plate. The Doodle Bull was sold for two hundred twenty thousand pounds sterling — and the proceeds went to a fund that finances the treatment of spinal cord injuries. At the season opener, I was asked why I didn’t put on a suit like Mr Doodle’s — black and white, with a pattern …”

The cameraman timely captured shots of an assistant handing a cover from behind the speakers — obviously, with a suit inside. The team was hallooing, they had already guessed that the time for the suit has finally come …

“Max, it’s been decided that you will wear the suit,” Pierce announced. “Instructions from the head racing engineer.”

“From the physiotherapist!” Daniel Rizzo called out.

The spectators burst into laughter, Max Vermeer was already rising from the bench to take the cover, his young face was grinning from ear to ear.

“Daniel, you are absolutely right,” the chief added. “And let me tell you a secret — this time from your coach.”

A second cover ended up in Pierce’s hands, Vermeer was already pointing at Rizzo and guffawing as he returned to his seat.

Next was Sergio Pelaez’s turn to take the garb with exclusive design from a famous graffitist, but Kuma was no longer paying attention to the recording — he had turned away from the screen, staring pensively ahead, towards the wide window with Tokyo’s night lights.

Show — and showmen. A big circus, indeed … Nonoda creates the products of the future — but someone’s got to promote and sell them.

Like with robots — everyone loves robots. Isaac — a humanoid robot named after a science fiction writer and his three laws of robotics, which had stood in the headquarters’ exhibition hall for over two decades, became Nonoda’s trademark — because he spoke sign language, acted like a human, poured coffee into a paper cup, and hopped on one leg like a child.

Isaac’s technologies gave rise to an entire new branch of development for mobile autonomous and remote-controlled systems — but it’s the robot that everyone remembers … Like the Doodle Bull and Formula One drivers dressed in patterned suits with the team’s logos.

At the entrance to the headquarters is an enormous banner with Vermeer’s portrait, in the welcome hall of the first floor there are posters with images of Rote Stier team’s drivers, whose cars hold Nonoda’s power units. Fans make daily pilgrimages to these; the chrome elements of motorcycles and electric cars don’t attract as much attention as a driver’s face and a bright race car — whether exhibited in a museum or roaring down Tokyo’s central street during the city show run.

Kuma knew the words of his speech at the meeting cold — but not because he prepared it in advance. Artificial intelligence will never fully replace a human being — as long as humans fancy looking at humans. Humans ensoul robots, humans need a circus and heroes … And villains, too — and theater, and drama, and tears — of sorrow and joy. Advisory systems, neural networks, autonomous cars, drones and other gadgets — to make life easier for humanity, to serve — so that humanity can spend more time on entertainment.

Everything’s simple: an Austrian, a Brit, a Japanese — all want the same thing. To streamline the operations, less routine, more vivid interest — to advance and achieve results.

Development is a mechanism embedded by evolution, the property of everyone, even those considered hopelessly good-for-nothings. Workaholics are especially quick to get addicted to the eternal race for unattainable satisfaction — and they die on the job every year, receiving posthumous allowance.

Kuma oft asked himself whether he was a workaholic. The whiskey bottle on the table, the carelessly loosened tie knot on his neck, said he wasn’t … However, results were always the measure of his self-worth.

The catastrophe that happened to him two years ago opened his eyes — he almost lost everything, and the death that had nearly taken him was merely a part of the fall.

For many years he had been building his empire — and in an instant the tower of glass and metal came crashing down, threatening to bury him in the debris. After the car crash at an intersection in Toshima City, a ward in Tokyo — the fault of a tourist who lost control of his car and died on the spot — Yusuke Kuma, with multiple bodily harm and a traumatic brain injury, was rushed to the hospital and spent about half a year in a coma.

The resurrection and the return to the rails of the head of the Innovative Research Excellence department was a true miracle. A few months of rehabilitation — and Kuma was good as new, as if a new man.

“I almost forgot!” Pierce gave a forced exclamation. “I’ll reveal one more secret, only to you — and our hospitable partners from Nonoda.”

He was pulling a sheet with an artist’s name out of an envelope, the winner of the competition to design the livery of the Bulls’ race car for the last of the three American Grand Prix — the one taking place in Austin in the second half of October. One more way to attract the fans to the big circus show …

“Rear and front wing end plates, the side pods, the side chassis … No, it’s not graffiti,” Pierce smiled, “and not anime.”

The team had already guessed the subject of the surprise, they were perkily calling out their guesses and whispering, the cameraman alternated between filming Vermeer, Pelaez, and Rizzo, who stood out against the blue and orange suits.

Kuma had already brought the whiskey glass to his lips, but never took the sip. An instant — and the camera’s already switched from the row of the chattering Bulls in the assembly hall to the speakers on the stage — the laughing Piece, Minobe, patiently watching, and Kuma himself, who was looking over Rote Stier chief’s shoulder to read the text on the card.

He slammed the rocks glass on the table with a clatter, made a stopping motion, pausing the recording, reached for the touchscreen control panel embedded in the desk to rewind.

An instant later the whiskey glass flew into the glass wall panel a couple of inches from the screen, the liquid splashed on the floor mid-flight, leaving a glistening stroke, the shards scattered across the office to the deafening, sparking accompaniment of the ringing.

In the envelope was the name of the designer who had created the layout inspired by the symmetry of Blake’s Tyger — titled ‘Invariant.’

On the curved screen was the mug of Richard North — in Rote Stier’s brand baseball cap and jacket.

The son of a bitch is in Nonoda — right under his nose!

11. The Lovers

[Japan, Tokyo, Chuo City]

[Japan, Tokyo, Chiyoda City]

On the thirty-sixth floor of the Mitsui Tower, a young man in a red hoodie came perilously close to crashing into Adam Bradshaw. Adam staggered back from the bright blotch hurtling towards him, jumping out of the elevator, the man, with a laugh, raised his hands apologetically. They instantly passed each other by, the young man, with springly steps, continued down the corridor, Adam stepped into the elevator.

He had just been talking to Alexandra and was on his way down, but not to his hotel room, for a stroll — because it was boring to sit in the hotel room. He suspected that she had simply sent him out.

These agents were so strange, anyway …

As the elevator doors closed, Adam thought he heard someone scream — in joy, like people do when they unexpectedly run into someone they know. Clearly, the young man in the red hoodie pleasantly surprised someone with his arrival.

Dr. Bradshaw had tried dishes from all the ramen shops in the neighborhood, and Alexandra, who had been keeping him company since day one, while Richard was in his room, was complaining that she’s already tired of soba and udon. Adam was trying to find something to do — it felt like he was disappointed that his assistance was no longer required as soon as Richard started feeling better.

He had no plans to leave yet, he felt that all this — the unplanned trip to Japan, the encounter with MI6 — served some purpose.

Although it could simply be procrastination — and a reluctance to return to Baltimore.

Alexandra had already shut the door behind Dr. Bradshaw, who went off to have lunch alone, but she lingered by the doorway — as there were footsteps approaching up the hallway.

She opened the door without waiting — and immediately cried out, echoing the young man in the red hoodie who rushed towards her with open arms. Christopher yelled without shame — and so did she, uncaring of what the guests in neighboring rooms would think. Soon they let go, appraising each other, the visitor squinted.

“How long has it been since we saw each other — a month and a half?”

“About that,” Alexandra replied.

“How’s Richard?”

“Alive.”

Christopher already knew how Richard was — because partrons are connected even without calls and messengers. He had last talked to Alexandra in the waking life when she came to London — on another reader event organized by the Träger publishing house. They, too, didn’t have to see each other to stay updated — but every in-person encounter became an experience.

They shared a unique ability to find trouble wherever they wandered. Such compatibility even had a name, neither a spy nor an alchemical one — ‘friendship.’

Christopher stepped back, looking around, making it clear he had no intention to spend time in the hotel room.

“I suggest we go to the Museum of Modern Art in the Imperial Palace, there’s bound to be some ludicrousness on display there,” he said. “You haven’t been there, have you?”

Alexandra shook her head: she and Richard only went outside on Sunday, while alone — or with Dr. Bradshaw — she never strayed farther from the hotel than a few miles. The broadcast tower of the Tokyo Skytree had already become an eyesore.

“Tonight we’ll go to an izakaya, it’s been a while since I got shitfaced Japanese-style,” Christopher added. “I won’t let you die of boredom.”

“We’ll sooner die of something else.”

“We’ll find the jag-off and cut him up into yakitori. Do you seriously think he could be dangerous?”

The jag-off — Baer, Medvedev — hired an unidentified man to hurt Richard, now Richard went to Nonoda’s headquarters and is playing the lure again … Alexandra had no doubt that he would be recognized there — but had no idea what would come of it.

By visiting Kuma’s domain — who, for some reason, quoted a specific text — Richard is making a move — and entering Baer’s chess match. He knows what he’s doing, his partner Dario’s with him … He’s still on the mission with the Bulls, and he has the assistance of the Circus behind him.

Alexandra sighed.

Richard was like Wagyu beef — fed select grains, given beer or sake, and vibromassaged to make the meat marbled and tender — but still sent to the table in the end.

“Yes,” she replied. “Baer is the Grandmaster’s student, Baer has personal scores to settle with Richard, and luckily for Richard Baer didn’t find him interesting enough to kill — only to spook.”

“But he doesn’t know that Richard is in Rote Stier.”

Alexandra nodded.

“Yes, I believe so. Otherwise, he would have called him Richard Bateman, not Richard North.”

“Baer knows you.”

“Only as a writer, at most — as a part of Richard’s cover. I don’t think he knows we share a teacher, or put me and Poets together — he never took alchemy seriously.”

“You might be wrong.”

“According to Richard — and Rublev — Baer is a pragmatist. He never believed in alchemy because he couldn’t find an explanation for how it works — and never showed his involvement with the Poets publicly.”

“That means he’ll make a mistake someday — and we’ll cut him up into yakitori.”

“You’re just hungry,” Alexandra chuckled. “Let’s have dinner. Wanna meet our new doctor, the one Dario kidnapped from Singapore?”

Christopher shook his head.

“Doctors and spies — in the evening. I wanna hear about the serial killers from the new book you’re writing.”

They went on foot to the Kitanomaru Park, a part of Kokyo Gaien — the outer garden of the Imperial Palace — but never made it to the Museum of Modern Art. They just strolled, lingering for a long time without even entering Edo Castle and seeing the twin Nijubashi bridge and the white watchtower Fushimi-yagura.

Alexandra had already finished her coffee and was holding the paper cup, Christopher was chewing a to-go onigiri from a café near the concert hall, behind their bench birds squabbled in a Japanese dialect. The setting sun descended behind the skyscrapers lining the horizon and surrounding the oasis of parks in the heart of the capital.

“Did it really not bother you that he talked to me more than to you?”

Christopher licked his fingers and took the next portion as he waited for an answer.

“No. He wanted to separate work and … me,” Alexandra shrugged. “It helped him focus.”

“He didn’t separate me and work.”

“Well, you’re a former agent.”

“That’s just an excuse. It’s easier with me. With you … To him, it matters what you think of him.”

Alexandra shifted her gaze from the colorful red-yellow-green bushes to her interlocutor.

“Are you for real right now?” she winced. “He didn’t talk to me because he didn’t want me to see him be unable to do something?”

“Yup.”

“And he told you that himself?”

She hoped that it was just Christopher’s imagination … But he nodded, as if reluctantly.

“He flew to you as soon as he found a reason to … As soon as he realized what’s really important to him.”

“And what could that be?”

“You.”

“Now that’s just peachy,” Alexandra scoffed. “What you’re describing is some kind of love addiction and idealization. Richard has his own things to do, I have mine, he knows I’m always there even when we’re apart — and he definitely doesn’t need me to meddle in his work.”

“You’re meddling in his work now.”

“Because he let me.”

“And now you see that he’s not doing well.”

“Why isn’t he?”

Christopher pretended to be busy chewing his food, then reached for the poison-colored soda, Alexandra was looking at him expectantly.

“I doubt Richard would be happy about me and you discussing our relationship behind his back,” she added. “He didn’t ask you to talk about it.”

Christopher smiled, the bottle hissed as he turned the cap.

“He won’t tell you that himself,” he said finally.

“He will if he needs to. Weird conversation … Imagine William telling Richard about me — things I can’t bring myself to say directly.”

She winced ironically, Christopher grinned.

“Imagining. ‘Richard, Richard, stop thinking about her exes, she’s not thinking about yours,’” he portrayed a soft, discreet tone. “‘Richard, Richard, stop querying Christopher about her — she’s not asking him about you.’”

Alexandra laughed, placing the paper cup on the bench beside her.

“Resembles. No, even if you’re not exaggerating, he has nothing to worry about.”

“You never told him that you love him.”

“Of course I did!” she objected. “Of course I— No, Christopher, you’re definitely pulling my leg,” she kicked his shoe, he laughed, nearly spilling the contents of the bottle he held to his mouth onto himself. “He knows that I love him — he doesn’t need all this sentimental rubbish.”

“Rubbish, you say …”

“What do you, yourself, think?”

“Me, myself?”

“Does Richard need this sentimental rubbish?”

“He said it, not me!”

“Liar!”

“No! There — you made the decision for him, about what he needs and what he doesn’t.”

“Don’t twist my words,” Alexandra protested. “In any case, we’ll discuss it without you.”

“He’ll tell me everything later anyway.”

“Look elsewhere for melodrama plots!”

“Just take note of what I said,” Christopher leaned back on the bench and took a sip. “He’s not bulletproof.”

Alexandra has never considered Richard bulletproof — even when he expertly lied and pretended.

“Okay,” she agreed.

Christopher pursed his lips.

“I envy you two sometimes.”

“What, specifically?”

“Infatuation, love, passion, romance,” he drawled. “Heroism — not for the sake of work …”

“Leg-pulling again.”

“I mean it. You don’t appreciate a bloody bit about what you have. You landed such a man for yourself, and it’s like you don’t even notice it.”

Alexandra gasped.

“So that’s how it is!”

“It is indeed!”

At first, she wanted to say that his world had long become hers — and vice versa; that for Richard, she would tear anyone to shreds — and, because of that, would move Heaven and Earth no worse than Circus agents. At first, she wanted to ask: isn’t that the measure of love and engagement … But then she understood that Richard is perfectly capable of handling everything himself — so her assistance, the only love language she was capable of, wasn’t always of use.

He wanted her to be there for him, to help — and yet to avoid appearing helpless.

But she always told him he can do everything — and knows everything — himself. He just misses some things due to inexperience …

She also misses things — that she forgot to add alchemy into her relationship. The instructions are always the same, the recipe is personalized.

Christopher watched Alexandra’s expression change — from pensively sad to mysteriously sly. He raised an eyebrow questioningly when she looked at him.

“Got a prophecy for you, Christopher,” she smiled. “The Lovers card.”

“For me?”

“I know how it works. It’s contagious.”

“I don’t understand,” Christopher frowned, now it was his expressions’ turn to change as he ran through guesses.

“You will. Just start noticing.”

12. Every Other

[Japan, Tokyo, Chuo City]

[Japan, Tokyo, Shinjuku City]

In the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental hotel on the thirty-eigth floor there was a crowd at the reception desk: the card keys which allowed guests to call the elevator to their room floors, rather than just to the restaurant and other amenities, had stopped working. Dario and Adam were sitting on the square sofas nearby, Alexandra and Christopher approached them — not the check-in counter.

“There they are, the technologies of the future,” Dario grumbled jokingly, turning around. “The power of dreams.”

“Agent Christopher, agent Dario, agent Adam,” Alexandra introduced them one by one.

Adam coughed at the word ‘agent,’ Dario extended his hand to Christopher.

“Another agent,” he nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dr. Bradshaw repeated after him.

“Same to you.”

“Where’s Richard?”

“In the hotel room. He told us to wait here,” Dario answered.

“So we wait here,” Christopher threw up his hands and sat down on the armrest of the doctor’s chair. “Everyone knows the plan?”

He wasn’t even trying to hide his smile, Dario Fisher was staring at the stranger with curiosity, Adam Bradshaw — with a mix of wariness and resignation.

“The plan is to discuss everything that’s happened up until now — together,” Alexandra explained.

She stood nearby, hands crossed over her chest, looking towards the elevator that Richard was supposed to come out of — barely restraining herself from going up to the room.

“And then get shitfaced,” concluded Christopher.

“We narrowly dodged a Japanese booze-up with the Bulls — who were taken to team recreation,” Dario replied. “Which, by the way, wasn’t easy. We left because the booze-up with Nonoda will be on another day.”

“A real team. What do we call ourselves?”

“Christopher!”

“No, not Christopher. We’ll be called Team RS — like Rote Stier, but Richard Stern.”

Alexandra rolled her eyes, Adam looked from Christopher to Dario and back, confused, Christopher was enjoying himself.

“We haven’t had team building yet — the time has come today. First, dinner at an izakaya, then bar hopping, then a strip club, and in the morning, my favorite game — guess where we are. The main task of the marathon is to keep track of each other during the entire event. We value and need every soldier.”

Dr. Bradshaw was looking up at Christopher, Christopher was looking at him. Adam wanted to object — but his vocal cords wouldn’t comply, for some reason, his palms went sweaty.

“Those types of marathons are contraindicated for Richard, actually,” he said.

“But we’ve got a doctor on board.”

“You can’t heal what’s dead.”

“I get it. I, also, nearly got killed a year ago, abdominal gunshot wound, wanna see?”

Christopher was already pulling up his red hoodie, but a loud shout from the approaching man stopped him.

“What are you doing here?!” Richard roared.

“Same thing as you!”

Christopher stood from the armrest and moved towards him, Dario for some reason thought they were about to fight, but they hugged.

“He was undressing,” he spoke.

Alexandra wanted to say that it’s what they teach at the Circus, but remained silent.

Without a word, she approached Richard when Christopher let him go. Richard pulled her close, she wrapped her arms around his waist, putting her hands under his jacket, trying not to press to his stomach but hold firmly onto his back. Warm breath was on her temple, she nuzzled his neck, under his chin, his fingers were already stroking her hair. They both forgot that both British spies and hotel guests are looking at them.

Damn the team building … She wanted to take his hand and take him to the hotel room.

“… going,” Richard heard Christopher say, as if in a half-daze.

He felt exhaustion in every muscle, it was difficult to act vivacity out by the end of the day. Thankfully, there was no fever, even despite his nerves — not that he showed them … He wanted to assemble the picture while the impressions were still fresh — and rest could only come after the discussion.

The only thing he knew was that he would meet Alexandra not in the hotel room, but in the lobby … The rest happened on its own.

“Where are we going?” Richard asked without letting go of Alexandra’s shoulders.

“Shinjuku,” Christopher sighed patiently.

“Why?”

“For a dinner.”

“He wants to get us shitfaced,” Dario smirked.

“Let’s go,” Alexandra whispered. “Figure it out once we get there.”

Richard closed his eyes for a moment. He felt like the head of a family, taking out his wife and three children — two of his own and one adopted.

A quarter of an hour later they were already riding a taxi down nighttime Tokyo, heading west to the district of bars and restaurants, narrow streets and low-rise buildings with a kaleidoscope of signs. Dario, Christopher, and Dr. Bradshaw were in another car behind them, Richard was looking at Alexandra, catching glimpses of light on her makeup-free face, long dark lashes and a small nose piercing.

When she turned her head towards him, he kissed her. Her hand was on his thigh the entire time, now he felt unbearably hot — and he, again, cursed the idea of going somewhere with the whole pack, discussing work that never let him rest.

He never used to think about it — work used to be his life … Now he thought about recovery, but not to be a good tool for achieving the superiors’ goals and executing missions.

The air in the car interior instantly grew thick, his jeans — too tight. He was holding her by the head with both hands as long as he had breath, and when he pulled away it took him great effort not to continue.

Richard sat back, her hand stayed on his thigh. He smiled involuntarily, again he forgot about everything around them.

18+

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