Бесплатный фрагмент - Incredible Spy Detective

Foreword

There’s always a mystery in the genre of spy novels, woven into intricate plot twists, characters display the highest skill in cunning and stealth as they find themselves at the ground zero of the eternal struggle between the forces of order and chaos, friends and foes. A spy novel is always a vast geography and a chess match of two, with the fate of nations and all of humanity at stake, there’s no room for the unexplained in the game — because the secret always comes to the surface.

In the novel ‘Incredible Spy Detective’ we not only see the rational side of the world through the canonical view of an MI6 agent — but also the irrational perspective of those who create their own universes. The method of active imagination, known from the works of Carl G. Jung, found its reflection in the detective story where characters travel not only across the globe (Moscow, London, Paris, Florence), but also between eras, drawing knowledge from the works of their predecessors. As soon as the key to understanding the unconscious processes is found, the irrational becomes the unique detective method and begins to supplement the strict and logical worldview of the agent.

Alchemy is an algorithm of inner transformation, the personal evolution of an individual that permeates the works of great artists throughout the centuries. In the novel, the reader will encounter not only the works of Dante Alighieri, William Blake, Christopher Marlowe, William Shakespeare, Sandro Botticelli, but also allusions to Dan Brown and John le Carré, will read the author’s translation and interpretation of famous texts and paintings — from a new angle.

‘Incredible Spy Detective’ is dedicated to all those who, midway upon the journey of life, began to find themselves, and to all poets, misunderstood and lone architects of their universes, serving the craft of the artist, composing sweet fruits of illusion with the precious core of truth inside — to be carried through centuries, passed on from generation to generation, against all odds.

“So you’re a pathological liar.”

“No, I am an MI6 agent.”

1. Take Your Clothes Off

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

— William Blake, “The Tyger”

[Russia, Moscow, Khamovniki District]

“So I go up to him asking who he is and what he’s doing in my home,” the female voice spoke from the stand, and from the audience, in the allocated logical pauses, delighted laughter sounded. “And he goes, ‘I am an MI6 agent’.”

The voice was deep, with a hoarseness common in sociopaths and artistic hysterics. There was no more microphone feedback noise, the other speakers at the table on the press-conference stage were silent in fascination and didn’t interrupt the monologue, the camera shutters occasionally clicked and the flashes whistled.

“I tell him to get the hell out — because I didn’t invite him,” the woman continued. “But he’s not leaving …”

She spread her arms theatrically — her nails were a bright neon green — and the pattern of a tattoo flashed on her open wrist from under the white jacket, it snaked up her forearm.

“So I tell him: ‘Take your clothes off, then.’ And he did.”

The audience roared, it was mostly the women who shrieked with laughter, the men were reacting more calmly. The other speakers clapped, bulged their eyes grotesquely, motioned falling from their chair — and the woman was satisfied with the effect she had, though she was simply giving an ironic and restrained smile.

It was impossible to tell if she was being serious.

Richard clapped, too — because he was supposed to, and because he recognized the glimmer of wit in all the absurdity of the joke.

The voice from the stand belonged to the writer under a pen name Stella Fracta, the author of the new detective bestseller ‘Cats Don’t Drink Wine’ about a murder on Italian vineyards. The story about an MI6 agent that she just told to the audience was a product of her visions — an author’s method of applying the active imagination.

Richard read all of her books — more than once. MI6 ran a two-week intensive course on all her works, novels and otherwise, with detailed analysis and examples, methodical manuals on her system of symbols and historical notes.

MI6 has been in chaos for the last five months. An unprecedented case of the revelation of the secrets of the Poets, an alchemical society, was deemed a potential threat: that was normally the way that political secrets, stolen by hackers and spies, were exposed to the public eye, with a taunt and a pleasure of impunity.

Among the Poets were famed artists of different eras. The formulas of the Great Work encrypted in their art were passed onwards from chosen ones to chosen ones in forms inaccessible to the understanding of a layman — and the author of the novel that’s gained phenomenal popularity made a marketable detective plot out of it!

A good one — bright, colorful, with multi-layered subtext and deep conclusions … But it was a sensational upheaval, an explanation of the hardest instructions of the wise in simple terms — like a pie recipe on a television cooking show. There were no theories of the great conspiracies of humankind exploited in it, as it often happens in popular culture — there was simple naked truth. It was suspicious.

The alchemical society has existed for many centuries. The Poets didn’t interfere in the political conflicts, nor the economy, nor religion, the matters concerning them were not of paramount importance for intelligence and counterintelligence services — it was business of a different kind. The Poets kept their knowledge behind seven seals in heavy chests, piling up crafty constructions of defense on the surface — one more absurd than the other — as they followed their own data security.

Faustian bargain, the philosopher’s stone, turning metals into gold, water into wine … Vials and potions, Keys of Solomon, rituals for calling demons into service and other trappings of the occult were distractions from the real work of the Poets — and only the chosen few were privy to the true meanings of the metaphors and symbols that had nothing to do with magic.

Even MI6 didn’t teach alchemy. To outsiders, the entrance was closed.

That’s the way it would have stayed — if not for the thunder of the book that exposed what the Poets really do.

There was no doubt that Stella Fracta is a member of the alchemists’ society: she had the knowledge. The why of her exposing the secrets of her society was to be found out by the MI6 agents.

The incident became a matter of international significance: the books in English were spreading around the world like hot buns.

It wasn’t self-exposure — she was popularizing alchemy with a specific goal. Whether it was a call to action, a signal to other alchemists, it was, univocally, danger, because the knowledge supposed to be kept secret could end up in the wrong hands.

The fans, the journalists, artists of all trades — writing and theater and art — all gathered in the press center of Russia’s biggest media group on Zubovsky boulevard — they were dazzled by the hype and a hot newsbreak. Moscow was — as ever — a boiling pot with a fat broth of money, greed for entertainment, avarice for success, competition and vanity fairs.

For a month already Richard has been visiting all events with the author’s participation, for a month he’s been living under a new name. He introduces himself as an actor of the London troupe The Old Vic, often, mostly as a joke, apologizes for his intentionally broken Russian, makes new acquaintances. The fact that he’s in Russia for a project of the Moscow Satire Theater that conducts a series of master classes for the Shakespeare Festival was a cover that hitherto gave rise to no questions — only baffled awe.

In a month he’s not moved an inch forward, he found no new data, no disproof, no proof of the dangerous activities of the Poets — and he could find no way to approach this strange writer, it was as if she didn’t notice him. He was acting with a jeweler’s precision, he couldn’t attract suspicion, he didn’t intrude by acting as a fan or an interested party — and at the same time he had a specific objective: to enter her intimate circle.

The most intimate circle.

The official part of the press conference was over, the autograph session was coming to the end, the guests drifted into the hall with food and drinks. Stella Fracta was guzzling water near one of the tables on the sideline, Venceslav Renev, the literary agent, was whispering something in her ear, flailing his hands, she was staring off into space.

She resembled a teenager at times — with her nose piercing, tattoos all over the left side of her body, the fang extensions and a whimsical hairdo with bangs and two buns on her head made to resemble horns; she’s extremely serious at times — when she frowns, thinking about something, when she says complex things in a convoluted manner, but with racy, dirty jokes. She, too, lives under a pseudonym and wears social masks — even though she hates them, spits on them, as if she’s trying to scare the layman away with her grotesqueness.

Richard looked at her and didn’t understand anything. It wasn’t in his habit to anger at failure, but he did have a habit of never putting his guard down.

The joke about the MI6 agent who came to the writer’s home was forgotten, but in an incredible way described the extreme that Richard will have to go to, if need be.

He’ll have to get into her apartment and take his clothes off — if necessary. Such is his job.

2. Robot

[Russia, Moscow, Domodedovo]

“Excuse me. Would you mind switching seats with me? My seat’s near the emergency exit, 13C, there’s a lot more room there.”

The man whom Richard approached from the back was throwing his luggage up onto the rack. He turned around in confusion, his typically Russian sullen face didn’t smoothen even when faced with the stranger’s white-toothed smile.

“I’d really love to sit next to my girlfriend—” Richard motioned at the seats between them and smiled even wider. “Please.”

The head — with a messy chestnut-haired bun on top of it — didn’t budge, and the sullen man nodded after a second’s pause.

“Fine,” he grumbled and went to get his bag back down.

There was no catch — he would really be getting the better seat.

“Thank you,” sighed Richard with relief.

A few moments later, as if it was nothing, he took his seat beside the young woman in headphones who didn’t even raise her eyes at him, busy writing something into a red notebook.

Her handwriting was unintelligible, littered with crossings-out, but she didn’t mind. Richard’s eyes slanted to her hands, her face and bangs, the dark long lashes, the sharp nose with a ring between the nostrils. Stella Fracta looked different without makeup.

Her real name is Alexandra Stern, she’s thirty, her pen name is only for her books — and it, too, has special symbolism.

“Bad call,” she spoke. “It’s a four-hour flight, you’ll rue the day.”

She heard. Richard agreed with her — but appearing foolish was to his advantage.

His knees, spread to the sides, were pushing up against the back of the seat in front of him, he was uncomfortable already — and they hadn’t even left the airport yet … He was over six feet tall, he felt like he was in an incommodious dollhouse.

“An emotional call,” he said.

They crossed gazes. His eyes were blue, hers — brown.

Alexandra shook her head.

“You can always ask to switch back,” she smiled.

“Yes, I can, but I don’t want to. I’m Richard.”

She was looking at him closely: sculpted features, a clean-shaven chin, blue eyes, a long narrow nose and thin lips; dark brown hair, wide shoulders, a dark gray unzipped jacket, a blue jumper.

A fresh but unimposing perfume, even and calm breathing, a direct and open gaze, the iris — if looking at an angle — appears to be lit up from the inside.

“Alexandra,” she replied.

There were three kinds of her smile: just with her lips; with her lips slightly parted — but so that her fangs wouldn’t be visible; and with a fully open mouth, unashamed. Richard knew all of them — and now she had simply spread her lips.

He extended his hand for a handshake, Alexandra, in a returned gesture, gave him her hand — with long nails that resembled sharp claws.

Her hand was cold, his — warm, both had a firm handshake.

“The damn air conditioner,” noted Richard.

She laughed — and now he had time to see her fangs.

“My hands are always cold,” Alexandra shrugged, putting her hand over the closed notebook. “Even without an air conditioner.”

He could act out a fuss, try to turn the air conditioning off — despite the rules — he could even ask the flight attendant for a blanket … But something told him she wouldn’t fall for that.

He had a feeling she can see right through him — even though it was impossible.

“You’re going to London for work?” he inquired.

Alexandra looked at him again — on her face, he read faint displeasure: a stranger opting to distract her with idle chit-chat. She was still wearing headphones — though since the moment he approached her row, there was nothing playing in them.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “A meeting with readers.”

“Readers?”

“I’m a writer. I have books. Readers read books.”

“But ‘Cats Don’t Drink Wine,’” Richard smiled, putting on a show of bashfulness. “I’m sorry, I’m joking. I got it. I know you — I mean, I know your books.”

“Wonderful. I’m very glad.”

Her friendliness was neutral. It was a balancing act between indifference and gratitude, but it wasn’t arrogance or disdain for excessive attention. Before he had the opportunity to see how warmly she greets fans, readers, those wanting to take a picture with her or tell her their opinion — of any kind … And for some reason, she didn’t react to him the way he’d anticipated.

He didn’t expect her to appreciate his attractiveness right away, but he assumed she’ll consider his attention appropriate — and that’s how he’ll start the conversation. She was open to dialogue — with all who approached her … And yet she’s barely looking at a blue-eyed dreamboat.

It wasn’t in his habit to reflect upon his attractiveness — but it was his habit to compare facts to consistent patterns.

Richard knew that at the moment she had neither a long-standing partner nor an object of romantic interest.

“I won’t distract you if it’s inappropriate, sorry.”

Richard breathed hard through his nose, tried to settle in the seat to get into a comfortable position, hugged himself by the shoulders, touching his elbow with his neighbor’s. He saw Alexandra smile from under his lowered eyelashes.

“It’s okay,” she said. After a pause, she added, “It’s just that I’m tired — so living humans — even cute ones — don’t ignite a desire for conversation.”

“Living?”

He passed off the statement that he’s cute. Of course, he’s cute — it seems he’s never smiled so ingratiatingly!

“Living. I prefer robots.”

Alexandra was being serious — she always was, even when she was making her odd — sometimes creepy — jokes. If this was the first time he’d met her — and if he was not an agent of MI6 — she would have succeeded in scaring him off.

She’s a misanthrope — she said that in both interviews and articles, and the characters of her books were mostly autistics, psychopaths, evil geniuses wearing masks and murdering people.

Monsters in human skin — and alternatively, humans in bodies of monsters.

“It’s a pity I’m no robot,” Richard complained almost in earnest, staring at the back of the seat ahead of him with loathing.

“You can still go back.”

The flight attendant’s voice began announcing that the plane was getting ready for take-off through the speakers. Richard clicked the safety belt.

“Not a chance,” he smirked.

Alexandra took off her headphones, switched the phone to airplane mode, leaned back and closed her eyes. He was glancing at her — nearly always voluntarily.

3. Habit

[Great Britain, London, Heathrow Airport]

The neighbor next to the porthole didn’t once get up during the flight, while Alexandra asked to be let out into the passage often — and Richard pretended that he was dozing off — so she would have to carefully touch his forearm.

She was the sort to opt to kick someone to wake them up, or smack them with the red notebook — and Richard knees were, seemingly, everywhere by now, appeared a shame to waste the opportunity.

For a part of the flight, Alexandra sat with her eyes closed — but wasn’t even napping, just enjoying the idleness — for a part of it, she listened to music, wrote something down in the notebook.

She wasn’t bored with just herself as company, she didn’t need an interlocutor to get through the four hours of the journey. Richard, too, was able to turn off the thought grinder, to value every opportunity of rest and recuperation, he didn’t rush the events — he simply observed.

After they safely landed, when they were leaving the plane cabin, he helped her get her things from the carry-on luggage compartment. She had a small mint suitcase — as heavy as Richard himself, who came in at around two hundred pounds.

He didn’t betray his surprise — but Alexandra smirked — a brief smirk that he’d already had time to get used to.

“Is anyone meeting you?”

Alexandra pulled out the handle of the suitcase, squeezed the red notebook under her arm and turned in the passage. Richard was a head taller than her, she had to tilt her chin up to look him in the eye.

“Yes.”

“I’d love to see you again. We could get coffee or take a walk or—”

“I won’t make any promises. I don’t even know how long I’ll stay here.”

She was smiling, but her eyes were serious.

“I understand,” Richard nodded and pretended to be interested in other passengers slowly making their way along the rows of seats to the exit. “It doesn’t have to be London. You’ll be back in Moscow eventually.”

He didn’t say who he was — and she didn’t ask. Alexandra raised an eyebrow.

“Text me on social media, we’ll figure something out,” she said finally.

“Of course.”

He didn’t pester her with questions anymore, he fell behind when they said a short goodbye in the airport building — and merely observed the silhouette from afar, black jumpsuit and white sneakers.

There were triangular fabric ears on the jumpsuit’s hood — like a cat’s. Alexandra’s gait was dancing, slightly nervous, she didn’t put her phone down and kept calling someone, the recipient kept not picking up.

They crossed paths again at the entrance to the building with glass panels that reflected the setting sun, Alexandra was squinting from the golden light, Richard approached her so that she would have time to notice his presence.

“We can take a cab together,” he said.

“Everything’s fine,” she shook her head. “I’ll call a taxi if anything goes wrong.”

“Alright.”

He wasn’t going to leave until a car came up. He was sure she would agree to go with him — if for some reason something didn’t go according to plan.

“No luggage?”

She gave him a short glance — and continued scrutinizing the cars fussing around in the parking lot.

“Yes,” Richard threw up his hands. “Habit. London is my hometown, no need to overpack.”

“I see. Good habit.”

His cab was already waiting afield, but he pretended not to notice. The key thing is to not overdo it — and to not inspire rejection with his intrusive presence, but at the same time catch the opportunity to learn who was to meet her.

In the meantime, a Rolls-Royce leisurely strolled along the vehicular accesses of terminals, its polished black sides shone in the rays of the setting sun, Alexandra patiently watched its movement. When the car drew up with them, the driver’s door on the right side opened. The man who exited was smiling guiltily, Alexandra was curving her lips into a smile, too.

“I’m sorry!”

“You dolt!”

“The old man held me up!”

“You could have at least picked up the phone!”

They were speaking English and immediately forgot about Richard. The man was her age, in a black suit with no tie and a white shirt — the appearance of a typical driver, with an appropriate amount of polish and servility.

He embraced her, squeezing her into a hug, lifting her off the ground, then let her go, leaned down and took the suitcase. It was only then he directed his gaze at Richard.

“Remy, Richard,” Alexandra remembered suddenly, pointing with the notebook that she clutched in her hand first at one man, then at another. “Richard, Remy.”

“Charmed,” Remy nodded, extending his free hand.

Richard responded with a handshake. Right after that, the driver deprived him of his attention and headed to the car, opened the trunk.

“Goodbye, Richard,” said Alexandra, in English.

“See you.”

He followed them with his gaze until the car disappeared from view. A bit later — in the taxi — he will find out that the Rolls-Royce is from the fleet of a famous historian and religious scholar, a knight of the Order of the British Empire, Sir Leigh McKellen, and the young man that was late to the airport is his personal driver, Remy Adan.

McKellen is certainly from the Poets’ society — considering his field of work, his specialization in cults of female deities. McKellen has a mansion in the London suburbs — and they certainly went there, not to the hotel, as Richard had initially assumed.

He didn’t have a habit of trying to fill the blanks in prematurely — but he had a habit of picking up on every detail.

She never let go of her red notebook — obviously there’s something important in it.

4. Rules of the Genre

[Great Britain, London, City of London]

“Of course not! What kind of a detective story doesn’t have a dead body!” Alexandra laughed, leaning on the tall table next to the street view window. “There’s always a crime, there’s always a criminal.”

It was crowded in Rosslyn Coffee at Queen Victoria, the scent of freshly made Colombian Arabica filled the space, Richard was already done with the breakfast — coffee and a striped crunchy croissant — and was trying not to miss a second.

He texted her on one of her social medias, from a cover account of an actor Richard North — with very believable photos from his theatrical work, made-up past relationships and buddies — though she didn’t reply right away, only in the evening.

She said that the morning is the most productive time of the day, and therefore it’s better to meet for breakfast. Ante meridiem London was lively on weekdays, life was bubbling over, on City of London’s narrow streets cars lined up in rows in front of streetlights, pedestrians rushed to work, picking up coffee to-go on the run.

“The point of a detective is in narrating the sequence of solving a mystery, murder here is both the crime and the disruption of balance between good and evil,” continued Alexandra. “It’s the rule of the genre. The structural elements of the system define it. There’s always a conflict and a task, and the more developed the detective story is, the more believable it is — because it is more stable.”

Richard nodded, licked his lips. Alexandra had barely gotten through half of her breakfast — busy with the conversation, with a habit of not rushing her meals.

“Well, you understand it all yourself, it’s the same thing in acting. The more you understand the character, his motivation and his essence, the more indistinguishable from reality he will be.”

He did understand. All of his life was spent under false names, in foreign countries, all his life was spent on edge, parting lies from truth wrapped in tapestries of lines of mystification and artificially made set-dressings.

She created plots the verisimilitude of which was hard to doubt.

“When you have to learn a new occupation to act in a single minute-long scene,” Richard smirked.

“When you have to pry into archives of the National Library in Paris and translate the periodics of the entire summer of a specific year of the 19th century — to write a single episode in a historical novel,” Alexandra joined in. “Exactly so. Man underestimates his imaginative abilities — and gives little thought to the fact that the objective reality is no different from a fictional one.”

“It would be good if everyone only did evil in their own head.”

“Yes,” she agreed easily. “Ideally — yes. But no one listens — even though everything is so simple.”

Truly, simple … But both of them are now sitting in a café in reality, not in imagination, and the world around them is real and corporeal — just as the unfinished cup of cappuccino and the half of a bagel on the plate.

He felt that it got hotter — like in a Hot and Cold game. She was smart and perceptive, she was still looking at him closely — to see something that he hid behind the mask of sympathy and bashfulness. He wasn’t acting out the part of a ladykiller, he wasn’t portraying a head-over-heels fan — he chose something in the middle, he wanted to show that he was different from the rest — though unsuccessfully for now.

He talked little about himself — and listened more instead. Richard, for some reason unknown to himself, did not try to hang noodles on her ears, playing the role of someone who wants to present himself in the best light — in front of her.

She’s gotten used to being used — she’s gotten used to being wanted. She hid under the guise of openness and disinhibition, but behind the acceptance of the world as it is — with the ignorance and the cruelty — she hid disappointed resignation.

Everything’s simple.

“You speak as if you know everything there is to know, and you’re bored because of it.”

She paused to think, her dark eyes were looking not at Richard but at the window, at the shop signs on the opposite side of the street, at the passers-by and the passing cabs.

“Maybe,” she said after some time. “Sometimes that’s how it is, no kidding. Moreover, I share it, I tell a lot and translate a lot into an accessible language — of metaphors, archetypes, role models and digestible plots — but it still only reaches those who want to see and hear.”

Richard hid his excitement, he merely shifted his legs on the bar of the counter-height stool.

“Alchemy?”

“The very one,” Alexandra replied with a smile. “The wine of the blood of kings, the becoming and the purpose, the Great Work … Who needs all that — if everyone saw cats and vineyards, medieval catacombs and a dog-loving autistic being rescued from prison by his visionary wife?”

Riddles again … She explained the meaning of every metaphor in her books, they came together into a certain algorithm of success of any work — but there was always something missing. Like in encryption: she made one key public, the other kept to herself — because only those among the Poets had that key.

“I need it,” Richard raised his eyebrows slightly, he looked at Alexandra closely until she looked back at him. “I seemingly understood everything — and still understood nothing.”

She sighed and smiled. Softly, forgivingly. She had assumed they would talk about the objective reality — London, Moscow, parties and masquerades, the sphere of work they had in common — according to his cover story … And he’s expecting a revelation from her — as if she could, here and now, show him the secrets of existence.

“And why do you need that?”

Good question. To complete the mission.

“To become myself.”

He himself didn’t understand why he said it like that — his mouth spoke it on its own. Odd — but it was as if he began to hear her better, speak her language — without coercion, without constant interpretation of every outputted sentence.

“You already have everything you need to do that, Richard North. Don’t look for answers on the outside — they’re inside us. As soon as you learn who you are, everything will happen on its own — because there will simply be no other option.”

“That’s complicated.”

“Complexity is a habit. We build a pile of terms and concepts all our lives, trying to describe the world around us, we use the visible to describe the visible — and we deny what we don’t understand or can’t describe. If I tell you that there’s someone behind your back, and you won’t turn — will you be able to describe what’s behind you?”

Laymen get migraines from such conversations. MI6 agents mustn’t have migraines — because they’re ineffective.

“I will,” he said, moving his shoulders involuntarily as if he had goosebumps. “Intuition, imagination, juxtaposition of indirect indicators — the reflection in the glass, breathing, noise, the direction of your gaze—”

She liked the answer.

Alexandra beamed, “So you know everything even without me — and understanding will come when the right time comes. Alchemy is, foremost, not transformation of the external, but transformation of the internal.”

The only thing he’s managed to understand so far was, the more he opens up to her, the more she trusts him. She asked the imaginary intelligence agent to undress not out of lust, but so he would bare his soul.

Richard ran his palm across his face, his cheeks reddened — from a genuine feeling of absurdity. He’ll have to pull real bashfulness out of himself — not the sly, feigned one — with the quickened pulse and cold sweat on his temples.

“It’s easier to discuss dead bodies,” he chuckled.

“Because everything’s clear with them, going back to the rules of the genre. In our own soul we do the same investigation, we get the system of symbols, the castle of imagination in order. We give every phenomenon a name — that gives its essence a clear-cut definition, but ad libitum, not as the world of the objectively existing things teaches us.” Alexandra grew silent and then added, “Because the objective existence is a myth, just a landmark of the rule of the genre.”

His genre is espionage. Richard suddenly became curious about what she’ll say if he dumps the whole truth at her, as it is: that he’s been tailing her for a month already, that MI6 had prepared him to win her trust the best way he can, that he knew her biography, the toothpaste that she brushes her teeth with and the beauty shop in Moscow where she gets her enormous long nails done once every three weeks — regardless of her travel arrangements …

That he must become her lover, make it so she brings him into the circle of Poets — for him to find out why this alchemical publicity was initiated.

He could offer her to work together, could recruit her, threaten her — but she was the kind of cat to walk alone, unable to be scared even by threat of torture and death.

She’s more cunning than he thought — more cunning than his superiors expected. She wouldn’t have looked at him like that if she hadn’t realized that an agent might be sent to her.

Alexandra may be giving him the go-around … In any way, he’s both the prime contractor and the expendable supply. To feel anything personal — from hurt to disappointment — was beyond the bounds of his professional skills. He really does have everything he needs to avoid being fooled.

He doesn’t understand what he’s looking for — even if he was given clear instructions. It’s never easy with people, that’s a fact — but when the players get too far ahead of him, the playing becomes torturous and strenuous.

With her, it was as if Richard was reaching for the moon, but wishing for distant stars that had long died, and the light years distance only brought to eyesight memories of their life.

“Oh my God, I didn’t mean to work you up!” Alexandra exclaimed.

Richard jumped.

The rules of the genre … Even she recognizes them.

“Everything’s fine, I just got lost in thought. Shall we take a walk?”

5. Nigredo

[Great Britain, London, Soho]

At the headquarters of MI6 on Cambridge Circus, known as ‘the Circus’ in the agency’s parlance, a real circus was unfolding. Richard was presenting his monthly report, recounting everything he managed to gather during the observation period, detailing recent events — his encounter with Stella Fracta, their Domodedovo-Heathrow flight, and their morning breakfast.

He was trying to explain that she was anything but an international spy, not an evil genius — but a genius.

What she told him was a refrain in each of her texts, as if she left her mark on everything she touched. He didn’t forget to mention the red notebook, either.

“The system of symbols is the terminology with which a person describes reality — both existing and imaginary,” Richard said. “It’s a tool for organizing space—”

His colleagues stared at him with vacant, uncomprehending eyes. Some had taken the course on alchemy with him, others were there as lecturers, but judging by their reaction, they all understood nothing. Richard felt like they were mocking him.

“The Great Work is not a recipe for transforming metals into gold, it’s not a recipe for creating the philosopher’s stone, and the philosopher’s stone is not a stone, but an artistic representation of that which fulfills one’s innermost desire. The philosopher’s stone is red because the color red symbolizes becoming, unity, quintessence.”

Primitive zombie flicks came to Richard’s mind: the collective intelligence, the lack of conscious thought … To the creatures who glared at him standing next to the projector screen, it didn’t matter what he was saying — they wanted to eat his brain. He paced back and forth at the end of the oval glass table in the center of the conference room, explaining to them that it was all simple — yet they were seeing something of their own.

“Mercury and sulfur in the alchemist’s parlance represent the two natures of matter, feminine and masculine, creation and destruction, and their union yields salt, but not the salt kind of salt, not even mercury sulfide, but rather uncertainty — like entropy in information theory.”

The formula, common sense, a consistent picture painted. Incredible!

“The Great Work is an algorithm for constructing oneself from scratch, as one was designed by the creator — to become. It’s an algorithm for refining one’s environment, because only the natural flow of things creates stable, resilient systems. Becoming is to fulfill the mission, it’s not money or triumph or world domination—”

Who was he talking to? Strange, frightening, foolish. They were looking through him, they didn’t hear a word he said — however much he paced in front of the whiteboard, waved his hands, pointed his fingers: one, two, three, four.

“The four stages of the Great Work are represented by colors, and each stage and color is a step of evolution. Alchemy is internal transformation—”

They’ll say they heard this all before — and that everything he was repeating is clear — and, at the same time, unclear. Why did he understand — and they didn’t?!

“Nigredo, albedo, citrinitas, rubedo — black, white, gold, and red — are represented by processes of decay and purification, construction and creation, gaining wisdom from the advice of the wise and the final becoming in the name of service.”

Richard was having a nightmare — him, speaking into nothingness. What stage is he on? The ground is slipping out from under his feet, the familiar world is crumbling, it’s as if he begins to doubt everything.

A devilish science, this alchemy! No wonder people flee from it — from its destructive power, from the shock of its revelations!

Richard tossed and turned in sweat-soaked sheets, visions blended with reality. Dreaming or awake, is he trying to explain something to someone, dreaming or awake, does he suddenly understand, grasping awareness by the tail, like an elusive chimera, the damn Ouroboros — the serpent biting its own tail?

He wanted to scream and cry for help, he wanted to shriek with joy as loud as he could, to share this sudden realization with the entire world.

He understood.

All kinds of things went on in the Circus headquarters, in rooms designed to resemble apartments or comfortable hotel rooms — meant for both permanent and temporary residence. Richard was the type to never make noise, he never even tossed in his sleep — because self-control is a skill that’s impossible to lose or forget.

He sat up sharply on the bed, air escaping from his lungs with a wheeze, burning his throat — as if he had been screaming in his sleep, like under torture.

He couldn’t remember what he had understood. What kind of devilry was this — a theatrical stage, a conference room table, trying to explain alchemy to MI6 agents in front of a crowd clad in medieval garb — he had no idea. Normally, his work-related nightmares were different … They were rare — because he never remembered his dreams — and specific, understandable, frightening only because he failed and let everyone down.

If alchemy, nevertheless, was true, then he was still at the very beginning of the journey — in the black void of nigredo, in the burnt up, broken, bitter, and frightening nothingness.

He wrapped himself in damp blankets, wiped nervous sweat from his forehead, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

If need be, he will offer himself up for experiments on the alchemical slab — but for now, he remains in his own genre.

This better turn out to be a cold-induced fever, he thought, sinking into viscous sleep. Perks of government service — good insurance. Both for the living and the dead.

6. Liars

[Great Britain, London, City of Westminster]

“They told me once that all poets are liars … I thought about it.”

The voice reverberated across the ribbed ceilings of the crypt beneath the Church of St Martin-in-the-Fields, the decorations of medieval dungeons — wine cellars from the novel about the murder on vineyards — echoed the mystical mood of the meeting with the author.

Artificial lamps simulating candles lined the space, the columns dividing the hall into sectors disappeared above, supporting the arches of the ceiling. This place, both eerie and sacred, kept its own atmosphere even with the sounds of working photography equipment, three hundred pairs of eyes were fixed upon the stage.

“Why write about things that don’t exist, why craft perfect worlds that will console nobody but the desperate? Heroes, villains, knights, beauties, beasts — abstract symbols echoed across every culture — but removed from objective reality. We live in a world with no black and white, on occasion we can’t choose what to wear, what wine to pair with our dinner — Barolo or Barbaresco,” Alexandra — Stella Fracta — raised her ruby drink, smiling ironically. “What is there to say about choice, then: between one’s own interests and the common good, instruction and justice, chaos and order — if one cannot be imagined without the other?”

Richard found himself getting confused. Sophistry — manipulating concepts that are valid separately and paradoxical together, deception through employing cognitive distortions and the imperfections of formal logic.

There are rules for resolving contradictions — preconceived instructions. For choosing between equivalent options, there’s chance and improvisation. For making decisions within a limited number of steps, there are real-time operating systems.

“I could say it in my own words, but this question was already answered by Vadim Rublev, doctor of philosophy, my teacher and the very Grandmaster whose encrypted poems my classmates and I translated into different languages ten years ago to practice the art of conveying meaning. I’ll quote — read from the sheet — because it, well, matters.”

She was smiling, she emphasized the last phrase with an ironic tone. She waved her free hand — still holding the wine glass in the other — like a magician. A piece of paper appeared in her fingers, and the audience gasped — from surprise and apt relief — while Alexandra continued.

“The world, peculiar and unfamiliar, made of metaphors and images, the one legends and songs are composed about, really did exist once. It is the poet’s task to salvage this fickle mist, the fragile gift, the memory and faith, to save it while wandering in the darkness, to carry it through generations so that, when the age of light comes again, love and goodness can be gifted to the rising scarlet sun.”

Hope and goodness — for them to simply be. Simply so they are passed on … The same instinct, embedded in our genes.

For some reason, Richard wanted to leave.

“The poet is chosen to be the one to, against all odds, continue to speak about the utopia. He’s chosen to pass on what must be saved — because that is our reality, it demands a coordinate system, the rules of the genre.”

He felt like he understood — but at the same time, he was unsettled. When the inner beast senses danger, when his arm hairs stand on ends beneath his shirt, when a shiver runs down his spine … She speaks about alchemy, because that’s how it must be — because it must be passed on and heard.

This is her legacy — humanity’s legacy. Poets lie to cocoon the core of truth in lies, to let lies wear down with time, but help the truth survive — and endure until the moment when neither masks nor weapons nor espionage nor the skill of puzzle-solving will be necessary.

Richard was never a poet in any sense of the word, yet now he realized that his coordinate system, his utopia — the struggle between order and chaos, friends and foes — were just the rules of the genre.

Just that.

Suddenly, he felt an unbearable need to approach Alexandra and ask her what he should do when the boundaries of the rule of the genre, seen clearer than ever before, begin to resemble cage bars.

He also wanted to ask why this was the image that came to his mind.

7. Blood of Kings

[Great Britain, London, City of Westminster]

Sir Leigh McKellen was a silver-haired old man, tall but hunched over crutches due to arthritis. His young driver, Remy Adan, was always close by, laughing at his jokes — just as strange as Alexandra Stern’s — and occasionally handing his master a new glass.

The wine of the blood of kings — another metaphor, a wordplay — and Richard sincerely hoped it had nothing to do with the British royal family.

“I often say she has good taste — in both women and men,” Sir McKellen winked at Richard slyly. “Are you a model?”

“No, I’m an actor.”

“A bit old for a model,” Remy chuckled, half under his breath, but still audible amidst the cacophony of background noise — music and voices.

“Rude, Remy!” exclaimed Alexandra. “I’m the rude one around here — don’t take after me.”

“No, it’s not rude at all,” replied Richard, taking a sip of Barolo. “It’s true.”

They had already been interrupted twice for group and couple photos, as expected — and advantageous. McKellen and Adan were old friends of Alexandra’s; the knight of the Order of the British Empire was a consultant for several of her early novels, and his driver — and assistant — treated her as if they had known each other since childhood, even though that was far from the truth.

In a couple of hours, rumors will circulate that the writer Stella Fracta had made a public appearance with her new paramour, a relatively unknown British actor, and confirming this would be the photos where Richard North leaned in to whisper something in her ear. Richard, of course, did this intentionally, whispering warnings about guests that approached them with a new round of praise.

Alexandra seemed to be fine with Richard sticking close to her every move and pretending that he departs for drinks or snacks only when she engages in conversation with the guests.

She was wearing a suit — black wide-legged pants and a top with open shoulders and back, her skin shimmered with glitter applied over tattoos — intricate monochromatic geometric patterns. She held her glass by the stem, Richard held his by the bowl, deliberately incorrect, and he spent the whole evening waiting for her to comment on it, but she said nothing; she explained the wines being served at the event, as they were the same varieties grown in the fictional commune, one of the wineries in Barolo from ‘Cats Don’t Drink Wine’.

This was the height of the afterparty in the crypt beneath the Church of St-Martin-in-the-Fields — when the guests were already drunk and relaxed, yet had no intention of leaving. Richard drank sparingly — because, despite his ability to always stay focused, being sober, he felt uncharacteristically excited.

He was too old for a model — but he was still young. He was only thirty-five, fourteen years of which he spent working in intelligence. He knew so much and had experienced so much — and yet suddenly felt foolish, helpless, lost.

It was too late for doubts.

“Funny,” Alexandra mused, picking up another glass from the waiter’s tray. “When I first saw you, I thought you were a damn narcissist.”

“Is that so?” Richard replied, never taking his eyes off her.

“But you’re not a narcissist. Or even if you are, you’re very good at pretending.”

He wanted to smile, but he couldn’t. He watched her twirl the wine in her hand, but she never brought it to her lips.

There are goosebumps on her shoulders — but not from the cold, her eyelashes tremble slightly when she looks at the glass.

“I’m not a narcissist.”

“Yes, you’re just a good actor.”

“Do you think I’m pretending?”

He did feel drunk — a special kind of drunk. She had to have noticed his pupils dilate. That was impossible to fake.

Alexandra chuckled, shrugged. Glitter sparkled on her bare skin.

“No, tell me, do you think I’m pretending?”

He pulled her wrist down, her glass untouched. Richard’s hold on her wrist was gentle. She wasn’t exaggerating — her hands were always cold.

Blue eyes met brown again. Her eyes were dark, they appeared large and bottomless thanks to her long lashes and perfect eyeliner and shimmering brown eyeshadow. On her smiling lips was long-lasting lipstick — and burgundy traces of the red wine of the blood of kings.

“Alright, you don’t have to answer,” Richard interjected with a smile. “Shall we dance?”

Before she could resist or object, he took her glass — placing it in a niche near the column extending into the vaulted ceiling, the one they were standing next to, in a visible spot — where they could find it later. He then pulled Alexandra onto the dance floor, barely touching her glittering back, shortly taking her hand again, confidently this time.

Where had he gone wrong, why did she still not trust him?

One — he placed his hand on her back, felt her fingers on his shoulder, two — they closed the distance between their bodies, discordant with the music that seemed to be playing from another era, three — they took a step in unison, merging with the haphazard movements of the cheerful guests, four — the sound of shattering glass, a scream, a gasp, a dull thud — like that of a falling body …

They turned around, Alexandra instinctively rushed forward to the woman on the floor, foaming at the mouth — but Richard grabbed her by the waist and pulled her back.

He struggled with himself, solving an internal dilemma: should he act the hero or prevent Alexandra from getting involved, shield her from everything, stay by her side? The security had already called an ambulance — and it would most likely come too late.

The niche where Richard had placed the glass was empty. On the floor were glass shards and a bright pool of wine. The body of the fan, who had obviously grabbed the glass of her favorite writer, was quiet, no longer convulsing — and he was not looking at it.

Richard opened his mouth to address the security guard who had entered the room, but Alexandra reacted faster.

“Lock all the doors and call the police.”

Her voice was loud and clear, as if it had a physical presence beneath the arched ceiling. The resonance reverberated through Richard’s body, he immediately pulled Alexandra close, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

The sounds of scream and panic are terrifying in a basic, primal way, often more than their cause … Alexandra’s body relaxed only after several seconds of his strong embrace.

Richard’s heartbeat was oddly fast, as if he himself was frightened. His hands and suit were covered in glitter after he had to let her go — because by then, police officers had entered the crypt.

8. Trust

[Great Britain, London, City of Westminster]

The managers of Träger publishing house responsible for organizing the literary event at the Church of St-Martin-in-the-Fields were tearing their hair out, the literary agent was cursing in Russian but seeking ways to turn the situation to their advantage, and journalists had occupied the lobby and porch of the Whitehall Court hotel.

Dawn was breaking outside the windows of the tower room overlooking the Thames, Alexandra sat on the living room couch, leaning on the cushions, her face buried in her hands.

When she spoke, her voice at first was muffled by her palms.

“I hate all of it!” she lamented. “Who would need to do this, dammit?!”

Richard remained silent. He already regretted listening and accompanying her to the hotel instead of taking her to his apartment, supposedly owned by the actor Richard North.

Now they were enclosed within four walls, she’s under the constant watchful eye of her managers and hordes of journalists, soon, enraged fans and haters will appear, making it harder for them to escape unwanted attention.

The police had questioned them several hours ago, and the tedious procedure had yielded nothing — but Alexandra finally calmed down. She had been trembling for a long time, so much so that she couldn’t even drink water, though she maintained her composure. Her body seemed to react separately from her mind.

Richard understood how she felt. She realized that she had come dangerously close to being in the position of the unfortunate Kristina Matveyeva, whose name she would remember for the rest of her life.

She was angry at the uncontrollable physiological stress reaction and the discomfort they had to endure while waiting for a call from the police or managers who would insist on the specific comments they were to give to specific media outlets.

The lawyer had already been in touch — for now, through McKellen. Overall, things didn’t look as terrible as they had initially seemed.

Suddenly, Richard felt angry at himself. How dare he reason like this? The situation was no threat to him — because it was him who had orchestrated it so that a colorless, odorless, fast-acting poison ended up in the glass that Alexandra would take.

And he was the one who had to distract her — so that one of her fans would want to pick up the glass from the visible spot. She needed to be scared, believe that she was in mortal danger.

Callousness was necessary in his profession when it came to choosing between the interests of the state, global interests, and the life of an individual.

Alexandra was frightened, but she had not lost control of the situation. During the conversation with law enforcement, she remained calm, even managing to irritate a Scotland Yard inspector with her questions.

Richard smiled inappropriately at the thought that, if she wanted, she could have been just like him, a spy, with her ability to make decisions, instantly analyze situations, and draw accurate conclusions.

Now she trusted him — otherwise she wouldn’t have allowed him to be near her. She was the type to be able to handle problems on her own, no need for a sympathetic shoulder or company to share her worries.

She only accepted help when it was necessary, and he had volunteered to be her personal bodyguard.

She laughed at the wording at the time and merely waved it off.

“… could have been anyone — not necessarily a catering employee or someone from the venue,” she reasoned, Richard listened without interrupting. “If only we knew what this crap was and whether it was in the glass or just on the surface of it …”

She reasoned like a detective, systematically, methodically, dissecting the data. He remained quiet, not wanting to betray his knowledge of crime scene investigation.

“The cameras will show the waiter carry the glasses, filling them, who could have come into contact — and added poison to the glass, on the glass, or even into the bottle … But if it were the bottle, someone else would have gotten poisoned too.”

Alexandra had not changed out of her clothes; the back of the couch and the cushions were covered in glitter. She paid no attention to how the delicate black silk fabric of her wide trousers wrinkled and pulled up on her flat stomach.

“Have you thought about taking a shower and then going to sleep?”

“I have to remember everything,” she replied stubbornly. “To rewind.”

“Fatigue reduces concentration and attentiveness, you’re only making it worse every minute. You’ll remember everything after some sleep because then it will settle as it should.”

For the first time in hours, she looked at Richard in a meaningful way — as if she were surprised that he was in her room.

“You’re right. You’re right!”

Alexandra jumped up from the couch, and glitter rained down to the floor. She took a few quick steps, but then froze in the middle of the room.

“But how do I fall asleep?”

She looked at him again, as if he could provide an answer.

Richard smiled, got up from the chair where he had sat all this time, and approached her until he was within arm’s reach. Alexandra looked up at him, trying to understand something, but her emotions and thoughts were already betraying her.

“Just lie down and sleep. You can do it.”

He knew she had sleep problems due to the neurological peculiarities and the intermittent periods of agitation caused by a diagnosis. He knew the medications she took, and he knew she hadn’t brought them with her to London because it was prohibited to export them from Russia even with a doctor’s prescription.

“Okay.”

He didn’t have a chance to do anything — although he intended to embrace her — she had already stepped aside, started unbuttoning and taking off her clothes as she walked. By the time Alexandra reached the bathroom door, the top and trousers were already on the floor, only glitter and panties remained on her body.

Richard stared at her back, a glimpse of the black pattern of tattoos on her left arm, shoulder blade, left side, and thigh — all of which disappeared inside the bathroom. It was both expected and unexpected: she had no reason to either flirt with him or be shy about her body, because she had a damn good body.

By the time Alexandra emerged from the shower — as if reborn, having washed away not just makeup, glitter, and sweat but also the long, odd, rugged day — Richard was not in the living room.

The relief — that he might have left — flooded over her. Then came the realization that he wouldn’t have gone anywhere — he was surely already waiting for her in the bedroom.

Richard was strange — handsome, intelligent, with kind eyes, a dazzling smile, an athlete’s body — but he seemed empty. He was an actor — not by trade but by nature. It was as if he didn’t even know himself — even though he spoke and acted convincingly, everything was congruent, everything was as it should be …

She changed into clean underwear — panties and a tank top — tossed the towel onto the chair with intentional carelessness, and, deliberately stomping, marched to the bed, where Richard lay wrapped in half of the duvet.

Alexandra hoped he understood that if he suddenly thought of seducing her, she’d tear his ears off. She sighed, and he turned his head toward her; he was smiling, it was visible even in the darkness.

She threw off the duvet and lay down next to him, on her back, her eyelids heavy with fatigue, her body feeling wooden. She hoped she’d fall asleep. Hope was all she could do.

Richard turned onto his side, facing her, she felt his gaze on her skin, but she had already closed her eyes and didn’t speak — words would not have come easy to her.

“Sleep.”

“Mm-hmm,” Alexandra replied with a mix of annoyance and resignation.

When she held that glass in her hands, she felt dread — if she were a cat, her fur would have stood on end. She sensed danger — and so did he … He distracted her. Intentionally or unintentionally, it no longer mattered.

Intuition doesn’t lie; a beast does not deceive itself.

If intuition were to be trusted, this Richard needs to piss off … And at the same time, she managed to see something real under the thick layer of his makeup — when he said he wanted to become himself.

Alexandra opened her eyes and looked at him. His eyelids were closed, his expression smooth, his round bare shoulder in the semi-darkness, with a long old scar snaking down it — he resembled an anatomy template for a painter; tomorrow, he’ll probably have stubble, his face will have creases from the pillow …

Who the hell are you, Richard North?

She would see and find everything out in her dreams — the most important thing now was to sleep.

9. Circus

[Great Britain, London, Soho]

“Aren’t you going to at least ask where we are?”

The young man in a late 16th-century suit sat at an elongated glass table, his legs crossed, his pointed shoes resting on the tabletop, his full-lipped face smiling.

“No,” Alexandra shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Everything matters.”

In front of him stood a bottle — labelless and dust-covered — and three goblets.

The young man pointed at the bottle, and Alexandra shook her head.

“No, Christopher, I can’t stand this wine anymore.”

Now it was Christopher’s turn to express disapproval.

“Such callousness!” he snorted with a mischievous smirk and clicked his tongue.

“Are we waiting for William?”

“Yeah. He’s running late — all because of that huge commission for Dante engravings …”

Alexandra took a seat with her back to the white canvas of the projector screen and looked around. It was a typical conference room for about a dozen people, with a glass door, tall windows through which, if the lamps inside were off, sparse lights from the building across and the glow of streetlamps could be seen.

“I can give you a hint about where we are!” Christopher persisted.

“Go ahead!”

Christopher was charming, the way brown-eyed young men, artistic, having had their fair share of entertainment, success and emotion, gifted with rich intellect, can be charming.

“We,” he theatrically gestured with his hands, “are at the circus!”

“At the circus?”

“Why specify?”

“To understand — and remember. I might have to write this down in the red book later.”

“You’ll remember everything, don’t underestimate yourself. Forgetting certain things is your defense, a trick of your own mind. You hold the keys.”

Alexandra leaned her elbows on the glass surface, sighed — in the same theatrical style as her interlocutor. They exchanged glances, chuckled, and Christopher continued to rock in his chair, leaning back with his legs still on the table.

“What kind of beasts are there in the circus?”

“Oh,” the young man said with a conspiratorial look. “Various ones.”

“Are we part of the circus too?”

“No. We live in the wild — no one forces us to jump through fiery hoops, dance for a piece of sugar or dental insurance—”

“Poor animals.”

“You don’t say! They dream of being themselves, but they’re not allowed to.”

Alexandra frowned, Christopher didn’t consider her contemplation a hindrance to their conversation.

“By the way, you promised to find me a partron,” he mentioned.

“I remember.”

“How’s that going?”

“God, Christopher, where am I supposed to just find you a spy gathering intel for the British Queen in France?”

The young man didn’t have a chance to respond — they both turned to the glass door simultaneously as an older man entered.

“William!” Alexandra threw her hands up, getting up from her chair.

Christopher continued rocking.

William was of short stature but youthful and robust, his posture straight, he was dressed in an early 19th-century suit. People like him always drew attention to themselves — as soon as they entered a room.

“Alexandra!” he mirrored her tone.

“How are you? How’s Catherine? How’s Dante?”

“Good, Catherine is my hope and support, and Dante is a work in progress.”

Their embrace was warm and friendly, Alexandra immediately livened up — Christopher, on the other hand, squinted.

“You didn’t hug me!”

“Because you’re not her partron,” William smiled forgivingly, as if speaking to a child.

“Don’t worry, I’ll hug you too.”

Alexandra walked around Christopher and positioned herself so she could lean down with her arms outstretched, while the young man continued to lean further back.

“Circus,” William commented as he walked further inside and sat in Alexandra’s chair.

She never did get the chance to hug Christopher — both of his chair’s legs slipped on the linoleum, he fell to the floor with a loud crash.

While Alexandra helped him up, William, lost in thought — as Alexandra was before him — looked off into the distance, past the bottle and the three goblets.

“Even if you don’t like chess, you’re already playing,” William began when the woman and the young man finally settled down at the table. “You’re on the board.”

He pressed his finger on the glass surface of the table, and Christopher swallowed.

“Both of you are playing — you and Christopher’s partron.”

They exchanged glances.

William continued, “Now’s your move, Alexandra. Such are the rules of the genre — you represent the forces of chaos.”

“And me?” Christopher widened his eyes.

“Your partron desperately clings to order, but soon he will understand that there will be no more old order — because he has already begun his path to becoming.”

“Hooray!” Christopher exclaimed. “I mean, I hope it doesn’t tear him apart and all, and I’ll finally get to meet him.”

“So what’s going to be my move?” Alexandra spoke.

“Any — it depends on your wish to move the plot along. To push what’s already moving.”

“Christopher’s partron,” Alexandra concluded. “He came into motion.”

William nodded.

“So I need the one who acts in a circus, jumps through fiery hoops, spies for the British Queen, and he’s on the first stage of the Great Work already?”

“Exactly,” William agreed.

“What should I do with the wine — and the fact that someone wanted to kill me?”

“Trust your intuition. They didn’t intend to kill you — it was a counter-move, an attempt to provoke a reaction.”

“Why a counter-move?”

“You’re successful,” Christopher answered for William. “They’re afraid of your radiance. Your existence is like a red flag to them.”

“After what happened, there will be even more resonance.”

“They’re foolish. They’ve read your books, but they didn’t understand anything.”

“That’s how it always goes—”

“Our lot, Alexandra, is to be out of time and place in our era,” William rose from the chair, adjusted his jacket’s lapels. “And to get slaps on the back of our heads from those who speak a different language.”

“It’s a wordplay,” Christopher added. “They can speak our language just fine.”

Christopher repeated after William as he stood, Alexandra watched them walk to the exit, as always, no goodbyes.

The young man turned around.

“Circus,” he reminded.

Alexandra nodded. When they disappeared, she mouthed the word — to make sure she remembers.

10. Breakfast

[Great Britain, London, City of Westminster]

Alexandra was in the bathroom, Richard was leafing through the red notebook that she left on the table, brows furrowed on his handsome face. The words arranged into formulas, in English and Russian, the notes were divided into chapters, sectioned by associative array.

Keys, lists of names and phrases — sorted by the stages of the Great Work, according to her personal system of symbols … Turning the notebook over and opening it on the other side, Richard found conventional notes, sorted chronologically.

As soon as she woke up, she wrote down: ‘Christopher’s partron acts in a circus’.

The word ‘circus’ jolted Richard — it had to be a coincidence, she can’t have found out about the Circus. ‘Partron’ is most likely a neologism, or Poet jargon.

There was a knock at the door, Richard shuddered. He quickly put the red notebook back to where it was, to its former position, and walked for the door. The breakfast was served appetizingly on a cart, Richard knew Alexandra will be happy to see the pot of coffee and a jug of hot milk, but won’t even touch the food … Once again, he wanted to display himself as trying to be thoughtful, though not always getting it right.

She came out of the bathroom in her underwear, her hair in a messy bun, her bangs parted on her forehead. Richard sat in the chair in his underwear, too, scrolling through the news on his phone, appearing bored, he took some time before turning to her.

“Good morning,” he smiled.

He was awake when she woke up, and pretended to be asleep. His eyes closed, he listened to her stir and stretch across the wide bed, as she glanced at the body lying on her left and sighed through a slight smirk.

Right away, she got up and went to the living room to write something in the red book.

Now she seemed unhappy to see him — unhappy that he didn’t think to leave.

“Good morning, Richard,” she said.

Richard put his phone down and approached her — he headed to the bathroom. Alexandra appraised him openly, half-smiling, he stayed in his underwear on purpose, to show off his six-foot tall bodybuilder figure — broad chest and shoulders, six-pack and round ass … The white snake of a scar on his left shoulder, a pink blot of a scar on his right pectoral, something pale, a barely noticeable scar or burn, on his left thigh. If she turned to follow him with her gaze, she’d have seen two more — under his left shoulder blade and under his right knee.

He walked past her, closed the door, and met his own eyes in the mirror.

He needs to find out who Christopher is.

Alexandra didn’t wait for Richard as she went to pour her coffee, climbed onto the couch — it still glittered from yesterday — and stared into the void until the bathroom door opened.

“I’m afraid to read the news,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Then don’t. Your managers will tell you everything you need to know — the rest doesn’t matter.”

His hair was wet as if he didn’t dry it at all, wetness glistened on his neck, shoulders and thighs. He won’t be able to seduce her with that.

“I forgot to thank you. Thanks. For sticking with me through this, for— Well, you know—”

She waved her hand — the empty cup in her other — as she tried to explain her feelings, but it was a rare moment when Alexandra the wordsmith was at a loss for words.

“I was happy to help. And I will be happy to help — if you let me.”

She did not respond, she simply sighed.

“The lawyer didn’t call. They’ll likely take our fingerprints — you, me, everyone in the official lists. They won’t be able to identify all guests — there wasn’t a registration for the event.”

A real detective … Richard sat next to her and carefully took the cup from her hand.

“It’s not your fault. None of it. The police will handle it. You’re safe now, I’m here, no one will dare to put you in danger again.”

On and on he goes! Like he wants her to jump at every shadow, to dread staying alone.

“They probably won’t try to poison your food again,” he nodded at the breakfast cart.

Alexandra scoffed.

“I know. Whoever it was, they were trying to provoke me, not kill me.”

Richard’s face fell slightly, he started turning the cup in his hand, watching the smears of coffee foam inside it.

Alchemists see symbols even in the abstract — like a Rorschach test.

“It could have been one of your haters — they feed on fear.”

“It wasn’t a hater,” Alexandra protested, and when Richard looked at her, added, “their methods are less sophisticated.”

The poison was scentless, the glass was handed directly to her, a rational explanation will come later along the way … And the innocent victim’s name will sink into the crowd.

She had no proof — just her intuition and what William and Christopher had told her in her visions.

“Then who? Do you have any theories?”

He tried to understand, to figure it all out — but to a layman the terms she operated with were mere fantasy tropes, not truth or objective reality.

Everything needs to be called by its name — and the nameless must be named.

“I’d call it a conspiracy of writers,” Alexandra said. “And a bad set of circumstances where I’m to be guillotined for my freethinking ways.”

Richard’s not interested in books — only in her. How does she get it through to him that her writing is her life, that everything is important — and interconnected? He always listened carefully, and she still couldn’t grasp why — because he was trying too hard.

“I don’t consider my work, and never did, revolutionary or innovative — I’m not doing anything special, and I did not invent anything new. It’s my purpose to be a circus clown and tell stories. Words and spells are my work, it’s what I can do, and no one can forbid me to keep doing it.”

Richard didn’t blink when she said the word ‘circus’ — only his palms went warm with sweat. Words are powerful weapons … He learned it the hard way.

“There’s a Russian saying: ‘A Васька слушает да ест’. Vaska does his own thing no matter what … What am I supposed to do? Hide, shake, set my ass and books on fire? I’ll just keep doing what I must — I will keep working.”

She thought the same way he did. Just do what you have to, do your work. But what work does she serve?

Poets are liars, Poets are prophets … She’s not alone, she’s with the alchemists’ society, behind her back there are ghosts of the great artists of the past. He has experience of the best special agent, behind him is MI6 and the British government … They are from different worlds: order and chaos, reality and imagination.

“It’s dangerous.”

“Sitting here, eating breakfast and waiting for my name to be turned against me is also dangerous.”

“Exactly,” Richard insisted. “Your name is your work, they’ll milk it until the story blows over, so you need to keep a low profile.”

Alexandra shook her head.

“It was a wordplay … Never mind. I’ll have to leave the hotel room either way — at least to—”

A phone ringing cut her off, she stood and walked to the drawer, her buttocks sparkling with glitter. It was the police — calling her in for fingerprinting, just as she had thought.

11. Fingerprints

[Great Britain, London, City of Westminster]