The duty sergeant stood by the barrier, heart thumping. It was too quiet. No birds, no wind—just the kind of silence that made your scalp itch.

Then he heard it. Low engine. Heavy. Official.

He stepped forward, hit the counterweight, and raised the bar. The car rolled up. He snapped to attention.

Two shots. Suppressed. Tight little coughs in the dark.

The first round hit him centre mass. The second a half-second later. He stumbled back, hit the wall hard, then slid down it. Eyes wide. Gasping.

Then—nothing.

“Don’t forget the logbook,” murmured the killer, climbing out of the car. His voice was steady, indifferent. He stepped inside.

The officer behind the desk looked up, startled. Too late. The pistol barked once. A bullet punched between his eyes. A white-hot explosion of pain—then blackness. His body jerked, then slumped sideways in the chair, lifeless, before he hit the floor.

The killer stepped over him without a glance, moving straight to the glass-fronted cabinet housing the CCTV system. Behind him, his accomplice entered, carrying a small cylindrical device. No words were exchanged.

Minutes later, the two men slid back into the car. As they sped into the night, a low, distant boom rumbled through the air. The first detonation sounded far behind them. They didn’t turn to look. Seconds later, a second explosion tore through the guardhouse. A fireball spewed debris into the darkness. The shockwave punched the car, rattling its frame.

No evidence of their visit was left behind.

 

♦♦♦♦

 

Earlier that evening:

Headlight beams pierced the rain-lashed window, immediately catching the duty officer’s attention. A GAZ Volga, its unmistakable Soviet-era design gleaming, approached. The shine, the plates—whoever was inside outranked them. The wall clock showed 8:05 p.m. Dusk was settling in.

“Are we expecting anyone?” The lieutenant flipped through the visitor’s log, though sure it was empty. The facility’s high-level intelligence operations required advanced notice for security reasons.

“Not that I’m aware, Sir,” replied the sergeant, peering outside. He set a mug of steaming black coffee on the table. “Anyway, it would have to be recorded,” he added the obvious. “Must be a mistake. Someone took a wrong turn… Happens!” he muttered as he took a sip of his brew.

“We’ll soon find out,” the young officer murmured, removing a peaked cap from the wall peg. He glanced at the clock again before stepping outside. The lieutenant felt a growing apprehension as the car drew alongside and into the bright, clear light emitted by a large security lamp attached to the guardhouse wall.

What if this is a surprise inspection? Have I missed something?

His thoughts were interrupted when the driver’s tinted window slid down. A uniformed arm held out a passport-sized, green booklet. The soldier took the ID, featuring a Soviet emblem embossed in gold on the front cover. He leant forward to the open window and glimpsed a uniformed officer sitting stone-faced on the back seat—his form partially obscured in the shadow. The black-and-white image of a man in his late thirties confirmed the identity of Colonel General Dmitry Maxim Kusnetsov of the Main Intelligence Directorate (GRU) of the Soviet General Staff.

“Sir, this is highly irregular…”

A thunderous growl cut him off.

“You know who I am! Now, raise the barrier, or you’ll regret your insolence!”

Stunned at the sudden dressing down, the soldier instantly stiffened to attention. He returned the document to the beckoning hand. Holding an AK-47 at the ready, the sergeant witnessed the exchange from the doorway and promptly proceeded to the barrier. There, he pushed down on the counterweight, raising the bar. Both men saluted smartly as the car passed through.

The lieutenant watched the vehicle disappear into the compound’s distance, uneasy about how he should record the unexpected visit. The young Soviet officer was acutely aware of the consequences of challenging authority—the power dynamics at play and the potential effects of crossing those in positions of authority. Questioning someone like that could end a career. Or worse. He accepted his role in the heavily structured and hierarchical Soviet society, where rank and status held significant power and influence.

Ordinarily, he would have rung the facility’s senior officer, Major Kuzmin, to intervene, but the man was off base for the evening. On the brink of a coveted military career, he was not about to rock the boat. Deciding his entry in the log would be a simple note of the visit without added comment, he returned to the guardhouse.

 

♦♦♦♦

 

A woman in her late forties opened the door. She wore a floral apron and smelled faintly of onions. The uniformed man on the step didn’t waste time.

“Is your Professor Rutkowski home?”

The question threw her.

“Yes… Uh… we’re just sitting down to dinner,” she said, her voice small.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t move either. Just stood there, watching. She knew better than to argue or question further.

“I’ll fetch him,” she said, disappearing inside. The door stayed ajar.

Moments later, an older man appeared. Same age, perhaps more worn. Deep lines around the mouth and eyes. A tired but steady look.

“Yes?” he asked. Calm. Polite. No surprise. He was used to the Soviet way of things.

“You’re to come with me. The General’s waiting in the car.”

The Polish scientist glanced past the man to the black GAZ Volga idling under a flickering streetlamp. Its shape said power. So did its silence. He gave a tight nod.

“Let me get my coat.”

The car door shut with a thud. The wife lingered in the doorway, eyes fixed on the taillights as they vanished into the dark. For months, she’d seen the change in her husband—more withdrawn, more careful. He told her not to worry, that everything was fine. She didn’t believe him. After twenty-five years, she could tell when he was hiding something. He had been. She closed the door slowly. The latch clicked. Inside the car, Rutkowski adjusted his seatbelt and cleared his throat.

“May I ask, Comrade General, the nature of your visit? I wasn’t informed…”

The officer didn’t look at him.

“It’s of no consequence. I’m here to assess your progress.”

Rutkowski said nothing. His Party membership meant little in practice. His loyalty was paper-thin, driven by survival rather than belief. He hated the pretence. Hated saying “Comrade.” But there were lines a Pole couldn’t cross—not yet.

The rain had stopped by the time they reached the building. A flat, squat structure. Plain concrete. No windows. BLOCK 4F stencilled above the door.

Rutkowski led the way. He keyed in the code. A buzzer sounded. He held the door open for the officer, ever the obedient subordinate.

Inside, it was a stark contrast of sharp angles and white walls. A soldier stood behind a grey metal desk, submachine gun resting at the ready. He clocked the visitor and snapped to attention.

“Comrade General, sir!”

“At ease,” the officer replied, barely glancing at him.

Rutkowski keyed open the next door, leading them into a wide lab. The lights glowed cold and blue. Wires snaked across workbenches. Machines hummed quietly. A technician in a white coat looked up, startled.

“Wasn’t expecting you back, Professor,” he said, his voice shaking slightly when he saw the officer. “I’m just finishing the—uh—design for the Harmonic Flux Modulator, but I can—”

“No need, Marek,” Rutkowski said, calming him with a wave. “Carry on. We won’t be long.”

He gestured to a side door.

“The unit is in my office.”

Inside, the place was chaotic. Papers everywhere. Books stacked sideways. The smell of stale coffee hung in the air. In one corner stood a tall, old safe with a heavy door and thick combination dial. It didn’t look out of place here.

“Apologies for the mess, Comrade General,” the professor said with a faint smile.

The officer ignored the attempt at humour.

“So, this is the device everyone’s fussing over?”

“Yes. The prototype. This is the hub—the core system,” Rutkowski said, gesturing to a dull grey unit the size of a small engine. It sat on a trolley, gauges and dials filled its front. “We got it back from sea trials two days ago.”

“And?”

“It worked. As far as we can tell, the opposition noticed.”

The officer gave a curt nod.

“And this is the only unit?”

Rutkowski hesitated.

“Yes.” A pause. “But surely you’re aware—we’re about to begin production.”

The General’s expression tightened.

“Yes. That’s why I’m here,” he said. “Moscow’s getting restless. Too many eyes on us. We need AURIS deployed before the West gets wind of it.”

Rutkowski took a breath.

“Forgive me, Comrade General, but… what exactly are you here to do?”

The officer stepped back to the open door, glanced out at Marek hunched over his station. Still working. He closed the door, turned, and calmly unclipped his holster. The pistol came up fast. Steady. Aimed at the professor’s head.

“That’s enough. The charade ends here.”

His voice dropped to a growl. Cold. Deadly. A long scar curved down his left cheek. Old, but deep. The sort you remembered.

“I know the tape’s in the safe,” he said. “Before you think about stalling, know this—my man is at your house. With your wife.”

Rutkowski froze. His heart thudded, breath catching. He looked at the walkie-talkie in the man’s hand. One word could end everything. One word, and she was dead. That was the truth of it.

He moved to the safe. Hands trembling, he began turning the dial. The officer watched closely, screwing a suppressor onto his weapon with slow precision.

The lock clicked.

Rutkowski reached inside, pulled out a black plastic container, and handed it over.

The officer turned it in his hand. A white label. One word in block caps: AURIS.

He smiled. No warmth. Just satisfaction.

“This is the only copy?”

Rutkowski hesitated. Then nodded once.

“Yes. The only updated version.”

The gunshot was muffled but sharp. The bullet punched through his chest. He stumbled, blood spreading across his shirt. Two more rounds followed. Clean. Clinical.

He collapsed. The air stank of powder and copper.

The officer stood for a moment, staring at the body. Then he walked out, calm as ever.

Marek looked up from his desk and gave a weak smile. The shot dropped him before he could speak. One in the foyer followed—same method, same silence.

The killer opened the main door to let in the second man, holdall slung over one shoulder.

“The wife?” the officer asked.

The man nodded.

“Anyone see you?”

“No.”

“We’ll set the devices for twenty minutes. Let’s go.”

They planted four compact black charges, wired and ready. Quiet. Routine. Small mechanical timers ticked softly as their hands crept towards zero.

Outside, the rain had returned. A faint drizzle on the concrete. The engine started. They pulled away, Block 4F shrinking in the mirror.

Inside, the lights hummed. So did the timers.

 

♦♦♦♦

 

Later that evening:

In a dark room filled with cigarette smoke, a telephone rang sharply. A large and calloused hand lifted the receiver. The voice on the other end was controlled yet cold, with a hint of impatience.

 “I’m listening!” The voice was deep and commanding, resonating with a subtle but unmistakable air of authority.

“Our man has succeeded in obtaining the article.”

“Any problems?”

“No. A couple of uh… set charges removed any evidence.”

“Good. Then get it here as soon as possible, and ensure you stay close to the follow-up investigation. I have already lined up interested buyers and wouldn’t want any fall-out headed our way.”

A throat cleared at the other end.

“We may have an issue, however.” The comment was tinged with reluctance.

“Issue… What damned issue? There better not be a fricking issue!” The coldness in the man’s tone suggested a detachment from empathy or sentiment.

“My man suspects the Professor may have lied about a duplicate.”

“What? I was assured there was only one! If that’s not true, I stand to lose millions… fix it!”

There was a momentary pause, a simmering silence that hinted at a seething anger. Then, with a measured intensity, the voice broke through the tension.

“You better get your ass in gear and find out if that bastard Pole had indeed produced a second copy… If so, you find it and ensure that anyone connected with it or who knows about it is taken care of. Do I make myself clear?”

The receiver clicked, leaving the shadowy figure alone, fingers tapping rhythmically on the arm of his chair.