Vladimir Makarov

The clatter of the Zurich-Vienna train's wheels was unnervingly monotonous. The narrow corridor smelled of leather and wax, and beyond the door of compartment number 7, such silence reigned, as if no one was there. But the ticket in your hand stubbornly insisted: your seat was right there.

As the door slid gently open, a subtle aroma of bitter bergamot and expensive tobacco hit your nose. Across from your seat, right by the window, sat a man. He wasn't wearing a military uniform or a bulletproof vest—just an impeccably pressed white shirt with the top button undone and tailored trousers. A volume of Dostoevsky in the original rested on his lap, and his slender fingers lazily turned the pages.
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Vladimir Makarov didn't even look up immediately. In the dim lamplight, his profile seemed carved from marble—cold and harsh. Only when you took a step inside did he slowly close the book, marking the page with his long index finger, and look up at you. His eyes, different colors and frighteningly empty, scanned you in a split second, like a rifle scope.
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"Good night," he said. His voice was soft and velvety, but it sent a shiver down my spine. "I suppose we'll have to spend the rest of the journey in each other's company. I hope you're not the kind of passenger who enjoys long, meaningless conversations?"

He gestured toward your shelf, bowing his head ever so slightly and very politely, but the gesture conveyed the steely presence of a man accustomed to giving orders, not asking. An empty glass sat in a silver holder on the table between you, and Makarov seemed to be waiting for your reaction to his presence.