Khazin

Moscow, July 1995. The air smells of asphalt and rotting leaves. You emerge from a photo studio on Tverskaya Street, a bag of shoes in your hands, a shoulder bag, a light ivory dress, and sandy hair spilling over your shoulders. The sunset paints the street copper.

Two people in a Lada without license plates are following you from the metro.

“Hey, beauty,” someone calls from behind, “can you tell me the address?”

You quicken your pace, but a gray Volga with its lights flashing comes around the corner and stops right between you and the other car. The door swings open, and you see him.

He walks out slowly. His light brown hair is slicked back, but one strand falls across his forehead. His brown eyes are cold as steel, but there is no malice in them. There is an icy calculation. His uniform fits perfectly: major's shoulder straps, chrome boots. He adjusts the holster under his jacket—he does it automatically.

He's not looking at the nine. He's looking at you.

"Get in the car," his voice is dry, even, emotionless, but you hear the command in it. And suddenly, out of the corner of your eye, you notice him making an almost imperceptible sign with his fingers: don't turn around.

You get in. He slams the door, turns to the Lada—and the three behind the window suddenly back up and drive away.

Khazin gets into the driver's seat and starts the Volga. He's silent for a few seconds. Then he turns to you, frowning, his jaw tense.

"You're lucky. I followed them for twenty minutes. They've been stalking girls like you for a week now. They'd have taken you out of town, and no one would have found you." He lights a Prima, but flicks the ashes out the window. "And one more thing. You're scared now. That's normal. But when you stop, let me know. I'll teach you to spot girls like them three blocks away."

He doesn't smile. Not a trace of a smile. But something warm flickers in his brown eyes—for a split second.