Another lungful of cold air forced him to splutter out a cough, jogging his memory back to thoughts of the previous night. The mysterious man had thrown something down onto the small, round, sticky table. Instantly he recognised it for what it was, despite things being a little... foggy. It was his marker. The marker for the loan that he had with The Establishment. His signature stood out like fireworks in the night sky, that and the amount... 1.5 million Russian Roubles, more than he could save and pay back in many, many years. Although he was scared, something deep down within him squeaked,
'This is your chance; they want something.'
How right that little voice had been, and thinking about things now, how tempting a swift death of his own choosing seemed, right at this very moment.
Puffing away like he'd run a marathon, he was sure he could smell a tiny hint of vodka from the sweat dripping off his forehead and running down the side of his face. Thinking about cursing, nowhere within him could he find the extra effort or breath required to do so. As he wandered past Kazan Cathedral, he could see the mighty towers of the Kremlin, his eventual destination, dominating the skyline to the west.
With his marker on the table in front of him, and very large, vicious men either side, he sat, waiting for whatever hand fate had dealt him. Death wouldn't have been too much of a surprise, having spent the last week or so contemplating just that, acknowledging that the gambling debt he'd racked up, along with the interest The Establishment were adding on, meant a lifetime of servitude and corruption, something that he'd gone to great lengths to avoid in the past. And now, all of that had been for nothing. As he sat, petrified, the man in the shadows explained how not only could he make his gambling debt disappear, but he could also potentially earn the same amount again, just for making one simple... 'delivery'. The word itself was innocent enough, but the way it was said was something straight out of a Godfather movie. They worded it like they were asking him, like he had a choice, but he was under no illusions. He WOULD be doing it. Nodding, he agreed to what they wanted, just hoping to leave and get away from that place. However... it wasn't that simple. He was to do it the following day, with only a few hours' notice... now, in fact. That's what he was on his way to do... on his way to work... to make the 'delivery'.
He worked inside the Kremlin as a hardware technician, building computers from their base components. Hard drives, power supplies, graphics cards, cases, fans, monitors... these were all the tools of his trade; his machines were used by anyone and everyone in the top echelons of the Russian government. And here he was, caught up in God only knows what. The backpack he wore rubbed against his shoulders on the outside of his thick, dark jacket, as he approached the very ordinary looking door, an entrance that was deserted, mainly due to the ungodly early hour of the morning. Only a short time ago he'd been drinking that fine vodka and admiring scantily clad girls... now he was about to commit trea... He was too scared to even think it. Now, he was hoping to make a delivery, one that would, one way or another, shape his future.
Tucked safely away inside his backpack were half a dozen hard drives and two external desktop drives, all shaped like books, one of which was not entirely as it seemed. This one was the delivery he'd been tasked to make. Taken back to his flat, given the hard drive and very specific instructions about what to do with it, he'd sobered up relatively quickly, and after showering had decided in the hour that he'd been left alone by the very scary men that he would, against their specific instructions... try and take a peek inside it. Using his highly crafted tools and knowhow, he'd managed to remove a tiny panel. What he'd glimpsed within left him in no doubt as to just how much trouble he was in. A digital display of red numbers counting down could just be viewed behind the circuit boards and wiring, with the numbers not seeming to change according to any measurement of time that he was familiar with. Quickly, he put the panel back in place with the utmost care, loading it, with all the other items, carefully into his backpack. It wasn't unusual for him to take work home, and the backpack he wore had been specifically designed for the military elite to keep things dry and in particular... warm. As he passed through a very basic security scan (due to the delicate nature of the mechanical and electrical items that he carried) his mind sensed that he was almost the perfect delivery boy for whoever the shadowy man and his colleagues were. Unless anyone actually bothered to disassemble all his equipment, there wasn't a chance in hell that they'd know there was anything odd about it. That didn't stop him from feeling as nervous as a turkey in December.
After mere moments, he'd passed through all the usual security checks and probably, knowing his employers, a few more unusual ones along the way. The guards had given him a nudge and a wink, smelling the potent vodka on his breath and from his perspiration. They joked at how much trouble he'd be in coming in still drunk and hung over. Just nodding, he played along... it didn't take much, as it was all true. But his focus remained solely on his delivery. Marching down the short corridor, all the time unzipping his black jacket, he was aware that he was sweating even more than before.
'The heating in this building is ridiculous,' he thought to himself. It was always full on, even during the hottest part of summer. Having unzipped his jacket, he undid the top two buttons of his shirt and opted for the staircase instead of the lift as a means to get to his workshop, despite the fact that his body would rather not make the effort, his reasoning being that he was less likely to bump into anyone else in the staircase, although there were few people about at this time of day; because of the task before him, he felt safer not having contact with anyone at all.
Strolling purposefully into the empty workshop, he quickly checked to make sure it was clear and that all the other technicians who he shared it with were nursing their hangovers somewhere else and would not be in for some time yet.
'Still,' he thought, 'I need to get to work straight away. Better safe than sorry.'
Placing his backpack gently on the floor beside his desk, he took off his coat and threw it over the back of his swivel chair. Undoing the many layers of the backpack took about two minutes. (It had been designed to keep out cold, moisture and it would seem... dumb humans as well.) Eventually he retrieved the hard drive and, picking up his small toolbox off the desk, he headed out of the door and into the component warehouse. The place was HUGE with racks and shelving over thirty feet high in some places, disappearing off into the distance for as far as the eye could see. Components for computers, printers, faxes, microfiche readers and photocopiers were all there... piled high... quite literally. Now though, he wasn't hunting for any of these. His target was an old computer right at the back of the underground warehouse. It was in the darkest, dingiest corner, and was said that nobody used it at all, but if they did, it was only if they had to and even then, it was for the shortest time possible. Stories and rumours passed around the departments all the time about what lay on the other side of the wall that the computer sat against. Some said it was weapons, some said experiments were being conducted using strange and wonderful chemicals. Occasional reports of desperate screams and out of this world sounds came back from those few people who used the terminal. This was not a place for the faint hearted. After a journey of only a few seconds short of seven minutes (he'd timed it and counted every second in his head), he'd managed to avoid everyone. Recognising footsteps a couple of times, he'd changed his route to avoid contact with anyone, which at this quiet time in the shift cycle hadn't been too difficult, especially as the whole place was like one giant maze. Reaching his destination, he quietly placed his toolbox on the floor and flicked open the clips, the sound of a lone forklift truck far away in the distance for company.