His turbid tirade of wondering took up all the time and space for him to reach the border of civilization, the dim lighting of the once grand Naplesstation began to reach his eyes and he switched off his own light so as not to draw attention. Cautiously walking closer and closer, he came up to the hastily prepared barricade on the edge of the platform. A low rumbling echoed along the filthy marble floor as the inhabitants of the station chatted away and conducted business with each other. There were no guards, no one had been expecting him, and nobody seemed to care that he had arrived either. He stopped at the barricade made of pallet wood and barbed wire and crouched down; he had never even unstrapped his weapon from his rucksack and was unsure if he should do so now. Marco’ words about walking in there in the name of the Order rang in his head, and he suddenly understood that he was a representative of the force and any actions he undertook would affect people’s perception of the Order as a whole. She was right; they couldn’t just run in with weapons and full armor and demand to be let outside. And then wouldn’t the residents or other such inhabitants wonder where they had come from or why they were really there? Their open intrusion could also draw unwanted attention to the corridors they had taken to get here, and the door to the Subway-2 was still unlocked.
Sergio strained his ears to listen, as Marco had directed; he could only make out some vague shapes and whispers down the far end of the platform, and most of the voices were coming from the main hall. He looked around the upper halves of the walls and the ceiling to try and determine where Marco might be in the air ducts, but couldn’t figure out in his mind how they may have twisted and turned behind the once-decorative façade of the station walls. The arches were wide and airy, and the ceiling was molded into multiple domes with large ovals cut out. There were no grates visible on any part of it. Maybe the ducts only led to the outer sides of the platforms above the tracks? Then which side could she be on?
He began to dare himself to venture on further, having seen no people nearby. The area was far too dark to describe any certain shapes and he took comfort in the darkness, knowing that nobody would be able to make out his shape either. The voices began to draw him in, and he crept closer to them, trying to figure out who they belonged to and what their purpose was.
“Ten minutes left, boys, get your fill while you can!” A raspy voice echoed faintly along the floor and bounced up into his ears, muffled through his helmet.
“I’m not looking forward to going up there, but I guess Ivashov’s guys did a bang-up job scouting everything out.” Another deep voice drawled out slowly as if the person was drunk.
Ivashov, Sergio confirmed the name in his head, nodding to himself as he understood it must be the very same Ivashov that Marco and Vera had mentioned being a stalker platoon leader. So then had the Nationalists already taken over Verona and the surface above it? His curiosity led him forward; there was a ramshackle small room built at this end of the main hall, and more voices tumbled out from the open doorway. His stomach rolled uncomfortably as he deduced that the tavern was built right up against the hermetic doors – the exit. But what about at the other end of the station?
Before he could answer his own question, a group of men in stark black uniforms and rounded helmets trundled out of the room, staggering a bit as they playfully jostled with each other and finished their drinks.
“Come on you assholes, Boris is waiting to let us out.” Spoke a squat soldier as he puffed on the end of a cigarette.
“Yeah and we better not be late, Sokolov has been on a real warpath since they gave him his rank back.” Another man whined apprehensively. Sergio felt his heart jumpstart into a new rhythm prematurely; it was a very common name and had to be a coincidence.
“Andrei Sokolov?” The third soldier, tall and lanky, said with surprise, “Wasn’t he a defector? Why would they let him back in? I figured it’d be a bullet to the head for him and that bitch that went with him.”
Sergio froze his already hesitant advance, taking the gruffly spat out sentence into his brain and dissecting its every syllable. The circumstance was far too similar to the minute bits he knew about Marco’ escape from Realm to be coincidence any longer. These soldiers were speaking of the very same Andrei Sokolov who had awoken him at Avtozavod and then caused the whole unfortunate scene in Madrid. But hadn’t Sokolov gotten back to Avtozavodskaya? Khan said he had travelled there with him from Dobrynin, hadn’t he? But Dobrynin was on the Circle line and that spy named Sturmann had been at Paveletskaya earlier that same day. Why would Sokolov have chosen to go that way if he already knew that – if he was being hunted the same as Marco? And his rank, it sounded as if he had been some kind of mid-ranking officer, a sergeant maybe? Or whatever the equivalent German-named rank was for that. No one from Roten Spaten had ever filled him in on those details. He glanced around again with furtive agitation for where the air ducts might be, could Marco be hearing all of this too?
“Who fuckin’ knows why? Führer decided on the matter himself, so I heard. I guess they had dirt on him the same as he knew a bunch of sensitive information. State secrets, you know. Either way I have to deal with him getting on my ass again if you cretins don’t get a move on.” The stunted squad leader grumbled loudly as he stomped out his cigarette.
Sergio allowed them to gain some distance so that he could dart across the main hall to the other side behind them, perhaps he could get a better look at the men from this angle, make out any of their ranks or see what they were carrying. They looked to be just a normal squad of infantry, no heavy equipment, no radio, no explosives. Nothing special at all, so what could be going on up there on the surface?
As the end of the hall neared, Sergio hung three archways back to watch the exit procedure. As he had overheard, there was a man waiting at the hermetic lock. Just one? Sergio strained his eyes to see into the dark blurs of the side-halls as there was a fire glowing in the middle of the vestibule. There didn’t seem to be anyone else around, where had all the residents gone? He looked around behind him uncomfortably, where was Marco? Had she not been able to find a way through? If she hadn’t gotten close enough to have heard anything, then he would have to inform her of Sokolov’s betrayal himself and the very idea soured on his tongue. How would she react to that kind of news?
“Here you are Boris, compliments of Hauptman Smirnov.” The leader of the group spoke in a low but jovial voice as the group of Nationalists stopped at the end of the hall in a semicircle around the solitary sentry.
Sergio carefully watched the exchange; some kind of fabric pouch was handed off to a scruffy man dressed in layers of brown and blue rags. This man Boris must either be a guard or a bandit, Sergio couldn’t tell which, and he couldn’t tell what was being gifted to him in that pouch either. Some form of payment in any case because the man smiled maliciously and turned to operate the hand crank of the heavy iron gate which curtained off the escalators.