Moscow, FSB Headquarters — Late Evening
The city outside was drowning in snow. How ever it was a different snow. The kind that made Russians want to denounce their identities yet clung desperately to it. One could see people looking like puffed rag dolls making their way slowly from one end of a street to another. Inside a glass-walled office of the Federal Security Service, two high-ranking officers sat facing each other, a bottle of Stolichnaya between them.
Colonel Anton Reznikov, heavy-eyed and sharp-jawed, leaned back in his chair. He was a buffalo of a man with a torso that screamed everything masculine. "You know what this is, right? The Americans—" he paused, pouring himself another drink, "—they've been waiting for a reason to bite us. Just one little spark."
Across from him, General Yevgeny Morosov gave a tired chuckle. "And a missing Iranian scientist in a jet with our tail number makes a fine excuse. What's next, they'll say we stole the moon?" He lifted his glass "To America's stupidity".
They clinked glasses and drank. It was one of those pleasures they still allowed themselves in a time of crisis like this. The TV on the wall played muted international news showing endless replays of the missile strike on Venezuela's coast. At first, neither man paid much attention. They'd seen it a dozen times already. But then a red banner flashed across the screen:
- BREAKING: UNITED NATIONS SUMMONS RUSSIA AND INDIA FOR URGENT ENQUIRY ON MISSILE INCIDENT AND SCIENTIST ABDUCTION.
Both men froze mid-drink. The anchor's voice carried a strained politeness, the kind used when talking about countries that could turn the world to ash over and over again.
Yevgeny lowered his glass slowly. "They actually did it."
Anton barked a laugh that didn't sound amused. "A UN hearing? Over a missile? Those Americans have lost their damn minds."
Before either could say another word, both of their phones started ringing—different tunes, same urgency. Anton's face went pale as he checked the caller ID.
"Morosov… it's him."
Yevgeny nodded grimly. "Mine too. Headquarters wants us now."
Outside, the wind howled against the window as they grabbed their coats. The night suddenly felt heavier and colder ironically for two men who have spent a better part of their lifes navigating the dark. Neither of them spoke as they stepped out of the office, but both knew exactly where they were heading — an emergency joint meeting with Spetsgruppa Vityazi, Moscow's equivalent of America's Shadow Psalms.
And when the Russians called them in, it meant one thing:
Espionage.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
New Delhi — Prime Minister's Office — Early Morning
The Prime Minister's face was as red as a tomato cultivated from the northern region of Nigeria. His voice was reaching record decibels for a man who didn't like shouting like him.
"You tell me an Indian missile just left on its own and hit a US sub off Venezuela," he yelled. "And you expect me to believe it was an accident?"
The Defence Secretary—Rao, grey at the temples, military in posture—stood at attention and tried the quick, practiced defense. "Sir, sir—protocols failed. We saw a control loop activate, but—"
"But what, Rao?" the Prime Minister cut in angrily. He was on the brink of exhausting his tenor, never in his dreams did he think this type of catastrophe would befall him. "You run one of the most disciplined commands in the world. Your people are one of the best-trained. How does a weapon get that precise without human input?"
Rao ran a hand over his face. Even he had found the situation almost impossible to be true. They weren't in any serious conflict with an internal terrorist organization and any global government would think twice before pulling such a stunt which left him puzzled on the person behind the manipulated release."We're tracing logs. We're pulling feeds. If it was external control, it would look like a hijack. But every system showed internal authority. We don't have evidence of external override yet."
The Prime Minister's jaw tightened. Even beyond his anger he was a man of reason "Someone behind the scenes did something. Whoever did this wanted it to look like our mistake. That makes it dangerous. That makes it political."
Rao opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. The Prime Minister stared out the window at the city waking below. He thought of the thousands of foreign personnel at joint facilities, of alliances and cover stories. He thought of the public, the press, the ugly headlines.
"And the Americans?" he asked quietly.
"They're furious," Rao said. "Publicly they're asking for restraint, but privately—"
"They should have called," the Prime Minister snapped. "We host their troops. We host their hardware. You don't go burning bridges like this without saying one word. At least give us face. At least give us a call before the headlines say shit about us"
Rao swallowed. It was rare to see the prime minister curse in English while using an Indian dialect. He knew the White House had a habit of moving faster than protocol. He knew how bad this looked.
The Prime Minister did not wait for Rao to finish. He turned back to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and tapped a secure line. "Get me the National Security Advisor," he said. "And then get me someone who knows how to handle things that can't be cleared through the line."
Rao blinked. "Sir?"
The Prime Minister's eyes were flat. "Call the Kali Network. Quiet channel only. I am a million percent sure the Americans have utilized the Shadow Psalms and other governments will do same as nobody wants to appear before the world as chasing a code for global dominance."
Rao felt the room shift. "You want to bring those ghosts in?"
"Not ghosts," the Prime Minister said. "Operators. Men who know how to pull a thread without unraveling the whole sweater. If someone framed us, I want them found—and I want our reply to be precise."
Rao nodded, the hardness returning to his face. He made the calls. The Prime Minister watched the city through the glass, thinking of a valid excuse to give at the UN. He knew it was futile. But it was the best thing to do for the mean time before those overbearing Americans present their requests.