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Odessa, Russian Empire


The airship landing went smoothly, but then landings usually did. Not like aeroplanes, although there were few enough of those around that not too many people had been in them to attest to the nature of their landings. Herbert had, of course, but he had not been turned off by the less elegent nature of the aeroplane, as many had been. When he flew in one, he imagined machineguns, with incindiary bullets, turning the meek little planes into gnats with fatal stings for the huge hulking zepplin bombers that many of the Great Powers used to augment their armed forces. Everyone agreed that they were supperior to zepplins for scouting, as well... so there was a role for them in military opperations. But Herbert did agree with the masses when it came to comercial air travel. Airship was so much more elegent - no doubt someday there would be aeroplanes large enough to transport people and goods... but, economics was not his field. Perhaps for certain time-sensitive goods and those people in a terrible hurry... but that was just his mind wandering from nervousness at the onset of the realization that he was on an airship that had just landed in the Russian Empire, that he was about to set foot on Russian soil, while conducting a mission that was not exactly likely to win him praise from the Czar if he was caught... a worrying little detail, really.

The passangers stood to depart, and he followed their examples - the Chief Steward was on the intercom, thanking everyone for flying with Imperial Ottoman Airship Lines, speaking first in Turkish then in fluent Russian. That little detail made Herbert smile - he was about to enter a strange and foreign country, one further removed in character from his native England than Germany or Italy or Turkey had been... but the things that the Chief Steward was saying could have been, save the details of language, said while an airship landed in London or Manchester. A little touch that made him want to smile, although that was perhaps more nervousness than anything else. Some things never changed...

The First Class passangers were allowed off of the airship first, of course, although even amoung the First Class passengers there was a touch of gradation, although all had paid the same sums for their tickets. A pair of traveling Russian noblemen pulled rank to be allowed off the airship before anyone else, and Herbert watched them walk cassualy past the other passangers. He considered them - likely, they were just back from sight-seeing in the modern metropolis of Istanbul, bearded, wearing heavy formal robes of the neo-Byzantine style that was supposedly the latest fashion in Russia these days, popularized by the Czar. Their robes were covered in embroidery, violets and purples swirling together, the whole affair heavy with gold thread. All in all, they looked... elegent, was perhaps a good word. They might have looked ridiculous in such clothing, likely he would have looked quite comic if he had tried to wear their style of clothing, but they managed to pull it off, even to look fierce and stylish.

Once the Russians had made a point of their supperiority, the others were allowed off. Most of the passangers were Turkish buissness men, coming to try to make sales, selling all sorts of manufactured goods. Most wore western style clothing, although instead of the wide-brimmed American style hat, or the Bowler or the German tweed, they wore fezes. Many had mustaches, that seemed to be the fashion these days.

Herbert delibrately allowed himself to end up at the back of the crowd as the passangers disembarked, pausing to exchange polite nods with the stewards who lined the corridor to the exit hatch. He, unlike the sales agents, was in no particular hurry. He'd allowed plenty of time to spare when he'd set the time table for this trip. And it wouldn't do to be seen as rushing, would it...

When he finally exited the airship, amoung the last gaggle of First Class passangers, he blinked at the sudden drop in temperature. It was colder outside than he'd thought it would be.

Outside, a squad of bored looking Russian soldiers waited with slung rifles and distant expressions. They were meant to be an intimidating guard, but instead they gave the, correct, impression that they were tired, cold, peasant conscripts waiting for their relief, and doing their level best to avoid finding any trouble.

Past the guards, a bonfire had been lit, and the lines went around it, with people warming their hands on it as they waited for movement to occur... at the end of the lines, four clerks waited, issuing certificates of transit, making notes where appropriate and then stamping and sealing the whole thing. In the Russian Empire, it seemed that there was a correct form for anything and everything, and woe betide the poor fool who got his paperwork out of order...

When it came his turn, he smilled at the grimly uninterested Russian clerk, and handed over his papers - a British passport, plus eight different forms he would have had to have gotten from a Russian embassy... that was, if they had been genuine. They weren't, but they were good fakes, and he doubted anyone but a true expert could tell the difference well enough for it to make a difference. This clerk certainly could not. He looked them over, made a few notes, then applied a pair of ink stamps and attatched a little strip of paper that said the dates his papers were valid between with a wax seal. It seemed a little strange that the Russian government still used seals, but then a lot of the things that the Russian government did seemed strange.

The clerk handed back his packet, and Herbert glanced at it - all in order. It had been a tourist's forms, and he'd been issued an internal travel visa good for moving around more of the city than just the airship field and commercial areas that those on buissness were restricted to. He would be almost as able to travel as an average citizen of any free country, which was more than any Russian peasant could do when it came to that. Which was rather sad, but there was nothing to be done in the short term.

With his packet, he exited through the arrivals hall, past a pair of only slightly more attentive guards, and into Odessa's streets.

Immediatly outside of the airship field, an old Russian woman was selling roast chestnuts from a charcoal fired cast iron brazier, calling out the quality of her goods. Herbert thought about purchasing a package, but then he decided against it. Instead he looked around the immediate vecinity.

There was a row of odd looking buildings across the street, and it took him a moment to figure out just what they were, at which point he smilled. Each building was the club of the buissnessmen and diplomats of a certain nation, and each was built in a traditional architectural style of its home.

At the end of the street, sleighs for rent waited, the drivers obscured in heavy overcoats almost to the point of parody. Although, the weather could get quite unpleasant, and the drivers were exposed to the elements, so perhaps it was understandable that they would dress warmly.

Herbert made for the sleighs, and as he did it began to snow, a light snow, with big flakes that reminded him of how winter snow had seemed when he had been young. He chose one of the nicest looking sleighs, but other than that he chose at random. His driver was attentive, and asked:

"Where to, sir?" in Russian, his lower class accent thick as could be, so thick that it almost made it seem like he was speaking a different language, rather than just Russian with an accent.

Herbert replied:

"Well, I would that I'd like to go around the city - I've got Tourist papers, and would like to see something of Odessa." the driver nodded, coughed flemily, then answered:

"Very well. If you can only show me the appropriate documents, then we will be on our way." Herbert did, and the driver's demenor changed, noticably. He gestured to the back of the sleigh, and explained:

"Very well then, I'll take you around the city, and, I presume, bring you back here to finish." Herbert nodded, replied:

"That is correct." and got into the sleigh, which after a moment began to move, as the driver whipped the horses. He had time. He'd see the city and its sights, and then report to the schedualed meeting place. A good plan, especially since it would not do for Herbert to wait too long in any one place.

The sleigh moved, and little bells hung from the horses harneses began to ring. It was, all in all, a very good begining to his time in Russia. So far at least.

The snow fell more and more heavily over the course of the sleigh ride, which added to the atmosphere. It was all very Russian, as was the city - the American and European fashion for glass austerity had not reached Russia, nor had the only slightly more ornate subtle geometrical decorations of the mis-named "neo-Moorish" style that had been all the rage twenty years ago. Russian architecture remained Russian, and so remained atmospheric, but that tendency towards tradition was indicative of Russia's ideological and cultural isolation, in the same way that the noblemen in traditional robes had been. Russia was... was its own kind of state, and anyone who said otherwise was lying.

The wind chilled him, so he pulled the heavy woolen blanket in the sleigh over his body, grateful for its warmth, wishing that he'd thought to bring a heavier overcoat. The sights of Odessa passed by quickly - the triumphal collumn commemorating Russia's role in the War of the Holy Alliance, with four bronze cannon captured from the French set up around the tall stone monument, each one pointing out in a cardinal direction. It was an imposing piece, and it was a monument with a point to it. Unlike some others...

An example of the later sort was obvious a few moments later - a huge statue, an idealized scene - the reigning Czar, still The New Peter in spite of his age, stood in full military regalia, gesturing to the east, flanked by Cossaks, soldiers and peasants who looked on in idiot devotion - a memorial to the Mongolian War, to Russian colonialism and expansionism in East Asia. It was grander than the monument to the War of the Holy Alliance, although that war had been more devestating, and a time when Russian arms had accomplished far more impressive things.

But that was the way of things, or so it seemed - Russia continually made grander and grander monuments, and those monuments were for less and less important and significant things. Russia had not fought a major war since the Crimean War had ended, and yet continuously more and more was spent on monumental architecture... which, he guessed, was easy since they didn't need to spend so much on winning the war in the first place. Still, the newer monuments seemed almost comic, to someone who had an understanding of the history behind them. The government buildings provided distraction with the details of their facades, as did some of the private homes of the wealthy, with their tendency towards vivid colors and the sort of construction traditionally associated with the Orthodox world. Odessa seemed to be a wonderful, vibrant, city - but, he realized as the sleigh returned him to the starting point of his journey, he had seen the best parts of town, the wealthiest parts and the most cultured. No doubt other areas, the areas where the poor lived, where the common folk lived, would be far less pleasant.

When the sleigh came to a halt, he climbed down from the back without waiting for the driver to come and help him. The driver coughed as he got off of his perch, and came towards Herbert. The driver was smilling, showing poor dental work as he said:

"That will be one hundred and twenty rubles." Herbert smilled back as he reached for his wallet, the ruble was a weak currency, although even then the price he had been offered was at the high end of the reasonable spectrum, he could afoard to pay.

He spoke as he opened his wallet:

"I seem to have Ottoman lira instead of rubles, but I'm sure you would be willing to accept payment in that form..." he let the idea trail off, knowing that any Russian would jump at such a chance - the lira was much stronger than the ruble, almost as strong as the German mark, and was a much more stable currency to boot. The sleigh driver nodded, eagerly, and Herbert counted out twenty lira. The driver took the lira without comment or question, clearly glad to have them. Rather pathetic, really... the official exchange rate was slightly higher than that, but on the Russian Black Market, the Turkish lira exchanged quite well for rubles, or for luxury goods, which made the lira a useful thing to have.

Smilling, Herbert walked towards the national clubs. He would still be a touch early, but that was alright. He found that he was almost looking forward to the meeting he was going to, which was a bit odd... although not too odd, he would be glad to get it over with, and that was a good reason to be happy that something was about to occur.

As soon as he'd gotten out of the sleigh and paid the driver, he made his way directly towards the single largest of the clubs, the Ottoman Empire's club. It had been done up to look like a traditional sample of architecture from the Empire, but not in an inefficient manner - no more than the Italian club or the Spanish club had been, at any rate. All made allowences for just how much colder the climate of Russia was than that of their homeland, and so the Ottoman Empire's club looked more like something to be foung in Ankara, and a particularly heavily sample thereof, than the Arabic architectural style to be found in the southern regions of the Empire, which had erroneously come to be considered "Ottoman" by the popular perception, or even the structures of the Mediterranian coast or Istanbul.

The entryway was largish, although its design too paid respect to the ever-present issue of heating. As Herbert entered, a bored Russian employee asked in bad Turkish if he could take his coat, and he nodded and shrugged it off, absently paying the Russian a five ruble coin. He watched carfully to ensure that the Russian actually put up his coat in the cloakroom instead of making off with it - you always had to watch your possessions with Russians, that was something he'd learned the hard way a good while ago, although he still found that he had a soft spot for the Russian people, with their culture and their traditions and their general way of life - he felt sorry for them, really. A good people, but a terrible government, one that crushed them at every turn. Which made his job here seem like something he might have cause to enjoy, since he would be working towards... but that was a thought for another time. All thoughts not relevant to the present were now thoughts for another time.

He walked through the entryway, into the actual club, and glanced at his surroundings. The entire room had been done up in a manner that someone from Istanbul would find familiar, like one of the cities cafes really, although most such establishments would have windows, or larger windows to be precise. Changes made to accomadate the climate, again.

The club's main room was full of Turks, talking and eating and drinking, although there was no laughter and very little sign of happiness of any sort. Another change from how conditions would be if this was the Ottoman Empire instead of the Russian. In the thriving cities of Anatolia, happiness was in much greater supply than here in Odessa. Here Turkish buissnessmen came to sell what they could and hopefully make a quick profit before returning home, not for enjoyment... because there was little to enjoy in Russia. Little to enjoy, and many things to shake one's head at, or at least to find objectionable. Still, the club's restaurant was doing a brisk enough buissness, there were plenty of Turkish buissnessmen to be found in Odessa, and many seemed eager to find something to remind them of home.

Herbert had only taken a few more steps into the main room when two young men came up to him. One of them asked, in Turkish,

"What are you here for?" and Herbert replied, in the same language:

"To meet a friend. I thought about inviting him to the British club, but decided that I didn't hate him, and so would not subject him to its questionable cuissine." that made them smile, the poor quality of British food was famous even as far from Britain's shores as Odessa, worthy of a joke even in a foreign language. The same young man who'd spoken before spoke again:

"Ah, well in that case we will not detain you any longer." and they went on their way. Herbert noted, with interest, that although they sat at a small table off to a corner, they had chosen one that overlooked both the main entrance and the entry way from the kitchens, and that while they seemed to be talking to one another as they sat, they were both seated so that they could see both entryways. Guards, then? He looked away before they could clearly mark his attention to their placement, and began to walk around the perimiter of the room. He noticed two more young men who seemed to possibly be guards, and that made him a little less nervous about the upcoming affair. His contact seemed prepared. Other than the Russian he'd seen taking coats, the rest of the staff were all Turks - it seemed that the club did not wish to employ spies for the Czar when it did not have to...

Finally, when he judged that the time was near enough to right, he sat down at a little out-of-the-way table, the one he'd been told to sit at, and motioned for the waiter. When he got a waiter over to his table, he asked what there was to recomend, and smilled as he listened, before ordering the lamb, as he'd known he would. The waiter went to bring his order in, and as he waited, another young Turkish man sat down at the other chair at his table.

Herbert took a moment to examine him - a fit man, well muscled, with the look of someone who worked out-of-doors quite often, quite tanned... he had the usual dark hair of a Turk, and a well-developed mustache. On closer examination, he looked older than he had seemed to be at first - perhaps in his late thirties, although you had to look closely to see signs of that. He wore a non-descript western suit and a typical Turkish fez - altogether unremarkable.

Herbert smilled at him, and spoke:

"Hello. I am Herbert Addams, I assume you are who I think you are?" the Turk replied:

"Probably. That depends on who you thought would be meeting you here. I think I can say quite safely that I am... what you wanted to meet here, but as for who I fear I cannoy be certain." Herbert smilled, and responded:

"Clever. I think you know why I am here... what should I call you?" the Turk seemed to think for a fraction of a second, then replied:

"Call me Abdul." Herbert nodded, the name was an appropriate alias, it was the name that one typically associated with the Turks, like Fritz with the Germans or John with the English. He spoke:

"Alright, Abdul. I think we can speak on... certain topics here, although there are other topics we had better leave for later." Abdul nodded, and began to reply, but at that point the waiter returned with two orders of lamb, and Abdul did not speak until the waiter had served them both and departed.

Herbert was the first to speak at that point:

"So, perhaps you have your men in the kitchens?" and Abdul nodded noncommitally, and spoke again:

"I know why you are here, and what you want. My... employer... was very clear about that. He wants me to help you, within reason, and so although I do not truly understand why it is that he has come to that conclusion, I will do my best to help." Herbert nodded, and took a bite of the lamb. It was spicy and tangy, with an interesting non-traditional sauce... he thought the sauce might be lemon-based, but couldn't tell for sure... but he was distracting himself from the issue at hand. He swallowed, and answered the unvoiced question:

"Your employer is telling you to assist me because my interests coincide with those of your employer. That is... well, that is all that I can tell you at this time. Trade secrets, you know." a useful phrase, that last one, covering up with a tradesman's talk things which were better left unsaid. Abdul nodded, understanding,

"Then what is it that I should do?" and Herbert kept smilling, and slipped a small paper envalope across the table, saying as he did:

"You'll understand better when you see the details. For now, though, I'd like it if you could find me a place to stay without... too much trouble with the Russans." Abdul nodded, considering for a moment, then asked:

"What kind of papers do you have?" and Herbert slid his stamped and sealed forgeries across the table, and explained:

"Good ones, but the type is unreliable." Unreliable. Meaning that if someone cared enough to look truly closely, that they'd discover that the papers were fakes, and he would quite likely die...

Abdul looked them over, raised a single eyebrow, then seemed to come to a conclusion:

"Very well. I will do what I can for you." he stood, leaving his lamb untouched, and said:

"Please, come with me." Herbert stood, and followed Abdul towards the kitchens, feeling a bit regretful that he would not have a chance to finish the rather delcious lamb. As they neared the kitchen's entrance to the main dining room, one of the young men that Herbert had identified as a guard began to argue violently with his comrade. They stood, and shouted at each other, made a scene... and while they did, and every single person in the room was looking at what it was that they were doing, Herbert slipped out through the side door, following Abdul.

In the hallway to the kitchen, they passed a waiter who gave Abdul a smile as he carried out a heavy tray of foodstuffs, and then they were in the kitchens, being studiously ignored as they made their way out the delivery exit.

The delivery exit opened into a back-alley, one that ran behind the clubs, between them and the row of houses at their back. At the delivery exit, there was a waiter standing there, smoking a cigarette, looking for all the world as though he was on a break, nothing more. As Abdul passed the waiter, Herbert saw him discretely pass Abdul a small metal object... a pistol. Something to notice, and remember...

They went down the alley-way, past the American club and the British club, then past the French and Austro-Hungian clubs, then exchanging polite nods with a trio of waiters genuinely on break behind the German club... they reached an alley way that lead out to the front of row of clubs, seperating the German club from the Japanese club, an unofficial heirarchy... the Russian government had been the one to choose each club's placement, and they had made the order a sign of their favor at the time when they were built, so that the German club's location next to the alley was an insult... the alley seperated the clubs of important countries, favored countries... and on the other side were nations less well thought of. The Taipings were so ill-thought-of that they didn't even have a club, but that wasn't really important. What was important was what was happening in the here and the now.

At the end of the alley, in front of the Japanese club, a truck was waiting, a truck of the sort that would have raised no real interest in any European city, they were common enough, and while in Russia modern equippment was rare enough to be noticed, they were still of a sort that would not draw... excessive notice. A good choice, really. Abdul knew what he was doing...

As if responding to Herbert thinking about him, Abdul explained:

"Get into the truck. It will take you to somewhere where you can wait. I will meet you there." Herbert nodded, and climbed in. The driver started the truck as Abdul waved at him, and started to drive off.

As he went on his way, Herbert watched Abdul. And Abdul watched him. That was a dangerous man, this Abdul, this fellow. A man who knew what was what... a man to watch. But that was all for later. For the moment, there was nothing to do but wait. Herbert laid down in the bed of the truck, using a half-empty sack of potatoes for a pillow, and tried to ignore the shaking and jarring of the truck's movement across the poorly maintained roads, while whistfully remembering how it had felt in First Class on the Ottoman airship. Oh, how conditions had changed...

Outskirts of Odessa, Russian Empire

Herbert squirmed as the truck made its way over the rough roads. He could tell that they were in the countryside at this point, but not particularly well where they actually were within that broad category.

They'd made it through a check-point a while ago, boredom-dulled Russian soldiers barely checking the driver's papers before sending them on their way. That seemed to be the theme in most of Russia - the security forces had a mentality that if they didn't catch a criminal or agent, someone else would, so why bother going the extra mile, or even the extra foot.

When the truck finally stopped, they must have traveled for at least... at least several hours. Herbert had a watch, but he hadn't checked the time when they set out, so couldn't tell the time it had taken exactly. The driver climbed down and circled back to the rear of the truck before waving to Herbert that he should come down, which he was more than glad to do, the truck ride had been uncomfortable in the extreme.

When he climbed down, he examined his surroundings - it was indeed the country side, but that was expected, after all... they were in the middle of what looked to be a large rural estate, such as one that some wealthy Russian nobleman might have to go to when the city began to bore him, and he began to desire a chance to hunt, or play the traditional role that had been restored to him, of managing his serfs.

The driver was a Turk, a young man, not much past his twenties, with a fashionable mustache and youthful features, who wore laborer's clothing with a cheap dark red fez. He smiled, an easy smile, one that reminded Herbert of a young boy who'd just managed to get away with something. Herbert returned the smile - he was glad that they'd managed it, since if they hadn't, he would be dead or soon to die.

The driver motioned towards the house, and Herbert followed his gesture - three men were coming down from the house, all three wore Turkish clothes. The weather was cold enough that he wished he'd been able to get his coat back from the Russian at the coat check, back at the Ottoman Empire's club. But that would have meant that the Russians would have had another chance at him... it wasn't like there had been anything important in the coat.

The men who'd come from the house had reached him, and they made their greetings. One of them was a little older than the other two, although all three were older than the driver. They all three were dressed as any prosperous businessman from the Empire might have dressed, standard western-style suit, standard fez... the older one had a bit of grey in his hair, but still looked fit.

Herbert was just about to ask them what he should do when the older man spoke, in Turkish:

"Alright, call me Rauf. So... you're here, and Abdul says we should help you, and so we will. This is a country estate that, as far as the Russian government knows, is owned by a certain Turkish company that does quite a lot of trading along the Russian Black Sea coast, in all sorts of goods, sewing machines and the like... and they do, and they do own this house. But they work for... us, and so we use this house when we need to. The staff is mostly Turkish, although as always they find ways of forcing us to take in Russian spies. You'll come with us, and we'll wait for Abdul, to see what he has to say." Herbert nodded, and asked:

"Alright. How do I explain my presence to the Russian spies?" to which Rauf answered, with a smile and a chuckle:

"You don't. They're supposed to be servants, it's normal for servants to not be told a damn thing here in Russia. We bring you in through the front door, have them set an extra place at dinner, and then while they're serving, I mention how glad I am that Abdul's good friend finally took up his invitation to come out here and go deer hunting, and that Abdul should be arriving tomorrow." Herbert nodded, a good plan, although...

"You're allowed to hunt deer? I thought only the nobility in Russia could go after big game." Rauf nodded, and explained:

"When we bought the house up, we also bought up the rights to hunt in this area. It's useful, it lets us keep a few guns around legally, and gives us an explanation for going off alone away from the Russians." Herbert considered that idea...

"A good concept. A better explanation for going off with bags and packs than saying that you feel like going for a walk." Rauf smiled at that, then motioned towards the house:

"I think it's time for you to come in with us. You don't have a coat, which is hard to explain in this weather, so..." he nodded to one of the younger men who'd come with him, and that man reluctantly gave up his coat. "Uzay here is about the right size. He'll go off into the orchard for a little, then make his way back in through the window." Herbert nodded, and took the heavy black coat, glad for its warmth. It was certainly an improvement over not having a coat, in this sort of weather in Russia.

The man called Uzay walked off, with a wave back as he left, and then Rauf and the other young man were leading him up the path into the house.

As they came closer, Herbert amused himself by picking out the little details he could see that showed planning. A little tower room on the roof that had windows all around, and could function as a look-out post as well as a place to try to get some sun in the winter months... how the house itself dominated its surroundings, except for the orchard, which obscured the rear of the house from observation from the road... little things like that. They must have put a lot of effort into this place...

In the entry hall, a Russian servant smiled insincerely and took his coat, while Rauf made a bored-sounding comment on how Uzay must be a bit of a claustrophobe, what with his constant walks.

Once they were through, Rauf told a Turkish servant to show him a room he would stay in, then looked over his shoulder, and said something about how the bags would be arriving shortly. The Russian nodded, and went towards the main door, to wait for the bags.

Rauf made his apologies, and went off to see to something or other, while the servant led him to a well-appointed guest room. Once they'd gotten there, the servant told him that dinner would be at six, then left.

When he was alone, Herbert examined his room. It was done in the Russian style for a well-off individual - that was to say, it was luxurious. There was a thick emerald carpet, heavy green silk brocade curtains, green patterned wall paper... the furniture looked comfortable and elegant, lots of cushions, all of it done in green, with patterns stitched in with lighter green thread. Herbert smiled, and said aloud:

"I assume this is the green room." whatever name the room had, it put even the conditions in First Class on Imperial Ottoman Airship Lines to shame... but then, this was Russia, where it seemed that the wealthy and the nobility had not heard of such a word as excess, or that if they had, then they saw it as something to be sought out and pursued, not avoided. The Ottomans might have been like that at one point, at least if the popular impression of their history had anything to do with reality, but the austerity of the Constitutional era had done away with such extravagance.

As Herbert put Uzay's coat down on one of the chairs and lay down on the huge bed with its heavy goose down blankets and furs, he thought about the conditions he'd seen in Odessa, during the tour he'd taken. He thought about how the serfs lived. How many people lived in misery to support a ruling caste that lived like this?

He felt a moment of guilt at his enjoyment of the luxurious conditions, but he put that feeling aside a moment later. He was here, and he would not accomplish anything by squirming with guilt. He kicked off his shoes, and checked the ornate clock on one of the shelves, it was gilded and covered with baroque ornamentation, more a decoration than a functional device... it was four o'clock. Plenty of time for a rest... he lay back and closed his eyes. He would have enough to do soon enough.

Dinner had been a subdued affair, with the Russian servants listening intently in. It had been impossible to discuss anything of consequence, it was a certainty that the spies were fluent in Turkish, as well as, almost certainly English and German. So, the meal had been a waste of time as far as the mission was concerned... but, culinary it had been anything but.

He had been expecting to have to suffer through a Russian meal, the unsubtle rich foods of the nobility or the modified Georgian "peasant" cuisine that was somehow considered the height of good taste among the Russian elite. He'd been pleasantly surprised at the menu he'd discovered when dinner time came along. A wonderful feast, Turkish food with the hint of Arabic and Persian influence he'd come to expect, signs of the influence the Empire's subjects were having, and of the Empire's cosmopolitan nature. A fine meal... he'd mentioned, over dessert and excellent coffee, savoring a particularly excellent pastry, how he'd expected a Russian cook, and that had made Rauf laugh, explaining:

"We have to eat it here too, you know! After all, who would choose Russian tripe over fine Turkish cuisine?" Herbert had to agree with that assessment - he himself was developing a taste for the foods of the Ottoman Empire, finding something in their spicier dishes that was lacking in the dull foods of northern Europe or Russia, and then their desserts... he loved them, so much better than plum pudding.

He'd said as much a few moments later, and they'd all laughed with him - British food's low quality seemed to be a joke for any time or place, as far as he could tell. It was at that point that Rauf had made the joke:

"Ah, we get along so well! We've known each other for such a short time, and already we are on a first name basis!" They'd laughed at that little joke, and made little jokes and bits of small talk, and then, unfortunately, the meal had had to come to an end.

Herbert had made his own way to the room he was staying in, waving goodbye to the Turks, wishing them a good night and receiving their good will in return. As he was about to leave, Rauf had commented again:

"It seems that you've enjoyed your time with us, but I'm sure you're eager to be on your way. Abdul will be here tomorrow, I assure you." and that was that, time for bed...

Before sleeping, Herbert took the time to go through his clothing pockets, counting out the important items. The forged papers, a wallet containing a few hundred Ottoman lira and almost a thousand rubles. His watch. A few other things, that he was careful about checking, so as not to disturb or to make obvious.

Once that was done, and out of the way, he made himself ready for bed. As he lay under the covers, he thought about what Rauf had said. About how he had seemed to enjoy himself. It was true, he had. It was always good to have a moment of rest between actions... and this was the only rest he was likely to get while in Russia.

Sighing, he remembered the things he'd been doing in Germany and North Africa before coming here... and then, he resolved to think of something more positive. He remembered Istanbul, the city that positively gleamed with potential and promise. A fine city, in a fine nation... a nation that was Russia's polar opposite, as much as America or Britain... more so than Germany, with its love for order and authority.

Herbert Addams drifted off into a peaceful sleep, thinking just as he faded away into the welcome dark that it would be a long time before he would feel this secure and rested again. It was hard to, when you were about to begin a secret operation... once you actually began it, then you were hopeless, you'd stay up late and shiver in fright... he'd been on enough to know, after all. And, the stakes for this one were particularly high...

Herbert slept well, and dreamed only of pleasant things - a rare state of affairs that left him feeling particularly well rested when he awoke the next day. The house seemed to have some sort of internal heating, which had overnight been turned up to so high a level that it was uncomfortable to dress in the sort of clothes one would normally wear at this time of year in Russia. Herbert had been anticipating changing back into his old clothes, but was pleasantly surprised to discover that Rauf had been good to his words of cover - a pair of suitcases had been put into his room, and the clothing inside of them fit him perfectly well. He was impressed - the Turks must have had a terribly efficient system in place if they'd been able to secure him a full set of luggage so quickly.

After taking the time to wash and shave quite thoroughly in the attached wash room, Herbert changed into durable looking weather-proof hunting clothes, transferring his papers and other important possessions into its pockets as he did. Since the heating was turned up so high, he took the hunting coat with him slung over his arm, instead of wearing it.

When he arrived in the dinning room, he found that the Turks had almost finished their breakfast, a light meal of fruit and warm breads, but one that was served with more of the excellent Turkish coffee he'd come to appreciate. As he sat and selected a roll while a servant poured his first cup, he noticed someone entering - Abdul, smiling and sitting down across the table from him, asking the servant in Russian, as if to remind Herbert that they were spies, for a cup of his own. The servants, who were decent waiters even if they were spies, complied, and soon enough Herbert found himself chatting with Abdul over breakfast as the rest of the Turks left to begin their day.

He asked Abdul, as he speared a piece of melon, how his trip had been, and Abdul replied:

"Well, it was good enough. I had some business to finish in Odessa, but now it's taken care of, and I feel that I am now free to engage you here, perhaps for a hunting trip of the sort I've no doubt was mentioned as one of this estate's attractions. One has so little opportunity to enjoy oneself when one is engaged in the sort of business we are in, after all." Herbert took a moment to admire Abdul's speech patterns - he'd shifted them subtly from the patterns Herbert had observed in the Ottoman club in Odessa, from the tones that implied a direct and no-nonsense personality to one that implied quite the opposite, along with a touch of education and polish that had been lacking when first they had spoken. Herbert raised his appraisal of the Turk quite a bit as they spoke to one another about the little matters that would give the Russian spies something to report. This Abdul was a fine fellow, and a skilled agent. As they stood to leave and servants cleared away their dishes, Herbert took a moment to feel glad that they were on the same side. It would be a difficult thing to find himself on the opposite side in any matter from the Turks, and especially this particular Turk.

After breakfast was completed, they made their way to the entry hall, where Turkish servants gave them packs, guns and ammunition pouches. Herbert casually examined the weapons that he and Abdul had received - a Mauser variant... Turkish if he was not mistaken. A fine weapon, magazine-fed bolt-action. The Mauser had become the basis for an entire generation of weapons throughout the world, from Europe and the Ottoman Empire to the Americas to Japan and the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom. As a hunting weapon, it was perhaps a bit of overkill, but not so much as to raise suspicions and attract notice. A good choice, in other words.

As they set out, he and Abdul continued to chat about meaningless things, pointless words for any pursuer. It was only when they were a good ways away from the house that their talk became serious. Abdul was the first to speak in seriousness:

"I think we're far enough away from the house at this point. I want to know, now, what it is that you are planning." Herbert nodded, considered this request for a moment, and then...

"Alright. I think you know about the Taipings?" Abdul nodded - the activities of the quasi-Christian theocracy that was the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom were common knowledge.

"Good. You've probably heard, then, about how there is increasing tension between the Russians and their Taiping neighbors to the east." a nod... he continued:

"That increasing tension is intentional. You know that I am an American..." Abdul nodded, commenting:

"Yes, you are an American... which makes you confusing. You are quite a bit of an Englishman, to the extent that one can almost forget your origins... but you are an American, and therefore a mercenary - America has said often enough that it has no interests outside of North America and the Caribbean that it can be assumed that you are working for someone other than your home country. Which makes your loyalty dubious..." Herbert laughed that comment off, and explained:

"Yes, I am an American; I must say I am a bit surprised that you knew." Abdul shrugged:

"I have my sources, my little tricks." Herbert considered that for a moment, then:

"Well, I accept that. But, back to my point. I am currently employed by a nation which will remain nameless for now... that has good relations with your Empire. That nation is also involved in diplomatic dealings with the Taipings, who are, as I was saying, currently becoming more and more hostile towards Russia." Abdul frowned:

"Although I can see why it would be to the advantage of any number of nations if the Russians and the Taipings tore into one another, I cannot see how such an... interaction would benefit either of the two states involved. Both have enough to worry about as is." Herbert nodded, casually accepting Abdul's point, but then explained:

"True... but you are not considering one detail. Who else might get involved if Russia and the Taipings went at it?" Abdul thought for a moment...

"Germany or Japan? Either of the two stands to gain from such a war." Herbert responded quietly:

"Again, true... and again you do not grasp fully the issue. Japan is not going to involve itself. Germany is, a little after the fighting starts. The player you failed to consider is... your homeland. The Ottoman Empire will join in with a surprise attack against Russian assets in the Black Sea, with surprise landings and so on." Abdul seemed a bit taken back:

"I accept that I was sure that something was going to happen for a while now... but this? It seems a bit unrealistic... after all, to carry this out, we would need to totally dominate the Black Sea... what about the Russian fleet, or their airship bombing squadrons in Sevastopol?" Herbert smiled:

"The Russian fleet in the Black Sea is almost comically outdated. Your navy could smash it with relative ease. The airship bombing squadrons, with fighters to protect them... they could be a problem." A problem... he knew what Abdul was thinking of, the Japanese bombing airships holding positions over the Russian Pacific fleet in the brutal and short Russo-Japanese War, dropping incendiaries and conventional bombs like rain onto the Russian ships, sinking them like nothing, with light losses even though they'd used hydrogen to fill their gas bags, unlike the modern helium that every major power used. Sure, anti-airship technology had improved since then, but still...

Herbert smiled, and explained:

"Well, why else did you think I was sent into Russia?" Abdul seemed startled:

"You're going to the Crimea, to Sevastopol, to destroy a squadron of bombing airships?" Herbert smiled:

"Yes." the reply seemed only to deepen Abdul's shock:

"You're mad - it can't be done. Sevastopol is a fortress, the Black Sea fleet's base of operations, plus one of the major Russian bases to defend their Black Sea coast. There's no way you could legitimately find a way into the city, sneaking in would be almost impossible... and then you'd have to penetrate the airship yards, where you'd be surrounded by thousands of Russians... and then what? How would you destroy them if you even got there?" Herbert was smiling broadly at this point, enjoying it:

"I have my ways. After all, the airships are kept loaded full of bombs at all times that there exists a threat to Russia - the Taipings will have already attacked by the time I get there. So they'll have done me the great favor of allowing me not to bother bringing the necessary explosives along." he gave a short laugh, then added: "This will be easy - I've faced far worse odds than these before." Abdul shook his head:

"I still think you're mad." Herbert laughed:

"I can understand that. Just be ready to admit that you were wrong." he started walking again, then turned back and suggested:

"Tell you what - let's make a bet. If I pull it off, then when we meet in Ottoman-occupied Odessa, you'll owe me dinner. If not, then I'll be dead, so you'll have a hard time collecting on your winnings." Abdul chuckled, then fell in beside him as they walked into the woods:

"I like the way you think, Herbert. So, how are we going to get to the Crimea?" taking the Turk's decision to accompany him in his stride, after all Abdul seemed more than competent, he explained:

"We're going to go to the coast, where at a certain point there will be a little fishing boat waiting for us." Abdul shrugged:

"Well, you know the way. Lead on." and Herbert did, into Russia, and into danger...

Herbert smiled as he spotted the wooden fishing boat at anchor just off-shore. He pointed it out to Abdul, who raised an eye brow at his assumption that it was the one they were looking for - after all, it seemed identical to any number of Russian fishing boats. Herbert explained:

"No sea gulls. If it were a legitimate fishing ship, gulls would be swarming it to get at the fish guts. So, no fish. Which, considering its current distance from any licensed fishing port, would seem to indicate that there is more to it than meets the eye." Abdul nodded, not saying anything, and then they were both walking down to the shore. Herbert waved to get the boat's attention, knowing that there would be men on board watching the shore. He was proved right a few moments later, when the boat turned in towards shore. It seemed to be a newer model, as it had a diesel motor, as opposed to relying on sails. In Russia, few of the fishing vessels were that new, at least in the Black Sea. With so many other countries so close by, many of which would seem like paradise compared to life in Russia for the commoners that crewed them, desertion of crews was always a problem. One that the Russian government had largely solved by holding the village hostage to the fishermen's good behavior, and through other means - agents on the boats, for one thing. All of which added up to the Russian government's fishing operations spending so much on security that their actual fishing operations were terribly inefficient... a lot of Russia was like that, when you got down to it.

When the boat was close enough to shore, Herbert and Abdul waded out towards it, and climbed up into it over the nets, hard work with their heavy packs, ammunition and rifles to consider.

Once on board, Herbert examined the men - there was a four man crew, two or three of whom looked to be Poles or possibly Baltic Prussians, while the last, who seemed to be in charge, looked quite Slavic. All four wore clothing that would not seem out of the ordinary for Russian fishermen - all looked Russian enough to pass a cursory examination, especially at a distance. As he was observing them, the apparent leader spoke, incongruously in English:

"You must be Herbert Addams." a nod, Herbert was about to speak when he continued, "We were told to expect one man." Herbert smiled:

"Well, you got two. Abdul here," he gestured at the Turk, "decided to come along to see what it was that we were going to do. I told him he was welcome." The Slav shrugged, and responded:

"Well, whatever. We have our instructions, and one more man along shouldn't interfere too much with the plan." Herbert was beginning to place the Slav - perhaps the descendant of immigrants to the United States, a fellow countryman then. He was just about to ask about the crew when Abdul beat him to it:

"You know our names. I think it would only be fair for us to know yours." The Slav shrugged again - that seemed to be his distinguishing movement - and answered, gesturing to each man in turn:

"Alright. My men here... there's Alexander, Karl, Filip and..." he paused for a moment, smiled, and finished, pointing at chest, "you can call me Ivan." Herbert nodded, smiling, and internally wondering just why it was that he seemed to be the only man present whose last name was widely known. Perhaps he aught to start going simply by Herbert...

His rumination was interrupted by Ivan grunting, and explaining, this time in German:

"We've been waiting for a while, so lunch is ready in the galley. Its fried fish and black bread with sauerkraut - you can have some if you want." Herbert nodded non-commit ally, and gestured towards the hatch, absent-mindedly speaking in German:

"Abdul, perhaps we can go bellow, and talk for a little while about just what it is that we are going to do." Abdul nodded, responding in the same language:

"I'd appreciate that. Answers should be good, even if," here he slipped back into Turkish, "the meal at hand seems less than appealing."

The galley turned out to be a fairly cramped little room bellow decks, one of two such rooms, the other being a little sleeping area. Fishing boats like this were not built for luxury, the hold was much larger. Thinking about the hold, Herbert discreetly opened an examination hatch to see what it was that the hold was being used for... a little fish as a cover, underneath... wooden crates. Unmarked wooden crates. He opened one - rifles, German Mausers, that looked factory-fresh, that had been wrapped in grease paper. He mentally calculated the contents of the little boat... quite a lot of weaponry. Perfect.

Abdul had been looking over his shoulder, and whistled when he saw the rifles. A deliberate choice of action - an American response, intended to facilitate communication. Intended to ensure that the point got across. Which it did, of course.

Herbert smiled as he closed the crate, and then the hatch. He was still smiling as he turned around and gestured towards the table:

"Let's eat. Even if this is not the fine fare I've enjoyed in the Ottoman club in Odessa or the country house, then at least I think the conversation might prove more productive, with no need to confuse spies." Abdul nodded, and took a seat. As Herbert sat across from him, and helped himself to some black bread, cutting off a slice and buttering it, he began to explain:

"What do you know about the Russian communists?" Abdul shrugged:

"A movement banned by the Russian government. Rebels. According to our sources, they are one of the more popular secret societies. But what of it?" Herbert smiled:

"We have... quite a few rifles and plenty of ammunition in the hold of this little ship." Abdul seemed to understand:

"So you are going to supply the communists with weapons? So that they will help you? There are communists inside Sevastopol?" Herbert nodded, as he spread a bit of sauerkraut on the buttered black bread, something he'd seen in Munich, and found worth recreating:

"Exactly. You've got the idea. There are communists in Sevastopol, who I know how to meet. I will get the guns to them... through outside contacts. And then... I just have to persuade them to revolt at the right moment. Which should be easy - communist rebels are famous for their love of violence. Once they rise up... I have good sources that say that they have sympathizers among the enlisted men of the airship bombing squadron, as well as the navy." Abdul smiled, understanding the plan:

"So Sevastopol rebels and we destroy the airships in the confusion?" Herbert nodded, smiling broadly, grinning to be precise:

"Exactly once more. Even if we fail, Sevastopol will be destabilized severely... things should be easy for your countrymen." Abdul began to grin too:

"Herbert, I like how you think... this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship." and Herbert smiled:

"It could indeed."