I walk down the hallway. My boots give of muffled noises on the this carpet with it's ridiculoussly old fashioned golden braids. I wear the black boots of a russian commander. No immitation. The real thing. Just to mention. Let's just say he won't need them no more anyway. As well as the rest of his uniform. The great grandparents on my mothers side of the family had been ukrainians, so thanks to them, even my looks match the role I'm playing right know.

The whole building is kept very clean, but somehow everything seemes a little old fashioned and worn out. One just has to look at the details to realize it. And to do that is part of my job. Just look at these outlets at the wall. They're old and worn out. Easily from the seventies, if not even older. It shows you how this nation's mind really thinks, how it works.

'Don't spend money on something if it's not necessary'. It's understandable. They have known poverty for centuries. 'Mother russia' could be a rich country for it's people. It's got plenty of worthy ressources under it's surface. If it wouldn't be for the frozen thick icy earth of siberia.

Well, to sum it up the ruskies are used to know life the hard way... and how to drown it in vodka.

Like as to prove what I just thought, the two guards hastly hide two glasses and a bottle in their desks when I enter the room. Hurriedly they stand up and salute to my rank.

When you just go a little of the tracks russia's real nature appears, you know. The computer there on the tbale must be from the early nineties. Yap. 'Windows 95' the screensaver says. And for the rest of the equipment and furniture... I'd bet my ass Stalin himself could have had seen this scenery once as it still is right now. I mean, for christ's sake. They even still got that old Lenin-frame on the wall. At least I guess it's him. Hard to tell through the thick crust of dust.

"Good day, comrade commander!"

I just nod autoritarian. I don't greet. I know russian officers don't do that.

"I have orders from the government. Let me access the safe."

I'm kind of proud of my accentless russian pronounciation. There are only few people in service who are able to speak that language the way I do. I know every word, every phrase. I'm perfect on it.

Without any further words I hand over my faked papers. Excellent work made by experts of the CIA. I know they have several former russians there which worked for the Kremlin. Poor people are easy to recruit. As long as the russians keep on paying their people with pennies, I guess we never will have too much of a problem with learning what they're doing.

I had studied the forms and knew they would tell them that I only had to access a file containing only relatively harmless content compared to the standards of this 'high security'-sector.

The guard in front of me has a good long look at the forms while his comrade still keeps a close eye on me. I know he wouldn't hesitate to draw his weapon if necessary. If there's one thing I've had learned over the years it's that russians never get to drunk to be suspicious... and violent. Only the years of practice of my job give me the ability to look like everything is ok and normal. I don't even sweat. But inside my mind I say the lord's prayer again and again. Like I always do. It has become a ritual to me. In the Pentagon they say most of us agents are in some way superstitious. And I guess it's true.

"Thank you, comrade commander." The russian soldier looks up from the forms. closing the file and handing it back to me. He nods at his companion and they walk to the thick metall door of the old safe.

Actually it's more like the passage to a large room were they keep countless classified files and materials. I've seen the blueprints. Walls from made of two metres of concrete, steel and led. As the large metall door opens I know I enter a room that might even survive a nuclear strike. Most of the giant shelves are made of metall, the older ones of solid wood. They must have seen ages. I can tell that. Not just because of the old fashioned style and the rust. They obviously haven't been in the mood to let somebody dust this place for at least a decade.

They two soldiers are walking now behind me in a respectful distance. They follow me to the shelf where the files are which I pretend to be needing. I pull the overlarge drawer out and try to not caugh in the cloud of dust which appears along with it.

"Excellent. This is it." I fake as if the file slips of my hands. Papers fly through the air. The two russians instictively get to the ground, trying to collect them together again for me, the high ranked officer in front of them. - Some seconds later the papers on the floor get soaked with their blood. I somehow feel sorry for them, just a little. They were just doing their duty. But at least I made a quick, painless job. I put my sidearm back into it's holster. Thanks to the walls here noone outside could have even possibly heard a thing.

With quick steps I walk to the shelve which I am actually looking for. It's one of the newer ones and I exactly know were it is. Our informant was very precise. May god bless him for that. It makes my job a lot easier right now.

'423, 424... 425. There we go.'

The filefolder says "Venera" in cyrillic letters. - I grin in satisfaction. It's the one I'm looking for, they one they sent me to get.

Carefully I seal the safe's door again. Our informant said the alarm would go off if it stays opened over more then fifteen minutes. Noone will know that I was here. Unleast till they find those two unlucky bastards in there. And their shift ends in four hours according to the knowledge the agency has given me.

It's really a glorious day. Weatherwise. The bright sun shine's through a crystal clear, cloudless sky spending it's warmth. When you think of russia, you might have the usual stereotypes in mind: Cold and constantly covered in snow. But I can tell you in summer Moscow is one nice place to be at. It's not expensive and if you stay at the crowded areas, you ain't got a problem. The russians are very eager to make their capital look like a nice place. Yeah, of course it isn't in fact. There's, theft, murder and drug's are used and sold all over the place. But all of that just takes place in the alleys, the dark side of the city. Noone cares and if you have enough guts to walk into that dark areas, you can be sure you'll sooner or later will stumble over a dead body. All that worst of mankind's behaviour goes on in this very city. And nobody seems to give a crap about it. Moscow is no less then a madgone slaughterhouse, where only the strong and ruthless survive.

The ground rule seems to be "Don't do it were any foreigners could see it". If you do that you got the police all over your ass within a second, beating or even shooting (if necessary... or not) the crap out of you. Vladimir doesn't like bad press. Everyone knows that around here. And those who didn't helped the others to learn it... and are not amongst them anymore.

"Your coffee latte, sir." the waiter says in russian. Nice place in the middle of moscow. Great ambiente, fabulous sight. All the old buildings around, the cobblestone-street which the endless stream of 1980ie's cars rumble over by. And of course the russian people. You couldn't imitate the look of their faces. That serious look which is telling of their hard life. Yes, they can be cruel like noone else. But if you earn their trust they are the best friends one could have in the world.

Like with Yuri here. I've met him first when I just had arrived at the city five weeks ago. Really nice fellow, same age as me. I told him I was an ukranian businessman which was here 'cause of the job. I have a couple of false identities I have taught myself. Every information is there. Family, job, social behavior. I've perfected my acting over the years. It doesn't even take much effort to me anymore to slip into them.

"Spassiva, Yuri." Discretly I hand him a lavish tip along with a friendly handshake.

I take a sip of my cup. Very good coffee. Did you know that the russians make exceptionally good coffee? Yes, their machines are old usually. But maybe that's just what it is all about. Or they just know how to do it. I don't really care actually. But they do make good coffee. Just believe me that.

My eyes widen when I hear that clic behind me. I know it well, have heard it like a thousand times before. A gun's tap being tightened. I jump like a spring, spinning around a hundretandeighty degrees. With my arm I hit Yuri's, wiping the gun out of his hand. It hits the floor, slides under another table in front of the restaurant. Before the russian knows what's happening my left arm's reaching around him, dragging him closely towardst myself.

-Pfhew! Pfhew!-

Slowly I let the dead body slide down into the chair, resting it's head on it's crossed arms on the table like Yuri would be just taking a nap. Did anybody realize what just happened? It all has just taken seconds... Well, at least everybody acts normal. So who cares? Only one young guy shortly turnes around, taking a quick look at me. Then he just turns back to his girl which is with him on the table and simply goes on talking. - You gotta love the russian mentality.

But anyway. It's 'bout time for me to get outta here.
I've got blood on my shirt, on my jacket. I hastly put my gun back into the holster which I wear under my armpit.

Time to vanish into the alleys. - Where nobody cares...