Albedo Castle

Cover Design Alexandra Undead

Cover Illustration The Tower of Babel, Anton Joseph von Prenner, After Pieter Bruegel the Elder The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Creative Commons Zero (CC0)

Translator (from Russian) Alexandra Undead

© Stella Fracta, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0067-2763-2

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

1. Fifteen Minutes

When the front door of the apartment suddenly swung open, Alexandra was at the kitchen bar, her mouth full, leaning over a plastic container of Caesar salad. Richard crossed the threshold, stomping noisily with his boots, she, wide-eyed, stared at him – sullen, with a bag and a backpack. Before making a muffled sound of joyful astonishment, she tried to chew her food.

“Mmm!” she managed, throwing the fork into the container, reaching forward.

Rounding the table, she dashed towards him into the entrance hall, from the other side of the enormous kitchen living room combo.

Richard put his bag on the floor and instinctually moved towards her, embraced her. The smell of salad dressing mingled with the sweet scent of perfume, he nuzzled her hair and closed his eyes.

He didn’t warn her – and himself couldn’t believe that everything had turned out like this. He had to come to her, to Moscow, interrupting the mission, only his partner and the chiefs of the Circus – MI6 – were aware of his movements.

The dangerous trick that Richard dared to try was a relationship. In his line of work, it’s impossible to be together when desired, to be genuine and candid, impossible to be oneself thoroughly … He was trying to learn to separate his personal life and his work – but, on occasion, struggled.

They had not seen each other since March, and now it was mid-September … They met a year ago; a year ago, his alchemical path had started, the path of the Poet, the journey to himself – to finally understand who he is – behind all the masks and fictitious identities he had to act out.

Richard and Alexandra – a spy and a writer of detective novels – had already experienced incredible adventures together1 – the kind that even MI6 agents seldom do. Now another test lay ahead – and Alexandra had no idea what awaited her.

“Pack your things, we’re leaving,” Richard said into the top of her head in English, still pressing her close.

She raised her head, she was looking up at him – her smile sad and ironic.

“Just like that?” she replied, in mock displeasure. “No foreplay?”

Richard sighed, his thin lips folded into a smile.

“Yes.”

She’s not surprised – nothing can surprise her. They deserved each other – each with secrets of their own and aces up the sleeves.

“Okay.”

Alexandra kept holding him around the waist, her hands clasped around and over his leather jacket, on his back, under the backpack. He missed this tight grasp, the way she usually put her hands under his jacket if it was unzipped.

“I missed you,” Richard added.

“Me too. A lot.” She was looking at him closely, so was he. “You’re running hot.”

“Well, I did miss you.”

“I’m serious. Take your backpack off.”

Alexandra took a step back, letting go, she still wasn’t taking her dark eyes off him, Richard let out a disappointed huff – and followed her command, put the things down on the floor.

As he removed his backpack, he frowned.

“And the jacket.”

“No time.”

She raised an eyebrow, and Richard spread his arms.

“You have fifteen minutes to pack your suitcase.”

“Richard!”

He laughed, finally entered the living room, sat down on the corner of the sofa, facing her. Alexandra stood opposite him, her hands on her hips, waiting for him to explain the rush.

Richard remained silent.

“Fifteen minutes?!” she exclaimed, bewildered. “I just came home, I haven’t even had breakfa-lunch-inner yet … You hungry?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s necessary. I’ll explain everything later. Please, do as I say.”

“The fucking Circus!”

“It’s not the Circus,” Richard replied grimly.

“The fucking Bulls!”

“Not the Bulls, either.”

“I’ll kill them all!” Alexandra lamented. “I’ve got just the serial killer in my new book, he eats human hearts2 – I’ll feed them to him!”

Richard couldn’t help smiling. He loved it when she cursed – with her low, hoarse voice, grotesquely, she played with intonations and sound accents. He learned to understand her sarcasm, her odd jokes, the loud, threatening, utterly serious declarations didn’t frighten him – because he knew that even though she was capable of murder, she wouldn’t do it.

Alexandra’s books are convincing – because the reality that she makes is indistinguishable from fiction. That’s the craft of a Poet and an alchemist.

“You can take the salad with you.”

“Very funny.”

She headed to the bedroom, stomping noisily on purpose, she rustled in the walk-in closet as she pulled out her mint suitcase – that, for some unknown reason, always turned out to be extremely heavy. Richard listened to the sounds from the adjoining room, sitting still, fatigue threatened to crush him to the ground like a concrete slab.

He’ll rest when they are safe.

“And where are we going?”

Richard startled, Alexandra was peeking out of the bedroom, the things were thrown all around the floor.

“Lofoten,” he said.

Clearly, she had been expecting something else.

“Lofoten?! But it’s like another planet there, it’s cold! I’ll—” she started pacing in a circle, like a tiger in a cage, flailing her hands. “Need to get warm clothing somewhere!”

Richard was giggling, she froze, her gaze burrowing into him.

“Jokes, clownery, Richard North?”

“Yes, I was joking.”

Alexandra kicked the lid of the suitcase, huffing theatrically. She understood that it was his way of explaining his desire to escape – somewhere far away from humans, civilization, intelligence services, and riddles.

“We’re flying to Japan,” Richard said.

“Even worse!”

His cheeks aching from laughter, he covered his face with his hand, it seemed this was the first time in all these months that he relaxed. He missed the way she couldn’t stand surprises – and when something didn’t go according to her plan.

“Fine,” Alexandra mumbled, dragging the open suitcase on the floor, going into the living room. “Japan it is. For long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wonderful, like nobody’s business. Is it because you have the Grand Prix this weekend?”

Richard nodded.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take your jacket off while I’m packing?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Salad?”

“No.”

“Water?”

“No, thank you.”

“Richard, is it really that urgent?”

He remembered her anecdote, oft quoted by press – about how an MI6 agent barged into her apartment and she demanded he take his clothes off – to make sure he’s unarmed … He hadn’t even kissed her yet – but while he’s sitting at a distance, nothing will tempt him.

Alexandra threw careful glances his way occasionally, she was coiling wires, packed the laptop, the tablet, tubes of makeup into her suitcase. The red notebook, the phone, and passport she placed on the table – in plain sight, so she wouldn’t forget.

When Richard put the backpack on, he winced.

The wheels of the mint suitcase noisily ran across the asphalt in the inner courtyard of the apartment block, they were headed to the arch that led to the outside of the building. Richard took the keys out of the pocket, a white off-roader beeped briefly, Alexandra squinted.

He counted seconds until her question.

“If the car’s here, why did you take the backpack and the bag with you up to the apartment?”

Richard opened the trunk.

“I picked them up on the way.”

“On the way – at my building?”

The suitcase and the red notebook followed Richard’s things into the trunk. She’s always perceptive, she’s impossible to fool – but he wasn’t trying to.

“Yes,” he turned and met her eyes. “I stored them in an apartment in the adjacent section, just in case, I hoped I’d never have to use them.”

“Just in case …” Alexandra drawled. “Oh, that mysterious stranger, Richard North.”

When Richard was on a mission of getting to know the writer Alexandra Stern, pen name Stella Fracta, he was playing the part of a little-known British actor Richard North from the theater troupe The Old Vic … The Circus arranged a fictitious biography for him, an apartment in Battersea in London and a spare one to watch the target – in Moscow. Alexandra treated him like a piece of furniture at first – despite all his tricks; he was just supposed to become her lover and infiltrate the Poets’ society, her alchemical circle which MI6 was so interested in. When he finally earned her trust, his world turned upside down.

He was in love before he knew it. Before he knew it, he was an alchemist – and became entangled in mystification, a story of heroism and treason.

Richard slapped down the trunk door and headed for the driver’s seat.

Alexandra sat next to him in front, she put her seatbelt on and turned to look back – at the child safety seat.

“I borrowed this car,” Richard rushed to explain as he started the engine.

“I don’t mind it if you have kids,” she chuckled. “I’m sure they’re as beautiful as you.”

He shook his head and started to drive. Jealousy and Alexandra were like oil and water …

It frightened him to think that he could have children – that he has no idea about.

2. Agent

They rounded the Sheremetyevo Airport complex, stopped at the open parking lot next to Terminal A. The evening sky was gray and dull, the sun, veiled with clouds, hadn’t set yet, but was doing little good. Richard left the car, Alexandra slipped out after him, they stopped in front of the trunk.

“Wait.”

Before Richard could touch the handle of the trunk, Alexandra took his hand and stepped closer, put her hands on Richard’s shoulders. He was like a hot iron to a touch, he tried to seem lively, but for the entire one and a half hour drive the unnatural blush on his pale, stubbled cheeks has been betraying him.

She pulled him closer by the neck, put her cool fingers onto his cheekbones, he leaned down and closed his eyes. The kiss was cautious at first, then he involuntarily opened his mouth, holding her by the head, drinking her in greedily, turning her back towards the trunk, pushing in.

There wasn’t enough air, his lips were boiling, Richard came to his senses and let her go, his breathing heavy.

Alexandra unzipped his leather jacket with one motion, under it, on the left side of his stomach, a dark bloody stain spread across the jumper.

“You idiot,” she growled. “You thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”

She smelled the fresh wound while still at home – and watched him all along the drive. He didn’t let her take the wheel.

Richard released a breath through his nose, hastily tucking the jacket’s flaps. He didn’t answer.

“Are you going to board the plane like this?”

“What choice do I have?”

“You need a doctor.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“I hope that this scratch already got cleaned and stitched, and you’re not going to pass out in the next few minutes.”

“There’ll be a doctor on the plane,” replied Richard after a pause, and added, “I’m not lying.”

He had already told her that they were expected at the business aviation center at the airport, for the private flight to Tokyo, and that they would then go to a hotel and stay there indefinitely. Richard decided to take Alexandra with him and continue the current mission with the Bulls, travelling in such a way that she would always be close by – because it was unsafe to leave her in Moscow. It took effort for him to convince the Circus to help him – by appealing to the risk of the Poets operation failing.

He didn’t give the chiefs the details – just informed them that the identity of the actor Richard North that was dating the Russian writer Stella Fracta was compromised, and that’s why it was better for Alexandra to be under his protection.

Though, when they were together, it was him who felt protected by her …

Alexandra walked demonstratively ahead, rolling her suitcase, clutching the red notebook under her arm as they crossed the parking lot and moved towards the terminal building, though she was still unable to take the heavy bag from him. Richard was following her and looking around – afraid that his guard was failing him.

His head was starting to spin, a mucky nausea was crawling up his throat.

They were greeted at the check-in counter and informed that the plane is ready for takeoff and waiting for them. Soon they were going up to the second floor – to the restaurant with a panoramic view of the runway – to meet Richard’s people, among who, as he claimed, was a doctor. There were no visitors at the restaurant save for two guests at one of the tables, with unfinished and, undoubtedly, not their first cups of coffee. The young dark-haired man jumped up and squinted short-sightedly when he saw the approaching figures, his companion remained seated in the armchair, leaning on the table tiredly – he was Richard’s age, but nearly all his hair had gone gray.

“Richard!” the dark-haired man called out in English. “You said you’re going to pick up equipment!”

“I did,” Richard replied loudly.

The gray-haired man turned his head, he stood, too.

“That’s not equipment.”

The dark-haired one pointed at Alexandra, Alexandra curved her lips into an ironic smile.

“Agent Alexandra, agent Dario, agent Adam,” Richard introduced.

“Why couldn’t you have said that you’re going to bring company?”

“Don’t ask unnecessary questions, Dario,” Richard cut off the dark-haired one. “We can go.”

“We’ve met before,” Dario went on, not taking his eyes off Alexandra, reaching out, “I just don’t remember where and when.”

“That’s fine. It was most likely at the Circus.”

Alexandra shook hands with Dario and Adam.

“You said there’s a doctor here.”

“I’m the doctor,” Adam spoke.

“He’s playing alive,” Alexandra motioned at Richard with her chin. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s a madman,” said the doctor, not smiling. “I’ll examine him when we’re on the plane.”

“You can talk later,” Richard grumbled, turning on his heels. “Let’s go.”

“I know I’ve seen you somewhere,” Dario wouldn’t let it go.

“Take the bags away from Richard.”

“Don’t listen to her.”

“Richard, drop the bags.”

“Speaking as the doctor, don’t listen to Richard.”

“Doctor, you’re on my team.”

“Doctor, it’s your first time seeing her.”

“I remember!”

Dario abruptly froze in the passageway to the escalator leading down, Alexandra nearly bumped into him with her suitcase. It took time for Richard to look back, Adam, who was walking behind, slowed his step, observing them with wary curiosity.

“Cats don’t drink wine3!” Dario beamed. “You’re a writer, you’re the author of my favorite books!”

Alexandra opened her mouth in astonishment, Dario went on.

“Commissioner – Chief Inspector – Clément is my favorite detective!4 He got a promotion,” he explained to the clueless Adam and Richard as if they were supposed to know who Commissioner Clément was, “when he caught D’Angelo.”

Richard rolled his eyes, Adam blinked in confusion.

“For God’s sake, Dario, not you too!” Richard hissed, pointing towards the platform where the airport escort was waiting for them. “You’ll talk later.”

“Incredible!” Dario exclaimed, ignoring his panting partner. “The author, the creator of my hero-detective, is my colleague! My hero-agent Richard is my colleague!”

“Richard is your hero?”

“He caught the mole last year – of course he is!”

“How long have you been working, Dario?” Alexandra asked, bewildered. “Your reactions are so genuine.”

Dario hesitated.

“A year. Less. Since March.”

“The Bulls are your first mission?”

“Yeah.”

“And you have time to read books?”

“Of course, I love reading, I always dreamed of becoming a detective – like the young Dupin, the noir Marlowe, the eccentric Wolfe … But I ended up a spy, like Smiley.”

“Not bad either.”

“Yeah.”

When Richard first saw Dario Fisher and learned that he’s going to be his partner at the mission with the Bulls, he thought that Dario was a complete idiot. Fisher was full of idealistic urges, he blushed and paled easily, people like him are an open book. What kind of spy is that? Richard bristled. He’s incapable of hiding his emotions, he’ll give himself away in an instant!

Later he understood that he was wrong. When necessary, Dario controlled himself and executed instructions with great precision, he had yet to let Richard down even once – and trusted him unconditionally, regardless of what Richard said: Dario believed in him as a mentor even more than Richard believed in himself.

Dario’s initiative was the downside. It was him who brought doctor Adam Bradshaw along – who now, obedient and dejected, was following them to the boarding ramp, quietly listening to Dario and Alexandra’s chatter.

Richard couldn’t think of anything better than to say that Alexandra was an agent of the Circus. Dario was not aware of the Poets operation, he was only briefed on his own mission …

As soon as they were in the cabin, having crossed a hundred yards of the open platform of the airside, Richard sunk into the seat, stretching his long legs out under the table. He felt sick.

Adam, meanwhile, went to the restroom to wash his hands.

Alexandra helped Richard out of his jacket, Dario took the single seat near the opposite wall, he was looking curiously at the red notebook that Alexandra had thrown on the table. To Richard’s relief, he was quiet and then looked out of the window to watch the airport equipment moving around in the distance.

When the steward arrived to announce the preparations for takeoff and inquire about meal preferences, Richard, now shirtless, was grimacing in pain, the doctor didn’t even turn – he was busy treating the wound on Richard’s left hypochondrium, it was small in diameter, but deep.

The stitches hadn’t loosened, but there was excessive bleeding and inflammation around the orifice.

“Caesar salad, cherry juice,” Alexandra told the steward. “Adam, can he have chocolate ice cream?”

Richard laughed quietly, Adam nodded.

“And chocolate ice cream. Adam, have you been working for the Circus long?”

The doctor looked up at Alexandra, his face, with a barely visible web of mimic lines around the eyes, was tan and flushed, as if he had recently returned from vacation. He gave a strange, sad smile.

“I don’t work for the Circus, actually. I was abducted at Singapore airport and forced onto this plane to Moscow. And then I was held in the local airport – so I would help the injured Richard during your flight.”

Alexandra stared at Adam, he was dead serious. Tense silence hung.

“You took the Hippocratic Oath, you know!” Dario blurted out.

“To get onto a private MI6 plane at gunpoint,” Adam smirked, fixing the dressing in place with steady movements.

“You’re serving a noble cause!”

“For the British government!”

“For the entire world!”

“But I’ll get the noose or the firing squad for espionage!”

“Come on, not the noose!”

“What do you think they do to American citizens who work with foreign spies?”

“You’re unemployed anyway!”

“But I was planning to come back!”

“It was you who said that you can’t go back to the Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore!”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Be quiet.”

Richard closed his eyes tiredly, their argument was splitting his head. Alexandra covered him with a blanket, he was starting to shiver, the goddamn wound wasn’t mortal – but very unpleasant.

They were taking off – and he realized that he really wants to just drift off to sleep. As much as he missed chocolate ice cream, rest was the priority.

He has eleven hours to get back in shape until Tokyo – because he had no idea what would happen next.

3. A Dead Man

Two days earlier, in the morning, at Singapore Changi Airport there was a commotion – and not just because the legendary racing team Rote Stier, Formula One champions, were leaving the country after the Grand Prix at the Marina Bay Street Circuit.

Pilots, engineers, mechanics, managers, and other members of the star-studded team were crossing the bustling hall, heading towards the check-in counter. They drew attention not only of the fans shouting farewell congratulations, but of the other passengers – because the orderly crowd dressed in distinctive brand attire moved like a single organism.

Mechanic Richard Bateman, broad-shouldered and tall – over six feet – walked in step with everyone, his blue eyes were fixed on the floor, a baseball cap on his head, a brand jacket hugging his torso, a bag in his hands. He exchanged sparse conversation with colleagues, the morning flight after a busy weekend – with only one Monday off that everyone usually spent catching up with sleep – was the usual routine. He had shaved the day before and now looked younger, the skin of his cheeks and chin had time to grow unaccustomed to the razor and was now sore.

At the turn, in the passageway between halls, the crowd split – some of the Bulls fell behind, stretching into a column as they passed the rows of waiting chairs. There was another crowd approaching – faces that jumbled into a kaleidoscope from months of travel, Richard was maneuvering through bodies automatically, hardly taking his eyes off the glistening floor, the heels and backs of his colleagues were his navigation cues.

Suddenly, someone from the oncoming crowd moved in his direction, Richard instantly recoiled, his body was faster than his mind – but not only did the stranger not change trajectory, he collided with him, grabbing Richard’s right shoulder with one arm and with the other, pressing against his left side.

Richard extended his left arm, bent at the elbow, to push the stranger – in the same jacket and baseball cap as him – away, but it didn’t save him from the blade hitting his left hypochondrium. Richard instantly felt the knife pierce his flesh – and it was a mix of sudden pain and astonishment – as if he was an air balloon, burst with a needle.

The stranger had fair eyebrows and light brown eyes, he was average height, with an unremarkable face, he smelled of sweat and laundry detergent.

“You’re a dead man, Richard North,” he said, his voice toneless, he spoke English, but with an Eastern European accent.

Only a couple of seconds had passed – but they felt like a free-fall eternity. A moment later, the stranger disappeared into the crowd, Richard was staring after him, his heart pounded loudly in his throat, blood roared in his ears, counterpointing the cacophony of the airport sounds.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” someone called out, the voice was right next to his ear, but Richard didn’t turn.

His left side was pulsating oddly, as if hot water was pouring onto it from a faucet – or as if he himself was a faucet. Richard finally realized what had happened. He tried to press down on the wound, but the hall began to sway before his eyes, he couldn’t move his hand, he didn’t even have the strength to hold it at waist level.

“Richard!”

In the back of his mind, Richard knew he was wounded, but it was as if he, from outside his body, watched his undercover colleague Dario Fisher, a radio engineer in the Rote Stier team, call to him – being kneeled in the hall of the Singapore airport – and how Fisher fails to hold him – keeling over – upright.