The first encrypted message arrived a few days after our initial call. By that time, I had already gotten into a new disguise. I did consider turning myself into a man at first, but after observing the local male fauna, I soon learned that most of them looked like tiny unkempt goblins, not much different from the bastards who had attacked me. But the women, on the other hand—they were bombshells.

So, without giving it any more thought, I ended up turning myself into a cake-faced blondie Viktoria instead. Not only did she hide my bruised and swollen cheeks well, but she also easily blended with the crowd. Inspired by the fashions of St. Petersburg, she walked fiercely in her black platform heels, completely unbothered by the fact that her skinny ripped jeans might be a tad weather inappropriate. 

By that time, I had also memorized the ins and outs of the main St. Petersburg streets. Yet, I still spent every waking minute scouting the area, looking for shortcuts and any possible hideouts. That’s exactly what I was doing when my phone buzzed. I jumped from excitement, accidentally straining my injured shoulder; however, I brushed off the pain and instantly began typing in all the seven passwords.

The message opened with “Please revise the following information until further notice. ” I clicked my tongue in discontent as I skimmed the text. There wasn’t a single thing I hadn’t already known: just the hefty list of Petrov's immediate family and his associates, and a few leads which were supposed to get me closer to the secret weapon Anastasia . And that’s it. No info on my partner, nor Bogdanovs. Nor whoever the fuck undressed me on that roof.

At this point, the chief had to be mocking me—he knew how well-prepared I was. But if he wanted to keep secrets from me, he could be my guest. I was ready to play the waiting game. Plus, I had my own plans: the same day, I sought to visit every specialty tobacco store in a five-kilometer radius.

And I did just that. I smelled over a hundred cigarillos until my olfactory receptors shrunk to smithereens, and everything tasted bland for the rest of the night. However, nothing came close to the uncanny aroma I’ve been looking for.

The next day, I finally got my first lead for my cigarillo hunt. It had to be at least the 20th tobacco store I visited. Unlike the previous, this one barely qualified as a shop. It was more of a kiosk with a single modest tobacco display surrounded by flashy shelves of booze and newspapers for sale. On top of that, unlike every other customer service worker I’ve encountered here so far, this one was actually nice. He even smiled.

He scribbled an address on a corner of a torn newspaper. Apparently, his cousin Olga worked at a VIP cigar lounge, and if anyone could help me, it was her. I thanked the seller, and bought two packs of Marlboro Red. I didn’t even smoke anymore, I just felt like I owed him. 

And I did owe him indeed. 

I found his cousin Olga, an equally buoyant middle-aged lady, working at the cigar lounge on the second floor of the five-star Imperial Nevsky Hotel. Her soft, bright smile illuminated the dimmed snobbish lounge filled with rich mahogany woodwork, deep leather seating, and a few grim elderly customers.

As soon as she heard my description of the cigarillos, her smile lit up even more, exposing pink glossy gums, “did it also have a subtle hint of a bonfire and this muddy smell of the air right before it rains?” she asked.

“Yes, exactly! May I try one? ”

Olga let out an intense, piercing laugh, “ if we're talking about the same thing, I'm afraid not, sweetie. You just wait a second, ” she disappeared behind the bar.

A few moments later she came back carrying a bunch of thick magazines. They fell on the neatly polished wooden bar with a hefty clunk. One magazine after another, she began swiftly flipping through the pages filled with photos of Bentleys, Yachts and an occasional ad of a cigar or a high-end watch.

“Here,” she finally stopped and pointed to a page with an extravagant wooden box of cigarillos, "Are you talking about these?”

The room was so dim, I had to get closer. 

Brown paper and a purple, star shaped logo. It had to be it… 

“Yes!” I gasped, “what are they exactly?”

“Lamento cigarillos. Himalayan tobacco, hints of cherries, curry plant and geosmin extract—a truly unique blend. Limited edition.”

“Where could I buy some?”

“Oh, sweetie, our market could only dream of such goodies,” she chuckled, “I’m afraid these were only sold in the US between 2003 and 2004. I doubt you could get your hands on any even if you had the big buck.” 

“I see. Any idea how much one would cost?”

“Well, it doesn’t say here,” she scratched her forehead, slightly messing up her frizzy bangs, “but, I  guess it would be anywhere between 6000 and 7000 rubles for a single cigarillo of this class. And there were eight in the box, so do the math.”

I was about to ask her why would a single ten-year-old cigarillo cost as much as a week-worth of groceries , but a strong vibration came out of my handbag. The chief was finally sending me info .

I excused myself, and dashed to the nearest ladies restroom on the same floor. My recent cigarillo hunt must have gotten into my head—I swore I could briefly smell that odd aroma when I opened the heavy, opulent restroom doors. However, I was the only one there, I even checked all four stalls twice. So I locked myself into the corner one, sat on a closed toilet lid and finally read the message:

Utmost urgency. Due to recent developments, the focus of your operation has shifted. Instead of concentrating on Petrov’s family like previously instructed, you are now directed to prioritize the investigation of Oligarch Bogdanov’s family, which are believed to have direct ties to Anastasia.  

Intelligence indicates a planned assassination attempt on Bogdanov’s at the Imperial Nevsky Hotel (see coordinates), (see date), at 21:00 Moscow Standard Time. There's a bomb planted somewhere in one of the conference rooms where Bogdanov's are planning to meet. 

I felt a rush of adrenaline engulf my stomach, thus making me slightly nauseous. There was no way I ended up in the same Hotel on my own. Could this all be just a crazy coincidence? Fate toying with me? Or is it a weird elaborate conspiracy? And what’s more… couldn’t they have given me even less time to prepare?

I glanced at my pink, sparkly watch. I still had three hours before the bomb went off. Pushing my conspiracy thoughts aside, I kept reading the message. The remaining text contained instructions: try bugging the phones of the main leads, collect intel on whom and why Bogdanov's are meeting, and evacuate the hotel before 21:00, prioritizing the lead's lives over the civilians. And the last one—a tad odd—avoid direct contact with the Bogdanovs at all costs. Unless instructed otherwise.

The attached file held twenty-six new faces and names I was yet to memorize. It wasn't going to be as easy, though. The entire Bogdanov’s family, all eight siblings and the two parents, was eerily similar. All of them had the same wicked copper-brown eyes, which made me uneasy, compelling me to instinctually avert my gaze; and all of them shared the same long faces and mousy brown hair. Everyone, but the eldest son, whose both eyes and hair were pitch black.

There were some distinctive faces though, distant relatives, workers, friends, gang members, and thankfully none of them shared the same evil look.

What most of them shared though, was their branding. I clicked on the attached picture to enlarge it. Just like some gangs, the entire family, both blood and chosen, had the same tattoo of a two-headed eagle, its beaks slightly ajar, spitting fire. The closer to the patriarch you were, the bigger the tattoo was, the document explained. Such a male-thing to do.

I took a few deep breaths until the tension in my stomach subsided, and, still sitting in the bathroom stall, began working on my mission. Firstly, I quickly set up my fake Wi-Fi network labeled “Imperial_Nevsky_Hotel_STAFF” and left it unlocked. More often than not, this cheap trick effortlessly got me into my victim’s phones. Hopefully, Bogdanov’s also weren’t as bright. 

Then, after googling the Hotel and inspecting all the available photos, I got up and was ready to find the hotel's layout, probably located by one of the fire exits. However, before I got to leave my stall an unthinkable happened—suddenly, a deafening explosion shook the ground beneath me. It wasn't even 18:00 yet.