CRICKET PARK, BRUSHTOWN – SEPTEMBER 2021

It drizzled that morning in Brushtown, though September had been unusually warm. The grey clouds carried a strange brownish tint — whether from the veiled sun or atmospheric pollution, Falco neither knew nor cared. Oddly, he found such weather soothing.

He visited Sandra every week since Doctor Crow discharged her. The visits served a dual purpose: he checked on her recovery and brought documents for her to translate. The struggle against the entity the virus had implanted had drained her completely. Physically she was healing, as much as could be expected, but the ordeal had left her fragile. Twice a week she ventured out with a walking stick, unsteady on her feet, to stroll in the local park. She had lost a great deal of weight, yet her mind remained as sharp as ever. Despite Falco’s protests, she insisted on continuing her work for “Mister Falco.”

His meeting with Clif Condor, however, was spontaneous — as everything involving Condor tended to be.

A couple of months earlier Falco had contacted him. Condor promised to arrange a time and place. The difficulty lay in his refusal to specify either in advance. He simply rang without warning and declared his arrival.

Their first encounter had been anything but conventional. Falco’s reputation had long since crossed borders, and Condor — curious to meet the legendary Scythian operative — had taken an extraordinary risk. On one side lay the very real possibility that Falco would kill him on sight; on the other, the near impossibility of locating the man at all. No photographs existed, no reliable description. Witnesses, when they survived, offered only clichés shaped by whatever narrative the press happened to be pushing at the time: a tall, bearded Persian with wild dark eyes, or a cold-eyed Scythe speaking in a thick accent. Falco’s appearance, it seemed, depended on the political climate of the day.

Yet Condor had succeeded — largely through luck. He knew roughly whom Falco hunted. Albion and Judean intelligence kept many of those names on their payroll: minor celebrities, corrupt local officials, disgraced teachers, liberal politicians who had fled eastward after the Special Military Operation in Borderland. Falco would never risk crossing the heavily guarded Tunnel into Anglo-Saxon territory, but Condor noticed a pattern. Whenever one of these figures publicly incited violence against Scythes or indulged in overt racism, they soon vanished. The fortunate ones resurfaced in Scythian custody, claiming abduction at trial. The less fortunate never reappeared.

One such figure — a second-rate actress, thrice divorced, and lately vocal in her hatred — had fled to a Baltic state with her youngest daughter after the operation began. Expecting theatre work, she found only rejection: no roles, no language skills, and no welcome from locals who despised her nationality despite her anti-Scythian rhetoric. Reduced to podcast appearances, she spread lies about the Scythian army, insulted Scythian culture, and fabricated tales of creative oppression back home.

Condor reasoned that if Falco were anywhere in the region, it would be near her. He booked the first flight to Livonia.

The actress lived in one of Riege’s most polluted districts, in a grey five-storey panel block dating from the 1970s Union era. Once respectable, the neighbourhood had decayed rapidly after independence in 1991, when Tsargrad withdrew funding. Most flats stood empty or housed the elderly and alcoholics. Condor secured the vacant apartment directly opposite her door — three months’ rent upfront. The landlord, impressed by the Anglo-Saxon tenant, overlooked the graffiti-covered walls and prior break-in.

Condor adapted quickly. He bought nothing beyond a double-walled glass and a copper cezve for Turkish coffee. The sagging armchair, rickety table, and grimy electric oven sufficed. To pass the hours he read cheap romance novels from the kiosk while surveilling the actress.

His days began early: she walked her fifteen-year-old daughter to school (the girl hated it, bullied relentlessly with no intervention from teachers). Then the actress made the rounds of the city’s six theatres — even the puppet theatre — begging for work that never materialised. Afternoons she visited fellow “political refugees,” all broke and dependent on dwindling Western sponsors. Once a week she shopped, though sparingly; most of the money extorted from a children’s cancer fund had long since vanished on rent, school fees, and transport.

Condor stayed invisible despite his height. He was certain she never noticed him. Yet one evening she knocked — doorbell broken — carrying a Tupperware of homemade vanilla cake as a “belated welcome gift.” He knew her intentions immediately and found them repellent.

Condor had a notorious weakness: physical contact. Women rarely stayed in his life, so he took opportunities where he found them — even on missions, even with adversaries. Tall, blond, Anglo-Saxon accent — he knew the combination worked. Superiors reprimanded him repeatedly; he cultivated the Casanova reputation as cover, deflecting deeper scrutiny of his real activities.

The actress repelled him. Those large, doe-like black eyes held cold calculation; her timid Eastern manner masked a readiness to strike. He disliked her as both woman and person, and his distaste deepened whenever he glimpsed her daughter through the peephole — sneaking onto the stairs to smoke, tears streaking her face as she stared out at Riege’s grey despair.

He accepted the cake politely, claimed pressing work, and closed the door. She returned on subsequent evenings, lingering outside, listening. He never ate the cake; it mouldered in the kitchen.

Weeks became months. Patience frayed. Falco did not appear. Condor began to fear his gamble had failed.

Until one night.

The daughter was away with her father for a week. Friday evening the actress stayed in. She smoked on the stairs — pausing to listen at Condor’s door — then retired early. Clif dozed in the armchair, romance novel open on his chest. He woke in the small hours to use the bathroom and, out of habit, checked the peephole.

His pulse surged.

If he had not looked at that precise moment, he would never have known Freddy Falco was in the building.

The hallway light was out — as usual. The Scythian’s black-clad figure blended into the gloom, moving soundlessly, almost as though he rode the air itself. He worked the lock on the actress’s door with practised ease.

Condor waited until Falco entered, then slipped across the corridor and inside without alerting him. He followed to the bedroom and watched.

The actress stirred, eyes opening. Falco clamped a gloved hand over her mouth, mounted her, pinned her arms with his knees. With his free hand he drew a syringe from his breast pocket, flicked off the cap, and injected her shoulder. The sequence unfolded in seconds — swift, silent, dreamlike.

He waited until she went limp, then dismounted. As he rose, he noticed the shadow in the doorway.

The bedside lamp snapped on. A pistol appeared in Falco’s hand, levelled at Condor’s chest.

“I’m unarmed,” Condor said quietly, taking in the slender, unremarkable man before him.

“I see that, Clif Condor,” Falco whispered, “or you would’ve shot me in the back.”

“You know my name?”

“Of course. While watching this minstrel” — a light knee nudge to the actress’s dangling arm — “I noticed you. At first, I assumed Albion was guarding its puppet. Then I recalled the rumours.” Falco’s eyes glinted, alluding to Condor’s reputation.

“I don’t care about her. I was looking for you. I figured her yapping would eventually draw you here.”

“And why were you looking for me, Clif Condor?”

Falco hesitated — torn between admiration for the man’s audacity and the necessity of eliminating a witness. Normally he would have fired. Yet the gun remained steady on Condor’s forehead without discharging.

Condor offered no bribe, no secrets, no plea. He simply waited, calm and indifferent. That composure unsettled Falco. He lowered the pistol to study the man who had tracked him across borders.

From that night forward they became — Falco would not call it friends — colleagues, co-conspirators. Two solitary men, detached from ordinary human ties, capable of killing without remorse and sacrificing personal interest for a larger purpose. Their meetings were rare, conversation strictly business, yet each valued the other’s presence. No one else understood their world.

Condor had made the first move; Falco never would have approached an enemy. Clif needed the contact — not only out of admiration, but because he intended to defect. Destination mattered less than escape — Scythia or Zhongguo, anywhere he could continue undermining Albion from outside.

Condor was no traitor in his own eyes. He was neither fanatic nor patriot. After graduating military training with top honours, he joined MI for the travel. He gathered intelligence, stole it when required, and accepted that other services did the same. He felt no compulsion to obstruct or destroy foreign agents — especially not from Scythia or Zhongguo. His half-Lowlander heritage diluted any loyalty to Albion’s prosperity. Superiors disliked his detachment; his liaisons with married women of rank earned demotion.

The new posting — personal bodyguard to the Royal Family — seemed tolerable. One among many, under supervision.

During the Queen’s birthday celebration, while fanfare rang outside and crowds cheered the balcony appearance, Condor patrolled the family wing. A scream erupted behind a closed door. A naked teenage boy burst out — blood on his thighs, face contorted in terror — and fled down the corridor. Condor pursued. The boy reached an open window, climbed the sill, and dangled. More guards arrived too late. The child let go and fell.

A door opened behind Condor. Prince Aldrich — the Queen’s second son — emerged, buttoning his trousers, swearing. Condor understood instantly. Rumours had circulated; he had dismissed them as gossip.

Rage blinded him. He lunged for the Prince’s throat. Colleagues intercepted him inches short of contact.

Servants whispered the boy was dead; others claimed an ambulance took him to a psychiatric facility. Condor lost the posting, but a former lover in senior ranks kept him in MI.

In spare hours he investigated Aldrich. Evidence mounted: the Prince belonged to an international paedophile network. MI knew — and protected it. Several staff were implicated. Colleagues warned him off; his body would end in the Tamesis otherwise.

The seed of an idea took root. He could not stop the crimes in court or MI, but he could sabotage them — by feeding secrets to the enemy. Full double-agency was too risky; exposure inevitable. Better to operate unilaterally. Contact Freddy Falco — the elusive Scythe who disrupted Western and Judean intelligence. Thus, Condor became Falco’s mole, supplying names and locations of Scythian traitors enjoying political asylum in the West.

Lately Falco had thought of Clif often. Condor had done him countless favours, but the debt over Sandra was personal. Without his intelligence Falco would never have located her or understood what had befallen her. That operation, however, had drawn him into something far larger and darker than anticipated. Albion would pursue the Shortridge hospital breach relentlessly. They would trace the leak. Condor had to disappear.

Falco walked down Masonry Street, preoccupied. He scanned the black façade of the print shop for cameras — none visible outside. The street led to the park, but a shorter route skirted the other side, past large villas. He suspected outdoor surveillance there and chose the longer path.

He followed the gravel track to the swimming-pool building — leased garage space to park maintenance — then turned right onto a winding, hedge-lined path. It opened onto a charming avenue of lanterns and benches. Cyclists and dog-walkers passed occasionally; otherwise, it remained quiet, especially in drizzle.

This was their agreed meeting place. Falco sat on a bench and waited. Ten minutes later Clif appeared — from the wrong direction, despite explicit instructions to avoid the main entrance cameras.

Condor looked unusually serene. A faint flush coloured his cheeks, as though feverish; his eyes shone with quiet contentment. He approached, hand extended.

“Falco! How are you?” He squeezed Freddy’s slender hand warmly.

“I’m fine, thank you, Condor. How are you? Why did you come from that side? I told you about the cameras!” Falco rose, an unfamiliar impulse urging him to embrace Clif — something he had never done.

“Don’t worry. Those public ones never work. Besides, it doesn’t really matter…”

“It does matter!” Freddy insisted as they sat.

“They’ve already connected me to the clinic discovery. So far, they’ve left Sandra alone, but they’ll hunt the source of my information…”

“Falco – they already know,” Condor tried to interject.

“I’m sorry, Clif,” Freddy whispered after a pause.

The words lifted a weight Falco had carried for months. Uncertainty ended. Danger was certain — for both of them, but Condor most of all.

“We need to get you out. Scythia. You’ll be safe. I’ll book a flight immediately.” He pulled out his phone, searching schedules.

“You’ll have to transit through the Ottoman Empire. Do you have a clean passport? They’ll know your aliases by now. We’ll make a new one. In any case, I’m coming with you. I don’t trust the Ottomans. You can stay at the Nest meantime.”

“In the Nest?!” Condor laughed, genuinely surprised. “You’d let an MI agent inside your headquarters? I never dreamed I would get this far!”

“You stopped being MI some time ago, Condor.”

“Nor am I a Scythe, Freddy. I don’t want you – or anyone – compromised because of me.”

“Too late for that now, Clif.”

“Relax. They need to reach me first to confirm what I gave you. They won’t catch me. I know a place to hide. I don’t have to leave the West to escape them.”

“And where is that? Are you sure it’s safe?”

“The safest place there is,” Condor said pensively, drawing a deep breath of rain-scented air.

“Do you have a number? A PO box?”

Condor opened his trench coat and produced a black USB stick from the inner pocket.

“Here. Everything you need. I’ve added some files you might find interesting. Let me know what you think.”

“Thank you. How did they trace you?”

“I queried Gaul vaccination-centre databases and tracked patient transfers. I covered my tracks — different accounts, different terminals. I had archive access and system-update privileges. Evenings, when the office was empty, I pulled data from colleagues’ drives. It took them two months to follow the trail.”

“I’m sorry,” Falco whispered.

“Don’t be. We all know how it ends eventually. I’ve prepared for years. In truth, it’s a relief.”

They sat in silence — a familiar pause in their meetings. Usually conversation simply ceased; they parted. This time the silence pressed heavily. Falco sensed Condor needed his presence, even wordless.

Then he remembered.

“Tell me – do you know anything about that virus?”

“Why? Is Sandra still in trouble?”

“She’s recovering, but we nearly lost her. At first, we thought poor vaccine quality. Tests showed otherwise. The injection delivered not just a virus but a foreign organism — a parasite. It fed on her until it died.”

“I wish I had more for you. What we know — from shared intelligence and our agents — is that ByWell rushed an untested vaccine. Von der Lügen signed a thirty-five-billion-euro contract with minimal oversight. Given her corruption and past scandals, I wouldn’t be surprised if something darker was involved. Everything I have on the case is on the stick. I haven’t had time to dig deeper. And I don’t expect to live long enough to see how it ends.”

“Don’t say that!” Falco snapped.

Condor offered a tired smile. At that moment Falco’s phone buzzed — a message from the Nest. An important meeting that afternoon; his presence required.

“Clif, I have to go.” He stood. “You know how to reach me. Let me know when you’re settled. I want to be sure you’re safe. And please — follow my route out of the park.”

Condor remained seated, gazing up at him. The strange gleam returned to his eyes. Then the peace vanished, his face paled. Abruptly he seized Falco’s arm, pulling him close.

“You could’ve killed me that first night. Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. Normally, I would have. I just… couldn’t.”

“My people aren’t as humane as you, Freddy Falco. They’ll kill me the moment they can.” His voice cracked with bitterness. “I wanted you to know — it’s been an honour working with you. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for offering help.”

He released Falco, leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, and restored that effortless, enchanting smile.

“Safe flight to the Nest, falcon. We’ll talk soon.”

Falco smiled despite himself at Condor’s odd charm. He said goodbye and walked away.

Light rain began to fall. He considered calling back something light-hearted — then a single gunshot shattered the park’s quiet. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

Falco froze.

Clarity arrived too late. Regret — sharp, immediate — joined the short list of moments he would never forgive himself for. If he had paid closer attention, listened between the lines… It was so obvious. He could have prevented it. The Nest meeting was not urgent. He should have insisted on Scythia, stayed with him.

He knew what he would see.

He could turn and etch the image forever — Condor with a bullet wound — or preserve the last sight: his friend relaxed on the bench, head tilted back, face toward him, looking merely asleep.

Falco chose the latter.

He turned his back and walked quickly away, rain mingling with the sting in his eyes.

FIN