Chapter Text
On the next morning, Walentyn woke up to the sound of his mother shuffling in the kitchen while humming a lovely melody of a Polish folk song. Tired, for he was deprived of proper sleep because of his nightmare, he pushed off his blanket and swung his feet out of the bed. For a moment, Walentyn solely sat at the edge of it, one hand rubbing over his face. Then, he stared at the wall across from him, trying to reconnect with reality. Fucking hell.
In the next moment, he was on his feet, sauntering towards the kitchen where the smell of coffee and bread greeted him. Karolina stood at the stove and flipped scrambled eggs in a pan. Through a tiny creak in the curtains, sunlight streamed inside through the window—normalcy, peace. When Walentyn entered, his mother turned; and that soft smile spread on her lips—the morning smile solely mother showed. »Tynek!« She exclaimed with euphoria. »You could have slept a little longer, I would have woken you up when breakfast is ready.« Her eyes were wide, shining brightly with love and joy. Then, they dropped, down to her son's feet—and her expression shifted, a frown tugging at her brows, one hand on her hip. »Where are your kapciuszki?«
Ah. Walentyn titled his head towards the floor, starring at his bare feet. Right—no slippers. His mother had always been strict about that; feet were supposed to be covered, especially in winter (even indoors) otherwise, so she said, he would catch a cold. »I forgot,« he admitted sheepishly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.
She sighed, dramatically so, and waved the cooking spoon in her hand at him—through, there was no real anger behind it. Go put them on, was what that gesture were telling him. Walentyn chuckled and obediently shuffled to the hallway closet, his feet slipping inside his warm kapciuszki, thick wool slippers he'd had since his feet had stopped growing. They were slightly worn-out, but still as comfy as the day he'd received them. He returned back to the kitchen and pressed a kiss to his mother's cheek as she loaded the eggs onto a plate. »Dziekuję za śniadanie,« he said (»Thanks for the breakfast«).
At the sweet gesture, the soft kiss, Karolina beamed. She turned her head to give him a proper mama peck on the cheek. »Sit,« she urged him, gesturing to the table that had already been set: Always a tablecloth—very important. A mug with coffee had already been served on it, strong and black—just how Walentyn liked it. He slid into his chair and wrapped his hands around the warm mug. Soon, his mother served him a plate with breakfast: Sausage, scrambled eggs and bread. Afterwards, she joined him at the table with her own mug in her hands. »Did they not feed my Tynek properly?« She asked as she watched Walentyn dig in and savour every single bite. The food was simple—but, it was made with love. Nothing fancy like Victor's chef had served back in Moscow.
Mid-bite, Walentyn froze, the fork hanging in the air. His mother had noticed, the way he was practically inhaling the food. He hesitated, and then, he shrugged. »They fed me,« he replied vaguely, not lying, yet not explaining, either. For a fraction, Karolina's eyes narrowed—she knew something was off. She studied him, like a mother who could always tell when something was out of the ordinary. However, she did not press—instead, she pushed the breadbasket closer to him and said: »Eat more if you're hungry.« Her tone was gentle, it always was, but concern lay underneath.
Walentyn reached out one hand and took a slice of bread out of the basket, then buttered it—he took his time with it, avoiding eye contact at any cost. Unasked question hung between them—his mother wanted to know more, for he barely spoke about his work, Walentyn could tell that she did. Nevertheless, she respected he would talk when he felt ready to. Quietly, she sipped her coffee, watching him. Again, Walentyn could tell there was something on her mind, something she wanted to get off her chest. However, as she respected him, he did the same—and so, he would wait until she was ready to speak, too. An unspoken mutual agreement between mother and son. Walentyn took a sip from his mug, slowly, then he set it down.
»When are you going to leave me again?«
There it was, the question his mother had been holding back since he'd walked in yesterday. Walentyn chewed on his bread, gulped it down with another sip of his strong coffee. Then:
»I don't know.«
Karolina's face fell. She was not upset—she was hurt. Her Tynek had been gone for so long—and now, he told her that he would disappear on her again. Her head hung a little lower now as she starred at her coffee, one hand absently stirring the spoon, although there wasn't even any sugar left to stir. After a long pause, she was brave enough to ask him: »For how long?«
Walentyn sighed, he did not know the answer to that. Kasprzyk hadn't assigned him a new mission, not yet, he'd barely been home. It could be weeks, months. »I don't have a date, mam,« he told her honestly.
She exhaled, a tiny defeated sound. Abruptly, she stood, collecting the empty plates. Her way of hiding her disappointment—by busying herself with dishes. The clatter of porcelain was familiar, but in that moment, it filled a silence born out of his mother's pain. She wouldn't yell at her son nor beg him to stay with her—she'd suffer in silence, endure the sadness inside her heart quietly. Walentyn rose to his feet, too, and grabbed his own plate to help her. In practiced harmony, they moved around the kitchen; years of routine even after months apart.
A normal morning—although, Karolina's unspoken grief hung between them, separating them slightly from each other.
The call from Kasprzyk came sooner than anticipated—if anticipated at all. In the afternoon, Walentyn's phone rang; Kasprzyk's caller ID flashed on the screen under the name BOSS. Walentyn froze, his mother sat right beside him on the couch—they had been watching TV together, Ojciec Mateusz, her favourite show, quietly enjoying each other's company. She glanced at the phone, then at him. Her expression tightened—she knew who it was. The man who called to pull her Tynek away again. She didn't comment on it, only looked down at her knitting, pretending not to hear the phone. But her hands, they had stilled completely.
Walentyn was quick to answer, stepping into the hallway for privacy. »Sir.«
Silence on the other end—then: »New assignment. Briefing in two hours at HQ.« No hello, no small talk, solely business.
Walentyn closed his eyes—two hours. Not even enough time to say goodbye properly. »Understood,« he said, his voice steady and devoid of emotion despite the lump in his throat. He hung up, then turned back to the living room where his mother was still sitting, waiting. She hadn't looked up yet, she was still pretending to focus on her knitting. But, the visible tension in her shoulders blew her cover. The second Walentyn was back? Her head shot up—and, instantly, she knew. No words were needed, not from him. His face told her everything, and her eyes carried so many emotions: Disappointment, resignation, sadness. »...You are leaving.« And then, her lips started to quiver.
Seeing his mother liked that, Walentyn had to swallow. He hated to see her lips tremble—however, what he hated even more was that he was the one who broke her heart by leaving her. In solely two steps, he crossed the room and hugged her, tightly so, pressing her head against his chest. He was not making up excuses, wasn't telling her he would be back soon, nothing of that sort. He was just holding her as long as he could. And Karolina, she clung to her son, her arms wrapping around and about him, even more tightly, as if a strong grip could stop him from physically going if she held on hard enough. A tear rolled down her cheek, soaking his shirt—no sobbing, her cries were silent. For a long moment, they stayed like that; no words.
Finally, she pulled back, wiping her face with the back of her hand. Not a dramatic goodbye, only quiet acceptance. She reached up, straightened his collar, smoothed a wrinkle on his shirt—mama things. Then, she stood on her toes to kiss both his cheeks—a blessing. »Be safe,« she whispered.
»I will,« he told her. One last time, he squeezed her hands. Then, Walentyn grabbed his duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder—he had already packed it, for he'd expected Kasprzyk's call, eventually. He walked to the door, then paused with his hand hovering over the doorknob. Over his shoulder, he glanced back at his mother. She stood there, in the hallway, watching him leave. She was strong—always had been, for his sake, too. She nodded, slightly so. »Go.«
He stepped out, and the door clicked shut behind him with a soft click. The hallway was colder than usual—emptier. No more of his mother's cooking, no more of her voice. Just the sound of his footsteps, headed to Kasprzyk; HQ and another mission.
The train ride to Warsaw passed in silence. Walentny stared out of the window, watching the city blur past him. He did not read, wouldn't listen to music—he was thinking. About his mother's sad face—but also about Victor, his appearance on TV: How his smug smile had vanished when they'd arrested him; and lastly, he thought about whatever new mission lay ahead of him. The train pulled into Warsaw's main station. Walentyn walked through the familiar streets with long strides. Another mission would mean another cover—another false identity and fake life he would have to live for God knew how long.
HQ was quiet, most agents were out on missions or home. Kasprzyk sat behind his desk, a file in front of him open already. He glanced up as Walentyn entered. »I'll get straight to the point,« he began, waisting no time on pleasantries. »Volkov vanished.«
What. »...Vanished?« Repeated Walentyn, his brows furrowing as his brain processed the words—had he caught that right? For, that was impossible, or so he'd thought. Victor was supposed to be in Russian custody—they had escorted him, handcuffed; he'd seen it live, on the news!
Kasprzyk leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave. »The vehicle was ambushed two hours ago. Volkov is gone.« He shoved a small device towards Walentyn across the desk—security footage. It showed Victor being dragged out by armed men, and then... nothing. The screen went black. »We don't know what happened,« said Kasprzyk grimly. »But we know he is not in Russian custody anymore.« His jaw tightened. »We assume he is regrouping, which also means you might still be in his sight.«
Nearly, Walentyn chocked on air. »Wait—are you saying he will come after me?«
Kasprzyk's expression hardened. »Yes.« Then: »He knows you betrayed him, by now. If he finds out you are an agent who was sent by Wywiad...« He left the sentence unfinished, but it was obvious:
Victor would kill him.
»There was a leak of information,« proceeded Kasprzyk. »Personal information, including yours. Your real name, your residence.«
Kurwa. Walentyn's blood ran cold. If Victor had access to his real name—and worse: His home address... then, that made him more than merely a target: Victor was after Walentyn's vulnerabilities.
Kasprzyk looked deadly serious now. »We're putting you and your mother under 24/7 protection from now on.«
But Walentny could only scoff. He'd worked for Victor for the past six months as his assistant—that was probably the closest he would ever get to that man. There was more than only one thing he'd learned about Victor during that time, though there was one which was the most dangerous trait that man had: If he wanted something, let's say to get revenge on Walentyn and kill him, then he would get just that—and not even security could protect Walentyn from his fate and stop that psychopath.
Inside Walentyn's head, a stupid idea had been sowed, and now, it was growing into the only possible option which guaranteed him survival—he was convinced of that. »Let me find him.«
For the first time, it seemed as though someone had succeeded to take Kasprzyk off-guard, for he blinked at Walentyn—utterly befuddled. »You?«
What Walentyn suggested was insane, crazy. Could Kasprzyk allow that, to let one of Wywiad's agents walk right into the fire Victor had ignited?
On the other hand, Walentyn had spent six months as that man's assistant—therefore, he might have a clue where Victor was hiding; or, he could find clues via contacts.
A reckless plan—but one that could work.
Kasprzyk exhaled, weighing the risks. Then: »Fine.« There was no time for further contemplation. He slid a pistol across the desk—unloaded. »But you're not alone on this one.«
Two agents would tail Walentyn from a distance, ready to intervene if things went south.
Walentyn took the gun, checking the empty chamber. No bullets—Kasprzyk wasn't responsible for arming the agents. But Walentyn knew where to find them. »I'll contact you when I have a lead.«
Kasprzyk just nodded—that was the new mission now.
Warsaw, hotel.
Walentyn approached the front desk and checked in as Walentyn Wójcik, showing a fake ID. The clerk barely glanced at it before handing him the keycard to his room. Walentyn took the elevator, room 314; a temporary safe house. Not that Victor couldn't track him down here if he genuinely tried to. The room was small but clean: Bed, desk, TV—standard. Walentyn dropped down his duffle onto the bed and immediately locked the door. Then, he pulled out his burner phone—one he'd received at HQ before departure—and he started to call contacts. People who knew about Victor's underground network—or were connected to it. Anyone who might have intel on his whereabouts.
Most of those conversations were frustrating. Almost all of those people spoke in rapid Russian—throwing in slang and regional dialects that even Walentyn's basic training couldn't parse. He scribbled down notes—keywords: Moscow, safe house, black SUV. Vague—but it might be a beginning. One caller, a gruff voice, suddenly switched to broken English. »He is not in Russia anymore.«
In an instant, Walentyn was on high alert. »Where is he?«
The Russian paused on the other end. Then: »Ukraine. Odessa.«
A port city—lots of underground networks, smugglers... the ideal place for a man on the run to regroup. Before Walentyn could ask more, the line went dead—the caller had hung up.
Didn't matter, he had his lead. Victor was in Ukraine, likely holed up with loyalists, planning the next move. Immediately, Walentyn texted Kasprzyk: »Got a location—Ukraine, Odessa.«
Then, with his false passport, he booked a flight for the next morning. The hunt had begun.
Ukraine, Odessa Airport.
The plane had landed; the airport was bustling with tourists, business travellers and locals. That made blending in all the more easier for Walentyn: A European visitor with a duffle bag and sunnies.
No one paid him any extra or unwanted attention, everyone went on with their lives and the business they had.
Walentyn took a taxi to the city centre. The taxi driver—a middle-aged Ukrainian with a moustache—chatted freely, on and on. He mentioned the city's history, the port economy—and he complained about rich Russian tourists acting entitled. Walentyn nodded along, learning little tidbits: »Rich Russians come to Odessa for luxury,« the man said—which confirmed that Victor might have gone there, too. The taxi pulled up to a sleek high-rise district, a place where Victor was, most likely, staying—or hiding. Walentyn tipped the driver, thanked him and stepped out, scanning the area. He was surrounded by luxury hotels, private security and discreetly armed men lingering near entrances—definitely Russian bodyguards. Walentyn walked towards the fanciest hotel: The Grand Odessa. A perfect hideout for a wanted man like Victor Volkov.
The lobby of The Grand Odessa was pure opulence: All marbles and crystal chandeliers. With a neutral face, Walentyn approached the front desk. He cleared his throat. »I'm looking for Dmitri Kuznetsov.« That was one of the false names Victor used—yes, he used fake ID's, too, just like Walentyn did. The clerk hesitated, then, he typed something into the computer, his eyes darting up, nervously so. After a tense pause, he nodded.
»Mr. Kuznetsov is staying in Suite 407,« he informed Walentyn. Bingo, Victor was at The Grand Odessa—under a false identity, but very much present.
Like any other guest, Walentyn walked to the elevator. It was filled with other hotel patrons: A couple with a child and a business man on a call. Walentyn stood silently, inconspicuously, even, and pressed the button for the fourth floor. The chatter around him was in Russian and Ukrainian—nothing suspicious. Then, the doors slid open, and Walentyn was the first to step out. He walked down the long hallway, heading towards Suite 407—were Victor was presumably staying. Before he proceeded, he plugged in his earpieces and reported to Kasprzyk: »Location found. Asking for assistance.«
Kasprzyk's voice crackled through the earpiece: »Understood. We're tracking your signal. Stand-by.« And a few seconds later, a quiet beep inside Walentyn's ear confirmed that the security was en route. Now, it was a waiting game—Walentyn could not just knock on Victor's door, not when he hadn't confirmed it was truly him who was in there. He glanced around: There, at the end of the hallway, he spotted a staff member who was delivering food to another suite. Bingo.
The man pushed open the door and pushed a cart with plates and bottles inside. Walentyn waited, and when the guy exited, he approached him, carefully so. »Hey. Can you do me a favour?«
He looked at Walentyn with a tired face. »Yes?«
Walentyn reached one hand inside his pocket and pulled out a folded 100-hryvnia note—bribe. »Can you lend me your uniform?«
The guy's eyes flicked to the money, then back up—he was considering it. After a second, he shrugged and took the money, then handed over his uniform jacket to Walentyn, who slipped into it immediately. It was slightly too big, but not much noticeably so. Now, he had the appearance of a hotel staff member. »Thanks,« he said to the actual staff member and turned to walk to Suite 407.
From now on, only two things could happen: Either, Victor was not inside that suite and whoever opened the door for Walentyn would be greeted by his polite smile; he would pretend to work at the hotel and come up with a friendly excuse. Or, Victor did hide in there and then...
...well, he would recognise his former assistant, that was for sure.