The Metro
The whoosh of the green Moscow Metro trains rumbled past Cindy’s ear as she stood on the platform at Prospekt Mira, the rush of air momentarily tousling her hair. Just a few blocks away, the Apothecary Gardens stood as a quiet testament to history—founded in 1706 by Peter the Great, the greenhouse had once been a vital source of medicinal herbs. The irony wasn’t lost on her; the entire Russian capital was still in recovery mode, shaking off the lingering effects of the COVID-19 outbreak.
A piercing screech of metal on metal filled the air as another train ground to a halt, the sheer force of its arrival reverberating through the ornate, underground station. The noise barely registered. Cindy had more pressing concerns. Today was scouting day. And the Moscow Metro was… perfect.
The Order needed a location—one that was busy, accessible, and layered in anonymity. A place where the handoff could happen unnoticed, where operatives could take possession of the encrypted file and disappear into the crush of commuters. Cindy needed a station that worked both ways—easy to slip into, just as easy to vanish from.
Cindy’s cover as a professional photographer wasn’t just a disguise; it was second nature. The German-made Leica S2 slung over her shoulder was a part of her, a trusted tool she could wield with precision. And Ava, in her flowing red dress, was the perfect muse, moved effortlessly through the sea of morning Muscovites—men in sharp suits, women in elegant winter coats, all threading their way through a city that was a collision of Classical, Soviet, and modernist architecture
Click. Click. Click. The shutter snapped, capturing Ava against the backdrop of Moscow’s underground palaces—a stunning blend of history and art. To the untrained eye, they were just another influencer duo, part of the social media-fueled vanity circus that had infiltrated every photogenic location on the planet.
“A little to the left, hon,” Cindy directed, adjusting her focus.
“How about here?” Ava responded, striking another casual pose, playing the role of eager model.
They had 90 seconds between trains—an unheard-of efficiency that put New York, London, and every other major metro to shame. This wasn’t just a subway system—it was a cultural masterpiece, an engineering marvel. They moved through stations like Novoslobodskaya, its stained-glass panels glowing like a cathedral, and Belorusskaya, where the intricate mosaics told stories of Soviet triumphs. At Komsomolskaya, they paused beneath Baroque and Neoclassical arches, a sight fit for a tsar’s palace, before stepping into the futuristic Soviet modernism of Mayakovskaya, where war-time speeches had once echoed.
Their second-to-last stop was Ploshchad Revolyutsii, where centuries of superstition and tradition had polished the bronze statues to a gleaming shine. They joined the thousands of hands, rubbing the snouts of dogs, the feet of soldiers—a ritual unchanged since 1938.
But it was Arbatskaya Metro Station that would prove to be the perfect choice. A vast, 820-foot platform, ideal for a seamless exchange.
As they emerged from the vaulted arches, stepping into the Moscow twilight, their ride awaited—a Mercedes Maybach, courtesy of Yandex Taxi. It idled like a private yacht in a sea of Ladas and Chinese imports, its dark-tinted windows offering sanctuary from the cold, the crowds, and the mission still to come.
Cindy exhaled, letting herself relax—just for a moment. The pieces were falling into place.
