“First unit! Commandant’s group. And who are you? What battalion?”

The sentry hesitated, and then his cracked lips, visible through the slit of his black mask, parted.

“Vostok.”

“Take your mask off. The orders are to take off masks.”

The man did as he was told. His face was puffy, his jowls unshaved.

“Eyes down!” the blond man barked at K. as he studied the sentry’s face.

The sentry suddenly regained his composure and raised his weapon.

“Don’t bullshit me! It was us that took the building. And the security services HQ. And what did you do? Now the shooting’s died down, everybody’s a commander?”

“Your services are no longer required. We’re taking over now. Go hand in your weapon,” the blond man hissed, pointing his rifle at the sentry’s knees. “They can explain. Off you go, or it’ll be a bullet in your leg.”

The sentry stood a while, angrily biting his lips. Finally, he barged forward and got into the line to hand in his weapons.

“These bloody foreigners,” said one of the soldiers behind K.

“And how aren’t you one?” answered another.

“Where are you taking me?” asked K.

“Quiet!” said the blond man, shoving him forward.

They entered a hall littered with overturned tables and wooden crates webbed with barbed wire. Handwrought posters, eagled flags, and photos of fallen soldiers cornered with black ribbon hung everywhere. K. accidentally knocked over a jar of pickled gherkins. The Molotov cocktails next to it on the filthy floor clinked.

A wide staircase rose to the left of the broken lift. Gunshots rang out from somewhere a few floors up. A scream bounced off the marble tiles and echoed around all twelve floors.

The blond man drew a radio from his bulletproof vest.

“Fox to Scythian, copy. What’s going on up there?”

No response.

“Fox to Scythian, copy.”

Silence.

The blond man swore and led the group onward. They advanced up the stairs with their weapons raised. The gunshots had ceased, to be replaced by an intermittent thudding.

On the fifth floor, they emerged into a hall and turned into a corridor of offices. Same picture: tables and chairs, folders brimming with papers, unwound fire hoses strung along the wall. At the end of the hallway, there were two soldiers trying to kick open a door. They had flashlights clenched in their teeth, they backed up to the wall, charged at the door together, swore, and then repeated the process. The door wasn’t budging.

The blond man lowered his weapon and came over.

“Why isn’t Scythian answering?”

The men broke off what they were doing.

“Who?”

“Christ. Who am I working with here? You’re supposed to be guarding the commandant, and you’re here smashing down doors?”

The soldiers looked at one another, shrugged, and resumed their efforts.

The corridor led into an office laid with a worn carpet and lined with dusty cabinets. K. didn’t have time to catch the name on the huge door before the blond man pushed him across the threshold.