Kovel. Saturday, May 17, 2014. Time: 4:00 PM.
They called me in off schedule—unexpectedly, without prior orders.
The headquarters greeted me with the anxious hum of ventilators and the bitter smell of instant coffee mixed with overheated plastic. Faces all around. Not faces, really, but masks: the same frozen expressions—concentration, fatigue, habitual detachment. The light from screens reflected in their eyes, fingers pounding keyboards at a speed that suggested lives depended on it. Which, in general, they did.
At the center of the conference room—a projector. On it—a frame from a surveillance camera, next to it his service photo. A man in his forties. And another photo. A cylindrical container, an ampoule, a flask?.. What do they usually call it? All this was accompanied by a caption on the slide:
Egil Hansen. Age—46 years. Employee of facility "Kovel-1". Crime: theft of a biologically modified virus strain and classified research data.
I already knew this name. I'd once glimpsed it in one of the internal reports. Hansen was listed as a research scientist, specialization—bioengineering. Deep clearance level, black zone projects. They don't let such people go easily, and don't forgive betrayal.
The briefing was conducted in a separate room—windowless. Just a screen on the wall, a tablet in the coordinator's hands, and a city center map with markings. Everything sounded automatic, precise. But I was overcome with anxiety. Too unusual a case. A biologically modified virus strain?
According to intelligence and internal security services, three days before his escape, Hansen downloaded a series of classified materials from the internal database and took a sample of this "virus." Information about the substance is completely classified. The only thing we were told: the integrity of the ampoule with the sample must not be compromised. Failure would undoubtedly lead to dire consequences, which would be extremely difficult to contain.
Aurora Square. Open area, high civilian density, but also many observation points. According to intelligence, the target plans contact with an unknown party. Transfer of the sample and data—probable.
Take Hansen alive. Minimize all risks. Prevent leakage. Damage to the ampoule is excluded. If the target shows aggression—priority remains the same.
The action plan was built according to template. Sniper positions on rooftops, two agents in the crowd in case dialogue fails. One negotiator—me—at the central point. In such operations, the bet is on achieving goals through words. A bullet is the last resort.
Aurora Square. Time: 6:25 PM
A typical Saturday. Street musicians were tuning their instruments by the fountain in the center of the square, it smelled of cotton candy, fried meat, and pastries. Nothing foreshadowed trouble. At least, not for the casual observer.
The crowd—perfect cover, easy to dissolve into. The stakes are high. One wrong move—and hundreds of people will be at the epicenter of a leak. I was assigned to be the first to make contact. The first—and, if everything goes wrong, the last.
I passed under the arch at the approach to the square, passed a row of kiosks selling various trinkets, and began moving along the perimeter. In my ears—the silence of the radio channel, behind which tension was hiding.
"Scat in position. Confirming readiness," I said, almost whispering.
The response came almost immediately:
"Acknowledged. Observation ongoing. Target not yet detected."
I walked past a bench where an elderly couple sat holding hands. Children were playing nearby. A young couple walked by, not taking their eyes off each other. I felt my fists clenching. They're not guilty of anything. No one here is guilty. And yet, any of them could suffer.
In the center of the square, the fountain played with streams of water to musical accompaniment. Drops swirled above it, reflecting the sunset. Beautiful. I exhaled—slowly, trying to return my pulse to normal.
"Target detected! East side. Man in gray jacket. Standing by the fountain. Match confirmed."
"Acknowledged. Moving to target."
I slowly crossed the square. I was uneasy, but I quickly restored my pulse and breathing. Hansen stood at the edge of the fountain. There was no tension or fear in his posture. He looked through the water spray like a man who had come to say goodbye.
In appearance—about forty. That same jacket, glasses, short haircut with already noticeable gray. In his left hand—a black leather briefcase. Right hand—in his pocket. Bad sign, but maybe I'm overthinking it? I'd like to be wrong.
I approached close enough for him to hear.
"Dr. Hansen?" I asked calmly, in a pleasant and polite tone.
He didn't turn around. Just moved his head slightly.
"It seems I wasn't careful enough. Yes, that's me."
"I've come to deliver you and the sample intact to headquarters for a conversation. You've violated a bunch of laws, doctor. Perhaps this is just a misunderstanding?"
"A misunderstanding?" he smirked. "Not at all. Do I look like a fool who would deny his guilt when literally caught red-handed? Please."
"The people you've contacted are deceiving you. There's been a series of manipulations, possibly even threats, as a result of which you were forced into such absurd actions. That's the official version. We're ready to cooperate with you. To help you."
"Deceiving me?" he turned to me completely. There was no healthy gleam in his eyes, only fatigue. "All this time, I was deceiving myself. They don't need the truth," he said almost in a whisper. "They need silence. They bury everything that doesn't fit into their plans. And they'll bury me just like the others who weren't convenient. I participated in something I shouldn't have. And when I understood what I'd gotten into—there was no way back."
For a moment his gaze lost focus, like when he was looking at the water spray. Tears approached his eyes, barely noticeable.
"This isn't just a virus," he said. "This is a reflection. In it—us. Our mistakes. Greed. Stupidity. I just wanted someone to see this... For someone to understand."
I stepped a bit closer.
"It's not too late to retreat," I said. "While you're alive—you can influence this. For real."
He looked straight at my face. Eyes—burned out by insomnia, full of bitterness and resignation.
"What if I don't want to change anything anymore?" he slowly exhaled. "If all I have strength left for is to show what they've done?"
He wasn't waiting for an answer. He had already decided everything.
He pulled his right hand from his pocket—one sharp movement, almost imperceptible. I only managed to shout:
"Don't do this!"
But it was too late. He raised the ampoule to chest level, held his breath and, not taking his eyes off me, pressed down on the edge with his thumb. Pop—and the glass cracked.
Inside the ampoule—the red liquid substance instantly turned gaseous. It burst out like a wave. It hung in the air like haze.
I got out my respirator. Useless. In my ears—static. Radio communication choked on noise, then—cutoff. Silence. The helicopter still hadn't appeared.
The first to fall was a girl—about six years old. Her balloon, slipping from her hand, soared upward. Next—her mother, still standing with her phone raised. Then—a man reaching for his chest, as if his heart had stopped. No screaming. No panic. Just silent and instantaneous falling.
"You don't understand," he whispered. "There was no other way."
He fell to his knees—slowly, as if bowing in prayer. The ampoule rolled from his hand and froze at his foot, still exhaling red vapor.
Seconds stretched like drops of molten metal. Time froze, but the world around continued to crumble. People fell one after another. Someone tried to take a step—and froze. Someone clutched their chest. Children, adults, elderly—all without discrimination.
Sounds disappeared. Only the wind remained, rolling scraps of bags across the tiles. A metallic smell hung in the air, dense as blood in the cold. My pulse pounded in my temples, but I couldn't move. I just stood, peering into the void, but my vision faltered, wasn't stable.
Finally, belatedly, a rumble sounded somewhere overhead. A helicopter. It was late. By a minute. By an eternity.
"Scat... come in..." broke through the earpiece. The voice was hoarse, distorted. "Scat, what's your status?"
I didn't answer immediately. I just looked as gray ash with red specks settled on Hansen's clothes. He was no longer breathing.
"Failure," I said. "A leak has occurred, civilians affected. Target unconscious, affected."
I paused. Not because I didn't know what to say, but because my words now seemed meaningless.