Empty Class
Yekaterinburg greeted them with a gray sky, low and heavy, like a concrete slab ready to crush the city. The November wind roamed along Lenin Avenue, tearing the last yellow leaves from the poplars and hurling them under the wheels of black SUVs. Cannabis and Dot stood at the gates of old school number one hundred twenty-seven. The red-brick building still remembered Soviet times, when ideology mattered more than safety, and the walls were covered with thick, vile, vomit-green paint to hide any whisper.
They hadn't been here for a year. Since graduation. A year of study at the Agricultural Academy had changed them. Joint had grown tougher; his gaze had lost its youthful naivety, replaced by the habit of scanning the space. Dot looked tired. Life pressed hard, but that wasn't what drove them here. Memory drove them. They were driven by a desire that had introduced them and brought them closer. The desire to get some weed and smoke themselves senseless. To escape this fucking gray, withered life soaked in the stench of hatred and lies.
Marijuana. The teacher of life. The herb taught them to see cause-and-effect connections. They smoked and saw that one could live differently. It opened their eyes to the world, and then they learned that in a world without marijuana everything is tied to money and blood. And now it had disappeared.
Inside the school it smelled of old plaster and chlorine. The corridors were empty. A lesson was in progress, but the silence pressed harder than noise. The principal, a stout man with moist eyes, met them in his office. He didn't ask why they had come. He knew. He indulged himself. Sometimes with weed, sometimes with booze, and sometimes both at once.
The police had already been here. The FSB too. Interrogation reports lay on the table in a neat stack. The leads had gone cold. The last person who had marijuana left his home on Tuesday morning. Walked to the bus stop. Got on the bus. And vanished. Surveillance cameras showed only an empty seat where he should have been sitting. As if he had evaporated. The weed was gone. There was no more of it in the city. Apparently. Not from anyone. Not even the rich. Not at all.
Cannabis looked at the principal's desk. On it lay the class register. The page with the surname of the kid who sold weed had been torn out. Carelessly, with ragged edges. The principal noticed his gaze and looked away. He was afraid. Not for himself. For the fact that he knew too much.
Dot put her hand on the desk. The movement was smooth, but it stopped the principal's breath. They didn't ask permission. They took a copy of the register and left. The police were looking for the body of the schoolboy junkie. The FSB was looking for documents, traces online, combing through Telegram groups and channels. But they were looking for marijuana—or rather, not even the herb, but the idea. And they understood: if two security agencies couldn't find marijuana in a city of a million, then either it wasn't there at all, or it wasn't in the places known to them. The third option was the most interesting: it had become an asset.
Elmash. Industrial Ghost
The first stop was Elmash. A district of factories, panel buildings, and eternal dust. It had changed a lot—not over 2 years, but over the last 20. Here time flowed differently. Slower.
Cannabis was driving—an old Ford bought with money from summer practice at the academy. Dot looked out the window, noting details. She opened the car window, despite the chill, and stuck her hand out. Her little palm seemed to soar on the gusts of wind; the autumn leaves, already very sparse and dry, occasionally touched her pale skin.
In one of the courtyards, by an entrance with a battered door, they found a man. He was squatting by the entrance, smoking. His clothes were work clothes, his hands covered in machine oil, old dirt under his nails.
A local watchman or locksmith. People like that see everything. They are invisible to the system, so the system doesn't notice them.
Cannabis approached first. Without asking. He placed a pack of cigarettes on the concrete parapet. The man looked at the cigarettes, then at Cannabis. There was no question in his eyes. Only a calculation of risk.
Dot silently showed a photo on her smartphone. A plump plastic baggie in a palm, with answers to all questions. The man nodded. He had seen her. Not on Tuesday. On Monday. There was a man in a dark coat. Faceless. Hood. He spoke quietly. He looked tense. He had a black plastic bag from Krasnoe i Beloe. Not documents. Something heavy.
The locksmith pointed toward the factory. There, beyond a barbed-wire fence, stood old workshops. Some of them had been leased to Wildberries. Officially, as warehouses. Unofficially—who the hell knows what for.
Cannabis and Dot went there. The wind picked up. Metal creaked in the frost. They walked around the perimeter. There was no security. Only cameras. But the cameras looked inward, not outward. Someone wanted to hide what was happening inside, not who was entering.
They found an open vent window in the wall of the utility room. Cannabis boosted Dot up. She grunted and climbed inside. A minute later she opened the door. Inside it smelled of machine oil and old paper. On the table lay a map of the city. Points were marked on it. Elmash, Uralmash, the Station, the Center, Uktus. A route.
In the center of the map was a mark. “Ч”.
Dot photographed the map. They left as quietly as they had come. But as they were getting into the car, Cannabis noticed a black sedan on the opposite side of the street. The engine was running. Exhaust fumes swirled in the cold air. They were under surveillance. Not by the police. The cops had identification markings. These were wolves in sheep's clothing.
Cannabis started the engine. Without turning on the headlights. They pulled out slowly, not disrupting the flow. The black sedan didn't move. They were letting them go. That was worse. It meant they knew where they were going.
Uralmash. Territory of Power
Uralmash greeted them with the lights of signs and loud music from the open windows of shops. Here life was boiling, but beneath the surface lava seethed. A district where matters were settled not in courts but in stairwells.
Marijuana appeared in this district first, then gradually spread throughout the city. Uralmash is an example of social self-organization. People here stuck together. So here they could find those who really knew the truth.
The couple went into a small coffee shop near the metro. An excellent little spot—a coffee shop from a marketing standpoint: constant, unabating traffic almost around the clock. The place was neutral. Dot ordered coffee. Cannabis sat with his back to the wall. He could see the entrance. He could see the mirror reflecting the street.
A girl came up to them. A waitress. About 19. Tiredness in her eyes, but her gaze was sharp. Dot put the phone with the photo on the table. She froze. She recognized it. Of course she fucking recognized it.
She didn't say anything out loud. She took her Honor out of the back pocket of her faded jeans. She wrote in the chat: “The girl came here on Friday. With her. She was scared. She talked about a debt. Not money. A debt of honor.”
The waitress wrote one more word: “Cash.”
And pointed toward the station.
Cannabis understood. The girl owed someone big. Or someone owed her. But the word “Cash” in the context of shadow dealings meant one thing—cash. Large amounts of cash. In the era of digital transfers, cash leaves a trace only when it is physically moved.
The waitress left. A minute later their coffee was brought. On the saucer lay a key. Old, brass, from a storage locker.
Joint clenched the key in his palm. The metal was cold. They left the coffee shop. The black sedan was there again. Now it was parked closer. The headlights were off.
They got into their car. Cannabis didn't start the engine right away. He looked in the rearview mirror. Two people were sitting in the sedan. They weren't hiding. They were waiting.
“They won't take us,” Dot said. Her voice was quiet but firm.
“Because they need us,” Cannabis replied. “We're bait.”
“For whom?”
“For those waiting for us to lead them to her.”
They sat and were silent. Suddenly Cannabis slowly raised his hand, reached it toward Dot's head, and slowly began pulling her toward him. She shuddered slightly, but a second later leaned toward Cannabis and, with habitual, practiced movements, unzipped his jeans and pulled down his black briefs. She took out his cock and began habitually sucking Cannabis's cock. He leaned back against the headrest, half-closed his eyes, and watched with interest what the guys in the sedan would do. After a few minutes, Dot's movements became sharp and intense. The bobbing of her head became quite noticeable through the windshield. Dot began helping with her hand, jerking Cannabis's cock. A couple more minutes and he came. Dot continued sucking his cock for a few more minutes. She loved this business. She liked how the thick, firm cock trembled slightly in her mouth, how it tensed at the last moment and a stream of hot sperm hit her palate. At that moment she quickly swallowed the main portion of protein, then gradually sucked the remnants from his still-standing cock, helping herself with her hand, jerking his cock. She leaned back, habitually wiping her lips with the back of her hand to remove saliva and leftover sperm.
Cannabis sharply turned the steering wheel. Fuck the unzipped jeans and the cock sticking out of them. The car shot forward, breaking the rules. They rammed into the flow of traffic. Horns, shouts. The black sedan hadn't expected that. It was left behind, trapped in a stream of trucks.
They broke away. But not for long. You can't hide in this city. You can only buy time.
Station District. Chaos
A railway station is a place where people lose themselves. Thousands of faces, streams of luggage, the noise of announcements. It's easy to disappear here. And here it's also easiest to find someone who wants to be found.
The storage lockers were in the old wing. It smelled of dampness and cheap tobacco. Cannabis went to the locker with the number matching the key. Dot kept watch. She looked at the people around. Anyone could be an agent. Anyone could be a threat.
The locker opened with a heavy creak. Inside lay a bag. A duffel bag, blue. No tags.
Cannabis took out the bag. It was heavy. They went into the restroom and locked themselves in the disabled stall. It was the only place without cameras.
The guy opened the bag. Inside were bundles of money. Euros. Dollars. Rubles. A lot. More than a million. And a passport. In the name of a female citizen of Czechia.
Dot gasped. The sound was muffled, suppressed by her palm.
“What does this mean?” Dot whispered.
“Some crazy shit is going on. We were looking for a schoolboy, and here's this. This is money,” Cannabis said. “This is payment. Fuck, we wanted to buy marijuana, and here's this.”
“For what?”
“For silence. Or for a job. Probably. Hell if I know. ”
Cannabis sorted through the bundles. Inside one of them he found a note. On it were coordinates. City center. Malysheva Street. An office building. And a time. Today. 20:00.
The clock showed 18:30.
They had an hour and a half.
At that moment there was a knock on the restroom door. Not loud. Confident.
“Police. Document check. Come out.”
Cannabis glanced briefly at Dot. She nodded. They couldn't come out with the bag. They hid it behind the toilet tank. They went out.
Two uniformed men stood in the corridor. But something was off. Their boots were too new. The uniforms fit perfectly. This wasn't a patrol service. It was special forces.
“Documents,” one said. The voice was emotionless.
Cannabis held out his student ID. Dot did too.
“What are you doing here?”
“Well, we were thinking of raising the birth rate.”
The officer looked at them. Then at his phone. He called someone. Silently. Listened. Put the phone away.
“Come with us,” he said.
“What for?” Joint asked.
“To verify your identity.”
They led them toward the exit. But right at the exit another car was waiting for them. Not a police car. A civilian one. A black SUV.
The door opened. A man in a suit got out. He showed his ID. FSB.
“Let them go,” the man in the suit said. “They are our witnesses.”
The police officers exchanged glances. A conflict of interest. Local police versus the feds. A classic.
“We have orders,” the police officer began.
“Your orders are canceled,” the man in the suit interrupted. “Do you want problems with Moscow?”
The police officers backed off. Cannabis and Dot got into the FSB car. The doors slammed shut. The locks clicked.
Center. The Web
The car drove fast. There was no flashing light. They didn't want to attract attention. The man in the suit sat in front. He didn't turn around.
“That guy worked for us,” he said suddenly. His voice was calm, as if he were talking about the weather.
“Are you fucking crazy? He's a schoolboy,” Dot said.
“He's not a schoolboy but a dwarf who looked young, if you're interested. Plus a handler. He transferred funds. Through school accounts. Grants. Renovations. All of it was a cover.”
Cannabis clenched his fists.
“Where did you put him?”
“We didn't hide him. He went into hiding. When he realized the scheme had been exposed. He stole the money. The money you found.”
“Why don't you catch him yourselves?”
“Because he knows too much. If we arrest him, he'll start talking. And we need a quiet end. We thought you would lead us to him. His marijuana is the best and purest in the city. No wonder you got so fixated on finding it.”
“We're not dogs,” Joint said.
“In this country everyone is a dog. The only question is who holds the leash.”
The car stopped by a building on Malysheva. An office center. Glass and concrete.
“You have an hour,” the man in the suit said. “Find him. Or we'll find you. And then no one will help you—neither the media nor Bastrykin. More likely the opposite. ”
A harsh chuckle through his teeth.
They got out. The building was guarded. But they had a pass that the man in the suit shoved into their hand before slamming the door.
The elevator took them to the top floor. There was one office there. The door was ajar.
A light was on inside. At the desk sat a schoolboy—or rather, a dwarf. Before him stood a hookah and lay marijuana in baggies. Plump baggies, the very ones they had loved and remembered so well.
Now it was already visible that this was not a child but an adult. His face had grown gaunt. His cheekbones had sharpened, but his gaze was still sharp.
“I knew you would come,” he said. He wasn't surprised.
“Why did you disappear?” Dot asked. Her voice trembled.
“Because I saw what I shouldn't have seen. The money wasn't going to weed. It was going to war. Not the one they talk about on TV. The shadow one. To support groups. Everywhere. Here. In Europe. Where they kill, not get high.”
The dwarf stood up. He took a flash drive from the table.
“This is everything. Lists. Accounts. Names.”
“Give it to us,” Cannabis said.
“No. It's too dangerous. If you stay here, they'll kill you. Or imprison you. The FSB won't let you go with this. The police won't either. They're fighting right now for the right to arrest you.”
“What should we do?”
“Leave.”
“Where to?”
“I have contacts. In Prague. A person to whom I was supposed to hand this over from the beginning. But I got scared.”
The dwarf went to the window.
Below, the city lights blinked.
“They're already coming. You have five minutes. The stairs on the left. There's a back exit there.”
“And you?”
“I'll delay them.”
“That's suicide,” Cannabis said.
“It's a history lesson,” he smiled. “A sacrifice for the future. Go.”
“By the way, want to know my name?”
“What?” Joint asked.
“Mary Jane, at first I was a girl. ”
“Seriously?!”
“No, of course not! You've completely fucking lost it without weed, I see. All right, take these with you. They'll confiscate them anyway, the bastards.”
He pushed them toward the door. Cannabis hesitated. Dot pulled him by the sleeve. They ran.
The door slammed behind them. A second later they heard voices. Rough. Demanding.
They ran down the stairs. Ten steps. Nine. Eight. Their legs burned. Their lungs burned.
A car was waiting for them at the exit. Not the FSB. Not the police. The very one from Elmash.
The door opened. Inside sat the same man the guy from Elmash had described. But now he was in a different suit.
“Get in,” he said. “They asked us to evacuate you.”
“Who are you?” Cannabis asked.
“A friend. Or an enemy. Depends on what you decide next.”
Uktus. Point of No Return
They didn't go to the airport. The airport was closed to them. Too many cameras. Too much control.
The ride to Uktus was silent. A district of bedroom neighborhoods and private houses. It was quieter here.
The car stopped by a private house. A high fence. Cameras.
Inside the house it was empty. Only a Mac Air on the table. And a ticket.
Two tickets. Yekaterinburg–Prague. Via Moscow. Transit.
“You have four hours until the train,” the driver said. “After that, you're on your own.”
“And him?” Dot asked.
“He made his choice. Now you must make yours.”
The driver left. They were left alone. The house was cold. Cannabis went to the laptop. Turned it on. There was no password.
On the screen was a map. Czechia. Prague. The meeting point.
“Is this a trap?” Cannabis asked.
“Maybe,” Dot said. “But staying here is death. Only let's smoke first. There's marijuana, the very same, without additives. Pure. You can live.”
She took the tickets. The paper was thick. Real.
“He said the money was going to war.”
“All money goes to war,” Cannabis said. “The question is whose side you end up on.”
After smoking and relaxing, they left the house. Snow began to fall. Large, wet. It caked their eyes. They got into a taxi. They gave the station address. The driver was silent. The radio played quiet music. The news talked about stability. About successes. About order.
Cannabis looked at the city. Yekaterinburg receded behind. The lights of factories. The lights of offices. The lights of homes where people slept, not knowing that their teachers disappear and money disappears even faster.
He felt the weight of the flash drive in his pocket. He felt it only now.
Now they had not only knowledge. They had a weapon.
Border
The train started moving. The clatter of wheels was lulling. But sleeping was not allowed.
The compartment was quiet. There were no neighbors. They had bought all the seats.
Dot looked out the window. Russia was ending. Another land was beginning.
“What will we do in Prague?” she asked.
“We'll find the man,” Cannabis said.
“And if he isn't there?”
“Then we'll create him.”
Cannabis took out the flash drive. It gleamed in the light of the lamp. A little piece of plastic that could destroy the careers of generals and oligarchs.
Footsteps were heard in the corridor. Heavy. Confident.
Someone stopped at their door. A hand rested on the handle.
Cannabis looked at Dot. There was no fear in her eyes. Only determination.
The door opened.
A man stood in the doorway. In civilian clothes.
“Welcome to the club,” he said. “We've been waiting for you.”
The door closed. The train picked up speed.
Outside the window flashed the lights of a border town. The last city of Russia.
Cannabis clenched the flash drive in his palm. The metal dug into his skin.
The game was only beginning. And the rules here were different.
In Prague, freedom was not waiting for them. A new war was waiting for them. But now they had an advantage. They knew the price. And they knew the price of silence.
The train entered a tunnel. The light went out. Only the red light of the recorder remained, which Tatyana had turned on unnoticed.
The recording was running...