Lustdorf slept.

  The little houses under dark rooftops lay still in the August silence. Beyond the hills stood the vineyards — black silhouettes in the pre-dawn haze. The fields smelled of dust, dry grass, and the salty breath of the estuary.

  In one of the side wings, a light flickered on. Balaban lit a lamp in the kitchen. He stood for a moment, listening. Then he put on a white shirt, a vest, pulled a straw hat over his head — and stepped into the yard.

  Officially — Fritz Steinmeier. Vintner. Lutheran. Member of the German Cultural Society. The neighbors respected him for his mild manners and good wine.

  No one knew that inside the lining of his vest was something worth sending a destroyer for.

  He walked through the dark vineyards. Quickly. But without haste. A narrow path led toward the cliff — to the sandy shore of the Sukhyi Estuary, where the ground dropped down to the water.

  By day, children played there. Fishermen cast lines. Now — only silence.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Balaban knew: there would be no second chance. The Germans don’t ask twice.

  He stopped. Listened.

  The water stirred in a ripple. First — barely a ring. Then — a shape.

  Out of the fog, like something rising from a dream, emerged the black hull of a submarine. The metal shimmered with moisture. A hatch opened. Inside — the pale, sharp face of an officer.

  — Steinmeier? — the man asked, curtly.

  — Ja, — Balaban replied, handing over the parcel.

  It was neat. Tied with twine. Sealed with wax, bearing a crest. The paper — handmade. The font — archival, precisely calibrated for the German registry.

  The coordinates inside looked flawless.

  Only, they were fake.

  The officer looked at him. Then at the parcel. He nodded. The package disappeared into the hatch.

  A wave lapped against the sand. Metal scraped. — Kontakt wird fortgesetzt? — the German asked.

  Balaban gave a small nod. — Wenn n?tig. And then, in a whisper, in Ukrainian: — Але не сьогодн?.

  The hatch closed. The submarine vanished into the dark, as if it had never been there.

  Balaban stood for a moment longer. Watching the water. The wind stirred the grass around his feet.

  He took off his hat. Wiped his brow. Then smiled. Barely.

  — Let them search the Caspian Sea…

  And turned to go.

  Behind him, the vineyards were beginning to pale with the first touch of dawn. In the east, a soft light bloomed.