Through a series of doors in the building, like mysterious portals, there was a cafe. The place was intimate , with only five tables, each surrounded by a halo of soft, subdued light. And the walls were covered in maroon wallpaper with a faint oriental pattern. The air smelled of coffee.
"You know, Mark," the girl began when they were served coffee in cardboard cups, " I've been following your publications about Moscow architecture. I was particularly interested in a series of articles about apartment buildings in the early twentieth century." — Look at these pictures. These are images of the basements of several buildings in the center. Pay attention to the markings on the walls." They showed strange symbols etched into the brickwork-geometric shapes and numbers that looked like a message.
"Are these construction crew tags?" "What is it?" he asked, trying to decipher their meaning.
Kismet shook her head. — I work in the archives of the construction department. Over the past year, we have discovered a whole system of such labels in houses built in 1900-1910. They add up to a kind of map.
"A map of what?" Mark asked, not quite sure what he was talking about, but already feeling his interest begin to turn into excitement.
- Presumably, underground communication systems. But what is interesting is that the official plans of that period show a completely different location of the tunnels. Also, "she pulled out another document," look at the dates. Placemarks appeared earlier than the official city communications system was built.
Mark studied the papers carefully, his mind whirling as he tried to piece together the disparate pieces of the puzzle. — And what do you think?" "What is it?" he asked, staring at the table littered with photographs and documents that seemed to breathe history.
— I believe that at the beginning of the century there was a parallel network of underground structures. Perhaps a private initiative of merchant families or something related to industrial espionage. But most importantly, some of these tunnels still exist. And they are actively used.
"And by whom?"
"That's what we need to find out," Kismet said, lowering her voice. — In recent months, cases of strange activity have become more frequent in these areas: movement at night, sounds of working equipment. Officially, no work is being done there. I have access to archives and building plans. You have journalistic connections and investigative experience. Together we could...
"Solve a century-old city mystery?" Mark interrupted with a grin, but there was a clear excitement in his eyes.
"Exactly," she said, as if she didn't notice his smirk, and she didn't change her tone.
Mark took a slow sip from his glass, inhaling the aroma of cooling coffee. His gaze lingered on Kismet's slender fingers as they slid lightly over the rim of her glass. A thin silver ring with an unusual pattern on her index finger glinted in the warm light of the lamp hanging over their table. The story she told was fascinating, but something about it made him uneasy, like a lingering shadow on a sunny day. Mark found himself mesmerized not only by the story that hid ancient secrets waiting to be revealed beneath the surface of the Earth, but also by the narrator herself - her graceful movements and the light scent of violet perfume. There was something about her that reminded me of the heroines of noir movies – mysterious women who brought not only secrets to detective stories, but also inevitable death.
"Let's assume I agree," he said, trying to keep his voice professional. — Where do you propose to start?
Kismet, with a serene expression on her chiseled face, spread out a large map of the center of Moscow on the table. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose bun, revealing her slender neck, and Mark had to concentrate hard on the map.
"Right here," she said, leaning closer to the map, which made her perfume feel sharper, " is a building in the Maroseika district. This is the oldest label we found. It is in this area that strange activity most often occurs. I suggest you start here.
Mark leaned forward involuntarily, studying the spot indicated. Maroseyka is one of the oldest districts in Moscow, where every paving stone remembers hundreds of stories. A place where the past and present are most closely intertwined.
— What kind of activity? Mark felt his interest grow stronger, like a flame fanned by the wind. He took out his battered leather-bound notebook, a faithful companion to all his investigations.
"The locals complain about the noise at night," Kismet said softly, as if afraid of being overheard. - Trucks arrive after midnight, take out something or bring it in. When the police arrive, no one is there. At the same time, no official permits were issued for night work.
Mark opened his notebook, and the worn leather cover creaked under his fingers as usual. Over the years of journalistic work, these pages have absorbed dozens of stories – some turned out to be empty, others led to sensational revelations.
"And the owners of the building?" "What is it?" he asked, ready to register the information. The fountain pen hovered over the blank sheet like an arrow on a taut bowstring.
"An offshore company," Kismet said, a hint of disappointment in her voice, " I've been trying to trace it - the chain goes through three countries and ends in Cyprus.
"Classic," Mark chuckled, adrenaline pumping through his veins.
"Yes, it's a classic money laundering scheme, but" - she paused significantly - " there's something more interesting.
— What else?"
Kismet leaned even closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. Her long pendant earrings clanked softly.
— There is a man, a former employee of the construction department. Vorontsov Mikhail. He worked there in the eighties, remodeling basements. She pulled a photograph out of her leather bag. "Here it is, third from the left. He says that he can tell you a lot of interesting things, but only in person.
Mark studied the picture carefully: a group of construction workers standing in front of the same building, all in work clothes, smiling. The photo is yellowed with age, but the faces are clearly distinguishable.
— And where can we find him?" Mark made a note in his notebook, carefully writing out Vorontsov's name.
— I've already found out. He lives out of town, in Pushkino. Private small house on the outskirts, almost near the forest. Kismet pulled out a piece of paper with an address on it. — I've made an appointment for tomorrow. He agreed to see us, but only in the morning.
Mark leaned back in his chair, letting the story take shape in his mind like a sculpture carved out of marble. It was no longer just a story, but a potential journalistic investigation.
"All right," he finally said, looking intently into Kismet's eyes. — I'm in." But let's agree: no self-activity, we will act deliberately. I have enough experience to know that such stories can be dangerous.
Kismet smiled, and her smile was like a promise. At that moment, a ray of setting sun shone through the window, painting her profile in golden tones. — I'll meet you at the Yaroslavsky train station tomorrow at ten?" she started to pack her things, carefully putting the documents in her women's bag.
"Agreed." he followed her up, putting the notebook back in his inside pocket.
When they left the cafe, evening Moscow had already turned on its lights. As Kismet draped a dark blue coat over her shoulders, Mark said to her, " By the way, why did you decide to call me?"
Kismet hesitated for a moment, her eyes thoughtful, like a cat watching a bird.
"Let's just say. You are not the only one who follows other people's posts. Your article from two years ago about underground casinos in historic buildings... You then dug very deep. And most importantly-they brought the matter to the end.
Mark frowned. It had cost him a few sleepless weeks and a couple of explicit warnings, but the result had been worth it. Without answering, he took the phone out of his pocket. "Let me call you a taxi," he said.
"Thanks, but I'm driving," she said, pointing to a black BMW parked nearby. — I can give you a ride."
Mark shook his head. I need to think, clear my head. The story you told... it requires reflection.
"Tomorrow at ten," Kismet said, opening the car door. "And, Mark... take your camera with you. I think we'll need it.
She slid behind the wheel and the car slid smoothly into traffic, leaving Mark alone with his thoughts and growing unease. He took out his cigarettes – a habit he couldn't shake, especially in times of stress.
See you tomorrow, he thought, turning up the collar of his coat. Mark could feel himself being overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. His professional instincts screamed danger, but something else, something deeper and more irrational, drew him to this mysterious woman and her story. Evening Moscow greeted him with a chilly March wind and drizzling rain. Raindrops glistened in the streetlamp light, turning the city into a blurry watercolor. Tomorrow promised to be the beginning of something unusual. And it wasn't just the mysterious building on Maroseiki - the image of Kismet, her enigmatic smile and deep gaze had been on his mind all the way home.
As the late-night subway hummed and rumbled away, carrying him home, and snatches of today's conversation spun in his head, forming a bizarre mosaic, the phone vibrated several times in his pocket. A message from an unknown number popped up as a notification on the screen, and then it was gone before he could read it. However, it didn't really bother him right now that he didn't recognize its contents. One thing he knew for sure: this story was either going to be his best material, or... He chose not to think about the second possibility.