In the dim light of the lantern, which, like a tired guard, guarded its tiny patch of darkness amid the centuries-old dust and dampness of the dungeon, Kismet continued her story. Her voice echoed off the walls like an echo of the past, mixing with the drops of water that fell monotonously somewhere in the depths of the tunnel.
"My uncle wasn't just an archaeologist," she began, pulling out a battered photograph of a middle - aged man with a shrewd eye and neatly trimmed beard.
— He was obsessed with the idea of an ancient underground civilization near Moscow. He believed that all these tunnels were not just utilities, but part of a huge complex built long before the foundation of the city, where the first bell on Kremlin Square rang.
Mark studied the photograph carefully, noting how the man's features were reflected in Kismet herself - the same piercing eyes, the same determined chin. — And what did he find?" "What is it?" he asked, handing the photo back.
"He's been working on deciphering these symbols for the last three years," Kismet said, running her hand over the cold surface of the wall, where the lantern light revealed strange markings. "He said they looked like ancient writing, but they didn't look like any known alphabet. And then - " she paused, as if gathering her thoughts.
At that moment, somewhere in the depths of the tunnel, there was a strange sound-like metal grinding on stone. Mark instinctively looked in that direction, but all he saw was the endless darkness of the corridor.
"We need to keep going," Kismet whispered, rising. "His notes mentioned the great hall ahead. There must be something important there.
They moved forward, their footsteps echoing in the void. The tunnel, like a living organism, gradually expanded, slowly opening its arms. They soon noticed that the walls here were different - smoother, as if polished by time. The symbols on them became increasingly frequent and complex.
"Look out! Mark suddenly exclaimed, pointing to a small niche in the wall. It contained an old leather bag covered in dust. Kismet ran to her, hands shaking with excitement as she undid the cracked straps.
"This is his," she whispered, pulling a small notebook out of the belly of her bag. "His field diary.
Mark moved closer, using the flashlight on his phone to light up the pages. The handwriting was small but legible, and the pages were covered with diagrams and drawings of symbols. The last entry was dated three months earlier:
"January 15. I think I finally understood the meaning of the central symbol. It's not just a sign — it's a key. Everything indicates that there is more to the city than just a tunnel system. The ancient builders left something here... something that can change our understanding of history. I have to go deeper. If I'm right, the main hall should be..."
The recording ended there.
"There's something else here," Mark said, catching a glimpse of something at the bottom of the bag in the lamplight. It was an ancient compass in a brass case, but its needle pointed away from the north.
"This is no ordinary compass," Kismet whispered, holding it up.
- Look at the symbols around the edge. They are the same as on the walls.
Suddenly, there was a thud somewhere up ahead, followed by the sound of rocks crumbling. Mark instinctively pushed Kismet against the wall, blocking it with his body. The air was thick with the smell of damp and something else-ancient, forgotten.
— Is someone there?" he whispered, peering into the darkness.
"No," Kismet said, her voice shaking. "It's a system. The tunnels have their own life. My uncle wrote about it - they seem to breathe, move. Some passageways only open at certain times.
They continued on, more cautiously now. The compass in Kismet's hands glowed faintly, its needle pointing steadily ahead. The tunnel began to descend smoothly, the air getting wetter and heavier.
"Tell me more about your uncle," Mark said, trying to distract them both from the oppressive silence. — How did he start doing this research?
Kismet paused, as if collecting her thoughts.
"It started in the nineties," she finally said. — Then he worked in the Historical Museum, dealing with ancient artifacts. Once he came across a strange object - a locket, similar to the one I have. It was found during the demolition of an old house on Maroseyka...
Her story was interrupted as the tunnel widened abruptly ahead, opening into a large hall. In the lamplight, they saw something that took their breath away. The walls of the hall were covered with intricate symbols forming intricate patterns. In the center was a stone structure that looked like an altar or pedestal.
"Oh my God," Mark breathed, pointing the flashlight beam at the walls. "It's unbelievable.
Kismet walked slowly to the central plinth. A complex map-like diagram was etched on its surface. In the center was a recess that exactly repeated the shape of the medallion.
"That's what he was looking for," she whispered, pulling out the locket. — It's not just a piece of jewelry — it's a key.
Mark noticed that her hands were shaking as she held the locket to the recess. He touched her shoulder gently. — Are you sure it's safe?"
Kismet turned to look at him, and in the dim light of the streetlamp, he saw the same obsession in her eyes that he'd seen in her uncle's photograph. "I need to find out what happened to him," she said quietly. "I need to understand what he found here."
Before Mark could say anything, she slid the locket into the recess. There was a soft click, and the locket fitted perfectly into the recess. For a moment nothing happened, but then the symbols on the walls began to glow with a faint bluish light, as if electric shocks were running through them. The glow grew more intense, forming intricate patterns that seemed to spiral towards the center of the hall.
"Unbelievable," Mark whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene. The air in the room began to vibrate, filling with a low hum that seemed to come from the walls themselves.
Kismet stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the pedestal, where the medallion now pulsed in time with the symbols on the walls. "Look," she said, pointing to the surface of the pedestal, where new lines began to appear, forming a complex map.
— This.".. Is this Moscow? Mark leaned closer, studying the drawing that was beginning to appear. "But something else...
"Ancient," Kismet finished for him. "What the city looked like centuries ago. Look at these lines - they show a tunnel system that is much more complex than we thought.
Suddenly, the hum grew louder, and a section of the wall to their right began to slowly slide back, revealing a passage that hadn't been there before. Cold air rushed into the hall, bringing with it the smell of time and mystery.
Kismet shone a beam of light from the phone's flashlight into the opening. In its light, they saw a small room filled with antique cabinets and tables covered with the dust of centuries.
They entered cautiously. On one of the desks was a stack of yellowed papers covered with small handwriting. Kismet took the top sheet carefully.
"It's his handwriting." "My uncle was here.
Mark went to one of the cabinets, inside which were dozens of folders with documents and old photographs. "It looks like a research archive," he said, carefully sorting through the papers.
Kismet began to read the notes. — All his research, all his findings... Look, here are the records of the first expedition in the nineties.
She took out a battered notebook and opened it:
"September 12, 1993. Today, everything has changed. What we found during the excavations at Maroseyka exceeds all my expectations. The locket is just the beginning. The symbols on it indicate the existence of an ancient system, much more complex and developed than we could have imagined. Moscow is built on a foundation of secrets, and I'm just beginning to understand the scale of them. The authorities must not know about this, at least not yet. Too many people are interested in keeping these secrets buried. But I can't stop. Each new symbol, each deciphered inscription brings me closer to the solution. Something ancient is awakening beneath the streets of the city, and I need to find out what it is..."
Kismet turned the page, but the next entries were blurred with moisture, making the text almost unreadable. "There must be something else here," she continued to search through the papers.
Mark, meanwhile, found an old camera and a box of films on one of the shelves. He held one of the photographs up to the light. It showed the moment of the excavation: a group of people in work clothes were standing around some object partially hidden by the ground.
"This is an expedition from' 93, " Kismet said, peering at the photograph. - Here is my uncle, and next to him... next to him is a man in a suit. I don't know him, but judging by the records, it was after his appearance that the problems started.
Suddenly, the lights of their lanterns began to flicker, and the hum coming from the main hall changed its tone. "Something's going on," Mark said, turning to leave.
Kismet began quickly putting the papers back in her bag. — All the answers are here, but we don't have much time.
They hurried back to the main hall, where the symbols on the walls were now pulsing with menacing intensity. The medallion on the pedestal vibrated more and more.
Kismet reached for the locket, but Mark grabbed her arm.
"Wait!" We don't know what might happen...
The moment Kismet's fingers touched the locket, the entire space around them seemed to shake. The symbols on the walls flashed with a blinding light, then began to fade out one by one, like the stars before dawn. The locket yielded unexpectedly easily, as if it was trying to get back to its owner.
"Run!" Mark shouted, grabbing Kismet's arm. The vaults of the dungeon began to shake, small stones rained down from above, heralding a possible collapse.
They rushed out of the hall, winding through corridors that now seemed completely different - as if the very geometry of space had changed after activating an ancient mechanism. Kismet clutched her bag of documents tightly to her chest, and the locket in her palm continued to emit a faint glow, as if to indicate the way.
"Turn left!" "Stop it!" she shouted, yanking hard on Mark's arm. In the next instant, a section of the ceiling behind them collapsed, blocking the way back.
They ran, panting from the dust and exertion, until they finally saw the familiar turn leading to the exit. With a final push, they were on the surface, falling to their knees in the rain-soaked grass. There was a dull rumble behind them as the entrance to the dungeon finally collapsed.
— Are you all right?" Mark turned to Kismet,who was still clutching their find.
"Yes... yes, I think so," she slowly unclenched her fingers, looking at the ancient artifact. In the moonlight, you could see that the symbols on its surface had changed - some lines became clearer, others, on the contrary, almost disappeared.
"We need to get out of here," Mark said, helping her to her feet. "People will be here soon - the noise must have attracted attention.
They quickly left the site of the collapse, disappearing into the night streets of Moscow. It wasn't until they were safely inside the small 24-hour cafe that they could finally catch their breath and inspect their finds.
Kismet carefully laid out the saved documents on the table. "Look," she said, pointing to one of the notes, dated September 1993:
"Something strange happened today. After the discovery of the medallion, a man who introduced himself as an employee of the Ministry of Culture came to our excavations. Georgy Pavlovich Severov - that's what he called himself. But something about it is alarming. His interest in our findings seems too personal. He was particularly interested in the symbols on the medallion and their possible connection to ancient dungeon maps. After his visit, I noticed surveillance. Someone is clearly watching the expedition. I had to move the most important finds to a safe place. I'm afraid we've touched on something more than just an archaeological mystery. These symbols add up to a system, a message. But to whom is it intended? And why now?
P.S. I received a strange email today. No signature, just the symbol - the same as on the medallion. The letter contains coordinates and a warning: "Some secrets must remain buried. For the greater good of all."
Mark studied the notes carefully. "This Severov... the name sounds familiar. I think I met him in the old newspaper archives when I was working on an article about the Moscow Metro construction company.
"Really?" Kismet looked up from her paperwork. — What do you know about him?"
"A little. He held some sort of ministry post in the nineties, but then suddenly disappeared from the public eye. The last mention I found of him was in 1995, just as the strange events in the subway began...
Kismet pulled out a photograph of a man in a suit next to her uncle. "That's him. I remember that day when I was very young. My uncle came home very worried, and spent the whole night writing in his study. A week later, he began to prepare a cache for finds.
She turned a page in her diary:
"September 15, 1993. Severov again came to the excavations. This time there were plainclothes men with him - obviously not archaeologists. They were interested in a particular area, as if they knew exactly what they were looking for. Something's not right here. The story of the medallion is much deeper than it seems at first glance. Today I found a reference to a similar artifact in the old monastery records of the XVII century. It spoke of "keys of the underground city" and "guardians of the seal".
Tomorrow I will meet with Father Mikhail from the Novospassky monastery - he promised to show me some ancient documents. I hope this sheds some light on the mystery of symbols."
"September 16, 1993. The meeting with Father Mikhail was more significant than I could have imagined. An old monk took me to the monastery's ancient book depository, where outsiders are rarely allowed. Among the yellowed manuscripts, he showed me a document dated 1666 - " The Legend of the underground City and its guardians."
According to these records, there was a whole network of secret shelters and temples near Moscow, created long before the city was founded. They were guarded by a certain brotherhood - the "Guardians of the Seal". They used special symbols to indicate safe paths and secret entrances. The medallion we found was apparently one of the keys that allowed you to activate ancient mechanisms. But the most striking thing is that Father Michael hinted that the descendants of these guardians still exist, continuing their ministry. They hide among ordinary people, sometimes occupying very high positions."
Kismet stopped reading and looked at Mark. - Now it is clear why Severov appeared. They knew about the locket. They were waiting for him to be found. "But why?" Mark fiddled thoughtfully with his cup of cold coffee.
— What's so important about these dungeons and monks?"
Kismet pulled out another document, not a diary entry this time, but an official report of some sort. — It's a geological survey done in the early nineties. Look at this data-abnormal electromagnetic field indicators at certain points under the city. And they all add up to some kind of pattern.
Suddenly, a shadow flickered outside the cafe window, making them both jump. But it was just a late passerby.
"We need to find a safe place," Mark said. "Where we can study all the documents in peace."
Kismet nodded, gathering up her papers. — I have an idea. She took out the locket and placed it on the table next to the map of modern Moscow. In the dim light of the cafe, the symbols on its surface seemed to flicker faintly, as if reacting to the proximity of the map.
She began to trace the locket over the map. - Some symbols become brighter in certain places. It's like he's looking for something.
Mark leaned closer, their heads almost touching. Kismet smelled fresh, like a sea breeze mixed with the scent of old books. He found the smell oddly soothing and exciting at the same time.
Her voice snapped him out of his reverie. The medallion stopped over the Kitay-Gorod area. - This is where the symbols glow the most.
"But this is -" Mark looked at the map spread out on the worn oilcloth of the cafe - " This is the territory of an old shopping complex. It is now being reconstructed for some elite club.
Kismet smiled, and a gleam of excitement came into her eyes. — And in three days there will be a closed event-a big masquerade ball for the city's elite. And among the invited guests will be someone who might know more about my uncle's disappearance. George Serov.
"Serov?" As if waking from a long dream, Mark remembered the name from his diary. — The same person from the Ministry of Culture who came to the excavations after finding the medallion? A waitress in a washed — out apron poured them a third cup of cold coffee. "Yes," Kismet said, pulling out a fresh printout of the gossip column from her folder. The contrast between old documents and modern printing was almost blasphemous. The photo showed a tall man with a commanding face and a cold stare among the garish messages about the closed event-After all these years of silence, he was back in public. Now he's posing as a major developer who's redeveloping historic buildings in central Moscow, "her fingers tapped on the table, beating out a ragged rhythm like a drum announcing a storm," but I'm sure that's just a cover story. According to his uncle's notes, he wrote about it with fear, and he was not interested in the buildings themselves, but in what is under them.
Mark rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully, his eyes darting to the digs spread out on the table. The dim glow of an old fluorescent lamp gave their makeshift headquarters for two a surreal look,
— Now what?" What's the plan?
Kismet rose from the table, her silhouette reflected in the cafe window overlaid with the night-time urban landscape.
"A plan? she smiled bitterly, and it was a grin that held all the determination she'd accumulated over the years. — Over the past five years, I have collected a whole file on Severov's past. His every appearance, every transaction, every project, these are all threads in one big web. He's like a spider, methodically weaving his connections and influence around the city.
She pulled another folder out of her bag, a newer one with the glossy logo of a well-known event agency. — I have a contact among the organizers of the ball. The girl who handles the guest list and passes. She can take us there.
Mark raised an eyebrow, his fingers automatically touching the locket on the table. The ancient metal felt warm, almost alive.
— You're suggesting we sneak into a private event full of powerful people and probably some serious security?"
— Do we have any other choice?" Kismet spread out a new blueprint on her desk, a modern building plan overlaid with an old basement layout. "Look, here, under the main hall where the ball will be held, there used to be an old merchant's basement. But on modern plans it is absent. He just disappeared, as if he'd never existed. And it is at this point "- her finger rested on the map - " that the locket points to something important.
The moonlight filtering through the window made a strange play of shadows on the spread-out documents. Mark felt a chill run down his spine.
"Suppose we get inside. What's next? We don't even know what we're looking for.
Kismet opened her diary to a page of sketches of strange symbols. - My uncle wrote about the system of signs, about the message. He believed that the locket was not just an ornament, but a key. And judging by how insistently Severov had tried to get it back at the dig, he knew it, too.
A watering machine passed outside the window, momentarily drowning out their conversation with the sound of running water. The neon sign for 24 hours reflected in the puddles, turning the tables by the window a ghostly red.
"A fancy dress ball is the perfect cover. Everyone is wearing masks, everyone is playing other people's roles. We'll just be two more actors in this play.
Mark shook his head, trying to wrap his head around the scale of the adventure. Thoughts swarmed like anxious bees, buzzing with warnings and doubts. Every time he thought this story couldn't get any crazier, it brought a new surprise.
— What if your contact fails?" his voice was deeper than usual, as if all the worries of the past few days had gathered in his throat. "Or will security notice something's wrong?" Automatically, he ran a finger along the edge of the locket, as if trying to find answers to his doubts in the ancient artifact.
Kismet began to carefully put the documents back in her bag, her movements precise and confident, like someone used to acting on a plan. — We have three days to prepare. You need to think through everything from costumes to escape routes.
"Three days," Mark echoed, watching her methodically sort through the papers. There was a certain mesmerizing grace in her actions, as if she were performing a long-rehearsed dance. — And how exactly do you envision ours?".. an appearance at the ball?
The corners of her mouth twitched in a smile like the curve of a new moon.
"Oh, that's the easiest part, we're going to be a couple in love," she said so lightly, as if she was just suggesting that we cross the street instead of playing a dangerous game. A young successful businessman and his companion are such people at such events as drops of water in the sea. They are everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Perfect cover.
Mark felt a telltale heat rise in his cheeks. The thought of pretending to be a couple with Kismet caused a strange feeling in his chest — a mixture of excitement and anticipation that he tried very hard to ignore.
— And you think they'll believe us?" he tried to hide his awkwardness with skepticism, but his voice cracked treacherously on the last word.
"They'll believe us if we believe them," she smiled, and in the dim light of the cafe, it seemed particularly mysterious to Mark. - Tomorrow we will start with the selection of wardrobe. You need to look perfect, at such events, appearance is not just clothes, it is the first line of defense.
Outside the window, a light rain began to fall, turning the lights of the city at night into a blur of watercolors. Mark watched the drops trickle down the glass, forming intricate patterns that bore a striking resemblance to the symbols in Uncle Kismet's diary.
"You know —" he said slowly, watching the natural calligraphy, " there's something of the old detective novels in all of this. Masquerade, secrets, ancient artifacts...
"But unlike the novels, our opponents are real," Kismet said, zipping up her bag and getting up from the table. — And they won't play by the rules." In their game, the stakes are measured not by the pages of a book, but by human lives.