The library’s second floor echoed with emptiness at 7:30 AM. Azamat slipped past the reception desk, exchanging a curt nod with the elderly librarian who hunched over her crossword puzzle. Dim bulbs did little to offset the dark morning beyond through tall windows. The air smelt of decaying paper and polish. He veered left, footfalls muffled on worn carpet as he approached the history section.

  His fingertips skimmed the book spines until they halted at the correct volume—Soviet Economic Achievements 1960-1975. The book surrendered from its slot, the heft of its binding now familiar. Pages eighty-six and eighty-seven: a precisely folded note nestled in the gutter.

  Irina’s handwriting slashed across the paper in hurried Cyrillic: “Remember, we need three extra units minimum.”

  His gut clenched. Three more Hitachi processors. The words bored into his brain like drill bits. He pocketed the note and eased the book back into formation.

  Paper notes hidden in forgotten Soviet economics texts—their lifeline since discovering the heightened stakes two weeks previous. No digital footprints. No electronic traces. Just yellowed pages and fading ink.

  Dmitri Petrovich’s disappearance left his supply chain shattered. Six calls from three different phone booths, each answered by the same robotic disavowal. Without Petrovich, Project Chimera’s lifeblood dried up.

  Oleg’s business card scorched through the fabric of his pocket. The promised memory controllers never appeared, but the man kept calling. Questions about industrial systems that felt just a little too specific.

  He squared his shoulders and strode toward the stairwell, each footstep heavier than the last.

  Four blocks from Tverskaya, two hours later, Azamat hunched over his battered ledger in Café Moskva. The winter sunlight carved sharp across the table, dust motes dancing in air thick with burnt coffee and the ghost of stale piroshki.

  His Nokia 3310 glowed beside the ledger with his sister’s message: “Had to miss three days of lectures. Doctor says kidneys showing strain. Need additional tests. 17,000?. Sorry brother.”

  Component numbers marched in formation, flanked by their corresponding prices. He paused to consult a battered datasheet, squinting at specs, then resumed, his compact script betraying a tremble.

  The café’s quiet held three pensioners cradling cold tea, a lone businessman, and Azamat with his island of calculations.

  The Nokia vibrated—“Oleg K.” Third call in an hour. Azamat’s pencil hovered, sunburned nose wrinkling. He set the phone aside, refocusing on rising supplier prices—Nichicons up, and without Petrovich, HD64180 processors nearly impossible to source at any price.

  The total mocked him from beneath a harsh line, the graphite cutting deep into the paper. Nowhere near enough for both the project and sister both.

  He flipped to a clean page, mapped out another allocation. Perhaps if ToAZ would agree a partial advance…

  “More tea?” The café owner appeared beside him without warning, a fresh steaming cup already replacing his empty one. Yulia Stepanovna, who served tea through the fall of empires, studied Azamat’s face with an assessment reflecting her experience.

  “Thank you.” He nodded, eyes fixed on figures. “I didn’t order—”

  “You’ve been here four hours. Your lips are dry.” She gestured to his phone. “That rings and you ignore it? Problems at home?”

  “Just business.”

  Yulia’s eyes flickered to his ledger. “My husband kept books like that. Very neat. Very precise. Always when bills came that we couldn’t pay.”

  Azamat’s pencil froze mid-calculation. The television mounted in the café’s corner flared—a reporter standing before crowds queuing, their breath visible in the Kazan winter. A sign taped in a shop window reading: “No bread. No flour.”

  “Громче, пожалуйста,” Yulia called to her nephew behind the counter. The volume increased, the reporter’s voice cutting through the café’s morning murmur.

  “—third week of shortages across central Russia. Officials blame transport, analysts point to failed harvests and fertiliser plant failures—”

  The camera cut to massive horizontal white tanks labeled “Anhydrous Ammonia.” Technicians in blue coveralls swarmed over corroded piping, replacing a section with urgent motion.

  “That’s Acron,” Azamat said under his breath, already thinking ahead to the afternoon: second meeting with their procurement manager, and with luck, just as desperate.

  “—production down, prices could triple by spring—”

  The Nokia rattled again: Oleg.

  A government spokesman appeared, voice dismissive: “Temporary technical difficulties. Targets will be met.”

  Azamat circled a figure in the ledger. Diverting three processors to Chimera as originally planned left him eight thousand short for Aijan.

  He drew a cloth-wrapped package from his messenger bag—barely two hundred grams, precious beyond weight. Six Hitachi HD64180s gleamed in the morning sun. He laid them out: four and two.

  Each sold to ToAZ meant three thousand more for Aijan. The TV droned on about shortages, prices.

  “More tea?” Yulia’s voice broke his focus.

  Azamat shifted his palm over the chips. “No, thank you.”

  She lingered, studying his careful rows. “Such tiny things to trouble a man so.”

  “Just inventory,” he murmured.

  The television above the counter continued its flicker, the Minister for Agriculture’s face discernible through static. Microphones clustered around him like metal insects.

  “We will ensure this won’t repeat 1998.”

  Azamat’s spoon paused midair. Memories rushed back—empty dorm fridges, classmates disappearing to queue for bread, Mathematics lectures attended through the fog of hunger.

  He glanced at the room—no one seemed to notice. Conversation rolled on as if scarcity belonged only to the past.

  His calculator clattered beneath his thumb. No combination balanced the equation. Aijan needed the money now.

  He entered figures again. If ToAZ confirmed their order by Thursday, if he delayed his rent payment… Still short. Always short.

  On television, the minister gestured at empty silos, posture rehearsed. Azamat recognised his father’s old expression—promising food tomorrow.

  He laid Irina’s note onto a saucer, touched his lighter to it. The paper curled and blackened, leaving only ash that he stirred into his remaining tea. Yulia watched from behind the counter but said nothing.

  His answer for Irina would be no. Without treatment, Aijan…

  Azamat glimpsed his hesitant reflection in the back bar mirror. He straightened his back, adjusted his tie, set his papers into a neat stack. ToAZ’s buyer would arrive in twenty minutes. After that, a second meeting with Acron.

  Sergei Mikhailovich dwarfed the café’s wrought-iron chair, his massive shoulders straining the seams of his factory-issue jacket. He unfurled technical diagrams with hands nicked and scarred from decades in the plant.

  “Look.” His finger stabbed a red-circled control node. “Americans sold us these SCADA PLCs five years ago.” The acronym dripped with contempt. “Minus twenty, guaranteed—then the first Moscow freeze, CPUs die and ammonia regulators seize.” His grip crushed the coffee cup. “Now we’re blind. Pressure sensors dead. Flow meters inventing numbers.”

  Azamat clutched his notebook closer, its figures diminishing beneath Sergei’s raw anger.

  “We built better in the seventies,” Sergei extracted a crumpled cigarette. “Ours lasted. Not this Western trash.” He jabbed the frost-ruined control circuit in the diagram. “They designed it to fail.”

  The café TV muttered again about grain shortages. On paper, a simple fix. In life—with western ICs vanished in the wake of FSB raids and government propaganda trumpeting self-reliance—never so.

  Azamat retrieved an HD64180 processor from his bag, handing it to Sergei. The engineer cradled the ceramic package between thick fingers, examining it under the light like a fence appraising stolen goods. With unexpected gentleness, his weathered thumb moved across the surface.

  “When manufactured?” Sergei squinted at the markings.

  “October 1993. Batch H-7729.” The numbers sprang from Azamat’s memory.

  “Same source as Ivanov’s units?”

  The name cut through the air. Azamat’s heart hammered against his ribs. Viktor Ivanov—a name to avoid, particularly with FSB agents prowling the markets. He twisted sideways, shielding his notebook from view.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “Ten megahertz operation guaranteed with proper cooling.” Azamat focused on specifications. “Military-grade. Operates from minus forty to eighty-five Celsius.”

  Sergei grunted, acknowledging the technical merits while noting the evasion.

  Red ink screamed from Azamat’s notebook: rent marked ‘14 days late,’ Aijan’s medical expenses, and the Pentagon V3 Ultra component list. Two competing columns waged war across the page—project demands versus family needs.

  “So.” Sergei set the processor down. “Forty percent above market, Thursday delivery. How many can you provide?”

  “I can do six.” He fought to keep his voice level. “Payment terms?”

  “Net-30, standard,” Sergei replied, taking a gulp of his cooling tea.

  The words hit Azamat like a bucket of Moscow winter. Aijan needed those tests this week, not a month from now. He swallowed hard.

  “Five percent discount for immediate wire transfer,” he countered, the words rushing out unpolished.

  Sergei’s bushy eyebrows lifted. The engineer set down his cup, studying Azamat with new interest.

  “Heard some interesting news this morning,” Sergei said, stirring his tea with deliberate slowness. “FSB conducted a sweep near Tekstilshchiki. Electronics dealer. Petrovich.”

  The revelation hit Azamat like electric current. His mouth dried instantly, but he maintained a neutral expression, fingers steady as he reached for his own cup.

  “Seized a mountain of Western parts. Arrested everyone inside.” Sergei’s eyes locked onto Azamat’s. “Counterfeit Intel chips, they said. Americans complaining about trademark violations.”

  Azamat sipped his tea, buying precious seconds. Petrovich detained. Primary supplier gone. His name on two manifests. That’s how files start.

  “Business is complicated these days,” Azamat offered with a shrug. “Quality control issues everywhere.”

  If Petrovich talked—when Petrovich talked—how many names would surface? How long until they trace the processors?

  “How many units can you deliver today?” Sergei asked, the abrupt topic shift catching Azamat unprepared. “Not next week. Today.”

  “Three immediately,” Azamat replied automatically. “Perhaps three more by Wednesday.”

  “Each day without those processors costs us 800,000 roubles in production losses.” Sergei leaned forward. “The ammonia cooling system fails, pressure builds, we shut down. No ammonia, no fertilizer. No fertilizer, no crops next season.”

  “I understand,” Azamat recalculated rapidly. Aijan’s treatments, Project Chimera, his own rent—all precarious plates spinning above him. “Four units now. Cash transfer today?”

  “Cash on delivery isn’t possible,” Sergei said, thick finger tapping the circuit diagram. “Corporate accounting protocols.”

  Azamat’s stomach tightened. His sister’s message lingered in his thoughts: 17,000?. Sorry brother.

  “But if your parts are as good as you claim…” Sergei continued.

  “Perhaps a deposit?” Azamat cut in, his tone sharper than intended. “Fifty percent today, fifty on delivery?”

  Nervously, his fingers drummed on the notebook where he’d underlined “WESTERN UNION - BY 17:00” three times in red ink. He quickly covered the writing with his palm.

  Sergei’s eyes narrowed as he examined Azamat with fresh scrutiny. “Financial trouble, Izmaylov? Maybe I should talk to other suppliers.”

  Taking measured breaths, Azamat composed himself. They both knew there were no other suppliers—not for genuine HD64180s, not since Petrovich’s disappearance. But he couldn’t gamble on Sergei’s sense of pride or propriety.

  “No trouble,” Azamat said, modulating his voice to its usual pitch. “Just business efficiency.”

  The phone vibrated again—Oleg’s fourth call. Ignoring it, Azamat kept his eyes locked on Sergei.

  Above them, the television continued its grim broadcast—bread lines forming in Nizhny Novgorod. Babushkas with plastic bags, young mothers with children in tow, all queuing for basic necessities.

  Glancing up at the screen, then back to Azamat, something shifted behind Sergei’s eyes—a calculation, a recognition.

  “Twenty-five percent deposit,” he said finally. “Today. Rest on delivery and successful testing.”

  Azamat ran the numbers: Twenty-five percent meant just enough for Aijan—if he skipped meals for the week and delayed rent again.

  “Four today,” Azamat said firmly. “The rest on Thursday.”

  Sergei’s face creased. “Four units will get two cooling systems operational. Not ideal, but enough to bring those lines up.”

  Relief washed through Azamat. Quickly sketching delivery details in his notebook, he divided the remaining stock: four for ToAZ, two still allocated to Project Chimera. Now accompanied by a small question mark.

  They shook on it. After closing his notebook, Azamat tucked it carefully into his jacket pocket. The weight of decision settled within him—a compromise satisfying no one completely, yet preserving possibilities for another week.

  The Sberbank’s automatic doors wheezed shut as Azamat stepped into the biting December air. Between his fingers, the yellow Western Union receipt crinkled, thermal paper radiating fresh warmth. Seventeen thousand roubles to Bishkek. The sum covered kidney tests and a week’s medication for Aijan.

  Slipping the receipt between columns of unbalanced figures in his notebook, Azamat considered his position. ToAZ’s twenty-five percent deposit addressed his sister’s crisis but left nothing for Project Chimera. Two processors remained—one short of Irina’s requirements.

  Afternoon shoppers crowded the street, breath condensing in Moscow’s chill. None paid heed to the young man standing motionless beside the prefab concrete bank, calculator still clutched in his left hand.

  The phone buzzed: Acron’s procurement office. In an hour’s time, he would promise them processors that existed only in theory.

  No other option remained. Accept Acron’s order. Promise impossible deliveries. Pocket their deposit. Buy time to find alternatives.

  “Selling short,” in technical parlance. The menty preferred simpler terms: fraud.

  Turning toward the metro station, Azamat tucked his phone away. Inside his messenger bag, two ceramic packages—salvation and betrayal fused in silicon.

  “Azamat navigated the third security checkpoint at Acron’s Moscow satellite office, each guard probing more thoroughly than the last. The final guard, a square-jawed figure with glacial eyes, examined Azamat’s documents twice before gesturing at a plastic tray.

  “Mobile.”

  Azamat placed his Nokia in the tray, feeling suddenly naked without it. His notebook remained tucked against his chest, leather edges peeking from beneath his jacket.

  Stalinist grandeur—columns rearing overhead, stone workers locked in heroic struggle—dissolved inside to an atmosphere fit for a provincial hospital. Institutional green walls swallowed the weak glare from overhead fluorescents, tubes buzzing and sputtering. The scent of floor polish tangled with cigarette smoke steeped into the plaster.

  Vasiliev appeared at the far end of the corridor, his usual polished demeanour unsettled. A coffee stain marked his shirt cuff, his tie hung askew, and red-rimmed eyes told of sleepless nights.

  “Izmaylov.” Vasiliev offered a limp handshake. “Konstantin Dmitrievich flew in just to see you.”

  Azamat gave a silent nod, taken aback. People surged past, clutching bulging folders and speaking in hushed, urgent tones. A secretary fumbled a stack of papers, scrambling to collect them as her supervisor barked at her.

  “Follow me. Keep your answers short.”

  The conference room struck Azamat with corporate sterility, worlds apart from the café’s worn comfort. Production data strobed across wall-mounted screens, yellow warnings pulsing like digital heartbeats across Russian territory.

  Konstantin Dmitrievich dominated the opposite side of the polished table, weathered features carved in granite. The ritual of tea and pleasantries died beneath a thick binder slammed between them.

  “You supplied processors to our Perm plant last month,” he said, jabbing at technical readouts. “We’re seeing strange patterns since bringing those lines up. Nothing catastrophic—just subtle drops in efficiency. Temperature calibration drifts, pressure sensors needing constant recalibration.”

  Azamat’s throat tightened as he absorbed the numbers, each digit buying precious seconds of composure.

  “Multiple lines report the same issues,” Konstantin said, dragging fingers through thinning hair. “These systems were bolted together during the Yeltsin years—old Soviet reactors retrofitted with Western controls. Now the whole thing’s misaligned, and no one wants to shut down for repairs.”

  His gesture encompassed the blinking on-screen indicators. “Novgorod must restart to meet ministry’s production targets. That’s why I’m here.”

  The binder pages revealed a pattern: margin notes chronicled manual recalibrations, catalyst yield fluctuations, erratic flow measurements. His entrepreneurial mask settled into place. “When did these irregularities begin?”

  “Post-freeze restart.” Konstantin grimaced. “Valve synchronisation slips by microseconds. Blame chemical buildup, dodgy Perm grounding, or bloody poltergeists.” His eyes shifted to the wall map. “But Novgorod remains pristine. Untouched since ‘95. Our safety net lies there. Those lines restart, we secure our buffer.”

  “The Agriculture Minister broadcasts promises of spring yields,” Vasiliev murmured, avoiding Azamat’s gaze. “Progress matters more than explanations. The ministry demands ammonia.”

  Untouched coffee grew cold as productivity projections blazed red across the screen.

  “Twelve percent yield reduction across all lines.” Konstantin’s finger stabbed the chart. “Below emergency thresholds, but after last season...”

  Silence filled the chilled air. Sweat beaded under Azamat’s collar.

  “Dormant production lines must restart.” Konstantin’s stare fixed on Azamat with uncomfortable intensity. “Seven lines. Seven control systems. Seven processors meeting exact specifications.”

  Azamat’s inventory flashed through his mind—two HD64180s in his bag, destined for Project Chimera. Nothing more.

  “Seven units, Milspec.” His pen tabulated the requisition with bureaucratic ceremony, despite the pulse hammering at his neck. “Five-day delivery window.”

  Behind Konstantin’s head, a certificate drew his eye—Kvant Holdings’ corporate partnership award, bearing Director Leonid Volsky’s sprawling signature, June 2000.

  He doubled his markup, writing numbers that burned his conscience, and slid the paper to Vasiliev.

  “Acceptable.” Vasiliev produced a corporate chequebook. “Standard thirty percent deposit?”

  Their swift agreement compressed Azamat’s chest. They’d fund his imaginary processors at any price.

  “Thirty percent works,” he replied, voice flat while sweat chilled his spine.

  Azamat stepped out of Acron’s building into a greying afternoon, clutching his notebook close, each step carrying him further from the truth he’d sold inside. His Nokia buzzed—the third missed call from Bishkek Hospital competed with a text message that froze his steps: “Aijan moved to nephrology ward. Require payment confirmation.”

  The first snowflakes struck his face as he moved toward the tram stop, each icy touch a reminder of time running short. Numbers scrolled through his mind: seven processors he couldn’t source, his sister’s mounting medical bills, rent payment further delayed.

  A dark Volga sedan rolled alongside him, matching his pace with predatory grace. The passenger window slid down, revealing Oleg’s calculated smile.

  “Need a lift? Weather’s turning nasty.”

  Snowflakes dissolved against the heated windscreen of Oleg’s Volga. Bach’s Goldberg Variations flowed from hidden speakers—each note flawless. The leather seats squeaked as he shifted, new and too clean.

  “Productive meeting at Acron?” Oleg’s question cut through the music.

  Azamat touched his notebook lightly. “Just business.”

  “Konstantin Dmitrievich can be difficult.” Oleg adjusted the temperature control exactly one notch. “Though today, I expect, more desperate than difficult.”

  The casual mention of Acron’s operations director stole Azamat’s breath.

  “I have no idea what—” Azamat reached for the door handle. The leather creaked beneath him as he shifted.

  From the dashboard, Oleg lifted a rosewood box, its polished surface reflecting the falling snow. He opened it with a soft click. Ten HD64180 processors nestled in grey anti-static foam, their ceramic casings immaculate. The part numbers matched the exact specification Acron required.

  “The timing couldn’t be better,” Oleg said, rotating the box so Azamat could see each serial number. “Seven units for your Novgorod order, three spare for contingencies. Full temperature tolerance, guaranteed performance.”

  Like a blanket of artificial calm, the snow left the evening unstintingly quiet. Azamat stared at the processors—their specifications exact, their appearance flawless.

  “Sixteen thousand each.” Oleg’s voice harmonized with Bach’s elegant composition.

  The sum matched Acron’s deposit to the rouble. Azamat’s hand fell away from the door.

  “The price...” His voice caught on the numbers spinning through his mind.

  “A reasonable market rate,” Oleg said, turning the temperature dial another precise click. “Though I might need a small favour in return.”

  The classical music continued as Azamat clutched his notebook, heavy with Acron’s cheque.

  “Your contact at Vympelcom—” Oleg’s words puncturing the melody. “He has access to certain network documentation. Nothing restricted, of course. Just technical specifications.”

  The rosewood box sat between them, its contents gleaming under the streetlights.

  “Simple equipment manuals. The kind any vendor would have.” Oleg’s smile remained fixed. “I believe this will be a very beneficial friendship.”