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LXVII: Eight Traitors to Russia

❝Everyone who does not agree with me is a traitor and a scoundrel.❞
—King George III

You'd think that two highly recognizable people would have a hell-of-a-hard time getting from an Allied country to a Voyna country, and I wish that were true. It was astonishingly easy. 

I'll hold back on the details. The point is, in about a day, we were in the heart of Saint Petersburg. 

I've never been to this city — I was never rich enough — and I can't help but admire the beautiful architecture. Tall and proud. some historic, some new, all majestic and worthy of sightseeing. Too bad I'm not here for that.

The people here are just as spectacular to look at. They wear expensive clothing, jewelry, and accessories, all purely Russian-made — you can tell the people here are made of money. They strut around the polished sidewalks in posses, laughing and shouting. Cars on the road move smoothly; the lack of traffic is something of a dream after spending so much time in New York City and Albany.

My nose is pressed to the window as we drive down the clean roads. We got here an hour ago on a jet and we were promptly picked up by two very familiar guards of Nikolai's: Ursov and Ludis.

Alexander and I sit in the back of a sleek, black car while Ursov drives and Ludis sits on the passenger seat. Alexander and Ludis are engaged in a compelling conversation, which I dodge by ignoring them. I'm glad to know that after all these years, they're still good friends, but I'd rather not speak at the moment.

Despite the pure glamor of the city, I hate the fact that I'm here in the first place. I absolutely hate it. Nikolai demands our presence, so we answer?! With no retaliation at all?! I fucking hate it, and yet, I know there is nothing I can do about it. Nikolai wants to see us, and he'll see us one way or another.

I'm just nervous to see what he wants from us.

We have yet to be seen by the public, which is good. Alexander reminded me that all connections to the outer-world are heavily restricted in Russia, so even if someone did see us, there is a very slim chance that news would ever be leaked. Nonetheless, I'd prefer if my presence remains private.

No one knows we're here. Not even Reynolds — we told him that we'd be going to Fox River, Alaska for some much-needed alone time.

October 9, 2059.

"Are we there yet?" I groan. I'm pleasantly surprised by how easily I revert to my native Russian language.

"You asked that two minutes ago," Ursov grumbles.

"Two minutes can make a big difference," I sneer.

"Not a significant difference."

"Drive faster."

Ursov glares at me from the rear-view window as he responds in a demeaning tone. "We have laws in Russia, and that includes speed limits."

"You work for Nikolai Ivanovich!" I cry out. "Nothing's going to happen to you if you break such a minor law!"

Ursov cuts out my voice, and I could almost swear he slows down a little just to piss me off.

Ludis looks around his seat to offer me one of his trademark boyish grins. "We'll be there really soon. Give it a couple more minutes."

I force a smile back, my heart too frail at that grin to be mean to him. "Alright."

Where is "here"? The Zimnij Dvorets, or as Americans know it, the Winter Palace. It has been the residence of President Ivanovich ever since Moscow was taken by Allied forces (in the Valley Divide, where American and British soldiers are still stationed to defend from Russian rule).