Colonel Vasiliev's office was exactly as Gul remembered it—meticulously organized, sparsely decorated, dominated by the large desk of polished darkwood behind which the Colonel now sat. The only personal touch was a small chess set on a side table, an ongoing game always in progress against some unseen opponent.
Gul stood at attention, back straight, eyes forward, the perfect picture of a disciplined officer reporting to his superior. Only the faint throbbing of the wound on his left side—a bullet graze sustained during the firefight at the village—betrayed the events of the past forty-eight hours.
"At ease, Captain," Vasiliev said, his tone pleasant, almost warm. "Please, sit."
Gul complied, settling into the chair opposite Vasiliev with controlled movements that gave no hint of his discomfort—physical or psychological.
The Colonel studied him openly, pale eyes sharp with intelligence. Vasiliev was not what most people expected of a high-ranking intelligence officer. He was slim, almost scholarly in appearance, with delicate hands more suited to a pianist than a man who had orchestrated some of the regime's most brutal operations. His voice, when he spoke, was cultured, precise, with the faintest trace of an accent from the northern provinces.
"Quite the operation," Vasiliev observed, opening a file on his desk. "Professor Farsi eliminated. His associate—this woman Nadia—in custody. The evidence secured." He looked up, offering Gul a small smile of approval. "Despite some... complications, the mission objectives were achieved."
Gul maintained his composed expression with the discipline of long practice. The official report—the one he had filed upon his return—contained several strategic omissions. It made no mention of his encounter with Tamir, his former comrade now serving as Farsi's security. It said nothing of his doubts about the Azadi Square massacre or his conversation with Alex Chen. Most importantly, it presented the journalist's escape as the result of enemy action rather than his own betrayal.
"The American journalist remains at large," Vasiliev continued, his tone neutral. "A pity."
"The pursuit team was ambushed at the river crossing," Gul replied, repeating the cover story he had crafted. "Three operatives killed. By the time reinforcements arrived, the journalist had disappeared."
"Yes, I read your report." Vasiliev tapped the file thoughtfully. "Most thorough. Though I find myself curious about certain... gaps in the timeline."
Gul felt a cold sensation spreading through his chest but kept his expression impassive. "Gaps, sir?"
"Between your last confirmed sighting at the command post and your arrival at the village where Farsi was cornered. Nearly two hours unaccounted for." Vasiliev's gaze was penetrating, searching for any crack in Gul's composure. "An unusual lapse in your typically meticulous reporting."
"The terrain was difficult," Gul said smoothly. "Communications were intermittent at best."
"Indeed." Vasiliev leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers. "And the explosion at the river crossing? Quite fortuitous that you weren't caught in that, given how close you were to the pursuit team."
"I was ahead of them," Gul explained, the lie coming easily after hours of rehearsal. "Attempting to cut off Farsi's escape route to the east."
A moment of silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken questions and suspicions. Gul maintained eye contact, knowing that looking away would be interpreted as weakness or deception.
Finally, Vasiliev's expression softened into something resembling concern. "How are you sleeping, Captain?"
The question caught Gul off guard, though he was careful not to show it. "Sir?"
"Your sleep. I recall you mentioned some difficulties during our last evaluation. Nightmares, I believe?"
Gul felt his heart rate accelerate slightly. The nightmares—his private torment for months—were not something he had willingly shared with anyone, certainly not with Vasiliev. Yet here was the Colonel, casually referencing them as if they'd been a topic of open discussion.
"Occasional disturbances," Gul acknowledged, keeping his tone neutral. "Nothing that affects operational readiness."
"Of course not," Vasiliev agreed smoothly. "You've always been one of our most reliable assets. Which is why I'm concerned about your well-being." He paused, studying Gul's face with what appeared to be genuine concern. "Combat stress affects even the strongest among us, Captain. There's no shame in seeking assistance."
The conversation had taken a turn Gul hadn't anticipated. He had expected interrogation, perhaps even accusation. This show of personal concern was more unsettling than any threats would have been.
"I appreciate your concern, sir," Gul replied carefully. "But I'm fully operational."
"Naturally." Vasiliev smiled. "Though I wonder if these nightmares might be connected to certain... gaps in your memory."
Gul felt as if the temperature in the room had dropped several degrees. "Gaps, sir?"
"You served with distinction during the Azadi Square operation, Captain." Vasiliev delivered this statement casually, as if discussing the weather. "Yet in our previous conversations, you've repeatedly stated you were at the border during that period. A curious discrepancy, wouldn't you agree?"
The revelation hit Gul with physical force, though he fought to maintain his composed exterior. He had been there. At Azadi Square. Among the snipers positioned on rooftops, targeting civilians. The realization crystallized with sudden, horrible clarity—the nightmares weren't just dreams; they were fragmented memories breaking through whatever conditioning had been used to suppress them.
"There must be some mistake in the records," Gul managed to say, his voice remarkably steady considering the turmoil within.
"No mistake, Captain." Vasiliev's voice was gentle, almost soothing. "You performed admirably, as always. But the psychological toll of such operations can be significant. Some minds... resist. Create alternative narratives to protect themselves from difficult truths."
Gul's training kicked in, compartmentalizing the shock, focusing on immediate survival. He needed to maintain his cover, to prevent Vasiliev from realizing how much he now understood.
"I see," he said finally. "That would explain the... inconsistencies."
"Precisely." Vasiliev nodded approvingly. "Which brings me to the purpose of this meeting. I believe you would benefit from our specialized rehabilitation program."
There it was—the program Farsi had mentioned, that Alex had described. The system for ensuring unwavering loyalty by altering memories, suppressing moral qualms that might interfere with operations.
"Is that an order, sir?" Gul asked, careful to keep any hint of resistance from his tone.
"An opportunity," Vasiliev corrected. "A chance to resolve these internal conflicts that are clearly causing you distress. To become whole again." His smile was benevolent, that of a father figure offering guidance to a troubled son. "You've always been one of my most promising officers, Gul. I've watched your career with particular interest since recruiting you from the border division. Your potential is extraordinary."
The use of his first name—a rare intimacy from Vasiliev—was calculated to disarm, to create a false sense of personal connection. Gul recognized the manipulation but acknowledged its effectiveness. Part of him, the loyal soldier cultivated through years of training and conditioning, still responded to this approval from his superior.
"When would this... rehabilitation begin?" Gul asked, playing for time, for information.
"You'll report to the Special Medical Facility tomorrow morning," Vasiliev replied. "The initial assessment takes only a few days. The full program, somewhat longer. But you'll emerge stronger, more focused. Free from these troubling dreams and contradictory memories."
Free from conscience, Gul thought. Free from the ability to question orders, no matter how monstrous.
"I'm honored by your concern for my welfare," he said aloud, the practiced phrases of military courtesy now a shield behind which he could hide his true thoughts.
"Excellence deserves nurturing," Vasiliev responded. He closed the file on his desk, a gesture of conclusion. "That will be all for now, Captain. Report to Medical at 0800 tomorrow. They'll be expecting you."
Gul rose, saluted crisply, and turned to leave. As he reached the door, Vasiliev's voice stopped him.
"One more thing, Captain."
Gul turned, maintaining his neutral expression with effort. "Sir?"
"The American journalist." Vasiliev's eyes had gone cold, all pretense of warmth evaporated. "If she attempts to contact you—as these Western press types sometimes do after operations—you'll report it immediately. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly, sir," Gul replied, meeting that icy gaze without flinching.
Outside Vasiliev's office, in the sterile hallway of NKVI headquarters, Gul finally allowed himself a moment of genuine reaction. His breathing quickened, sweat beading on his forehead as the full implications crashed over him.
He had been at Azadi Square. He had participated in the massacre. And then—most horrifying of all—he had been made to forget it, his mind manipulated, memories altered to maintain his usefulness to the regime.
How many other operations had there been? How many other atrocities buried in his subconscious, waiting to surface in nightmares or moments of crisis?
And now Vasiliev wanted him back in the program—to erase his doubts, to reinforce his conditioning. To ensure his continued loyalty despite the cracks beginning to show in the carefully constructed edifice of his belief system.
Gul moved through the building on autopilot, nodding to colleagues, maintaining the façade of normalcy while his mind raced through options, scenarios, potential escape routes.
He couldn't report to the medical facility tomorrow. Once there, he would be lost—his emerging awareness suppressed, his independent thought eliminated. He needed to act tonight.
But first, he needed to confirm what he now suspected. If he was going to risk everything—his career, his life, his very identity—he needed to be certain about what he was fighting against.
The secure archives were located three levels below ground, access restricted to senior officers and specially cleared research personnel. As the head of a Special Operations team, Gul had the necessary clearance, though accessing files unrelated to current missions would raise flags in the system.
He would need a cover story, a plausible reason for accessing historical operation files. And he would need to be quick—in and out before the system administrators noticed anything unusual.
As he approached the elevator that would take him to the archive level, Gul spotted a familiar figure walking toward him—Major Esmail, Vasiliev's adjutant and one of the few people with unrestricted access to the Colonel's files.
"Captain Nazari," Esmail greeted him with professional courtesy if not warmth. "I understand congratulations are in order. The Farsi operation was a success."
"Thank you, Major," Gul replied, an idea forming rapidly. "Though there are still loose ends to tie up. The American journalist, for one."
"Ah, yes." Esmail nodded. "The Colonel is particularly interested in her apprehension."
"Which is why I'm heading to the archives," Gul explained smoothly. "I need to review similar cases—foreign journalists who've interfered in sensitive operations. Established protocols for handling them once captured."
It was a reasonable request, directly tied to his current assignment. Esmail would have no reason to question it.
"Of course," the Major replied. "Though I believe most such cases are classified under Section 7-B. You'll need special clearance for those files."
"I have Level 4 access," Gul pointed out, referring to his security clearance level.
"For operational files, yes," Esmail acknowledged. "But for case histories involving foreign nationals, particularly journalists..." He hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. "Wait here."
The Major stepped away, making a brief call on his secure phone. Gul maintained his composed exterior while internally calculating the risk that Esmail was contacting Vasiliev directly.
When Esmail returned, his expression was professional but faintly disapproving. "The Colonel has authorized temporary access to Section 7-B files. Two hours only."
"That should be sufficient," Gul said, relief carefully hidden beneath military courtesy. "Thank you, Major."
In the elevator descending to the archive level, Gul allowed himself a moment to consider what had just occurred. Vasiliev had granted him access—why? Was it a test of some kind? A trap? Or was the Colonel truly convinced of Gul's continued loyalty despite the "gaps" in his reporting?
The archive level was silent, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lighting that gave everything a clinical, sterile appearance. The few personnel assigned there worked quietly at monitoring stations, paying little attention to Gul as he signed in and proceeded to a research terminal.
Once seated at the terminal, he began by actually doing what he'd claimed—searching for files on captured foreign journalists. It would create the expected digital footprint, supporting his cover story if his access was reviewed later.
After twenty minutes of legitimate research, he began what he'd really come for—a careful search for records related to Azadi Square and his own involvement. This was the dangerous part. Direct searches for classified operations would be flagged and monitored.
Instead, Gul used a technique he'd learned from the NKVI's own cyber division—asymmetric queries that approached the target information from oblique angles. Personnel rotations during the month of the massacre. Medical leave records for his unit. Equipment requisitions for special operations.
Bit by bit, he assembled the pieces, each seemingly innocuous on its own but together forming a damning picture. His unit had indeed been in the capital during the period in question, not at the border as he'd believed for years. Sixteen specialized long-range rifles had been requisitioned from the armory the day before the massacre. And most telling of all, eight members of his team—including Gul himself—had been admitted to the Special Medical Facility immediately following the operation for what was described only as "routine psychological maintenance."
The evidence was circumstantial but compelling. He had been there. He had participated. And then he had been made to forget.
As Gul prepared to log out of the system, a final impulse led him to search for something else—records related to the "rehabilitation program" Vasiliev had mentioned. Here, he had to be even more careful, using the most indirect queries possible to avoid triggering security alerts.
What he found chilled him to the core. The program wasn't merely about suppressing traumatic memories or ensuring loyalty. According to the fragmentary information he could access, it involved experimental techniques for "personality restructuring" and "moral recalibration." Neuropharmaceuticals combined with targeted psychological conditioning to create operatives who would follow any order without hesitation or moral conflict.
Perfect soldiers. Perfect instruments of state power.
And Gul had been one of them. A prototype, according to one document that listed him by code name rather than actual identity. A particularly successful case study in the program's efficacy.
He logged out of the system, his exterior calm belying the turmoil within. As he rode the elevator back to the main level of the building, his decision crystallized. He couldn't report to the medical facility tomorrow. He couldn't allow them another opportunity to reshape his mind, to bury the truth he had worked so hard to uncover.
But escape wouldn't be simple. As an NKVI operative, he knew exactly how thoroughly the organization monitored its own people, especially those with access to sensitive information. His apartment would be under surveillance. His communications monitored. His movements tracked.
He would need help. And there was only one person he could think of who might be both willing and able to provide it—the American journalist whose escape he had facilitated. Alex Chen. If she had made it out of the country with Farsi's evidence, she might have connections, resources that could aid his defection.
Finding her wouldn't be easy. Contacting her would be even harder, given NKVI's monitoring capabilities. But Gul had spent years learning to operate in hostile territory, to communicate without detection, to move without leaving traces.
As he stepped out of NKVI headquarters into the fading light of evening, Gul Nazari made his final decision as an operative of the organization that had shaped him, used him, and violated his very sense of self. By morning, he would either be free—or dead.
Either way, he would never again be their instrument.