The more Konrad tried to rush, the slower things seemed to go. His mission was urgent, yet on his first day, his biggest achievement was not dying. Then, he'd spend three more in a coma.
What a great start.
Even now that he was back in action, he wasted another three with nothing to show.
Turns out, getting the list of who entered the country wasn't as easy as looking it up on a computer. Konrad thought I'd take an hour at most, but Russian hackers crashed the network.
Twice.
With backups so scarce, they were better off visiting each checkpoint in person.
Including, of course, every pub near them.
"Done marking those who'd been to Japan according to their passports," Dmitry noted.
Imagine if he didn't have unlimited access to stuff Konrad could only dream of.
He held the latest stack of printed profiles to match them with the fragmented data. Filter out those who had entered in an official capacity, diplomats, truck drivers, and so on.
Then, mark the suspicious ones as he did now.
Luckily, the ratio of people leaving Ukraine to those trying to enter was a thousand-to-one.
This left them with about two to three names per checkpoint.
Both less and more than Konrad had hoped for, but—
"Another three here," the Captain sighed, stretching his arms. "Now to the nearest pub."
They had a well-established routine now.
Konrad took a glance at the latest ID grid, with none of the faces looking familiar.
"I guess we can also filter out actual Asians," he yawned, damning the whole process to hell.
They have printed dozens of these grids by now, with more faces than necessary to give people options. But despite violating every possible regulation, they found no matches so far.
"Um, fair. Consider that one unmarked," Dmitry grunted. "That leaves us with two."
He tapped his phone screen, calling up the local map.
The closest inn was about a five-minute drive from the checkpoint itself. But once they had gotten into the car, it took only three and a half with the tempo this maniac was driving at.
"Makes me wonder how he's traveling," Konrad yelped, grabbing the old Niva's handrail.
He had to hold on for dear life.
The roads were abysmal, and it felt like whoever designed the suspension wanted them dead.
At a sharp turn, even the Captain's spare Makarov fell out of his pocket.
Nothing was safe unless he tied it down like his guitar case in the back.
Why was Dmitry adamant about taking that gun anyway?!
And was he born a freaking race-driver?!
Konrad scrambled to catch it before falling under the seat, but—
He should have worried about himself.
"Like—ouch—if he landed in a foreign country, how would he go anywhere?"
Dmitry pushed the pedal to the metal as he pondered.
"Hmm, rental cars are out, and if he's on foot—"
"No public transportation?" Konrad asked once the all-terrain Lada finally skidded to a halt.
It was a huge boulder off his chest.
"Not very reliable these days," the Captain shook his head, slamming the door. "Nor flexible."
Yeah. There was a freaking war happening around them.
Good thing they could get their hands on this old, surplus Lada Niva at least.
But since Konrad had no driver's licence, he had to rely on the newest friend he'd made.
And Dmitry Bandera drove like a freaking menace.
"So his choices are to walk or steal a car, like us?" Konrad summed up, his legs still wobbly.
"I didn't steal it," the Captain scoffed. "Borrowed it the same way you borrowed me—only until they reorganize my unit. By the way, you should put that Makarov away."
He pointed at the pistol Konrad had finally fished out from where it fell.
Another surplus the officer threw at him after showing how to handle the safety.
"We want the locals to cooperate, not fear us. So follow the usual script," Dmitry said as if he were the one coming up with it. "Stay behind me and nod at everything I say, Colonel."
"Sure, sure, Colonel Halstadt, Interpol. Reporting for duty," he saluted with a smirk.
Because his journalist alias would no longer cut it.
Their current cover story was about a Russian spy.
Dmitry started his usual monologue, though Konrad couldn't understand a word he said.
That's why he 'outranked' him.
So the Captain could act as his translator and aide without raising too many eyebrows.
Instead, he would offer a free drink in his name to anyone with useful information.
It was a very official, legitimate business, you see.
And some old folks would step closer, too, even if most ignored them altogether.
That was when Konrad went into action.
Back when he was training to lock out mind readers, he also practiced the art itself.
Like, he was terrible at it. Not even a beginner—but it worked on the most surface-level thoughts. Well, as long as his target wasn't trying to block him.
But come on. These people?
If they saw a uniform or a foreigner, their thoughts were already written on their faces.
And they weren't exactly flattering.
Still, sometimes he could catch something interesting.
Like, the guy in a corner of this pub.
He shot Konrad a glare—or rather, to his pocket—before going back to chug his drink.
Not anything out of the ordinary so far, but on a hunch, he tried to read his mind, too.
Figure out what his problem was. Practice.
But when he caught a fragment of his memory, Konrad's eyes went wide.
"Dmitry," he poked the Captain, nodding at the corner. "Ask him, too."
The officer paused, following his glance.
"Understood, Colonel."
Konrad burned more essence than he'd care to admit to translate their conversation.
"Have you seen anyone suspicious?" Dmitry began, waving the barkeeper to bring a drink to the guy. "Your expression tells me you know something the others don't."
The old man scoffed, leaning back against his chair.
Arms crossed, legs spread.
He looked as hostile as he could, but talked anyway.
"It's you, warring idiots. Coming and going with your guns," was what Konrad deciphered.
The original speech was much longer, of course, including many more swear words.
All because he had noticed the pistol in his pocket?!
No. There was something else.
"They give one to everyone nowadays. Are they crazy?" the man grumbled, clutching his free beer. "Last time—three weeks ago—there was a guy with a Kalashnikov, too. Drunk as an ass."
"Keep him talking," Konrad whispered, getting excited for some reason. "Ask about that drunk."
And what he caught was—
"That one? He must have been mentally ill, I'm telling you. With a freaking rifle." The man got angrier. "Even said, 'Screw The Doctor, he ain't my boss,' as if only gotten out of a psychic ward."
"Doctor?" Konrad jumped at the word. "Ask if he mentioned anyone else?!"
"Uh, dunno," the guy scratched his head, taken aback. "He wasn't talking names, but said something like specters were haunting him or what. Definitely mentally ill if you ask me."
That was it.
Those puppets called Lucifer The Doctor. And the specters—
Ghost. Lily's attacker.
He might have imagined it—but this finally seemed like a trace.