Page 57 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)
Epilogue
T he windowless chamber felt more like a vault than a meeting room, its thick stone walls bearing the weight of centuries and secrets.
A single lamp cast harsh light over the heavy wooden table where three men in dark suits sat wreathed in cigarette smoke, their faces bearing the satisfied expressions of hunters who had successfully stalked their prey.
The eldest of the three raised his crystal tumbler, the clear liquid within catching the light like winter ice. “To Sacred Spear,” he said, his accent cultured and precise. “And to the perfect irony of turning their own zealots against them.”
The other two men lifted their glasses in response.
The one with scarred hands spoke with quiet satisfaction. “To Cardinal Severan,” he added with dark amusement. “May his righteous conviction burn bright wherever he’s hiding. ”
The youngest among them chuckled as he drained his glass. “The poor bastard never suspected a thing. He genuinely believed he was purifying Europe and the Church while doing our work for us.”
They drank again in unison, the alcohol burning down their throats.
The elder immediately refilled their glasses from an unmarked bottle—the kind of premium spirit reserved for those who moved in circles of power and spoke in whispers.
“The man’s fanaticism was absolute,” the scarred one continued, settling back into his chair. “When we provided evidence of Vatican corruption, of papal compromise with Western powers, he embraced our cause without question.”
“His recruitment was masterful,” the youngest added, his eyes bright with professional appreciation. “Each operative he added believed utterly in the righteousness of his mission. They died as true believers, never knowing whom they truly served.”
The elder nodded approvingly, his fingers drumming against the table’s polished surface. “The beauty of our operation lies not just in the chaos we created, but in the complete invisibility of our involvement. Every action appeared to spring from genuine religious extremism.”
“What of our allies in distant operations?” the elder asked after a moment of silence .
“Our comrades in the East are fascinated by our methods,” the youngest reported, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Chairman Mao’s people want to adapt our psychological manipulation techniques for the monasteries in Tibet.
They believe traditional authority can be .
. . redirected toward more useful purposes. ”
“And our Germanic contacts?”
“Eager to test similar operations in the West. Cardinal Weber in Cologne has been particularly vocal about atheist threats. Our associates believe he could be manipulated into more dramatic demonstrations.” The scarred one’s smile was coldly professional.
“Imagine the headlines when a respected cardinal calls for holy war.”
The eldest leaned back, his strategist’s mind working through implications. “Extremism is like a contagion. Once you understand how to weaponize it, you can spread it anywhere there are believers willing to kill for their cause.”
“And there are always believers willing to kill,” the youngest added with clinical detachment.
A sharp knock interrupted their session. All three men tensed, hands moving beneath their jackets, where more than documents might be concealed. Unscheduled interruptions in places like this were rarely good news.
“Come,” the elder called .
A young, uniformed officer entered, his face pale with nervous energy. He snapped to attention and delivered his message in clipped, precise Russian. “Comrade Colonel Volkov, the Premier requests your presence in his office tomorrow at nine hundred hours. All three of you.”
The officer departed as quickly as he’d arrived, leaving the three intelligence operatives staring at each other with expressions of anticipation and unease. In the lamplight, hammer-and-sickle pins glinted on their lapels.
“Stalin wants to see us?” the youngest asked unnecessarily.
“The question is why,” the scarred one muttered, refilling his glass with hands that weren’t quite steady.
Colonel Dmitri Volkov was quiet for a long moment, his mind racing through possibilities within the depths of the Kremlin where they now sat.
There were rumors—whispers in the corridors of Soviet power that few dared voice aloud, stories of Stalin’s hatred for organized religion that went beyond mere ideology, beyond political calculation.
If rumors were to be believed, it was something personal, something that burned in the Premier’s soul.
“This meeting could be congratulatory,” Volkov said finally, though his tone suggested he didn’t believe it. “Sacred Spear was, by any measure, a complete success.”
“Or it could be our next assignment,” Major Kozlov suggested. “You know how the Premier feels about religious influence.”
The three men exchanged meaningful glances in the secure chamber that served as one of Soviet intelligence’s most classified meeting rooms. They all knew the stories, though none dared speak them aloud.
Stalin’s seminary training in his youth, his expulsion under mysterious circumstances, the rumors of humiliation.
It was a wound that had never healed, a grievance that had festered for decades.
“Whatever he wants,” Kozlov said carefully, “it won’t be small. The Premier doesn’t summon successful operators for congratulations. He summons them for expansion.”
“The global implications could be staggering,” Captain Petrov said, his voice barely above a whisper. “If he wants us to replicate Sacred Spear across every major religion—”
“Every continent ,” Volkov added grimly. “Every faith, every denomination, every organization that holds influence over the masses.”
Volkov set down his glass with deliberate precision. “Sacred Spear proved we can manufacture extremism, direct it like a precision weapon, and leave no trace of our involvement. Cardinal Severan genuinely believed he was fighting corruption while serving our interests perfectly.”
“The Americans will chase phantoms for years,” Kozlov said with satisfaction. “They will seek an Order that existed only in their investigation files and Severan’s fevered imagination.”
“And tomorrow,” Petrov added, “we learn just how far the Premier wants us to spread this chaos.”
Volkov raised his glass one final time, his eyes hard with cold ambition. “To the future of Soviet influence, and to the beautiful chaos we’re going to create across every continent, in every language, through every belief system that dares oppose us.”
“To chaos,” Kozlov echoed.
“To chaos,” Petrov agreed.