Signals in the Dark: "Fog, Steel & Money"
Chapter three of Signals in the Dark, a novella serialized by Political Tips. Beginning in Ukraine and moving through Iran, Turkiye, Georgia, Russia, and Belarus, you are invited into a world on fire.
(Signals in the Dark is my way of presenting my fact-infused fiction to readers who understand the world is on fire and wish to immerse themselves in it. I ask that if you appreciate my work, please help contribute to my writing through PayPal or by subscribing now. - Please like, share, and comment on this story and every chapter from Signal's in the Dark. Your feedback matters.)
Istanbul, Turkey |
Sheets of rain produced a glazed sheen over the cobblestone paths of Beyoğlu. Salt carried through from the Bosphorus, mixing with noxious fumes escaping from Istiklal Avenue's taxis, met to produce a provincial odor some locals found endearing. A ferry's horn blew forth, spreading wistfully across the darkened waters, the sounds of the sea enveloped by its bellowing. Coming closer to shore, bouncing off sagging Ottoman facades where laundry lines drooped with wet kilims, swaying faintly as the wind tugged at their fringes. Agnes Schmidt, her boots silently slipping over the slick stone, half-heartedly took in the Pide vendors' calls—"Gözleme, sıcak!"—beckoning from unseen street corners, while others sellers were on full display, braziers glowing across allys, neon hanging on windows and doors, casting fleeting halos on the wet pavement as she ghosted past, a shadow floating in Istanbul's restless sprawl.
She'd cut her teeth here when Crimea fell to Moscow's grip, a young German agent coming up under the cautious gaze of Laszlo, her jaded Hungarian mentor. Learning to dodge intelligence tails through these backstreets under his tutelage, his gravelly voice barking orders as she'd fumbled her first drop, a lesson in survival etched deep, though as close it was, Laszlo managed to ensure she didn't get the boot by Brussels. Now, three years into Moscow's genocidal invasion of its neighbor, Istanbul had twisted into a smuggler's knot, its docks and warehouses a crossroads for the conflict's underbelly. Whispers and rumors reached Agnes, wedging into her analysis, forcing her to decipher fact from fiction and, most importantly, accepting that fact and fiction changed rapidly—Russian oil docking at the Golden Horn, probably false, tankers slipping past sanctions with forged papers, their hulls heavy with crude fueling Moscow's war machine; cluster munitions bound for Ukraine's frontlines, staged here, funneled through Turkey's porous borders to blast Russian trenches apart.
Tonight, she chased a lead: a shipment too quiet, too heavy, flagged two nights back by a rattled contact—a Rostov tip scrawled on a bar napkin, passed in a shaky hand—the same hand that pulled her from a Kharkiv basement as artillery punctured the city in the invasion's early chaos, his hoarse shout a debt eternal. Hrytsenko's crew might've caught its echo in Kyiv, a thread snaking from Bandar Abbas's rails through Rostov's haze to coil here, a puzzle she meant to crack.
Her coat hung damp, hem brushing her calves as she moved, fingers grazing the lockpicks in her pocket—Laszlo's gift from Budapest when Crimea's fall sparked Balkan tensions, his laugh a rough counterpoint to tumblers clicking as she'd mastered vanishing into a city's cracks. His blood had stained her hands in Ukraine's east, a smear on shattered concrete after Kovalenko's men hit, shots cracking the night as she froze, too raw to act. At the same time, Laszlo's chest heaved its last, Kovalenko's silhouette fading into the smoke. That moment—his eyes locking hers, dimming as blood pooled—ignited her hunt, carrying her from Kharkiv's ruins to Istanbul's fog, Kovalenko her compass through the war's shadowed edges.
Damp rot ate the cafe's walls, its door creaking as the hinges fought back against Agnes' efforts to enter. Tobacco haze stung her eyes, thick with burnt coffee and a whiff of sumac from a simmering pot, a cook muttering over a dented stove. A neon Kahve Dünyası sign buzzed green above cracked tiles, flickering like a dying pulse. Ziyad hunched in the back, shoulders tight over a glass of cold çay, fingers sketching nervous arcs beside an ashtray brimming with stubs, his patched jacket—frayed from Tehran's lockdown days—draped loosely over a frame whittled by sleepless nights.
He glanced up, eyes sharp beneath fatigue, voice rasping like sand over stone. "Took your time."
She slid into the wicker chair across from it, its creak slicing through Sezen Aksu's mournful notes from a tinny radio. "You're spooked," she said, leaning forward, elbows on the table, damp coat brushing the edge. What's got you?"
He slid a creased paper across the scarred wood, hands steady despite a tremble betraying the strain in his jaw. "Not a favor—my hide. Cluster munitions stacking in Karaköy—Russian plates, Taganrog markings, headed for Ukraine. FSB's buying deep, whispers say gray market oil's docking too, tankers creeping in under the fog. My parents in Isfahan—if Tehran's pinned for this, they're leverage, looms gathering dust."
Her jaw tightened—Taganrog, near Rostov, a hub she'd tracked since Kharkiv's spring offensives, shells tearing through mud and bone. "Where's it dropping?" she asked, voice low, eyes flicking to the paper's smudged ink.
"Karaköy warehouse, fish market end—tonight," he said, rubbing a scar from Tehran's protests, a jagged line twitching with each word. "They're onto you—FSB's circling tighter than last time. No telling who's really behind the holding the haul—watch your step."
"They'll have to catch me," she said, tone honed from Balkan nights, a steel edge forged by necessity. She folded the paper, tucking it into her coat. "You holding up?"
"Barely—paranoia, it seems to flow through me," he said, a faint smirk tugging his lips as he tapped the ashtray, ash scattering like dust over a grave. "You?"
"Enough." She stood, chair scraping the tiles, shadow stretching toward the door. "Stay low—track the Monero. I'll signal from Karaköy."
He nodded, eyes darting to the window where rain streaked the glass, distorting a streetlamp's glow. "You're walking into a net," he muttered, fingers curling around the çay glass.
"Maybe," she said, pausing at the threshold, hand on the doorframe. "But I've slipped worse."
Outside, drizzle gleamed with fish-scale flecks from Galata hawkers—"Taze balık!"—their voices a low hum against the patter on tarp roofs. Despite dodging a small simit cart, sesame-crusted rings scattered across the wet stone. She cut south, each step bringing the air heavier and closer, one Renault's distinctive silhouette idling too still at the corner, engine growling beneath the city's din. Her hand brushed her knife—Laszlo's last lesson, grip worn from close calls—as she slipped past a fish stall, vendors' haggling drowning her steps, FSB's gaze sliding past her, blind in the fog.
On Karaköy's docks, dulling lamps modeled the moisture pooling on them, the sour tang of fish guts cutting the night as creaking ships swayed against their moorings, crab traps clanking faintly on salt-crusted decks. A muezzin's call drifted from a minaret, veiled by the growl of a truck idling beyond the pier. Agnes ditched her pursuers among the city's trams, slicing through late-night crowds. She felt it, though, the FSB's net tightening— a skin-crawling sensation honed from dodging Balkan tails alongside her mentor, learning the art of feeling as opposed to what the books incessantly spouted.
She hugged the edges, coat sodden, breath briefly visible in the chill as she scanned for tells—a worker stalling too long by a crate, a van's exhaust curling too steady in the mist. A set of picks pressed her palm—a trick from the Caucasus when Crimea's fall sparked border games, a tool that'd sprung her from one Azerbaijan safehouse with seconds to spare.
Ahead sat the warehouse. Squat and exposed, its location on the water's edge, dock and all, and the ingress and egress that went with it made it a single bulb flickering over the entrance like a smuggler's beacon. She slipped through a gap in the chain-link fence, dodging a stray cat lapping at fish scraps, its hiss swallowed by the fog as she stepped inside. The air hit hard—oil, tobacco, a sharp bite of rakı threading through the damp rot of weathered planks.
Crates towered within, stamped Kargo: Tiflis in peeling Cyrillic, Kavkaz Trans logos curling at the edges like old wounds. Giorgi sprawled at a desk near the back, rakı bottle half-drained beside crumpled manifests, his scar glinting under a swaying bulb—a memento from a Georgian civil war blade when Sukhumi fell to shellfire. His leather jacket hung loose, patched from Caucasus runs, a grunt escaping as he exhaled smoke toward the cracked skylight, rain tapping its jagged edges.
"Thought the fog swallowed you," he rasped, voice rough with tobacco, a smirk tugging his lips.
"Thought Batumi pinned you," she said, stopping short, eyes sweeping the stacks. "What's here?"
"Money," he said, boots thudding as he swung them off the desk, wood creaking under his shift. "Crates tonight—my brother's hauling for Kavkaz Trans. FSB grabs him; I bury kin—war took the rest when Sukhumi burned." He poured rakı into a chipped glass, anise cutting the air, and slid it toward her—a test, a truce. "Stirring trouble again?"
She ignored the glass, stepping closer. "Show me the haul."
He led her through the maze, boots scraping concrete littered with fish scales and ash, loose chains clinking off rusted beams overhead. She knelt by a fresh crate, wood damp from the docks, and pried at a corner with her knife—Laszlo's blade, edge-nicked from years cutting through locks and lies. The lid creaked open, revealing steel casings glinting under dim light—cluster munitions, markings in Cyrillic faint but clear: Taganrog stamps, pre-communism's fall, relics feeding Ukraine's scarred fields.
"Cluster bombs," she murmured, breath catching as she traced the script, Kharkiv's shattered outskirts flashing—shrapnel tearing through mud and bone from Russia's unmitigated use of them against both civilians and soldiers.
"Shells, fuses—old Soviet stock," Giorgi said, arms folded, scar tightening as he squinted at the haul. "Bulgarian, Turkish maybe—leftovers, staged for Kyiv's trenches. Taganrog marks are ancient—pre-'91, the Union's last hurrah, before dreams collided with the reality of communism's fall. And the rest—" He jerked his chin toward a row. "It's still coming in, cash and every other financial instrument. They aren't bankrupted yet."
Her gut twisted—Rostov's echo, the train from Bandar Abbas rolling north, Hrytsenko's red lines tracing west. "Oil?" she pressed, rising, coat brushing rust as she straightened.
"Whispers," he said, glass clinking as he sipped. "Tankers docking quiet—The FSB, they like'em both—munitions, of course, but fuel, fuel pays the bills." He paused, eyeing her. "You got a buyer in Kyiv for this?"
"Not yet," she said, voice low, fingers flexing around the knife's grip. "Who's funding it—crypto?"
Giorgi snorted, setting the glass down with a thud. "Monero, probably—or some splicing, spinning and pooling shit. Untraceable unless you've got a wizard. FSB hates it. They can probably crack the wallets, but I'm guessing they would rather burn the docks than let it slip away. My brother heard rumors in Poti—payments gathered in Tbilisi, maybe Iranian shipments rerouting through Georgian Dream's hands."
Her pulse quickened—Ziyad's turf, his Monero crack clicking into place. "Georgian Dream?" she asked, leaning in, crate's edge digging into her thigh. "Pro-Russia bastards—why Iran?"
"Rials, Rubbles, Euros, and favors," he said, leaning back, chair groaning. "Tehran's got drones and shells—some say they're slipping extras to Tbilisi's regime, keeping Moscow sweet while the West blinks. My brother's seen trucks—Kavkaz Trans rigs—headed east from Batumi, too heavy for just oil."
"Who's driving them?" she pressed.
"No names—just routes," he said, tension coiling in his broad frame as he glanced toward the door, fog thickening beyond like a shroud. "Kavkaz Trans hires ghosts—my brother's one, and they've tailed him since Poti, FSB calm, too damn still."
"Crypto's the leash," she muttered absently, her mind darting back to Ziyad's hands, laden with fear, his parents' fate dangling at the whim of the Ayatollah's secret police. "Tether, Monero, or whatever else, now it can all be masked — the oil, the bombs, the Georgian payoffs."
Pausing to pinch some snuff between his gum and lips, Giorgi took a moment to savor the nicotine hit. His eyes narrowed. "You're betting on that coder, huh? Better hope he's fast—Iran knows the Russians play all sides, and Tbilisi's eating it up."
"Markings," she snapped, cutting through, hand out.
He passed a frayed page from the desk, scowling as he stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray, embers hissing in spilled rakı. "Stirring a hornet's nest, Kovács. That coder you run with—he'd better be good."
"Calluses, he's got the calluses," she said, pocketing the page. Her eyes flicked to the door as a truck's rumble grew louder outside. Wondering if Hrytsenko might be tracking this—Taganrog steel to Rostov, crypto veiling Iranian shipments through Georgia, a vein pulsing toward Kyiv's war.
Outside, fog blurred lights, fishermen's yells—"Balık, taze!"—clashing with trams groaning two streets over. She slipped into a shack across the lot—once favored tools and fishnets piled up, knotting the floor—and crouched low, watching the car from earlier prowl past, tires screeching on wet gravel, missing her again in the haze.
Kovalenko's web stretched tighter than she'd thought—Taganrog steel, Iranian arms, crypto trails winding through Tbilisi to Georgian Dream, and, of course, it intertwined with the desires of his masters in Moscow. She slipped the manifest into her coat, Laszlo's knife steady in her hand. Layers within layers, each pointing toward Kovalenko's game of steel and shadow—the maze only growing denser, time only growing shorter.
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In case you missed it, here is Chapter Two of Signals in the Dark -
