Bean

Chapter 1: The Thief from Moscow

October, 1997
Moscow, Russia

It's strange how the turn of one corner can alter one's surroundings completely.

The man in the long, grey trench coat glanced behind him, at the city lights and noisy traffic between the two, ominously tall, stone buildings on either side of him. Turning back around, he felt as though he had stepped into another world. Darkness stretched before him and was interrupted only by the dim flicker of a few fires contained in rusty, metal barrels. His footsteps echoed on the wet stone ground, and the eyes of those less fortunate than him followed his figure as he trod deeper into the grim alleyway.

The air felt heavier, somehow, and was thick with various smells, both stale and potent. Shadows loomed tall and sinister, and the sound of dripping water echoed throughout the corridor. A dog barked from somewhere nearby. The man continued on, a single folder tucked under one arm.

At the end of the alleyway was half a building, the completion of its construction abandoned long ago. An old man with a tangled, white beard sat on a filthy blanket at the entrance, his head bowed and his arms wrapped around his bent-up knees.

The well-dressed, much younger man spoke. "Excuse me."

The old beggar did not look up.

The man with the folder tried again. "Excuse me, but I wondered if you could help me... I'm looking for someone."

Again, there was no response.

The young man sighed and reached into his pocket to extract some coins.

At the clink of currency, the homeless man lifted his gaze. A jagged scar raked across his face, rendering one eye dead and useless. "And just who are you looking for?" he queried, and immediately his slight form convulsed into a fit of hacking and coughing.

"Ah, well..." the man in the trench coat opened the folder and removed a print of a grainy, black and white security camera screenshot. He held it out for the old man to see. "I'm looking for her."

The old man's one good eye settled on the face in the photograph, then lifted to look at the inquirer under a mangy, white eyebrow. Slowly, he brought his arm out from the tattered shawl around him and held out a grimy hand with long, bony fingers and yellowed fingernails.

"Oh, right." The younger man dropped the coins into the upturned palm.

The hand retreated quickly back into the rags. The old man tipped his head toward the door of the unfinished building. "She's in there."

More hacking and coughing.

The young man nodded his thanks and moved to open the heavy, industrial door.

The inside of the building instantly reminded the man of pictures from history books of refugee camps during times of war. Wall frames were erected, but there was no drywall, making it feel like one, large room with wooden posts here and there. More fire barrels were set up, and tattered furniture was scattered about. Mattresses and cots, each one dirtier than the last, filled the space from end-to-end.

The man looked at the photo and then began searching the faces around him. He moved slowly through the poorly-lit rows of sorry excuses for beds, feeling slightly claustrophobic and a little sick to his stomach.

The sound of crackling fire and the occasional deep-chested cough were the only disturbances to the eerie silence. The man wondered if it was always thus, or if his presence was what was causing the hush.

He was about to ask someone else for assistance when a female voice spoke to him.

"Nice coat."

The man looked to his left. Perched atop a rather sad-looking couch with dingy upholstery was a girl of about 20. She sat comfortably with her back against the armrest and her legs stretched out before her with her ankles crossed. She wore black leggings that had a ragged hole in the knee and worn-out combat boots. The collar of her over-sized sweater hung lopsided over her thin shoulders, and her wavy, brown hair was cut short to her ears, save for two long, wispy strands that hung down on either side of her face to her collarbone.