Cryptid

Bocharkov entered the dimly lit signal room, coffee in hand, wafting his way through a dense cloud of smoke.

Vasiliy Kropotkin lit another cigarette. His fifth since he came on shift.

"Dimitri, listen to this," said Kropotkin.

They'd been pulling double shifts since the escape; monitoring chatter, sigint intercepts, movements of Cellar operatives.

The FSB had always maintained a cordial relationship with the Cellar, but it paid to be careful.

Slipping on headphones Bocharkov listened, brow furrowed.

"They've taken delivery of creatures," said Kropotkin.

"And?" Bocharkov scowled, he didn't need Vasiliy to translate. "Do they know about escape?"

"Not yet," said Kropotkin, "but Simonov will talk to Laing. He'll have to."

"We don't know where Aleksi is going. Yet."

Kropotkin coughed out a laugh. "You know where he's going as well as I."

"Then I hope Podval has strong locks."