East of Immunity

[Zak]

Inside a secure office tucked away from the public-facing sections of the Russian Embassy in Istanbul, Anastasiya Baranovskaya stood silently as a slim paper folder was placed on the table before her. There were no lengthy explanations, no dramatic speeches, and no unnecessary details. The instructions had already been compartmentalized long before they reached her.

Her diplomatic posting as a cultural attaché remained her official identity. Embassy receptions, meetings with local officials, and cultural exchanges had built the reputation of an unassuming civil servant whose work rarely extended beyond protocol and paperwork. That carefully maintained image was precisely what made her valuable.

The folder contained only what she needed.

One name.

One location.

A recent photograph.

A timeline.

Her destination was Ağrı, a city nearly fifteen hundred kilometers east of Istanbul. There, according to the intelligence summary, she was to discreetly locate an individual named Kenan Tekdağ and establish contact under circumstances that would attract no attention. Whether the meeting produced useful information or nothing at all was secondary to confirming the man's identity and assessing the environment surrounding him.

Anastasiya read every page twice before committing the details to memory. When she finished, the papers were returned to the courier waiting outside the office. Within minutes, they would be destroyed. Nothing written would accompany her east.

The operation would appear entirely routine.

Official travel authorization had already been filed through the embassy's administrative channels, listing the journey as regional cultural outreach connected to archival research. It was convincing enough to withstand casual scrutiny while remaining deliberately mundane. The less remarkable the paperwork appeared, the less likely anyone would remember it.

Before sunrise the following morning, Anastasiya departed the embassy compound carrying a single overnight bag and a leather document case containing only legitimate diplomatic paperwork. The embassy's official vehicles remained parked behind secure gates. They were too recognizable and too easily associated with diplomatic movements.

Instead, she arrived at a commercial rental agency on the European side of the city.

A compact white sedan awaited her, clean, inexpensive, mechanically reliable, and almost impossible to distinguish from the thousands of similar vehicles moving across Türkiye every day. The rental agreement bore the name Anastasiya Baranovskaya, Russian Embassy attaché, perfectly matching her diplomatic credentials.

It was exactly the sort of vehicle someone would forget moments after seeing it.

With the morning traffic beginning to build, she eased the car onto the motorway leading away from Istanbul. The city's skyline gradually faded behind her as dense neighborhoods gave way to open highways stretching across Anatolia. The drive would take the better part of a day, carrying her through changing landscapes of farmland, dry plains, mountain passes, and isolated towns before the eastern provinces came into view.

The journey itself was part of the cover.

She obeyed every traffic regulation, stopped only at ordinary fuel stations, purchased coffee and food from roadside service areas, and paid exclusively with embassy-issued cards that supported the narrative of an attaché traveling on official business. Every receipt, every toll payment, and every camera that captured the rental car reinforced the same story should anyone ever retrace her route.

Her personal phone remained switched off inside the glove compartment.

Only the encrypted device issued for operational use rested within reach, silent throughout the drive except for a single vibration confirming that the mission parameters remained unchanged.

Late in the afternoon, the silhouette of Mount Ağrı emerged against the horizon.

Anastasiya slowed as she entered the city limits, merging effortlessly with local traffic. To anyone watching, she was simply another diplomat traveling across eastern Türkiye.

Only she knew that the real purpose of the journey would begin once she stepped away from the rental car.

Jay

 

[Jay]

SECRET
​

The highway east of Erzurum had become noticeably slower by late afternoon.

What should have been a routine journey across eastern Anatolia had settled into a patient crawl as civilian traffic compressed into a single lane. Freight trucks, buses, and family cars stretched for kilometers ahead, their brake lights flickering in uneven waves beneath a cloudless summer sky.

Anastasiya rested one hand lightly on the steering wheel.

No one appeared particularly alarmed.

Drivers stepped from their vehicles to smoke cigarettes, stretch their legs, or exchange irritated remarks with strangers. A tea vendor had already begun walking between the stationary cars carrying a steel kettle suspended from a shoulder strap, doing brisk business among motorists resigned to the delay.

Whatever had caused the congestion lay somewhere beyond the next rise.

Several minutes later, Anastasiya could see why.

A column of Turkish military vehicles rolled through the adjacent carriageway under the supervision of traffic police positioned at every junction. Civilian traffic remained stopped while the convoy continued east.

The first vehicles were armored reconnaissance elements, their crews visible behind protective glass. They were followed by rows of mine-resistant patrol vehicles carrying soldiers whose expressions betrayed little emotion despite the long hours on the road.

Flatbed transporters carried Leopard 2 main battle tanks secured beneath heavy chains, their long barrels pointing backward. Recovery vehicles, engineering equipment, fuel tankers, and mobile communications trucks followed with practiced spacing.

The convoy continued for nearly fifteen minutes.

No horns sounded as drivers simply watched. Some lifted mobile phones to record the procession before returning them to their pockets as military police quietly discouraged anyone from lingering too close to the roadside.

When traffic finally resumed, Anastasiya turned her attention to the radios, hoping to hear any news but finding no luck. She watched as a third convoy sped past her, then another...and then another.

As the kilometers disappeared beneath the rental car's tires, eastern Türkiye gradually revealed itself. Villages became more isolated. The mountains drew closer. Occasional helicopters could be seen crossing distant valleys before disappearing behind rugged ridgelines.

Near Horasan, the low rumble of jet engines interrupted the silence. Anastasiya glanced upward through the windshield.

Two Turkish F-16s crossed high overhead in disciplined formation, banking southeast before vanishing into the afternoon haze. They were only visible for a few moments, yet their presence lingered long after the sound had faded among the mountains.

The radio inside the rental sedan offered no explanation.

Military aircraft, lengthy convoys, and heightened movement across the eastern provinces could all be explained by routine readiness, scheduled exercises, or that the Turks' were preparation for war.
Her assignment remained unchanged.

She continued toward Ağrı. By the time the snow-capped silhouette of Mount Ağrı dominated the eastern skyline, the delays had cost her nearly three hours.

The city itself appeared calm. Rush-hour traffic flowed through broad avenues lined with apartment blocks, government buildings, and cafés preparing for the evening crowd. Shopkeepers swept sidewalks. Children kicked a football through a narrow side street. Life continued with little outward indication that military activity had intensified only a short distance away.

She parked several streets from the location noted in memory.

The rental car attracted no attention. Its white paint had already collected a thin film of Anatolian dust that made it indistinguishable from dozens of similar sedans parked nearby.

The café stood on a quiet corner overlooking a small square. Inside, the atmosphere was warm and unhurried. Glasses clinked softly against saucers. A television mounted above the counter played the evening news with the volume turned low while conversations drifted between Turkish and Kurdish in subdued voices.

Near the window sat Kenan Tekdağ. He appeared precisely as the photograph had suggested, though perhaps older than the intelligence file implied. A neatly trimmed beard framed a weathered face, and a small tulip-shaped glass of tea rested untouched beside him.

He looked toward the entrance only once.

Their eyes met for barely a second. He did not acknowledge her as he got up, leaving a paper in his check. When Anastasiya approached the table, she would see that it had a rendezvous point at a fountain not too far from there.

When she arrived, Kenan emerged from behind her and held a black mask, which he waved almost cheekily in front of her. "Sorry." Tossing it to her, giving her the choice to put it on herself. If she accepted, then Kenan would guide her in a white pickup truck, which drove them another hour or so before Kenan unbuckled her and guided her into a safe house. He then lifted the mask, and there Anastasiya would see the former Turkish Vice President Eda Yildiz. The very one who was on the run after the Turkish army ousted her and her government from power. It was definitely a bigger fish than she was expecting.

Zak

 

[Zak]

Anastasiya remained seated behind the wheel for several moments after switching off the engine, allowing the silence inside the rental car to settle around her. The delays east of Erzurum had disrupted her schedule, but not her discipline. She glanced once more through the windscreen, studying the streets surrounding the square before opening the driver's door. Her white sedan, now coated in a thin layer of Anatolian dust from the long journey across the plateau, blended effortlessly with the dozens of other vehicles lining the roadside. It had served its purpose well anonymous from the moment it had left Istanbul.

She adjusted the lapel of her blazer and retrieved a slim leather document case from the passenger seat. Inside were entirely legitimate diplomatic papers identifying her as Anastasiya Baranovskaya, a cultural attaché assigned to the Russian Embassy in Istanbul. It was a cover she had spent months cultivating through receptions, exhibitions, and academic exchanges. The persona had become so convincing that even many within the embassy believed it to be her only function.

Her briefing had provided a name, a city, and little else.

Finding Kenan Tekdağ would require patience rather than urgency.

The streets around the city centre remained comfortably busy despite the fading afternoon light. Shopkeepers swept dust from the fronts of their businesses while families wandered between cafés and bakeries preparing for the evening rush. Anastasiya moved among them with practiced ease, stopping occasionally to ask polite, carefully worded questions that perfectly suited her diplomatic cover. She explained that she was conducting cultural outreach on behalf of the embassy and hoped to locate a local man who had previously assisted visiting researchers. The explanation was deliberately mundane specific enough to sound genuine, yet ordinary enough that few would remember the conversation once it had ended.

Nobody appeared suspicious.

Some simply shrugged.

Others pointed her farther into the district.

Gradually, after several discreet enquiries spread across different streets, the same location emerged more than once.

A modest café overlooking a small public square.

Anastasiya thanked each person with measured courtesy before continuing alone. She resisted the temptation to head directly for the destination at speed. Instead, she allowed herself to follow the natural rhythm of the town, pausing briefly to study a noticeboard outside a municipal building before crossing the square toward the café.

Warm light spilled through its windows.

Inside, conversations drifted quietly between Turkish and Kurdish as glasses clinked softly against ceramic saucers. A television mounted high in one corner broadcast the evening news with the volume turned almost to nothing, leaving little more than a murmur beneath the conversations of the patrons.

She entered without hesitation.

Years of operational training immediately took over. Her eyes swept across the room, noting entrances, exits, reflective surfaces, occupied tables, and those whose attention lingered just a fraction too long. Nothing appeared unusual.

Then she found him.

Kenan Tekdağ sat near the window exactly where her briefing had suggested he might be. He appeared older than the intelligence photograph she had memorized, with deeper lines across his face and a neatly trimmed beard flecked with grey, but there was little doubt it was the same man.

She made no attempt to approach him.

Instead, Anastasiya ordered tea and selected a table from which she could observe both Kenan and the entrance without attracting unnecessary attention. She sipped slowly, projecting the quiet patience expected of a diplomat travelling on routine business.

Several minutes passed.

Kenan finally rose from his chair.

Their eyes met only briefly.

There was no greeting, no acknowledgment, and no indication that they had ever seen one another before.

He simply departed, leaving his table exactly as it had been.

Only after allowing another minute to pass did Anastasiya stand and walk naturally toward the empty seat. Resting beneath the untouched tea glass was a neatly folded piece of paper. She collected it without breaking stride and continued directly outside before unfolding it beneath the cover of a nearby side street.

A location.

A fountain.

A time.

Nothing more.

She committed the details to memory before tearing the note into several tiny pieces, disposing of them separately as she continued walking through the town.

---

The fountain stood in a quiet square removed from the evening crowds.

Its steady flow of water masked footsteps and passing traffic alike.

Anastasiya arrived precisely on time and waited without appearing to wait, standing with the composed posture of someone merely admiring the architecture around her. Her expression betrayed nothing. If the rendezvous was being observed and she assumed it was there would be no indication that she expected anyone at all.

A familiar voice came quietly from behind her.

"Sorry."

She turned only enough to see Kenan holding a black cloth mask between his fingers.

No explanation followed.

None was necessary.

She accepted it without hesitation.

Operations built on trust rarely began with complete transparency. If this meeting had progressed beyond anonymous notes, then each participant was already accepting a measured degree of calculated risk.

Sliding the mask over her eyes, she surrendered her vision while quietly shifting her attention to every other sense available. She counted footsteps as Kenan guided her toward a nearby vehicle, mentally noting the height of the door and the sound of a diesel engine as she climbed into what she judged to be a white pickup truck.

The journey that followed became an exercise in memory.

Unable to see, Anastasiya counted major turns, estimated speed changes, recognized transitions between smooth tarmac and rougher country roads, and marked every prolonged stop in her mind. The route lasted close to an hour, long enough that the lights and sounds of Ağrı gradually disappeared behind them.

Eventually the vehicle slowed to a stop.

Kenan quietly released her seat belt before guiding her across uneven gravel and through what sounded like a reinforced doorway.

Only then did he remove the mask.

Her eyes adjusted slowly to the dimly lit interior.

The safe house itself was modest, sparsely furnished, and intentionally forgettable.

Then her attention settled upon the woman standing quietly near the far wall.

For the first time since leaving Istanbul, Anastasiya allowed herself the briefest pause.

Standing before her was Eda Yıldız, the former Turkish Vice President whose disappearance following the military overthrow of her government had become the subject of countless intelligence reports across Europe and the Middle East.

So this was the real mission.

Kenan Tekdağ had never been the objective.

He had merely been the gateway.

At that exact moment, the secure communications device concealed inside her jacket vibrated once.

She withdrew it discreetly and watched as a single encrypted message decrypted automatically across the screen.

Primary contact confirmed. Transition to political liaison protocol.

Should discussions permit, advise that the Russian Federation is prepared to explore discreet avenues of cooperation. This may include access to surplus or decommissioned military equipment available for refurbishment, technical support, or transfer through deniable commercial intermediaries. Do not negotiate. Gauge interest. Report only.

Anastasiya read the message once before locking the screen and returning the device to her pocket.

Her orders remained deliberately narrow.

She was not there to make promises.

She was there to determine whether Moscow had found a partner or merely another exile searching for powerful friends.

Jay

 

[Jay]

A single bulb hung from the ceiling, wrapped in a wire cage as Anastasiya looked up. Eda Yıldız had not moved from her spot near the far wall as she seized up the smaller Russian girl.

Anastasiya sat down across the table from her, uninvited, and set nothing down. Kenan remained by the door, arms crossed, watching the window.

"You know who I am," Eda said almost rhetorically.

"I know who you were," Anastasiya said snarkily as she brushed her hair from the sides of her face back behind her ears.

Eda's mouth tightened, then let go of it. She pulled out the chair across from Anastasiya and sat, folding her hands on the table like she was about to negotiate a trade agreement.

"Then you know how much I am worth and what I can do for you."

Anastasiya shook her head. "I know how much you are worth to others." She looked at Eda, her eyes squinting as if she saw something inside her. "The question is what can you do for me."

Eda scoffed. "I could have you killed here and nobody would care."

Anastasiya nodded. "Yes. Yes you could. But you will still be hunted like the dog you are. So tell me, Eda. What can you do for me?"

"I can bring the Turkish left and the Kurdish movement into the same room," Eda said. "Nobody else can do that. Not Demirtaş's people. I have relationships on both sides that go back twenty years."

Anastasiya's eyes blinked once. "We're here to talk about you Eda. What will you do for me?"


"Moscow backs me," Eda continued, "and you have a unified opposition to the junta. Communists, Kurds, secularists. All of it, under one umbrella."

Anastasiya said nothing.

"Under your umbrella." Eda concede.

Anastasiya let the silence sit there a moment. Outside, a dog barked twice and stopped.

"Nobody trusts you," she said finally. "Not the generals who pushed you out. Not the people who took to the streets to chant death to your name. Not the Kurds who now turn their guns on the state you built with them. So. I will ask again, Eda. What will you do for me? Otherwise, I walk away, and you can continue being on the run."

Eda put her hands on her face. Trying to figure out what to say.

"Öcalan is running the resistance from Bangkok now." Anastasiya said it flatly, watching her face. "His operatives inside Turkey take instructions from a seventy-year-old man in exile who hasn't set foot in the country in decades, and it works better than anything you're offering. Because he doesn't need to be trusted. He's a symbol. You're a former Vice President who many blame for what happened in December.

Eda's jaw moved. She didn't answer right away. "That's not fair."

"I didn't say it was fair. I said it's true." Anastasiya said curling her lips.

"You weren't in the room for any of those decisions."


"No," Anastasiya said. "I wasn't. Yet here I am. On this side of the table. Inside this room." She said, waving her hand behind her. Then motioning back to Eda. "Here you are. On that side of the table. Inside this room."

Eda pushed back from the table an inch, just enough to put distance between them. Her hands stayed flat against the wood.

"I need extraction," she said. "To Moscow. I can't do anything while I am on the run. I haven't slept in the same bed for more than a week. Please, you have to get me out of here."

"That's a significant request," Anastasiya said, sighing.

"I'm aware of what I'm asking." Eda snarked back.

"You're asking the Federation to move a fugitive across two borders, house her, protect her, and vouch for her publicly, all on the promise that you can unify a coalition that currently doesn't return your calls." Anastasiya tilted her head slightly. "I don't think you are aware of what you are asking."

Eda's eyes narrowed. For a moment nothing happened. Then she leaned forward. "I have something else."

Eda glanced once toward the door, toward Kenan, who did not move, then back to Anastasiya. "Before the coup, I sat on the National Security Council. I had access to programs most of the cabinet never saw."

"Go on." Anastasiya said.

"Turkey has a ballistic submarine program. Operational, not theoretical. I know where they're homeported, and I know the missile systems fitted to them." She paused. "Conventional warheads. Intercontinental range."

Anastasiya didn't move.

"And the seller," Eda said, "was Russian. Before your president's time. Someone in Moscow signed it over during the Nemtsov years. I know the captain's name. I know where you can find them. I can help you."

The bulb overhead buzzed faintly as Anastasiya bit her lip. Anastasiya sat back. She studied Eda for a long moment, not her face, exactly, but the way she held her shoulders, the way her hands hadn't moved from the table.

"I will speak with the Rezidentura," Anastasiya said, waving Kenan over as she took the briefcase from him.

"It doesn't buy you much," Anastasiya said as she took the metal case from him. She turned it once, thumbed the latches, and opened it toward Eda.

"Twenty-five million for our Kurdish friends," Anastasiya said. "Consider it an investment. We'd like to see what you can do with it."

Eda looked at the case for a long moment without touching it.

"It doesn't buy you legitimacy with the group, but it is a start. You will need this money especially after what they did to the resistance in Northern Iraq." Anastasiya added as she stood up.

"And the submarines?"

"You'll be debriefed properly. Not by me." Anastasiya closed the case and turned it back toward herself, keeping one hand resting on the lid before handing Eda a burner phone. "Keep that phone close. It will be your only ticket out of here." She stood, buttoned her blazer, and walked to the door. Kenan already had the mask in his hand but Eda shook him off, allowing Anastasiya to leave unencumbered as she got back into her vehicle and drove away.

The station sat off the highway outside Erzincan, three pumps under a corrugated awning, the fluorescent light over the register buzzing. Anastasiya pulled in, killed the engine, and got out into the cold.

She unhooked the nozzle and swore under her breath. The tank had been three-quarters full four hours ago. Now the gauge on the pump climbed past thirty liters before she'd even settled into the rhythm of watching it. It was definitely that freaking Kurdish kid at the last station, the one who'd insisted on filling it himself, waving her off from the pump.

She should have watched him closer.

The nozzle clicked off. She racked it, screwed the cap back on, and leaned against the door of the sedan. Pulled her phone and typed "Made contact. Fishing trip bigger than expected. 25 kilo king fish, good catch. Will need help bringing it all back.". She sent it to a contact name registered as Boris as she slid the phone back into her pocket.

She walked toward the register.

The man behind the counter wore a station jumpsuit, the kind with the logo stitched crooked over the breast pocket, like it had been sewn on by someone who'd never seen the original. Collar sat wrong. Underneath it, at the throat, the edge of something dark, a shoulder holster strap, black canvas.

She kept walking toward the counter. Didn't slow.

His eyes found hers a half second before he realized he had been made. His hand moved under the jumpsuit.

Anastasiya closed the distance in two steps and caught his wrist before it reached the jumpsuit's zipper. Twisted. Drove it down and back against the counter edge. The bone gave with a wet crack, and he screamed, high and short, and she used the momentum to throw him sideways into the cigarette rack.

Boots rang behind her. Fast. She turned as Melisa hit her, full weight, both of them slamming into the beverage cooler. Glass bottles rained off the shelf and burst against the floor tile. Melisa got a forearm across her throat and drove her back again, into the door frame.

Anastasiya got a knee up into her stomach. Melisa's grip loosened enough. She grabbed a fistful of Melisa's hair and slammed her head sideways into the metal shelf edge. Melisa went down to one knee, dazed, blood already running from a cut above her ear.

They grappled on the floor between the aisles, broken glass under both of them. Melisa got a hand around Anastasiya's jaw, fingers digging for her eyes. Anastasiya bit down on the meat of her palm. Melisa yanked back with a curse, and Anastasiya used the opening to roll, get on top, drive an elbow into her sternum.

She stood. Melisa was still on the ground, gasping.

Anastasiya kicked her once in the face, full swing, and Melisa's head snapped back against the floor. She didn't get up as Anastasiya ran for the door.

Zorbey was already there, arm hanging wrong at his side, but he threw himself into her path and got both hands on her jacket. She spun with him, used his own weight to slam him into the door frame, glass cracking down the length of it. He didn't let go. They went through the doorway together, out into the lot, and he threw her against the side of a parked delivery van hard enough to dent the panel.

She drove a heel into his knee. He buckled but kept his grip, dragging her down with him. They hit the concrete. She got a hand free and clawed at his face, raked her nails across his eye, and he roared and let go with the broken arm, which was the only thing that had been holding on.

She got behind him. Forearm across his throat. Squeezed. He clawed at her arm with his good hand, feet scrabbling against the pavement, and she pulled tighter, felt his pulse hammering against her wrist.

The station door banged open. Melisa stood in the frame, one eye already swelling shut, a pistol raised in both hands.

"Let him go."

"Put the gun down," Anastasiya said, "or he dies before you get the shot off."

Melisa's arms trembled. The barrel dipped, just slightly, toward the ground.

Zorbey's good hand found the back of Anastasiya's knee and drove forward. She lost her footing. He rolled with her, used the last of his strength to flip her onto her back, and her spine hit the curb edge at the base of the pump island.

She groaned. Didn't move for a second. Her hand went to the small of her back, under her waistband, fingers closing around the grip of the compact she kept there. She brought it up, arm shaking, sighting on Zorbey where he knelt clutching his arm.

The shot came from behind him. It caught her high in the back. She dropped the gun before she fired it. Her arm hit the concrete first, then the rest of her.

Zorbey sat back against the pump island, cradling his arm against his chest. "We were supposed to take her alive."

Melisa lowered the pistol, breathing hard, blood still running down the side of her face from the cut at her ear. She didn't answer him right away. "She was Russian," she said finally. "No question," Melisa said as she wiped the blood from the side of her face. "Fucking bitch." She said as she gave her body a final kick.

Zorbey shook his head. He gave a deep grunt as he stood up. Neither of them moved for a moment. Then Zorbey took out his phone and said they'd need a cleanup crew to contact only listed as dry cleaner.

Zak