The snow fell in slow, deliberate flakes, descending like tiny ghosts over the rooftops of Moscow. It was the kind of cold that crept into your bones without asking, the kind that clung to your breath and left it trailing behind you like a whisper. The city, cloaked in a heavy winter mist, seemed caught between the past and present—Soviet concrete blocks stood stoic beside sleek glass towers, their contrast softened by the frost. Beneath that curtain of cold, the Frost family arrived.
They stepped out of the black government vehicle near the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, the grand dome looming high above them, gilded and shining through the haze like a beacon of power. Sir William Frost, former diplomat and royal attaché, wrapped his coat tighter as he surveyed the snow-laced skyline with the practiced eyes of a man who had once negotiated ceasefires and brokered secrets in marble rooms.
Beside him, his wife Eleanor adjusted her leather gloves, her posture straight, her eyes scanning their surroundings with a blend of awe and caution. She was elegance personified—an Oxford-educated linguist fluent in seven languages, each of which she could weaponize with charming precision. Her laugh could dissolve tension in any room, but there was no laughter now. Just the wind.
Behind them walked their twin sons, Adrian and Alexander—fifteen, identical in bone structure, but utterly different in how they wore the world.
Alexander moved with an easy stride, broad-shouldered and athletic, his blond hair dusted with flurries as he pulled his phone from his jacket and snapped pictures of the cathedral. He smiled—unbothered, curious. To him, this trip was adventure. A break from boarding school and politics. A frozen postcard.
Adrian, however, walked slower. His gaze wasn't on the architecture or the snow but on the reflection in every window. He watched how shadows moved behind curtains. He noticed the black van across the street, idling without hazard lights. He watched its windows, its lack of license plate, the slight rise of its exhaust—warm in a cold that felt hollow.
"They're watching us," Adrian murmured under his breath.
Alexander scoffed. "Come on, Sherlock. We're in Russia. They probably follow everyone with a British passport."
"I didn't say they were Russians."
Sir William turned slightly, catching the tail-end of Adrian's comment. "Boys, enough. We're guests here. Let's not invite attention."
But attention had already arrived.
---
The family's hotel was nestled just off Red Square, an old estate-turned-five-star resort with ceilings that looked like paintings from a forgotten age. Inside, it was warm. Too warm. Eleanor loosened her scarf and touched Adrian's cheek, brushing snowflakes away.
"You worry too much," she said softly.
Adrian didn't answer. He was staring at the man in the hotel lobby—the one pretending to read a newspaper.
---
That night, over dinner in the velvet-draped dining room, the family spoke about art museums, theatre schedules, and the cold. Sir William shared stories from his previous visits to Russia in the late 1990s, when optimism briefly bloomed in the aftermath of the Iron Curtain. Alexander asked about tanks and submarines. Adrian asked about disappearing journalists.
"We're here to learn," Eleanor said, gently. "Not to asks conspiracies."
"But we can learn in studying conspiracies," Adrian said.
His father frowned, but said nothing. A silence passed like a cloud.
After dinner, Adrian excused himself early. He walked the hotel corridor in silence, counting doors, memorizing exits. He noticed a man in a maintenance uniform who had no name tag and never made eye contact. He noticed the security camera that had stopped blinking.
By the time he returned to the room, his face was pale.
"They're not watching us," he whispered to his brother. "They're hunting us."
---
The morning they left for their countryside retreat, the sky was steel grey. Their driver—a man who spoke no English—loaded their bags into a silver van that wasn't from the hotel. Sir William frowned at the vehicle, then at the absent concierge, but said nothing. The family boarded.
Adrian looked at the driver's hands—scarred knuckles, too callused for hospitality. He caught the briefest glimpse of something tucked under the man's coat. A syringe? A weapon?
The van rolled out of Moscow's frozen heart.
---
Two hours into the journey, the trees grew denser. Civilization thinned until only snow and pine remained. Eleanor had fallen asleep against the window. Alexander was humming some pop song under his breath. Sir William was thumbing through a Russian-English guidebook.
Adrian stared out the back.
The black van was there.
Same one. No lights. No plates.