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Chapter 1 The Secret Meeting

On a cold, crisp night in the waning winter days of 2026, a lonely doorman stood in front of a dimly lit restaurant waiting for someone. It was past midnight. Most restaurants in the King Street area of Arlington, Virginia, closed at midnight or earlier. With the constant swarm of customers earlier that same evening, the bright lights and sounds of chatter and music gave way to soothing darkness. The night softened the sharp edges of the buildings and toned down the harsh bright colors of the restaurant signs.

If there had been an observer, he would have noticed a line of limousines arriving. In each one of the limousines was a single passenger. After the passengers got out of their luxurious limousines and walked up the few marble steps to the heavy iron door, the limousines drove quietly away. Each passenger showed his right wrist to the burly-looking doorman, who then opened the door and let the passenger inside after checking it.

An exclusive group of rich and powerful men had gathered for a clandestine meeting. This was their first gathering in person. The men had talked several times on the phone and held video conferences, but they had never met in person. Only Hydra, their leader, had met the participants individually on a few selected occasions. But those meetings had been kept discreet and in remote locations, like his well-guarded dacha, his luxury holiday country home by the Black Sea.

These men wanted to shape the global economy and international politics for the benefit of their homeland and themselves. Operation Pobeda had brought them together. Pobeda means a victory or a coup in the Russian language. The operation had started over seventy years ago and had required lots of money and time to prepare. But the most important thing was that they needed one man on their side who could fulfill their demands and get them what they wanted, namely the president of the United States.

The group called themselves Septem, the Seven. The name, Septem, referred to the number of participants in the group—seven—even though not all of them participated in person in the meetings. The Septem needed one day to start a successful execution of all the activities in Operation Pobeda that would change the world and threaten the stability of the world order.

The ages of the Septem ranged from mid-forties to seventies. Each man had a different tattoo on their right wrist: Phoenix, Hydra, Werewolf, Hippogriff, Cyborg, Nachtkrapp, and Basilisk. Each tattoo represented a mythical or a sci-fi creature. They used their tattoos both as an identity check as well as code names because they did not want to be heard communicating with each other by their real names and talking about their secret operation. Their faces and businesses were too familiar to everyone following the news. If their collaboration had been known, someone might have started asking questions. These men were too clever and too careful to let any outsiders know about Operation Pobeda. They knew that knowledge was both leverage and power. The stakes were high.

When the Septem group members entered the restaurant, they glanced around to ensure it was as private and secure as their leader, Hydra, had promised. The place was empty except for these men who had arrived.

The color scheme inside was of cool grays and blues, with metallic touches on the walls. The tiny lights on the ceiling bathed the room in a soft glow. The thick blue curtains were drawn over the windows so no one would see inside the restaurant. One wooden table was placed in the center of the room. A few flower arrangements of white Callas and purple anemones in tall vases on the pedestals were arranged around the dining room.

The table was set for seven men with as many tablet computers on it. In the middle of the table, a set of glasses and bottles of sparkling water, house wine, brandy, and vodka bottles were ready. However, none of the participants considered this visit a social one.

One seat was empty, but there was a tablet computer because this participant joined the meeting via video call. He had covered his face with a black bird mask called il dottore. The mask had glass openings in the eyes and a long, curved black beak. The bird mask was fitting because his tattoo represented a mythological bird—a Nachtkrapp, a scary night raven, inked inside his right wrist. Just like all the other participants, he showed his wrist to the others for identification purposes. He used voice-altering software that gave his voice a deep metallic sound to make sure that nobody recognized him.

They could have had all the meetings online via video conference call, but none wanted to do that because someone could still be listening, monitoring, and might discover their plans. The man with the Hippogriff tattoo on his wrist owned the restaurant, and no outsider could have planted listening devices there without him knowing it. He also provided limousines for the participants. The most important thing was to keep Operation Pobeda secret. The other reason was that if they had to make difficult decisions, it was always better to do it face-to-face, for example, if they had to sacrifice a member of this group to ensure the operation’s success.

“Is everyone in order?” Hydra, the spokesman, asked with a thick Russian accent. He glanced at the computer screen in front of him. They were all there. The operation was ready to launch.

Hydra was in his early seventies. He was a tall, slender, white-haired man with eyes as friendly as a shark’s. The many-headed serpentine monster, Hydra, was tattooed on the inside of his right wrist. He was one of the oligarchs that had emerged in Russia after its transition from socialism to capitalism, and he was well-connected to the Russian mob and the government. He knew how and who to bribe to get things done in the new Russia. His billions had come from owning media companies in Russia and transferring his investments to Swiss bank accounts before the economic sanctions sank the ruble.

“Yes, Hydra, Operation Pobeda will be set in motion today as agreed,” an elderly man with salt and pepper hair replied. “The doppelganger is ready to play his part.” He had a Basilisk tattoo, a legendary reptile that can kill with a single glance.

“Any new developments?” Hydra asked. His icy gaze went around the table. Some of the participants faced his stare with blank, brave looks, and some turned their eyes toward the tablets in front of them. Everyone feared Hydra, their government ally, their strategist, not just because of his fortune but because of his influence and his high-level allies in Russia.

“Everything is going as planned. No delays, no changes. My men are in place and ready to go to the airport,” a man wearing a black leather vest and pants replied. He had a huge, fiery-looking Werewolf with flaming eyes tattooed on his right wrist. He looked like a member of a motorcycle gang. He was in his mid-forties and had earned his fortune in drugs, sex, collecting debts, and later setting up legal shell companies to hide his more illicit businesses.

“Thank you for the update, Werewolf,” Hydra replied and asked the one person participating via video conference, “Do you have anything else to share with the rest of us, Nachtkrapp?”

“The President won’t have a clue what hit him,” Nachtkrapp replied with a metallic voice, but you could still hear a slight Bostonian accent.

“Everything seems to be in order. “If there is nothing else, then we will meet again after the first phase of Operation Pobeda is over,” Hydra said, ending the clandestine meeting.

It had started raining, and the raindrops glinted in the streetlights like silver silk. The doorman held a large umbrella for each man until they got into their limousines. Then he went back for the next one. Hydra was the first to leave, and Werewolf was the last. Each man left the same way they came, alone and in a dark limousine with tinted windows. The doorman closed the restaurant doors and turned off the lights.

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Enthusiastic about crafting high-octane thrillers packed with action and unexpected plot twists, Arla Jones, blends her personal experiences to create tales that will set your heart pounding. With each keystroke, she conjures compelling characters, some you’ll root for, and others you’ll love to despise. Beyond the keyboard, the author finds solace in gardening and draws inspiration from the vibrant world around her. Immerse yourself in her stories, where danger and desire collide, and be prepared for an unforgettable, exhilarating journey. Brace yourself, dear reader, as Arla Jones is poised to take you on a thrilling ride you won’t easily forget.

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