A little raincloud passed over the winter sky. The shiny shoes of the man passing the frozen grass gave a strange décor to the fallen leaves, which seemed to reflect the melancholy state of the drizzly country.
The man quickly passed through the little garden, and put his right hand on the clench of a rusty gate.
" Matrix code." -said the voice of an automathon from somewhere above. The man with the shiny shoes began to quickly tap on a romboid device emerging from the wall of the building he was about to enter. The machine seemed satisfied, and he entered a bizarre room. Sized three on four, the room at first glance gave the impression of a Bizantine church. Portraits of long-passed saints hanging from the side walls, enclosed in roundish black mahogany frames, middle sized palm-trees in the corners, flower-shaped arabesques embroidering the ceiling, golden pavement on the floor.
A tall personage with a ghost-like appearance, dressed in black, emerged from between two saints, inaudibly, as if floating.
" -Good afternoon, Pjotr Fjodorovics", -said the man in black. " I was expecting you."
" - I came as ordered, Ilja Dragovics." -answered the intruder.
" - Did the saints sing today, Ilja Dragovics?"
"- The saints never sing, Pjotr Fjodorovics. They are dead."
" -Good!" the inruder raised his voice, looking at his shiny shoes. "- I guess that is all."
" -I was hoping so, Pjotr Fjodorovics."
Fjodorovics left the church-like building. Outside, in the cutting air, reached into his pocket and took out a cell-phone.
"-The sea is quiet, Sir."- he reported.
At the other end of the line, a smartly dressed, middle-aged man lit a cigarette, and answered in a melancholy voice:
"-Seas and saints should keep quiet, Fjodorovics!'
The man with the cigarette put his thumb again on the taster of his phone, after having disconnected the former line:
"-Send Mr. Gore in, Johnson!"
 the story was inspired by the sinking of a Russian submarine and the death of its crew