Alex, a
British intelligence operative with the inconvenient ability to transform into
A cat is sent to Argentina on what appears to be a routine assignment. But
When a detective is murdered in his hotel, and a pair of drunken fallen angels
Casually admitting to guarding a mysterious bunker in the mountains, Alex realizes
He has stepped into a conspiracy far beyond earthly espionage.
Inside the
bunker, he discovers the unthinkable: the long‑lost Tablets of the Covenant, stolen centuries ago and smuggled to South
America by Nazi occultists. Now, both earthly assassins and the Archangel
Michael’s celestial operatives are hunting
him.
With only a
flash drive containing a 3D model of the Tablets, a semi‑automatic pistol gifted by angels, and the reluctant help of Miriam — a sharp, disciplined Mossad agent — Alex must outwit divine politics, eliminate a
resurrected Ahnenerbe operative, and destroy the relic before Heaven unleashes
chaos on Earth.
Darkly
comic, philosophical, and irresistibly noir, The Ninth Life of a Spy blends
espionage, mysticism, and satire into a story where nothing is sacred — except
survival.
Alex, a
British intelligence operative with the inconvenient ability to transform into
A cat is sent to Argentina on what appears to be a routine assignment. But
When a detective is murdered in his hotel, and a pair of drunken fallen angels
Casually admitting to guarding a mysterious bunker in the mountains, Alex realizes
He has stepped into a conspiracy far beyond earthly espionage.
Inside the
bunker, he discovers the unthinkable: the long‑lost Tablets of the Covenant, stolen centuries ago and smuggled to South
America by Nazi occultists. Now, both earthly assassins and the Archangel
Michael’s celestial operatives are hunting
him.
With only a
flash drive containing a 3D model of the Tablets, a semi‑automatic pistol gifted by angels, and the reluctant help of Miriam — a sharp, disciplined Mossad agent — Alex must outwit divine politics, eliminate a
resurrected Ahnenerbe operative, and destroy the relic before Heaven unleashes
chaos on Earth.
Darkly
comic, philosophical, and irresistibly noir, The Ninth Life of a Spy blends
espionage, mysticism, and satire into a story where nothing is sacred — except
survival.
This story belongs to the lineage of ironic detective stories with a sprinkle of mysticism, fantasy, and everyday reality. A phantasmagoria, plain and simple. The names, characters, events, and incidents portrayed here are the fruit of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, to cities, countries, or even continents is purely coincidental. And whatever you like or dislike in this book — that’s entirely on you, dear reader. You picked it up, after all… What did you expect?
Sit on a riverbank and wait for your enemy’s corpse to float by? Not my style. I don’t want to sound like a bore, but what’s the point? What good does it do? Time flows like a river that cannot be turned back, and History has no subjunctive mood — everyone knows that. Life is messy, both in your head and around you; even outer space is full of junk. I’m telling you this as a witness. As an expert. You’ve never been to Enceladus, have you? Exactly. I have. On assignment.
You can live there, technically: there’s water, beautiful landscapes, forests, vegetation, even bananas. Everything you’d find on Earth. Except — not a single living soul. Not one. Empty as a drum. No one to exchange words with. Building a house? Impossible. There’s no one to build it. I’m no carpenter — more of a thinker, really. An intellectual in however many generations. I can’t even hammer a nail properly. I endured it for a while, thanked the Boss, and finally cried out to him: “For Christ’s sake, send me back to my home planet…” He took pity. Said, however: “Don’t count on ever setting foot on Enceladus again.” And he sent me back — as a favour. “When I need you, I’ll whistle.”
Imagine: he returned me to London, with a proper cover story, a spotless service record — good enough to promote me to Commander on the spot. Except the line for that promotion was already full of locals. So I spent twenty years as a senior agent in Department Z. And what do I have to show for two decades of impeccable service? A tiny flat on the outskirts of the British capital and a pension barely sufficient for a drink and a burger at the bar next door. Is that a life? Welcome to the club of military retirees.
Should I buy a couple of lottery tickets? Maybe luck will finally smile on me… My personal experience with Lotto — those crooks — tells me they’ll always win, and I’ll never see a Mercedes-Maybach, not even in my dreams. At best, they’ll toss me a “bonus game” for five pounds so I don’t lose heart — and keep buying, buying, buying… I’m tired of it. Maybe I should just blow-up Earth and be done with it…
No one can count their days or hours. Maybe that’s for the best. They’re like grains of sand on the ocean shore — yours, mine, ours, everyone’s. Sand in an hourglass. Not “sandy clocks,” of course — hourglasses. Sandstorms are sandy; clocks are hourglasses. The most accurate and the cheapest timekeeping device. Back then. Because sand was plentiful — still is. Somewhere in Asia, long before Jesus, they invented the art of pouring from empty into a void when the need arose. At first, by hand, palm to palm, until craftsmen learned to blow glass bulbs.
Accuracy wasn’t the goal; it merely brought humans closer to the ideal measurement of time. But as we know, man proposes, God disposes. Creating Perfection is His prerogative. And so Swiss chronographs appeared — rose gold, sapphire case backs, moon phases — for a mere 166 thousand bucks, or, in other words, caribou hides, the currency of the tundra and taiga.
Everything was cheap back then. Hourglasses, deer hides — a dollar apiece. No one chased counterfeiters: you could mint as much as you wanted at home and become a millionaire. Only today did people finally think of stamping bitcoins — like bricks made of camel dung in the desert. No banks needed: collect, shape, sell, buy… Why not? We live in a virtual world. Many already hide behind nicknames. Everything is allowed and isn’t forbidden.
But try counting your grains of sand — how many you’re allotted. Impossible. They’re mixed with your neighbours’, inseparable like birch twigs in a bathhouse broom. That’s how it’s designed. Human civilization.
In ancient Greece, the wealthy — naturally, the wealthy — used to visit the salon of the Moirai sisters: Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos. You had to book in advance to learn your fate. They knew everything about their visitors, of course — the secret police earned their bread — and the sisters had moles in the police who provided access to everyone’s files. But to keep clients coming back, they lied. For the sake of the soul and the prosperity of the business. A lie for salvation has always been considered a legitimate tool for mental health. Dishonest, yes, but whom could the Moirai confess to? They had no competition. And so, with the gods’ blessing, they privatized clairvoyance and weather forecasting.
They spun the threads of human fate from dawn till deep night: past, present, future. Every day, until old age. And everyone feared them, because cutting a thread was easier than sneezing into a lace handkerchief. Dressed in white, sitting side by side on their island in the sea, each with her own function.
Zeus, according to mythology, didn’t like this at all — it undermined his authority. So, he began weighing human destinies on golden scales himself, when he had time, of course — between wars, visits to beautiful women on Earth, and reporting to his first wife, wise Metis, about where he’d been and what he’d done. He was swamped. That’s when Themis — his second wife, the one with the blindfold, sword, and scales — came in handy and began substituting for him in court. And to avoid confusion about who was in charge, Zeus ordered an inscription above his statue: “Destiny and fate obey Zeus alone.”
A narcissist and a dictator in one. Plenty of those around today. Nothing human is alien to the gods. The Moirai were politely asked to step aside. They still did their job, though, and on the tombstones of the newly departed, grateful relatives would inscribe: “Bravo, Ivanov! May I live as well as you died!” Short and tasteful.
I don’t want to sound cynical, but that’s how it’s always been: dust to dust, ashes to ashes. What’s foreordained always happens. I don’t know a single case where something occurred not by God’s will but by chance. Every effect has a cause, and every cause produces an effect. Truly I tell you: two plus two is four.
Some deny fate. “Old wives’ tales,” they say. “There’s only a chain of coincidences.” But that “chain of coincidences” is the very thread the Moirai spin and cut according to their own algorithm. Simple as Newton’s binomial: two parallel lines — past and future — meet at a point called the present. And that’s the end of everything: past, present, and future. The Big Bang Theory.
This is a true story — as true as any story can be. And who invents history? Historians, of course. And if history contradicts reality, who do you turn to? Right — historians. They’ll fix everything and interpret it in light of current events. No need to fret: our past is unpredictable, and the future is shrouded in fog. You know this as well as I do: we live in times far more terrifying than the legends of old, and the Apocalypse sits on everyone’s doorstep.
When did it all happen? How did I end up in The River House? Better not to ask, I won’t tell you anyway. That part of my classified file we’ll skip; I haven’t read it myself. I have already retired from active service. In our diocese — “Legoland,” as we call it — you retire like a ballerina, at forty-something. The work is brutal. Exhausting. The brass understands this and removes you before you mess something up at the finish line. They need the young, healthy, romantic, full of hope. And we… we’re like old horses worn out morally and physically, though, as Comrade Raikin said, “lean us against a warm wall, and we’ll still show you something…”
But I’m not complaining. I stayed in shape and was always ready. That’s probably why Tommy summoned me. Tommy — the duty administrator. A ghost of a man. No one knows his real surname; no one has seen his face. How so? Simple: he changes masks every day. Like Sikhs change turbans: blue, red, purple, yellow… Masks are printed on 3D printers nowadays — easy as pie. Not turbans, of course — masks. So, no one knows who stands before them. That’s what administrators of Her Majesty’s Secret Service are like. Invisible and irreplaceable. Their names appear nowhere. Their fingers probably don’t even leave prints. Occupational hazard.
The message came by courier. A polite letter that radiated Arctic cold. My heart pounded like after a night of heavy drinking. The Centre was summoning me.
“Why the honour?”
“Thanks for asking. How are you, buddy?”
“How are you?” — that’s an informational meme, a question that doesn’t require an actual answer. You’re supposed to reply with the same “How are you,” and the ritual is complete. If you start explaining how you really are, they’ll look at you as if you’re a weirdo or mentally deficient. And you’re done. They’ll shut you down forever.
“How are you?” I will reply. “‘Buddy’ is better than ‘son.’ And what kind of son am I to you if I’m twice your age?”
These HR meetings always remind me of a gathering of anonymous sociopaths-alcoholics in a safe house:
“Hi! My name is Alex…”
“Hi, Alex!”
“I have thirty-four confirmed kills with firearms, not counting the strangled and drowned — with these very hands…”
I roll up my sleeves, showing arms up to the elbows in blood.
“But I’m trying to quit my criminal past.”
“We are too, Alex… We’ve discussed it with management…”
I’ve never been fond of openings like “we’ve consulted with the management…” Nothing good ever follows. I’m something of a daredevil by nature — rules don’t frighten me, and most things slide off me like rain off a waxed coat — but even I know there are limits. I’m not showing off. Yes, I kill. Yes, I admit it — sometimes one must. But not indiscriminately; only those I can’t stand. And yes, I avoid people whose company makes my skin crawl. But I don’t ask for much: a bit of freedom, a touch of justice, and Wi‑Fi wherever I sit down.
The price of freedom in our profession, however, is well known to me: vigilance and caution. Administrators always “consult with the board,” “the directors,” “the president.” Their responsibility is sky‑high, as is their pay, so why risk anything? They’re shuffled around like pawns on a chessboard — replaced, removed, poached from other departments. Today, the one sitting in front of me was a rosy‑cheeked, broad‑shouldered fellow with a magnificent mane of hair. Ginger, as befits a Scotsman. Blue‑eyed, with a deliberate stubble — not from neglect, but from fashion, lest someone mistake him for a woman. A beard, a moustache — the whole performance.
Of course, I knew it was a mask. Tommy the Chameleon. And I’ve long since learned to take people as they are — not by their clothes, nor by their faces. The most dangerous of them can look meeker than the Pope and even inspire sympathy.
Tommy didn’t waste time pulling the cat by the tail. He went straight to business. I appreciate that quality — why waffle when fate is already blowing the horn and calling you to duty? And, truth be told, we weren’t nearly close enough to start with the latest NFL scores or the beating the Warriors delivered to whoever was unlucky enough to be in their way. So, to business.
“You have an impressive service record, Alex. May I call you that?” he asked politely, more out of formality than genuine inquiry. “We’ve found ourselves in a difficult situation, and I was hoping to rely on your assistance with a rather delicate…”
“A special operation,” I offered. “That’s my line of work. You’re very kind.”
I’ve often had to do things I’d rather not, but that’s the life of an agent. We’re like paper boats tossed about in a storm. I fully agree with the Almighty: if you want to make Him laugh, tell Him your plans. So, one of my rules is simple — stay calm and go with the current. Anglers have a good saying about it: The Rules of Fishing? Relax… Relax… Relax…
“Yes, precisely. An operation. It’s embarrassing to admit that our resources are depleted, active agents are occupied, and the cabinet keeps cutting our already miserable budget. In short, we have a job for you.”
I didn’t bother asking why Tommy chose me for his murky business. What difference does it make? Perhaps because I’m expendable — half‑retired, unlikely to be taken seriously by the enemy. On the other hand, I still know a few tricks the youngsters don’t, and my name is known in certain narrow circles. And I can keep my mouth shut — even in bed.
“I understand. It’s always been like that. Bare‑bones pay and a laughable pension.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Special Agent Alex. Don’t be petulant. We’re aware of how much you’ve tucked away in your private account. And don’t forget — many in London and beyond would be delighted to attend your funeral. But we also never forget that we owe you more than we can repay. You’re our pride. And you’re a patriot, aren’t you?”
Whenever someone appeals to your patriotism, something’s rotten. Proven fact. I’d stake a tooth on it. It’s meant to make you agree faster. God gives us strength for only one day at a time, then night falls so we don’t plan too far ahead. Still, one ought to think before acting. And I have no desire to die of boredom.
“Oh, no problem. Give the order.”
I’m not a complete idiot to answer “yes, Daddy” straight away. MI6 doesn’t recruit fools or the mentally deficient.
“I can’t order you — you’re a civilian now — but I can ask…”
“Ask whatever you like, Tommy.”
“It would be wise for you to disappear from London. For your own good. Why not visit a lovely southern country where no one knows you? You haven’t been there yet, have you? Or have you?”
Oh, I have… Dominican Republic. Samaná Peninsula. Five‑star hotel, everything arranged and paid for. Hard to forget.
“You’ll start a new life. Perhaps finally find yourself. And beautiful women are beautiful even on the equator. How many married ladies have you made happy here, Alex? And how many widows? You want new sensations, don’t you? Want to change the world? Then off you go. The best way is to change your surroundings. Your destination is Argentina. Does that suit you?”
The finest form of politeness, says Charles Dickens — and as an English gentleman and my compatriot, he can be trusted — is not to poke your nose into other people’s affairs. Tommy, I suspect, has never read Dickens.
“Latinos? But I don’t speak a word of Latin.”
“You odd man. They speak Spanish.”
I’d dreamed of it all my life. Truly, without irony. Colleagues who’d been there told me about the women — fiery, breathtaking. The glances they cast… And the tango — worth dying for. All of Argentina in a single dance. Lucky it wasn’t Brazil — I fear nothing, except Brazilian banana spiders. Worse than black widows. And living in a new place? We spies, are strangers everywhere. Alien. So, what difference does it make? They say: it’s always good where we are not. Worth checking. On the other hand, why run if no one is chasing you? Also true.
“Did you want to ask or request anything else, Alex?”
“A raise?”
“No. That would look gaudy and banal. Everyone wants a raise. Accounting can’t keep up with the refusals.”
“Then a service car? Second‑hand will do.”
“No luck. All out. Not a single broken one left.”
“Diplomatic passport? In case I need to shoot my way out.”
“Absolutely not. You’re travelling incognito. And remember, poison is more reliable than a bullet.”
“You have dreadful humour, Tommy. Has no one told you? But something… anything… before a long journey. Lend me your machete, perhaps? Being a target, changing passports — surely that’s worth something? And if I have to invade someone’s private life, risk my spotless reputation? Losing my rides on London omnibuses and my stops at The Drayton Arms — my second home, if you must know — where I can get drunk on local ale and chase it with fish and chips… that’s like a knife to Tommy, are you even aware that half of the hundred and fifty thousand Russians in Londongrad are KGB informants?”
“Don’t be flippant, Alex. We can handle Russian spies without you. If it comforts you, you’ll stop in Madrid on the way. Spend a couple of days, refresh your Spanish, and look around. But your contact will meet you in Perpignan — a quiet little place, they call it ‘Spanish France.’ He’ll give you the directives. You won’t have to rummage in a lavatory cistern at a train station looking for a dead drop.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, provided it’s properly disinfected. The cistern, I mean, not the entire station.”
Tommy didn’t notice the irony. For a moment, I imagined he was a robot — and he kept droning on like a capercaillie in the woods, indifferent to whether I listened or not.
“We’d prefer you not take risks or lead a tail to us. Better safe than sorry. I hope you enjoy the journey. I won’t keep you. Documents, cash, and tickets — as always — from Margaret in the office. You know her. And good luck — you’ll need it. Care for a drink ‘for the road,’ as they say in Russia, Alex? You’re working for us now.”
For you, then for you, I thought. My father — blessed be his memory — used to say: never drink alone. In our profession, it doesn’t matter who pulls the trigger — what matters is who pays for the drinks. Wish you luck, Captain America. You’ll need it.
Valery Rubin’s novel, Paradise, is about a British Intelligence operative on a mission and more. There are angels here, and they’re hunting. There are assassins, too, who aren’t far behind. Following Alex, who goes to Argentina to perform another intelligence work, this book is nearly everything else expected of a spy novel.
Paradise isn't like any spy story I’ve ever read. It’s rare that an operative is caught between Heaven and Earth wars, where he’s made himself an enemy of celestial beings, and where he stumbles upon a rare relic, the Tablets of the Covenant of all things. What’s more, Alex’s conversation with angels intrigues. They behave like old acquaintances, like men who’ve been in their trade for a long time and have since mastered how to handle each other.
Also, I like Alex’s relationship with Miriam. It’s professional and friendly.
Still, there were moments when I’d get lost, with no idea of what was going on. Moments when I find the story convoluted and trying to be many things. Whereas the story’s premise engages, my problem is with Alex. Much as he has flaws and strengths, I find him knowledgeable on almost everything on the earth’s surface. This isn’t bad, except Alex talks about nearly everything his eyes see and his mind processes. Money, happiness, war, places, and people. This is what he has to say about Bogota: ‘In Bogotá, they say, the authorities close the streets to cars on Sundays — pedestrians become the rightful masters of the city. Walking improves mood and brings peace and confidence. ‘ Then he switches to paranoia, then reminds the reader of what Warren Buffett once said.’ As such, I spent much of my time stranded in Alex’s head.
Overall, this book didn’t resonate with me. At least not as I had hoped when I saw the cover and read its synopsis. I find myself lagging behind throughout, and moments that I enjoyed less than those that confused me.