Chapter 10: The Riga Connection

Riga greeted Darren with a sky the color of hammered steel and a bitter wind sweeping in from the Baltic Sea. He stood on the cobblestones of the Old Town, collar turned up against the cold, taking in the spires and facades that seemed torn from a medieval fairy tale. Despite the circumstances, something about the city resonated with him—an ancestral echo he couldn't quite name.

He'd arrived via a circuitous route—train from Paris to Frankfurt, a budget airline to Helsinki under a passport Thomas had provided through his MSF contacts, then a ferry to Tallinn, followed by a bus to Riga. The journey had taken nearly three days, during which he'd maintained radio silence, his regular phone remaining powered down and batteryless.

Now, standing before St. Peter's Church with its distinctive green spire piercing the low clouds, Darren checked his burner phone. No messages yet from the blog user "LatvianMemory" who had claimed knowledge of Institute 410. He'd sent a carefully worded reply before leaving Paris, suggesting a meeting at the Museum of the Occupation of Latvia. The location seemed appropriate—a place dedicated to documenting how external powers had controlled Latvian lives and institutions.

His temporary accommodation was a small apartment in a Soviet-era building in the Āgenskalns neighborhood across the Daugava River—far from the tourist areas and diplomatic quarters where surveillance would be heaviest. He'd paid cash, using the cover story Thomas had crafted: a Canadian documentary filmmaker researching Baltic history.

As Darren made his way through the narrow streets, he felt the weight of his grandfather's presence. Jānis Melvik had rarely spoken of Latvia after emigrating to America, but the few stories he'd shared had painted Riga as a city of shadows and light, of ancient traditions and scientific ambitions. Could his grandfather have had connections to Institute 410? The timing would fit—he had worked as a research psychologist before leaving Latvia in the tumultuous post-war period.

The Museum of the Occupation stood as a stark black cube among the colorful buildings of the Old Town. Inside, the exhibits chronicled Latvia's tragic history—Soviet occupation, Nazi invasion, then Soviet control again until independence in 1991. Darren moved through the displays methodically, alert for any sign of his contact while absorbing the historical context that might help him understand Institute 410.

In the section documenting Soviet scientific programs, he paused before a small display about psychological research facilities. A black and white photograph showed an austere building outside Riga, captioned only as "Research Institute No. 410, 1972." The accompanying text was minimal: "Soviet behavioral science programs operated several classified facilities in Latvia, studying human psychology for potential applications in social control and military operations."

"They sanitize it for the tourists," said a voice behind him in accented English. "The reality was much darker."

Darren turned to find a woman in her early sixties regarding him with keen gray eyes. She wore a practical wool coat and carried a worn leather satchel clutched against her side.

"Are you LatvianMemory?" he asked quietly.

She nodded once. "Dr. Ieva Bērziņa. And you're the UN official who posted about burning churches." Her expression revealed nothing. "We shouldn't talk here. Too many ears. Follow me, but not too closely."

Without waiting for his response, she moved toward the exit. Darren gave her a head start, then followed at a discreet distance. Dr. Bērziņa led him through a series of winding streets before entering a small café tucked between a bookshop and an antique store. The establishment was nearly empty—just an elderly couple by the window and a young man absorbed in his laptop.

They took a table in the back corner. Only after the server had brought their coffees and retreated did Dr. Bērziņa speak again.

"My grandfather was Dr. Valdis Bērziņš, senior researcher at Institute 410 from 1961 to 1982," she said, her voice low but clear. "His specialty was what they called 'collective cognitive response to symbolic stimuli.' In simple terms, how groups of people react to the same images or ideas."

"And this connects to religious imagery?" Darren prompted.

Dr. Bērziņa nodded. "The Soviets were obsessed with understanding religious experience. Not for spiritual purposes, obviously, but to counter its influence—or harness it. My grandfather's team studied how religious symbols and narratives activated certain brain regions, created shared emotional responses."

She reached into her satchel and withdrew a small leather journal, aged and worn. "His personal research notes, which he managed to hide from authorities. After his death, I found them concealed in the binding of an old textbook."

Darren accepted the journal with reverence. "Why trust me with this?"

"Because my grandfather predicted something like Operation Apostle decades ago." Her eyes held his. "And because your name is Melvik. Was your grandfather Jānis Melvik, by chance?"

Darren felt a chill that had nothing to do with the Baltic weather. "Yes. How did you know?"

"He's mentioned in these journals. He worked with my grandfather briefly in the late 1950s, before defecting to America." She tapped the journal. "They were researching something called 'theological resonance' – the way religious ideas can create synchronized responses across different individuals, even at a distance."

"The dreams," Darren murmured. "People reading my blog report similar dream experiences to mine."

"Exactly." Dr. Bērziņa sipped her coffee. "The Soviet interest was weaponization—using religious imagery to influence population groups. But my grandfather believed it was something more fundamental about human consciousness, something that transcended political application."

She leaned forward. "Your grandfather left because he discovered how the research was being directed toward manipulation rather than understanding. His departure may have saved your family from what came next."

"Which was what?"

"Phase Two of the research—direct cognitive influence through targeted religious stimuli. By the 1970s, Institute 410 was experimenting with techniques to trigger specific psychological and physiological responses using carefully calibrated religious imagery."

Darren thought of his dreams—the conversations with religious figures that seemed too detailed, too specific to be mere products of his imagination. "Are you suggesting my dreams are... what? Artificially induced?"

"I'm suggesting they may be triggered by elements of the same techniques my grandfather studied. Updated, refined, but based on the same principles." She paused. "When the Soviet Union collapsed, the research didn't stop. It was privatized."

"By whom?"

"Various entities. Religious organizations interested in enhancing 'spiritual experience.' Political groups focused on social influence. Private security firms developing non-lethal crowd control methods." Her expression darkened. "And in the last decade, a consortium called the Theopneustos Foundation has been particularly active in acquiring the old research and funding new applications."

The name triggered a memory from Father Rossi's files. "Theopneustos was mentioned in Cardinal Sarah's evidence. They've provided funding to religious organizations with connections to the UN."

"The Greek word means 'God-breathed' or 'divinely inspired,'" Dr. Bērziņa explained. "They present themselves as promoting 'authentic religious experience in a secular age.' In reality, they're developing sophisticated methods of psychological influence using religious frameworks."

Darren opened the journal, scanning pages filled with neat Cyrillic script interspersed with diagrams and observation notes. "Can this help us understand what they're doing now?"

"Perhaps. But we need to see where it continued." She checked her watch. "The original Institute 410 building still exists, abandoned now, about twenty kilometers outside the city. If you're serious about understanding the connection to Operation Apostle, we should go there. Some of the old equipment may remain."

"Isn't that risky? If this research is as valuable as you suggest—"

"The main facility was officially decommissioned. The valuable material was moved long ago. But my grandfather mentioned underground levels not on the official blueprints. Spaces where the most sensitive work occurred."

Darren considered the risks. If Dr. Bērziņa was setting a trap, it would be an elaborate one, consistent with everything he'd learned so far. And her knowledge of his grandfather provided a connection that would be difficult to fabricate.

"When can we go?"

"Tomorrow morning. Less security on weekdays when there are no urban explorers or curious teenagers around." She reclaimed the journal, returning it to her satchel. "For now, you should read this. It may help you understand what's happening to you."

She tore a page from a small notebook and wrote an address. "My apartment. Come at seven tonight. We have much to discuss about your grandfather—and about Archbishop Stankevičs' connection to the Theopneustos Foundation."

After Dr. Bērziņa left, Darren remained at the café, processing this new information. His grandfather—the gentle academic he barely remembered—had been involved in Soviet psychological research that somehow connected to his current situation. The coincidence seemed too perfect, suggesting the conspiracy had deeper roots than he'd imagined.

His burner phone vibrated with an incoming message from an unknown number:

"Arrived safely. Your mother secure at new location. Isabelle gone underground after UN security raid on her apartment. OpUNleaks founder detained by Swiss authorities on cyber-terrorism charges. Cardinal Sarah still incommunicado. Be careful. -T"

The digital martyrs were paying a heavy price. Darren composed a brief, secure response:

"Meeting contact with family connection. Visiting research site tomorrow. Will update after. Stay safe."

As he walked back through Riga's Old Town, Darren's gaze was drawn to the imposing St. Jacob's Catholic Cathedral. Its striking Gothic belfry stood as a sentinel against the sky, a symbol of institutional religious power stretching back centuries. Inside those medieval walls, Archbishop Stankevičs presided over his flock, projecting moral authority while apparently participating in a conspiracy to manipulate international institutions through weaponized religious sentiment.

The irony of his original Facebook post—"The only church that illuminates is a burning church"—struck him anew. He had posted it as provocative metaphor, never imagining it would ignite a conflagration that would consume his career and endanger his loved ones. Yet here he was in Riga, discovering that religious imagery had literally been weaponized as a tool of illumination and control.

His phone vibrated again. This time, the message sent a chill through him:

"Welcome home, Darren Melvik. Archbishop Stankevičs would be pleased to grant you an audience. The prodigal Latvian returns to his roots. Perhaps with confession comes absolution?"

Someone in Riga knew he had arrived. His careful travel arrangements hadn't been careful enough.

As Darren quickened his pace, he scanned rooftops and windows for any sign of surveillance. The medieval streets, so charming moments ago, now felt like a labyrinth designed to trap him. He took a series of random turns, eventually ducking into a small amber shop catering to tourists.

While pretending to browse the Baltic treasures, he composed a warning to Dr. Bērziņa:

"Compromised. Meeting unsafe. Alternative location needed."

Her response came quickly: "Expected this. Proceed to original location at 8 instead of 7. Take indirect route. Watch for blue door with sunflower knocker."

Hours later, after a circuitous journey that included doubling back multiple times and changing his appearance with a purchased hat and scarf, Darren approached the address Dr. Bērziņa had provided. The apartment building dated from the early 20th century, its Art Nouveau façade worn but still impressive. The blue door with the sunflower knocker stood at the end of a narrow courtyard accessible only through a passage barely wide enough for one person.

Before he could knock, the door opened, and Dr. Bērziņa ushered him inside. The apartment beyond was a scholar's haven—books lined every wall, papers covered most surfaces, and various academic degrees hung in simple frames.

"Were you followed?" she asked, securing multiple locks on the door.

"I don't think so, but they know I'm in Riga." Darren explained the message he'd received.

Dr. Bērziņa nodded grimly. "Archbishop Stankevičs has extensive connections in this city. His influence extends far beyond the Church. During Soviet times, many religious leaders had to make accommodations with the regime to survive. Some of those relationships evolved in unexpected ways after independence."

She moved to a wooden cabinet and withdrew a distinctive dark clay bottle and two small glasses. "Riga Black Balsam. Medicinal, or so we Latvians claim. You look like you need it."

She poured the dark brown liquid, almost black like coffee, from its traditional clay bottle. "This is our national drink since 1752. Twenty-four natural ingredients, including seventeen botanicals. The clay bottle is part of the tradition—it helps the balsam mature properly."

The herbal liqueur burned pleasantly as it went down, its complex bittersweet flavor revealing notes of birch, licorice, and ginger. At 45% alcohol, it immediately warmed Darren from within. He felt the tension in his shoulders ease slightly.

"I've been reviewing my grandfather's journals," Dr. Bērziņa said, settling into an armchair and gesturing for Darren to take its twin. "There are extensive notes on his collaboration with your grandfather, particularly regarding something they called 'resonant cognitive fields'—the idea that certain mental states could somehow influence or synchronize with others at a distance."

"Like my blog readers reporting similar dreams?"

"Precisely. The Soviet interest was in creating artificial resonant fields—manufacturing synchronized experiences across population groups. But both our grandfathers suspected they were observing something that occurred naturally under certain conditions."

"What conditions?"

"Intense shared focus on symbolic frameworks—religious rituals, national mythologies, even artistic movements." Dr. Bērziņa retrieved a journal from a nearby stack. "They documented cases throughout history: religious revivals where thousands reported identical visions, mass political movements where populations seemed to fall into synchronized thought patterns, even artistic trends that emerged simultaneously in isolated communities."

She flipped to a marked page. "Here, your grandfather writes: 'The symbolic framework acts as a cognitive resonator, amplifying and synchronizing neural patterns across individuals who engage with it. The effect increases with emotional intensity and perceived significance of the symbols.'"

Darren tried to reconcile this academic language with his visceral dream experiences. "So my burning church post—a highly charged religious symbol—somehow triggered this resonance effect?"

"That's my theory. Your post contained powerful religious symbolism. It provoked intense emotional responses across large populations. The conditions were perfect for cognitive resonance." She closed the journal. "But here's what concerns me: Institute 410's later research focused on deliberately triggering and directing these resonance effects."

"And you think Operation Apostle is using this research?"

"The Theopneustos Foundation has been funding research into 'technologically enhanced spiritual experience' for years. They've recruited former Soviet researchers, built sophisticated labs, and maintained interest in the original Institute 410 site."

Dr. Bērziņa moved to a filing cabinet and withdrew a folder. "These are financial records showing Theopneustos donations to Archbishop Stankevičs' pet projects. And here—" she produced another document, "—is evidence of the Archbishop visiting their research facility in Estonia three times in the past year."

Darren examined the documents. The connection was clear—Stankevičs had deep ties to an organization researching the very phenomena Darren was experiencing.

"Tomorrow at the Institute," Dr. Bērziņa continued, "we might find physical evidence linking the Soviet research to current applications. But tonight, I want you to read this."

She handed him a slim file labeled "Project Matthias."

"Matthias," Darren repeated. "The thirteenth apostle who replaced Judas."

"Yes. It was a sub-project within Institute 410, focused specifically on religious succession narratives—how new religious authorities establish legitimacy after disruption or betrayal." She gave him a meaningful look. "Your blog title wasn't a coincidence, was it?"

"The Facebook group was called 'The 13th Apostle,'" Darren explained. "I named the blog after it."

"Names have power, Mr. Melvik. Especially in this context." She gestured to the file. "Project Matthias studied how to manufacture the perception of divine selection—making specific individuals appear chosen or inspired to specific audiences."

As Darren began reading, Dr. Bērziņa moved to prepare a simple meal in the small kitchen alcove. The Project Matthias documents detailed experiments in creating what the researchers called "perceived theophany"—the appearance of divine manifestation or selection. Using carefully calibrated stimuli, they could make test subjects believe certain individuals had been divinely chosen for leadership roles.

One passage caught his attention:

"Subject group exhibited 78% acceptance of Candidate B as divinely selected following Protocol 17 implementation. Neural imaging shows activation patterns consistent with religious reverence/submission. Effect persisted at 65% after 30 days with no reinforcement. Conclusion: Perceived theophany can be reliably manufactured with sufficient priming and controlled stimuli delivery."

The implications were staggering. If these techniques had been refined over decades, they could potentially be used to create artificial religious authority—making selected individuals appear divinely chosen to targeted populations.

"Are you suggesting Operation Apostle is using these methods to position people within the UN?" Darren asked as Dr. Bērziņa returned with a plate of dark bread, cheese, and pickled vegetables.

"I believe they're using updated versions of these techniques to create receptivity to religious influence within secular institutions." She sat across from him. "The same principles that can make someone appear divinely selected can make an institution seem in need of religious guidance. The psychological mechanisms are similar."

"But my dreams—they're not making me more receptive to religious authority. If anything, they're pushing me to question it more deeply."

Dr. Bērziņa smiled for the first time. "That's where you and I diverge from their expectations, Mr. Melvik. Some people, when exposed to these techniques, respond unpredictably. Your grandfather's research suggested certain psychological profiles—particularly those with complex relationships to authority—might experience reverse effects."

"Psychological immunity?"

"More like psychological redirection. The stimuli trigger the resonance effect, but the content manifests differently than intended." She tapped the file. "Your blog readers reporting similar dreams—they may share your psychological profile. Questioning minds finding each other through resonant cognitive fields."

After the simple meal, they continued discussing the implications of the Soviet research and its modern applications. Dr. Bērziņa explained how the techniques might have evolved with digital technology, potentially using algorithmic targeting to identify susceptible individuals and deliver calibrated content.

"Your Facebook post didn't go viral by accident," she concluded. "Its imagery contained elements that would trigger specific responses in targeted viewers. The controversy was engineered, but the resonance effect it created may have exceeded their expectations."

As midnight approached, Dr. Bērziņa prepared a guest room where Darren could sleep. "We leave for Institute 410 at dawn," she said. "It's a ninety-minute drive, and I want to arrive before the day security patrol at 9 AM."

Alone in the small room, Darren updated his blog from the burner phone, careful to include no details that might compromise their planned visit to the Institute:

"The Thirteenth Apostle: Update Three

Riga holds answers. My grandfather's work connects to Soviet research on religious experience—work later privatized and potentially weaponized by organizations with ties to Archbishop Stankevičs and the Theopneustos Foundation.

To those reporting similar dreams: there may be scientific explanations for our shared experiences. Soviet researchers studied how religious symbols create synchronized responses across different individuals. This research continued after the USSR collapsed, evolving with new technology and funding.

Operation Apostle appears to be applying these techniques to influence international institutions, manufacturing controversies that justify increased religious oversight of secular organizations.

More to come after investigating a key research site. If I go silent, the evidence is already secured with multiple allies.

To whoever is monitoring this blog from Riga: I know you're watching. I know you've tracked my arrival. But you should know—I'm not alone in this investigation, and silencing me won't stop what's already in motion."

He sent the update, then powered down the phone. Outside, the wind had picked up, whistling through Riga's ancient streets. Somewhere in this city, his ancestral homeland, were people who had engineered his downfall for purposes that stretched far beyond a controversial Facebook post.

Yet Darren felt a strange calm. The pieces were falling into place—his grandfather's research, the Soviet experiments, the Theopneustos Foundation, Operation Apostle, Archbishop Stankevičs' unusual influence at the UN.

Tomorrow at Institute 410, he hoped to find physical evidence connecting these threads—proof that techniques developed during the Cold War had evolved into tools for manipulating international institutions through manufactured religious controversies.

As he drifted toward sleep, Darren wondered if his dreams would come tonight—if Luther or Calvin or Origen would visit his unconscious mind with insights about institutional power and individual conscience. But instead of historical figures, his last waking thought was of his grandfather, the quiet academic who had fled Latvia with knowledge that might have prevented Operation Apostle if the world had listened.

The abandoned Institute 410 loomed against the morning sky, a brutalist concrete structure surrounded by overgrown grounds. Located in dense forest outside Riga, the facility had once housed hundreds of researchers working on classified behavioral science projects. Now it stood empty, windows broken, graffiti marring its façade—a monument to abandoned Soviet ambitions.

Dr. Bērziņa parked their borrowed Lada on a service road half a kilometer away. "We approach on foot," she said, retrieving a backpack containing flashlights, a first aid kit, and other essentials. "The main building has been picked clean by scavengers and urban explorers, but the underground levels might still contain useful material."

They moved through the forest in silence, Darren scanning constantly for signs of surveillance. The facility grew larger as they approached, its imposing form a stark contrast to the natural beauty surrounding it.

"My grandfather worked primarily in Section C," Dr. Bērziņa explained as they reached the perimeter fence. "Religious symbolism research. Your grandfather was briefly assigned there before his defection."

The fence had long since been breached in multiple places. They slipped through a gap and approached the main entrance—massive doors hanging askew on rusted hinges. Inside, the building was a testament to decay: peeling paint, collapsed ceiling sections, debris scattered across what had once been a reception area.

Dr. Bērziņa led the way with practiced efficiency, navigating through corridors and down stairwells guided by some internal map. "Section C was on the second sub-level," she explained. "Access was restricted even within the Institute. My grandfather's journals mentioned a separate elevator system."

They descended through the building's main stairwell until reaching a door marked "S2" in Cyrillic characters. Beyond lay a long corridor lined with laboratory spaces, their equipment long since removed.

"Here," Dr. Bērziņa said, stopping before a wall that appeared solid but bore subtle differences in its construction. "According to my grandfather's notes, there should be a concealed access point."

After careful examination, they discovered a panel that, when pressed in a specific sequence, revealed a narrow passageway. Flashlights illuminated a steep metal staircase descending into darkness.

"Are you sure about this?" Darren asked, eyeing the precarious-looking stairs.

"No," Dr. Bērziņa admitted. "But if there's evidence connecting Soviet research to Operation Apostle, it will be down there."

The air grew colder and danker as they descended. The staircase ended at a heavy metal door that, surprisingly, was unlocked. Beyond lay a corridor different from the upper levels—cleaner, more preserved, as if sealed from the outside world.

"This area doesn't appear on the official blueprints," Dr. Bērziņa whispered. "Perfect for continuing research after the facility was officially closed."

They moved cautiously through the corridor, examining rooms that branched off on either side. Unlike the stripped upper levels, these spaces still contained equipment: monitoring devices, specialized seating with restraints, projection systems, and other apparatus Darren couldn't identify.

In one room, an entire wall was covered with faded photographs of religious imagery—crosses, icons, temples, ritual objects from various traditions. Beneath each image, notes detailed "response metrics" and "resonance potential."

"They were cataloging which religious symbols triggered the strongest responses," Dr. Bērziņa explained, examining the display. "Creating a taxonomy of effective stimuli."

Another room contained what appeared to be medical equipment, including a primitive brain scanner. Charts on the walls showed neural activation patterns labeled with religious experiences: "Conversion," "Revelation," "Divine Presence," "Moral Certainty."

"They were mapping the neurology of religious experience," Darren observed. "Learning which brain regions activated during different spiritual states."

"And then finding ways to trigger those activations artificially," Dr. Bērziņa added grimly.

At the end of the corridor stood a final door, heavier than the others and secured with a combination lock. Dr. Bērziņa consulted her grandfather's journal, trying various sequences mentioned in his notes. On the fourth attempt, the lock clicked open.

The room beyond was smaller than the others but clearly more significant. At its center stood a glass case containing what appeared to be a crown of thorns—not the biblical relic, but a technological device designed to resemble one, with delicate sensors positioned at specific points.

"The resonator prototype," Dr. Bērziņa breathed. "My grandfather mentioned this. They designed it to mimic religious imagery while delivering precise stimuli to specific brain regions."

Surrounding the case were file cabinets, some hanging open to reveal folders still filled with documents. Darren began examining them, finding experimental protocols, subject responses, and development notes for what the researchers called "field deployable variants."

"They were miniaturizing the technology," he said, holding up design schematics. "Creating versions that could be hidden in ordinary objects—religious jewelry, ceremonial items, even architectural elements of churches and temples."

"And here," Dr. Bērziņa said, opening another cabinet, "are the Phase Three protocols—applications for population-level influence."

The documents detailed methods for using religious stimuli to create specific psychological states across target populations: receptivity to authority, moral certainty, perception of divine guidance, even specific policy preferences.

Darren photographed page after page with his burner phone. "This is the missing link. They developed the technology here, refined it over decades, and now Operation Apostle is deploying it through the Theopneustos Foundation."

A final cabinet yielded the most damning evidence—a folder labeled "Project Continuity, 1991-Present." Inside were transition documents showing how the research had been privatized after the Soviet collapse, with key personnel recruited by Western religious organizations and private foundations.

One document, dated 1999, outlined a twenty-year strategic plan for "reintegration of spiritual authority within secular governance structures." The Theopneustos Foundation was listed as the primary funding source, with implementation partners including organizations associated with Archbishop Stankevičs.

"They've been planning this for decades," Darren said, photographing the document. "Using Soviet psychological research to undermine the secular foundation of international institutions."

As they continued gathering evidence, a sound from the corridor froze them in place—footsteps, more than one person, moving deliberately toward their location.

"We're not alone," Dr. Bērziņa whispered, quickly gathering the most important documents into her backpack. "Is there another exit?"

Darren scanned the room frantically, spotting a maintenance hatch in the ceiling. "There," he pointed. "Service access maybe?"

The footsteps grew closer. With Dr. Bērziņa's help, Darren managed to reach the hatch and force it open, revealing a narrow maintenance tunnel above. He pulled himself up, then reached down to help Dr. Bērziņa.

Just as her hand gripped his, the room's door swung open. A tall figure in clerical attire stood in the doorway, flanked by two men in dark suits.

"Dr. Bērziņa," said Archbishop Stankevičs, his voice echoing in the concrete chamber. "Still pursuing your grandfather's obsessions, I see. And Mr. Melvik—welcome home to Latvia."

Darren pulled harder, lifting Dr. Bērziņa until she could grasp the edge of the hatch. One of the suited men lunged forward, grabbing her ankle. She kicked free, scrambling into the tunnel beside Darren.

"Close it!" she gasped. Darren slammed the hatch shut just as the second man reached for it.

"This way," Dr. Bērziņa said, leading him through the cramped service tunnel by flashlight. "These maintenance routes connect the entire facility. If we can reach the eastern exit..."

Behind them, sounds of pursuit echoed through the metal passageway—the hatch being forced open, voices coordinating a search. Darren followed Dr. Bērziņa through a maze of tunnels, ducking under pipes and squeezing through narrow gaps.

"Almost there," she panted as they approached a vertical shaft with metal rungs embedded in the wall. "This should lead to a service building outside the main facility."

As they climbed, Darren's phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it until they reached the top of the shaft, emerging into what appeared to be a small pump house separate from the main Institute building.

Once outside, hidden among trees at the perimeter, Darren checked his phone. The message was from Thomas:

"Cardinal Sarah resurfaced. Claims he went voluntarily on spiritual retreat. Now publicly denouncing your blog as 'dangerous misinformation.' Something's wrong. Be on highest alert."

Dr. Bērziņa, watching the Institute for signs of pursuit, turned to Darren. "We can't go back to Riga immediately. They'll be watching the roads. We need to separate the evidence first, ensure it survives even if we don't."

Darren nodded, forwarding the photographs he'd taken to multiple secure emails. "Already done. But we need to get this physical evidence to safety."

"I have a colleague in Vilnius—a historian documenting Soviet research programs. If we can get these papers to him..." Dr. Bērziņa trailed off, looking past Darren with widening eyes.

Darren turned to see a black SUV approaching on the service road, moving slowly but deliberately toward their location.

"Run," he said simply. They plunged deeper into the forest, moving perpendicular to the road, using the dense trees for cover.

Behind them, car doors slammed. Male voices called out commands in Latvian. Dr. Bērziņa changed direction, leading Darren toward what appeared to be an old hunting cabin partially hidden by undergrowth.

"Local resistance used this during Soviet times," she explained breathlessly as they reached the structure. "There may still be—yes!"

She lifted a camouflaged panel in the floor, revealing a narrow space beneath. "Get in. I'll lead them away."

"No," Darren protested. "You have the physical evidence. You should hide."

"They know me. They've been watching me for years because of my grandfather's work. But you—you're new. You have connections outside Latvia. If anyone can get this evidence to the right people, it's you." She thrust her backpack into his hands. "Take this. My colleague in Vilnius is Dr. Andris Kalnins at the University. Find him."

Before Darren could argue further, voices approached the cabin. Dr. Bērziņa closed the hidden panel, leaving him in darkness. Through thin gaps in the floorboards, he could see her feet move toward the door.

Moments later, he heard her voice outside, calling out in Latvian—seemingly taunting their pursuers. The voices responded, and footsteps moved quickly away from the cabin.

Darren remained hidden, scarcely breathing, as minutes stretched into an hour. When he finally dared to emerge, the forest had fallen silent. No sign of Dr. Bērziņa or their pursuers remained.

His phone showed no service in this remote location. He would have to move carefully, avoiding roads and populated areas until he could determine whether Dr. Bērziņa had escaped or been captured.

In her backpack, alongside the documents from Institute 410, he found a map of the border region between Latvia and Lithuania, with a route marked in pencil—an escape path, prepared in advance. Dr. Bērziņa had anticipated this possibility.

Also in the pack was her grandfather's journal and a sealed envelope addressed to Darren. Inside was a handwritten note:

"Mr. Melvik,

If you're reading this, we've been separated under difficult circumstances. Your grandfather and mine believed that knowledge comes with responsibility. They discovered something at Institute 410 that frightened even the Soviet leadership—the potential to manufacture consensus through targeted manipulation of religious experience.

The evidence we've gathered proves Operation Apostle is the culmination of their research—a sophisticated attempt to undermine secular institutions through manufactured religious authority. The UN is just the beginning.

Trust no one who hasn't been verified by multiple sources. The techniques they've developed can make trusted figures appear to change positions overnight—as you may have seen with Cardinal Sarah.

Your blog has created an unexpected counterforce—a community of minds resistant to their influence techniques. Nurture it. It may be the most effective defense against what's coming.

Good luck, Ieva Bērziņa"

Darren carefully returned the note to its envelope and secured it in an inner pocket. The responsibility was clear—get the evidence to Dr. Kalnins in Vilnius, then find a way to share it with his network of digital martyrs.

As he prepared to begin the difficult journey cross-country to the Lithuanian border, Darren thought about the strange confluence of factors that had brought him here—a controversial Facebook post, Soviet psychological research, his Latvian heritage, and a conspiracy decades in the making.

Perhaps most ironic was how his original post about burning churches had unintentionally illuminated something far larger than he'd imagined—a systematic attempt to control international institutions through techniques developed in the shadows of the Cold War.

The thirteenth apostle had indeed found his purpose—bearing witness to truths others had tried to bury. Now he just had to survive long enough to share them.