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Undisclosed Location, XXXX:XX:XX, XX-XX-XXXX

When Agent Smith came to visit the man at his country dacha, he wore a custom tailored black suit with no tags. He carried no identification and no weapons, and wore no insignia aside from the Egyptian eyes on his cufflinks and tie pin.

For anyone who knew the meaning of those symbols, they commanded true respect.

The man leaned back in his chair and tossed the sheaf of photographs onto the table, his hawklike eyes intent with stern resolve. "They are real?" he asked.

"Yes," Agent Smith replied, in heavily accented Russian. "One of our men took these photographs a few hours ago. The Foundation has failed to contain its artifacts. Measures must be taken."

The man stood and walked to the window, folding his hands behind his back. "It is said that they have the powers of gods. How can mere men stand against such power?"

"The same way that we always have. Though faith, resolve, and ruthless ingenuity."

The man gazed out the window at the snow-covered ground surrounding his country dacha, his eyes as hard and unyielding as snow. "There will be casualties."

"There always are. But measures must be taken. A line must be drawn. Was it not you who said, when terrorists tried to force your hand, that there must be no negotiation? What was it you said. . . 'We shall fight against them, throw them in prisons and destroy--'"

"I remember my own speeches," the man said. He turned back from the window. "But why come to me? I am no longer. . ."

"Don't think of us as fools, tovarisch," Agent Smith smiled. "We all know who still pulls the strings in this country, even if he does so from behind a velvet curtain."

"Hmph." The man nodded. "Very well, then. Your group saved us from the Nazi Obscuracorps in the Second World War. I will offer what aid I can."

"Very well, then," Agent Smith said. He slid a small slip of paper over to the man, across his desk. "Here is a list of names of men whose continued existence we find troubling."

"Interesting," muttered the man, as he scanned the list. "What trouble could a simple used-books seller cause?"

"When he owns the only existing true copy of the Necronomicon? Quite a bit." Agent Smith stood and straightened his tie. "Thank you for your assistance, Mister President."

"Mister Prime Minister now," Vladimir Putin said, smiling grimly.

A small, well-made drone focused its camera on the small dwelling, then switched lenses and filmed for a few minutes, before zooming off, towards the north pole like the others.