Elias Thorne sat in the small, warm café. Outside, the rain made grey streaks on the windowpane. The air inside smelled of old coffee and wet wool. He checked his watch for the third time. 14:10. Katerina was ten minutes late. Punctuality was her religion. Or it had been.
He took a slow sip of his cooling tea. The bitterness matched his mood. His orders were simple: meet Katerina Petrova. Get the data stick. Confirm the defection details of Colonel Volkov’s chief cryptographer. High stakes, as always. But this particular corner of the world, with its damp chill and shadowed faces, always felt heavier than most.
A man entered. Not Katerina. Elias’s eyes, trained over years of watching, took in the details. The man was too tidy for this part of town. His suit was dark, well-pressed. His movements too smooth. Most tellingly, he looked around with an air of subtle command, not curiosity. His gaze landed on Elias for a fraction of a second, then moved on, too quickly. The man sat at a table by the door, ordering a water. A tall, empty glass sat before him. A signal, perhaps. Or a trap.
Elias’s fingers tightened around his teacup. Katerina always wore a bright, woven scarf. A gift from her grandmother, she’d once said. He scanned the man again. No scarf. But then, Elias saw it. Peeking from the man’s jacket pocket, a corner of distinct fabric. Red and gold threads. It was Katerina’s scarf.
A cold dread spread through Elias. Katerina would never give that scarf to a stranger. Especially not to someone from Volkov’s network. She was either compromised, or worse. He was sitting in the open, an easy target. The man by the door hadn’t looked at him again, but Elias felt the weight of his presence. He was waiting. For what? For Elias to make his move? For others to arrive?
His mind raced. He had two options: run, or try to get information. Running felt safer, but the data was critical. He needed to know if Volkov had the cryptographer, or just Katerina. He needed to know if his own contact back home had sold him out.
He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulling out a small, old pen. He pretended to struggle with the cap. With a quick, practiced movement, he slipped a tiny paper note under his teacup saucer. It simply read: “Wren is gone. Katerina compromised. Code Red.” It was a message for any cleanup crew, should he fail. Or a false trail.
Then, Elias stood up. He left a few small coins on the table. He did not look at the man by the door. He walked slowly, calmly, towards the exit. The bell above the door jingled as he opened it.
The rain was heavier now, turning the street into a dark, shiny mirror. He started walking quickly, not running. He heard the café door jingle again, just seconds after his own. The man was following. Elias ducked into a narrow alleyway, dark and smelling of old refuse. He moved faster, his footsteps splashing in puddles.
He saw a delivery truck backing up at the end of the alley. Its loud engine and flashing lights were a perfect screen. Elias made his choice. He squeezed past the truck, disappearing into the main street on the other side. He melted into the evening crowd, becoming just another shadow in the dim light. He risked a look back. The man was there, standing at the alley’s mouth, scanning the street. He looked frustrated.
Elias was safe for now, but he had failed. No data. No defector. Only the chilling certainty that the enemy knew he was here. And perhaps, even worse, that the betrayal had come from closer to home than he could have imagined. He needed to get back. He needed to find the leak.
The End.