Vienna, Austria
Lively piano music echoed through the room.
A little boy's ten fingers danced over the keys, while Jack sat beside him with eyes closed, listening quietly.
"Stop. The transition here is a bit rushed—slow it down. And in the second passage, third note, you lifted off too fast; it sounds overly abrupt. Again…"
Jack pointed out the flaws in the boy's playing, his chiseled features making him look rather stern.
The boy nodded and started over.
Just then, the phone in Jack's pocket vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
Pamela Landy? So the Bourne plotline is starting?
He pocketed the phone. "All right, that's it for today. Tomorrow and the day after are canceled—I've got some personal business."
"Okay, teacher."
Leaving the student's home, Jack went downstairs, started the car, took two loops through the city to make sure he wasn't being tailed, then drove into the dockside warehouse district and finally pulled up in front of a container warehouse.
He used a key to open the heavy chain lock. As the metal door rolled up, the motion lights inside the container flicked on.
It was a clandestine cache.
Directly ahead stood a broad table with a small stack of cash and a few passports on it. The cash was in dollars and euros, all rolled and rubber-banded…
On a shelf to the side were various weapons—handguns, submachine guns, assault rifles—common models, not many, but enough to fill an entire rack.
The man took off his glasses and set them aside, then began flipping through the passports.
The glasses were a prop he used in daily life to soften the sharpness of his gaze.
The photos in these passports were all of him, but the names and nationalities differed.
He quickly picked one.
His name was Jack Cliff, codename "Woodpecker," one of Treadstone's "Falcons," based in Austria.
He was also a transmigrant. In his previous life he'd been a mercenary—work for pay—who ultimately died under a counterterror unit's encirclement. Crossing over and becoming an operative wasn't bad either—a different life to experience.
With everything packed, Jack turned and left.
The container's lights went out again, the sound of the chain being locked clinked outside, then an engine started and gradually faded away.
…
Central Moscow
In an ordinary street-side café, there were only a few patrons. It was just past noon, not quite afternoon tea time, so the place wasn't busy.
The doorbell chimed as a young couple pushed in and took a window seat. After ordering drinks, they cozied up to each other, whispering now and then, sweetness written all over them.
Farther inside, a scholarly-looking middle-aged man sat alone with a newspaper in hand.
He cast only a casual glance at the couple before returning his attention to the paper, flipping pages now and then and lifting his cup for a sip of coffee.
The man's name was Brian Park. He looked refined, his manner poised. His profession matched his bearing: he was a professor at a national university in Moscow.
Of course, that was only his cover. His true identity was chief of the CIA's Moscow station.
The café's doorbell rang occasionally as people entered or left. Park seemed absorbed in the paper, turning pages from time to time. When he flipped it again, he found that the chair across from him—previously empty—was now occupied by a middle-aged man in a trench coat.
Park showed no surprise at the trench coat man's sudden appearance, only a slight frown.
The newcomer's looks were ordinary. His hair had a bit of a wave, his skin a touch rough—weathered.
Seeing the frown, the man in the trench coat smiled indifferently. "Looks like my appearance ruined your mood."
Park said nothing and simply set the paper down. He really didn't like this man, but there was nothing he could do.
About a week ago, his biggest mole operating inside Russia had been exposed—the man responsible was the one in front of him, Oleg Olof.
To this day Park didn't know how he'd been compromised; he could only chalk it up to the FSB's prowess—it was, after all, the successor to the KGB's tradecraft.
He'd thought to bite down on the cyanide in his tooth, but the FSB didn't give him the chance—they dislocated his jaw.
Resolve wasn't about lofty ideals—he simply didn't want to be tortured.
After capture, he wasn't subjected to torture. Perhaps they felt that an intelligence officer of his rank was worth more alive than used up all at once.
After that, the FSB set him aside, seemingly to give him ample time to think things through.
After many rounds of inner struggle, he wavered.
He wasn't afraid of dying; death required only a moment of courage.
From the moment he failed to die, he knew that if he didn't cooperate, what awaited him would be endless torment.
That he could not bear.
He proactively gave up one valuable target, causing a long-prepared CIA operation to collapse and dealing a certain degree of damage to its Moscow network.
Consider it his offering.
It was also their first "cooperation."
Yes—Olof called it cooperation, a fig leaf to cover Park's shabby dignity.
After this, even if Park feigned compliance and ultimately made it back to the United States, the CIA would never let him go.
Thereafter Park continued his role as an intelligence officer, but the CIA's arrangements in Russia became increasingly transparent to the FSB.
Of course, Park didn't give everything away. Each time he squeezed information out like toothpaste, bit by bit. As long as he remained useful, the FSB wouldn't do anything to him, and if the CIA ever came to settle accounts, the FSB might even protect him.
Looking at the cold man across from him, Park's lips twitched before he finally said, "I need you to do something for me."
"Oh?"
Olof showed keen interest. He was always the one pressing Park for intel; this was the first time Park had reached out on his own.
"Actually, this will be good for you too."
Park pulled out a photo and slid it across.
"Her name is Pamela Landy, from the CIA Counterintelligence Center. I've received word she's turned up in Moscow recently. I think she's here for me."
Olof picked up the photo and studied it, noncommittal.
She was CIA Counterintelligence, and he was FSB counterintelligence. In terms of job function, the two were practically counterparts.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Take her out. Whether or not she's here for me this time, eliminate her."
"And what do I get?"
Olof began to set terms.
"I'll give you a list of at least six sleepers."
"No. That won't do at all. I want the entire list of CIA agents operating inside Russia—all of them."
Olof's appetite was huge.