Langley, Virginia, October 1962
Evelyn Reed was in a state of controlled panic. She had exhausted the official channels, and the response she received was not just indifference, but active suppression. The crumpled teletype paper sat in her empty ashtray, a symbol of everything the system refused to acknowledge.
She opened the hollowed-out Hemingway book again, running her finger down a list of names. These were people she’d cultivated over years—academics, journalists, and former agency men who had been burned by the bureaucracy for being too ideological, too soft on the 'human' element, or simply too right when management was wrong.
She stopped at a name: Dr. Elias Thorne. A former OSS agent who had been instrumental in post-war intelligence gathering in Berlin, but retired in disgrace after advocating for a backchannel during the Berlin Blockade, a move viewed as weak at the time. He was a long shot, living in academic seclusion in Georgetown.
Evelyn used a secure line reserved for "personal calls" to contact him, knowing it would still likely be monitored, but less rigorously than the operational lines.
"Elias, it's Evelyn Reed," she said, her voice low and quick.
There was a long pause on the other end, the sound of static and an old man clearing his throat. "Evelyn. I thought you had the good sense to get out of that place."
"I need help. I have an intercept that names 'Black Sand' in conjunction with the phrase 'ignite the fuse.' I think it's a dual-nation conspiracy designed to push us into war over Cuba."
A sharp intake of breath. "You went to Vance."
"He shut me down. Told me I was treasonous. The whole working group is locked onto the idea that this is 100% Soviet aggression."
"They always are," Elias sighed. "They only see the monster they built in the mirror. Okay, kid. Come to my place. And don't use a government car."
Evelyn finished the last of her coffee and gathered her coat. She left the building by the staff exit, blending into the wave of analysts heading home for the night, a tiny cog in the massive machine that had just rejected her purpose.
Helsinki, Finland, October 1962
The narrow alleyways of Helsinki offered little cover. The rain made the cobblestones slick, and Mikhail Serov’s military boots were loud. Behind him, the sound of running footsteps and shouted Russian commands echoed off the stone walls.
They are KGB. They must have been following Bluebird, or monitoring the frequency all along, waiting to mop up any loose ends. Volkov hadn't just dismissed him; he had alerted the internal security directorate.
Mikhail reached a main thoroughfare, dodging a tram and nearly causing a civilian car accident. He was now just another frightened man running in the rain. He ducked into a dark doorway just as the two KGB agents sprinted past his hiding spot.
He risked a glance into the briefcase. It wasn’t empty. It contained several manila folders, thick with documents and photographs. He couldn't read them now, not here. He needed a safe place.
He remembered a contact listed on his internal KGB field map—a journalist, someone who occasionally traded information with low-level agents in exchange for access. A man named Davies.
Mikhail found a public phone booth, fumbling with Finnish coins. He dialed the number for the journalist.
A sleepy, slightly drunken voice answered. "Yeah? Who is this?"
"I have a story," Mikhail whispered, pressing himself against the cool metal of the phone booth door. "The biggest story of the Cold War. It involves 'Black Sand' and 'Ignite the fuse.'"
Silence on the other end, followed by a sudden alertness. "Go on."
"I'll meet you. The docks. The old warehouse number four. In twenty minutes. Come alone. If you bring anyone, I drop the case in the harbor."
Mikhail hung up before the man could respond. It was a massive risk, trusting a Western journalist, but he was out of options. He was a ghost now, hunted by his own people. He looked down at the briefcase. The fate of millions of people rested in his hands, on a rainy street corner in Finland.
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