Alec Caine and Anya Petrova watched from a derelict boathouse downstream, the bridge a dark, skeletal silhouette above them.
"They're bringing him out," Anya whispered, adjusting the sights on a battered rifle she'd procured.
Caine squinted through a pair of binoculars. Aris Thorne, the scientist, pale and blinking in the daylight, was being escorted by two KGB majors. On the other side, two MI6 officers waited. Caine recognized one of them—a young, eager officer named Davies, whom Caine had personally trained. The sickening reality of their sacrifice hit him again.
"We can’t just shoot George," Caine muttered, lowering the binoculars. "That doesn't stop the exchange. It just creates chaos. We need the tape broadcast the moment Thorne steps onto British soil."
"A simple task, in a city bristling with surveillance," Anya said dryly. "We needed help. I have an old friend in East German radio. A dissident. He risks his life every day."
Anya pointed to a large, rusty van parked innocently near the East German checkpoint. "That is the transmission hub. He will broadcast the contents of your tape on every available frequency at precisely 12:05, local time. It will be the most listened-to spy novel of the year."
The clock on the Potsdam church tower began to strike noon. The ritual commenced.
The two groups of men began their slow, deliberate walk toward the center line marked in chalk. Thorne walked with a stoop, his eyes downcast, a man broken by years of imprisonment, yet the most dangerous man on the continent.
"Now we wait for the chaos," Caine said.
12:04. Thorne passed the midway point. The British officers moved to take his arms.
12:05. The church bells stopped. A sudden, massive burst of static erupted over every radio in the area—police scanners, KGB walkie-talkies, the car radios of diplomats parked on the fringes.
Then, the archivist’s terrified voice filled the air, cutting through the fog, amplified and broadcast for all of Berlin to hear.
"...They are bringing him back. It's the only way... Twenty years he's been inside... the perfect cover... George..."
On the bridge, time seemed to freeze. The British and Soviet officers stared at their radios in disbelief. The young officer, Davies, looked up at Caine’s boss, Sir George, who was standing near the British checkpoint, observing the exchange with a detached air. George's face went white.
"...The honour of the service..." George's own cultured voice now echoed across the bridge.
The silence that followed was shattered by a single gunshot.
It wasn't Anya's rifle. Caine looked up just in time to see a puff of smoke from the West side of the bridge. The American contact, Miller, had decided to interfere after all.
The bullet struck the scientist, Aris Thorne, in the chest. Thorne collapsed onto the chalk line, a casualty of a peace he had compromised long ago.
Chaos erupted. Guards scrambled. Sir George vanished instantly into a waiting black sedan.
"Go," Caine barked at Anya. "The van! Get out of here!"
Anya didn't hesitate. She disappeared into the trees. Caine stayed behind for one last, lingering look at the bridge—the mechanism of the Cold War broken, at least for today.
He ran, the tape a silent companion against his chest. Sir George was gone, but his world had just crumbled. The truth was out. Caine and Anya were ghosts now, forever running between the lines, but they had won the battle.
The war, however, was far from over
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