Moscow Exchange.Chapter one extended

The Moscow sky was a bruised, heavy purple when Alec Caine’s Aeroflot flight touched down the next afternoon. The terminal at Sheremetyevo was efficient but bleak, a masterpiece of Soviet utilitarian architecture. He moved through customs using his diplomatic passport—a small, red booklet that was both a shield and a target.

Outside, the cold hit him with physical force, stealing his breath. The smell of cheap petrol fumes, diesel, and frozen earth hung in the air. He spotted the designated vehicle immediately: a battered, pale blue Lada, its exhaust belching grey smoke into the frigid air.

A figure was waiting beside it, wrapped in a heavy military-issue greatcoat and a shapka. This was Major Anya Petrova.

She was younger than Alec expected, perhaps early thirties. Her face was severe, striking in its angularity, with eyes that seemed to have seen every lie ever told. She didn't offer a hand as he approached.

"Mr. Caine," she said, her voice clipped, perfect English coated in ice.

"Major Petrova."

She gestured toward the back seat. "The route is clear. We are ahead of schedule."

They climbed into the car. The interior was cramped and smelled faintly of stale tobacco and machinery oil. Anya slid behind the wheel and started the Lada with a rough grind of gears.

"Schedules are for train conductors, Major. Not ghosts," Alec said, adjusting his position in the cramped space, trying to find a comfortable spot that didn't exist.

Anya allowed a faint, almost imperceptible curl of her lip that was not a smile. She drove with purpose, merging into the stream of drab, state-owned vehicles moving toward the city center.

For the first thirty minutes, they didn't speak. The silence was heavy with the mutual distrust and suspicion that defined their respective professions. Moscow rolled by the window: massive concrete apartment blocks, grand avenues devoid of advertising, and the overwhelming sense of being watched from every window.

Anya broke the silence near a sharp turn off Gorky Street. She reached into her coat pocket with her right hand while steering with her left. She didn't look at him.

"A souvenir from Lubyanka, Mr. Caine," she said, pulling out a small, grey microcassette and holding it loosely in her gloved fingers.

Alec’s attention snapped to the object. This wasn't in the briefing. This was deviation. This was danger. Paranoia, the lifeblood of their respective professions, spiked between them like an electric current. It was a test, a trap, or a desperate plea.

He said nothing, simply extended his hand, palm up.

Anya placed the cassette into his palm. Their fingers brushed for a fleeting second—the only human contact they might ever share. The plastic was cold.

"Why?" Alec asked the single, most dangerous question in espionage.

"Perhaps," Anya whispered, the sound swallowed by the rumble of the engine, "I tire of being a pawn." She pulled the Lada to the curb behind a truck unloading potatoes.

He didn't believe her, and she didn't expect him to. Trust was a luxury for the dead. He slipped the tape into an inner pocket of his coat, the weight against his chest a physical manifestation of the trouble they were now both in.

Anya pulled back into traffic, a determined set to her jaw. The exchange was no longer just an operation. It was a conspiracy, and they had just signed a pact in silence and fear. The bridge at Berlin awaited, and Alec knew at least one of them