London, 1983
The reflection in the windowpane of the London flat wasn't a man so much as a shadow wearing a suit. Alec Caine downed the last of his cheap Scotch, the liquid failing to cut through the visceral cold that seemed permanently rooted in his bones. The flames in the grate licked at the edges of a file folder, turning years of clandestine operations into ash and smoke.
Alec was done. He’d put in his papers. The life of a field agent, once a thrilling patriotic calling, had become an exhausting exercise in moral erosion. Too many dead drops that ended in dead friends; too many lies told in the name of a truth that felt increasingly abstract.
He was a relic in a world shifting from blunt force trauma to surgical precision. He had seen the future of espionage in the eyes of the young analysts at Vauxhall Cross—cold, sharp, and entirely lacking in the weary empathy that had been Caine's greatest liability, and perhaps his only virtue.
A precise knock came at the door: two sharp raps, then a soft one. His handler, right on time.
Alec opened the door to the familiar, impeccably tailored figure of Sir George Worthington. Sir George was the embodiment of the British intelligence establishment—silver hair, sharp eyes that missed nothing, and a quiet authority that commanded loyalty. He was the man who had recruited Alec two decades ago.
"Alec, my boy. A fine evening," Sir George said, stepping past him into the flat. He glanced at the fireplace. "Tidying up?"
"Cleaning house, George. I'm finished."
Sir George smiled gently, reaching into his own coat to pull out a silver flask. "Nonsense. A man like you never finishes. He just pauses. Have a real drink." He poured a generous amount of expensive brandy into Alec's empty glass.
Alec accepted the glass. The warmth was immediate and welcome.
"I have one last assignment for you, Alec," Sir George said, his tone shifting to the business that had defined both their lives. "A formality, really. A simple piece of theatre to end a career built on shadow plays."
He laid a manila folder on the coffee table. "A prisoner exchange. The Glienicke Bridge in Berlin. We’re getting Dr. Aris Thorne back from the Soviets. A brilliant scientist who's been rotting in the Lubyanka for too long. In return, they get a low-level operative we picked up in Birmingham."
"A trade?" Alec frowned. These things rarely happened without a hitch.
"A clean exchange. The Soviets are eager to look diplomatic for once. You simply go to Moscow, ensure our man is ready for transport, verify Thorne, and oversee the handover. You'll be back in London with your retirement papers signed by Christmas."
Alec looked at the folder, then at Sir George. "It sounds too simple."
"Sometimes, Alec, things are exactly what they seem. A quiet end to a career well-served."
Alec sighed, the weariness settling into his bones once more. He picked up the folder. It was a final favour for the man who had been a mentor and a father figure. He couldn't say no.
"Alright, George. One last trip to the cold."
"Excellent man," Sir George said, clapping him on the shoulder. "The flight leaves Heathrow tomorrow morning. The Lada and your KGB liaison will meet you at Sheremetyevo Airport. The name’s Petrova. Major Anya Petrova."
Sir George left, leaving the scent of expensive brandy and the promise of a quiet retirement hanging in the air.
Alec looked at the folder on the table. He didn't believe for a second that this would be simple. The game was never simple, and this final act felt less like retirement and more like a final, fatal trap.
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