Eagle Station

Another series of alerts popped up. Now digital tripwires he’d planted in government and financial industry databases in both Russia and Germany were sending up flares. He swallowed hard. The people probing Tekhwerk’s business activities were casting a very wide net.

For people, read Q Directorate, Orlov thought edgily. The hairs on the back of his neck rose… and he had to fight down a sudden urge to get up and run. In the shadowy internet world of binary 1s and 0s, he was used to being the hunter… not the hunted.

Acting on a sudden hunch, he opened a back door he’d planted in the Aeroflot computer reservations system and pulled up the Russian airline’s ticketing and reservation information for Sam Kerr in her Lieutenant Colonel Katya Volkova persona. Sure enough, the hidden access counter he’d installed glowed bright red.

“Okay, this is bad. This is really bad,” Orlov muttered to himself. Someone besides him had secretly reviewed those files within the past hour. And this wasn’t just a routine Aeroflot query about passengers on its evening flight out from Krasnoyarsk’s Yemelyanovo International Airport. Anyone using an official Aeroflot log-in wouldn’t have triggered his counter. Which meant Sam’s cover was blown.

A quick check of Marcus Cartwright’s ticketing information showed the same thing.

Any hope Orlov had that Scion’s Moscow-based intelligence team could just hunker down, play innocent, and ride out this sudden Q Directorate probe disappeared. Russia’s security services weren’t just mildly curious about Tekhwerk and its activities. They were actively prosecuting a full-on espionage investigation, and somehow they’d already tied both Sam and Marcus to the company… despite their carefully created cover stories and perfectly forged identity papers.

For what seemed like an hour, but couldn’t really have been more than a minute or two, he sat motionless — mentally running through his options. Then he shrugged helplessly. In the end, there weren’t many. This was basically an intelligence operative’s nightmare. His priority right now was to try to minimize the damage. And then to get his ass safely out of Russia if at all possible. Like all Scion field agents, he had an escape and evasion kit, complete with new false papers and credit cards, and enough cash to bribe his way across the border if that proved necessary.

Orlov pulled out his smartphone. First, he needed to clue in Scion’s upper echelons back in the United States. Quickly he connected to a special number and texted a two-word emergency code phrase: red dawn.

There was a short pause before the reply came back: confirm red dawn.

Rapidly, he tapped in a reply, using the special alphanumerical code that confirmed he was acting on his own volition and not under enemy control: bravo zulu six. red dawn confirmed. Any other combination of letters and numbers would have signaled that he was acting under duress.

This time the reply came faster: clearance level possible?

Orlov contemplated that. Understandably, Martindale wanted to know how thoroughly he could “sanitize” the Moscow offices — destroying or removing any information that might compromise Scion operations and sources. A lot depended on how much time he had before Q Directorate gave up on breaking into his computer network and sent in the FSB goon squads. He shrugged. There was no easy answer for that question. Which, he decided, meant it was far better to be safe now, rather than sorry later inside a Lubyanka torture chamber. In answer, he typed in level two only.

His office equipment included an industrial-grade shredder, so he could destroy his computers’ solid-state hard drives as fast as he could strip them out of the machines. But there was no way he could completely sterilize the whole office complex, wiping away fingerprints and potentially incriminating DNA fragments. Not on his own. Doing a thorough job would have required the services of a whole specialist cleaning crew and at least a full day.

level two clearance approved, Martindale texted back. good luck. this contact number terminates now.

You could practically see the man metaphorically washing his hands, Orlov thought sardonically, just like Pontius Pilate. He supposed it went with the territory. Spymasters who saw their agents more as people than as pieces on a chessboard probably didn’t stay sane long.

Without wasting any more time, he moved on to his next task. He dialed another number on his smartphone.

“Yes?” a lilting Welsh voice answered immediately.

“Davey, it’s Zach. Listen carefully. Both Kerr and Cartwright are blown. So is the office here. I don’t know how, exactly. But I’m bailing out ASAP, per orders. I suggest you do the same. Because as far as I can tell, you’re still in the clear.”

Scion field agent David Jones, currently stationed in Krasnoyarsk as the backup man for the Kansk-Dalniy operation, was silent for a moment. “Are Sam and Marcus in enemy hands?”