Chapter II

Bonn, Germany

CHARLES PRITCHETT TIGHTENED the metal casing around his hook. Over the past week, the rattling created by several loose screws had started to bug him. Whenever he made sudden movements, the aluminum parts ground against themselves, resulting in a high-pitched squeaking noise—and he was fed up with it. He was so focused on fixing his hand that he didn’t look up when he heard someone rapping on his office doorjamb.

“Is everything all right, Pritchett?” Ed Maddux asked.

Pritchett’s star recruit had been a wonderful edition to the Bonn station and was progressing more rapidly than Pritchett ever anticipated.

Pritchett ignored the comment as he guided the small Phillips-head screwdriver into place before tightening the final binding.

“Are you engaging in some sort of surgical procedure?” Maddux asked again after Pritchett failed to respond.

Pritchett grimaced as he gave the screw one final turn and then set the driver down his desk emphatically.

“Now maybe I won’t sound like the tin man on the yellow brick road when I walk down the hall next time,” Pritchett said as a victorious smile spread across his face.

“Dorothy would be proud,” Maddux cracked.

Pritchett leaned back in his chair, giving off the impression that he was relaxed. Yet mentally, he was anything but at ease.

“Have a seat,” Pritchett said, gesturing toward the chair across from him.

Maddux eased into the chair. “How was your trip to Venice?”

“Uneventful, thankfully. But the message I received was full of interesting information. And by interesting, I mean frightening, terrifying, and horrible.”

“That good, huh?”

“Harvey Cordell, one of our top agents in Belgrade, compiled a dossier on a new program the Russians have been working on, Operation Serp i Ogon, or Sickle and Fire.”

“Certainly sounds intimidating.”

Pritchett shook his head. “Intimidating is what you do when you aren’t sure you can win a fight. This new operation takes more of a scorched earth approach. Apparently the Russians have been working for years to develop what we’re calling super assassins, agents who can perform incredible feats with jaw-dropping precision. Just imagine snipers who would likely win gold medals at the Olympics in the 100-meter dash. Rugged, tough, damn near indestructible. At least that’s how Cordell described them.”

“Why are they in Belgrade?”

“It’s a less conspicuous place to launch these people into the world. We don’t have the manpower to watch around the clock the facility where the Russians are grooming these assassins.”

“Has he seen any of these alleged super assassins?”

Pritchett nodded. “He photographed a training session in the woods an hour outside of Belgrade. It’s hard to tell from the pictures just how talented these men and women are, but Cordell swears it’s one of the scariest things he has witnessed since joining the agency. But that’s not the worst of it.”

“I can’t believe it being any worse.”

“Well, for me it is. Supposedly I’m on a short list of targets assigned to certain assassins, particularly one codenamed Medved—the Bear.”

“What do we know about him?”

Pritchett sighed. “Not much. But we believe he is responsible for killing one of our agents in Italy this past weekend with a butcher knife.”

“I hadn’t heard about this.”

“Yeah, it’s not exactly the kind of report we want publicized. We worked with the Italian authorities to keep it quiet. Our agent was in the country under the guise of working as a liaison at the embassy, but his real job was communicating with Italian intelligence regarding a few lingering groups from the war.”

“Did he make any mistakes?”

“Not that we were aware of, which is disconcerting to say the least. I’d sleep much better at night for the sake of our agents knowing that he made a grave error in judgment or some misstep along the way. But if the truth is that we have a mole within our agency, God help us all. None of us will ever be safe again.”

Maddux swallowed hard. “What kind of mole are we talking about?”

“We can’t be sure, but it certainly seems like someone is feeding this information to the Russians on a platter—and they’re eating it up, wasting no time to take action.”

“So what’s our next step?”

“At this point, we’re just going to continue to gather information and wait.”

“Business as usual then?”

“That’s the directive I received. But if there’s a mole out there, I want to ferret him out. None of us will be safe if someone in the agency is disseminating our secrets.”

“Just let me know how I can help.”

Pritchett nodded before dismissing Maddux.

The news of an agent’s death always created uneasiness around each station. To Pritchett, the angst was almost palpable. Staff members wore dour demeanors and spoke in solemn tones, almost hushed whispers. Every agent knew the inherent danger associated with working for the agency—for some that was part of the allure of working for the CIA. But when a threat became imminent, the idea of death became sobering and terrifyingly real.

Pritchett shuffled around the office, attempting to keep up moral. He tried to lighten the mood with a few jokes he’d heard over the weekend while out at his favorite biergarten. But it didn’t take long for him to realize that no amount of jocular banter could return the atmosphere to normal. For the time being, this was the new normal: anxious, frightened, and vulnerable. Worst of all, Pritchett felt helpless to stop it. Whoever this Medved was needed to be found and terminated, which wasn’t an easy task given that they knew little about his whereabouts. If he was responsible for the death of the agent in Italy, Medved was likely long gone, moving on to the next target. And Pritchett only hoped his name wasn’t next on the list.

Later that afternoon, Pritchett sifted through the report he’d received via the CIA’s civilian contact in Belgrade. The microdot on the message Pritchett collected was filled with more information on Medved, though none of it was actionable intelligence. There were several more pictures as well as notes about his habits at the training facility, including the fact that he was left handed. But when it came to finding material useful in tracking down this alleged Russian super assassin, Pritchett was striking out.

Pritchett tidied up his desk before heading home. He varied his routes home, often deciding by the flip of a coin so as not to fall into a routine. By the time he reached the street, dusk had fallen. He preferred the sparse light over both broad daylight and darkness. He maintained a swift gait as the street lamps twinkled on.

He checked behind him before taking a sharp right turn down a dimly lit portion of his walk home. Usually unflappable, Pritchett jumped when a black cat screeched before scurrying in front of him.

I don’t need any more bad luck than I already have.

He steadied his breathing and continued along the sidewalk. In the distance, he could hear the cacophony caused by impatient drivers, skidding tires, and a few people yelling—all normal sounds in a big city.

Then he heard something that made his heart race.

Footsteps. Plodding and methodical footsteps.

Whoever the mystery person was, he was certain about where he was going—and his pace increased every few seconds.

Pritchett rounded the corner and ducked under a stoop jutting out from an apartment building. Crouching low, he watched the man walk past, head down and eyes forward. Never once did he glance back over his shoulders.

Maybe I’m just being paranoid.

Pritchett let out a sigh of relief and scolded himself for getting so frightened by the mere sound of someone walking behind him. However, he wasn’t sure how long he could walk out in the open in such a vulnerable position with Medved still running rampant.

When Pritchett entered his apartment, he collapsed onto his couch and loosened his tie. He tossed his hat onto the chair across from him and closed his eyes. This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen within the CIA. Leaks, targeted agents, a collapse of intel gathering systems—the entire system the agency had created to maintain its presence right under the nose of its enemies suddenly felt tenuous at best.

Pritchett was lost deep in his thoughts when his phone rang, snapping him out of the mental doldrums he had entered. He staggered across the room to the receiver and answered.

“This is Pritchett.”

“Cordell is missing.” The voice belonged to Walt Kensington, the Belgrade station chief.

Pritchett scowled. “Come again.”

“You heard me. Cordell went missing two days ago.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“He always checks in, even when he’s on an assignment of such a delicate nature. But it’s been over forty-eight hours and nary a peep.”

Pritchett cursed under his breath. Cordell was a highly decorated agent and had taken out several KGB assassins in the past. He was as skilled as anyone in the agency. For him to go missing, Pritchett realized, the intelligence gathered on Medved presented more than a theoretical thereat.

The Russian super assassin was very real—and if all the intel was accurate, he was coming for Pritchett soon.