Ivan Volkov concluded his meeting with the American embassy source. The man, a low-level procurement officer named Sven, was sweating despite the cold. Ivan had applied pressure gently but firmly, reminding Sven of his ailing mother in Tallinn, the paperwork necessary for her emigration, the necessary permits.
He walked away with a list of names—low-level CIA support staff operating out of the embassy, including the name of the officer who had facilitated Kaelen Vance's immediate departure two days prior.
He had successfully sown chaos in London and gathered intelligence in Helsinki. The next step was surveillance and movement. He knew Kaelen Vance was on the run. She was predictable in her unpredictability. She would go somewhere fast, fluid, and complicated.
He returned to the safe house and booked a flight to Vienna. Vienna was the central nervous system of European intelligence gathering. Every side had deep roots there, a complicated network of alliances and betrayals. It was messy, exactly the kind of place Kaelen Vance would thrive in and the kind of place where order could be imposed with a quiet hand.
He sat at the apartment’s desk, which faced a window looking out onto the grey, cold Baltic Sea. He opened his notepad and began mapping out the operation. He didn't feel the rush Kaelen Vance likely felt. He felt a deep sense of historical purpose.
The coming confrontation was necessary. It was a reaffirmation of strength, a demonstration that while the West celebrated chaos and the individual ego, the East had the discipline and the focus to manage the world's necessary order.
He didn't hate Kaelen Vance personally. He hated what she represented: a reckless, childish nation with too much power and not enough responsibility. He was going to teach her the consequences of playing in the deep end of the pool.
Ivan Volkov was the ice, slow-moving, unstoppable, and cold enough to freeze the brightest flame. The game was moving to Vienna and he was ready to end it.
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