Moscow
A plain-looking van sat quietly on the roadside. It seemed completely ordinary, with pedestrians passing by from time to time.
The driver's side window was rolled halfway down, and faint red sparks could be seen flickering inside—it looked like the driver was smoking.
Everything appeared perfectly normal.
But in the back of the van, the scene was entirely different. The cargo compartment, which should have been used to hold goods, had been converted into a temporary command center, crammed with unfamiliar instruments, where several men and women were busily working.
A technician wearing headphones and monitoring suddenly snapped his fingers at the others, signaling that something had happened.
Pamela Landy walked over, took the headphones, and listened closely.
It was obvious to everyone in the van that she was the one in charge.
After a moment, she set the headphones down. "The target just called to reserve the presidential suite at the Merlin Hotel for one hour from now."
One of them glanced at his watch. "Only thirty minutes. That's not much time."
"Jim…" Pamela knocked on the front wall of the cabin.
"Copy that."
The van, under the driver's control, sped away and maneuvered through Moscow's streets. Ten minutes later it stopped again.
From the driver's seat the hotel logo could already be seen. The driver tapped on the rear wall. Receiving the signal, Pamela turned to her team solemnly.
"You have thirteen minutes."
"Plenty."
The rear doors opened, and two operatives got out, moving quickly into the hotel.
Meanwhile, the technician's fingers flew over the keyboard, strings of command lines appearing on the screen and executing one after another.
After a few lines, a smile curved across his lips. "Done. The hotel is using a Mos-III management system, an ancient version. Hacking this is like elementary school math for me."
As he finished speaking, the screen in the van showed the images of the two operatives.
They had already changed into cleaning staff uniforms, pushing a supply cart down the corridor leading to the presidential suite.
Just then, Pamela's phone vibrated. She answered.
"Boss, the target left early. He'll be at the hotel in about five minutes."
"Shit…"
Accidents always came when least expected.
Pamela's mind raced. The timing was completely off.
Abort now?
But opportunities like this were rare.
The situation was urgent. Two seconds later, she made her decision.
"Mia, find a way to stall him. Buy us at least ten minutes."
Somewhere nearby, Mia received the order. She pressed down on the accelerator, overtook the target's vehicle, and slammed straight into a taxi ahead.
Shrill car horns echoed across the street as the two wrecked vehicles completely blocked the road. Mia got out, cursing, and began arguing heatedly with the other driver, both refusing to give way.
Inside the command van, Pamela kept her eyes on the screen while checking her watch.
On the feed, the two operatives had reached the suite door. The hallway was empty. With a few keystrokes from the technician, the door beeped and unlocked remotely. One agent slipped inside while the other remained in the corridor, posing as a cleaner on lookout duty.
Pamela didn't push them. She trusted their efficiency.
Time ticked by second after second.
"Boss, they're moving again."
At the accident site, Mia watched the target's convoy leaving in the distance. She held her phone to her ear, pretending to call the insurance company, but in reality reporting back to Pamela.
"I know. Disappear now. Starting tomorrow, Jim will take your place."
Once exposed to the target, she could no longer work frontline missions—only from behind the scenes.
Pamela checked the time again. The target was moving quickly. Seven minutes after Mia's call, a convoy of three vehicles pulled up to the hotel entrance. Surrounded by a wall of bodyguards, Yuri Chikov stepped out and entered the hotel.
At the same time, the two operatives slipped out the back door. The van's rear doors opened, and they climbed back inside.
One of them gave an "OK" gesture. "All set. The table lamp, the living room chandelier, and the bathroom sink area—I rigged them all…"
So far, everything had gone smoothly.
Pamela and her team turned their attention back to the feed. The screen had switched to the elevator camera, showing Yuri Chikov surrounded by bodyguards.
Pamela Landy and her team were part of the CIA Counterintelligence Center, and Yuri Chikov was their current target of investigation.
The background traced back to a year earlier, when twenty million dollars of CIA operational funds vanished during a wire transfer through Moscow. The CIA formed a task force to investigate, but progress stalled completely.
It seemed destined to become a dead case—until a few days ago, when a break came.
An intelligence post in Istanbul stumbled upon information suggesting that the missing funds might be connected to a Russian oil businessman named Yuri Chikov. Pamela's team was ordered to investigate.
Upon arriving in Moscow, their initial surveillance showed that Yuri maintained an extremely high level of security, always accompanied by no fewer than six PSC operatives.
Cautious, Pamela decided to begin with wiretapping in hopes of uncovering something unexpected.
Inside the hotel, the bodyguards swiped the keycard at the presidential suite. The door opened, and the group entered.
Yuri stood in the living room, one guard at his side while the others swept through the rooms. After confirming they were empty, the guards pulled out a case of specialized devices and began scanning every corner.
The scanner beeped repeatedly.
Moments later, the head of security returned carrying several objects.
"Boss, found these."
He handed the dismantled bugs to Yuri.
"Hm?" Yuri frowned.
"Looks like American work."
The head of security was a professional Yuri had hired at a high salary—formerly with Israel's Mossad, deeply familiar with the devices, methods, and habits of various countries.
Yuri's expression darkened. Clearly, someone had set their sights on him.
"Switch me to another suite. And… find them."
The head of security nodded and left.
Downstairs, the van sped away.
The operation had gone sideways.
Yuri was no ordinary man. Their very first wiretap had been detected, and the mission ended in failure. Considering that this was his home ground, Pamela decided to lay low.
The van stopped in a secluded area. Inside, Pamela looked at her team.
"The mission is suspended for now. Switch to Plan B. Each of you find a place to hide, no contact between one another, wait for my signal. If there's an emergency, head to the safehouse."
It was Pamela's final order to them.
Before every mission, the task force always had contingency plans for all possible outcomes. Right now, they were executing one of those contingencies. The priority was to ensure their own safety.
The van doors opened, and the operatives dispersed in different directions. Within moments, they had vanished without a trace, as if they had never been there at all.