The Chief was heading toward the vault with a single thought in his mind: to eliminate the rats roaming the Hive and the cockroaches crawling within it. He was cursing himself, as the idea of cleansing the Hive haunted him endlessly, yet it brought him no closer to a solution; he had to locate all the rodents before it was too late. Mrs. Finsbury, the head of the library, greeted him with a polite “Good morning.” The Chief merely nodded and entered the vault, reviewing the tasks assigned for the day. Edward Clarke, one of the chief officers stationed in the watchtower, stood at the door awaiting the Chief’s approval. The Chief glanced toward the door and said, “So, you’re tracking me through the head of the library now?” with a smirk on his face.
“I had no other option,” Clarke replied in a low voice, “An urgent message arrived last night from Copenhagen. It’s from our handler and is addressed directly to you. Since the watchtower is adjacent to the vault room, I had to ask a small favor from her—nothing more.” The Chief extended his hand, signaling him to place the letter on the table. Clarke set the envelope down and exited the vault with a visible sigh of relief. The Chief retrieved his reading glasses from beneath the desk, picked up the letter, and began to decipher it.
The letter read: “This is an urgent call for the Hive, and you must act immediately. I have identified three individuals in East Berlin: two Nazi scientists who were involved in nuclear power development during the war. After the war ended, they became stranded in Berlin. They now fear the exposure of their identities, followed by possible torture and forced labor under the Russians. The third individual is the informant who provided me with this intelligence. He previously worked at the Russian Embassy in East Berlin and is now starting a new post at the Russian Embassy in Copenhagen. All three are prepared to trade their knowledge and secrets in exchange for a better life in Britain.”
After finishing the letter, the Chief summoned his forge agents, specialists in missions of this nature—more adept than regular operatives. He called for Mr. Ivor Romanoff and Mr. Stuart Finsbury, two of the finest forge agents, to meet in the vault and discuss the assignment. They both entered and sat down for the briefing. The Chief then read aloud the message from Copenhagen.
The Chief then said, “Listen, gentlemen—this is one of my most trusted handlers, and the message can be considered reliable. But as you both know, trust can be a dangerous thing; this could very well be a trap, set for me by someone counting on my loyalty to him. Everyone in the Hive understands that wars fought with guns and missiles are a thing of the past, but the shadow war still rages on. Since the end of World War II, the world has largely overlooked Britain. Now, it's widely believed that the next global conflict will emerge from technological rivalry—a silent, bloody war between the United States and the Soviet Union. Britain no longer seems like a threat after we withdrew from our former colonies such as India and Canada. But we’re not retreating quietly. We were the ones who won a war that began over two centuries ago, when these countries were barely surviving. So this message could prove invaluable. Both superpowers want to know what the other has on their plate, but they’re equally curious about what’s on Britain’s. Because they both—yes, both the USA and USSR—understand exactly what Britain is capable of, especially when we regain our footing.”
“I need officers with exceptional skills for this mission, but I find myself stuck with you two,” he added, eyeing them both. “One of you avoids all contact with the Hive, and the other only joined because he thought a submarine was too small to fit his ego.” He paused. “Therefore, you two are going to Copenhagen to find out what’s really happening.”
Ivor Romanoff responded sharply, saying that while everyone was worried about street rats, he was more concerned about the infestation within their own ranks. He concluded that it was high time they cleaned their own house. The Chief’s eyes darkened with intensity, but it was indeed a fact: the Russians had always tried to lure bees away from the Hive.
Romanoff stood from his chair and walked out of the vault, followed shortly after by Mr. Finsbury. Finsbury headed to the archives to gather all available details regarding the mission.
The following day, both agents boarded a train to Copenhagen to meet with the handler and the British Embassy, and to collect the official report on Copenhagen for the Hive.
Romanoff and Finsbury arrived in Copenhagen beneath a clear sky. The atmosphere was brighter than in London, with people appearing more cheerful, adding a splash of color to the city’s charm. A man with a square jaw and sharp features, wearing a blue trench coat, approached them, greeted them, and introduced himself as Mr. Michael Fleming. He stated that he worked for the Hive and handled defectors. “Get yourselves refreshed,” he said, “and we’ll meet at the café across the station in an hour.”
An hour later, as they gathered at the café, Romanoff began questioning Fleming about the defector—a former KGB agent from Russia—and his motivations. “Why does he want to defect?” he asked. Fleming explained that he had met the agent at a tennis club; the man had been stationed at the Russian Embassy in Copenhagen. Compared to his life in Russia, he seemed to deeply appreciate Copenhagen’s vibrant culture. Fleming added that the defector’s experience with Western life had revealed the extent of censorship in Russia, including a government ban on literature deemed capable of spreading Western ideologies. Furthermore, the defector was demanding leverage in this deal, claiming to possess a list of double agents working within the Hive.
Finsbury interrupted. “This is clearly bait. Why would someone working inside the Russian Embassy want to defect? Everyone knows how embassies operated during wartime. The staff don’t need disguises or fabricated stories to slip across borders. They’re loyal, patriotic operatives who can extend their network in foreign countries and report back to their superiors—without ever being detected.”
Romanoff nodded in agreement. “The defector wants to play the hero by taking a risk, but I don’t think we should entertain this offer.”
Finsbury’s stern look silenced Romanoff momentarily, as he firmly declared their decision to reject the proposition.
Fleming responded, “In this silent war, victory will belong to those with superior intelligence networks. The world may view Britain as outdated, overshadowed by the USA and USSR, but I believe this defector could be a crucial asset. I’m confident he’s genuine—driven by a deep hunger for freedom.”
Finsbury shook his head. “The Hive doesn’t operate on trust, sentiment, or someone’s desire for liberty. We rely on facts—and only what fits the Hive. We're certain that we will not pursue this defector.”
Romanoff then shifted the topic, asking about the two scientists—what their status was and how Fleming had obtained that information. Fleming answered that the details had been provided by the same Russian defector during his six-month tenure in Berlin.
Finsbury cut in, “Does this defector even have a name?”
Fleming replied, “No.”
Frustrated, Finsbury raised his voice. “You brought us here based on a tip from a nameless man working inside the Russian Embassy? How could the Chief place so much trust in you—enough to send both of us chasing a phantom?”
Fleming calmly responded, “As a handler, I identify the asset. It’s the Hive’s job to determine whether he’s gold or worthless paper—by putting him through the furnace. I brought him in before he could run to the Americans for his taste of freedom. We can win this war by being the last ones to give up on him. He’s a double-edged knife—don’t let him slip through your hands.”
Finsbury stood his ground. “We’re not taking the bait.”
As they continued their conversation, a man of local build—standing about 6’2”, with broad shoulders and fair skin—dressed like a local, suddenly stumbled into their table, knocking over everything. He was breathless, his face drenched in sweat, as though a group of locals had been chasing him.
“Red mig venligst fra disse mennesker. Please save me. Per favore, salvami da queste persone. S’il vous pla?t, sauvez-moi de ces gens. Bitte retten Sie mich vor diesen Leuten. Por favor, sálvame de esta gente. Red me alsjeblieft van deze mensen,” he cried out in multiple languages, pleading for help as he collapsed to his knees.
Mr. Romanoff stepped forward, lifting the man to his feet. Noticing the 11-inch boots, a tailored three-piece grey suit, a Harrods bag, and a brown hat, the man quickly realized Romanoff might be English and switched to speaking in English. He began to explain himself, attempting to describe the situation. Just then, a group of locals surrounded the café.
Suddenly, a gunshot rang out. Finsbury heard it, and within a fraction of a second, the man begging for help was hit. Romanoff rushed to check his breathing. The entire café froze in shock. The man who had fired the shot rose to his feet, gun in hand, and announced that he was a member of the Danish Police, working under the Special Branch of the Security and Intelligence Service. He ordered the café owner to close the establishment immediately and instructed the civilians to leave.
Within five minutes, the place was cleared. Fleming tended to the wounded man's arm, where the bullet had struck. The injured man turned and thanked Romanoff for instinctively pushing him away, saving him by a split second.
Finsbury, visibly shaken, couldn’t understand why Romanoff had saved the man. What connection did this stranger have to him? Did Romanoff truly have a human side—one that cared for others?
With questions swirling in his mind, Finsbury asked, “Why did you save him? Is he an ally or a source?”
Romanoff replied calmly, “This is the first time I’ve seen him. I simply reacted—based on the sound of the trigger and the look in your eyes. I knew you sensed it too. I didn’t do much—just gave him a push on the shoulder.”
“That was enough to save him,” said the Danish officer, now standing behind Romanoff. “Besides saving him from my bullet, you told him to stay low until the situation was under control. Why would you do that if he wasn’t your ally?”
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Finsbury interjected, “What on earth are you doing here? What madness are you trying to create by shooting someone in broad daylight?”
The officer deflected, turning the question around: “So, do you trust your partner’s word on this?”
Mr. Fleming pressed further, “That’s not an answer. Who are you, and what are you really doing here?”
“Beg your pardon,” the officer replied. “I’m Ludwig Oswald. As I’ve said twice already, I work for the Danish Police’s Security and Intelligence Service.”
Romanoff followed up, “That still doesn’t explain why you're here.”
“I was following Mr. Fleming,” Oswald admitted. “His activities appeared suspicious, and I needed to know what he was up to. We never expected Hive operatives to be working against us. And since I’ve answered honestly, I expect the same. Why save a nobody?”
“As I’ve already told you,” Romanoff said, “I don’t know the man. I acted purely on instinct.”
“Well, lucky for you,” Oswald said, “your table was at the rear of the café—so fewer witnesses saw what happened. But I have to hand it to you—your instinct to push him diagonally spared his vital organs. You only got him hit in the bicep.”
Meanwhile, Fleming and officers from Oswald’s team transported the wounded man to the nearest hospital. Oswald then requested that Romanoff and Finsbury file an incident report, as a shot had been fired in public and locals were witnesses.
Finsbury replied, “The report will be made—but what are we supposed to write?”
Romanoff answered, “I’ll go with Fleming to check on the stranger’s status. Finsbury, you go with Oswald to file the report. Leave out any mention of the Hive or foreign governments. After all, Denmark wants to remain neutral in this silent war.”
Finsbury and Oswald arrived at the department, where Oswald promptly instructed his junior documentation officer to get an update from the hospital by contacting the officers stationed there. Turning to Finsbury, Oswald inquired whether he had already prepared the report and offered to discuss it if it wasn’t yet ready, emphasizing that it needed to be completed within the hour.
Finsbury responded, “The best way to write a deceptive report is to tell the true events—just without including the actual facts and details.”
Meanwhile, the documentation officer, having just finished a phone call with the hospital, handed a freshly typed report to Oswald. He glanced over it and asked, “Which officer was on the line?”
Ms. Irene, the documentation officer, replied, “I took the call, sir, and prepared the report along with Mr. Huntley.”
Oswald nodded his thanks and began reading the document:
Name: Blake Gatling
Origin: Spain
Parents: Father died in Spain during World War II; mother passed away in Copenhagen three years ago.
Reason for Presence in Denmark: Wandered across Europe after the war and eventually settled in Copenhagen.
Profession: Portrait artist, operates near the train station.
Residence: Lives in an apartment above a tavern located near the station.
Marital Status: Unmarried.
Affairs: None reported.
Emergency Contact: Tavern owner.
Cause of Today’s Incident: A friend of his had taken a loan under Blake’s name and failed to repay it. The locals, trusting the friend due to Blake’s reputation, attempted to abduct him after the friend had been missing for the past four months.
Oswald read the report carefully, considering the details. Though the document seemed simple, every line carried weight in the eyes of intelligence officers. Finsbury, who stood silently beside him, scanned the report for inconsistencies but found none—yet the situation still didn’t sit right with him.
After hearing the report, Finsbury turned to Oswald and asked, “So, is it acceptable if I submit a report stating that a Danish officer overreacted to a monetary dispute by shooting the victim?”
Oswald replied firmly, “What would you have me do—just stand by while a stranger disrupts a Hive meeting on my ground?”
Finsbury raised an eyebrow. “Did you even hear what we were discussing?”
“I didn’t catch your entire conversation,” Oswald admitted. “But the Hive was clever enough to pick the busiest café in Copenhagen. I did gather that your meeting involved someone from the tennis club—same place we tracked Mr. Fleming. That’s how we knew something was brewing.”
Before Finsbury could press further, Oswald cut in. “We need to get ahead of the press before they dig up the truth.”
Finsbury nodded and began to dictate: “Declare that Gatling is suspected of being an international spy operating within Copenhagen. A mercenary who shifts loyalties based on payment, posing a threat to the city’s stability. In addition to these covert dealings, he jeopardized the safety of local citizens, bringing unwanted attention and danger upon himself. The Danish Government, aware of his growing threat, acted when the time was right to neutralize him.”
He looked at Oswald. “That’s the story we’ll feed the press. What’s your take?”
Oswald smirked. “A bit wild, don’t you think? Framing Gatling as a spy?”
Finsbury responded, “His background made him a perfect candidate. Copenhagen’s neutrality makes it an espionage battlefield—some profit from the chaos, others become victims of it. Gatling, unfortunately, landed in the latter category.”
Oswald tilted his head. “So, what now? Do we eliminate him?”
“No,” Finsbury said. “He could still be useful. He’s young, athletic, and multilingual. Thanks to today’s incident, we’ve reduced him to a ‘Mr. Nobody.’ He’s your clay now—mold him however you need.”
Oswald was momentarily speechless. “So that’s how the bees from the Hive operate,” he muttered. “Fine. That settles the Gatling issue. Let’s inform the newspapers and radio, give the public a digestible version of events—better to shape their thoughts than let them question.”
Finsbury, pausing a moment, then asked with a smirk, “One last thing—when does Ms. Irene finish work?”
Oswald raised a brow. “Give up on that one. She doesn’t exactly warm up to colleagues.”
“I’m just wondering,” Finsbury said, half-grinning. “Even if someone’s 35, six-foot-seven, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, sharp-chinned, with a bright smile... he still can’t buy her a drink?”
Oswald chuckled. “You forgot ‘with extra-tight muscles.’ You think Irene’s surrounded by stray dogs? Most men in the department look like you.”
“There may be a hundred who look like me,” Finsbury said, confidence unwavering, “but none of them are me.”
With that, he turned and walked toward Irene’s desk. As he approached, he momentarily lost his composure, captivated by her eyes—slightly sunken, giving her a brooding, enigmatic aura. Framed by thick, untamed brows, they were a contradiction: warm yet distant, soft yet cutting. Her face was delicately oval but with defined cheekbones and a strong jawline, a blend of vulnerability and strength. It wasn’t the kind of beauty you’d find in portraits—it was raw, unpolished, and unforgettable. Her nose bore a slight curve, adding character rather than flaw. And her lips—just touched with a red hue—completed the picture like a cherry atop a dessert.
Interrupting his reverie, Irene asked coolly, “Do you need something?”
Snapping back to reality, Finsbury replied, “Yes. I need a copy of the report Mr. Oswald and I just finalized. Also, I need a favour—I want to check in at the tavern where Gatling lives, see what the local scene is. I could use your help to blend in. Would you join me, perhaps as a form of cover?”
Her expression hardened. “So, you want to use me as your disguise for an undercover operation?”
Without flinching, Finsbury answered, “Yes.”
She stared at him, her face unreadable—until she finally nodded. “Fine. I’ll tag along. You didn’t flinch when I tried to test you, and this is, after all, part of my job.”
“Good,” Finsbury said, smiling. “We can leave whenever you’re ready.”
He glanced back at Oswald, who was silently mouthing, “That’s cheating.”
Finsbury gave him a wink and turned back toward Irene. She added, “I’ll print the report and get approval from Chief Oswald. If today has taught us anything, he’ll be eager to know what’s happening on the streets.”
Fifteen minutes later, she returned, report in hand, lips now fully tinted red, her expression unreadable. Together, they left the office and, after a 45-minute journey, arrived at the tavern.
Upon arriving at the tavern, Finsbury made sure Irene was comfortable, guiding her to a quiet corner table. The atmosphere inside was dim and intimate, with flickering lights casting soft shadows against the wooden walls. He walked over to the bar and ordered two glasses of Chateau Margaux—one for himself, the other for Irene.
As they settled in, the air was filled with the low hum of drunken murmurs and clinking glasses. Just as Finsbury took his first sip, a familiar voice greeted him from beside the bar.
“Hello,” the voice said, smooth and unexpected.
Finsbury turned sharply. It was Romanoff, wearing his usual disarming smile.
His eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Romanoff leaned casually on the bar. “Checking the streets after the Gatling incident. Wanted to verify his story—the one he gave to Officer Huntley. Seems like he was telling the truth.”
Finsbury narrowed his gaze. “What’s Gatling’s status?”
Romanoff replied calmly, “He’s been hired by the Hive.”
Finsbury nearly dropped his glass. “WHAT?” he shouted, loud enough to bring the entire tavern to a standstill. All eyes turned toward him.
Romanoff raised a hand, gesturing for calm. The tavern resumed its soft hum as he continued, “He could be valuable to the operation. Young, athletic, fluent in four languages. And after today’s incident, we’ve made him a complete nobody—perfect for molding.”
Finsbury stared at him, realization dawning. “That’s why the chief paired us—two misfits with a mess to clean.”
Romanoff nodded, then added, “You know how the British Embassy operates in neutral grounds. We don’t just seek identities—we create them. Why waste time hunting for someone when we can shape someone willing, or desperate, enough to be reborn?”
Finsbury leaned in. “You cared about him. Didn’t you? You gave him a reason to live. Who is he to you, Romanoff? What’s this really about?”
Romanoff exhaled. “I just told him something the chief once told me: ‘When your back is against the wall, break the wall.’ That line changed everything for me, and now for him. I needed him to overhear my conversation with Huntley. I wanted to provoke a reaction. And he gave one—he fought to stay alive. No one pulls a stunt like he did this morning unless they’ve decided life is worth fighting for.”
Finsbury remained silent, stunned at how expertly Romanoff had manipulated the narrative—and the man. “You’re a master of turning defectors,” he finally said. “The chief knew what he was doing.”
Romanoff smiled. “Besides,” he added, “you said Gatling spoke seven languages this morning?”
Finsbury nodded. “Fluently. I heard him.”
Romanoff laughed. “He knows how to ask for help in seven. But he’s fluent only in four—English, Spanish, Danish, and German. The rest are just survival phrases.”
“Fair enough,” Finsbury said, still wrapping his head around the unfolding web. “Since you were first on the ground, what’s the local sentiment?”
“You did a fantastic job spinning the story,” Romanoff said. “The people are furious. The news hit hard. The tavern owner claimed Gatling was always sneaky—suspected something was off. He even dragged out his belongings and burned them on the street.”
“So… nothing to worry about?” Finsbury asked, releasing a long breath.
“Almost nothing,” Romanoff replied. “I still have to file a report for the chief, officially documenting Gatling’s recruitment. I imagine Oswald will be… intrigued.”
He paused and smirked. “By the way, I noticed the stunning lady you came in with. Hope you enjoy your wine and her company tonight.”
Finsbury looked at him, surprised. “You hired Gatling without the chief’s clearance? While the Hive is crawling with cockroaches?”
Romanoff was already heading for the door. He stopped, turned, and with a grin asked, “By the way, where did you find that woman?”
“She’s the documentation officer. Works with Oswald,” Finsbury replied.
Romanoff chuckled with an unmistakably wicked glint in his eye. “You always had a soft spot for documentation officers, didn’t you?”
And with that, Romanoff disappeared into the night.
Finsbury returned to his seat, where Irene was waiting. He handed her the glass of wine. The rest of the evening passed in quiet conversation and gentle laughter—under the haze of candlelight, Chateau Margaux, and the secrets of a city that never truly sleeps.
