James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nerves_of_ice) wrote2013-10-22 08:32 pm
nerves_of_ice) wrote2013-10-22 08:32 pm
He doesn't know exactly what happened a week ago. No, all he knows is that his handlers are nervous about something - and given the way that they're watching him when they think he's unaware, whatever they're concerned about is likely to be a problem.
(It could merely be another test, of course, but he doesn't think so. It feels different; the tension among them is too high.)
All in all, he's relieved to finally be given orders to make another delivery to the drop. It had taken them a while to run the secondary verification protocols, determining that he'd been right about the existence of the contact point in the cathedral, and longer yet to prepare an intelligence packet of their own with a careful mixture of misinformation and harmless fact.
He might be walking into a trap, he knows. It doesn't bother him in the slightest; it's because the risk is so high that he's the one making the drop. Once the channel is confirmed and he makes it safely out, someone else will take over the work of feeding regular falsehoods to their enemies, but in the meantime it's his job to do -- and it gets him away from his wary handlers and their watchful looks.
He takes a circuitous route to the cathedral, ducking in and out of a couple of doors and down back streets along the way to throw off any pursuit. Once he reaches the square, he watches for a few minutes, then blends into the streams of people wandering past the State Theatre of Košice and drifts along with their aimless patterns until he ends up at St. Elisabeth's. There's no one visibly watching him as he makes his way to the northern nave; more important, there's no itching at the back of his neck to indicate that his instincts are picking up on hidden danger.
There is, however, a message waiting in the drop.
Printed on the outside: From D. When he opens it, he reads a single word: Confirm.
A string of silent curses rips through his mind as he stares at the paper. Will the intelligence that's been so carefully crafted be enough to convince the Americans? Is there some code-word reply, some signal, something he can do --
Even as his thoughts furiously race along their path, he's already pulling the small bundle of papers from his jacket pocket. He's not really conscious of what he's doing as he reaches into his pocket a second time and takes out the matchbox with its insignia from the end of the universe.
He wraps the matches in the note and adds the tiny bundle to the packet, then deposits the whole in the drop before he can have second thoughts.
No one's watching as he leaves the cathedral; no one's tailing him on the streets or anywhere else that he can spot, no matter how often he doubles and triples back on his own trail. Once he's finally convinced it's safe, he heads back to the prearranged meeting point.
The contact who waits for him has a grim expression and a new set of orders. One look at the man's face, and all his hopes sink.
"Comrade Winter. You're to return to Moscow. Immediately."
(It could merely be another test, of course, but he doesn't think so. It feels different; the tension among them is too high.)
All in all, he's relieved to finally be given orders to make another delivery to the drop. It had taken them a while to run the secondary verification protocols, determining that he'd been right about the existence of the contact point in the cathedral, and longer yet to prepare an intelligence packet of their own with a careful mixture of misinformation and harmless fact.
He might be walking into a trap, he knows. It doesn't bother him in the slightest; it's because the risk is so high that he's the one making the drop. Once the channel is confirmed and he makes it safely out, someone else will take over the work of feeding regular falsehoods to their enemies, but in the meantime it's his job to do -- and it gets him away from his wary handlers and their watchful looks.
He takes a circuitous route to the cathedral, ducking in and out of a couple of doors and down back streets along the way to throw off any pursuit. Once he reaches the square, he watches for a few minutes, then blends into the streams of people wandering past the State Theatre of Košice and drifts along with their aimless patterns until he ends up at St. Elisabeth's. There's no one visibly watching him as he makes his way to the northern nave; more important, there's no itching at the back of his neck to indicate that his instincts are picking up on hidden danger.
There is, however, a message waiting in the drop.
Printed on the outside: From D. When he opens it, he reads a single word: Confirm.
A string of silent curses rips through his mind as he stares at the paper. Will the intelligence that's been so carefully crafted be enough to convince the Americans? Is there some code-word reply, some signal, something he can do --
Even as his thoughts furiously race along their path, he's already pulling the small bundle of papers from his jacket pocket. He's not really conscious of what he's doing as he reaches into his pocket a second time and takes out the matchbox with its insignia from the end of the universe.
He wraps the matches in the note and adds the tiny bundle to the packet, then deposits the whole in the drop before he can have second thoughts.
(thanks for the tip - next round's on me)
No one's watching as he leaves the cathedral; no one's tailing him on the streets or anywhere else that he can spot, no matter how often he doubles and triples back on his own trail. Once he's finally convinced it's safe, he heads back to the prearranged meeting point.
The contact who waits for him has a grim expression and a new set of orders. One look at the man's face, and all his hopes sink.
"Comrade Winter. You're to return to Moscow. Immediately."