In the heart of London – Surveillance at a glance…

The Prague operation was a clear failure, and the humiliation lingered in the MI5 headquarters. The SVR asset, though captured, yielded little on The Alchemist, only confirming that she had an unparalleled network in Central Europe. The key, Alistair insisted, was to focus on the intelligence the Russians had paid for. They weren’t just buying encryption; they were buying secrets about the UK’s counter-terrorism strategies.

“The SVR is likely to pass that intel to a local handler here in London,” Alistair stated, tapping a stylus on a digital map of the city. “Someone who can exploit our vulnerabilities on the ground, likely tied to the remnants of the Keegan network. We need to find the recipient.”

Emma and Jake were pulled off the direct hunt for The Alchemist and assigned to a painstaking, forensic operation: monitoring known or suspected SVR sleeper agents in London. The list was long, tedious, and mostly comprised of low-level cultural attachés and businesspeople who rarely did anything more exciting than attend diplomatic dinners.

They set up a new surveillance post in a cramped, airless flat overlooking Regent’s Park, focusing on a man named Dmitri Volkov. Volkov was officially a curator at a Russian cultural centre in Kensington, but his profile ticked all the boxes: deep historical ties to the SVR, an unusually flexible travel schedule, and a sudden, sharp increase in encrypted communications since Keegan’s arrest.

“He’s the likely middleman,” Jake theorised, his eyes glued to the street below, where Volkov’s black sedan was parked. “He’s going to receive the package of compromised intel and hand it off to the IRA fragments.”

The surveillance turned into a soul-crushing routine of long nights and cold pizza. Emma watched Volkov’s apartment, recording every visitor, every delivery, every twitch of the curtains. Jake managed the electronic surveillance, trying to crack Volkov’s layered, old-school encryption—a mix of Cold War-era cyphers and modern VPNs.

Days blurred into a single, exhausting stakeout. Volkov was meticulous and paranoid. He never used the same route twice, he swept his apartment for bugs daily, and he only communicated through bursts of encrypted data that were virtually untraceable.

The break came on a rainy Thursday afternoon. Volkov left his apartment not in his sedan, but on foot, dressed in a simple, unremarkable raincoat. He headed towards the park, walking in a complex pattern—crossing the road unnecessarily, stopping to tie his shoe, constantly checking behind him.

“He’s making a classic hostile surveillance detection route,” Emma muttered into her comms, following him from a distance, posing as a dog walker with a borrowed West Highland Terrier. “This is a meet, Jake. It has to be.”

Jake, now following Volkov’s route on his digital map, directed their surrounding surveillance teams to hold back. “He’s too clean. We can’t spook him. Emma, stay on him, but keep your distance.”

Volkov led Emma on a winding path through the park’s rose garden and then towards the secluded Outer Circle. Finally, he stopped beneath a massive oak tree. He didn’t look at his watch or use a phone. He simply stood there, a statue in the drizzle.

After five minutes, a second figure approached. It was a woman, but not The Alchemist. This woman was older, elegant, with severely pulled-back silver hair and a sharp, calculating look in her eyes. She wore a tailored suit and carried a small, antique leather briefcase.

“Who is that, Jake? I don’t recognise her,” Emma whispered, crouching behind a bench.

Jake ran the visual through the MI5 database. The facial recognition flagged her instantly. Anna Kuryakin. Former KGB, now running a high-end import/export firm in Mayfair. Known for deep ties to Moscow Centre and—wait for it—historical association with IRA financial logistics in the late 90s.”

The penny dropped. Kuryakin was the perfect nexus: a seasoned SVR operator with trusted links to the old guard of the republican movement. She was the one tasked with passing the compromised intelligence from Moscow to the domestic terror cell.

The exchange was silent, swift. Kuryakin opened the briefcase; Volkov placed a small, flat data card into an inner pocket of the case. They didn’t shake hands, didn’t speak a word. Volkov simply gave a slight nod and walked away.

“Jake, she has the data. Kuryakin has the compromised intel,” Emma reported, her adrenaline spiking.

“We need that briefcase, Emma. Volkov is too hot to touch. Kuryakin is our target now,” Jake instructed, his voice low and urgent.

Emma broke cover, abandoning the Westie, who barked in confusion. Kuryakin, already walking away, glanced back and her eyes, cold and sharp, instantly registered Emma as a threat. The sophisticated elegance vanished, replaced by a steely resolve.

The chase began across the manicured lawns of Regent’s Park. Kuryakin was surprisingly fast and agile for her age, darting around dog walkers and tourists. She wasn’t running aimlessly; she was running toward a specific target—the Outer Circle, where a waiting vehicle would no doubt be positioned.

Emma closed the gap, lunging forward. Kuryakin swung the briefcase like a weapon, the heavy leather missing Emma’s head by inches. Emma tackled her, sending them both tumbling onto the wet grass. The briefcase skidded across the ground.

Kuryakin fought with a vicious, practised intensity, her elbows and knees flying. Emma managed to pin her down, wrenching Kuryakin’s arm behind her back. “MI5! The briefcase!”

Before Emma could secure Kuryakin, two figures in jogging gear suddenly materialised. They were Kuryakin’s backup, and they moved with the professional efficiency of trained killers. One engaged Emma while the other scooped up the briefcase.

Jake, having seen the situation escalate on his remote feeds, was already running. “I’m five minutes out, Emma! Hold the line!”

Emma was engaged in a brutal hand-to-hand fight, trading blows with the first bodyguard. He was bigger, but she was faster, using his weight against him. She took him down with a sharp knee strike, but the second had the briefcase and was sprinting for a nearby alley.

She had to make a choice: secure the SVR agent or retrieve the compromised intel. The answer was instantaneous. The briefcase was the mission.

“Jake, they’re taking the briefcase down to Marylebone High Street! Kuryakin is down, but the package is moving!”

Emma sprinted after the second bodyguard, the rain soaking her to the bone. This was no longer just about stopping a gun shipment; it was about saving the entire agency from a catastrophic security breach. She knew that wherever this briefcase was heading, it was the next step in The Alchemist’s plan to bring the MI5 to its knees.