The aroma of espresso and damp earth hung in the air, a familiar comfort Aleksandr Volkov barely registered. He sat by the window of the café in Moscow. His focus was absolute: the man two tables away, Sergei Malinovsky, a disgraced diplomat engaged in a tense, low-volume conversation. Aleksandr's steely-blue eyes, narrowed from a lifetime of reading lips, tracked the subtle tension in Malinovsky’s jaw, translating the silent dialogue into intelligence. A disruption. The café door chimed, a bright, jarring sound in the quiet space. Another person rushed in, pulling a large, leather portfolio under a damp coat. They hesitated in the entrance, her eyes sweeping the room for a refuge from the rain. Aleksandr’s posture didn't change, but his internal calculations did. The person was moving toward the last available table—the one directly between him and his target. His surveillance window was about to be halved. He watched, utterly silent, waiting for her next move. The moment was suspended, thick with the scent of coffee and the soft tick of rain.