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Coauthors Larry and Rosemary Mild breach deep cover and high intrigue to bring you a novel drawn from Larry's former association with secret operatives and their spook agencies.. The year is 1992. The Soviet Union has collapsed, but danger persists. Young Kent Brukner, a freshly trained American spy, arrives in Moscow for a high-risk mission: to infiltrate and compromise a Russian Federation Army facility. Under an alias, in a military uniform, he plies his skills—unprepared for the brutal confrontations and irrational consequences. Kent meets the innocent and passionate Katcha, daughter of a British expatriate and a Russian dissident. Together the lovers embark on a nearly impossible journey, beginning in the foothills of the Ural Mountains. Stalked by the evil Major Dmitri Federov, they must escape from St. Petersburg to Helsinki, Finland, or face life in a Russian prison.

ISBN 979-8-9863864-0-9 Magic Island Literary Works (Winter 2024)

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Those who commit their lives to espionage are cut from a different bolt of cloth than the rest of us. Maybe only God knows why they pursue that kind of life. Is it a strong sense of duty to their country? The need to contribute on a grand scale? The potential for thrills and excitement? The urge to be wild and reckless? Or does it boil down to a feeling of personal accomplishment at any cost?

On the downside, the profession is inherently dangerous and lonely to the point of despair. Any chance of public appreciation or acknowledgment is shrouded in the depths of secrecy.

The tradecraft is vast, the training is grueling, complicated, and often difficult to master. The professional spy, or secret agent, is an actor's actor. He or she must be able to reside in a foreign country as an "inserted" person: like a native, fluent in the language and versed in the culture with neither flaw nor lapse. There can be no offstage moments to let a guard down. A rare blend of intelligence, ingenuity, athleticism, quick wit, resilience, and discipline may be required for unpredictable situations. Assigned to accomplish such improvised magic, perhaps these agents might more accurately be called soldiers of sleight-of-hand.

Kent Peter Brukner had just finished his training as an operative- a spy, if you will, with an unnamed intelligence organization based somewhere in Virginia. An American citizen, he was on a special mission, his first, to compromise a Russian Federation Army facility.

The new government called itself the Russian Federation, replacing the ruthless Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Trig- gered by the dismantling of the Berlin Wall in 1989, the federa- tion appeared to have ushered in a more peaceful era. The tricolor flag, thick horizontal stripes of white, blue, and red, replaced the Soviet hammer and sickle. Mikhail Gorbachev became the first president of the federation, engineering the thaw of the Cold War and the lifting of the dreaded "Iron Curtain." But Boris Yeltsin replaced Gorbachev as president, and the United States felt a critical need to continually take the temperature of that New Order. Kent Brukner was one of a select few charged with that mission.

Kent wasn't using his real name, of course. His current identification and Russian travel visa provided a cover name, George Thermon, and a different vocation: as an American senior salesman for Ingleman's Department Stores in the United States. His intended purpose was to sell Ingleman's high-end men's clothing and specialty items to Russian department stores. Russian citizens were now craving all things American after years of deprivation under the drab, restrictive Soviet Union. George's leather briefcase contained elegant product catalogues, a notebook, contract forms for orders, and swag, small giveaway items like ballpoint pens. He had a reasonable mastery of the Russian language, lacking only the seasoned intonations.

On May 20th, a few minutes before midnight, his plane, Aeroflot Flight 22303, landed at Moscow's Sheremetyevo SVO Airport. "George" picked up his bag and cleared customs in forty-five minutes. A taxi took him into the city, to the Ibis Budget Moscow Panfilovskaya, a midsized hotel where he would blend in among throngs of tourists and businesspeople. Once settled in room 303, he showered, then slept off the jet lag for the rest of the night. Early in the afternoon of the new day, he left the hotel and saw the structure's lower stories in daylight for the first time, noting that they were a pleasing pink brick and the upper half yellow brick. But he forced himself to focus on his mission and sought out a somewhat dilapidated public phone booth a five-minute walk away. He made two calls with a precise number of rings and a designated delay between the calls. George neither spoke nor heard anything during either call. Walking back to the hotel, he ate supper in the coffee shop, returned to his room, and waited-for a response from "Sergei," a deep-cover operative he'd never met. George's two phone calls had initiated a prearranged meeting with the operative for the next morning.

Law-school dropout Kent Brukner, alias George Thermon, was about to embark on his new life. And deep down, he felt uneasy.

Sergei arrived the next morning at ten o'clock, a short fellow with a trim beard and thick-lensed glasses. He knocked at George's hotel room door as a delivery person for a florist, carrying a long white box, but much wider, as if designed for multiple floral arrangements.

At that meeting in his hotel room, George received key tradecraft materials, a detailed briefing, and most important, yet another identity. For this mission he would no longer be George Thermon, but Major Anatoli Todorev of the Russian Federation Army, and he was given the necessary credentials to prove it.

Sergei wasted no time with pleasantries. He drew up a straight-backed chair and spread the contents of his florist's box on the bed: a military uniform; a security access pass; a pair of neutral-lensed glasses; a lock-pick set; a bugging device; a roll of electrical tape; a glue stick; and a 9mm Makarov pistol. The neatly pressed wool uniform looked smart. Brown with an olive-green hue, it bore the rank of major in the Russian Federation Army. The access pass was, without question, the most critical item: an "of- ficial" identification card for Major Anatoli Todorev. George tried on the glasses. The likeness on the ID card wasn't perfect, but the photo was "close enough for government work," as the cliché goes. In a chilly voice, Sergei said, "Try on the uniform. If it doesn't fit, you won't look authentic." George followed directions and checked his six-foot-one frame in the full-length mirror attached to the closet door. Quite impressive, he decided, especially the stately officer's hat. Sergei permitted himself a brief smile of approval.

The bugging device measured two-by-two inches and a quarter-inch thick. Sergei explained, "It's sound-triggered to record any voices in a room and go active to burst-broadcast its contents- but only when an encoded radio trigger targets the device at pseudo- random times between one and five a.m. local time." Sergei fingered two wires protruding from the base. "These need to be connected to a 220-volt, 50-Hertz power source. The broadcast will be received at an undisclosed location that you have no need to know about."

"Sergei," said George, trying to keep his voice steady so as not to betray his annoyance. "At first glance, this device looks like its size and power requirements severely limit the locations where it can be hidden. A wall socket is out of the question. Why can't the device be smaller and operate from a battery?"

Sergei had a carefully rehearsed reply, as if he'd heard this objection before. "The size and power are both related to the need for long-distance transmission. Live power will ensure extended access by the end-user. Besides, a battery will go dead eventually. And by the way, George, nobody said anything about a wall socket. Use your imagination. You'll figure it out."

His clipped response signaled "End of discussion." Sergei moved on to provide the address and floor plan of the targeted Russian Federation Army building and the location of General Uri Molitkov's office. His final instruction: "Wait for the weekend, when there will be fewer employees around." Reaching out to shake George's hand, he said in a softened voice, "Good luck, my friend."