The city was in chaos. What had begun as marches and slogans was swelling into something meaner, dangerous. Respectable people in daylight, now whipped into frenzy by chants and gunfire, strangers to themselves. Crowds filled the main streets, fists pumping in rhythm, as chants echoed from every rooftop. Tyres fired in protest at intersections—the air stank of burnt rubber, heavy and foul. A light drizzle fell through the smoke, clinging to faces and coats. Gunfire rattled somewhere beyond the square, sharp and fast, swallowed by the roar of the mob.

Colonel Viktor Malenkov stayed back in the shadows, watching. He had seen cities collapse before. Budapest. Prague. Tehran had the same smell—petrol, sweat, fear. He kept his collar turned up, his head low, as the crowd surged past the alley mouth. Dozens of young men and women, some clutching rifles and pistols, some waving banners, all shouting in unison. The roar shifted and swelled.

“Marg bar Shah! Marg bar Shah!” Death to the Shah.

Then a new cry rose above it,

“Javid Khomeini! Javid Khomeini” Long live Khomeini.

The sound pressed against the walls, a living anger moving through the streets. They didn’t see him. They weren’t looking for him.

When the tumult and noise thinned, he saw the man.

Thin, middle-aged, poorly dressed in a coat that hung loose on his shoulders. He hurried down the far pavement, hunched shoulders, one arm hooked tight around a battered leather folio. His eyes flicked constantly, left and right. He was nervous. Too nervous. The kind of nervousness you only saw in men who were doing something they’d never done before.

Malenkov shifted deeper into the dark, watching him come closer. This was the courier. A clerk, a hanger-on, someone who had fed off scraps around the British Embassy before it began to crumble. Not a professional, just a man desperate enough to sell what he knew and had overheard.

The man reached the edge of the square. He looked once over his shoulder, then again toward the mouth of the alley. He let out the smallest breath, relief breaking through his fear. He’d made it this far. He started to cross.

A crack split the night.

The man jerked once, hard, and went down on the pavement. The folio skidded from his arms, papers spilling across the wet stones.

Malenkov froze. His first instinct was to find the muzzle flash, but the activity masked everything. Too many windows. Too many rooftops.

He moved across quickly, weaving through until he crouched beside the body. The man was face down, blood pooling across the pavement, eyes open and empty. A petty profiteer, silenced before he could collect. The folio lay open. Pages scattered, soaking into the mud. A couple of men burst from the crowd and ran across, boots scraping and tearing at the papers as they hurried past. They didn’t even look down at the corpse. To them, it was nothing—another body in the street.

One sheet caught on a gust, skidding across the pavement until it slapped against the base of a street lamp. Malenkov snatched what he could. Most were useless—embassy supply orders, requisition slips. But one page stopped him cold.

Typed in English, half-creased but still legible.

IGNIS Mk. I – Classified.

Beneath it, a crude sketch. A compact box, stencilled dimensions, a row of switches, a reel slot. Enough to prove it was real. Enough to know the British had been reckless. He folded the page and slid it into his coat. The rest were soiled quickly, trampled into the mud, scraps fit for nothing more than papier-mâché. Useless. Gone in seconds.

The chants grew louder again. The mob was surging back, spilling into the square, rifles raised, banners snapping overhead. The drizzle that had hung in the air all evening thickened now, turning into a heavier fall, speckling the pavement and running in the gutters.

Malenkov gave the body one last look. A man dead for gold, carrying knowledge from which he would never profit. He turned and slipped back into the shadows.

The British had a machine. Portable. Secretive. A machine that could expose networks, cripple codes, and redraw the map of espionage in the Middle East. Now Moscow would want it.

And Malenkov intended to be the one to bring it to them.