ITT 11: The Final Directive - A Spy Fiction Novel of Last Orders

The rain fell in sheets across the cobblestones of Prague's Old Town Square, each droplet catching the amber glow of the streetlamps like tiny fragments of broken glass. Viktor Kozlov stood beneath the shadow of the Astronomical Clock, his weathered fingers wrapped around a camera that had seen better decades. The Leica M3 had been his constant companion through twenty-seven years of covert operations, its chrome body bearing the scars of a dozen different conflicts across as many countries.

At fifty-three, Viktor carried the weight of those years in the deep lines around his gray eyes and the slight stoop of his shoulders. His trench coat, once a pristine olive drab, had faded to the color of old leather, its fabric holding the accumulated scents of a thousand cigarettes and a hundred safe houses. Tonight, however, would mark the end of an era. After three decades of service to the Soviet intelligence apparatus, Viktor Kozlov was about to execute his final directive.