Caroline Lundqvist stood in the doorway of the apartment, the hum of the building a low, persistent thrum in the otherwise stifling silence. Outside, Prague remained still as an August sun surveyed a hazy expanse of rooftops and cobblestone streets. But here, within Irena’s flat, a strange chill lingered. It was a stark contrast to the clammy warmth that clung to Caroline’s skin. She glanced at her watch, the ticking a small, insistent sound. It was 08:35.

Mrs. Irena Miller was the owner of the flat. She and her children were on the Interexpress train, settled into a first-class compartment. Jon Riley, former Marine Corps Intelligence, now relegated to an embassy desk, was with Irena and her boys. His youthful charm and polite manner made him an ideal romantic partner. They were an hour into their four-hour journey to Brno, so Caroline and her team had ample time to complete the sweep.

Jon, posing as an “aspiring musician,” was tasked to offer Irena a glimpse of a life she’d almost forgotten. He needed to distract her for the day, to whisk her away on a romantic outing, while Caroline’s team did their work. It had been easy for Jon to get close to Irena. Months earlier, she shared with Caroline her longing for a “man who could sing,” a romantic hero to thrill her and sweep her off her feet.

The memory of that meeting was vivid and sharp. Caroline, posing as a potential pottery buyer, had stepped into Irena’s cramped home studio. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and wet clay. Irena had greeted her at the door, a swirl of long, tousled curls framing her face. Her two young boys, one around nine and the other about five, had been perched on the worn sofa. Their eyes were wide and wary. Their pale faces and thin clothes were a stark contrast to their mother’s carefully curated look.

Caroline remembered the incongruity of the scene, the way the children seemed so out of place. Irena’s eyes had darted from her children to her work, a silent warning not to disturb. The pottery wheel, books on the coffee table, a stack of brightly colored coffee cups and half-filled bottles of paint—the details hinted at a deeper chaos.

Initially, Caroline had imagined a double agent scenario, a Polish spy recruited by her American husband to broker deals. Martin Krueger’s list had named Irena’s ex-husband, an embassy official named Robert Miller, as a player in the murky world of information trading. His loyalties seemed to shift with the flow of money. Their marriage was short, only seven months, which made Caroline suspicious. But Irena seemed too volatile to be a seasoned spy.

Caroline observed her team’s progress. Their movements were silent and precise from years of practice. The apartment had two small bedrooms, a living room which doubled as a pottery studio, and a tiny kitchen with exposed pipes. The space was both intimate and claustrophobic. But it was home, and that feeling of comfort meant vulnerability. A moment of weakness could be exploited.

One operative was in the children’s room, rifling through drawers, squeezing stuffed animals, flipping through dog-eared picture books. Caroline had always found it difficult to reconcile the image of Irena, the flamboyant woman, with the reality of her children’s lives. Their clothes were too small, their shoes worn thin, their hair unkempt. There was no sign of the attentive motherly care that would have been expected.

Irena, Caroline knew, paid more attention to her outfits, to layering scents in the right order. Her boys were left to figure things out as clients shuffled in and out of her home studio. In Caroline’s professional opinion, Irena was looking for a pedestal, but was too distracted by her own fantasies to find it.

As the sweep continued, Caroline focused on a bookshelf near the living room window. She leafed through a collection of romance novels in various languages. The books were filled with tales of escape, of forbidden love, of passion that defied borders. They could have been written for someone like Irena, a woman searching for a fairytale ending.

And along came Jon, the “man who could thrill,” a fantasy plucked from Irena’s romantic obsession. The role was simple to craft. Caroline had found the restless former Marine, and gave him a romantic backstory. He was a talented singer, crushed by lost love back home in Pennsylvania. A few weeks of short coffee dates and hangouts at her home, and Irena would be gagging to go with him to Brno.

The hum of the apartment, amplified by the distant rumble of Prague traffic, snapped Caroline back to the present. She imagined the absent children, and realised that laughter was missing from their lives. The sweep neared its end. In the kitchen, a sugar jar, subtly misaligned, revealed a bug.

The team was wrapping up, one member making sure everything was the way they found it. Irena was no spy, but Caroline knew that when backed into a corner, a woman like her could do anything to survive.

Outside, in the corridor, she heard the door locking softly behind her. The sweep was over, but Irena’s life remained unremarkable. It was a stage set for a drama that would never play out.