The Rubber Duck Part I
The Inkwell Order had intercepted whispers of a mole inside Wolf’s organization. A sliver of opportunity buried within the labyrinthine back channels of global espionage. The message had been cryptic, deliberately vague, but the meaning was clear: We should meet.
For two months, Judd had worked through a tangled web of intermediaries to secure a face-to-face. Prague had been chosen—not by him, but by the ghostlike figures who still played their Cold War games in the shadows of Eastern Europe. The kind of men and women who’d once worn FSB badges, now selling their skills to the highest bidder.
Judd knew one thing—this could be a trap.
He arrived in Prague under a sky choked with low-hanging clouds, the gothic skyline silhouetted in the waning dusk. His first stop: the Grand Hotel, predictably westernized as the W, on Wenceslas Square. A quick shower, a change of clothes, and a halfhearted attempt at room service later, he was weaving through the cobbled streets toward a beer hall tucked away in the Old Town.
The hall was packed. Long wooden tables, thick air laced with the scent of roasted pork, clinking steins, and the low murmur of a hundred conversations. It had all the charm of a traditional Czech drinking institution.
Judd spotted his contact group before they saw him. He had been told to look out for a man carrying a rubber duck.
A tall, solidly built man with short-cropped hair and a working-class stubble sat at the far end of a table, arms casually draped over the backrest. He had the sharpness of a retired La Liga footballer, the kind who had traded the pitch for something less glamorous, but still knew how to move. The woman next to him, with long, curly brown hair, had an instinctive sharpness to her gaze, one that never stopped scanning. And then there was the third woman, who seemed in no rush, leisurely examining her nails.
Judd approached, and the man was the first to acknowledge him. He stood, extending a surprisingly British-sounding greeting:
“James Beaufort. How ya doin’, mate?” Definitely more Premier League than La Liga.
Judd clasped his hand firmly. “Judd Knight. Pleasure.” His alias slipping from his tongue as easily as his real name.
The second woman, curly brown locks framing a fair-skinned, brown-eyed face, offered a simple nod. “Orchard. Sarah Orchard” A clipped accent. Hard to place.
The third, the most confident of the bunch, finally glanced up, studying him with an amused smirk. Tall, striking, American. Blonde brown hair, undeniable charisma. She wore a blue-and-white ringed sweater and large gold earrings, exuding the kind of confidence that made people listen.
“Cassandra,” she said, eyes locking onto Judd’s.
Then, without missing a beat, she grabbed her coat.
“This place is too damn bright,” she announced. “We need somewhere darker.”
With that, she turned on her heel and walked straight out.
Judd blinked, thrown off by the abruptness. James smirked, shaking his head as he stood. “Guess we’re leaving, mate.”
Orchard was already moving, her long strides catching up to Cassandra. Judd exhaled and followed.
They walked the few blocks to Tek’ila Bar, the neon glow of the streetlights reflecting off the wet pavement. The transition from loud, bright beer hall to shadowy, red-hued dive bar was jarring, but Judd understood the shift. The dim lighting, the multiple exits, and the crowd made Tek’ila a far better place for unrecorded conversations.
Inside, four massive Czech beer mugs were slammed onto their table, a signal that the test was beginning.
Cassandra wasted no time, grilling Judd for his backstory, trying to peel apart his cover, with meticulous precision. Orchard and James remained silent, watching his body language, studying his tells.
The drinks kept coming. At a subtle nod from Orchard, a bell rang, and two bartenders arrived with rows of shot glasses.
Judd sighed. This was a Cold War interrogation method wrapped in camaraderie. Get the mark comfortable. Get them drunk. See what slips.
He could hold his liquor, but this was a marathon, not a sprint.
James leaned in with a smirk. “Drink up, mate. We’ll see if you can hold your own.”
Judd exhaled slowly, then reached for the first shot.
The night blurred into a haze of drinks, laughter, and calculated gamesmanship.
And just when Judd thought it was over, James grinned and slapped the table.
“Let’s go somewhere fun.”
They stumbled out of Tek’ila into the neon-lit streets of Prague, Cassandra leading the way with the certainty of someone who had spent years knowing the unlisted doors and forgotten basements of every city she passed through.
Judd followed, slightly buzzed but still in control.
They wound through narrow alleyways until James rapped twice on a metal door with no signage. A small slit opened, an unseen doorman’s eyes assessing them before the door swung inward.
Inside, the air was thick with low jazz music, the warm glow of candle-lit booths, and the unmistakable scent of aged whiskey and expensive cologne.
Judd scanned the room. “The Minus One”. A speakeasy. A good one.
James ordered a round of bourbon, and the drinks arrived on a silver tray. Judd was halfway through his glass when Jack slid something small across the table.
A rubber duck.
Judd frowned, turning it over in his hand. It was ordinary. Bright yellow, black dot eyes.
“This,” James said, “is for you.”
Judd narrowed his eyes. His instincts screamed that this was no ordinary bath toy.
“Cute,” he muttered, rolling it between his fingers. “You get this in a Christmas cracker, or should I be impressed?”
James smirked. “You’ll know when to use it.”
Orchard simply winked.
Judd had seen a lot in his time. Covert drops, encrypted messages, dead drops disguised as innocuous objects.
But a rubber duck?
That was a first.
And his gut told him—he wasn’t going to like what it was for.
