John Hopkins

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It's March 1904 in Port Arthur, Manchuria, China.

A Russian naval fortress rises out of the dark above the harbor, all concrete walls and iron gates.

Searchlights rake slowly across the outer yard, then move on.

Beyond them, warships sit at anchor, their guns pointed out to sea.

At the base of the wall stands a slim man in a long, dark coat, collar turned up against the cold, his hat pulled low.

He looks like an officer who belongs here, which is exactly the look he's trying to achieve.

Waiting in the shadows, he counts the seconds between patrols, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Out in the darkness, a bell rings aboard a ship.

He takes a breath, checks the coast is clear, and makes his move.

Stepping into the moonlight, he maintains an even pace as he approaches the service gate.

The latch gives with a soft click, and he slips inside.

The corridor beyond is narrow and poorly lit.

A single electric bulb hums overhead as he strides towards a door, which he finds unlocked as he was assured it would be.

Closing the door behind him, he crosses to a desk, sets his hat down carefully, and opens a drawer in which he finds a roll of confidential plans.

As he spreads them across the table, the Russian Pacific Fleet reveals itself, laid out in front of him in precise lines.

He memorizes what he can, the gun placements, the firing arcs, the fuel stores, then opens a small notebook and swiftly sketches it all in his neat economical shorthand.

He is a man used to working under pressure.

But now he hears a Russian voice in the corridor and footsteps approaching.