Rain pounded against the windows of the morgue at Chicago’s county hospital as orderlies wheeled in another fallen soldier. Dr. Andrew V. Crawford, a man in his fifties with graying temples, didn’t even glance up from his paperwork. Over the past eighteen months of the conflict, hundreds of bodies had passed through his hands—both military personnel and civilians. He had long ago learned to switch off his emotions.

“Private Ethan J. Wolfe, 22 years old,” read the accompanying officer, Major Peterson. “Killed in action during shelling at a position near Kandahar. Shrapnel wound to the chest.” Crawford nodded without looking away from his forms. It was the standard routine: examination, determination of cause of death, preparation for shipment to the family.

Just another tragedy in the endless chain of war. When the officer left, Andrew V. approached the table where the young soldier’s body lay. The kid looked incredibly youthful—with a boyish face and light hair. Probably drafted not long ago.

Crawford began the routine inspection, carefully cutting away the military uniform. The shrapnel injury was indeed in the heart area; death had come swiftly. But as he removed the shirt and undershirt, he froze. On the soldier’s back, from shoulder blades to waist, sprawled a massive tattoo.

It wasn’t a typical army ink or patriotic emblem. This was a detailed topographical map complete with coordinates, symbols, and some codes. “My God,” whispered the pathologist, examining the tattoo through a magnifying glass. The map clearly outlined territory in the conflict zone, but with odd markings.

Red dots, blue lines, numerical sequences. In the corner of the tattoo was etched a date—August 15, 2023—and a cryptic inscription: “Operation Phoenix. Sector 7. Depth 47 meters.” Crawford felt his pulse quicken. In all his years on the job, he’d seen plenty of tattoos, but nothing like this.

It was obviously classified information. Why would a private like Wolfe have a military secret etched on his skin? He snapped photos of the tattoo with his phone, capturing several angles. His gut told him this was significant.

Something people would kill for. The next day, Crawford couldn’t focus on his duties. He kept reviewing the pictures, trying to decode the symbols and grasp the map’s meaning. During his lunch break, he made a bold move and called his old friend, Colonel Samuel Donovan from military intelligence.

They had met back in medical school, but their paths diverged: one became a doctor, the other a soldier. “Sam, hey. I came across something intriguing,” Crawford started. “Can you take a look at a photo?” “Andrew? It’s been ages. Sure, send it over.”

Crawford forwarded the images and waited. The reply came in half an hour. “Where did you get this?” Donovan’s voice was strained. “On the body of a deceased soldier. Private Wolfe, killed near Kandahar. Why, do you recognize it?”

A long pause followed. “Andrew, listen carefully. Don’t show these photos to anyone else. Got it? No one.” “But, Sam…” “No questions. And delete those shots from your phone. Right now.” The line went dead.

Crawford stared at his device in confusion. What had he uncovered? Two hours later, Colonel Donovan arrived at the morgue with two officers in tow. Sam looked anxious and worn out.

“Show me the body,” he said curtly. They entered the autopsy room. Crawford opened the refrigeration unit and rolled out the gurney with Wolfe’s remains. Donovan scrutinized the tattoo, snapping pictures on his secure phone from time to time.

His expression grew darker. “Andrew, you’ve stumbled into a major mess,” he finally said. This soldier… he’s not who he claimed to be. “What do you mean?”

“Ethan Wolfe has been listed as missing in action for three months. His unit was wiped out near Helmand. And this guy?” He pointed at the corpse. “This person was carrying fake documents.” Crawford felt a shiver course through him.

“Then who is he?” “I don’t know yet. But the tattoo…” Donovan gestured to the back. “It’s a map of secret ammunition depots and military equipment locations. Coordinates, burial depths, access codes.” “Lord! And what about Operation Phoenix?”

Donovan exchanged glances with his officers. “I can’t tell you that. Classified.” “But trust me, if this falls into the wrong hands, thousands of our troops could suffer.” The following morning, Crawford arrived at work to find the unknown soldier’s body gone.

The refrigeration chamber was empty, the records vanished, and the logbook showed no entry for Private Wolfe. “Where’s the body?” he asked the night shift attendant, Maria. “What body, Dr. Crawford? Last evening, some military folks came and took a soldier for reburial.” “They said there was a mix-up in the paperwork.”

Crawford realized this was Donovan’s doing. But why hadn’t he given a heads-up? And more importantly, had anyone else seen the tattoo? During lunch, his phone rang with an unknown caller.

“Dr. Andrew V. Crawford?” “Yes, speaking.” “We know what you saw. And we know you photographed it. We’re interested in those images.” “Who is this?”

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is you have data we need.” “Meet us tonight at 9 PM in Grant Park, by the monument. Come alone and bring your phone.” “And if I don’t?” “Then your daughter Anna, a third-year med student, might not make it home. Pretty girl, by the way. She often takes bus route 15.”

Crawford went cold. Anna, his only child—after his wife’s death, the most precious thing in his life. “You… you wouldn’t dare.” “9 PM, Grant Park. Don’t be late.”

The call ended. Crawford frantically dialed his daughter. “Anna, where are you?” “Dad? At school, in lecture. What’s wrong?”.

“Nothing, just… Be careful, okay? Take a cab home, not the bus.” “Dad, you sound weird. Are you alright?” “Yeah, everything’s fine. Just take a cab. I’ll cover it.” Crawford knew he was trapped.

Someone else was aware of the tattoo. But who? And how had they zeroed in on his daughter so fast? That evening, Crawford headed to Grant Park.

It was already dark, with few pedestrians hurrying along. By the monument, two men in dark jackets waited. “Dr. Crawford? Have a seat on the bench.” One was tall and lean, with sharp eyes.

The other was stocky, with a scar on his cheek. “The phone,” the tall one extended his hand. “First, tell me who you are.” “We’re the ones who need the tattoo info. You don’t need more than that.”

Reluctantly, Crawford handed over the device. The tall man scrolled through the gallery, locating the photos. “Perfect. Clear shots.” “But this isn’t enough.”

“What do you mean?” “We need exact dimensions of the tattoo, proportions, details not visible in pics.” “You have to sketch the map from memory.” The stocky guy pulled out a tablet and stylus.

“You’ve got a great visual memory, Doc. Med school pays off. Draw it.” “And if I refuse?” “Then tomorrow morning, your daughter won’t wake up. A simple injection in her sleep, and it’ll look like a heart attack. You’re a doctor; you get it?” Crawford had no choice but to draw.

He strained to recall every detail, every line and number. The process took over an hour. “Good,” said the tall one, reviewing the sketch. “But we have doubts about accuracy. We need to verify against the original.”

“The original’s gone. Military took the body.” “We know. And we know where it is now.” “Tomorrow morning, you’ll come with us and examine the tattoo again. Just to be sure.” “I can’t. I have work, responsibilities.”

“Call in sick. Or say you’re at a conference. Doesn’t concern us.” “Just be ready at eight AM.” The men departed, leaving Crawford alone in the dim park. He realized he was deep in a situation with no easy escape.

But what could he do? His daughter’s life hung in the balance. In the morning, a black car without plates pulled up for Crawford. The stocky man with the scar drove, the tall one beside him.

On the back seat waited a third, a young guy with icy eyes. “Where are we going?” asked Crawford. “You’ll see,” the tall one replied curtly. They left Chicago and drove toward the Canadian border.

The trip lasted about five hours. Crawford tried to memorize the route, but after several turns, he was completely lost. Finally, the car veered off the highway onto a dirt road into the woods. Half an hour later, they stopped at a camouflaged entrance to an underground bunker.

“Military base?” Crawford wondered. “Something like that,” smirked the tall one. “Let’s go.” They passed multiple checkpoints, descended via elevator.

The bunker was vast—an entire subterranean complex with hallways, offices, labs. In one room resembling a morgue, the soldier’s body lay on a metal table. Beside it stood a man in a white coat, clearly a physician. “Meet Dr. Menshik,” said the tall one.

“He’ll assist.” Menshik shook Crawford’s hand. He was an elderly man with intelligent eyes, but his gaze held something uneasy. “Dr. Crawford, I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said.

“Top-notch expert.” “Doctor,” interrupted the tall one, “we need an exact copy of the tattoo.” “Every line, every digit must be recorded with utmost precision.” For the next two hours, Crawford studied the tattoo under a microscope, dictating coordinates and codes to Menshik.

It became evident this was a precise map of military sites with weapon and ammo storage locations. “Tell me,” Crawford cautiously asked Menshik when the tall one stepped out, “how long have you been here?” “About a year,” he replied softly. “Since they recruited me.”..

“Recruited?” “They held my family hostage. Wife and son. Said they’d release them once I completed all tasks.” Crawford felt a shiver run through him. So he wasn’t the only one coerced under threat.

“And who are they?” “Not sure exactly. They claim to be from military intelligence, but I suspect it’s more complicated.” “People here have various accents—not just American. And their goals are odd.” At that moment, the tall one returned with a tablet.

“Excellent, job done. Dr. Crawford, you can head home.” “But remember: not a word to anyone.” “Or else…” “Or else what?” Crawford decided to push.

“Who are you really? And why do you need this data?” The tall one grinned. “Let’s say we work for those who benefit from the war dragging on as long as possible.” “And this map will help with that.”

On the drive home, Crawford pondered the predicament. It was clear he’d aided some crooks or even traitors in obtaining classified military intel. But he had no option—his daughter’s safety came first. At home, a surprise awaited.

In the kitchen, Anna sat chatting with Colonel Donovan. “Dad!” she rushed to him. “Uncle Sam explained you got into trouble because of work.” Donovan stood and looked gravely at his friend.

“Andrew, we need to talk. Now!” They went to the study. Donovan shut the door and activated a signal jammer. “Where were you today? And don’t lie!”

Crawford recounted the call, threats, and bunker trip. Donovan listened, his frown deepening. “Damn! Andrew, do you realize what you’ve done?” “I had no choice! They threatened Anna.”

“These aren’t from military intelligence. We’ve identified them.” “It’s a private military contractor working for multiple nations. They trade in military secrets.” “Oh God!” “The tattoo data includes coordinates of our strategic depots along the entire front.”

“If the enemy gets this, we’ll lose massive amounts of weapons and gear.” “Worse, thousands of our soldiers will die.” Crawford sank into a chair. He felt like a betrayer.

“Sam, I didn’t know. What now?” “Now you’ll work for us. We have a plan to intercept this info and expose the whole network.” “But Anna…” “Anna’s under our protection. We’ve moved her to a safe spot already.”

“And you’ll have to play along to the end.” Donovan pulled a thick folder from his briefcase. “Study this. Tomorrow, you’ll meet these people again. But this time, you’ll know what to do.” The next day, the familiar voice called Crawford.

“Doc, we have a new task for you. Need you to ID another body.” “Soldier with a similar tattoo.” “Another body?” “Yes. Seems the late Wolfe wasn’t the only carrier of key info.”

“Meet at the same spot in an hour.” Crawford, following Donovan’s directives, agreed. In his pocket was a tiny transmitter, and under his clothes, thin Kevlar armor. In the park, the same trio awaited.

The tall one seemed agitated. “Doc, things have shifted. We learned the military is hunting for a leak.” “They might be checking you.” “What do you mean?”

“Your buddy Colonel Donovan has been asking about you at military prosecution.” “Probing if you’ve leaked classified data.” Crawford feigned panic. Per the script from Donovan, he needed to act eager to switch sides fully.

“Lord! So they suspect me? What do I do?” “Calm down. We have an offer.” “We can provide you and your daughter new IDs, relocation to another country, a comfortable life.” “But in return, you’ll work for us a bit more.”

“What do you want?” “Another soldier’s body with a tattoo should arrive at your hospital morgue tomorrow morning. We know it’ll be delivered.” “We need you to examine it first and photograph the tattoo before the military claims it.” “What if I get caught?”

“You won’t, if you’re careful. And if things go south, we’ll help you vanish.” The stocky man handed Crawford a new phone. “Contact only via this device.” “And remember, your daughter is still under our watch.”

The next morning, Crawford arrived at work early. Per Donovan’s plan, a body was indeed due at the morgue, but it was a setup—an intelligence agent with a fake tattoo bearing false data. At 8 AM, an ambulance pulled up. Orderlies brought in the body of a young serviceman.

“First Lieutenant Maxwell,” announced the escorting officer. “Killed by an IED. Not available to relatives yet; documents under review.” Crawford nodded and, once alone, swiftly checked the body. On the back was indeed a tattoo, very similar to the previous one.

But the coordinates and codes differed. He photographed it with the special phone and sent the images. A quick response came. “Great. Await further orders.”

Half an hour later, several men in civilian clothes burst into the morgue. Among them, Crawford recognized the tall one. “Where’s the body?” he demanded sharply. “In the cooler,” Crawford replied, pretending fear.

They proceeded to the autopsy area. The tall one quickly inspected the deceased, taking photos and notes. His face was tense. “Odd,” he muttered.

“Some coordinates don’t match the first map.” “Maybe it’s different data?” suggested Crawford. “Possibly. But we need to verify.” “Doc, we’ll require your help once more.”

At that instant, the morgue door flew open, and masked special forces stormed in. Behind them came Colonel Donovan. “Hands up. Everyone on the floor.” The tall one reached for a gun but took a rifle butt strike.

The stocky one and the third were subdued in seconds. “Andrew, step back from the table,” commanded Donovan. The supposedly dead First Lieutenant Maxwell suddenly opened his eyes, sat up, and removed a special death-simulating mask. “Mission accomplished, Colonel,” he reported.

“Everything captured on video and audio.” In the FBI basement, interrogations of the detainees were underway. The tall one turned out to be a Latvian citizen named Andris Kalmens. The stocky one—an American named Peter Savage.

The third—a Pole named Tomas Kowalski. Colonel Donovan sat across from Kalmens in the interrogation room. “So, Andris, tell us who you work for,” he began. “I want a lawyer. And an embassy rep.”

“Lawyer later. For now, let’s chat human to human. We know you’re part of an international network dealing in military secrets.” “We know you have clients in various countries.” Kalmens stayed silent, lips pressed tight.

“Fine,” continued Donovan. “Then I’ll share what we know.” “Your group operates for a private military firm ‘Northern Shield,’ registered in Switzerland, but taking orders from intel services of several NATO nations.” The Latvian twitched but said nothing.

“Your mission was to acquire maps of our military depots and pass them to handlers. For five million dollars.” “Right?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Of course not.”

“And what about one of your clients already giving statements? CIA agent James Harris, who coordinated from Warsaw.” Kalmens’ eyes widened. Donovan knew he’d hit the mark. “Yes, Andris. Harris was nabbed three days ago in Poland.”

“And he spilled plenty about your ops. How you trade military secrets, putting soldiers from both sides at risk.” “That’s… not accurate.” “Not accurate? Then explain how a band of global opportunists decided to profit from the grief of people who’ve lost loved ones in war?”

Kalmens lowered his head. It was clear he was broken. “I… We didn’t want anyone hurt.” “It was just business.”

“Just business?” exploded Donovan. “Because of people like you, soldiers die.” “Mothers lose sons. Kids become orphans.” Donovan barely contained his rage.

Over the course of the war, hundreds of cases of fallen troops had crossed his desk, each death echoing pain in his heart. Two days of questioning clarified the picture. Kalmens and his crew were indeed part of a global network trafficking military secrets. Their clients included intel agencies from countries keen on prolonging the conflict in the region.

“You see, Colonel,” explained Kalmens, “war is highly lucrative business. Weapons, ammo, gear, mercenaries, intel—all worth fortunes. As long as sides fight, money flows.” “And you don’t care about lives lost?” “They’d die anyway. We just… streamline it.”

Donovan looked at the Latvian with disgust. This man had turned human lives into commodities. “Tell me about the soldier with the tattoo.” “Who was he?”

Kalmens sighed. “His name was Alex Morrow. Former CIA officer who switched to our side two years back.” “He specialized in snagging classified military data.” “And why tattoo the map on his back?”

“His idea. Said it was safer: no one thinks to check a corpse’s skin for secrets.” “Plus, if caught alive, he could claim it’s just art.” “How did he get the info?” “He had contacts in the Joint Chiefs.”

“Some high-ranking officer sold him data for cash. We didn’t know who exactly.” This was explosive. So there was a mole in the American high command. “Names!” demanded Donovan firmly.

“I need names.” “Morrow called him ‘the General.’ That’s all.” “They only met through intermediaries.” Donovan realized a hunt for the traitor in top ranks was beginning.

In the office of the Joint Chiefs chairman, General Robert Irving, an emergency meeting was underway. Only the most trusted attended: intel chief, counterintelligence head, several deputies. “Gentlemen,” started Irving, “we have a grave issue. Someone from our ranks is selling classified info.” Colonel Donovan presented the op results and the tattoo decryption.

“As you see, it holds coordinates of ammo depots across the front. This data is restricted to a narrow circle.” The counterintelligence chief, General Volker, reviewed the files. “Based on the data type, the leak comes from operations or a deputy chief of staff. No other possibilities.” “How many have access?” asked Irving.

“No more than fifteen,” replied Volker. “Act fast,” ordered Irving. “If this reaches the enemy, we lose strategic edge.” After the meeting, Donovan stayed for a private word with General Irving.

“Robert, I need to discuss a sensitive point.” “I’m listening.” “What if the traitor knows about our op? What if he’s alerted and preparing to flee?” Irving frowned.

“You mean info on the spy arrests might have leaked?” “Exactly. They pinpointed pathologist Crawford and his daughter too quickly.” “Someone tipped them off.” “Damn. You’re right. Don’t tell Volker about your suspicions yet.”

“Run your own investigation.” The next few days, Donovan discreetly monitored suspects in the Joint Chiefs. He compiled a list of seven with access to the secret depot info. Special attention went to General Michael Patterson, deputy chief for logistics.

His department handled all depot data. Plus, Patterson had financial woes: divorce, alimony, loans. Donovan sought help from an old FBI buddy, Major Ian Sokol. “Ian, I need surveillance on a general. Very discreet.”

“No problem. What’s the suspicion?” “Possibly selling military secrets. Just a theory for now, but must check.” Sokol set up covert monitoring on Patterson. A week later, initial findings emerged.

“Sam, your general acts shady,” reported Sokol. “Twice this week, he met the same guy at ‘Windy City’ restaurant. Talks over an hour each.” “Who is he?” “Officially, businessman Andrew Kozak, deals in military vehicle parts.”

“Unofficially, links to foreign firms, including in NATO countries.” “Photos?” “Sure.” Sokol showed snaps of the meetings.

They depicted Patterson passing an envelope to Kozak, who gave back a thick packet. “Classic intel-for-cash exchange,” noted Donovan. “What next?” “Keep watching. We catch them red-handed on the next handoff.”

Three days later, Patterson scheduled another meet with Kozak. This time, FBI ops were primed. At ‘Windy City’ restaurant, disguised agents sat nearby, waitstaff were plants too. Every word was recorded.

“Andrew, I have fresh info for you,” Patterson said quietly. “Coordinates for three depots shifted after recent strikes. Here are the updates.” He handed over a USB drive. “Excellent, Michael. Our partners will be pleased. Here’s your payment.”

Kozak placed a money envelope on the table. “By the way,” he added, “we’re interested in the planned offensive near Herat. When’s the op?” “Two weeks out. But exact date I’ll know in a few days.” “Good. We’ll pay extra for that. Half a million dollars.”

At that point, operatives approached. “General Patterson, you’re under arrest for suspected treason,” declared the lead. Patterson paled; Kozak tried to rise but was restrained. “This is a mistake!” yelled the general.

“I’m innocent.” “Tell it at headquarters,” the op replied coldly. In the FBI investigator’s office, General Patterson sat head down. His lawyer stood by.

Across were Colonel Donovan and investigator Major Kuzmen. “Michael, we have video and audio of your Kozak meets,” began Kuzmen. “Witnesses too. Denying is pointless.” Patterson stayed mute.

“We know you passed enemy depot coordinates, op plans, other secrets. You’re facing life in prison.” “I…” Patterson looked up. “I didn’t mean to betray my country.” “Tell us,” Donovan said gently.

“It started a year ago. Financial troubles post-divorce.” “I took loans, then more. Debts piled up.” “Then Kozak approached with easy money—just supply info on gear shipments. Said it was for business planning.” “And you bought it?”

“I was desperate. Collectors threatened, ex wanted alimony. I agreed to minor stuff.” “Thought no harm.” “Then?” “They demanded more. Said they had recordings; if I quit, I’d face corruption charges.”

“I was trapped.” Donovan felt not just contempt but pity for the general. Another life shattered by greed and frailty. “How much did you leak?”

“A lot. Depot coords, troop movements, op plans. God, what have I done!” Patterson wept. His lawyer patted his shoulder.

“Michael is ready to cooperate fully,” he said. “He’ll share everything.” “Good,” nodded Kuzmen. “But it won’t absolve him.”

A month after General Patterson’s arrest and the spy ring takedown, life normalized somewhat. Crawford returned to routine morgue work, though memories lingered. Colonel Donovan dropped by his office. “Andrew, how’s it going? How’s Anna?”

“Thanks, all good. Anna’s back at school, studying.” “Though she wakes from nightmares sometimes—stress aftermath.” “I get it. And you?” Crawford sighed.

“You know, Sam, I keep thinking about that soldier. About Morrow. What path led him to treason?” “He was a CIA officer, swore loyalty to the nation.” “Sadly, every system has weak links. Some crack under pressure, some chase money, some lose faith in the cause.”

“And what happened to those who recruited me?” “Kalmens got 25 years hard time. Savage and Kowalski swapped for our agents held in Russia and Poland.” “Kozak’s cooperating, gets reduced sentence.” “And General Patterson?”

“Life imprisonment.” “Though his lawyers push for review.” Crawford rose and approached the window. Outside, rain drizzled; people hurried on streets.

“How much longer will this war last, Sam?” “No idea, buddy. But as long as it does, folks like you help defend our country.” “You made the right call. Even with Anna threatened.” “Especially then.”

“You could’ve broken, fled, forgotten it all. But you stayed and helped us nab the traitors. That’s invaluable.” It seemed the case was closed, but two months later, Crawford faced echoes of that saga. Another soldier’s body arrived at the morgue.

This time, the pathologist exercised extra caution and immediately called authorities upon spotting a strange tattoo on the corpse. It wasn’t a map but chemical formulas and codes. Donovan arrived within the hour. “What’s this?” he asked, studying the ink.

“Looks like formulas for chemical agents,” replied Crawford. “And access codes to something.” “Damn! Andrew, this could tie to chemical weapons.” “Need to contact experts ASAP.”

By evening, specialists confirmed worst fears. The tattoo held recipes for combat toxins and codes to secret labs producing them. “So, someone plans to use chem weapons?” asked Crawford. “Possibly. Or sell the data to terrorists,” Donovan replied grimly.

“Either way, we’re dealing with very dangerous folks again.” “Who was this soldier?” “Sergeant Ethan Billings, chemical corps.” “Officially died in a chemical storage explosion. But now it’s clear—not an accident.”..

“So killed for the info?” “Likely.” “And now we must find the perpetrators before they use the data.” Probing the new case revealed the spy network they thought dismantled was just a fragment of a larger outfit.

In the FBI office, Colonel Donovan reviewed fresh data with General Volker. “Samuel, we underestimated the scope,” said the general. “These people trade not just military secrets but chem and bio weapon intel too.” “Who’s behind it?”

“An international syndicate codenamed ‘HYDRA.’ They operate worldwide, selling data to payers—terrorists, mafias, hostile states.” “And how do we fight them?” “Needs global op. But for now, we go solo.” Top operatives joined the investigation.

Crawford, having encountered the network, was brought in as consultant. “Dr. Crawford,” explained General Volker, “your experience with these people can help us grasp their tactics.” “But I’m no spy.” “Doesn’t matter. You’ve seen their operations, know their mindset. That’s valuable.”

Crawford realized his peaceful pathologist life was over. Now he was part of a high-stakes game with thousands of lives at risk. The probe showed ‘HYDRA’ had agents in dozens of countries. Their aim: global destabilization, fostering monetizable conflicts.

“You get it,” said a captured syndicate agent during questioning, “war’s the top moneymaker. We don’t start them; we sustain and exploit.” “And chem weapons for what?” asked the interrogator. “Premium product. Formulas for new poisons fetch millions. Not just governments, but terror groups too.” Donovan listened to the recording from next room.

“We need to reach their leaders,” he told General Volker. “While we snag small fry, big fish swim free.” “Agreed. But how?” “I have an idea. Crawford can pose as an info seller.”

“We’ll leak fake data and see who bites.” “Risky. If exposed, we lose a key asset.” “But no other options.” Crawford was nervous.

He had to meet ‘HYDRA’ reps and offer intel on a new bio weapon type. Of course, the data was bogus but convincing. The meet was set in Istanbul. Crawford would fly there as a medical conference attendee.

“Remember,” instructed Donovan, “your goal: contact their European coordinator. Codename ‘Doctor.’ That’s all we know.” “And if it goes wrong?” “Our team will be close. But be careful; these are lethal people.” In Istanbul, Crawford stayed at ‘Grand Hilton’ hotel.

First two days, he attended real seminars to build cover. On the third, a call came. “Dr. Crawford? Mutual friends recommend you as reliable.” “I’m listening.”

“Tonight at 8 PM, ‘Pandeli’ restaurant in Eminonu district. Ask for table under Mehmet.” Crawford knew the game was on. At ‘Pandeli,’ an elegant middle-aged man in a fine suit awaited. “Dr. Crawford? I’m Alexis. Please sit.”

The man had a faint Greek accent. “Our shared contacts say you have intriguing info,” continued Alexis. “Possibly. But first, confirm you’re serious.” “I understand. What interests you?”

Crawford produced a USB from his pocket. “Here: formula for a new bio agent from a secret lab.” “90% lethality, 3-day incubation. No antidote.” Alexis’ eyes lit up.

“Fascinating.” “How much for it?” “Five million dollars. And safety guarantees.” “Big sum. I need to consult colleagues.”

“Tomorrow same time, someone who can decide will be here.” “Fine. But offer’s time-limited.” Next day, another man arrived at the restaurant. Tall, slim, with keen eyes.

Crawford sensed: this was a major player. “I’m called Doctor,” the stranger introduced. “I heard your proposal.” There he is, the prime target, thought Crawford.

“The info’s truly unique,” Doctor went on. “But we need authenticity proof.” “What proof?” “Show us the development lab. Introduce the scientists.”

Crawford realized he was cornered. No such lab existed. “Impossible. Site’s classified, scientists guarded.” “Then no deal,” Doctor said coldly.

“We don’t buy blind.” He rose to leave. “Wait,” called Crawford. “Maybe a compromise?”

Doctor turned. “What kind?” “I’ll show one developer. He’s retired, lives low-key.” “For extra fee, he’ll meet.”

“Where?” “In Chicago. But that’ll cost another million.” Doctor pondered. “Okay. But if it’s a scam, you’ll regret it.”

The Istanbul op succeeded. Doctor and his crew were arrested attempting US entry. The ‘HYDRA’ network suffered major blow. Back in Chicago’s morgue, Crawford resumed normal duties.

But he knew peace could be illusory. Colonel Donovan visited with good news. “Andrew, op deemed total success. You get FBI commendation.” “Thanks, but I hope no more of this for me.”

“Can’t promise,” Donovan chuckled. “You showed real ops talent.” Crawford eyed his friend. “You know, Sam, when I first saw that tattoo on the soldier, I never imagined where it’d lead.”

“Life’s full of twists,” Donovan remarked philosophically. “Key is, we halted dangerous criminals.” “What about Dr. Menshik from the bunker?” “Freed, reunited with family.”

“Got state compensation. Now works at a regular hospital in Seattle.” Sunshine streamed through the pathologist’s office window. The war raged on, but their efforts deprived the enemy of vital intel sources. Crawford knew he’d contributed to national defense, though without a uniform.

He opened the logbook, ready for a standard day. But deep down, he knew: if needed, he’d stand up for his country again. War isn’t just on battlefields but in shadows, where unseen warriors fight. The dead soldier’s tattoo unveiled a web of betrayal and global espionage.

But crucially, it showed even an ordinary doctor can be a hero with the courage to choose right. The tale ended, but the struggle for national security persists daily. And who knows what secrets bodies arriving in American city morgues still hold.