Soviet agent Karpov had escaped Russia a long time ago and hidden himself away in a new, anonymous life in Cleveland, Ohio. His past was his past. He didn’t want any part of it anymore. But Karpov had worked deeply in top-secret operations, and he knew that he could never be truly free of it. He couldn’t just start a new life. He had to destroy the old one.

Karpov couldn’t quite bring himself to do that. He still kept some mementos of his work at the secret Winter Soldier base, and one of them was the red book. As long as he had it, no other person on Earth could activate the Winter Soldier.

Someone knocked at his door. “Hello?” a man called from outside. “Is this your car out front? I jumped the curb. Maybe we could take care of it ourselves.” Karpov went to the door and listened, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t care about a dent in his car. His privacy was far more important. Let this fool worry about his own insurance company. “If you prefer to call the cops, then that’s okay, too, I guess,” the man said, sounding disappointed.

“No,” Karpov said. He opened the door. “No cops.”

On his doorstep, the man grinned. “Thank you.”

But Karpov was completely unprepared for what came next.

He came back to his senses hanging upside down from his basement ceiling. His head dangled in the utility sink, where a trickle of water dripped down from the faucet. Karpov struggled a little, but he could tell right away that he wasn’t going to be able to work himself free. The man who had tied him up was a professional. Better to talk his way out. It wasn’t the first time he’d been in a dangerous spot.

Karpov watched as the man searched the basement. Eventually, he found the aluminum box hidden deep in the wall. He dumped its contents onto a table near the stairs and spent a moment looking through Karpov’s service files from decades ago. The red book containing the Winter Soldier’s activation commands also fell out of the box. The intruder ignored it.

“You kept your looks, Colonel. Congratulations,” the man said. Then he added, “Mission report: December sixteenth, 1991.”

Karpov knew that date. He remembered the mission. How did this man know about it . . . ​and more important, why did he want that report?

“Who are you?” he asked, trying to buy time.

“My name is Zemo. I will repeat my question. Mission report: December sixteenth, 1991.”

Keep him talking , Karpov thought. “How did you find me?”

Zemo relaxed. He picked up the red book. Karpov got a chill. If Zemo knew what the book contained . . .

“When S.H.I.E.L.D. fell,” Zemo said, “Black Widow released Hydra files to the public. Millions of pages, much of it encrypted, not easy to decipher. But I have experience. And patience. A man can do anything if he has those.”

“What do you want?”

“Mission report: December sixteenth, 1991.” Zemo stood up. “Hydra deserves its place on the ash heap, so your death would not bother me.” He sighed. Karpov couldn’t tell whether his regret was real or not. “But I have to use this book, and other bloodier methods, to find what I need. I don’t look forward to that.”

Karpov knew this was the moment. If he told Zemo where to find the mission report, he might live.

But instead, all Karpov said was, “Hail Hydra.” M6UnK1AG5BT7aiO0vnh4wsjR6ufzesE/1ACHZLvvdBeEpDMczA95wtEpXdM/L8Lt