February 14, 2030
The morning air was sharp, the kind that bit through wool coats and lingered in the lungs like a polite threat. Charles sat at a corner table of a quaint, midtown coffee shop tucked between a dry cleaner and a bookstore that hadn't updated its display since 2025. The walls were painted in faded olive, old jazz vinyls framed above the booths, with the scent of dark roast and baked cinnamon curling through the air like a slow waltz.
Charles sat at a corner table beneath a faux gaslight lamp, dressed in a navy peacoat and dark slacks, polished shoes tapping a quiet rhythm beneath the table. His face, angular and composed, held the practiced stillness of a man who had worn many masks. His left hand stirred his cappuccino absently, while his right adjusted the small microphone tucked into his shirt collar.He stirred his espresso with calculated calm, wrist turning like clockwork, eyes never really leaving the window but also never missing a detail.
Across the café, four tables down and positioned beside the bookshelf wall, she sat.
Across the café, a woman entered—red lips, chocolate vintage pin-up curls, sculpted cheekbones. Thin-rimmed glasses. A crimson scarf that gave the illusion of vulnerability, but her stillness betrayed it—controlled breathing, elegant posture. She exuded the same poise she had worn in the casino when Colonel Marcus Halvern had drawn his last breath beside her.
Today, she was just a beautiful stranger reading a copy of The House of Government by Yuri Slezkine.
To anyone else, they were two strangers in separate lives. But to each other, they were the only ones that mattered in this moment.
Their voices were low, barely above a whisper, funneled through encrypted comms concealed within their clothing.
"You're late, Victoria."
She didn't react. But her lips moved in reply, barely noticeable to anyone not watching for it.
"I had to shake a tail. Local police are more alert since the colonel. They don't know what they're chasing. Yet."
"You did good. But now we're exposed."
"You mean he's exposed," Victoria—her alias—corrected. Her voice carried a sharpness even in its whisper. "Colonel Halvern was sloppy. Emil Graves will not be."
"He won't stay silent for long" Charles said, eyes drifting lazily to a newspaper someone left behind. "Graves has powerful friends. Some of them buried deep in the upper echelons. They won't let another Halvern disappear without scrutiny."
Victoria's voice answered, calm and delicate, the faintest touch of irony underlining it. "That's why we won't make him disappear. We'll simply break the legs he stands on."
Charles sipped slowly. The bitterness of the brew grounded him.
"You're sure Graves is connected to the funders behind the oil pipeline conflicts in Riyadh?"
A pause. Then: "I'm not guessing. I have verified wire transfers. Weapons caches traced to one of his shell companies in Jordan. And he's made visits to Geneva—twice in the last six months—to meet with a banking firm owned by the Bastian Circle."
Charles's fingers tapped a slow beat on the cup. "We need to thread this carefully. No open flames. We don't want the same thing that happened in Palestine"
There was silence between them for a moment. The kind where memories threaten to surface. The kind that echoed with children screaming beneath drone-burned skies.
Then Victoria responded, voice like frost clinging to the edges of warmth.
"I can handle this. I have a lead. A detective."
That made Charles smile—just a slight curl of the lips.
"Vexley?"
"Smart, obsessive. Getting too close. But I can shape his investigation."
"You think he'll follow where you want him to?"
"I already left him a breadcrumb. It's only a matter of time before he asks the right question… or the wrong one."
Charles leaned back, gazing toward the ceiling like he was pondering the weather. His voice was velvet, but heavy with meaning. "If he ever turns the wrong key… we shut the door. Gently. Permanently."
Victoria's eyes flicked up from her book. They met his, for only a second.
"I'll do what's necessary. But I think he still has value. He sees connections others don't. He could serve us. He just doesn't know it yet."
A waitress passed by, refilling her glass of water. February nodded politely, murmured a thank-you, then returned to the conversation without moving her lips.
"September also intercepted chatter from one of the Ghost Markets. Graves is not the only target we should be worried about. Something's moving. A project called Eclipse. Have you heard of it?"
Charles's eyes sharpened. "Eclipse was decommissioned in '25."
"No. It was buried. Now it's breathing again."
He sat forward slightly, voice lower now.
"Then we have less time than we thought. The Americans are stirring the pot, and if Eclipse is active again, this goes far beyond Graves."
The door to the café opened. A pair of teenagers entered, laughing and brushing snow from their jackets.
February closed her book. She slid a folded newspaper across the table—just inches. Charles would pick it up after she left. Inside: microfilm data. An encrypted drive. Everything she had on Graves.
They never looked at each other again.
"Meet me in three days," she whispered. "Same channel. New page."
Charles smiled. Finished his coffee. And watched her leave like she was never there.