Nerium Kill Chain

Quentin Black

Copyright © 2026 Quentin Black All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

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DEDICATION

To Matthew Paul Doyle

The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long

​—​ ​Blade Runner (1982)

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Definitions of specific terms and phrases are italicised and emboldened and can be found in the glossary.

RYDER FAMILY TREE

PROLOGUE

“A man does what he must—in spite of personal consequences, in spite of obstacles and dangers—and that is the basis of all human morality.”
— Winston Churchill

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Holly Mew, for your constant support.

Alun Denbigh-White, for your pre-proofing and plot critiques.

Daniel ‘Farno’ Holmes, for your editorial input.

1

MAYFAIR, LONDON — AFTERNOON

THREE YEARS AGO

Ciara arrived on Hertford Street just after noon, the Mayfair air carrying a quiet, cultivated hush of money.

She paused briefly outside No. 5, taking in the unmarked discretion of the entrance.

Just a dark doorway, a polished brass handle and a doorman.

She stepped forward.

Today, she had dressed deliberately.

A fitted charcoal blazer over a pale smoke coloured silk blouse, tailored trousers that moved cleanly with her stride. Her silvery-blonde hair feathered her neck, framing the clean lines of her face and her emerald eyes.

She possessed an athletic sharpness—shoulders set, posture straight.

The host met her with a polite, almost rehearsed smile.

“Miss Robson.”

She gave a small nod.

He gestured, and a concierge appeared.

Inside, the club unfolded like a private theatre of power.

Low amber lighting pooled across dark wood panelling.

Oil paintings—some classical, some modern—hung in curated tension against velvet walls.

The air carried the faint scent of polished oak, old paper, and something expensive and floral beneath it. Murmured conversations punctuated with measured laughter.

Ciara surveyed everything in passing—faces, posture, body language.

The concierge led her downstairs into a more intimate dining space. Tables spaced just far enough apart to guarantee privacy without isolation.

And then Ciara’s eye drew to her.

Anissa Rajah sat, poised in stillness that felt almost deliberate.

A refined late fifties. Her caramel-toned skin remained smooth, her features elegant and symmetrical, her dark eyes sharp.

She wore her black, silver-streaked hair long, pulled back loosely.

The deep navy silk dress, understated but impeccably cut, had been paired with minimal jewellery—just a thin gold bracelet and small earrings.

The concierge stopped.

“Ms Rajah.”

Anissa turned, her expression warming a fraction.

“Thank you, Daniel.”

Ciara noted the familiarity.

The man withdrew; Anissa rose to greet her.

“Ciara,” Anissa said, her voice soft, French-accented but controlled. “Welcome.”

“Anissa. Thank you for seeing me.”

They shook hands and sat.

A waiter appeared almost immediately. They ordered promptly, Anissa choosing grilled sea bass with fennel and a glass of Chablis, Ciara opting for roast chicken with tarragon and sparkling water with lime.

Once the waiter left, Anissa leaned back slightly.

“How was your morning?”

“Work,” Ciara said. “And the gym.”

“Ahh, more and more in Anglo-American culture now lift weights like men.”

Ciara had been warned not to take offence at Anissa’s directness.

The Englishwoman asked, “Do you not exercise?”

Anissa gave a small, dismissive wave of her hand.

“Horse riding, swimming and skiing. We tend to walk a lot in France.”

Ciara said, “You look great.”

The younger woman had refrained from adding, ‘For your age’.

Anissa’s lips curled in seeming amusement, and as if she had read her mind, she said, “I refuse to have any work done. You can either look old, or you can look bizarre. I chose old.”

Ciara smiled lightly. “That might be easier to say when you’ve been… blessed in the beauty department.”

Anissa’s gaze sharpened, not unkindly.

“I do not think so. Women used to turning heads…” She paused slightly. “…feel the loss more. They try harder to keep it.”

Then she shifted.

“Bruce must really see something in you.”

Ciara held her gaze. “Why do you say that?”

“This is the first time,” Anissa said, “in all the years I have known him, that he has introduced me to a successor.”

Ciara allowed a small smile.

“How long have you known him?”

“Around one quarter of a century.” Anissa exhaled faintly. “It makes me feel old.”

Ciara leaned slightly forward. “Has he changed?”

Anissa considered it.

“No grey hair then,” she said eventually. “More angular. A little more… myopic.” A pause. “He is more cynical, but it is the mark of the man that he has not fallen to nihilism.”

Ciara nodded, then said, “He sent me here with the brief that I should impress you but did not tell me anything about you.”

Anissa’s eyes flickered with interest.

“But you did your own research.”

“I did.”

“And?”

Ciara met her directly.

“You’re one of the most influential curators in the world.”

Anissa watched her. “You believe that is how Bruce knows me?”

“I wouldn’t have thought him especially arty,” said Ciara. “I believe you’re French intelligence.”

A silence.

Then Anissa smiled. “I see why he chose you.”

Their food arrived. For a moment, the conversation paused as plates were set and wine poured.

Anissa took a small sip, then continued.

“As you rise,” she said, “and your responsibilities become heavier… alcohol can be useful. It allows you to relax. To decompress. Do not be fooled by these ‘alcohol is bad’ types. Alcohol is bad for alcoholics, that’s it.”

Ciara did not necessarily agree but decided to avoid the debate.

“I was told recently that Bruce Wayne, to maintain the fiction of his being a playboy, used to drink apple juice with ice to make it look like whisky.” She allowed the faintest hint of humour. “These days, perhaps non-alcoholic beer.”

“Non-alcoholic beer,” the French woman murmured with a mild frown. “When I was a young woman, I worked in Paris. My cousin, Linh, came over to attend university. She studied architecture at the Sorbonne. I let her stay in my spare room.”

Ciara listened, waiting.

“One night,” Anissa continued calmly, “we had too much to drink. And we slept together.”

Ciara took a sip and asked, “How does that relate to non-alcoholic beer?”

“She tasted not much different to other women…” She raised a mischievous eyebrow. “…but it was still wrong.”

Ciara nearly choked on her drink, catching herself just in time. A laugh escaped despite her efforts—sharp, involuntary.

“Are you a lesbian?” she asked, recovering.

Anissa shook her head lightly.

“No. I work in the arts. It was a requisite to experiment.”

The dryness of it landed again, and Ciara shook her head, smiling despite herself.

They ate for a few moments in companionable quiet.

Then Anissa set her fork down.

“It is good,” she said, “that he is introducing you to his network.”

Ciara nodded. “I think so, too.”

“There is no such thing as a self-made person,” Anissa continued. “One individual may be the primary driver… but anything that can be achieved entirely alone is not worth achieving.”

Ciara absorbed that.

“I understand.”

Anissa held her gaze, her expression now more serious.

“One day,” she said, “you will encounter an organisation that you and your people cannot defeat.”

A pause.

“And when that day comes… you will need friends.”

SURREY — AFTERNOON

Bruce McQuillan waited two rings before Chen Zhao—the head of Interpol—answered in perfect English.

“Yes, my friend.”

Bruce stood by the kitchen window at Jaime’s place in Surrey, phone to his ear, the late afternoon light flat and grey over the garden.

The Scot headed the Chameleon Project, a deniable British intelligence unit created to deal with threats the conventional security services either could not—or officially would not.

Its operatives worked beyond the conventional legal and diplomatic constraints, with Bruce serving as the bridge between them and the upper reaches of British intelligence.

Jaime Rangel sat at the table behind him, silent, listening without pretending not to.

The Peruvian mastermind served as the Chameleon Project’s cyber specialist and oversaw various operational logistics.

“Give me the highlights of the incident in Amsterdam.”

There was a pause—papers, movement—then Zhao spoke again.

“Raymond Van Der Saar and most of his immediate personal security detail are dead. Rayen Hauer has disappeared.”

“Who’s behind it?”

“I am almost certain the Franklin Organised Crime Group employed them.”

“How did they gain access?”

“The details are still being received, but it seems Van Der Saar threw a party at his residence. The hired catering company were made up of killers, mostly women. Dental records and DNA are slowly coming in, but it seems at least two are from Estonia, one from Ukraine—”

“The Nerium,” Bruce said, almost to himself.

“Nerium?”

“Nerium oleanders are a type of plant,” Bruce said. “All parts of it, including the pretty crimson flowers, are exceptionally toxic if ingested. Nerium is also the name of a small organisation rumoured to be based in Tallinn, specialising in using female assassins—along with their male counterparts.”

“Why have I never heard of them?”

“Naturally, they keep themselves under the radar.”

There was a brief pause then, long enough for Bruce to know Zhao wanted to ask him how he knew—but didn’t.

Bruce said truthfully, “I cannot be certain they exist, and therefore I do not know who might run them if they do.”

“But you’re saying I must direct my efforts there?”

“Some,” Bruce replied. “Yes. But I would suggest focusing on the FOC’s next move.”

Another pause. Then, quietly, “Understood.”

The call ended.

Bruce lowered the phone and turned. Jaime was watching him carefully, elbows on the table, fingers laced.

“They don’t usually leave a trace,” said Jaime. “For a long time, I didn’t even believe they were real.”

“They don’t usually fail either,” Bruce said, picking up his coat from the chair. “Let’s hope they never discover it was our northern friend who killed some of their people.”

2

PRESENT DAY

THE MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY HEADQUARTERS, 11TH BUREAU OFFICES, BEIJING — LATE MORNING.

Liu Ren arrived early.

The corridor outside the division director’s office had the sound dampened, time softened, the air tinged with old paper and filtered tea.

Liu stood at an average height for a Chinese man, lean to the point of asceticism, his tailored charcoal suit hanging with deliberate precision rather than display.

Steel-grey hair lay clipped close to his scalp, framing slow-blinking, slate-black eyes.

He had his hands lightly folded in front of him, posture relaxed, eyes lowered enough to be respectful without projecting weakness.

Zhao Jianguo stood as his immediate superior.
More than that, he was the institutional counterweight to Liu’s entire way of operating.

They had worked together for nearly a decade, and the relationship had settled into something precise and coldly functional: mutual utility, minimal trust.

The wait stretched.

Five minutes longer than protocol—Jianguo’s first punishment.

Liu registered it without reaction; he had an awareness of his exceptional emotional control.

He needed every bit of it now.

Zhu Mingxin. Or as she introduced herself in the West—Eleanor Zhu.

Her disappearance was not only an operational failure but perhaps the biggest crisis of his storied career.

It had been Ren who had pushed for more aggressive operations, going against the Chinese philosophy of gaining influence—势, or Shì—Strategic Momentum.

They had always sought to arrange conditions so that outcomes felt inevitable.

However, with the seeds of civil dissent rife in Europe, Ren had pushed to fan the flames, and his credibility had seen his request granted.

It had morphed into a dragon of a nightmare.

He maintained his breathing, his pulse. Emotional control was not suppression; it was proportion.

The door finally opened.

“Comrade Liu,” the aide said.

Liu entered.

Zhao Jianguo’s office was austere to the point of anonymity.

No personal items. No calligraphy. No photographs.

Only stamped folders aligned with near-ritual symmetry, a single national flag placed precisely behind the desk, and a large window overlooking a grey slice of Beijing sky.

Zhao rose halfway from his chair, compact and dense, his Zhongshan suit immaculate.

His eyes were narrow, unreadable, already assessing.

Only then did Liu notice the second figure in the room.

Wei Changye headed The Night Desk—a euphemism used by the wider MSS to refer to Unit 8119, a specialist unit based in Qinhuangdao, north of Tianjin. Its purpose was to guide the tides of public opinion across Western social media.

He sat to Zhao’s left, hands resting loosely on his knees, dressed in an unremarkable jacket that would have disappeared in any crowd. His hair was thinning, his frame slight, his expression almost apologetic—as if he were a guest who had overstayed by mistake.

Liu felt the flicker of surprise and extinguished it immediately.

Zhao gestured. “Sit.”

Formalities followed. Tea was poured. Health was inquired after. The weather in Berlin was mentioned. Each phrase carried weight but no warmth, a dance all with the MSS had rehearsed for decades.

Zhao spoke first, his voice flat, bureaucratic.

“Your service continues to be exemplary, Comrade Liu. Europe remains… complex. But your bureau has demonstrated adaptability and intellectual depth.”

Liu inclined his head. “I serve the institution.”

Zhao’s eyes did not blink.

“Recent operations,” Zhao continued, “have produced mixed outcomes. The St Fergus gas incident, while limited in scope, has proven… atmospherically effective.”

Liu said nothing.

“The university bombings,” Zhao added, almost dismissively, “failed. Failure is tolerable when it instructs.”

Then Zhao paused.

“The disappearance of your agent,” he said, “is not.”

Liu felt the word ‘your’ land behind the sternum. Zhao leaned back slightly, folding his hands.

“Zhu Mingxin was not a peripheral asset. She represented years of institutional investment. Her loss—unresolved, unexplained—creates risk vectors that extend beyond this bureau.”

A beat.

“Should she not be removed from the board,” Zhao said calmly, “the board may seek to remove you.”

The threat, placed like a paperweight, landed like an anvil.

Liu met Zhao’s gaze.

“I understand the gravity,” Liu said. Zhao studied him for a moment longer, then shifted—just enough to wrong-foot the room.

“However,” Zhao said, turning slightly, “Comrade Wei believes the wider strategic picture warrants acknowledgement.”

Zhao gestured with two fingers.

Wei Changye looked up, eyes reflective, voice soft.

“The St Fergus event,” Wei said, “created a flame. The Night Desk has been moderately successful in feeding it. Outrage cycles have stabilised. Our systems require less energy now to maintain narrative motion.”

He smiled faintly.

“We have observed only a slight downturn in engagement following the Israel–Gaza ceasefire. Western attention is elastic. It always returns to grievance.”

Zhao nodded once.

“This is why,” Zhao said, returning his focus to Liu, “your attention will remain on Britain for the foreseeable future. Europe broadly—but Britain in particular. And you will ensure alignment with Unit 8119’s momentum.”

“I still handle agents within the Taiwanese security sectors,” said Liu Ren. “What of them?”

“Continue. Your replacement will take over that responsibility next month.”

Liu knew better than to ask who it would be; he would find out during the handover.

“Yes, Director.”

“However, you must resolve the Zhu Mingxin matter. No delay.”

“Yes, Director.”

The meeting concluded without ceremony. Tea untouched. No further warnings necessary.

As Liu rose, Zhao Jianguo was already looking past him—to the next file, the next risk, the next name that believed itself indispensable.

Wei Changye remained seated, eyes distant, as if already watching the next outrage bloom somewhere far away.

As he left, Liu Ren silently but venomously cursed the organisation that had thwarted him in the United Kingdom.

SOUTH BEESTON, LEEDS — MORNING

Connor stood in the centre of Luke’s basement gym, the air thick with the smell of rubber mats, old leather, and sweat.

Kettlebells lined one wall in a clean row from light warm-ups to obscene, wrist-bending heft.

A heavy-duty rack sat opposite, barbell still loaded from Luke’s last session, plates chalked and scuffed. A full-length mirror stretched across the far side, slightly fogged at the edges, reflecting movement rather than image—built for correction, not ego.

The heavy bag hung central, thick, dark leather, the kind that didn’t swing easily.

Posters covered the walls in a collage of violence and memory.

A pre-fight poster of Terence Crawford vs Errol Spence Jr. and a photograph next to it of both men mid-exchange, frozen in that tight, elite geometry of timing and threat.

Beside it, a framed photo of Connor and Luke as youths, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, grinning in their competition vests and post-victory elation beside Ricky Hatton after an amateur boxing show at the Preston Guild Hall.

Connor rolled his shoulders as Luke circled him with the pads.

Luke had followed Connor down to the Reaper Boxing Club. Connor was four years older, had already been going for a couple of years, and had several matches when Luke turned up, all energy and floppy hair—which he soon had cropped—not even ten years of age.

In the first few years, sparring had been Connor tapping him about, slipping shots, offering pointers.

By fourteen, fifteen, Luke had needed checking—Connor, then boxing for the Navy, had needed to put a bit more weight into the punches, including a body shot that had decked his younger cousin.

By the time Luke reached seventeen, eighteen, the spars had turned ferociously competitive.

And since then, Luke mostly had the edge on him—a touch quicker hands, a bit more of a puncher.

However, Connor retained his status as cock of the family, being versed in Muay Thai and various grappling arts.

“Right—jab, cross, left hook, slip, right upper,” Luke snapped.

Connor flowed through it. Clean. Fast.

The pads cracked in tight succession—thud-thud—crack—slip—bang.

He aimed to keep his non-punching hand in a correct defensive position, his chin down, and to move his head in between combinations.

Despite it being a pad session, he still practised feints and slid around on angles.

“Again—double jab, cross, roll, body-head.”

Connor rattled it off, rhythm building. Breath steady. Feet light.

The timer cut in—sharp, electronic.

Luke dropped the pads, nodding. “Sharp.”

Connor peeled at the Velcro on his gloves, beginning to unwrap his hands. “Cheers,” he said. “Just hope I can still hold a shot.”

Luke snorted. “Well, you’ve not had any whacks to the head for thirty days, have you? That’s the rule if you get knocked out. Not that you were—just very badly dazed.”

A few weeks ago, Connor had been concussed by being smashed around the head by a fire extinguisher in a bar fight.

Connor hadn’t mentioned the fight since—he had felt fine but hadn’t taken a full-blooded shot to the jaw.

He nodded towards the Hatton photo instead. “Sad he’s gone, eh?”

Luke followed his gaze, a small smile creeping in. “Aye. Remember when we went and watched him fight Senchenko at Manchester Arena? I was barely eighteen, and that was my first night outside of Leeds. Thought it was mega.”

Connor smirked. “You don’t think you’ll miss boxing enough to do anything silly?”

Luke guffawed. “Don’t be daft. Our family business gives me more than enough of a buzz.”

Connor stretched his hamstrings, slow and deliberate. “Yeah,” he said. “Sweden was pretty gnarly.”

Luke snapped his fingers.

“Oh—forgot to tell you. That bird I met over there—Carina—I’m picking her up from Leeds-Bradford this aft.”

“Nice one,” Connor said. “Be good to meet her.”

“Mate, I’ve been smashing Gran Turismo and Street Fighter V since we arranged for her to come over.”

Connor frowned. “You think your PS5 skills are going to make her wet or something?”

“Nah, but a controller in my hands watching Ryu fireballing Sagat means I haven’t got my cock in my hand watching Angela White getting blacked,” said Luke. “I want to be like a bull at the gate for when she’s ’ere. Besides, it makes me feel bad about myself every time I have to take a passport selfie to have a wank.”

“Modern solutions to modern problems,” Connor smirked. “You not stretching off?”

“Nah,” said Luke with a dismissive wave. “You want a coffee?”

Connor nodded. “I’ll shower first.”

Luke headed upstairs, footsteps fading.

Connor finished his stretches alone, then followed, peeling off towards the bathroom.

The canvas print facing the toilet made him grin—a warped Mona Lisa pinching her nose.

He stepped under a cold shower, letting it bite energy into him.

By the time he dried off and dressed, he could hear the barks of Syndrome, Luke’s apricot-coloured Cockapoo.

He could hear his younger cousin failing to rein in the puppy’s hyperactivity.

“Syndrome back. Syndrome down. Down Syndrome. It’s only your uncle Tom.”

By the time Connor stepped into the living room, Syndrome had been put in the kitchen.

The living room was open-plan, modern but lived-in—low grey sectional, a black glass coffee table scattered with magazines and an ashtray, a wall-mounted TV dominating one side.

Floor-to-ceiling windows let in clean Yorkshire daylight, muted by half-drawn blinds. A few carefully chosen pieces—art, a speaker system, a bar unit—gave it edge without clutter.

Tom sat back on the sofa with a mug in hand.

They greeted each other with an easy warmth.

Luke handed Connor a coffee as he came through.

Tom nodded towards him. “Been to see Gran.”

Connor took a sip. “Alright?”

Tom shrugged slightly. “Reckon she’s declining a bit, up there, I mean.”

Luke nodded. “Aye. She was asking me about that car boot—what was it called—the one near Armley… Millfield Market or something? It packed in years ago.”

Connor frowned faintly, then nodded. “I’ll go see her after I am back from London. I am picking up my suit.”

Alexander Norland stood as one of the figureheads of the Norland–Green Syndicate. The Ryder family had a young but profitable business relationship with the syndicate.

Norland, now the other side of fifty, ran a high-end bespoke tailoring house—crafting suits by hand with obsessive precision. A trade which preceded his being a criminal.

“For that amount of money,” began his frugal older cousin, Tom. “I’d be wearing it on the weekly shop.”

“Yeh, but you don’t do the weekly shop now, do ya, Tom?” announced Luke. “Cara ’as banned ’im cos he always waits until past nine when they put the reduced stock out in ASDA.”

Connor smiled, knowing it to be true.

Tom said, “Here’s one for ya. Do you remember Netto? The supermarkets down in Armley, Hunslet, Seacroft and Beeston before they became ASDAs?”

Luke, the youngest, shook his head, but Connor said, “Vaguely. The yellow and black bags?”

“That’s the thing,” said Tom. “You’d get fuckin’ rinsed at school if you were seen with one of them bags. But nowadays, no one thinks twice about shopping in LIDL and ALDI, and they are budget supermarkets.”

Connor said, “I think it was because Netto sold mostly lower-quality own-brand goods—felt cheap. Like, ‘This is where you go cos you have to,’ whereas ALDI and LIDL are seen as ‘smart value’—‘This is where you go if you’re smart.’”

Luke said, “Good observation to say you barely remember it.”

Connor took another sip, then glanced between them.

“Since we’re all here,” he said, tone shifting just enough, “I’ve got something to tell you before the rest of the family.”

An unexpected blast of butterflies.

They looked at him.

“Grace’s lad—Jackson—he’s my son.”

Both groaned in unison.

Tom said mockingly, “Never!”

Luke smirked. “I feel like what Rylan Clark’s parents might feel if he came out—now.”

They laughed, and Connor let it ride for a second.

“Listen. I’m fine with the family knowing. Just… wary of outsiders.”

Connor was more than wary—since his son’s birth, he had held a burning cold fear that both his professions of career criminal and black operations agent would put Jackson and Grace in danger. The more people who knew, the more people who could know.

Tom nodded and then said, “I take it you’ve told the little tyke?”

Connor gave a small nod. “Yeah. One of the first things he said was, ‘So that means Aidan is my cousin then.’”

Tom let out a laugh. “Aidan’ll be buzzing when he finds out.”

Luke grinned into his coffee.

Connor smiled, but it didn’t quite settle.

Because even as the moment held, he knew that kind of thing didn’t stay contained.

And Connor could be halfway around the world when a crisis detonated in Leeds.

TAIPEI — CAFÉ NEAR DUNHUA SOUTH ROAD — LATE AFTERNOON

Eleanor Zhu sat in the far corner of the café, her back angled towards a mirrored column that gave her a clean line of sight to every entrance.

She could see the redundancy of such a precaution—if an NSB or MSS rendition team came for her, she couldn’t prevent it.

The modern Taiwanese coffee house concealed tension beneath polite music and polite people. She blended in easily.

Her disguise was not theatrical.
Theatrical got you caught.

She wore soft-framed tortoiseshell glasses—non-prescription but chosen to distract from the shape of her eyes.

Her hair, usually a precise chignon, fell in a loose shoulder-length bob dyed a subdued chestnut.

A linen blouse, oatmeal, paired with a cardigan knit from Taiwanese cotton. Slightly oversized. Slightly unmemorable. Her posture shifted from its usual poised carriage into something faintly hunch-shouldered, as if she were a graduate student cramming for a deadline.

She sipped her coffee without tasting it. She hadn’t tasted anything in two days.

Two days since Ciara Robson slid into the seat opposite like a silk-wrapped blade.

Two days debating her future.

Door one: Turn herself in to Taiwanese intelligence—the NSB or the MJIB. They would shelter her, yes. Possibly even value her.

But they would also lock her down with a polite, bureaucratic smile. A sealed room. Endless debriefings. A life measured in interviews and the slow atrophy of purpose.

Then what? They couldn’t use her as an agent against her former employers, as she had blatantly slipped their clutches.

And if relations between the two nations softened, then she could become a political pawn.

Door two: A path back to the MSS.

Not offered by Ciara—simply always present, like the shadow of a noose.

She knew what awaited her.

Interrogation thinly veiled as patriotism. The quiet disappearance of a failed asset. A diplomatic tragedy printed in eleven-point font.

Door three: Ciara’s “third option”.

A place inside something adjacent to SIS—a parallel structure, semi-independent, deniable, off the books. A world where Eleanor’s skills might matter again instead of being locked away.

It was a seductive door.

It could also be a trap.

She wasn’t naïve enough to assume otherwise.

The British liked to speak of liberty, of rules and the international order. Yet, when the Qing Empire had tried to halt the flood of opium that was hollowing out entire communities, Britain had answered not with diplomacy but with gunboats. They had demanded the right to continue selling poison for profit, and when China resisted, they had made war.

Her thoughts drifted back over the last seventy-two hours.

Slipping the optics of Liu Ren, her MSS supervisor, had taken every ounce of tradecraft she had learned since her induction.

Her protective detail had stopped feeling protective long before the Leeds operation failed. And that had been after the gas terminal plot yielded but a fraction of its original intent.

Eleanor had played a leading role in the partially successful attack on the St Fergus Gas Terminal.

She had also helped orchestrate the ultimately thwarted plot to bomb three Halloween parties of Leeds-based universities, deliberately recruiting impressionable young British Muslims to shear the country’s social fabric.

If Ciara wanted Eleanor charged, interrogated, broken open… why offer her a window?

If she were who Eleanor thought she might be—a senior espionage officer despite her relative youth—then the Englishwoman would have ordered her snatched off the street—assuming she had assets capable of doing so.

Eleanor exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to the TV in the café. A muted news broadcast traced the outline of a familiar debate:

China’s One China principle—and Taiwan’s future.

She quietened her emotions, evaluating the geopolitical calculus as a strategist instead of a fugitive—bullet points appearing in the projector of her mind.

The Case For Assimilation

China’s leadership had never abandoned the ambition.

Military modernisation had accelerated.

Economic incentives and diplomatic pressure increased yearly.

Historical narrative made Taiwan’s “return” a cornerstone of national destiny.

The Case Against

Full invasion risked catastrophic global conflict.

Taiwan’s defences, while outmatched, stood on a knife-edge of deterrence.

Western backing, though inconsistent, remained significant.

The cost—politically, economically, militarily—could destabilise China more than it could empower it.

The truth, uncomfortable and cold, was this:

Assimilation wasn’t inevitable—but it was no longer unthinkable.

She set her cup down.

Her fingers trembled for the first time in days.

If Taiwan fell under Beijing’s authority—even partially, even ambiguously—then any sanctuary she claimed today could become a prison tomorrow.

Anything she confessed would become evidence. She would be repurposed as a political pawn in negotiations, a trophy of ideological victory.

Yet…

Her gaze drifted to the window, to the shifting neon of Taipei’s dusk.

She found herself thinking of Britain.

She did like the United Kingdom.

The irony stung.

She had never acted against it out of hatred.

No—her operations had always stemmed from a belief that chaos might provoke renewal—hers rather than her handler, Liu Ren.

He did want it destroyed.

However, she believed the decline might spark introspection.

That a nation she respected could rediscover itself through fire.

And if she turned herself in to Taiwan…

What would happen to her once her intelligence was exhausted?

People like her were tools—either sharpened or shelved.

The café’s front door chimed softly.

A couple entered.

No threat.

She eased back but did not relax.

Her hand drifted to her pocket.

Her thumb brushed the matte card Ciara had given her.

The embossed sigil caught under her nail.

3

LONDON — SIS HEADQUARTERS, MILES PARKER’S OFFICE — LATE MORNING

Ciara Robson sat opposite Miles Parker, the director, with Kevin O’Hara occupying the third point of their quiet triangle with the SIS chief’s oak desk separating them.

A printed report lay between them—thin, almost modest in appearance, which made its contents feel all the heavier.

Parker tapped it once with his index finger.

“Kevin,” he said, “Ciara’s unit has uncovered evidence that China’s Ministry of State Security was the éminence grise behind both the St Fergus Gas Terminal attack and the attempted bombings at the Leeds universities.”

O’Hara leaned back slightly, his expression tightening with interest rather than shock. “Somewhat surprising,” he admitted. “The MSS prefers mò shuǐ qūn yún… slow water gathering clouds—a philosophy of patience.”

Ciara nodded. “True, but my assessment is that they saw the opportunity. The United Kingdom’s internal fractures were flashing like warning indicators. Heightened discontent. Aggressive ideological posturing. Identity groups tearing at each other. If you’re sitting in Beijing’s 9th Bureau, you’d see it as an exploitable environment.”

“Agreed,” O’Hara murmured.

Parker folded his hands, the gesture neat, deliberate. “Their model has always been to encourage other actors to throw their blows. And that’s what they attempted here—piggybacking off radicals and malcontents.” He hesitated, then gave Ciara a look that held more weight than the words that followed. “Good work, by the way.”

O’Hara added, with the stoic understatement of a career officer, “Yes. If it hadn’t been for your team’s intervention, the MSS play would have landed with devastating consequences.”

Coming from either man, it was practically effusive praise. Ciara inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Thank you. They almost succeeded.”

“That’s the point,” O’Hara replied. “They came too close for comfort.”

Parker leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “The threat is expanding. We can’t afford to blink. Given the US’s economic reliance on them, trade sanctions are ineffective. We should have predicted this over thirty years ago, before we allowed them to become the world’s factory.”

“Indo-Pacific posturing, Ports in Europe. Acquisitions through front companies. Cyber penetrations targeting our energy infrastructure,” began O’Hara.

“Political influence networks. Taiwan pressure escalating yearly. And their increased presence in the Gulf,” continued Parker.

O’Hara finished. “Digital infrastructure, smart cities—all built on Huawei systems.”

Ciara listened as the two men volleyed strategic concerns with the rhythm of people who had debated the subject in depth.

“There’s one more matter,” Parker said, adjusting his glasses. “I’ll be stepping down next year.”

Ciara met neither man’s eyes, letting the information settle like dust.

Parker continued. “I will be putting Kevin forward as my replacement.”

Ciara turned to O’Hara. “Congratulations.”

O’Hara offered a small, tilted smile—not self-satisfied, but reflective. “Magnanimous of you to say. But we both know the real successor is no longer with us.”

Ciara let the hat doff towards her mentor, Bruce McQuillan, sit, then said quietly, “He would have approved.”

Parker’s voice cut back in, “The last thing I want before I retire is for the MSS to be digging their claws in further. Their networks here, their proxies, their academic fronts, their cyber infrastructure—I want the pressure applied before I hand this office over. Let them go back to aggressively attempting to reacquire Taiwan.”

O’Hara nodded. “As soon as they work out how to build microchips to a similar standard, they might.”

He referred to the theory that Taiwan’s dominance in advanced semiconductor manufacturing ensures it remains vital to the global economy, giving major powers a strong incentive to prevent its invasion.

“Let’s hope that never occurs,” stated the SIS chief.

HORIZON ADVANCED PROCESS INTEGRATION LAB — HSINCHU SCIENCE PARK, TAIWAN — 01:40 HOURS

The cleanroom hummed with controlled sterility.

Dr Liang Wei-Shen stood beneath the filtered white light, gloved hands clasped loosely behind his back, watching the EUV exposure tool cycle through another wafer batch. The machine moved with ritual precision.

Beside him stood Dr Peng Kuan-Ting, thirty-seven, materials chemist. Narrow face, sharp cheekbones, perpetually ink-smudged fingers from annotated process notes.

He wore his hair slightly too long for lab orthodoxy and pushed his glasses up with the back of his wrist rather than contaminating his gloves.

Peng had joined during the 7nm yield crisis. Liang had seen the steadiness in him.

“Overlay deviation is down to 1.3 nanometres,” Peng said, studying the tablet. “Within tolerance.”

Liang nodded once. “For now.”

They stepped through the air shower and into the adjacent process integration suite—a quieter room overlooking the lit expanse of the park. Beyond the glass, fabrication plants glowed against the darkness like anchored vessels.

Peng removed his hood and hesitated.

“Director,” he said. “I heard about the round table.”

Liang did not turn immediately. He watched the skyline instead.

“It is not secret,” he replied. “Only unpublicised.”

“Ministry of Economic Affairs. National Security Bureau observers.” Peng lowered his voice instinctively. “Americans.”

“Yes.”

Peng studied him. “That is… significant.”

“It is necessary,” said Liang.

He moved to the central workstation and brought up yield modelling projections—comparative graphs mapping domestic Chinese EUV output trajectories against Taiwan’s sub-3nm ramp schedule.

“They must understand,” Liang said, tapping the screen, “that we are still ahead.”

Peng nodded, and Liang continued. “If Washington believes the mainland is within reach of parity, their risk calculus changes. If they believe we remain indispensable, deterrence remains stable.”

“And the counterespionage?” Peng asked.

Liang’s jaw shifted slightly.

“We need it.”

He did not elaborate immediately.

“They have capabilities in cyber intrusion detection that we lack. Supply-chain anomaly modelling. Insider threat analytics. If infiltration increases—”

“But they will ask questions,” said Peng quietly.

Liang allowed himself the smallest exhale.

“They are allies,” he said. “But you are correct—they are allies who have interests sometimes incongruent with our own.”

“Like technology transfer.”

Liang did not contradict him.

“I will give them what stabilises the alliance,” he said. “Not what erodes our edge.”

Peng said, “You need a rest. ‘To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders’.”

Liang smiled faintly at his colleague’s habit of quoting ancient philosophers.

“I know,” he said. “My family is going away for a few days. I long to join them, but I fear they will keep me here. They are ever more transparent with regard to their reluctance for me to leave Taiwan, even briefly.”

“You’re an important man—to both sides of the strait.”

“I have decided to make the sacrifice,” said the older man. “But I have fought hard for my family not to be similarly imprisoned… perhaps too strong a word. Restricted. They have relented this once—perhaps due to their relative proximity and insistence on a protection team. As small as it is.”

“How close?”

Liang barely hesitated, “My daughter has a youth philharmonic residency in Singapore. She earned it.”

“That is wonderful.”

“Yes.”

“You have not left Taiwan in…?”

“Seven years,” Liang said. “Perhaps eight.”

Peng’s eyebrows rose.

“Even conferences?”

“Virtual.”

Peng shook his head slowly. “Have they explicitly barred you from going?”

“They find reasons,” Liang said. “Additional consultations. Emergency reviews. National security overlays. The language is always polite.”

Peng looked out at the illuminated fabs—fabrication plants.

“You are correct. That is… confinement.” Peng glanced back at him. “At least your wife’s worries can be eased that they have a team of bodyguards.”

Liang guffawed, “They will have a discreet two-man protective attachment. It took whatever persuasive skills I have to convince her of that. The government wanted to send out a seven-man team.”

Peng blinked.

“For a youth orchestra in Singapore?”

Liang simply smiled in response and returned to the data display.

Peng stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“Director… you are aware that there are many talented engineers,” he said. “Perhaps you should make one or more your apprentice and begin the process of downloading all that knowledge.”

Liang had been thinking the same thing for a while now. In the beginning, his ego enjoyed being the exalted one. However, now, the truth was that he didn’t know who he could trust.

Still, Peng was correct. Should an illness or accident befall him, then the mainlanders had a real chance of catching up.

“You are correct as always, my friend.” Liang smiled. “Perhaps you should be my main apprentice.”

Peng laughed. “There are certain intricacies that require a sharper mind than mine.”

“I think you underestimate yourself.”

Peng didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “You are a great man for making these sacrifices.”

Liang’s expression did not change. But his brain tightened.

“I am not great,” he said evenly. “I am employed.”

“That is not the same thing.”

Liang removed his gloves and set them down with precision.

“History will not record who attended recitals,” he said quietly. “It will record whether Taiwan retained leverage.”

Beyond the glass, the fabs burned through the night—relentless, disciplined, awake.

4

TAIPEI — THE YUANSHENG TAIPEI — EARLY EVENING

Eleanor had chosen the hotel for one reason: visibility.

An international chain, anonymous and efficient, with cameras everywhere—lifts, corridors, reception, overlapping angles designed to deter disorder rather than prevent it. Visibility created friction. Not safety, but hesitation.

The staff reflected the same calculus. Mostly Taiwanese—polite, professional, incurious.

A smattering of Caucasians among them, likely students on international visas filling evening shifts.

The former MSS agent had waited until she was back in the hotel room before opening the laptop.

It was a temporary machine, purchased for cash two days earlier and already destined for destruction. She sat at the small table beside the window, curtains drawn, the city reduced to a dim glow around its edges.

She checked the channels that she had no legitimate reason to check anymore.

One contained a message.

Eleanor stared at the identifier.

T-417

Interesting.

She opened it.

PRIORITY

Director Liang advised me tonight that his immediate family will shortly travel to Singapore for his daughter’s participation in a youth philharmonic residency.

Taiwanese authorities have approved a protective attachment. Liang stated that the original seven-person detail has been reduced to two personnel following objections from his family.

Liang wishes to accompany them but believes permission for his own travel remains unlikely.

Dates and accommodation presently unknown.

Will develop further if possible.

Eleanor read it again.

Peng Kuan-Ting.

One of hers.

She had first encountered him years earlier during a visit to Britain, when the young Taiwanese materials chemist had been sufficiently accomplished to attract attention but insufficiently senior to realise that attention could be dangerous.

She had cultivated him patiently.

Professional introductions first. Favours. Conversation. The gradual establishment of trust before anything resembling intelligence collection had been asked of him.

By the time Peng understood what the relationship had become, there had been no dramatic recruitment.

There rarely was.

He simply found himself reporting.

Eventually, the Ministry had inherited the asset and formalised his handling elsewhere.

But Eleanor had remained his shadow handler: an unofficial second channel Peng had been instructed to maintain for intelligence of particular significance.

Compartmentalisation had made the arrangement seem entirely normal to him.

He believed Eleanor remained MSS.

More importantly, he believed Beijing knew she was still receiving his reports.

Neither was true.

When Eleanor had slipped her supposedly protective MSS detail in Germany following the failure of the British operation, she had understood that her access to the Ministry itself could disappear within hours.

So she had sent brief messages to several assets she had personally recruited over the years.

No explanations.

No indication that she was running.

Simply instructions to maintain their established secondary reporting channels until informed otherwise.

Some had gone silent.

Some had acknowledged, with Peng being one of them.

Eleanor leaned back.

For the first time, she considered what she possessed not in terms of survival but in terms of value.

Liang Wei-Shen.

She knew precisely who he was.

Taiwan’s silicon shield did not rest upon one man, but Liang was one of those who helped make the shield credible. His accumulated knowledge of advanced semiconductor manufacturing made him strategically valuable to Taipei, Beijing and Washington alike.

And now his family was leaving Taiwan.

Singapore.

Two bodyguards.

Eleanor’s mind moved instinctively towards what Beijing might see in the information.

Leverage.

She stopped herself.

That was no longer her problem.

The thought surprised her by how easily it came.

Eleanor looked across the table.

Ciara Robson’s card lay beside the laptop.

For two days she had treated it as one possibility among three.

Taiwan.

China.

The Englishwoman.

Apparently, somewhere between then and now, the decision had been made.

Perhaps she had merely been waiting for herself to admit it.

She picked up the card.

Ciara had offered her something neither Taiwan nor China could.

Not sanctuary.

Purpose.

And Eleanor had just acquired something with which to demonstrate exactly how useful she could be.

She looked once more at Peng’s message.

Her former employers would receive the same intelligence through his official channel. Someone in Beijing would read it.

And if Liu Ren himself still ran the most valuable agents in the Taiwan Province, then he might just be brazen enough to enact an operation through a proxy without requesting permission at all.

Or use his immense persuasiveness to obtain the higher authority.

Which meant Ciara needed to know before Beijing decided what to do with it.

Eleanor closed the laptop.

Still, she remained undecided as to what to do with the information.

Intelligence formed the main currency in their world. A woman changing allegiances should not arrive at the negotiating table with empty pockets.

Ciara knew a great deal about her, while Eleanor knew almost nothing about Ciara—or the organisation she was being invited into.

Keeping Peng and the others concealed would give her something the British did not know she possessed: active windows into MSS collection against Taiwan.

Perhaps she should hold it back.

Not forever. Just until she understood the people she had agreed to work for.

Doctor Liang’s family might be in danger, but Eleanor knew she had to look after herself now.

However, for the first time since Germany, the next move felt clear.

She was going to work for the British.

NORLAND TAILORS — LONDON — LATE AFTERNOON

Alexander Norland circled him like an artist inspecting a sculpture.

Connor stood upon the low fitting platform facing the tall, gilt-edged mirror. The suit—deep, dark blue with a whisper of midnight in the weave—hugged his frame as though the cloth already knew him.

He ran a hand down the lapel, feeling the smooth weight of the fabric settle over him.

He looked and felt great in it.

“It fits well,” Connor said, turning slightly to catch the reflection from another angle.

Alexander scoffed. “Fits perfect. Now tell me—what’s blue and doesn’t fit?”

“A dead epileptic.”

Alexander sighed. “You should have let me deliver the punchline out of diplomacy.”

“You’d have known,” Connor replied.

In addition to being one of London’s preeminent tailors, Alexander Norland sat as the closest thing the Norland–Green alliance had to a chairman.

The coalition had endured for decades, reinforced by marriage as much as money.

The Norlands provided the brains, financial infrastructure and access to smuggling routes; the Greens supplied muscle, transport and street distribution.

The Ryder Family Syndicate remained independent but maintained a long-standing working relationship with the Norland-Greens, particularly in the transport and distribution of the expensive recreational drug known by its street name as NoLo—given for its relatively mild comedown.

“You know,” said Connor, expanding within the jacket. “This suit does make me feel… like something more.”

Alexander smiled.

“Actually…”

Connor glanced at him through the mirror as Alexander folded his arms.

“I wasn’t the one who made your suit.”

Alexander looked towards the workshop and called out, “Eli.”

A young man appeared from beyond the fitting room carrying a folded length of charcoal cloth across one forearm.

Connor recognised him instantly.

He had spent the better part of two hours being measured, pinned, and fitted by the young tailor during his initial consultation, despite Alexander taking him through the base and forward fittings on the subsequent visits.

At the time he’d simply assumed Eli was a talented employee.

Now, seeing him standing beside Alexander…

…the resemblance became obvious.

He was around six-two, lean without being slight, broad through the shoulders and moved with quiet assurance.

Dark blond, a little longer than fashion dictated, while intelligent grey-blue eyes regarded Connor with relaxed confidence.

He couldn’t have been older than twenty.

Alexander’s expression softened.

“My grandson.”

The young man offered his hand.

“It’s good to meet you properly.”

Connor stepped off the platform and shook it.

His grip was firm.

Not performative.

Connor looked between grandfather and grandson, then shook his head.

“You never mentioned you were Alexander Norland’s grandson.”

Eli smiled.

“You never asked.”

Connor studied Eli’s face again before glancing towards Alexander.

“I probably didn’t notice the resemblance since age has robbed you of your looks, Alex.”

The elder Norland gave him an unimpressed look and declared, “I still have my admirers.”

Eli spat out a laugh.

“Get this…”

“Don’t,” sighed Alexander with a smile.

Connor looked between them.

“What?”

Eli gleefully went on, “A few weeks ago I picked grandad up from one of… Anyway, we stopped at a petrol station.”

Alexander closed his eyes briefly as his grandson went on, “He bought a sandwich… and a Scotch egg. When he went to pay, the cashier asked…”

Eli’s grin widened.

“…‘Would you like a drink?’ And Grandad replied, ‘I’m flattered, but I’m married!’”

Connor could feel the rumbling of mirth in his stomach as Eli continued. “The poor girl just stared at him before saying, ‘No… a drink makes up the meal deal!’”

Connor erupted in a geyser of laughter along with Eli.

Alexander simply stood there blatantly fighting off a grin as he gripped his own wrist.

Connor eventually straightened.

“You know I am going to be telling my cousins, don’t ya?”

Alexander spread his hands.

“I was doin’ the girl’s confidence a favour, that’s all.”

They all smiled.

Looking between them, it occurred to him that Eli was one of the few able to take the piss out of Alexander Norland.

Alexander checked his watch.

“Ain’t you late?”

Eli turned his wrist.

“…Probably.”

“Don’t keep a young lady wai—”

“I’m going, Grandad.”

Alexander regarded him thoughtfully.

“Still can’t quite work out what her background is.”

“Amara’s dad’s Ghanaian. Her mum’s Indian.”

“Afro-Asian?”

“The cool kids say Blasian.”

Eli reached for his coat hanging beside the workshop door before turning back towards Connor.

“I hope you enjoy the suit.”

Connor looked down once more, running his fingers across the lapel.

“I genuinely love it, young Norland,” said Connor sincerely. “In the words of your esteemed grandad, it makes me feel like a sartorial God.”

The pride that crossed Eli’s face was unmistakable.

“Thank you.”

With a nod to both men, he disappeared through the shop door and out into the London afternoon.

The bell above the entrance chimed softly.

Connor turned to Norland and declared, “I am going to change out of it,” before disappearing into the changing cubicle.

Silence settled over the workshop once more.

***

Alexander stood waiting.

There was probably some truth to the cliché that white Jews appreciated darker-skinned women. Then again, that always seemed to him more of an American phenomenon than a British one.

Quite where Eli had developed the taste from, Alexander had no idea.

He remembered that a couple of years ago, his son Eli’s dad, Daniel, had said, “What’s wrong with finding a nice white Jewish girl?” Only to be told by Eli, “She’ll be Jewish by the wedding, trust me. Other than that, it’s none of your business.” And Alexander liked that about his grandson.

Connor returned in his jeans, T-shirt and olive jacket, holding his suit on a broad cedar hanger.

Norland took it off him and hung it up.

“The suit spends ninety-five per cent of its life hanging,” he said, smoothing the lapels. “If you don’t respect that ninety-five per cent, you won’t enjoy the other five.”

“I understand,” said Connor. “The real reason I didn’t realise he was your grandson was that I thought he’d be about twelve.”

A laugh escaped Norland, clapping his hands together.

“My son, Daniel, came along when I was sixteen, and then he went and did exactly the same with Eli—quite the scandal amongst our people.”

Connor blinked.

“Holy fuck.”

“Fortunately,” Alexander said dryly, “Elijah has displayed considerably more restraint. I’m fackin’ grateful he hasn’t made me a great-grandfather before I’ve even reached sixty.”

Connor laughed.

“That meal deal story was a fucking killer.”

Alexander absently smoothed the cuff of Connor’s jacket, instinctively checking the line of the sleeve.

He allowed himself a faint sigh.

“Though I should add that Eli had not long collected me from the oncology department.”

He spoke the words without drama. Merely another appointment in a diary that seemed increasingly dictated by consultants rather than clients.

“The doctors remain cautiously optimistic.”

Connor remained silent, for which he felt grateful.

Alexander let his eyes wander across the workshop.

The cutting benches.

The irons.

The shelves stacked with cloth.

The fitting platform where generations of men had stood.

“I remain cautiously pessimistic.”

Connor began, “I had an aunt who based her entire life on astrology. Never saw the mechanism of her death coming, which was ironic considering her star sign.”

Norland bowed his head a touch. “What type of cancer took her?”

“It wasn’t cancer,” said Connor. “She was eaten by a giant spider crab.”

Alexander’s torso convulsed with laughter that doubled him over.

It took several moments for him to get a grip on himself.

Silence settled comfortably between them.

Eventually, he rested a hand on Connor’s shoulder.

“I’ve had that boy in this workshop since he was five,” said Norland. “He swept floors. Counted buttons. Fetched tea. Folded pattern paper. Handed me pins.”

Connor murmured, “An apprenticeship from childhood. No wonder he’s a suit-making Jedi.”

Alexander’s eyes drifted towards the workshop.

“He’d sit quietly for hours watching fittings. I never said I was teaching him, but children observe far more than we give them credit for.”

Alexander wandered towards one of the cutting benches.

“Put him through a proper old-school apprenticeship. No university. No fashion school.”

“And now he’s a master.”

“A tailor who believes he has mastered the craft has already ceased to be one.”

“Fuck’s sake. OK, Yoda.”

Alexander smiled at that before sweeping his hand slowly around the workshop.

“I wanted this to be his inheritance. Not the other business.”

Connor asked, “Probably wouldn’t be as profitable as your other businesses.”

“True enough—at the moment, at least,” said Norland. “But not many straight-going tailors get shot, beaten up or imprisoned. And you would be surprised how much can be made in this game.”

“Even with technological advances?” asked Connor.

“AI will hit the middle of the market, that is true,” said the older man. “But that will make genuine bespoke rarer. And therefore…”

“…more valuable.”

“Exactly. There will always be men and women wealthy enough to buy something that nobody else possesses.”

Connor nodded thoughtfully. “No machine can replicate years of judgement.”

“Decades,” said Norland. “With my other… businesses, I cannot take it to the next level, but that kid can build it into one of Europe’s premier ultra-luxury bespoke houses.”

“Daniel never really tried his hand at tailoring?”

Norland scoffed. “My son loves the other side of the business—well, the trappings of it, the money and the attention. He wouldn’t have the discipline or the bottle to run things when I go.”

“Succession is hard,” said Connor simply.

Alexander tilted his head. “You’re into your history, ain’t ya? Summarise the reigns of Edward the First, Second, and Third in as few words as possible.”

Connor didn’t hesitate. “Strong, weak, strong.”

“I’m impressed,” said Norland sincerely. “The irony is that the grandson I want to keep legitimate could probably head the organisation just as well as I, if he wanted to.”

“How much does Eli know of the other side?”

“His old man isn’t exactly subtle.” Norland sighed. “Eli’s picked up plenty just by being around me. And since the illness… well, let’s say I've been less guarded.”

“Hedging your bets?”

Alexander barely shrugged.

“Perhaps.”

“What you not telling me?”

The insight in the question surprised Norland, who found himself answering, “The Greens are cunts, always have been. That’s OK, I am one myself. But I hear things on the grapevine.”

“Aren’t you all meant to be intermarried and that?”

“That’s true,” nodded Alexander. “Maybe I am being paranoid.”

Connor slipped a phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen.

“I have to take this.”

Alexander nodded once, understanding.

“Thank you for the suit.”

“I’ll have it sent up.”

“No, I need to take it now.”

“Very well,” said Norland. “Remember what I said about hanging it.”

“I’ll remember.”

The two men shook hands as Connor walked out with his suit into the cold London air, leaving the shop in silence.

5

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY — BEIJING — MORNING

Liu Ren read the report twice.

Then a third time.

His office was quiet except for the faint hum of ventilation and the distant, muffled movement of the corridor beyond his door. On his desk, green tea had been cooling untouched for twenty minutes.

The report occupied less than half the screen.

SOURCE REPORT—PRIORITY

SUBJECT: LIANG WEI-SHEN
SOURCE: Established Taiwan technical-sector asset
RELIABILITY: Previously corroborated

LIANG advised the source that his immediate family will shortly travel to Singapore, where his daughter is scheduled to participate in a Youth Philharmonic residency.

Taiwanese authorities have approved the travel subject to a protective attachment. LIANG stated that the original seven-person security detail has been reduced to two personnel following objections from his family.

LIANG expressed a strong desire to accompany them but indicated that approval for his own travel remains unlikely.

Further details regarding dates, accommodation and itinerary are presently unavailable.

ASSESSMENT: First known overseas travel by LIANG’s immediate family under a substantially reduced Taiwanese security presence. Recommend further development.

Liu leaned back.

He became aware of his heartbeat.

Not pounding.

Simply faster.

For months, every report bearing Liang Wei-Shen’s name had seemed to remind him of failure.

The Taiwanese shielded him like a state secret given human form.

He looked again at the words.

Singapore.

Immediate family.

Two personnel.

His mind assembling possibilities before he consciously permitted it.

Liang Wei-Shen remained one of the most valuable technical minds on the other side of the Strait. More importantly, he represented something that could not simply be replicated by stealing documents.

Decades of accumulated judgement lived inside the man’s head: failures, intuitions, process knowledge, the thousand tiny decisions separating theoretical capability from industrial reality.

But Taiwan could not protect everything equally.

Liu stood and crossed to the window.

Beijing stretched beneath a pale morning sky.

This could repair things.

More than repair them.

Handled correctly, it could restore his position within the Ministry and perhaps elevate it beyond where it had been. Men were forgiven failures when they subsequently delivered something their superiors had thought unobtainable.

But the inverse arrived immediately.

What if I fail again?

The thought chilled whatever excitement had begun building.

Another expensive operation. Another embarrassment. Worse, an incident involving Liang’s family on foreign soil could create consequences extending far beyond Liu’s own department.

Failure this time would not mean another delayed telephone call.

It might mean the end of his career.

Perhaps worse.

Liu returned to the desk and read the report once more.

The excitement remained.

So did the fear.

Good.

Fear made men examine their assumptions.

He closed the report and opened a blank document.

For several seconds he stared at the empty page.

Then he began typing.

Not an operational order.

Not yet.

A proposal.

Something sufficiently ambitious to interest Zhao, sufficiently considered that it could not be dismissed as desperation, and sufficiently compartmentalised that only the two of them would initially understand what Liu was actually suggesting.

After several minutes, Liu stopped.

He reread the opening paragraph.

Then reached for the secure telephone, then stopped himself—he would await the outcome of the Taipei operation and then speak with Zhao.

TAIPEI — THE YUANSHENG TAIPEI — EARLY EVENING

Eleanor Zhu returned to the Yuansheng just after dusk, when Taipei’s light softened, and the neon began to bleed into the streets.

She had contacted Ciara Robson and said she was ready.

The reply had come back almost at once. Minimal. Precise.

Someone is coming for you.

Eleanor understood that the quickest flight from the United Kingdom to Taiwan would be around sixteen hours, and that was assuming ideal conditions.

It did not include travel to Heathrow, transit time, arrival formalities, or movement through Taipei.

She had considered that her acceptance had been pre-empted and her escort was already in-country but dismissed it as unlikely.

Which was why she had spent the afternoon walking the city as if committing it to memory.

The food stalls, the exhaust haze, the low thunder of scooters threading traffic. She moved without urgency, aware that she might never see the place again.

At reception, a young woman greeted her using her false name, as Eleanor crossed towards the lifts and stepped into the elevator alone.

It rose smoothly, and the doors opened onto her floor.

Concealed lighting strips where the walls met the ceiling bathed the corridor with soft light, the carpet feeling hushed beneath her shoes and the air conditioning humming with institutional indifference.

She had taken only a few steps towards her room when a man appeared from around the corner, perhaps fifteen metres away.

Dark suit. Conservative cut.

He raised a hand—not in greeting, but command.

“Ministry of Justice Investigation Bureau,” he said in Mandarin. “Please remain where you are.”

The MJIB was Taiwan’s principal domestic intelligence and counterintelligence service, responsible for national security, counterespionage, and major internal security investigations.

Eleanor stopped.

She turned slowly.

A second man stood near the lifts behind her, dressed almost identically, with deliberate symmetry.

“The floor has been cleared,” the first man continued. “The cameras are offline. You may resist if you wish. It will be futile.”

She listened, and in that instant the shape of it became clear.

If this were legitimate—if Taiwanese authorities were formally detaining a former MSS asset—why would they need to empty the floor? Especially for a female without formal training in either armed or unarmed combat?

Maybe in the West, they would have to prevent a patron with a camera phone from filming the forced detention of a woman.

However, the Taiwanese, with their Confucian cultural inheritance of respect for hierarchy, order, social harmony, and institutional legitimacy, would not interfere.

They began to close the distance.

Eleanor calculated quickly. Fighting or screaming would do nothing beyond minor inconvenience. Any injury she sustained would diminish her usefulness to herself.

Then a voice exuding a masculine calm cut in from behind her.

Northern English.

“They’re MSS agents.”

She turned instinctively.

The man near the lifts had begun to pivot—too late.

A Caucasian hotel porter, who had not been there a moment earlier, stepped in and dropped him with a single, short, clinical punch.

Dark blond hair. Athletic build. Broad shoulders disguised beneath cheap fabric.

There was something faintly familiar about him.

The first agent surged forward, passing Eleanor without a glance.

The agent opened with kicks—testing, professional. They were checked and absorbed with minimal motion. The Westerner’s structure stayed solid, absorbing with predator eyes.

After a few exchanges, he closed decisively.

A brutal headbutt.

Then a left hook that ended it.

The agent collapsed soundlessly onto the carpet.

The porter stepped towards Eleanor.

“I am here to collect you, Ms Smith.”

The prearranged code.

“My name’s Connor.”

He glanced once at the ceiling.

“They’ve taken the cameras down temporarily,” he said. “That won’t last. We need to go. Now.”

Eleanor studied him properly then. The familiarity resolved—into certainty. “How did you get here so fast?” she asked.

“I didn’t,” he replied. “I was on standby. This was anticipated.”

She hesitated.

Connor stepped back half a pace and checked his watch.

“Listen, you fucking flange, I haven’t endured a full day of being sat in a flying tin can to convince you to save your own life. I’ll give you ten seconds,” he said evenly. “You can hand yourself in to Taiwanese intelligence if you want. I couldn’t give a rat’s shit—a bat’s shit even. I’m leaving either way.”

Eleanor nodded once.

“I will come.”

6

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY — BEIJING — AFTERNOON

Liu Ren was kept waiting for eleven minutes this time.

He suspected the additional six were deliberate.

When the door finally opened, Zhao Jianguo was alone.

No Wei Changye. No aide beyond the woman who admitted him and disappeared again after pouring tea.

Zhao remained seated.

“Taipei.”

The word bolted Liu into the chair opposite him.

“The first attempt to recover Zhu Mingxin was unsuccessful.”

“I am aware.”

“The officers were intercepted before they could secure her. Both survived. Neither was detained.”

“Intercepted by whom?”

“We believe an operative working on behalf of the British organisation.”

Zhao’s expression barely altered.

“Believe?”

“We do not yet have a confirmed identification.”

That was not entirely true. Liu had been given a description. Caucasian. Male. Northern English accent. Approximately early thirties. Highly proficient in close combat.

There were already possibilities.

Zhao lifted his tea and regarded Liu across its rim.

“You assured me the opportunity was controlled.”

“The opportunity was controlled. An external variable had already been introduced.”

“A variable you failed to identify.”

Liu accepted the correction with a slight inclination of his head.

Zhao set the cup down.

“Zhu Mingxin remains your problem, Comrade Liu. You will solve it.”

“Yes, Director.”

“No further resources will be assigned specifically to her recovery without justification through my office.”

There it was.

Not a reprimand.

Something worse.

Distance.

Liu allowed several seconds to pass.

“There is another matter.”

Zhao’s eyes settled on him.

Liu removed a thin folder from his case and placed it on the desk.

“An established source within Taiwan’s technical sector. T-417.”

Zhao did not reach for the folder.

“What has he reported?”

“Liang Wei-Shen’s immediate family will shortly travel to Singapore. His daughter has been accepted onto a youth philharmonic residency. His wife and son will accompany her.”

That earned the smallest change in Zhao’s attention.

“Liang?”

“Remains in Taiwan.”

“Security?”

“Originally seven. Reduced to two following objections from the family.”

Zhao finally opened the folder.

He read in silence.

Liu waited.

Liang Wei-Shen required no explanation between them. Men like Liang were not merely scientists. They were repositories.

Years of failed processes, manufacturing compromises, undocumented corrections and instinct accumulated until knowledge ceased to exist solely on paper and became inseparable from the man possessing it.

Zhao finished reading.

“And?”

Liu chose his words carefully.

“International travel occasionally produces unexpected changes of itinerary.”

Zhao looked up.

“Does it?”

“A family expecting to board an aircraft for Taiwan might, under the appropriate circumstances, board one travelling elsewhere.”

“Where?”

Liu held his gaze.

“The mainland would be preferable.”

Silence settled between them.

Neither man needed to say kidnap.

Neither needed to say what would happen afterwards.

Zhao leaned back.

“And you believe Doctor Liang would subsequently develop a more favourable attitude towards reunification?”

“I believe a father may discover loyalties that a scientist in the pay of the Taiwanese province does not.”

The ventilation whispered overhead.

“Or,” Zhao said, “Singapore discovers that agents of the People’s Republic abducted a Taiwanese scientist’s wife and children from its territory.”

“Which is why Chinese personnel would not conduct the operation.”

“Taipei would accuse us regardless.”

“Taipei accuses us routinely.”

“The Americans would not regard this as routine.”

“No.”

“Nor would Singapore.”

“No.”

Zhao’s fingers rested against the folder.

“You are proposing an operation on the territory of a government with which we maintain important relations, against Taiwanese nationals under official protection, for the purpose of coercing one of Taiwan’s most strategically important scientists.”

Liu said nothing.

“When your last ambitious operation remains unresolved.”

The reference to Zhu landed exactly where intended.

Liu allowed it to.

“I know an organisation capable of conducting the acquisition without an attributable Chinese footprint.”

Zhao regarded him for several moments.

“A proxy?”

“A professional one.”

“How professional?”

“Enough that we would purchase an outcome rather than supervise a method.”

Zhao’s expression remained unreadable.

“And if they are captured?”

“They will possess no formal relationship with this Ministry.”

“And if they speak?”

“They will have nothing useful to say.”

Another silence.

Zhao closed the folder.

“You retain discretionary access to operational funds allocated to your European programmes.”

It was not a question.

“Yes.”

“Substantial funds.”

“Yes.”

“I have neither instructed you to redirect those funds nor authorised an operation in Singapore.”

Liu understood immediately.

Zhao continued.

“If circumstances were to develop independently, and those circumstances ultimately resulted in Doctor Liang Wei-Shen making a voluntary and permanent contribution to the People’s Republic, the Ministry would naturally examine how such an advantageous development came about.”

Liu watched Zhao’s face harden by a fraction.

“However, if the result was not favourable, I would be extremely concerned to discover that a senior officer had exceeded his authority, diverted Ministry resources and initiated an unauthorised operation with potentially grave diplomatic consequences.”

There it was.

Success would travel upwards.

Failure would stop at Liu Ren.

No written authorisation. No operational directive. Nothing linking Zhao Jianguo to the decision beyond a conversation that, officially, had never occurred.

Zhao had not merely protected himself.

He had given Liu permission, ensuring it ceased to exist the moment it became inconvenient.

Liu felt no resentment.

He admired the elegance.

Had their positions been reversed, he might have constructed precisely the same arrangement.

He considered the consequences.

Zhu Mingxin remained loose. His standing had already deteriorated. Another failure could finish his career—and accepting Zhao’s terms meant that failure in Singapore would leave him isolated before the Ministry’s disciplinary machinery.

Possibly worse.

But risk was not something to be eliminated.

Risk was expenditure.

The only meaningful question was whether the potential return justified the price.

Liang Wei-Shen did.

Liu reached forward and retrieved the folder.

“I understand completely, Director.”

Zhao held his gaze.

“I have given you no instruction.”

“No, Director.”

“I have authorised nothing.”

“No.”

A pause.

Then Zhao picked up his tea.

“I trust that resolves the matter.”

Liu stood.

“It does.”

He turned towards the door, already considering secure communications, financial compartmentalisation and the intermediary through which first contact would be made.

Behind him, Zhao said nothing more.

He did not need to.

By the time Liu Ren reached the corridor, the operation belonged entirely to him.

TAIPEI — SHORT-TERM APARTMENT, RESIDENTIAL DISTRICT — NIGHT

Eleanor followed him inside, and the door closed behind them with a soft, final click.

The apartment was small and anonymous. Neutral walls. Low, functional furniture.

A compact kitchenette along one side, clean but unlived in.

One narrow window looking out over a clutter of rooftops and water tanks. No photographs. No clutter. No scent except detergent and something metallic from the air conditioning unit.

She stood there for a moment, arms folded, heart still racing from the journey up. “So,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “What’s the extraction plan?”

Connor dropped the rucksack onto the table and began checking the room as if she were no longer there.

Window latch. Bathroom door. Balcony. Only when he was satisfied did he answer.

“The people I’m working for have booked a flight under your anglicised name.”

She laughed, short and incredulous. “You can’t be serious. The MSS will have people embedded in Taiwanese intelligence. Immigration. Border police. And their cyber units will flag my name the moment it’s entered into a system.”

He nodded. “They will.”

“Then why—”

“Because,” he said calmly, leaning against the counter, “an urgent but non-critical medical transfer has also been logged under the Embassy channel under your name.”

Her breath caught. “You’re joking.”

“Yeah, this is the way I laugh.”

“They’ll triangulate that in minutes,” she said sharply. “They’ll know where I am the moment they know what I am. You can’t hide me in Taiwan once they start pulling threads.”

Connor’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I know.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because,” he said, “both plays are smokescreens.”

She felt a prickle of unease. “Smokescreens for what?”

“We’re not flying,” he said. “Not from here. We’re getting a maritime passage to Japan. From there, we disappear properly.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How?”

He met her gaze, flat and unyielding. “That’s enough questions.” She bristled. “Excuse me?”

“Make me a black coffee,” he said, turning away.

For a second she thought she’d misheard him. The audacity of it landed like a slap. Heat rose in her chest—indignation and disbelief.

“No,” she said.

He turned.

The distance between them vanished in two strides.

“Listen—”

The back of his hand collided with her face with brutal force. White light burst behind her eyes. She stumbled, disoriented, and then his hand was on her throat, hard fingers closing, driving her into the wall. Breath tore out of her in a dry, panicked sound.

She looked into his eyes.

There was no anger there. Just raging but controlled contempt.

“It’s my boss who thinks you’ll be an asset,” he said quietly, tightening his grip just enough to make the point land. “So, I’ll do everything in my power to get you out alive.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

“But it was me who stopped your plan to blow up the St Fergus Gas Terminal,” he went on. “Me who stopped you from killing Karl Deiter. Me who stopped you from blowing up three universities full of partying students. Me who stopped you from pushing my country towards civil war. Me who understands that you are an absolute cunt of a woman.”

His face was inches from hers now.

“So, make me a fucking coffee,” he said, voice low and even, “or I will drag you into the bathroom and indulge my desire to waterboard you.”

He let go.

Stepped back.

Air rushed into her lungs in ragged gulps. Her hands shook. Her face burned where he’d struck her. For a moment, she remained pressed to the wall, the imprint of his fingers still alive on her throat.

“Don’t spit in it—it’ll just turn me on,” he said.

Then, as if pulled by a current she could no longer resist, she found herself moving towards the kettle.

BEIJING — MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY COMPOUND — EARLY MORNING

Zhang Wei arrived.

The office door opened without ceremony.

Pale timber floors. A single wall of smoked glass overlooking a rain-veiled Beijing morning. No flags. No slogans. The only indulgence was a low ink-wash landscape—Song dynasty, original—hung opposite the desk so that visitors faced history rather than the man himself.

No personal photographs. No secure terminals visible.

Liu Ren stood at the window, hands folded behind his back.

“Good morning,” he said, without turning.

“Director Ren,” Zhang replied, inclining his head just enough.

Zhang took the chair opposite the desk. He had sat in this room fewer than a dozen times over the years. Each visit had coincided with a problem that rank, technology, or deniability alone could not solve.

That was why he was here.

Zhang’s value lay in his ability to transmute state intent into results on the street. He spoke fluent criminal. Fluent mercenary. Fluent fear. And he did it without leaving fingerprints that mattered.

It helped that, despite being wholly Chinese, he did not register as such to Western eyes. His family came from one of China’s northern minorities—the Uyghur.

This Central Asian Turkic heritage meant his features were softer, colouring lighter, his Mandarin accented just enough to explain away abroad.

In Europe, he passed without comment. A Balkan accountant. An Eastern European lawyer. At worst, an Azerbaijani businessman.

Never Chinese.

Liu Ren turned at last.

“One of ours has disappeared—likely defected,” he said.

Zhang did not react. Inside, he adjusted probabilities.

“Name?” Zhang asked.

“Zhu Mingxin,” Liu Ren replied. “In the West, she is known as Eleanor Zhu.”

Zhang stored the duality without comment.

“She operated against the United Kingdom but failed in her mission objectives—we believe she may have been afflicted with Host Culture Identification Syndrome.”

The Soviets had coined the term after several KGB defections to the West during the Cold War.

“We located her two days ago,” Liu Ren continued. “And we moved to retrieve her.”

“How?” Zhang asked.

“A pair of experienced officers,” Liu Ren said. “Quiet extraction. Taipei.”

Zhang’s eyes flicked, just once. “And?”

“They intercepted her at the Yuansheng International Hotel,” Liu Ren said. “But before transfer, they were intercepted.”

“By local authorities?”

“No.”

“A third service?”

“Unclear.”

Liu Ren crossed to the desk and tapped a tablet awake. “A Caucasian male. Intervened decisively. Both officers neutralised. Zhu Mingxin escaped again.”

Again.

That word mattered.

Liu Ren slid the tablet across.

“The arresting officers provided a description of the interfering agent,” said Liu Ren. “They confirmed my suspicions of it being the same man who hampered our operation in Europe.”

Zhang leaned forward.

The still images were street-level surveillance captures—Berlin, by the look of the architecture.

The man in them was powerfully built, dark blond, with broad shoulders.

Zhang studied the face. The gait. The spacing from passers-by.

“No identity?” Zhang asked quietly.

Liu Ren watched him over steepled fingers. “None.”

Zhang raised an eyebrow.

“Usually when we have an image,” Zhang said, “the 11th Bureau usually delivers a name within minutes. Seconds, if the subject is careless.”

“Which suggests?” Liu Ren asked, though his tone indicated he already knew the answer.

Zhang sat back. “A sanitised footprint. Historical scrubbing. Ongoing suppression.”

Liu Ren nodded once. “My assessment as well.  British, I believe. The agents identified his voice as native English. My assessment leans towards his being SIS.”

Zhang considered the implication. A defection attempt. A compromised asset. And now a protector significant enough to erase a man from the digital world.

“That complicates retrieval,” Zhang said.

“Yes,” Liu Ren agreed. “Which is why you are here.”

Zhang inclined his head again, accepting the weight without ceremony. “What would you like me to do?”

Liu Ren’s voice remained level.

“Go to Tallinn.”

Zhang did not ask why.

“I want their services rendered,” Liu continued, “to make Zhu Mingxin and her protector… disappear.”

The pause that followed was deliberate.

Zhang understood what their meant in this context.

Understood that Liu Ren would never say the name aloud.

But the shape of the problem pointed clearly enough to the Nerium—quiet, efficient, and distant enough to absorb the consequences.

Liu did not dismiss him.

“There is a second matter.”

Zhang remained still.

“A Taiwanese technical specialist named Liang Wei-Shen. His immediate family will travel to Singapore shortly. Wife. Daughter. Son. Their protection has been reduced to two personnel.”

Zhang understood immediately that Liu was not proposing surveillance.

“What outcome?”

“The family are expected to return to Taiwan.”

Liu allowed a beat.

“I would prefer that they boarded a different aircraft.”

“Destination?”

“The mainland.”

Zhang regarded him.

That was considerably more ambitious than killing a defecting intelligence officer. An assassination could be disguised, misdirected, buried beneath competing explanations.

Removing the family of a strategically important Taiwanese scientist from Singapore was something else entirely.

“And Doctor Liang?”

“Once his family are safely accommodated,” Liu said, “I believe Doctor Liang may become considerably more receptive to discussing his future.”

There it was.

Not kidnapping.

Not coercion.

Not even an operation.

Only a change of itinerary followed by a conversation.

Zhang asked, “Does the Ministry know?”

Liu’s eyes settled on him.

“The Ministry knows that Liang Wei-Shen is important to the People’s Republic.”

The answer was sufficiently precise.

Zhang understood the rest.

Whatever authority existed for the operation existed only for as long as it succeeded.

“And Tallinn handles both?”

“Yes.”

Liu crossed to the desk and placed a second folder beside the tablet.

“They are to treat them as entirely separate contracts. Separate personnel if they consider it necessary. No operational crossover. Nothing connecting Singapore to Zhu Mingxin.”

Zhang picked up the folder.

“Budget?”

“You will not find it restrictive.”

That answered another question.

Zhang rose.

“I will take care of it.”

Liu studied him for a moment longer.

“Zhu Mingxin is a liability,” he said. “Liang Wei-Shen is an opportunity. Do not allow Tallinn to confuse the priorities.”

“They won’t.”

Liu turned back towards the window.

“Be precise. In Singapore especially, we cannot accept noise.”

Zhang allowed himself the faintest internal smile.

Noise was Ren’s euphemism for failure.

And Zhang had just been asked to purchase two outcomes for which failure could not officially exist.

7

EVERBRIGHT AUTO HIRE (永亮汽車租賃) — OUTSKIRTS OF NEW TAIPEI CITY — LATE AFTERNOON

Connor signed and slid the pen back.

He took the keys without ceremony.

They were warm from the clerk’s hand, light, ordinary.

Outside stood a Toyota Corolla Altis—silver, a year or two old, faintly smelling of citrus cleaner and something stale underneath. Jaime had done his part. The paperwork had been clean enough, and his ID would seem legitimate to almost any human eye.

Still, Connor did not relax, especially in an AO like Asia.

In Europe, he blended in.

He felt it the moment he stepped out of the rental shop—the subtle drag of attention, the way eyes paused half a second longer. Taller than the average Taiwanese male. Broad. White. Foreign.

With around half of one per cent of Taiwan’s population being Caucasian, people remembered faces like his, even when they did not mean to. Later, when asked, they would recall something.

That the MSS might be able to track Eleanor through hacked Taiwanese feeds was a risk he would have to negate through his route selection.

Eleanor waited around the corner, exactly where he left her. Out of sight of the shop’s cameras. Out of sight of his conscience, too.

Part of him hoped she would run.

It would have simplified things. He found it distasteful that someone like her had been offered a reprieve at all.

He accepted it as an operational necessity, but acceptance was not forgiveness.

He had no qualms about slapping her, about pinning her against a wall and letting fear do some of the work for him.

One, because she deserved much more. Two, because fear could elicit compliance, and her compliance might help get them out alive.

He drove around the corner.

She stood exactly where he had told her to stand. Bag at her feet. Watching the street, not him.

For a moment, something like disappointment passed through him.

She opened the passenger door and got in without a word.

Connor pulled away from the kerb and merged into traffic. Taipei’s outskirts slid past—low concrete buildings, shuttered workshops, scooters threading opening gaps that did not exist. Neon signs gave way to utility poles and tangled power lines. The road narrowed, then widened again, folding into itself as if deciding its route on the fly.

He kept his hands light on the wheel. The car felt competent enough. Comfortingly anonymous.

They drove in silence.

Connor knew the instinct—to soften, to explain, to reach for some kind of alignment. He resisted.

The best way to manage someone like Eleanor Zhu was to throw her a bone occasionally and keep the rest of himself locked away.

Eventually, she spoke. “Am I allowed to know the plan?”

He did not look at her.

“Hualien Port,” he said. “East coast. Smaller footprint. Fewer eyes that matter. Open water faster.”

She nodded once, as if committing it to memory rather than reacting to it.

“We start by cutting northeast,” Connor continued. “Back roads into Yilan. Slower, but quieter. If it stays quiet, we keep going that way. If it doesn’t”—he glanced at the mirror, then the road—“we pivot south. Central Cross-Island Highway. Mountains. No cameras worth much, no signal for long stretches. Harder to follow. Harder to help.”

“And the risk?” she asked.

“Weather. Landslides. Law enforcement. Potentially other MSS proxy agents.”

They drove on.

Taipei thinned in the rear-view—concrete into scrub, low trees, the first suggestions of space. The road began to coil gently and climb imperceptibly. Scooters dropped off now, engines working harder, yet trucks bursting with grain still monstered the other way.

Connor kept his eyes on the road. “Tell me about the MSS.”

Eleanor did not answer immediately. He let the silence stretch. He had learned that people talked when they decided you were not going to fill the gap for them.

“Our philosophy,” she said eventually, “is often translated poorly.”

“Try me.”

She watched the roadside, the green pressing closer to the tarmac. “Yù sù zé bù dá, it means—”

“‘Those who rush do not arrive.’ Confucius was some guy, eh?”

He caught her glance at him, knowing it to be triggered by her surprise that he would know.

She continued. “China invests in people before we invest in outcomes. Influence is cultivated. Protected.”

“The Belt and Road Initiative,” he said. “You in-debt vulnerable countries to China forever.”

Connor, unsure he would stand behind such a reductive statement, said it anyway to antagonise her.

She didn’t appear to bite, saying, “You do not harvest before the roots are deep. It is less colonialist, and more inclusive.”

Connor smiled inwardly at her veiled shot at his British identity and said, “And the suppression of China’s Uyghur Muslim population—their mass detention, the oppressive surveillance and reported enforced sterilisation—is that inclusive?”

Eleanor snorted. “If Europe put the security of its citizens over its liberal sensibilities, then perhaps the incidents of stabbings and rapes would decline.”

Connor replied, “Strange to point out, since you orchestrated the use of Muslim proxies to attack the UK.”

“Not strange at all. Britain’s disunity and misplaced ideas on social justice allowed for that corridor to be opened.”

The Corolla rounded a bend. A temple flashed past on the hillside—red pillars, gold trim, incense smoke drifting into the road. Connor downshifted.

“Where did your plans to blow up St Fergus and three universities fit into the ‘quiet cultivation of a garden’ approach?”

A lorry thundered past, wind rocking the car slightly. Beyond it, the valley opened, rice paddies reflecting the sky like dull mirrors.

“My superior—former superior,” Eleanor said, “is named Liu Ren.”

Connor waited.

“He has a reputation,” she continued. “For competence. For discipline. For not failing. That reputation bought him latitude.”

“Latitude to go off-script,” Connor said.

“To recognise an inflexion point,” she replied. “Influence takes time. But disruption, properly timed, accelerates dependency. Fractures trust. Creates demand for stability.”

Connor glanced at her. “And you helped him see the opportunity.”

She did not deny it. “The United Kingdom was already unsettled. Energy vulnerability. Campus radicalisation. Political noise. We did not create the conditions. We exploited them.”

The road narrowed again, guardrails hugging the drop. The sea was not visible yet, but Connor could smell it faintly through the vents.

Connor smiled thinly. “I’m guessing Liu Ren isn’t sending you Christmas cards—or Spring Festival cards, rather.”

A beat. Then, quietly, “No.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “If he… neutralises me, his reputation will be restored, at least partially. And he will be given the opportunity to continue his more… aggressive approach.”

Connor nodded, eyes forward. A sign flashed past: Yilan 42km.

They drove on in silence, the mountains closing around them.

Connor felt the unease settle in, not fear, not exactly, but a sharpened awareness.

In Taiwan, the balance was wrong. Here, the terrain favoured her more than him. She looked like she belonged.

He did not.

He would never trust her. Not for a second.

And that, he suspected, would keep him alive.

CAFÉ SCHWARZENBERG, RINGSTRAẞE, VIENNA — EARLY EVENING

Cities with real intelligence traffic felt like corridors.

Vienna formed a conduit between East and West, between what people said and what they meant. Everyone assumed something was happening there inside one of its palatial-looking white buildings.

Which was why they sat at a small table outside a café near the Ringstraße instead. Trams passed with bureaucratic punctuality. They had ordered coffee despite the hour, and it had arrived without ceremony.

Maarja Kallas looked exactly as Zhang remembered: unhurried, unremarkable, dressed for the weather—dark wool coat, practical shoes, nothing new enough to invite comment.

Her short, iron-grey hair sported a low-maintenance style.

For several years, his contact in the Nerium had been Nikolai Kuzim, the impeccably mannered Tallinn crime broker whose discretion had become almost legendary in certain circles.

Zhang found Maarja infinitely harder to read than her predecessor.

English came naturally between them.

“You still drink it black,” Zhang said, nodding at her cup.

“Vienna treats coffee like a personality test,” she replied.

Zhang knew Maarja Kallas as a product of the Estonian Foreign Intelligence Service at its most austere—post-Soviet, underfunded, and intolerant of error.

Linguist by training, analyst by instinct, she had specialised in long-horizon surveillance and external action assessment, the kind that decided whether something should be done rather than how.

She was good.

When her compartment was quietly dismantled after a political mishandling abroad, to Zhang’s knowledge she exited cleanly—no bitterness, no memoirs, no leaks.

They let a tram pass, then continued.

Viennese strode past with a seeming haughtiness shielding them from obtrusions.

“There is a former colleague of mine,” Zhang said, folding his hands on the table. “She has become… unsettled.”

Kallas stirred her coffee once, slowly. “That happens.”

“She has access to material that was not meant to travel,” he continued. “Her judgement is no longer reliable.”

“And you would like her attitude permanently adjusted,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied. “However, she has a companion aiming to influence her in a different direction.”

“I assume I am not the first person you have tried to convince to help her change her ways.”

“No. A couple of our own employees failed to overcome the influence he has over her.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Western. British, we believe. He does not appear in our records.”

Kallas’s expression did not change, but something behind it recalibrated.

“If he does not appear,” she said, “it is because someone… creative… has decided he should not.”

Zhang nodded. “That was our conclusion.”

They sat in silence long enough for the café to feel ordinary again.

“This would be expensive,” Kallas said at last.

“Yes.”

“Unusually so.”

“Yes.”

“And contingent. There are people who would need to be satisfied that this does not trespass on… established boundaries.”

“I understand.”

She named a figure then—it would have sounded absurd anywhere else.

Zhang did not blink. He did not ask for justification. To haggle would have been to misunderstand the nature of the conversation.

“Acceptable,” he said. “But there is urgency. Delay increases the chance of dissemination.”

She nodded. “Then I will need everything you can provide on her. Habits. Contacts. Movements. Medical history. Anything you can reasonably release.”

“That can be arranged.”

“And the man?”

“We have recent still images. Germany.”

She reached into her bag and produced nothing—only adjusted its strap, a gesture so small it meant nothing to anyone else.

“You will send the material in the manner we discussed once, many years ago, about something entirely different.”

Zhang remembered: a spam file within the Trojan horse of a medical insurance offer.

He nodded.

Kallas reached for her coffee.

Zhang said, “There is something else.”

Her hand stopped before touching the cup.

“A second contract?”

“Entirely separate.”

That distinction mattered.

Kallas sat back.

Zhang continued. “A Taiwanese national. Doctor Liang Wei-Shen.”

Recognition came immediately.

“The semiconductor scientist.”

“Yes.”

“Your former colleague wants him corrected, too?”

“No. Liang is not to be harmed.”

“Then what does Tallinn have to do with him?”

“His wife and two children are travelling to Singapore. Their protective attachment has been reduced to two personnel.”

Maarja regarded him for several seconds.

“You want the family?”

“We want them relocated.”

“Voluntarily?”

Zhang gave her a look.

Kallas picked up her coffee.

“Where?”

“Haisheng Global Holdings can provide a private plane in Singapore once the family are secured for travel.”

She drank, then set the cup down.

“And Liang remains in Taiwan.”

“Yes.”

The silence changed.

The first contract had been familiar territory: locate two people and permanently remove them from the board.

The second required something altogether different.

“Alive,” Kallas said.

“All three.”

“Uninjured?”

“Where reasonably possible.”

“Those are not the same instruction.”

Zhang considered that.

“Alive. Functional. No permanent injury.”

“And once delivered?”

“Your involvement ends.”

Kallas studied him.

“What happens to Doctor Liang afterwards is none of our concern?”

“Correct.”

A tram groaned around the curve beyond them.

Kallas looked towards it.

“You understand that this is not an extension of the first contract.”

“I do.”

“It would be assessed independently. Approved independently. Resourced independently.”

“Yes.”

“And invoiced independently.”

“Of course.”

“Singapore is not Tallinn,” she said. “It is not Belgrade. It is not some failing jurisdiction where competent people can disappear into institutional confusion. The tolerance for error would be considerably lower.”

“Which is why I am speaking to you.”

That almost earned a smile.

Almost.

“What security accompanies them?”

“Two Taiwanese officers.”

“Armed?”

“I will provide everything we know.”

“Accommodation?”

“To follow.”

“Dates?”

“To follow.”

“Travel documents?”

“To follow.”

Kallas’s eyes hardened slightly.

“Then at present, you are asking me to price a problem you haven’t finished defining.”

“I am asking whether your organisation would consider solving it.”

That answer seemed to satisfy her more.

She looked out across the Ringstraße for several seconds before naming another figure.

This time, Zhang did react.

Not visibly enough for anyone but Maarja.

She noticed.

“As mentioned, this is separate from the Zhu contract,” she said.

“I understood that.”

“It does not include exceptional expenditure arising from changes in circumstances. Nor does it include anything beyond delivery of the three specified individuals.”

“To where?”

“That would be determined during planning. You would provide the required final destination. How they reach it would be our concern.”

Zhang considered the combined cost.

Liu Ren had told him the budget would not be restrictive.

Apparently, Maarja intended to test the definition.

“Accepted,” he said.

“You are accepting a provisional figure. I have not accepted the contract.”

“I understand.”

“Good.”

She finally lifted her cup again.

“Then you will send two packages. Completely separate. Zhu Mingxin and the unidentified British male in one. Liang’s family in the other. Nothing duplicated between them unless operationally relevant.”

“Yes.”

“If either is declined, it has no bearing on the other.”

“Understood.”

“If there is a decision, you will be informed. If there is not, you will hear nothing.”

As if reading his mind, Kallas added, “And if there is no decision, the information and any trace of its origin will be destroyed.”

Zhang accepted that without comment. Some reputations did not need defending, even among killers.

They finished their coffee. He paid the bill. The tram arrived on schedule.

As they stood, Kallas said, almost kindly, “As I am sure you are aware, once our correction mechanism has been engaged, it has never failed. No matter what the cost. You are buying a result, not a service.”

Zhang glanced at her.

“And the Liang contract?”

Maarja buttoned her coat.

“That isn’t a correction.”

“What would you call it?”

“Acquisition.”

She stepped away from the table.

“Different mechanism. Different price. Same expectation.”

Then she walked away, merging with the crowd.

8

GANGBIN ROAD (港濱路) — EARLY MORNING

Eleanor let herself drift, hypnotised by the moonlight glinting off the Philippine Sea. The road traced the coastline in a smooth, predatory curve, dark water rising and falling.

Rain began to trace down the windows.

It felt strange—despite his contempt for her being made clear and that he had no qualms about roughing her up if he judged it necessary, she felt safe with him.

Maybe not safe but a type of assurance.

He had demonstrated an unambiguous, ruthless competence and she believed him when he said that because his superior had deemed her worthy of protection, he would give it.

Eleanor thought back to the hotel—she had not seen a man fight like that.

Eleanor had lived her adult life on the periphery of high-level espionage. She had been surrounded by men fluent in the language of violence—men who spoke of it easily, abstractly, like economists discussing markets.

For the most part, her world had been cerebral: negotiations, leverage, manipulation, the slow architecture of influence.

Connor Reed’s rescue at the hotel had been viscerally physical.

Two fit, strong, capable agents dispatched with his bare hands. An efficient cruelty delivered at intimate range.

Still, there were plenty of brutes she had encountered who could do harm and inspire nothing but revulsion. What unsettled her was the paradox: the same man who had flatlined the two agents had recognised the translation of a Confucius quote without missing a beat; the same man who had gripped her throat as a form of negotiation had already planned their extraction with methodical precision.

That paradox intrigued her far more than she was willing to admit.

The droplets had begun to thump harder.

She was pulled from her reverie when he started talking.

Connor’s voice was low, controlled, clearly routed through his Bluetooth.

English, clipped and precise, punctuated by the occasional Japanese word or phrase. Operational shorthand.

She caught enough to understand.

They were being followed.

Instinctively, she turned her head—

His arm swung out fast, straight-arming her firmly across the chest, stopping her cold.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “You’ll give away that we know.”

Heat crept into her face.

Amateurish.

She forced her gaze forward again, fixing on the ribbon of road ahead.

Connor continued speaking, unbroken.

He thought the pursuers were armed. He needed to stop them reaching the port. He asked how fast they could execute the extraction.

A pause.

He nodded once.

“Three minutes,” he said, and ended the call.

Silence filled the car again, thicker now, heavier.

He glanced at her for the first time since the call began.

“We can’t risk whoever it is detaining us at the port; we’ll have to deal with this before we cross the threshold. If you want to make it out of this,” he said evenly, “you’ll do exactly what I say.”

Eleanor swallowed as she nodded.

***

Rain came in fast, sharp sheets, the kind that flattened sound and shortened distance. The road darkened instantly, oil lifting from the tarmac in rainbow smears.

Connor realised he had a problem inside a problem.

He still did not know who was behind them.

If the pursuers were Taiwanese law enforcement, lethal force was off the table.

Killing a police officer would not just trigger an international incident; it would ripple outward—slowly, bureaucratically, but inexorably—until it found the Chameleon Project.

Worse than that, it would violate a Ryder family rule older than any of them: You do not kill or maim law enforcement.

Ever.

If they were MSS, or MSS-adjacent proxies, the situation changed.

He felt no real compunction about killing them. He was honest enough with himself to know that this was not a clean moral line. An intent of rendition was still a possibility—at least for her.

He doubted it, though. This felt hurried. Overeager. Not the slow patience of Beijing.

Either way, one truth overrode everything else.

He could not let them have her.

Eleanor Zhu was not just an asset. She was a hinge. If a man like Liu Ren had been given carte blanche against the United Kingdom, then Eleanor’s mind might be crucial to help combat it.

Connor spoke without looking at her.

“I am going to slow down and stop while turning the car side-on,” he said. Calm. Precise. “I want you to open the door and run as hard as you can towards the port. Zigzag. I want them to see you running. I will catch you up.”

He glanced at her then.

To an untrained eye, her expression might have passed for mild concern. Connor knew better. She was aghast.

The calculation was already happening behind her eyes—risk versus probability.

She nodded once.

Good.

He took the next bend deliberately wide, then stamped the brake and yanked the wheel. The rear kicked out hard, slewing sideways across the lane, tyres screaming.

“Out.”

Eleanor moved instantly. The door flew open.

Connor was halfway out when the pursuing vehicle arrived.

They hit hard. Metal shrieked. The impact punched Connor off balance and threw him clear of the door. He rolled, came up low, and slid into a crouch beside the rear tyre, rain plastering his hair to his face.

He did not run.

He stayed still.

Rain reduced visibility. And adrenaline reduced consideration.

He leaned forward and looked beneath the chassis.

Two pairs of shoes hit the ground. Plain. Civilian. No uniform trousers.

In a rush—Good.

They assumed he had gone with her.

Connor lashed out from the crouch, driving his shin straight into the ankle as the man careered around the car. Bone met bone. He went down hard, shockingly loud even over the rain.

The second man reacted fast—too fast for a cop on a routine tail. Connor surged forward and crashed into him, hands already moving. He felt the pistol before he saw it.

T75K1.

Taiwanese service issue.

Connor twisted, stripped the weapon clean from the grip, and pivoted behind the man in one fluid motion, wrenching his arm back and locking him upright as a shield. The second pursuer had recovered enough to level his own pistol.

He hesitated.

Connor fired once.

The round punched through the man’s pistol hand. Bone fragmented. The gun clattered to the ground. The scream came a half-second later.

Connor released his shield, stepped back and fired again, kneecapping the man he had just let go. The leg folded. The man collapsed with a howl.

Connor walked forward through the rain.

The remaining man stared at his ruined hand in disbelief, breath coming in panicked bursts. Connor kept the pistol trained on him, then ended it with a leaping left hook that shut the lights off instantly.

Connor scooped up the second pistol, turned, and slid back into the car as headlights appeared up the road behind the damaged vehicles. He yanked the wheel, jolted the accelerator twice, and forced his hire car through the narrow gap between the two men on the ground, tyres missing flesh by inches.

He drove blind for thirty seconds, then spotted her ahead—dark hair plastered to her back, coat flaring as she ran.

“Eleanor!” he shouted through the open window.

She glanced back once. He slowed just enough.

She jumped.

The door slammed. He threw out the pistols—one of the stipulations had been that he board unarmed—and accelerated hard, rain streaking sideways as the mountain pass opened out, concrete barriers giving way to the wide arterial road that fed directly into the port complex.

Lights. Cranes. Steel and sodium glare.

Connor scanned, filtered, selected.

There.

A compact coastal freighter sat low in the water, matte grey hull scarred and functional rather than civilian-polished. Twin gantry cranes loomed overhead. He pulled in hard.

They bailed out together, grabbed their gear and ran.

A crewman stepped forward, shouting in the pre-arranged Japanese challenge, posture alert but not panicked. Connor answered without breaking stride, voice sharp, authoritative, vocabulary correct.

The man hesitated, then waved them on.

They crossed the gangway as rain hammered the deck.

Containers lashed down under tarps cluttered the deck, a workmanlike vessel built for short hops and anonymity.

No name painted large. Just a small identifier on the bow and a Japanese flag snapping wetly from the mast.

Connor ushered Eleanor ahead of him and did not look back until the ship’s steel swallowed them whole.

9

SWITZERLAND — ZURICH — PRIVATE FINANCIAL DISTRICT (ENGE) — MID-MORNING

Zurich had long been a haven for nefarious international planning, long as the resulting actions did not occur there.

The meeting room sat three floors below street level, windowless, sound-treated, and accessed via a private lift that never appeared in the building’s public directory.

Officially, the floor belonged to a fiduciary services firm specialising in cross-border probate disputes—dull enough to repel curiosity, legitimate enough to survive scrutiny.

Ilze Rudzīte had arranged it years ago and never explained how. Maarja had never asked.

Rudzīte served as Nerium’s financial insulator—architect of the layered companies and legitimate fronts that rendered dangerous money indistinguishable from revenue.

If Ilze cannot make the money boring, the operation doesn’t happen.

Anselm Voigt was already seated when Maarja arrived, jacket folded with military neatness over the back of the chair, hands resting lightly on the table as if it were a lectern.

Though Voigt possessed a tall, spare frame, his posture bent slightly forward; Maarja sometimes wondered if this was the imprint of decades spent talking to the women of Nerium.

His tousled grey hair matched his suit, which seemed conservative to the point of anonymity.

Now in his sixties, the former East German intelligence specialist worked as an adviser within the EU apparatus.

Within Nerium, the three of them formed The Stewardship—the governing authority of a deniable intelligence organisation descended from an abandoned Estonian covert-action compartment.

No director, and deliberately no single point of failure.

Ilze controlled the money and possessed an absolute veto where Nerium’s financial survival was threatened.

Voigt measured political exposure—how much a state could absorb before it panicked, and how far it would look away once the deed was done.

Maarja judged operations: feasibility, personnel, boundaries and whether a contract deserved Nerium’s involvement at all.

Most decisions required two of the three to concur. When Ilze and Voigt divided over competing financial and political considerations, the deciding judgement fell to Maarja.

Three people.

Three questions.

Can it be done?

Can Nerium survive doing it?

Can the money disappear afterwards?

Ilze sat opposite Voigt, reviewing a thin paper ledger with a fountain pen, glasses perched low on her nose. Her hair, once chestnut, now threaded with grey, fell to her shoulders and was brushed back neatly, not cut for efficiency.

No greetings were required.

Maarja took the remaining seat and placed her tablet face down on the table.

“I met with Zhang Wei,” she said.

Voigt inclined his head a fraction. “MSS External Liaison. Eurasian desk.”

Ilze closed the ledger. “Operational influence broker,” she added. “Not a handler. Not a decision-maker. A conduit between his masters and the sensitive events they want enacted.”

Maarja nodded.

“He brought two contracts.”

Voigt’s eyes settled on her.

“The first concerns a former asset they knew in the West as Eleanor Zhu.”

Voigt leaned back slowly. His face did not change, but something behind his eyes did—recognition layered with calculation.

“Eleanor Zhu,” he said. “Unofficial liaison between the think tank Sino-Atlantic Dialogue and UK refugee integration strategy. And a senior policy adviser to the now-deceased Sir Alistair Vane.”

“Correct,” said Maarja. “In actuality, a talented agent in the MSS Psychological Operations Bureau. Grey recruitment.”

Ilze exhaled through her nose. “An organiser then, not a killer. Shouldn’t be a challenge to any of the girls.”

“Or boys,” said Anselm. “You do seem to forget we have men in our organisation.”

They smiled.

Although Nerium possessed several male operatives, its internal assessments had reached the conclusion that women—especially older women—sustained long-duration surveillance better, attracting less counter-surveillance attention and proving less likely to escalate through testosterone-fuelled emotion.

Indeed, the last time The Stewardship had designated a male leader had been two and a half years ago.

Ilze allowed herself the faintest smile. “Just because Nikolai had sound strategic reasons for recruiting almost exclusively women, let’s not pretend the man did not see himself as Charlie and the operators as his angels.”

Voigt and Maarja smiled in agreement.

For nearly two decades, Nikolai Kuzim had quietly insulated Nerium from Europe’s criminal underworld—finding clients worth hearing, arranging procurements that respectable governments could never acknowledge, and ensuring the organisation never had to dirty its own hands negotiating with gangsters.

After the Van Der Saar operation, however, The Stewardship had concluded that relying upon a single criminal intermediary had become an unnecessary vulnerability.

Kuzim himself had agreed. Nerium settled its obligations, transferred several long-established commercial fronts into Nikolai’s ownership, and wished him a comfortable retirement.

“He survived thirty-five years of organised crime,” Ilze said quietly. “Only for eighteen months of retirement to kill him.”

“Too much whisky. Too many cigars. Too much good food,” agreed Voigt. “Probably not the worst way for Nikolai to go.”

Maarja smiled to herself but did wish the heart attack might have waited a few more years before striking.

The reorganisation that followed proved healthier than anyone had expected. Kuzim’s financial infrastructure folded naturally into Ilze’s commercial networks, while his procurement channels dispersed among regional civilian cut-outs.

Nerium became leaner, quieter, and considerably harder to map from the outside.

“The Zhu contract has a complication,” Maarja continued. “She is currently under the protection of an unknown male. The MSS believes he is SIS.”

Voigt’s fingers tightened once on the table.

“Believes?”

“They are struggling to place him. Minimal digital footprint. No reliable financial trail. No family data that resolves. He surfaced weeks ago in Germany during the attempted execution of Karl Deiter by MSS proxies. Deiter had been a cog in an operation against the United Kingdom.”

Maarja paused.

“The same man subsequently intervened during an attempted extraction of Zhu in a Taipei hotel, temporarily neutralising two MSS officers.”

“And got her out cleanly?” asked Ilze.

“She disappeared immediately afterwards.”

Voigt frowned. “How certain are they it is the same man?”

“The officers provided a description consistent with the individual observed in Germany. Build, colouring, approximate age, nationality. It is an assessment, not a forensic identification.”

“And Zhang wants him removed as well?” Ilze asked.

“Yes. Zhu and her protector. Both.”

Ilze’s pen paused mid-air. “What price did Zhang offer?”

“He did not make an offer,” Maarja said. “I told him the price.”

She turned her tablet face up and slid it across the table.

Ilze read the figure.

€42,000,000.

“A little higher than your usual,” Voigt murmured. “Even for two targets.”

“Two tranches,” Maarja replied. “One on acceptance. One on confirmation. Zhang did not put up a flicker of protest.”

Voigt shook his head slowly. “Because they do not want the contents of Eleanor Zhu’s head spilt out for the West to pick at.”

“That explains his willingness to pay,” Maarja agreed. “The protector is the reason I made it so high. And I am glad I did.”

She reached into her bag and removed a slim physical folder—paper, not digital—and laid it on the table between them.

Maarja took out two sets of still photographs. Surveillance stills, grain-corrected, time-stamped, annotated.

One set dated from two weeks ago; the pictures showed a compact, athletic man with dark blond hair in the Neukölln area of Berlin and again meeting with bikers at the Vogelschutzgebiet Fiener Bruch—a bird-watching area on the outskirts of the German capital.

The other set was from two and a half years ago.

The same man crossing a street in Amsterdam.

The same man reflected in a café window.

A third image—distant, oblique—showing him watching a river from a bridge.

Voigt stared.

The colour drained from his face with professional efficiency, leaving something colder behind.

“No,” he said softly.

Ilze leaned across. “What is it?”

Maarja kept her voice level.

“Two and a half years ago, Nerium accepted a contract from the Franklin Organised Crime Group. Target—Raymond Van Der Saar.”

Ilze nodded. “Dutch narcotics. Maritime distribution.”

“We succeeded,” Maarja continued. “But we lost five operatives. The most we have ever lost on a single mission.”

Voigt did not look away from the images.

“We assumed it was down to luck on Van Der Saar’s protection team. Or a mistake by one of our own.”

“We conducted a private investigation,” Maarja said. “Months long. These images surfaced. We could never place him conclusively at the kill-chain level. But we believe he contributed.”

Ilze straightened.

“Nerium does not work out of revenge.”

“No,” Maarja agreed. “But it does work to recalibrate beliefs.”

She tapped the folder gently.

“This man dented the idea that we are untouchable. Perhaps only among some of our less competent members. But dents matter.”

Voigt remained silent for several seconds.

Finally, he nodded.

“Not only the money,” he said. “But the utility. Remaining in the good graces of a rising superpower carries weight.”

“And the British?” Ilze asked.

Voigt’s mouth tightened.

“They are a post-imperial great power. Still dangerous. But accustomed to loss.”

Maarja inclined her head once. Then she retrieved the tablet.

“There is the second contract.”

Ilze returned her attention to her ledger.

“Entirely separate?”

“Entirely.”

Maarja opened another file.

“Doctor Liang Wei-Shen.”

Recognition came immediately.

“The Taiwanese semiconductor scientist,” Voigt said.

“Yes.”

“Another correction?”

“No. Liang is not the target.”

Maarja looked between them.

“His wife and two children are travelling to Singapore. The Taiwanese originally intended to provide seven protection officers. That has been reduced to two.”

Ilze understood.

“They want the family.”

“Yes.”

“Dead?”

“Alive.”

Voigt’s expression changed.

“To what end?”

“Relocation.”

“Where?”

“Zhang did not specify a final destination. Haisheng Global Holdings can provide a private aircraft in Singapore once the family has been secured for travel.”

Voigt looked at her.

“Haisheng.”

“Yes.”

The name required no elaboration, as all three knew that behind the dummy umbrella companies and straw men, the MSS owned HGH.

“And Liang remains in Taiwan.”

“Yes.”

The silence changed.

Three people disappeared from Singapore. Shortly afterwards, one of Taiwan’s most valuable technical specialists would presumably be presented with a compelling reason to reconsider his loyalties.

Ilze tapped her pen against the ledger once.

“So the MSS wants Nerium to kidnap a woman and two children.”

“Zhang used the word relocate.”

“Of course he did.”

“I called it acquisition.”

Voigt considered that distinction.

“Alive,” he said.

“All three.”

“Uninjured?”

“Where reasonably possible.”

Ilze looked at Maarja.

“Those are not the same instruction.”

“No. I clarified it. Alive, functional, no permanent injury.”

“And once transferred?”

“Our involvement ends.”

Voigt leaned back.

“Singapore is not Tallinn.”

“No.”

“Competent internal security. Extensive surveillance. Strong relationships with both Beijing and Western governments.”

“Which is reflected in the price.”

Maarja moved her finger across the tablet.

A second figure appeared beneath the first.

ZHU MINGXIN/UNIDENTIFIED BRITISH MALE – €42,000,000

LIANG FAMILY ACQUISITION – €58,000,000

Ilze stared at it.

“One hundred million euros.”

“If we accept both.”

“Separate accounting?”

“Completely. Separate contracts. Separate assessment. Separate resourcing. Separate personnel if necessary. Neither is contingent upon the success of the other.”

“Payment structure on Liang?”

“Twenty million on acceptance. Twenty million once all three are under our control. Eighteen million upon confirmed transfer.”

“Exceptional expenditure?”

“Outside the figure if circumstances materially change.”

Ilze considered it.

“And Zhang?”

“Accepted the provisional price without negotiation.”

That interested her.

“He accepted forty-two million and fifty-eight million without bargaining?”

“Yes.”

Voigt folded his hands.

“Then whoever stands behind Zhang considers the combined outcome worth at least one hundred million euros.”

“The Chinese state,” Ilze said.

Nobody corrected her.

Voigt looked again at the Liang file.

“If this fails publicly, Taiwan will understand immediately what was attempted. Singapore will investigate aggressively. Beijing will deny everything.”

“And Nerium becomes the layer between accusation and proof,” Ilze said.

“Precisely.”

She adjusted her glasses.

“Financially, I can separate them. Different structures, different routes, no shared payment architecture.”

Voigt looked at her.

“And the size of the relationship?”

“A concern. One contract is revenue. Two simultaneous contracts from the same intelligence service begin to resemble dependency.”

“Potential dependency,” Maarja said.

“Yes. Which is why I would not allow either payment structure to create continuing leverage over us.”

Voigt nodded.

Maarja looked between them.

“Zhang is not simply buying two outcomes.”

Neither interrupted.

“He is testing us.”

Voigt understood immediately.

“Whether Nerium can become useful to Beijing.”

“Yes.”

The room settled again.

The first contract asked Nerium to erase a problem.

The second asked it to create leverage.

Voigt looked once more at the photographs of the unidentified British man.

“I approve Zhu and the protector,” he said. “The political risk is proportionate to the value.”

Ilze nodded.

“So do I.”

Maarja looked down at the man’s face.

Two votes.

The correction was authorised.

“And Liang?” she asked.

Voigt took longer.

“Assessment only at this stage. I want the complete security picture before approval.”

Ilze considered the figures in her ledger.

“Financially viable, provided it remains completely insulated from the first contract.”

Maarja nodded.

“Agreed.”

The acquisition would proceed to operational assessment.

“Do you know who to give the Zhu contract to?” Ilze asked.

Maarja looked again at the photographs from Amsterdam.

“We all know who I am going to give this to.”

The other two members of The Stewardship nodded.

When there was no room for mistakes, you sent your best.

The air settled with the gravity of the decisions made.

ROTTERDAM — EARLY MORNING

The wind off the brackish Maas River carried the odour of diesel.

Marianne adjusted the collar of her charcoal wool coat and watched the cranes move in deliberate arcs above the stacked containers.

She stood tall for a woman, her solid frame planted comfortably against the wind.

The port always impressed her—not for its scale, but for its choreography. Thousands of movements, timed within seconds. A system that functioned because most parts behaved as expected.

Most.

She wore flat boots; steel-toed, but discreet.
A hi-vis vest lay folded over her arm. Her watch—mechanical, silver-faced—ticked with a certainty she trusted more than the handheld scanners clipped to the belts of the port staff waiting for her.

“Dr Hawthorne?” the port compliance officer asked, slightly breathless.

He looked at her twice. Not for recognition—for calibration.

She knew herself to be an attractive woman by any objective measure, though it seldom registered immediately. The charcoal coat, shoulder-length dark blonde hair, and complete lack of ornamentation encouraged people to see an experienced civil servant before anything else. She preferred it that way in a professional setting.

She nodded once. “Yes. Shall we begin with Bay C?”

He hesitated, just a fraction. “We were going to start with—”

“Bay C,” she repeated gently. “The refrigeration variance was logged there first.”

There was no edge in her voice. None was needed.

They walked between containers sweating faint condensation in the cool air. Marianne ran her fingers along the seam of one unit, then wiped them against a handkerchief. Clean. No residue.

“Temperature logs,” she said.

The officer handed her a tablet. She glanced once, twice. Her eyes moved quickly—not darting, just efficient.

“Who signed off on this discrepancy?” she asked.

“A junior supervisor. It was within tolerance.”

“It was within tolerance for six hours,” she said. “Then it corrected itself too neatly.”

He frowned. “You think it’s equipment failure?”

Marianne closed the tablet. The breeze lifted a strand of hair at her temple before settling it back into place.

“I think,” she said evenly, “that equipment rarely fails politely.”

She crouched beside the refrigeration unit, examining the vent housing. No theatrics. Just attention.

A gull shrieked overhead. Forklifts hummed in the near distance.

She stood again, brushing dust from her hands.

“Open it,” she said.

As the doors swung back, a breath of cold air escaped. Grain sacks. Labelled, stacked precisely.

She stepped inside without hesitation.

Marianne inhaled once.

“Do you smell that?” she asked.

The officer leaned in. “Cold storage.”

“No,” she said quietly. “It’s slightly sweet.”

He said nothing.

She walked the length of the container, fingertips trailing lightly over canvas. Not pressing—assessing tension. She stopped midway.

“This batch came from Latvia?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And was consolidated in Gdańsk?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

She nodded, as though confirming something only she had been considering.

“We’ll take samples,” she said. “Full panel.”

The officer shifted uneasily. “Is it serious?”

Marianne stepped back into the daylight.

“Serious,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Not yet.”

She folded her hi-vis vest over her arm again, precise in the motion.

“Containment prevents escalation,” she added. “That’s the purpose of early detection.”

He nodded, reassured—more by her certainty than her words.

Marianne glanced once more at the container, then towards the cranes in the distance.

Her absorbing grey eyes moved rapidly across the figures, each line weighed before the next.

Systems did not announce collapse.

They suggested it—quietly.

She checked her watch.

“Let’s move,” she said.

And walked on.

ABOARD THE COASTAL FREIGHTER — EAST CHINA SEA

The ship smelled of steel, detergent and old oil.

Eleanor and Connor followed the sailor down a narrow companionway, the deck plates vibrating faintly beneath her boots as the engines settled into their rhythm.

The rain still hammered somewhere above them, but below deck, the world became enclosed, metallic, almost submarine.

The sailor gestured ahead.

“This way, please. We show you the galley first. Food time is seven morning, twelve noon, and nineteen evening. If late, kitchen is close.”

His English was excellent—structured, careful—but she could hear the slight stiffness of second-language precision.

He pronounced each syllable as though ensuring it would land correctly.

Connor walked half a step behind her. Not close enough to crowd. Close enough to intervene.

They passed three Japanese crewmen in navy coveralls. The men glanced at her, then away again—neutral, appraising.

She lowered her gaze fractionally.

If they assumed she was Taiwanese, their attitude had a better chance of remaining professional—distant but uncharged.

Japan and Taiwan shared a complicated but largely cordial modern relationship. Shared trade, shared strategic anxieties, cultural familiarity.

If they read her as mainland Chinese, the temperature might shift—not open hostility, but perhaps a quietly carried suspicion.

She kept her expression composed.

They turned another corner. The accent changed.

Two crew members speaking rapidly to one another—Korean.

The consonants were sharper, rhythm faster. One of the men met her eyes, held them a second too long.

She understood then.

This was not a vessel casually bribed for passage.

This crew was assembled.

Japanese registry. Korean labour. Efficient English-speaking intermediary.

Smugglers.

She felt the old instinctive tightening in her chest—the quiet calculation that had kept her alive in other rooms, other corridors.

The sailor leading them glanced back at her again. Too often.

You are being paranoid, she told herself. Your nervous system is wired after the car chase.

They descended a short ladder, turned twice more. The air grew warmer.

The sailor stopped outside a metal cabin door.

“This is his room,” he said, nodding towards Connor.

Connor opened it, stepped inside briefly, scanned once, then returned.

“Where is her cabin?”

The sailor hesitated.

“It is fine. Around corner.”

Eleanor frowned slightly. She had not realised she was not to be next to him.

Connor did not move.

“I’ll see it,” he said.

The sailor’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Yes. This way.”

The walk was longer than she expected. Another narrow passage. A short staircase down. Two turns that subtly disoriented.

They stopped at a second door.

The sailor opened it halfway.

Connor stepped past him and pushed it fully open.

Eleanor leaned in.

The room was empty of people, but not vacant.

A duffel bag lay half unzipped on the lower bunk. A pair of men’s boots tucked neatly beneath it. A shaving kit balanced beside a sink. A paperback in Korean on the narrow desk. A phone charging from the wall outlet. A crumpled cigarette packet on the sill.

Occupied.

Connor shook his head once.

“No,” he said evenly. “We’ll have cabins next to one another. For the duration.”

The sailor’s tone sharpened.

“There are no such cabins.”

“She isn’t staying here.”

The sailor’s composure slipped. His hand moved fast—quicker than she expected—dipping beneath the edge of the doorway.

Metal flashed.

A compact pistol—a black CZ P-10 C, polymer-framed, suppressed.

What happened next did not unfold in steps.

It snapped.

Connor moved so fast her mind registered positions, not motion.

One moment, the sailor had the pistol half raised.

The next, he was pinned flat against the bulkhead, his wrist twisted, the weapon stripped clean from his grip. Connor stood inside his space, forearm across the man’s throat, the muzzle pressed under his jawline.

No wasted movement.

The sailor’s breathing hitched.

“You find us adjacent cabins,” Connor said softly. “Or I kill you and put you over the side.”

Rain hammered the hull.

“Ask yourself,” Connor continued, voice almost conversational, “whether avenging your death is worth what the Gādian has paid for safe passage—because my guess is that it is not.”

The sailor swallowed, eyes wide.

“There is… there is a room. Two beds. En suite. Partition between. Private. Yes. Privacy guaranteed.”

Connor held him there another beat.

Then he stepped back.

He deliberately engaged the safety catch before handing the pistol back, grip-first.

The sailor accepted it gingerly, both hands trembling now.

“This way,” he muttered.

They climbed one level up and walked along a narrower corridor. The ship rolled gently, steadying into open water.

The sailor stopped at another door and stepped aside.

Connor opened it.

This cabin was clearly prepared.

Two narrow bunks, parallel, separated by a waist-high wooden partition fixed between them. A small en suite shower behind a sliding door. A single porthole streaked with rain. Metal lockers at the foot of each bed. Clean sheets. No personal items.

Empty.

Connor nodded once.

“Thank you,” he said evenly, as though nothing had occurred.

The sailor left without replying.

Connor stepped aside, allowing her to enter first.

The door closed behind them.

Silence.

The cabin was small but sufficient. Functional. No unnecessary softness.

Eleanor stood still for a moment.

She understood.

That longer corridor. The occupied cabin. The glance.

He had not been being cautious.

He had prevented her from being raped.

She looked at him.

“I have to tell you something,” she said quietly.

The engines hummed beneath them as the ship pushed north into dark water.

10

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY HEADQUARTERS  — XICHENG DISTRICT, BEIJING — NIGHT

Liu Ren replaced the handset with deliberate care.

The faint click as it settled into its cradle sounded far louder in the stillness of his office.

For three seconds he allowed the anger to exist.

Once again, the Caucasian demon had protected Zhu Mingxin, this time from Taiwanese MSS proxy agents.

He inhaled slowly through his nose, held the breath for four seconds, then exhaled in a thin, disciplined stream. Again. And again. His pulse settled. The faint tremor at the edge of his fingers stilled. The heat behind his eyes cooled into clarity.

Anger was wasted energy.

Planning and action would be the balm against problems and crises.

He rose from behind his desk and walked to the window of his office inside the Ministry compound in Beijing.

The city stretched beneath him in regimented grids—steel, glass, flags and cameras. The winter air beyond the reinforced panes looked clean. It was not. Nothing at this level was.

Whoever this was shielding Mingxin, it would not matter.

The Nerium always got their target, and Mingxin and her protector would be no different.

Besides, she was soon to be bumped down his list of priorities.

He turned back towards his desk, opening the locked drawer beneath the surface. Inside, lay a slim black folder with no markings. No digital copy existed. He did not trust digital permanence—not for this.

Even Mingxin had not been told.

He had hinted, perhaps—just enough to keep her aligned. But she did not know the architecture. She did not know the leverage.

Only the scope.

If this succeeded, it would not merely neutralise an adversary.

It would rebalance global influence.

For years, the upper echelons of the Ministry of State Security had desired a particular strategic outcome—something that would tilt an entire Western security environment subtly but irreversibly. Economic leverage alone had not delivered it. Cyber operations had dented but not broken it. Political influence had seeded but not flowered.

He would give them what they wanted.

Not noise.

Not spectacle.

Control.

And when he did, the entire leadership of the MSS would be in his debt and despite Zhao sharing the spoils, the right people would know that who was the real driving force behind the operation.

And beyond them—the Party itself.

In the current climate, “corruption investigations” were elastic. They were reserved not only for the guilty, but for the inconvenient. For the ambitious. For those deemed insufficiently loyal. Or insufficiently useful.

Xi Jinping’s consolidation had reshaped the risk matrix. Anti-corruption campaigns were surgical in their language and political in their outcomes. Real, imagined, anticipated internal threats—any could be drawn into the web.

Ren intended to become indispensable.

COASTAL FREIGHTER — EAST CHINA SEA

The cabin door closed with a kissing sound.

Connor watched Eleanor take a few steps into the room before turning to him.

“I have to tell you something,” she said quietly.

He looked at her, nodded, then pulled the chair back from the table and gestured.

“Let’s sit.”

Eleanor did so, and he sat opposite her at the foot of his bed.

Her breathing had steadied, but not the shock still behind her eyes. The last hour had stripped away whatever illusion of control she had clung to.

Connor watched her without expression.

The ship’s engines thrummed through the hull. Metal vibrated faintly beneath their boots.

After a moment, Eleanor spoke.

“Do you know what Taiwan’s Silicon Shield is?”

“Yes.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Tell me.”

“Taiwan manufactures most of the world’s advanced semiconductors. The most advanced nodes. Sub-five nanometre. Sub-three. The global economy depends on those fabs operating without interruption. Phones, vehicles, military systems, AI infrastructure—all rely on Taiwanese output. If Taiwan falls or its fabrication plants shut down, supply chains collapse. Markets crash. China loses access to the very chips it cannot yet produce at scale. The economic shock would be global and immediate. That interdependence acts as deterrence against its invasion.”

He paused.

“It’s not sentiment protecting Taiwan. It’s systemic vulnerability.”

He saw it then—the faint tightening around her eyes. Mild surprise, perhaps at his precision.

Instead, she leaned back slightly.

“There is a man,” she said. “Taiwan’s most pre-eminent chief technology officer. The most important technical mind in the country.”

“Name?”

“Dr Liang Wei-Shen.”

Connor filed it away.

“He is a genius,” Eleanor continued. “Architect of multiple node transitions. He oversees process integration and future lithography pathways. Without him, Taiwan’s technological lead narrows significantly.”

Connor nodded once. “And?”

“He is the only individual outside of Taiwan’s president and vice president who receives a permanent protective attachment from the National Security Bureau. A small team who work with the National Police Agency detail assigned to him.”

Connor understood the implication. NSB protection meant counter-surveillance, counterintelligence, layered guard.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

Eleanor seemed to hesitate before answering.

“Before you arrived at the hotel, I received a message from one of my shadow assets.”

Connor’s expression changed slightly.

“Your shadow assets?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been excommunicated by the MSS. They sent two blokes to drag you out of a hotel. How are you still handling their assets?”

“I’m not. Not officially.”

Connor waited.

“Some of the people I recruited over the years maintained secondary reporting channels directly to me. Compartmentalised channels for intelligence considered particularly sensitive.”

“And Beijing hasn’t shut them down?”

“Beijing doesn’t control both ends.”

Connor frowned.

Eleanor continued.

“When I slipped my protective detail in Germany, I knew I might have hours before my Ministry access disappeared. So I contacted several assets I had personally recruited and instructed them to continue using their established secondary channels until told otherwise.”

“You didn’t tell them that you’d fallen out of favour with MSS, to put it mildly?”

“No.”

A trace of something approaching amusement touched Connor’s face.

“So they’re still sending intelligence to a woman they think works for Beijing.”

“Some are. Others went silent.”

“And this one?”

“He’s a Taiwanese materials chemist. I recruited him years ago. The Ministry eventually formalised his handling elsewhere, but I remained his shadow handler.”

Connor nodded slowly.

“So Peng thinks you’re still part of the machine.”

“He has no reason to think otherwise.”

“And presumably whatever he sends you also goes through his proper handler.”

“Correct.”

“Meaning Liu Ren will see it.”

“If Liu still oversees the most valuable Taiwanese sources, yes. Though I receive the raw report whereas Liu Ren will receive a report augmented by collaborative intelligence.”

Connor leaned forward slightly.

“What did Peng send you?”

“Liang’s family are travelling to Singapore. His daughter is participating in a youth philharmonic residency. His wife and son are accompanying her.”

“Liang?”

“No. He remains in Taiwan. He apparently wanted to travel with them but doesn’t expect the authorities to permit it.”

“Protection?”

“Originally seven. Reduced to two after objections from the family.”

Connor was silent for a moment.

“And this worries you because Liu is aggressive by MSS standards. Hence the operations in the UK.”

“Correct. It may amount to nothing,” she said. “Liang himself isn’t leaving Taiwan. His family travelling to Singapore does not automatically make them vulnerable.”

Connor said, “But Liu Ren has access to enormous operational resources, and he is comfortable working through proxies. If he believed Liang could be influenced through his family, Singapore might present an opportunity he would never get in Taiwan.”

She looked at him. “Yes.”

SKY MERIDIAN APARTMENT BLOCK — HSINCHU SCIENCE PARK DISTRICT, TAIWAN — LATE EVENING

The bedroom door closed softly behind him.

Wei-Shen waited a moment before speaking. The children’s voices carried faintly from the living room—his fourteen-year-old daughter, Yu-An, explaining something about bowing technique, his son, nine-year-old Wei-Jun, interrupting with questions about airport security scanners.

Mei-Hua stood beside the wardrobe, folding one of Yu-An’s concert blouses with surgical precision.

“She was selected,” he said quietly. “The youth orchestra exchange. Singapore Philharmonic Youth Recital”

“I know.” Mei-Hua did not look up. “She has told me three times.”

He moved to the window. Hsinchu’s night skyline glowed beyond the glass. The fabs were lit like ships at sea.

“It is a good opportunity.”

“It is,” she replied.

He cleared his throat. “The dates coincide.”

She finished folding the blouse before turning. “With what?”

“A closed-door round table. Ministry of Economic Affairs, National Security Bureau observers. US delegation. Defence analysts.” He chose his words carefully. “It concerns comparative node assessment.”

Such was his wife’s intelligence and their relationship; none of this would go over her head.

Mei-Hua leaned back against the wardrobe. “And you must attend.”

“Yes.”

“Must,” she repeated.

He nodded once.

The round table was not ceremonial. It would involve classified yield projections, EUV procurement pipelines, predictive modelling of Chinese domestic lithography maturity. Quiet intelligence overlays. Defence implications.

If he did not attend, the conversation would proceed without the one person who truly understood the stochastic margins.

“I cannot delegate this,” he said.

“You never can.”

Her tone was even. That was worse.

He moved closer, lowering his voice.

“I have arranged Singapore.”

Her brow tightened slightly. “Arranged?”

“Business class. Direct flight. Private car transfers. Non-public hotel booking.” He hesitated. “And a discreet two-man team.”

She stared at him.

“No.”

“It is precautionary.”

“It is invasive.”

“It is necessary.”

“For a violin residency?”

“It is not the event—it is because you are my family.”

The silence between them thickened.

She stepped past him and sat on the edge of the bed.

“They will follow us?”

“They will remain at distance.”

“And Yu-An?”

“They will not intrude.”

She looked up at him now.

“They will see.”

He understood what she meant.

Children notice.

“They already know there are guards,” he said softly.

“That does not mean they accept it.”

He knelt in front of her, resting his hands loosely on his thighs.

“I will not risk you,” he said.

Her expression softened, but only slightly.

“I did not marry you for safety teams.”

“I know.”

“I married you because you believed in something.”

“That is my point.”

“And I am proud of that.” She exhaled slowly. “But Yu-An wants you there, not bodyguards.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I will watch the live stream.”

“That is not the same.”

A statement, not an accusation.

He sat beside her.

“The Americans might have more of an intelligence load on where the mainland is right now, but they will not know how to interpret their findings accurately, which is why they need me. You know our nation’s sovereignty is at this moment reliant on our edge in semiconductor technology.”

She nodded and reached for his hand.

“You are too brilliant for your own good,” she said quietly with a smile that didn’t reach the eyes. “No one can hope to take over.”

“There are many talented technicians in this field. And our government will always incentivise them—through patriotism and fiscally.”

“Our children will only be young once, Wei-Shen.”

The words were gentle. Unavoidable.

He nodded.

“I am trying to help build the Taiwan they will inherit.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly against hers.

“I will come for the final evening,” he said.

She did not answer immediately.

“You always intend to.”

“I will.”

She studied him, searching for variance in tone the way he studied yield fluctuations.

“Fine,” she said at last. “Singapore.”

“And the team.”

Her jaw set—then relaxed.

“Two men,” she said. “Invisible.”

“Invisible.”

“No hovering.”

“No hovering.”

“No speaking to the children.”

“Agreed.”

She nodded slowly.

He exhaled—not relief, but acknowledgement.

From the living room, Yu-An’s violin began again—a tentative run through a passage she had not yet mastered.

Mei-Hua squeezed his hand.

“She will look for you,” she said softly.

He listened to the imperfect notes drift down the hallway.

“I will be watching,” he replied.

It sounded sufficient.

It did not feel sufficient.

11

SIS HEADQUARTERS — VAUXHALL CROSS — LATE AFTERNOON

Ciara always felt the building before she entered it—perhaps because, despite having been inside many times, she had never become too familiar with it.

The Thames moved past SIS Headquarters like a roaming sentry. The concrete geometry of Vauxhall Cross still struck her as defensive architecture disguised as bureaucracy.

Inside, Miles Parker’s office remained defiantly traditional.

Polished oak. Red leather. The air faintly scented with old paper and polish rather than disinfectant and server coolant. Behind her chair hung the framed copy of Nelson dying at Trafalgar—empire and sacrifice rendered in oil.

Opposite it, over Parker’s desk, the portrait of Marcus Aurelius and the Latin line about wrestling rather than dancing.

Parker occupied his side of the desk with quiet mass. Bald dome catching the soft light. Rimless glasses perched low as he studied her. Kevin O’Hara sat to her left at the conference table—composed, hands folded, listening rather than waiting to speak.

Ciara began, “I need a piece of intelligence corroborated.”

O’Hara gave a slight nod. “Go on.”

“Dr Liang Wei-Shen. I have intelligence that his wife and two children are travelling to Singapore soon. His daughter is participating in a youth philharmonic residency. Liang himself will remain in Taiwan.”

“Source?” Parker asked.

“Sensitive.”

“Reliability?”

“The original source has reported accurately before, but the route through which we’ve obtained it is unconventional.”

Parker accepted the distinction.

“What specifically do you want corroborated?”

“The travel itself. Dates when available, accommodation, and their protective attachment. I’m told Taiwan originally intended to send seven security personnel. Following objections from the family, that has been reduced to two.”

O’Hara considered it.

“I’ll see what our sources can confirm.”

“Thank you.”

Parker watched her for another moment.

“You haven’t come here merely because a scientist’s family is attending a concert.”

“No.”

Ciara placed her hands together on the table.

“I think they may be vulnerable to MSS rendition.”

O’Hara’s expression suggested scepticism before he spoke.

“That’s quite a leap.”

“I know. However, from seven protection officers becoming two? Combined with who Liang is and who receives the same intelligence.”

O’Hara leaned back.

“The Chinese geopolitical model has traditionally been the opposite of what you’re describing. Soft power. Influence. Economic dependency. Political cultivation. Create conditions favourable to Beijing and allow gravity to do the work.”

“Shì,” Parker said.

“Exactly. Strategic momentum. You arrange the board so eventually nobody needs to overturn it.”

Ciara nodded.

“Liu Ren has already overturned pieces of the board.”

“Britain is different,” O’Hara replied. “St Fergus and Leeds were proxy actions exploiting existing fractures. Abducting the wife and children of one of Taiwan’s most important scientists from Singapore would be outward aggression against an identifiable strategic target. That’s a considerable escalation.”

“I agree.”

“Then why do you think he’d do it?”

“Because Liu has been given latitude before. And he might be desperate for a result, given his recent relative failures.”

“Surely his hierarchy will have restricted this latitude now,” O’Hara said.

“There was no geopolitical fallout,” Ciara countered.

“Do you believe Beijing would authorise this?” asked O’Hara. “Because that isn’t my assessment.”

“Not necessarily.”

O’Hara frowned.

Ciara looked towards him.

“Liu doesn’t need MSS officers physically grabbing the family. He needs money, intelligence and someone else willing to do it.”

“A proxy.”

“Yes.”

O’Hara considered that.

“Criminal?”

“Possibly. Private intelligence. Mercenary. Some hybrid organisation sitting between them.”

Parker asked, “Do you know who?”

“No.”

“O’Hara?”

Kevin shook his head.

“Nothing comes immediately to mind with the capability and audacity I’d expect for something like this. Certainly nothing I could responsibly put in front of you as an assessment.”

That was the problem.

A threat without a name remained little more than a theory.

Parker removed his glasses.

“And what exactly would you have me tell Singapore? That an uncorroborated source says a Taiwanese scientist’s family may visit, with fewer protection officers than originally intended, and that we think—but cannot demonstrate—that a Chinese intelligence officer might employ a proxy we cannot identify to abduct them?”

Ciara said nothing, and Parker continued. “I cannot approach the Singaporeans on this. Not yet. Particularly not on an allegation of Chinese state involvement. We need corroboration.”

“I understand.”

O’Hara tapped one finger against the table.

“I’ll work the intelligence side. See whether I can independently confirm the family’s travel and protection arrangements. If anything else surfaces around Liang, I’ll flag it.”

“Thank you.”

Ciara looked back to Parker.

“In the meantime, I’d like to monitor the situation.”

Parker replaced his glasses, but his expression remained neutral.

The Chameleon Project existed for precisely these situations. It could go where SIS could not officially go, ask questions SIS could not formally ask, and withdraw without requiring the British Government to explain why it had been there in the first place.

Bruce McQuillan would not have asked for permission, but Ciara’s record and experience did not quite possess her of the gravitas her predecessor’s did.

Parker regarded her for several seconds.

Then:

“The principal advantage of your unit is that it doesn’t leave fingerprints.”

Ciara recognised the language.

Not authorisation.

Never authorisation.

But Bruce had taught her the term years ago.

A Beckett’s Approval.

The answer that permitted an operation while ensuring the person giving it had technically ordered nothing.

She rose.

“I’ll keep you informed.”

“I would prefer,” Parker said, “that you keep me appropriately informed.”

Ciara understood.

“Of course, sir.”

O’Hara stood with her.

“I’ll contact you when I have something on the family.”

“Thank you.”

PORT OF NAHA, OKINAWA — EARLY MORNING

The freighter eased into berth with a low metallic groan, fenders kissing concrete. Heat rose from the dock in visible waves, the rain from the East China Sea replaced by Okinawan humidity that carried diesel, salt and sun-warmed rope.

Connor stepped down the gangway first.

Five men waited twenty metres from the quay edge, spaced evenly, posture relaxed but alert. Beside them sat a black Toyota Century and a graphite Lexus LS. Engines idling.

Windows tinted.

They were not dressed in the old uniform—no dark double-breasted suits, no lacquered shoes, no theatrical austerity. Light summer tailoring. Open collars. Watches understated but expensive.

Connor knew why.

Japan’s youngest, smallest, most ruthless and ingenious Yakuza clan, the Gādian—the guardians—did not highlight itself, in keeping with the stipulations laid out by its founder, Yasuhiro Takato.

Almost four years ago, Connor had aided them during a war with the Yamaguchi-gumi clan.

It had not been altruism.

Connor had been tasked with protecting the Okada Company—one of the world’s foremost renewable energy firms, in which the Gādian and the British Government both held significant stakes.

Powerful actors had wanted its technology acquired or erased. Connor had simply ensured neither happened.

He recognised the man at the centre immediately.

Kazuo “Kai” Aramaki—Yasuhiro Takato’s right-hand man with regard to street activities.

They bowed.

Connor returned it precisely.

“Kai-san,” Connor said.

“Reed-san,” Kai replied, voice warm but measured.

Eleanor stood half a step behind Connor, observant, silent.

Kai’s eyes flicked to her briefly—assessment, nothing more—before returning to Connor.

“Your journey?” Kai asked, still in Japanese.

Connor answered in a broken version of the same language.

“Comfortable. The sea calm.”

Kai inclined his head.

Then he shifted effortlessly into flawless English.

“I am pleased. There were no complications?”

Connor allowed the faintest pause.

“A minor misunderstanding,” he said evenly. “Otherwise pleasant.”

Kai’s expression altered by a degree.

“What misunderstanding?”

Connor felt it then—a flicker of reluctance. To tell him felt suspiciously like grassing, especially since he’d already dealt with the situation.

No, he thought. A rapist doesn’t merit your silence.

He met Kai’s eyes.

“The sailor who escorted us attempted to separate us into non-adjacent cabins. The room offered to Miss Zhu was already occupied. When I insisted on alternative accommodation, he produced a pistol.”

Kai did not blink.

Connor continued.

“I resolved it.”

A muscle shifted in Kai’s jaw.

He turned his head and spoke rapidly in Japanese to the four men beside him.

Authority without volume.

They moved instantly towards the gangway.

Connor had not even described the sailor.

Within minutes, the four returned, marching the now pale, shaking but correct deckhand between them. The captain followed, silent, eyes fixed ahead.

The dock fell quiet except for distant container cranes and gulls.

The sailor was pushed to his knees before Kai.

Kai stepped forward calmly, reached down and seized a fistful of the man’s hair, forcing his head back.

From inside his jacket he produced a blade.

Connor recognised it.

A traditional Higonokami—brass handle, simple friction folder, razor-honed carbon steel.

Kai drew the blade from the sailor’s cheek down to his chin in one smooth, controlled stroke.

Not deep enough to maim.

Deep enough to mark.

The man gasped, blood threading down his jawline.

Kai released him.

He withdrew a white handkerchief, wiped the blade with deliberate care, then closed it and placed the cloth into the sailor’s trembling hand.

The sailor pressed the fabric against his face.

One of the other men handed the captain a discreet leather suitcase. The captain bowed deeply, clutching it, and guided the injured sailor back towards the freighter without protest.

Kai turned back to Connor.

“The airfield is fifteen minutes away,” he said. “Which vehicle would you like to travel in?”

Connor glanced at the two cars.

“Let’s see what the ride quality of that Century is like.”

HELSINKI FERRY TERMINAL — LATE MORNING

The ferry lounge looked out across the grey Baltic like a sheet of dull metal.

Maarja Kallas sat with a cup of coffee, her coat folded neatly beside her chair.

The morning ferry from Tallinn had already begun boarding procedures. The lounge held the usual mix: tourists dragging suitcases, Finnish commuters with laptops open, a family attempting to keep two restless children occupied with tablets.

She watched the reflections in the terminal glass rather than the people themselves.

That was when the man approached.

He paused beside the empty chair opposite her with a relaxed ease.

“Mornings on the Baltic always look colder than they feel,” he said pleasantly.

Maarja inclined her head and Marius Falk sat down.

Tall, lean, shoulders slightly loose as though his joints had learned long ago not to carry tension unnecessarily. His dark hair was trimmed short, the beard close and neat, the colour beginning to grey at the temples.

A look of a consultant perhaps. Or an architect.

His eyes moved slowly across the lounge once before settling on the coffee in front of him.

Jægerkorpset, she thought. Reconnaissance discipline still present.

Falk had spent eight years in Denmark’s special operations unit before drifting into the quieter economies of deniable security work. What distinguished him was not aggression.

It was restraint.

Falk had conducted three previous Nerium operations in dense urban environments without triggering a police investigation for hours. In two of those cases, the deaths had initially been ruled medical events.

He removed obstacles without the drama.

“You travelled well?” he asked.

“As expected.”

They sat in silence for another minute.

From the far side of the lounge, a woman approached with a small carry-on case.

She looked like a traveller returning from a hiking trip.

Dark hair cut short and tucked behind her ears. Green eyes that moved quickly but without obvious anxiety.

She possessed a compact, athletic build, the kind developed through years of disciplined training rather than casual exercise.

Katarina Varga stopped beside their table.

“Excuse me,” she said politely to Falk. “Is this seat taken?”

“No,” Falk replied.

Maarja watched the exchange with quiet approval.

Varga had entered the room without her scanning being obvious at all. Her eyes had moved naturally—reflections, glass, peripheral movement—never lingering long enough to draw attention.

Hungarian Special Operations Forces once. Reconnaissance first, then designated marksman, eventually sniper-qualified.

Eight years in uniform before drifting into the private security circuits where people like Ilze Rudzīte occasionally noticed useful talent.

Katarina Varga was drafted in for surveillance and as a contingency that hopefully would not be needed.

She sat.

For several seconds, none of them spoke.

Maarja’s gaze moved slowly across the lounge one final time.

Satisfied, she began.

“The client is the Ministry of State Security of the People’s Republic of China. They require assistance in Singapore.”

Falk rested his hands loosely on the table.

“What kind of assistance?”

Maarja leaned back slightly.

“They are attempting to obtain leverage over a Taiwanese national named Dr Liang Wei-Shen.”

She watched their faces.

Recognition did not appear.

Liang was not famous outside certain circles.

“He is the chief technology officer for advanced process integration at Taiwan’s primary semiconductor manufacturer,” she said. “One of the principal architects behind the transition to sub-five-nanometre and now sub-three-nanometre fabrication.”

Falk’s eyebrow lifted faintly.

“The Silicon Shield,” he said.

“Yes.”

Maarja nodded.

“Taiwan’s ability to produce the world’s most advanced semiconductors makes it economically indispensable. The global supply chain depends upon those fabrication plants. That dependency discourages military escalation.”

She paused.

“Dr Liang is cited as possessing the greatest understanding of the entire architecture of those production systems.”

Varga spoke for the first time.

“He is a strategic asset.”

Maarja nodded. “The Taiwanese Government is aware the People’s Republic would like access to him. For the past two years, he has been restricted almost entirely to Taiwan. His movements are monitored. His protection is permanent.”

“Who provides it?” Falk asked.

“The National Security Bureau and the National Police Agency,” Maarja replied. “A revolving team is assigned at all times.”

Falk nodded slowly, and Maarja continued. “The Republic’s intelligence services have identified a vulnerability.”

She looked from one operative to the other.

“Liang’s family will be travelling in the next few days to Singapore.”

Varga’s eyes sharpened slightly.

Maarja continued.

“His wife, Lin Mei-Hua. A paediatric cardiologist. Forty-six.”

She paused.

“His daughter, Liang Yu-An. Fourteen. A violinist performing with a youth orchestra. And his son, Wei-Jun. Nine years old. Interested in robotics.”

Silence settled across the table for a moment.

Varga spoke again.

“And they have protection.”

“Yes.”

“Two Taiwanese officers,” Maarja said. “Less experienced than Liang’s primary detail but competent.”

Varga glanced towards the windows overlooking the harbour.

“Why not use members of the indigenous underworld?”

Maarja’s expression did not change.

“When other world governments state they do not tolerate organised crime, the Singaporean leadership means it,” she said. “The influence of Lee Kuan Yew will remain riven in the country’s DNA.”

Varga nodded slightly.

Falk added quietly, “They dismantled most of the triad networks decades ago. And the remainder operate under such pressure they would never risk an international kidnapping.”

Maarja inclined her head.

“Correct.”

Varga leaned forward slightly.

“I was of the understanding that Singapore is also extremely hostile towards foreign intelligence operations.”

Falk gave a faint smile.

“There was that case two years ago,” he said. “Chinese intelligence officer declared persona non grata after attempting to cultivate a defence contractor. Public expulsion within forty-eight hours.”

Maarja allowed the corner of her mouth to move.

“Yes. The Republic understands that if its own officers are discovered conducting the preliminary stage of this operation, Singapore will respond… decisively.”

She paused.

“That is where you come in.”

Neither operative spoke.

Maarja continued.

“The MSS require the Taiwanese protection team removed and the family to board a private plane hired by Haisheng Global Holdings.”

She met Falk’s eyes first, then Varga’s.

“Quietly if possible.”

A slight pause.

“If not, efficiently.”

Falk leaned back slightly, and Maarja admired both his and Varga’s restraint in not stating the obvious—that Haisheng Global Holdings was a dummy corporation set up by the MSS.

“And the compensation?”

Maarja answered without hesitation.

“Two hundred thousand euros each.”

She allowed them to digest the sum for a moment. Conducting any sort of kinetic operation against professionals on the soil of a country so ruthlessly hostile to such acts as Singapore could elicit a higher charge rate from an independent contractor, probably upwards of a hundred thousand euros more, each.

However, the Nerium invested heavily in the training of their operators; surveillance and counter-surveillance, operational planning, weapons proficiency, close-quarters combat, stealth and infiltration, disguise and identity management, situational awareness, psychological control, escape and evasion, logistics and tradecraft, and language acquisition were all sourced and paid for by the Nerium.

This created loyalty to the organisation that did not require threats, veiled or otherwise, to maintain.

The knowledge that the Nerium had, on the rare occasions it had been required, mounted extraction operations for captured members and paid sizeable legal and medical expenses, solidified their loyalty.

Despite Nerium operators being well-versed in all facets, each individual would undergo rigorous evaluations for specialisations.

In the case of the two present, though it would be an oversimplification to describe Falk as a scalpel to Varga’s mallet, it wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate.

Varga’s expression remained calm.

“Timeline?”

“The recital will go ahead in ten days,” said Maarja. “The closer to the event, the better.”

“Why?”

“Because we cannot discount—

Falk answered for her, “Discount his attending.”

“Exactly,” stated Maarja. “Then perhaps it will be the extraction of just one instead of three, depending on our paymaster’s wishes.”

“Or perhaps it will be four instead of three,” said Falk. “Easier to suggest that an entire family has defected.”

Maarja smiled at the deduction.

“Perhaps—which would cost an additional fee.”

Varga’s eyes considered the lounge again.

“Location of the family?”

“A hotel in the Marina Bay district,” Maarja said. “You will have to provide your own surveillance once on the ground.”

Silence returned.

She caught Varga’s brief glance at the highly regarded Falk. Good, she wants to impress him.

Then Falk smiled faintly.

“I am happy to take the task.”

Varga nodded once.

“I concur.”

12

TOKYO — LATE MORNING

The Gulfstream dipped beneath the cloud layer, and Tokyo revealed itself in disciplined geometry.

They had flown up from Okinawa to a private airfield on the city’s fringe. No commercial terminals. No queues. Just quiet efficiency and a waiting car.

The vehicle was another Toyota Century—understated, lacquer-black, curtains drawn halfway across the rear windows.

Connor sat back as they joined the arterial flow into the capital. Eleanor Zhu sat opposite in silence, hands folded loosely in her lap, seemingly watching nothing and everything.

Connor observed the passing city.

As with his first visit, the verticality struck him.

Buildings did not merely stand beside one another—they pressed upward, layered, stacked with signage and balconies, with narrow seams of shadow between them.

Streets ran tight beneath steel and glass. Overhead cables webbed between poles in improbable tangles. It felt less like expansion and more like compression. Europe spread outward; Tokyo folded inward.

Then he noticed what wasn’t there.

Graffiti.

Smashed bus shelters.

Clusters of litter gathering in corners.

Aimless groups claiming pavements.

Fourteen million people, and yet no visible disorder.

Traffic moved with mathematical patience. Indicators used. Lanes respected. No horns. Construction sites were immaculate, cordoned with geometric precision. Even the taxi drivers wore white gloves.

Infrastructure precision.

He glanced at a pedestrian crossing as they slowed. Hundreds crossed in coordinated silence.

He remembered watching PRIDE Fighting Championships DVDs years ago.

The crowds dwarfed the early Ultimate Fighting Championship audiences in size yet remained eerily quiet. No drunken roar, no chants drowning out commentary.

Just a low collective hum of attention. The same here. Even density made no noise.

It unsettled him slightly.

In Europe, silence in numbers meant something was wrong.

Here, it meant nothing was.

He searched instinctively for power structures. Government fortifications. Armed patrols. Checkpoints. Visible deterrence.

Nothing.

No obvious fortified ministries.

No theatrical security theatre.

No rifle-bearing police.

And yet he felt eyes.

Not cameras. Not obvious ones.

But awareness.

Tokyo did not advertise its authority. It embedded it.

The skyline lacked monumentality. No cathedral spires dominating. No imperial domes declaring permanence. It was scale without grandeur. Economic muscle rather than historical theatre.

A civilisation rebuilt forward.

The Century glided into Minato Ward and curved towards Toranomon Hills Mori Tower.

Glass and steel rose cleanly above the surrounding blocks. Corporate neutrality. The perfect camouflage.

As the car door opened, the Gādian Yakuza stood ready to enclose them in a protective ring.

They flowed around him and Eleanor as if they had always been there.

Inside, the lift ascended in near silence. One of the highest floors. The doors parted onto polished stone and restrained opulence.

They were led into an expansive office. Floor-to-ceiling glass revealed Tokyo in full sprawl, the afternoon light flattening the city into ordered layers. Beyond the dense urban expanse, faint but unmistakable, rose the snow-capped cone of Mount Fuji.

Distant. Imposing. Improbably serene.

“Reed-san.”

Yasuhiro Takato stepped forward.

Head of the Gādian.

He greeted Connor with hushed enthusiasm—a bow slightly deeper than required, a warmth held within formal lines.

Connor returned it. “Takato-san.”

Takato turned and bowed respectfully to Eleanor Zhu.

Connor drifted towards the glass and looked out at the city again.

“I thought you and the Gādian preferred to keep a low profile,” he said lightly, gesturing around the opulent office.

Takato smiled faintly. “A corporate tower can be just as camouflaged as an underground facility in the forests.”

Connor allowed himself a brief nod.

He had been to that facility.

Takato clasped his hands. “What do you require, Reed-san?”

Connor did not hesitate. “I need Miss Zhu protected for a few days. Just so I have the time to organise the safest extraction route to the United Kingdom.”

Takato barked several commands in Japanese. Kai bowed once and departed without a sound.

Takato switched to English. “She will have our best protection team. Including a female operative.”

He did not say Yakuza.

He did not need to.

However, in Japan’s underworld, female operatives were rarities to the point of myth.

The old syndicates—men like the Yamaguchi-gumi and Sumiyoshi-kai—were built on a rigid oyabun–kobun (father–child) hierarchy that mirrored feudal patriarchy.

Women moved within its orbit, sometimes wielding quiet influence as wives, financiers, or intermediaries, and in rare moments of instability a widow might steady the machine—as Fumiko Taoka did after her husband’s death—but formal initiation was almost unheard of.

Another piece of evidence regarding the Gādian’s modernity.

Connor saw Eleanor flick a glance at him.

“Takato-san,” Connor said politely, “may I have a few private words with Miss Zhu?”

Takato bowed and moved towards the far edge of the window, hands behind his back, gaze settling on Fuji.

Connor lowered his voice.

“I don’t trust people unless I have to,” he said quietly. “For reasons I can’t go into right now. But I trust Yasuhiro Takato about as much as any man outside my own family and immediate friends.”

Eleanor studied him for a moment, then nodded once.

Connor straightened. “Takato-san.”

Takato returned, bowing slightly.

“Everything will be arranged, Reed-san,” he said.

He paused, then with the faintest glimmer in his eye added, “Perhaps while you are here, you would like to join some of my men for randori?”

Connor allowed a breath of amusement escape him. “There is nothing I would like more than to be slammed onto mats by Japanese Judoka.”

Takato chuckled softly.

“It is Kosen Judo,” he corrected.

RAFFLES BOULEVARD — SINGAPORE — LATE MORNING

The car moved through Singapore’s orderly glow like a quiet thought.

Lin Mei-Hua sat in the rear seat, angled slightly towards the window. The glass carried the faint hum of the city beyond it—tower lights stacked in perfect geometry, the polished surfaces of office blocks reflecting each other in endless repetition. Palm trees passed in disciplined rows along the boulevard. Traffic flowed with the smooth predictability of a machine designed by careful engineers.

It reminded her, a little, of Hsinchu.

Precision as culture.

For some reason, their departure from Taiwan had been brought forward. Despite a rush to pack, she hadn’t complained—more time out of Taiwan was welcomed.

Across from her, the two men Wei-Shen had arranged sat in the forward seats—one driving, the other in the passenger seat.

Neither had spoken since they had left the airport. They carried themselves like surgeons during surgery: present, attentive, economical.

Invisible, as promised.

In the back beside her, Wei-Jun had his forehead pressed lightly against the glass.

His eyes moved constantly.

Every bus, every overhead rail line, every unfamiliar sign captured his attention. The city slid past in streaks of light and colour—Malay signage, Chinese characters, English lettering stacked together on illuminated boards.

To him, it must look like another world.

Yu-An sat beside him, her violin case upright between her knees, her posture almost unconsciously straight. She was watching the city as well.

Fourteen years old.

Old enough to sense things.

Wei-Jun spoke without turning.

“When is Bàba coming?”

An edge of curiosity in his voice.

Lin Mei-Hua watched the reflections of passing lights in the window before answering.

“In a few days,” she answered. “He has some things to attend to at work.”

Wei-Jun nodded once, satisfied enough for the moment, and continued scanning the skyline.

But she noticed Yu-An’s doubtful expression that lasted less than a second.

Mei-Hua folded her hands loosely in her lap.

Her pride in her husband had never been in question.

Few people in the world understood what he actually did—how much of Taiwan’s fragile equilibrium rested on things as abstract as photon variability and transistor geometry.

When officials spoke of “technological sovereignty,” they meant men like him in design laboratories at two in the morning.

But as the years passed, she had begun to suspect that a very small part of Wei-Shen seemed to enjoy it.

Not the fame—there was none of that.

But the importance.

The knowledge that rooms full of ministers and generals would wait for him to speak.

She understood that it was encoded in men to like influence like that.

And to his credit, her husband seemed to recognise it in himself. She had seen that flicker of awareness in him more than once lately—an uncomfortable honesty that suggested he understood the danger of becoming indispensable.

Outside the window, the Marina skyline appeared, towers rising like illuminated circuit boards against the night.

Wei-Jun suddenly pointed.

“Look!”

A train slid along an elevated track, silent and silver.

Yu-An smiled faintly.

The bodyguard in the front passenger seat adjusted his posture slightly, scanning the traffic flow in the side mirror.

Mei-Hua leaned back into the seat.

Wei-Shen had said he would come for the final evening.

He always intended to.

But intention and reality rarely aligned in his world.

She hoped he would make it.

She knew, quietly, that the hope was likely false.

Still, hope had its place.

All of them believed in Taiwan.

In its independence.

In the fragile, complicated democracy that allowed people like her husband to do the work he did.

If that belief required sacrifices, then so be it.

Outside, the hotel towers began to rise ahead of them—glass, marble, soft gold lighting spilling onto the boulevard.

Yu-An shifted the violin case slightly and returned her attention to the passing city.

Mei-Hua reached over and placed a gentle hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

The best thing she could do now was to simply support the recital.

Let Yu-An have this moment.

And ensure the quiet presence of the men in the front seats did not make the evening feel heavier than it needed to be.

The car glided towards the entrance canopy of the hotel.

Singapore’s warm air waited beyond the doors.

13

TOKYO — NOON

The Toyota Century glided through the evening streets of Tokyo.

The city outside the tinted windows flowed past—clean pavements, immaculate crossings, the soft glow of shopfronts and vending machines.

Connor sat in the rear seat beside Eleanor Zhu.

Kai Aramaki occupied the front passenger seat, speaking quietly to the driver in Japanese.

Eleanor turned slightly towards Connor.

“What exactly is Kosen Judo?” she asked. “I thought judo was simply judo.”

Connor watched a cluster of cyclists pass a convenience store before answering.

“Most people train in what’s called Kodokan Judo,” he said. “That’s the system developed by Jigoro Kano in the late nineteenth century. Throws, pins, chokes, joint locks. Balanced between standing and ground fighting.”

“And Kosen?”

“That developed later out of it,” Connor said. “Early twentieth century. Mostly in the Japanese technical universities. They adapted the rules to allow extended ground fighting.”

Eleanor tilted her head slightly.

“So they changed the sport?”

“Kind of,” said Connor. “Kosen competitors realised that if you could get the fight to the ground quickly, you could control it longer. They began pulling guard instead of throwing. Building sophisticated groundwork—sweeps, submissions, transitions. Whereas, in modern judo, you get stood up if the action on the ground stalls, so you have to be quick in making something happen.”

“And the original founder—Kano—approved of this?” Eleanor asked.

Connor watched the reflection of neon ripple across the glass and answered, “Kano believed judo should develop the whole martial skillset. Movement, balance, throwing, timing. He thought Kosen practitioners were bending the art to win matches rather than preserve judo as a self-defence system.”

“What do you think?”

“I think he had a point. Having the ability to launch someone onto their fucking head will nearly always be more practical in a self-defence situation than dragging your attacker to the ground with you to finish him—or her.”

“But you sound like you admire this Kosen style?”

“I sort of admire the idea behind it. The universities thought it might develop a more ‘tactical’ mindset than Kodokan Judo, which I reckon does lend itself more to the athletically gifted brute. And it does take a certain spirit to fight for a long time on the ground.”

Eleanor folded her hands neatly.

“Have you trained in it?”

“No,” he said. “I did compete briefly in Kodokan-style Judo years ago.”

“And now?”

“I’m a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu brown belt.”

Eleanor’s eyebrow lifted.

“Is that similar to Kosen Judo?”

“In many ways, it is,” Connor said. “BJJ evolved from the same roots. But the rules differ. In Kosen Judo, you can use chokes and armbars. Pins matter. But leg locks are mostly banned. No heel hooks. No knee reaping. They also emphasise turtle attacks and pin control more.”

“And Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu?”

“Almost everything is allowed, depending on the rule set. Leg locks. Heel hooks. Knee bars. Straight ankle locks. The guard game is also far more elaborate.”

Eleanor studied him.

“So Kosen is… restricted?”

“I suppose it is. Again, it could be argued that the… narrowing of the techniques enforces a tactical mindset.”

Connor watched the streetlights slide past.

The car slowed.

They turned down a narrower street.

The vehicle came to a silent halt outside a modest building with dark wooden slats and a small illuminated sign.

Kai turned.

“We are here.”

Inside, the dojo smelled faintly of tatami and detergent.

The mat space occupied most of the room—clean green tatami bordered with red. Along one wall ran a raised wooden platform with benches for observers.

A neat rack of folded judogi hung beside the entrance.

A few practitioners already sat stretching on the mat.

Connor noticed immediately that he was the only non-Japanese person in the room.

There were seventeen students.

Three of them were women.

All wore white judogi with a black belt.

At the far edge of the mat stood the bear-like man who Connor could tell was the sensei, speaking quietly to another student.

His thick black, grey-flecked hair stood up in such a way that it almost looked to Connor like a Russian Ushanka hat.

Kai moved away from Connor towards the opposite edge of the tatami.

Connor could read the body language between them.

Despite him being a ruthless Yakuza lieutenant, it was clear to Connor that Kai recognised the authority of the man on the mat.

The instructor turned towards Connor and gestured for him to come over in an un-Japanese way.

“Good day,” in fluent English with a faint American cadence that surprised Connor.

The Englishman bowed, “Konnichiwa, Saito-sensei.”

“Very good.” The sensei smiled, returning the bow. “I am Saito Masanori.”

Connor bowed slightly.

“Connor Reed.”

Saito’s eyes studied him calmly.

“What experience do you have in grappling, Reed-san?”

“Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu brown belt,” Connor said. “Some Kodokan Judo a few years back.”

Saito nodded.

“And what do you know of Kosen Judo?”

Connor gave a brief explanation.

Saito listened with quiet attention.

When Connor finished, the instructor nodded once.

“Good.”

He gestured towards the rack.

“Do you require a judogi?”

Connor shook his head.

“Kai has one for me.”

“Very well.”

In the changing area, Connor pulled on the spare gi.

The cotton was heavy but well worn.

As he tied the white belt, he felt the faint stir of apprehension.

Not about the grappling.

About his own rule he was breaking.

When operating in hostile environments, he avoided unnecessary physical exhaustion. Fatigue slowed reactions. Fatigue created mistakes.

Depending on the dojo and their attitude towards Gaijins, training like this could easily push him there.

Strangely, the last time he had broken that rule had been in Japan a few years ago.

George Follet was a former mixed martial arts legend, and the closest Connor had to a mentor in empty-handed combat.

Reed had attended Follet’s brutal catch-wrestling class in Tokyo’s renowned Kotch Ya school, and George had finished it by shark-tanking Connor.

He had gotten away with it that time, but Connor knew it to be a bad omen to break one’s own rules.

Still.

In Japan, honour mattered.

And the Gādian clan valued loyalty and shared hardship.

If stepping onto this mat strengthened that bond, the risk was worth it.

The class began with a formal bow.

Warm-ups followed.

Shrimping across the mat.

Bridging drills.

Granby rolls.

Partner grip fighting.

Then Saito demonstrated the evening’s technical theme.

Butterfly guard sweeps transitioning into side control.

They drilled the motion slowly.

Entries.

Off-balancing.

The lift of the hips.

Transition into yoko-shiho-gatame—side control pin.

After that came positional sparring.

Short rounds starting in guard.

Then turtle.

Then side control.

Finally, Saito clapped his hands.

“Randori.”

Connor’s first few rounds went smoothly.

His BJJ instincts gave him a natural advantage once the fight hit the ground.

He swept one opponent with a scissor sweep and finished with a rear naked choke.

Another he passed with pressure and submitted with kata-gatame.

Then he faced one of the women who seemed familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite place her.

She stood smaller than him.

Lean.

Dark hair tied tightly.

Connor anticipated her guard pull by leaning back slightly to clear one or both feet off his hips.

Instead, she attacked first.

Her grip snapped onto his sleeve.

Before Connor could react, she stepped in with a Ko-uchi-gari to sweep out his right foot.

Connor’s arse hit the mat with an embarrassing thud, but he instinctively shrimped back and threw his legs up to trap her in a closed guard.

He yanked her collar and opened his legs to feint a triangle choke.

Instead, he swept her with a hip bump when she postured up to defend.

She spun around with the agility of a break dancer to snap up an armbar attempt as he hunted for side control.

He whipped his arm back and guided her momentum to expose her back.

He took it like a Leopard on a gazelle, sliding his arm beneath her neck and finishing her with a cross-collar choke.

When they reset, she bowed politely.

Connor returned it with a small grin.

Next came Kai.

Kai’s grappling style felt heavy.

He pulled guard immediately and began hunting for collar grips.

Connor passed slowly, careful of traps.

Once he cleared the legs, he slid to side control.

Kai framed hard and tried to recover guard.

Connor moved to mount.

Kai bucked violently.

Connor floated with the motion.

Then fed the lapel deep and finished with a tight bow-and-arrow choke.

Kai tapped twice and laughed.

The sensei stepped towards him and announced, “We will have two rounds together.”

Connor understood immediately.

The first round was intense.

Saito’s grip fighting was superb.

Connor passed his guard once, but Saito recovered instantly.

They scrambled repeatedly.

In the second round, Saito caught him with a slick sweep from butterfly and controlled top position long enough to edge the exchange.

When the timer ended, they bowed.

After class, Saito approached Connor.

“You have very strong ne-waza,” he said. “I am impressed.”

Connor inclined his head.

“Thank you, Saito-sensei.”

Kai stood nearby, watching.

Then he smiled slightly and gestured towards the woman who had thrown Connor earlier.

“Connor,” Kai said. “Allow me to introduce Ayumi Tanaka.”

The woman stepped forward.

“Christ,” said Connor. “I feel better about being thrown.”

Kai frowned. “How do you—”

Connor interjected, “I wouldn’t be much of a judo fan if I didn’t recognise one of the best Japanese Judoka of the last fifteen years.”

“You make bigger my achievements and status, Reed-san,” she said with a bow. “I thank you.”

Kai said, “She will be joining Eleanor’s security detail.”

Connor looked at her.

Then he smiled.

“Well, I know all about dangerous and competent women,” he said. “And I feel Eleanor is safer already.”

KING’S CROSS, LONDON — LATE AFTERNOON

The hotel room carried the clean, modern confidence of the building itself—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rail lines of King’s Cross, soft amber light reflecting off pale wood panels and brushed steel fittings.

A small cocktail table by the window held a half-finished drink, the glass catching the distant glow of the city beyond the glass.

The low king-size bed sat at the centre of the room, crisp white sheets thrown into disarray, dark velvet cushions scattered across them. One of those cushions muffled Ciara’s saliva-laced moans as she pressed her face into it, feeling the sensation building inside her.

She had once read an oddly apt description of the female orgasm—the difference between the moment you feel a sneeze coming and the instant it finally breaks free.

As she had ascended professionally, she had noticed another shift in herself—an increasing willingness to surrender control sexually, particularly after the long, relentless days.

Her grip tightened in her own hair as her partner drove into her, the rhythm relentless. Her other hand moved between them, fingertips brushing and then pressing harder as the tension spiralled higher.

The sounds of his exertion, his grip on her hips, the unmistakable scent of sex in the room blurred together as the pleasure surged through her.

Ciara buried her face deeper into the cushion and cried out as it finally broke over her.

A moment later, she felt the shift in his body, the tightening that told her his own climax had arrived.

Somewhere in the more primal corner of her psyche, she found herself wishing she hadn’t insisted on the condom.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The low hum of the air conditioning filled the room, mingling with the distant metallic rhythm of trains sliding through King’s Cross beyond the glass.

Ciara lay on her side, one arm draped loosely across her stomach, the sheets tangled around her legs.

Beside her, Alex shifted slightly on the pillow.

“You know,” he said after a moment, voice still carrying the relaxed fatigue of exertion, “when you asked for my number after beating me in the Kendo tournament… I thought that was your way of consoling me.”

Ciara turned her head and looked at him.

“It was,” she said, lightly resisting her creeping smile. “That was a pity-fuck.”

Alex gave a short laugh into the pillow.

“I think you’re only saying that,” he replied, “so I don’t even try next time—in a Kendo tournament, not sex.”

Ciara opened her mouth to answer.

Her phone rang.

The sound cut cleanly through the room.

She frowned slightly, reaching across the bedside table and checking the screen. Unknown international number.

“Give me a minute,” she said.

Alex raised a hand in an easy shrug.

Ciara slipped from the bed and crossed the room, gathering the hotel robe around her as she moved towards the bathroom. Once inside, she closed the door halfway, turned the tap on, and waited for the steady rush of water to fill the tiled space.

Only then did she answer.

“Yes.”

The voice that replied was calm, precise.

“The target’s immediate family arrived last night,” the voice said. “They are staying at The Ritz-Carlton, Millenia Singapore.”

Ciara leaned one shoulder lightly against the marble counter.

“For how long?”

“Not confirmed yet,” the voice replied. “They are accompanied by two bodyguards.”

Ciara watched the water swirl into the basin.

“Thank you.”

She ended the call—she hadn’t expected their arrival for another couple of days or so. She went to curse herself but doubted that she could have got a team in-country any faster.

For a moment, she simply stood there, then she turned the water off and returned to the bedroom.

Alex was still lying back against the pillows, hands folded behind his head, looking entirely unbothered by the interruption.

She began pulling on her clothes.

“I have to go,” she said simply. “You’re welcome to the room until tomorrow morning.”

He nodded once.

“Generous.”

He didn’t ask about the call or why she had to leave.

Points for that, she thought.

Her non-explanation had been an ‘anti-cling’ tactic—if he thought she had a boyfriend or a husband, he might be more readily accepting of her evasiveness and her not giving him her number. She had called him after making her number private to him.

She slipped her phone into her jacket pocket, pausing near the bed.

“Thanks,” he said.

Ciara’s eyes warmed.

“You’re welcome.”

“You have my number.”

She gestured lightly towards him.

“That I do.”

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY HEADQUARTERS, 11TH BUREAU OFFICES, BEIJING — EARLY EVENING

The light had begun to thin behind the glass, Beijing reduced to a geometry of grey and reflection.

Liu Ren stood where he had been directed to stand—two paces from the desk.

Zhao Jianguo did not immediately speak.

He turned a page instead.

Paper, not screen.

At length, Zhao closed the folder.

“We have confirmation,” he said. “Triple-locked. The United States and Israel. Joint operational alignment. Targeting parameters indicate leadership decapitation.”

“Iran?” asked Ren rhetorically.

Zhao nodded. “Tehran. Secondary nodes in Qom and Isfahan.”

“Timeline?” Liu asked.

“Imminent,” Zhao replied. “Within operational days, not weeks.”

Silence settled between them—not empty, but weighted.

Liu inclined his head slightly. “Will the Iranians be warned?”

Zhao shook his head. “The anonymity of our assets remains the priority.”

“The justification will be nuclear proximity,” Ren said.

“It will,” Zhao agreed.

Liu continued.

“A nuclear threshold state with resilient proxy networks. A strategic irritant that cannot be cleanly contained once hardened.”

A beat.

“And,” Liu added, “a demonstration target.”

Zhao’s gaze narrowed by a degree.

“For whom?”

“For everyone,” Liu said. “Allies, adversaries and—most importantly—those undecided.”

He allowed the next thought to settle before speaking it.

“Deterrence requires spectacle.”

Zhao leaned back slightly. Hands folded.

“You believe this is theatre?”

“I believe it is instruction,” Liu said. “Delivered through force.”

Zhao turned his head slightly towards the window, though he did not look out.

“With the United States engaged in the Middle East,” he continued, “its attention is divided. Its resources—finite.”

A beat.

“Windows such as this do not announce themselves twice.”

Liu understood before the words arrived.

Zhao returned his gaze to him.

“The question of Taiwan,” he said, “remains an unfinished matter of history. The conditions of reunification may be approaching sufficiency.”

Zhao’s eyes held him.

“You will accelerate.”

Liu did not move.

“All available support will be provided,” Zhao continued. “Financial, logistical, diplomatic insulation.”

A fractional pause.

“Particularly in your pursuit of this asset.”

Asset.

Not man.

Not citizen.

Not scientist.

Liu accepted the framing without resistance.

“Sir, I do not need any more resources,” said Liu Ren. “But your endorsement makes its success more probable.”

He spoke in a code that translated as: When the mission is successful, I give you your undeserved credit if you give me my deserved credit.

Zhao held his gaze a moment longer before reaching for his tea. It had long since cooled.

He drank it anyway.

“Then proceed,” he said.

Dismissal, without the word.

TORANOMON HILLS RESIDENCE — MINATO, TOKYO — NIGHT

The lift opened without a sound.

Connor stepped out first.

Pale stone underfoot, recessed lighting, walls that absorbed rather than reflected sound.

He clocked it in layers.

Two cameras in the ceiling corners—flush-mounted, wide-angle.

A faint seam in the wall to his left—service access or concealed door.

Cool, filtered air.

A Gādian fortress in disguise.

Eleanor stepped out behind him, quiet, composed. She did not look around in the same way he did—but he knew she was taking it in regardless.

The suite door unlocked before he touched it.

Inside, the space opened into glass and height.

Tokyo stretched out beneath them—layered light, precise, endless. No skyline dominance, no single centre. Just controlled expansion in every direction.

Connor walked to the window without thinking.

From here, he could see the trunk and branches of roads, traffic patterns, the rhythm of movement.

The suite itself was divided cleanly.

Shared living area—low-profile furniture, neutral tones, nothing personal.

Two bedrooms branching off opposite sides.

Kitchen unused. Stocked, but untouched.

They retired to their respective rooms.

Connor sat cross-legged on the pristine bed and centred his attention on his breathing. Each time his mind drifted, he refocused.

Meditation had never come easily to him. The benefits were too subtle at first, too quiet to notice. Nothing broke if he skipped a session. No immediate cost. That made it easy to neglect.

But consistency had compounded the effects over time.

Now he understood its value. It gave his mind space—relief from the constant pull of tasks that needed to be done. His nervous system settled. The background noise dulled. In its place came clarity, and with it, a reserve of mental energy he could draw on when it mattered.

Not long after he finished, his phone buzzed.

He answered without hesitation.

“Yes?”

A pause.

Then Ciara’s voice—cutting through the distance.

“Authentication.”

Connor shifted, lowering his voice a fraction.

“Red-Three-Seven. Counter-sign.”

“Green-Five-Nine,” Ciara answered immediately. “Confirm location.”

Connor turned slightly, eyes still on the city.

“Toranomon Hills. Upper residential tier. No visible external security. Internal systems are… integrated.”

“Liang’s family are in Singapore,” she said.

Connor stilled—a bit early.

“Confirmed?”

“Confirmed. Wife—Lin Mei-Hua. Paediatric cardiologist. Two children. Daughter—Yu-An, fourteen. Violinist. Son—Wei-Jun, nine. Robotics focus.”

“You believe Eleanor when she says the MSS top brass might allow Liu Ren to make a move on them?”

The Singaporeans didn’t tolerate foreign intelligence operations on their soil. The CIA discovered this back in the sixties.

“They’ve been waiting for an opportunity for at least two years,” Ciara said. “I want you providing overwatch.”

“Surely alerting the Singaporeans would be less risky and more efficient.”

“SIS won’t make the call based on the yet-to-be-confirmed intel of a defector who hasn’t even been debriefed as yet,” she answered. “And we cannot rule out a mole within Singaporean structures. Government or intelligence. We proceed carefully.”

“What about Eleanor?” he asked.

There was a slight pause.

“She remains under Gādian protection,” Ciara said. “We’ll arrange an escort team when viable.”

Connor glanced towards the closed bedroom door across the suite.

“She won’t like that.”

“No,” Ciara agreed. “She won’t.”

Another beat.

“Yeah, I’ll manage it.”

The line went quiet for a second.

Then Ciara added, softer now:

“This is the priority.”

“I know.”

The call ended.

Connor stood still for a moment after the line dropped.

Tokyo, like many major cities, never rested well.

He crossed the suite and gently knocked once on Eleanor’s door.

It opened almost immediately.

She had not been asleep.

Eleanor Zhu stood framed in the doorway, composed as ever.

“Connor.”

“Liang’s family are in Singapore,” he said.

Her eyes sharpened instantly.

“Early,” she stated. “You will need my insight.”

“If the MSS are running an operation,” Connor said evenly, “taking you to them is silly.”

“My intelligence on Liu Ren’s intentions towards Dr Liang Wei-Shen was the most valuable information I have.”

Connor instantly understood—she was telling him that if something happened to her, it wouldn’t be a major strategic loss.

“And we are not in the business of putting less effort in based on an asset’s apparent diminishing usefulness,” he said. “A deal is a deal.”

Something flickered in her eyes then.

“Have you been to Singapore before?”

“No.”

“Do you speak Taiwanese Hokkien?” she asked.

“No.”

“Mandarin?”

Connor gave a slight shake of his head.

“No.”

Eleanor held his gaze.

Then said, calmly—

“Then I have not yet reached the end of my use.”

14

FUJIAN PROVINCE, PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA — LATE AFTERNOON

The motorway belonged to the army.

Liu Ren had realised it twenty kilometres outside Xiamen.

Civilian traffic had not disappeared entirely, but it had been pushed to the margins, funnelled into the outer lanes while long green columns moved south beneath a sky the colour of dirty porcelain.

Fuel tankers.

Engineering vehicles.

Communications trucks bristling with antennae.

Troop carriers.

Heavy transporters bearing armoured vehicles beneath fitted canvas.

Every few kilometres, military police occupied junctions and overpasses, their white-gloved hands directing movements with the calm authority of men who knew the roads had temporarily ceased to belong to the public.

Liu watched another convoy merge ahead of them.

“This is larger than an exercise.”

Zhang Wei sat beside him in the rear of the black Hongqi.

“Perhaps.”

Liu looked at him.

Zhang’s expression remained neutral.

“Everything is an exercise until somebody decides it was preparation.”

Liu returned his attention to the window.

They had passed an airfield ten minutes earlier. Even from the motorway he had seen increased activity around the perimeter—ground crews, transport vehicles, aircraft shelters standing open.

Beyond the industrial sprawl lay the Taiwan Strait.

And beyond that, Taiwan.

Their driver slowed.

Ahead, a military policeman stepped into the carriageway and raised one white-gloved hand.

The Hongqi stopped.

Another road crossed theirs.

The first transporter appeared from the left.

Then another.

Then another.

Behind them came mobile command vehicles, fuel bowsers and buses carrying soldiers. Civilian articulated lorries followed, requisition markings displayed inside their windscreens.

The mobilisation extended beyond the People’s Liberation Army.

Ports.

Railways.

Fuel.

Telecommunications.

Civilian haulage.

China was practising the movement of the state itself.

Neither man spoke for a while.

Liu watched the columns pass.

People in Europe imagined wars began with gunfire. Sitting there, watching civilian infrastructure bend around military necessity, Liu was reminded that by the time the first shot was fired, much of the important work had already been completed.

His thoughts returned to Singapore.

“Have you heard from Tallinn?”

“Sir, you know I won’t until the mission is over.”

Zhang’s rebuke carried little sting.

That was part of what made him useful.

Liu dealt in hierarchy. Orders travelled downwards, intelligence travelled upwards, and authority existed at identifiable points between them.

Zhang operated in a different world.

Mercenaries. Criminal intermediaries. Deniable organisations. People for whom rank meant nothing unless accompanied by money, leverage or consequence.

His function was not to command that world.

It was to translate between it and Liu’s.

“I dislike having no visibility,” Liu said.

“I know.”

“Especially with a task of such importance.”

Zhang answered, “You selected Nerium because Chinese involvement in Singapore would be unacceptable, sir. Every additional piece of operational visibility you demand increases the connection between us and what happens there.”

Liu looked at him, but Zhang pressed on.

“They have operated for decades without being dismantled. Intelligence services know fragments of their existence and still struggle to map them. European organised crime regards their prices as excessive and pays them anyway. Governments have used them precisely because they understand the difference between achieving an outcome and claiming ownership of it.”

Liu looked back through the window, appreciating an underling that did not unnecessarily flatter him.

A tracked air-defence vehicle passed on a transporter, followed by communications trucks and another column of fuel tankers.

Beyond the military vehicles, apartment towers rose through the haze. Somewhere behind them, ordinary people were eating, working, collecting children from school while an enormous military apparatus flowed towards the coast.

“We have committed an extraordinary sum of money to this.”

“I understand,” Zhang said, “but not even your input will improve the operation. They are the best for a reason.”

The military policeman remained in the road, one arm raised.

Liu watched the haze gathering above the Taiwan Strait.

He disliked surrendering control.

He disliked uncertainty more.

But he disliked failure most of all.

“Very well.”

Zhang said nothing.

That irritated Liu almost as much as being persuaded.

The Hongqi accelerated south while, beyond the central reservation, another military convoy moved towards the coast.

For once, Liu Ren’s contribution to an operation would be restraint.

NORTH FINCHLEY — CIARA’S FLAT — NIGHT

Ciara Robson watched Connor Reed assemble himself from pixels.

For half a second, his face appeared perfectly formed on the laptop screen.

Then it vanished.

IDENTITY VERIFICATION REQUIRED.

She sat cross-legged at one end of her sofa, laptop resting on a fur cushion across her thighs. Beyond the screen’s glow, her North Finchley flat had settled into its nighttime silence. The refrigerator hummed from the open-plan kitchen. Somewhere outside, tyres whispered across wet tarmac.

Ciara entered the first authentication sequence.

Connor did the same from Tokyo.

Neither spoke conversationally.

Not yet.

Jaime had rebuilt the Chameleon Project’s communication protocols twice in the past eighteen months, with artificial intelligence advancing quickly enough that yesterday’s safeguards seemed to become tomorrow’s vulnerabilities.

A face could be recreated.

A voice could be cloned.

Given sufficient source material, even mannerisms, cadence and conversational habits could be imitated convincingly.

So Jaime had increasingly returned to something technology struggled to steal remotely.

Knowledge.

The screen changed.

DURESS PROTOCOL.

Ciara leaned closer.

“Zero North Tango.”

Connor answered without hesitation.

“Hollow Crown.”

I am not under duress. Are you?

“No Response Necessary.”

No.

A second challenge followed, drawn randomly from a verification tree known only to a handful of people.

Connor answered correctly.

Then he challenged her.

She responded.

Facial geometry followed. Voice-print comparison. Device authentication. Encryption integrity.

Finally, Jaime’s software gave them what amounted to permission to trust their own eyes.

The portal opened fully.

Connor was sitting in the Toranomon Hills residence, Tokyo glowing through the glass behind him.

“Christ,” Ciara said. “Remember when you just parroted out a challenge and response on the phone?”

Connor smiled faintly.

“Times are continually changing,” said Connor. “Eleanor wants to come to Singapore. I think we should let her.”

Ciara’s expression tightened.

“Go on.”

Connor leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs.

“Chinese woman travelling in Singapore—nobody gives her a second look. She speaks Mandarin. Hokkien. She understands how MSS personnel think, how they conduct surveillance, what they’ll notice and what they won’t.”

“If anything happens to her, Connor, we haven’t simply lost someone under our protection. We’ve lost an intelligence source and a potentially valuable long-term asset.”

Ciara waited.

“Eleanor’s defected. Liu Ren knows she’s defected. And whatever we label him as, incompetent isn’t one of them.”

“Agreed.”

“Anything operational Eleanor knew before she came across is compromised by definition. Liu will know what she had access to. Plans get altered. Networks get changed. People get moved. Operations she knew about get cancelled or rebuilt without her. And not for nothing, it’ll have been years since she set foot in China. Her intelligence on Liu Ren potentially being let off the leash against us was the most valuable information she possessed, I reckon.”

Ciara said nothing.

Because he was right.

Eleanor Zhu had carried a remarkable quantity of intelligence out of the People’s Republic with her, but intelligence possessed a half-life. Some of what she knew would remain strategically valuable for years—personalities, structures, relationships, institutional culture.

Operational intelligence was different.

The moment Beijing knew precisely what had escaped, the clock had started ticking against its usefulness.

Connor continued.

“I’m not saying she’s exhausted her value. Far from it. I’m saying this might be one of the better uses of her at the moment.”

“Helping you conduct surveillance?”

“Helping me avoid conducting bad surveillance.”

That almost made her smile.

“She knows the languages. She knows the culture. She knows MSS methodology.”

Singapore had always presented an awkward environment for SIS and even The Project.

Its size, technological sophistication and institutional competence made covert activity difficult enough.

Its attitude towards foreign intelligence operations made establishing permanent infrastructure there an unnecessary liability.

Connor said, “Gādian will put two people around Eleanor.”

“Close protection?”

“Two-person team. She doesn’t move without them.”

Ciara ran her thumb slowly through the fur of the cushion beneath the laptop, turning the fibres from dark to light.

She disliked it.

That didn’t make it wrong.

Field command came with a particular kind of arrogance if you allowed it to: the belief that distance provided clarity. Sometimes it did.

Sometimes the person standing closest to the problem simply knew better.

Connor was the agent in the field.

And she trusted him.

“Alright.”

His eyebrows rose fractionally.

“Eleanor goes with you. The Gādian team stays attached to her. If circumstances change, you reassess immediately. Her protection remains part of your mission.”

“Understood.”

“She’s assisting you. You are not turning a Chinese intelligence defector into your apprentice.”

“Understood.”

Ciara adjusted herself against the sofa.

“We don’t have an asset in Singapore,” she said. “But we do have an ally.”

“Who?”

“Anissa Rajah.”

“Never heard of her.”

“You know what his rules were.”

At the mention of their shared mentor, Bruce McQuillan, something small shifted inside her.

“Anissa’s French,” she continued. “Marseille-born. DGSE. Started out as an asset in the early nineties before they brought her properly inside and trained her. Her background’s unusual—art-market intelligence, financial networks, recruitment, surveillance. She owns a gallery on the Riviera that’s spent years attracting exactly the sort of people intelligence services find interesting. One of many galleries, I might add. Bruce established contact with her years ago and maintained the relationship.”

“How much does she know about Chameleon?”

“Not by name, but she knows broadly what we are about.”

“But she’s not an asset?”

Ciara shook her head.

“No, if Anissa belongs to anyone, then it’s to the French, but I doubt even that. Bruce helped her when British and French interests aligned, and she returned the favour. Over the years, he told me it became a professional reciprocity.”

Connor considered that.

“But she’ll help us? I mean, despite him not being with us now.”

“Seems he vouched for us,” said Ciara. “She’ll meet you.”

Connor nodded slowly.

“I get the sense she was fond of Bruce,” Ciara added.

A smirk flickered on his face.

“I remember a young bird of a waitress swooning over him when he was around fifty, completely ignoring this epitome of masculinity,” said Connor, pointing his thumbs at himself while biting his bottom lip David Brent-style. “So I can only imagine how much of a top shagger he was back in the nineties.”

Ciara swallowed her grin before it appeared and said, “When you meet Anissa, you’ll be wondering the same about her… how attractive she was. I mean, I couldn’t comment on her chastity.”

“Well, I’ll just have to find out,” said Connor, interlocking his fingers and pushing them out. “Just kidding, when’s the meet?”

She returned to business.

“Tomorrow night. Midnight. Lumière Noire. Art gallery.”

“OK.”

“Don’t approach early and don’t hang around outside. Anissa chose the venue and the time, so we respect both.”

“Identification?”

“She knows what you look like.”

“That makes one of us.”

“You’ll know her when you meet her.”

A silence settled between them.

London and Tokyo.

Thousands of miles compressed into a laptop screen.

“Anything else?” Connor asked.

“No.”

He nodded.

“Then I’ll contact you after I’ve met Rajah.”

“Only if necessary. Otherwise, maintain schedule.”

“Understood.”

“And one more thing,” said Ciara. “We can’t provide you with a firearm. Due to the up to two decades in prison and a caning for even being caught with one, we can’t source an underworld armourer, and because this has been sprung upon us, we won’t be able to import one in time.”

“Let’s hope whoever I might go up against has encountered the same issue.”

“Let’s hope.”

Ciara initiated the closing protocol.

Connor authenticated first.

She responded.

The encrypted portal collapsed, his face fragmenting into blocks before disappearing entirely.

SESSION TERMINATED.

Ciara closed the laptop.

For a few seconds, she remained where she was, fingers absently moving through the fur cushion beneath it.

Bruce had believed that good intelligence networks weren’t built from assets.

They were built from relationships.

Tomorrow night, Connor was going to inherit another one of his.

15

SINGAPORE — TUAS PORT BIOSECURITY FACILITY — LATE AFTERNOON

The cool, dry, filtered air lay inside the inspection bay at a level most hospitals would have considered excessive.

Marianne Hawthorne preferred it that way.

She stood at the edge of a sealed inspection lane, watching a container door being unlatched under controlled conditions.

The Singaporean team moved with quiet precision—gloved, masked, disciplined. No conversation beyond what was necessary.

It reminded her of a well-run outbreak response.
Or a surgical theatre.

“Pressure differential holding at negative point three,” one of the technicians said.

Marianne nodded once. “Good. Maintain it.”

The container doors opened slowly. Inside: stacked pallets of processed soy product—imported, repackaged, and flagged due to irregular fungal readings during transit.

She stepped forward, pulling on her gloves with a firm, economical motion.

“Sampling grid?” she asked.

A younger officer—mid-thirties, composed but alert—stepped in beside her. “Three-by-three across pallet tiers. We’ve prepared sterile kits.”

She glanced at him briefly. He held her gaze without challenge, but with attentiveness.

“Expand to four-by-four,” she said. “If this is cross-contact rather than point-source, we’ll miss it otherwise.”

“Yes, doctor.”

She moved along the pallets, fingertips brushing the outer packaging—not pressing, just reading tension, texture, integrity. Her eyes tracked the uniformity of stacking, the slight inconsistencies in colour variation between batches.

There.

Not visible to most.

But present.

She paused.

“Open this layer,” she said.

The team moved immediately. They carefully broke a pallet, exposing the inner sacks. She leaned in, inhaled once.

There was a mild note beneath the sterility.

Slightly sweet.

Her jaw set by a fraction.

“Not active,” she said quietly. “But introduced.”

The senior Singaporean delegate stepped closer. Older, with the bearing of someone used to responsibility.

“Deliberate?” he asked.

Marianne removed her gloves, folding them inward before discarding them.

“That is not my assessment,” she said. “But incompetence can be just as dangerous as sabotage.”

She looked at him directly.

“It’s low-level.”

A pause.

Then a nod.

“We will escalate accordingly.”

Of course they would.

That was the difference here in Singapore.

No theatre. No delay. No political cushioning.

Just response.

By the time she stepped out of the facility, the light had softened into the early evening. The distant skyline carried a soft gold, reflected off glass and water in equal measure.

The delegation had followed her out.

“Dr Hawthorne,” the senior delegate said, “we can arrange a chaperone for you this evening. To assist with navigation, security—”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I’d like to walk.”

A brief pause.

Then: “Of course.”

She inclined her head slightly. “Thank you.”

And turned away.

The city unfolded around her in clean lines and controlled motion. Even the ambient noise seemed moderated—contained within acceptable limits.

She walked without hurry.

Her phone connected with a soft tone in her ear.

“Andrew.”

“Hello, you,” his voice came back, warm, steady. “How is Singapore?”

She glanced ahead, taking in the street—glass, light, movement.

“Seems much the same,” she said. “That said, I have so far been from the airport to the hotel. The hotel to site. I’m only just getting out.”

“Typical.”

A beat.

“Be careful, Mara. I know you’ve been there before, but it’s still a city.”

She allowed a mote of amusement to touch her voice.

“Singapore has one of the lowest street crime rates in the world,” she said. “And the traffic behaves better than most European compliance teams.”

He chuckled. “Still.”

There it was.

The other thing.

Unsaid.

She felt it pass between them and settle, unspoken and intact.

She appreciated that he left it there.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Watching something,” he said. “Louis Theroux. Inside the Manosphere.”

She considered that. “And?”

“One of the influencers is… particularly repellent,” he said. “But honest. Admitted he’s only in it for himself.”

“Self-awareness is something at least.”

“He’s not a man,” Andrew added. “He’s a boy.”

Marianne walked on, her gaze steady ahead.

“Manhood is not a matter of age,” she said. “But of responsibility.”

A beat.

“Well,” Andrew said, “that’s annoyingly quotable.”

“Thank you.”

“Be safe,” he said.

“You too.”

The line clicked softly as it ended.

She continued walking.

The city remained composed around her. Efficient. Ordered.

Predictable.

She had travelled extensively over the past weeks.

The fatigue had not yet settled into her body—but it had begun to move through her thinking. Slower transitions. Slightly longer pauses between conclusions.

That was where it began.

Not in the body.

In the space between thoughts.

She recognised it with the same clarity she applied to any system under strain.

For Mara, being tired equalled being more susceptible.

The sensation did not arrive as an impulse.
It arrived as need.

Quiet. Persistent.

It accumulated.

She exhaled slowly, keeping her pace even as she crossed at a junction.

As the pressure built, continued resistance would begin to distort her thinking.

It had been almost two months, and now her need had become distracting.

And she knew her abstinence would make her eventual surrender more pleasurable.

She slowed slightly as she approached the entrance to her hotel, glass doors reflecting the city back at her in softened light.

She would be here for a week.

And she would only be truly needed at the end of it.

That left space.

She adjusted her coat sleeve, fingers briefly touching the cool metal of her watch. The steady tick grounded her—mechanical, predictable, honest.

She would return to her room.

Shower.

Eat something light.

Sleep.

Maintain structure.

Containment prevents escalation.

Her own rule.

She stepped through the doors without hesitation.

CHANGI — SINGAPORE — LATE AFTERNOON

The jet was understated in the way only serious money could afford to be.

A long-range business aircraft, low-slung and immaculate in a matte pearl finish, the discreet Okada insignia etched near the tail rather than emblazoned.

Inside, the cabin carried the same philosophy: soft cream leather, dark walnut inlays, indirect lighting that mimicked late dusk, and the controlled hum of engines so well insulated it felt like silence rather than motion.

Connor sat angled slightly towards the window, watching the cloud layer peel away beneath them.

Opposite him, Eleanor Zhu read from a tablet, one leg crossed neatly over the other, posture exact without appearing rigid.

After a while, she shifted, crossing one leg over the other and setting her tablet down. He caught the movement without looking.

Then she nodded towards the device.

“You brought that on an operation.”

Connor glanced down at the Kindle Paperwhite, then back up at her.

This might have been the first time she attempted light conversation with him.

“There’s a lot of downtime on most operations,” he said. “And for the inexperienced… the waiting can be a mind killer.”

Eleanor tilted her head.

“Are you like a shark? Action stops, and you die?”

Connor let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“A dramatic way of looking at it,” he said, glancing at the dark window.

“But not true?”

“I’ve trained my mind to help me, not hinder me, and I know the value of solitude.”

A small pause, and he continued. “But too much idle time isn’t good for any man. They drift. Conspiracy theories. Excessive drinking and cannabis. Start turning things inward until it curdles into self-loathing dressed up as insight.”

Eleanor nodded and asked, “What are you reading?”

Christ, he thought. Was like getting blood out of a stone, and now she won’t shut the fuck up.

“Several books on there,” he said. “But the last thing was a lengthy article on a Roman general and statesman named Agrippa.”

“Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa,” she said without missing a beat. “Do you like him, based on what you’ve read?”

“He was the man who made Augustus’s reign possible,” he said. “Won the wars that mattered. Actium most of all.”

He leaned back a fraction.

“Built Rome as much as he defended it. Aqueducts. Infrastructure.”

Eleanor said nothing.

“He didn’t chase personal power,” Connor went on, warming to the subject in spite of himself. “His sense of duty to Rome came first. Ironically, this might have been one of the reasons why he was arguably the most powerful man the Roman Empire ever had who wasn’t emperor.”

Eleanor’s gaze sharpened slightly, seemingly interested.

“Because Augustus trusted him with such power—his judgement.”

Connor realised that this sudden interest from Eleanor might have had a manipulative undercurrent to it, but decided to indulge her anyway.

“Augustus was the political animal. Understood people, systems, leverage. Some estimates put his IQ around the one-forty mark.”

A small beat.

“But Agrippa was the sword behind the throne. And both knew what they were and what they weren’t. Knew that together, they were more than the sum of their parts.”

Eleanor watched him for a moment longer, then said, “Perhaps echoed in the dynamic between you and Miss Ciara Robson.”

A silence settled between them, and Eleanor turned back to her tablet.

Connor knew that, though the comparison was reductive, it might not be without merit.

The Chameleon Project was no empire, and he was one of several operators on its books.

And to his mind, Jaime’s seismic skillset carried more weight—and now, perhaps Maya’s, too.

And Ciara might not be an empress—but at her age, she had taken command of the United Kingdom’s most effective black operations unit and driven it through a string of clean successes.

Connor knew without arrogance that he was its premier agent.

If a challenge can be achieved alone, then it isn’t hard enough.

Indeed, two rows behind, the Gādian detail sat in quiet observation. They did not look like protection, which he imagined to be the point.

The Gādian had insisted upon providing a protection detail for the Singapore leg of the operation.

Takato had limited it to two people.

He had pointed out that a larger security contingent would have defeated the purpose, drawing unnecessary attention to Eleanor wherever she went. Two professionals, moving independently, could disappear into the background far more effectively than six trying not to look like bodyguards.

Ayumi Tanaka had been appointed team leader.

The second was a man named Ryo Nakamura.

Connor knew little about Nakamura beyond what Takato had volunteered. Former Japanese law enforcement. Protective security specialist.

Reliable enough to be entrusted with Eleanor Zhu’s life despite Ayumi—his junior in years—being given operational command.

Connor had seen enough elite organisations to know that only disciplined professionals accepted that arrangement without resentment.

Ryo certainly looked the part.

Alert without appearing alert.

Beside him, Ayumi Tanaka, in particular, could have passed for a junior corporate assistant—hair tied back, neutral attire, expression mild.

Connor had been around dangerous people since his inception and confidently put Ayumi in the ‘Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing’ category.

The pairing also made practical sense.

In Singapore, neither of them attracted a second glance.

Japanese visitors were commonplace, and at a distance few would distinguish them from the city’s large ethnic Chinese population.

Where Connor’s height, build and unmistakably British features made him memorable, Ayumi and Ryo could spend hours observing the Liang family without ever becoming part of anyone else’s story.

That alone justified Takato’s decision.

Ayumi had been a top-level athlete with the mentality to match—which would have seen her rise in her new profession.

That said, she was a woman—and not a particularly large or physically imposing one.

Connor had rolled and sparred with enough women over the years to understand that though skill could close the gap, sometimes decisively, the percentage of women who could consistently overpower an average man in a straight fight was far smaller than most people liked to believe.

He put part of that down to distance from reality. Modern Western norms now condemned husbands striking their wives, meaning fewer women felt the raw disparity in strength when force was applied.

Without that reference point, perception drifted.

He enjoyed films of ‘badass’ female protagonists with superlative unarmed combat skills for what they were, but they did not suspend his disbelief—not even the excellent sequences in Haywire.

Former MMA star Gina Carano moved well, understood distance, timing, and weight transfer. However, a clean, unexpected punch to the back of the head was not something you simply shrugged off.

However, Connor knew training mattered, and mindset mattered more.

A fit, strong woman who could strike and perform submissions cleanly, move with intent, and—most importantly—commit when it counted, could disrupt, deter, and in many cases end an encounter with a bullying man before it ever became a contest of strength.

Connor’s thoughts drifted back to the arrangement itself.

Okada Engineering had not placed them on the manifest of an existing flight. A liaison with Singapore’s energy sector had been arranged after, not before, he had even raised transport as a requirement.

That level of decision did not come from middle management.

It came from the top.

Kusama Okada, the granddaughter of Masayoshi Okada.

Only a few years older than Connor. He had met her once in a meeting years ago—just long enough to understand she was not ceremonial leadership. Since then, he had followed her trajectory with quiet interest.

She had helped guide Okada Engineering from a powerful firm into something closer to a geopolitical instrument.

Connor exhaled slowly.

Bruce’s voice surfaced, uninvited but clear.

“A friend in need is a friend indeed. Foster the right relationships. They’ll keep you alive longer than your trigger finger ever will.”

He glanced back briefly towards the Gādian team.

Yasuhiro Takato had provided them without hesitation.

Connor looked back out over the wing as Seletar Airport came into view.

The smoothness of the descent meant Connor barely registered the transition from air to ground.

The jet taxied across immaculate tarmac, past hangars that looked more like surgical theatres than industrial structures.

Seletar Airport possessed a lower volume than Changi—private aviation, military adjacency, controlled movement.

Exactly where a company like Okada would land.

Heat hit him the moment he stepped off the aircraft—not oppressive but carrying a tropical weight.

A black Mercedes S-Class waited at the foot of the steps, engine already running.

No logos. No ceremony.

The drive over to Marina Bay saw evening glide into night.

The hotel overlooked the bay—glass, steel, and restraint.

After a fast, efficient check-in, Connor followed a host to a room that followed the same philosophy as the jet: minimalist without feeling empty.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline, the water reflecting the city back on itself in perfect symmetry.

A low bed, crisp linen, a desk positioned deliberately towards the view, and a bathroom that felt engineered rather than designed.

He set his bag down, paused for a moment, then stepped closer to the glass.

Singapore spread out beneath him.

Glass towers rose clean and deliberate, their lines unbroken, their spacing precise—as if someone had taken the chaos of a modern city and forced it into discipline.

Between them, strips of green cut through the concrete—parks, trees, rooftop gardens—placed with intent, not sentiment.

The streets moved, but they didn’t surge.

Beyond the skyline, the port stretched into the haze—rows of cranes standing like sentries over stacked containers, each one a small piece of something moving somewhere else.

With Eleanor under watch, Connor decided to explore the city before his meeting with Anissa Rajah.

MARINA CENTRE AREA — SINGAPORE DOWNTOWN CORE — EARLY EVENING

Katarina Varga stood beneath the shallow overhang of a glass-fronted retail unit, a paper coffee cup resting loosely in her hand.

Across the street, the hotel entrance operated with quiet efficiency. Valets moved with practised choreography. Doors opened before hands reached for them. Luggage appeared and disappeared without friction. The kind of place where money erased inconvenience.

Her eyes moved, but nothing else did.

Two men.

Taiwanese, according to the brief. Protective detail, understated. No suits. Light jackets despite the heat—concealment.

One positioned near the entrance, the other drifting, never quite still, tracing shallow arcs that suggested awareness without overt display.

She watched the rhythm.

Not the men themselves—never the men—but the spaces between their movements.

Time between scans.

Time between distractions.

Time between the door opening and the vehicle sealing again.

Patterns always revealed themselves. People could not help it.

She shifted her weight slightly, more for appearance than necessity, and glanced at her watch. She had been here thirty-seven minutes. Long enough for a first pass. Not long enough to become part of the environment.

Two hundred thousand euros.

To wait.

To observe.

To be available.

And she despised it.

Nerium paid for certainty, and contingency was a form of certainty—but it left her suspended by inaction.

Her father would not have understood.

He had liked to fish.

Rivers outside Debrecen. Slow water, reeds thick at the edges. Carp mostly. Sometimes pike.

She had gone with him when she was younger, to escape her manically strict mother.

The first time, they caught many. Enough that her arms had ached from reeling.

She remembered the sharp, electric surge when the line tightened—the sense of something real on the other end, resisting, alive. That had made sense to her. Effort, response, outcome.

The next three times, they caught nothing.

Her father had sat there regardless, content in a way she could not understand.

“A day fishing is a good day,” he had said.

She had looked at the still water and felt only the absence of result.

She understood him no better now.

Her gaze returned to the hotel.

In the next few days, Marius Falk would be flying in. The man’s high competence made it unlikely she’d need her more kinetic skills.

She felt the same quiet dissatisfaction she had felt by the river.

Waiting without outcome.

She shifted her attention to the second guard. He checked his reflection briefly in the glass of a passing vehicle, lingering half a second too long.

Good.

Her mind drifted—not away from the task, never that, but laterally.

Her first kill.

Not a memory she revisited often, but it remained clear when she allowed it.

Kosovo. Or what remained of it in that phase—fractured, tense, brittle.

She had been positioned on a rooftop overlooking a narrow street. Riot control, officially.

The crowd had been loud but directionless. Anger without structure. Stones thrown more for expression than effect.

Then the shift.

It always came.

A man broke from the edge of the group. Not running. Moving with intent. His hand inside his jacket.

She had tracked him immediately.

Rules of engagement were restrictive. Identification required. Confirmation required.

She had waited.

He moved closer. Faster now. The space between him and the soldiers compressed.

Katrina had emptied her lungs of breath.

He drew the pistol.

She took the shot.

The recoil had been familiar. The sound, muted by distance and environment. The man dropped before the soldiers had fully understood what had happened.

The crowd fractured instantly.

She remembered not the man, but the moment after.

The clarity.

The clean resolution of a problem that had been building towards inevitability.

A car pulled up at the hotel entrance. Her attention returned fully.

The Liang family did not emerge.

Instead, a businessman. Irrelevant.

She adjusted her position slightly, letting two pedestrians pass between her and the line of sight, then re-established it without drawing attention.

The guards reset.

Same positions. Same rhythm.

Predictable.

That would change.

It always did.

She glanced once more at her watch.

Later that evening, she would test them.

A controlled reappearance. Slight alteration in posture, in clothing. Enough to see whether they noticed a pattern or simply reacted to presence.

If they missed it, the operation would be simpler.

If they did not, adjustments would be made.

Either way, the equation would resolve.

She let the coffee cup fall into a nearby bin and stepped away from the overhang, merging into the flow of pedestrians without resistance.

She hoped, quietly and without expectation, that Nerium would have something more definitive for her soon.

16

SINGAPORE — MARINA BAY — NIGHT

Connor stepped out into the Singapore night.

There seemed no real nighttime let-down with the humidity, and he knew his cotton shirt might cling later. That said, the air felt clean.

The city’s cleanliness seemed almost unreal to him. No litter. None. No takeaway cartons, no cigarette butts, no broken glass.

The streets carried a low hum of life—people moving with purpose, no visible friction between systems. It reminded him of Tokyo in some respects, but without the same vertical compression of humanity.

He walked without a destination, letting the city unfold around him.

Glass towers gave way to green spaces without transition. Public areas were maintained with an attention to detail that bordered on obsessive.

Drainage systems. Road layouts. Surveillance placement.

He had seen a dark blue Ferrari F8 Tributo and a black McLaren 570S since he began his walk—such supercars were a rare sight in his native Leeds.

This was a city built with foresight.

Connor had read extensively over the years, and the name that anchored everything here was the principles set out by the nation’s father—Lee Kuan Yew.

A man who had taken a resource-poor, newly independent state—expelled from Malaysia in the mid-sixties, surrounded by uncertainty—and imposed order through will, policy, and clarity of vision.

Anti-corruption measures that were not symbolic but enforced.

Meritocracy over patronage.

Aggressive investment in infrastructure, housing, and education.

Strict laws that prioritised stability over individual indulgence.

The Ethnic Integration Policy (EIP)—a system that quietly dictated who could live where, capping each housing block to mirror the nation’s diversity.

It wasn’t about tolerance; it was engineered proximity designed to suffocate racial division before it ever had room to breathe.

And a personality that tolerated no ambiguity when it came to national survival.

Lee had understood something most leaders did not.

That weakness invited extinction.

Connor’s mind drifted to a conversation months earlier.

John Foley, former para and now outlaw biker, had a rough edge and could be blunt, but was better read than most would ever imagine.

“Palestine could’ve been the Singapore of the Middle East,” Foley had said over a drink, voice steady. “If it wasn’t run by a death cult.”

Connor had pushed back as was his habit in the face of a divisive view, whether he agreed with it or not.

“A bit complicated when your land is under blockade?”

“And whose fault is that?” exclaimed Foley. “Even Arabs can’t be doing with Gazans. Egypt’s security at the Rafah Crossing is so tight because they don’t want those ‘River to the Sea’ fuckheads usurping them like they tried to do with the Jordanian Government back in the seventies.”

“I don’t think all Gazans are HAMAS. A bit difficult to remove them when there have been no elections since they were voted in back in 2006.”

Connor had decided that discretion was the best form of valour in his debate with his friend. Though he had fleetingly visited Israel, he hadn’t set foot in either Gaza or the West Bank.

Still, as he looked around, he wondered if a version of Singapore would ever be possible there.

Then he turned towards a station entrance.

He had heard enough about it.

Mass Rapid Transit.

One of the best in the world, by most accounts.

He descended into the station.

Cool air replaced the heat instantly. Clean lines, clear signage, no clutter. The platform was orderly, people spaced naturally, no jostling, no raised voices.

SINGAPORE — NIGHT

The warmth seeped into her bone marrow.

A clean, clinical softening. The edges of thought rounded off. The constant internal audit receded to a distant hum.

Mara walked in a pleasant haze.

Singapore unfurled around her in ordered layers: glass, light, motion. Even at night it felt… composed.

The city had a body of perfect homeostasis. She passed a row of late diners eating in near silence, the clink of cutlery precise, contained.

She took a small sip from the leather Union Jack-stitched hip flask, barely tilting it. Vodka—neutral, efficient. It slid down without ceremony, merging with the fading glow of the oxycodone.

She knew the margins.

Knew how far she could go and still move through a place like this without attracting attention.

In Singapore, a person could drink but not become drunk to the point of nuisance.

Since the Little India riot in 2013, the rules had tightened. Late-night public drinking curtailed. Order reinforced. The state had drawn a line and, characteristically, enforced it without ambiguity.

Mara respected that.

Even now.

Especially now.

Because what she sought wasn’t oblivion.

It was silence.

And she had found, over time, that the right combination—opioid warmth, alcohol’s soft distortion, and movement through a foreign city—could quiet the relentless precision of her mind.

Not disable it.

Nothing seemed capable of doing that.

The broad-shouldered Westerner remained perhaps forty metres ahead.

She had first noticed him three streets ago. Dark blond hair. Athletic gait. No luggage. He moved with the purposeful stride of someone who already knew where he was going.

At a pedestrian crossing, he stopped.

Mara stopped, too, taking another small sip from the flask while looking through the illuminated window of a pharmacy.

The signal changed.

He continued.

So did she.

She had always noticed people. Faces. Movement. Anomalies. Even chemically softened, some habits existed beneath conscious thought.

No decisions. No consequences.

One thing at a time.

She descended into the Mass Rapid Transit with the rest of the evening crowd—orderly, spaced, self-contained. The air changed immediately: cooler, filtered, faintly metallic. The station was immaculate. Bright. Clinical.

Safe.

The Westerner passed through the barriers ahead of her.

Mara never looked directly at him.

She didn’t need to.

He took the escalator down. She allowed half a dozen people to settle between them.

The platform stood in a brief, suspended calm—the lull between pulses.

By the time Mara reached it, she could no longer see him.

That irritated her more than it should have.

She walked along the platform edge, not too close, not careless. The glass screen doors stretched in a perfect line—sealed, controlled until the train halted in front of them.

Except one.

Halfway down, a section of the full-height doors stood ajar.

It hadn’t sealed properly after the train left. A gap unable to close under a flicker of an attempt.

A fault.

A blaring incongruity in a city of high function. Like a fleck of tomato sauce on the pristine white of a shirt.

Mara slowed, feeling that irrational impulse.

The same one that came when seeing a Wet Paint sign.

A quiet, absurd curiosity.

Check it.

She glanced around. No staff nearby. No immediate reaction from the platform. People noticed but did not intervene. That same cultural instinct—observe, do not engage.

With the Westerner temporarily forgotten, she stepped closer.

Placed her hand on the edge of the glass panel.

Cool. Smooth.

She applied a small amount of pressure, intending only to test the resistance—to confirm the fault, nothing more.

But her grip wasn’t what she thought it was.

The alcohol had flattened her proprioception. The oxycodone had softened her reflexes. What should have been a light, controlled push became misjudged.

Her hand slipped.

Her weight followed.

For a fraction of a second, she registered the shift—balance gone, centre of gravity tipping forward—

Then nothing beneath her.

The drop proved short but disorienting.

Loose ballast shifted under her as she landed awkwardly, one knee striking hard, her right hand impacting stone and metal, shooting pain through her wrist. The air down here smelled different—hot dust, oil, something electric.

Sound changed, too.

Amplified.

Voices above—sharp now. Urgent.

“MISS—!”

“GET BACK—!”

Mara looked up.

And saw it.

A light in the tunnel. Distant, but closing. Fast.

Too fast.

Her mind, even now, remained clinical.

No time to climb. No time to clear the track. The third rail—somewhere to her right—an additional, lethal variable.

A computer-like acceptance of her impending death registered.

Time stretched.

The approaching train grew larger, the sound building—steel on steel, a rising mechanical scream.

And then—

A figure leapt from the platform like a formidable feline.

He hit the ballast hard, absorbed it, already moving. Broad-shouldered. Efficient. His hands—rough, calloused—locked onto her coat and shoulder.

Mara recognised him immediately.

The Westerner.

Even in that moment, some detached part of her absurdly registered it:

Attractive.

He didn’t speak.

He drove her laterally, away from the centre line, forcing her down into the narrow space between the rails. It wasn’t a neat trench, not a safe recess—just a marginally lower profile against unforgiving geometry.

He followed immediately, covering her with his own body, one arm braced against the rail, the other pinning her down.

The train hit the platform in a blast of air and noise.

A violent rush. Heat. Pressure.

It roared at them, impossibly close—metal thunder filling the world, drowning thought, compressing space into something tight and suffocating.

Mara didn’t breathe.

Couldn’t.

Time fractured into fragments—noise, vibration, the weight of him holding her in place.

Then—

Deceleration.

The scream of braking steel.

And finally—

Near silence.

The man shifted slightly, still over her, still anchoring her to the ground.

Above them, the platform erupted—voices, alarms, movement.

Mara stared upward, her pulse suddenly catching up with reality.

Alive, the throbbing in her wrist reminded her of that.

She looked at the man who had just risked his life for a woman he had no reason to care about.

Of all the people on the platform, it had been him.

For several seconds, Mara simply stared.

Her mind, so carefully suppressed minutes before, surged violently back online.

And for the first time that night—

It was very, very loud.

***

Connor rolled off.

“You hurt?” he asked.

She blinked up at him, breath catching, but her voice came out composed—native English, educated, measured.

“I’m okay.”

Border country, he thought. North. Close to Scotland. There was something in the cadence—clean vowels, clipped but not harsh.

Up close, she had a striking look about her. Strong-featured. Fleetingly reminded him of a younger version of the actress Hannah Waddingham.

Connor caught the scent of alcohol as she exhaled.

He leaned in slightly, low enough that only she would hear.

“Let me do the talking,” he murmured.

She gave the faintest nod.

Hands reached down—orange jackets, efficient, already moving.

Station staff.

Connor guided her up first, steadying her weight into them. Then he caught the ledge, coiled, and vaulted up in one clean motion, boots landing lightly on the platform.

He clocked the scene.

No phones out.

No crowd surge.

Just controlled Singaporean curiosity and concern.

Questions came quickly—direct, procedural.

“Ma’am, are you injured?”

“What happened?”

“Did you fall?”

Connor stepped in smoothly.

“She lost her footing,” he said with injected certainty. “She’s fine. Just shaken.”

They looked at her.

She slipped her arm into his before they could ask anything further, pressing close, voice suddenly louder—performative.

Her height just about exceeded his own.

“Darling, just take me back to the hotel.”

Connor didn’t react outwardly, but he adjusted instantly.

Good move.

If police got involved, they’d separate them. Ask questions. Run names.

He gave a small nod.

“Of course.”

Then, quieter, for her alone—

“Just keep walking. They won’t put their hands on you.”

He guided her forward, steady but unhurried. No sudden movements. No reason to escalate.

The staff walked backwards, trying to slow them down, but ultimately had to let them go.

Outside, the night air hit—warm, dense, carrying the low hum of the city. They found a taxi stand within seconds.

Orderly. Emptying and filling with precision.

They got in.

Connor didn’t like it. Being enclosed with a stranger. Unknown variable.

But distance mattered more.

The driver pulled away with the woman’s utterance of a hotel name.

For a moment, there was only the quiet hum of tyres on tarmac.

Then—

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Connor glanced at her.

“If I thought it was a suicide attempt,” he said evenly, “I might’ve left you to it.”

She turned to him, a flicker of surprise—

“But you looked more like Del Boy falling through the bar hatch.”

A beat—

Then she burst out laughing.

“I love that scene.”

Connor found himself faintly wrong-footed by it.

“Mara,” she said, catching her breath.

He frowned. “You don’t sound Geordie?”

“Very good,” she said, smiling. “My name is ‘Mara’—sort of shortened from Marianne.”

“Marianne?” Connor mused. “You look good for over fifty.”

“My father claimed to have met Marianne Faithfull by chance in a Chelsea pub around the time of her breakup with Mick Jagger,” she said. “She must have made an impression.”

He nodded. “My name is Connor.”

She tilted her head, studying him now.

“Please allow me to buy you dinner,” she said. “To make up for… all of that.”

“Not necessary.”

“Bring your wife,” she added lightly. “Or husband, partner or whomever.”

Connor shook his head once.

“I’m here on business.”

“Same boat,” she said.

For a moment—brief, uninvited—an image crossed his mind. The way she might be in bed. He shut it down as quickly as it came.

They rode the rest in a quieter rhythm.

As the taxi turned into the driveway of Raffles Hotel Singapore, the place announced itself before they even stopped—white colonial façade, immaculate, lit with deliberate restraint.

Not subtle wealth. Old wealth.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a card, handing it to him.

Connor glanced at it. “Give me a pen.”

“How do you know I have one?”

“A guess.”

Her eyebrows flickered. She reached into the bag and produced a dark green Caran d’Ache Léman.

He wrote and handed the card back.

She took it, eyes lingering a fraction longer than necessary.

Connor reached into his jacket and produced her flask—the leather one with the stitched Union Jack. He held it out.

“You dropped this.”

Her smile disappeared as she took it.

“Call me,” he said, meeting her eyes briefly, “when you’re sober.”

“I will.”

“If you do, you’ll get your posh pen back,” said Connor. “If you decide against it, then every time I write, I’ll be reminded of my heroics.”

She nodded with a smirk. “Fair enough.”

“Hopefully your wrist isn’t more than a sprain.”

“I like a man who notices things,” she said before flashing him an illuminating smile.

Then she stepped out, heels steady enough now, and made her way towards the entrance. Connor watched until she disappeared inside.

Only then did he lean forward slightly.

“Orchard Road,” he said to the driver.

The car pulled away.

Connor settled back, gaze shifting to the passing city.

17

COPENHAGEN — EARLY MORNING

Marius Falk stood by the window, one hand resting lightly against the glass as Copenhagen moved below him in tempered greys and clean lines. He did not look at the city so much as through it.

His phone vibrated once on the table behind him.

He let it finish.

Then he turned, crossed the room, and answered.

“Yes?”

A beat of silence.

“Time?” the female voice asked.

Falk glanced at his watch without raising it fully.

“Zero-six twenty-three.”

“Deviation?”

“Plus four.”

Another pause.

“Signal?”

“Clear.”

“Window?”

“Unobstructed.”

A final beat—fractional, almost imperceptible.

“Proceed.”

Katarina’s voice came without preamble, crisp, controlled, the faintest trace of distance beneath it.

“The targets are settled at the expected location—top third of the building. They’re keeping to a predictable pattern.”

Falk lowered himself into the chair, posture loose, eyes unfocused.

“Protection?”

“Initial intelligence seems accurate. Two-man team.”

Falk ran his thumb along the inside of his wrist.

“Competence?”

“As professional as you would expect,” she said. “They read space well. Maintain decent proximity discipline. One floats, one anchors.”

“But.”

A faint shift in her tone.

“They are creeping into laxness on a few of their drills at times.”

Falk’s gaze sharpened slightly.

“Elaborate.”

“Route variation is limited,” she said. “They favour familiarity over randomness. Same streets, same entry points.”

He said nothing.

“They’ve also begun to relax their perimeter checks,” she continued. “This morning they failed to clear a service corridor before moving the principal through it. Yesterday, one of them took a call while on outer watch.”

Falk leaned back, fingers steepled loosely.

“Static habits forming.”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“They’re allowing proximity bleed,” she said. “Public spaces—restaurants, promenades. They let people get too close before adjusting. Not dangerously so. But enough.”

Falk nodded once, though she could not see it.

“Fatigue pattern?”

“Not yet. But it will come. I believe they think the protectees are unappealing under a Singapore sky. “

Silence settled for a moment.

“We have confirmation,” Falk said, voice even. “The Liang family remain in Singapore until the end of the week. No early departure. I will arrive the day after tomorrow to aid you with the continued observation.”

“Acknowledged.”

Another pause, thinner now.

“I expect the shortcuts to increase as the week goes on,” she added. “They’re already trusting the environment.”

“They always do,” said Falk, rising and moving back towards the window. “I’ll see you in two days.”

The line clicked dead.

Falk stood in silence, watching the reflection of the room in the glass rather than the city beyond.

A family moving through a controlled space.

Two professional bodyguards too comfortable.

A system beginning to loosen at the edges.

He pressed his thumb once more to the inside of his wrist.

LUMIÈRE NOIRE — SINGAPORE — NIGHT

The art gallery sat above street level on a quiet stretch off Orchard Road, accessed by a private lift that opened directly into the space.

At night, the city pressed in through the glass—light fractured into clean geometry—but inside, the gallery held its own atmosphere.

Connor stood alone before the painting.

A winter tree, skeletal against a pale, dead sky. Crows gathered in its branches like punctuation marks. Others circled above, black strokes cutting across the emptiness.

A derivative of The Tree of Crows by Caspar David Friedrich.

He found himself staring longer than he meant to.

Footsteps, soft on polished concrete.

He didn’t turn.

“You seem taken with it.”

The voice was female. English with French undertones.

“I saw another version of it in the Louvre Museum,” he said. “If anything… this one’s more hypnotic.”

A pause behind him. Not surprise. Consideration.

“Do you like art, Mr Reed?”

He gave a faint shrug.

“Depends on the art, Madame Rajah. Saw one of Ad Reinhardt’s black paintings once. Figured I must lack the IQ to appreciate it, as I thought it was fucking gash.”

A low chuckle for a reply.

Connor then asked, “How’d you get this?”

“You know that is a secret,” she said lightly. “But perhaps you should guess.”

Connor exhaled softly through his nose.

“Reckon it came through inheritance. Grandchild of someone high up in the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg. You agreed to anonymity as part of the purchase.”

A single nod.

“He said you’re a smart one.”

“My boss says the same about you, Madame Rajah.”

“You may call me Anissa,” she said. “Especially as the word ‘madame’ from an Englishman’s lips makes me think of brothels.”

Connor smiled and turned.

She stood a few paces behind him.

Tall for a woman with an effortless posture.

She wore black, tailored but unshowy, the fabric matte against the low light.

A black lacquer stick pinned her still dark hair up in a loose chignon, a silk scarf woven through it.

Her face held structure more than softness—high cheekbones, a defined jaw—but there was no harshness. Just control. Her skin carried a warm tone, unmarked by anything that mattered.

He would have reckoned on mid-fifties if he didn’t already know she was almost a decade older.

Dark eyes.

Connor took her in for a beat longer than was strictly necessary.

“Christ,” he said. “Was there anywhere on this planet Bruce McQuillan didn’t have friends?”

She gave a small pout, almost amused.

“I will accept acquaintances. But that man will be glad he is dead if I discover he had an abundance of ‘friends’ scattered around the world.”

They walked a few paces before Connor slowed beside another canvas.

“Ah, Stag at Sharkey’s. Nineteen-oh-nine.”

Bellows had captured two boxers locked together beneath the ring lights, bodies slick and distorted by effort, while a dark mass of spectators crowded around them. There was nothing noble about it. Just violence, exhaustion and men paying to watch both.

Anissa glanced at him, sounding faintly surprised. “You’re a George Bellows admirer?”

“Some of his stuff. Both Members of This Club. Same year. Dempsey and Firpo, nineteen twenty-four.”

Her eyebrow lifted.

“He told me you were a boxer,” she said.

“A while back. Just an amateur.”

“A boxing fan?”

“Less so now.”

“Less so? Why?”

Connor shifted his weight slightly, still half turned between her and the painting.

“The Floyd Mayweather versus Manny Pacquiao fight not being made back in 2010 upset me. Both seen as invincible then. Contrasting styles, backgrounds… Thought it’d be my generation’s Durán–Leonard.” He gave a faint shake of his head. “And Tyson Fury versus Anthony Joshua should’ve been made over five years ago. See—got me started now.”

She nodded, as if to indulge him.

“You have a knowledge of boxing history?”

Connor felt the drift in the conversation to be strange, but he followed it anyway.

“More than most.”

“Who do you think is the pound-for-pound greatest in history?”

“Consensus says Sugar Ray Robinson. Speed, power, balance, rock-hard chin, heart and killer instinct—the first, and some say only, complete prize fighter. Beat everyone worth beating, some of them multiple times. Fought across weights, kept his form for a long time.”

“But you don’t agree?”

“I don’t disagree,” Connor said. “Just think there are other contenders.”

“Like who?”

“Sam Langford,” he said. “Fought from lightweight up to heavyweight, beat bigger men, ducked by champions because he was too dangerous and not worth the money. No real title run because nobody would give him the chance.”

He felt himself warm to the subject despite himself.

“Ezzard Charles. Could box, could fight, overcame elite opposition across eras. Beat a lot of great fighters, often when they were still dangerous.”

A beat.

“But my pick might be Harry Greb.”

“Why?”

“Must be the white supremacist in me.”

She raised an eyebrow, and Connor pretended not to feel chastised.

“I’m not saying he was better than Robinson,” he said. “But I reckon he owns the most impressive résumé ever. Fought constantly. Beat champions, contenders, light-heavyweights while being a middleweight. In 1919 he went unbeaten in forty-five fights against all comers.”

He nodded slightly towards the painting, though he wasn’t looking at it now.

“Likely fought a lot of it half blind in one eye in the second half of his career after taking a thumb in it and still posted some of his best wins.”

“Why is he not better known? Like Muhammad Ali, Mike Tyson or Sugar Ray Robinson?”

“It’s over a hundred years ago,” said Connor. “And though there is film of other boxers of that era and before, like Jack Johnson and Jack Dempsey, there isn’t of Greb—no fight footage, at least. Perhaps mythology grows in the gaps.”

She remained still for a moment and gave a small nod.

“The Liang family are not due back in Taiwan until the end of the week,” she said, the shift abrupt enough to register. “If the Ministry of State Security are going to make a play for them, it might be towards the end.”

Connor didn’t react outwardly.

“They will perhaps have discreet surveillance on them. There is little sense in you—being a Caucasian—attempting to watch the watcher until the final days.”

“We might have… assets more able to blend in.”

“Good,” she said. “If you lose your phone, or it is compromised, and you need my help, then return here. It will be highly unlikely I will be present. A member of staff will approach you, and you will state that you once saw a wheellock pistol from 1570–1580 in an art gallery. And that you would have expected to see it in a history museum.”

“Seems a bit convoluted for a code, but OK.”

18

MARINA BAY SANDS HOTEL—EVENING

The restaurant held the quietness of expense—sound absorbed into soft surfaces, conversations reduced to a murmur that never carried.

Eleanor sat opposite Ayumi Tanaka.

Low table. No clutter.

A server moved past without intrusion, placing a small lacquered tray between them—steamed rice, miso soup, grilled fish.

Eleanor’s own dish followed a moment later: delicate slices of chicken, lightly poached, ginger and scallion oil glistening under the light.

She had chosen something closer to home, though even here it had been refined into something distinctly Singaporean.

Connor had made the decision without ceremony.

She was not to remain confined to her room, even when not engaged in the tasks they had agreed upon.

He had framed it as practicality—that a static asset was a predictable one.

But Eleanor understood the secondary effect. A woman kept inside became a prisoner, even if the door was not locked. And a prisoner resented her guards.

This way, the illusion of freedom was preserved.

Ayumi picked up her chopsticks with precise economy of movement. Eleanor noted the grip—orthodox, practised. She placed a piece of fish into her mouth, chewed, swallowed.

Only then did she speak.

“Is this your first time in Singapore?”

Ayumi inclined her head slightly.
“It is.”

Eleanor lifted her glass and took a small sip of water.

“You speak English very well,” she said. “Better than most I have encountered in Japan.”

Ayumi gave a small nod.

“Thank you.”

No elaboration. No false modesty.

Eleanor allowed a beat to pass as she picked up a slice of chicken, letting the conversation settle into something that resembled civility.

Then—

“May I ask,” Eleanor said lightly, “how an educated woman like you came to work for a criminal organisation?”

Ayumi smiled without irritation. Simply as if the question had been expected and did not require correction.

She set her chopsticks down for a moment, hands resting neatly beside the bowl.

“I was a judo competitor,” she said. “From childhood. Through university.”

Her tone remained even. Factual.

“I was competitive at national level. But not enough.”

Eleanor watched her.

“Not enough?” she prompted.

Ayumi’s gaze did not shift.

“I was edged out for the opportunity to represent Japan at two Olympic Games,” she said. “By Haruka Tachimoto. For London 2012. And again for Rio 2016.”

There was no bitterness in her voice. That, more than anything, caught Eleanor’s attention.

“I had committed my life to it,” Ayumi continued. “And then it was… finished. I did not yet know what I would do next.”

She lifted her chopsticks again, took another measured bite.

“The Okada Company approached me.”

Eleanor said nothing. Let her continue.

“They funded further training,” Ayumi said. “I was put through Kikikanri-sha certification. Then with ALSOK.”

She paused briefly, as if assessing whether an explanation was required.

“A large security firm in Japan,” she added.

Eleanor gave a small nod.

“And after that?”

“A specialist programme,” Ayumi said. “Martial and practical integration. Control methods. Restraint. Movement in crowded environments. Taiho-jutsu.”

Arrest techniques. Eleanor knew the term.

“They sent me abroad,” Ayumi went on. “Different environments. Different clients. I learned what was required. I enjoyed visiting different countries.”

She took a sip of tea now.

“The Gādian have never asked me to do anything illegal.”

Eleanor let that sit between them for a moment.

Then, softly—

“But would you?”

Ayumi’s smile returned. Slightly more pronounced this time.

“Illegal acts and bad deeds are not always the same thing,” she said. “As well you know.”

Eleanor’s chopsticks paused just short of the plate.

“Why would I know?” she asked.

Ayumi did not look away.

“The only reason the gaijin is protecting a Chinese national,” she said calmly, “is because you are in the same dark world he is.”

Eleanor set the food down.

“How would you know how dark my world is?”

Ayumi’s answer came without hesitation.

“I hear things.”

Eleanor leaned back a fraction.

“What things?”

Ayumi folded her hands lightly.

“Yasuhiro Takato led the Gādian to victory against the Yamaguchi-gumi,” she said. “An organisation over a hundred years old. Larger. Better resourced. Better connected.”

Eleanor held her gaze.

“What does that tell you?” Ayumi asked.

“That he is ruthless,” Eleanor said. “Clever. Charismatic.”

Ayumi inclined her head once.

“Correct.”

A small pause.

“And his name for the gaijin is Hito Oni. Do you know what that means?”

Eleanor’s voice dropped almost to a murmur.

“The Man-Demon.”

“That is right.”

Ayumi reached for her tea again, entirely composed.

“I do not know what he did the last time he was here,” she said. “But I have never seen the men of the Gādian respect anyone outside of their ranks as much.”

She set the cup down with quiet precision.

“If I were you,” the Japanese woman added, “I would keep yourself in favour with him. And with the people he works for.”

Eleanor said nothing.

She simply looked at her.

And felt, for the first time since arriving in Singapore, a faint shift in temperature—something beneath the surface of the room.

Ayumi returned to her meal as if nothing of consequence had been said.

Eleanor followed a moment later.

Ayumi glanced briefly towards the restaurant windows before speaking again, her tone returning to business.

“While Ryo was on shift, I conducted a scouting task.”

Eleanor waited.

“The family have been settled into The Ritz-Carlton, Millenia Singapore.”

Eleanor’s expression altered almost imperceptibly.

“All of them?”

“The wife. The daughter, Yu-An. The son, Wei-Jun. I assume Dr Liang Wei-Shen isn’t here.”

Eleanor absorbed that without comment.

“Tomorrow,” Ayumi continued, “you and Ryo Nakamura will conduct a reconnaissance shift. Nothing intrusive. Simply to confirm that the family are comfortable, identify any vulnerabilities and ensure their routine has not attracted unwanted attention.”

But the food had cooled slightly.

And so, she realised, had she.

SINGAPORE BOTANIC GARDENS — 0630 HOURS

The city had not fully woken but had already swung its feet out of bed.

Connor felt it in the air the moment he crossed into the grounds of the Singapore Botanic Gardens—the humidity pressing softly against his skin, the low chorus of insects, the distant purr still civilised with the early hour.

The skyline lurked beyond the canopy.

He walked at an easy pace along the path, hands loose by his sides, eyes habitually moving without appearing to.

The contrast appealed to him. Singapore outside stood as a hive of precision—glass, steel, control. Here, a cultivated display of nature’s disorder.

He had read about it the night before.
About Henry Nicholas Ridley—the man who had effectively forced the rubber industry into existence in Malaya.

Ridley had been dismissed as obsessive, almost unhinged, for his insistence on rubber tapping techniques that didn’t destroy the trees. They had called him “Mad Ridley”.

Connor had a quiet respect for that.

Obsession mistaken for madness.

Vision mistaken for eccentricity.

He turned a corner in the path and saw her.

Mara stood near the gazebo, framed by the pale wash of early morning light, and the sight reminded him of her height.

The sun was only just beginning to push through the trees, catching her at an angle that softened everything.

He also understood that the intoxication of the other night had left her.

Connor slowed a little.

He couldn’t quite tell if she looked better because of the light, or because she had made an effort… or if it was simply the setting.

A black brace wrapped itself around her right wrist.

He approached, already settling into the version of himself this required.

This is nothing, he told himself. Time to pass. Until the work starts.

She saw him and smiled.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” he replied. “You’re lucky I am an early riser. Why this time?”

“I am an Agricultural Pathogen Specialist, now given the auspicious role of International Biosecurity Auditor,” she sighed. “I have work later and did not want this to be a fleeting encounter.”

“I am flattered,” said Connor, somewhat meaning it. “What was the damage in the end?”

“A sprained wrist, sore knee and bruised ego were mercifully the extent of it.”

They fell into step naturally, turning onto the path without needing to agree on it.

She glanced at him. “So, what brings you to Singapore?”

“Work,” he said. “Private security. Job doesn’t start for a few days.”

Every good liar knew to keep deceptions as close to the truth as possible.

“And you’re here early to acclimatise?”

“Sure am,” he answered and, to steer the conversation, continued. “An Agricultural Pathogen Specialist, eh? The disease triangle—host, pathogen, environment. All three need to align.”

He felt her glance at him.

“How do you know that?”

“I read about the Irish Potato Famine,” he said. “Led me to late blight. Then pathogens in general.”

A small smile touched her lips.

“Not just a handsome face.”

He felt the back of her hand brush lightly against his, unsure whether it was accidental.

“Do you enjoy it?” he asked.

“I do,” she said. “It matters. You’re dealing with systems most people don’t even realise exist—until they fail. Food security, disease containment, cross-border risk. It’s… quietly important.”

“And stressful.”

“It is.”

“Fatiguing.”

She gave a faint laugh. “That too.”

Connor glanced at her. “That’s why you get yourself inebriated every so often. Reset.”

She stopped walking for half a beat.

“Are you psychic?”

He shook his head slightly. “Funny you should say that. Before I came over, I went to see a psychic.”

“And?”

“I knocked on her door. She shouted, ‘Who is it?’… so I fucked off.”

Mara’s expression didn’t change.

“I went to one,” she said. “She broke into this huge smile. Told me I had the best, brightest future she’d ever seen. Laughing as she told me. And I was arrested.”

“Arrested?”

“For punching her in the face.”

“What did you do that for?”

“I like to strike a happy medium,” she said. “See, you’re not the only one who can make dad jokes.”

Connor smiled slightly. “Didn’t see that coming.”

She returned it. “We can go on all day with these.”

“I sense that, too,” he said.

She gave him a look.

Connor lifted a hand slightly. “That was the last one.”

They walked on.

“It’s good to see your wit is as quick as your rescuing-a-damsel-in-distress skills,” she said.

“Thank you,” Connor replied. “I was surprised how dry your humour is.”

“Because I’m a woman?”

“Well, I didn’t assume your gender.”

She snorted softly. “Just because I’m taller doesn’t make me a man. You’re not exactly Greg Davies, are you?”

“Not quite as funny,” Connor said. “Not quite as tall.”

“Go on.”

“Research suggests humour is a demonstration of intelligence, creativity and social awareness. A courtship signal.”

“Some research suggests that,” she said. “Other exploration indicates men are just expected to perform it, and women are expected to laugh. Creates the illusion.”

Connor inclined his head. “An interesting perspective.”

“I’d reference Mrs Merton,” she said, “but that might be before your time.”

Connor didn’t think Mara to be more than a handful of years his elder, if that.

“I am aware of who she is from this YouTube thing on the internet,” Connor said. “But to bolster your argument, I suppose another funny comedienne from back in your day was Dame Edna Everage.”

She turned her head towards him.

“She was a… Oh, you bastard.”

Connor let the smile come properly, then she mirrored him.

They walked in silence for a moment.

“What do you think of Singapore?” she asked.

Connor took a second before answering.

“I admire how clean and ordered it is. I saw some of the football pitches last night—nets still up, no litter, no chewing gum. That’s… not something you’d see on a British estate.”

He glanced around them.

“I admire how the diversity feels much less fragmented than in other countries. Not like parallel societies running in the same space. There’s a cohesion to it.”

She listened, not interrupting.

“I mean,” he added, “There are the layers of inequality. The expats in offices, migrant workers in the heat. But it still feels… aligned.”

“So, you’re a fan?”

“So far, but I haven’t been here long.”

Her phone buzzed.

She fished it out and answered—voice low, clipped, efficient. A few words exchanged.

Then she hung up.

“I have to go,” she said. “Won’t take long.”

Connor nodded once.

She paused, then added, “Have you a suit? Or at least a good dress shirt and trousers?”

“I have a superb suit.”

“Very good.” She smiled. “Wear it when you meet me at the Atlas at Parkview Square at seven tonight.”

Connor considered it for a fraction of a second.

He couldn’t find a reason to refuse that didn’t sound like one.

And he almost enjoyed being ordered around by the near-regal-looking woman.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She raised an eyebrow but said, “Have you been to a hawker centre yet?”

“No.”

“I suggest you go to one this morning,” she said. “But try not to eat after that. I’ll be paying the bill tonight, so you might as well get your money’s worth.”

“As a Yorkshireman, trust me, I will.”

The back of her fingers stroked his cheek with electric contact.

“Good,” she said. “See you tonight.”

“Alright.”

She gave him a brief smile, then turned and moved off along the path—quick, purposeful, already elsewhere in her head.

SINGAPORE — MORNING

The aircraft door opened to heat that felt organised.

Marius Falk stepped onto the stairway and descended without hurry, feeling the quiet sequence of clicks in his back settle into place.

Long economy class flights did that—compressed the body, shortened the spine, reminded him of its mechanics.

However, that’s how he usually flew into jobs rather than his usual business or first class.

True, it helped him blend in, but it also reinforced the idea that he couldn’t yet relax professionally.

He wore nothing memorable.

Neutral shirt. Mid-range jacket. Dark denim that could have been bought anywhere between Copenhagen and Kuala Lumpur. Shoes practical enough to pass for business, cheap enough to be ignored. A man among many.

A fish in a shoal.

Inside the terminal, he moved with the flow rather than against it.

Outside, the air carried the layered scent of fuel, humidity, and something faintly floral.

He raised a hand and flagged down one of the iconic blue ComfortDelGro taxis. Its paintwork clean, its driver already watching him in the mirror before he entered.

Falk chose it deliberately.

He did not use Grab. Not here. App systems advertising convenience also concealed memory.

He slid into the rear seat and stated the destination to the driver.

The car moved without conversation.

Singapore passed in controlled lines—disciplined geometry.

Falk watched reflections rather than structures.

Not long past forty-seven, the Dane was rich by any reasonable measure.

However, being rich and being wealthy were entirely different.

His current trajectory might—if maintained—move him into something approaching the latter by his mid-fifties.

Nerium had made that possible.

Before them, he would have done well. The private security circuit paid reliably for competence, especially for someone with eight years in Jægerkorpset, trained in reconnaissance and maritime insertion.

But there had always been a ceiling. Income tethered to hours. Risk tethered to presence.

Nerium had recognised something else.

A utility he had not named.

They reminded Falk of the Bene Gesserit in that they invested in very few men, so he felt it justified to feel complimented.

The taxi took a wide turn, merging into a stream that adjusted around it without friction.

Falk rested his thumb lightly against the inside of his wrist.

He had learned the beginnings of studiousness and discipline from an old watchmaker named Jørgen Halvorsen, though to him it was Mr Halvorsen.

A neighbour. Retired. Precise in the way older craftsmen often were—hands steady long after strength had faded.

The arrangement had never been formal.

Marius, not even a teen in the beginning, had sat and listened. That was the unspoken price.

Halvorsen would work under a lamp, loupe fixed, voice steady as gears turned under his fingers.

“Denmark works because we remember what it costs to make it work,” he had said once, not looking up. “People think small countries survive on luck. No. Discipline. Memory—and we remembered living under Nazi occupation.”

Falk had not responded then.

He had only watched.

Watched the disassembly. The cleaning. The reconstruction.

Time taken apart and made obedient again.

What had begun as obligation became pattern.

Pattern became interest.

Interest became a desire to acquire the ability.

Within a few years, Halvorsen had stopped correcting him.

The old man’s eyesight faded first. Then his hands followed, not in tremor but in certainty—knowing where they would soon fail.

He had passed the tools across without ceremony.

When Halvorsen died, Falk continued.

Through the army. Through deployments—to the bemusement of his comrades. Through contracts.

Later, he began to build rather than just repair.

Component kits at first. Then rarer parts. Then bespoke machining—designs translated into metal and delivered quietly. Precision became private.

In the guise of being a customer, the Nerium had approached him.

Though the conversation did not immediately announce itself as recruitment.

The car slowed at a junction.

Singapore again—ordered, confident, functioning.

Falk briefly considered how long such systems held.

Where on the rise-peak-decay curve both Denmark and Singapore lay?

It would only be possible to ascertain retrospectively, as such things were never perfectly linear.

The Icarus Paradox was simple in structure:

Certain behaviours breed success. Then the continued adherence to those said behaviours eventually led to failure, like the defensive fortifications built by France along its borders with Germany, known as the Maginot Line, only for the Nazis to simply bypass it through the supposedly impassable Ardennes Forest to Blitzkrieg the French and British.

The taxi pulled up beneath the hotel canopy.

Falk paid in cash.

Inside, the transition from heat to conditioned air felt immediate and total. He checked in without friction, took the keycard, and moved to the lift.

Upward. Quiet.

The corridor slid by underfoot, sound absorbed before it could travel.

He stopped outside the door and knocked.

The door opened.

Katarina Varga filled the frame—composed, alert, already reading him.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a gesture of easy familiarity.

A performance for any potential observer.

He returned it just enough.

She pulled back, already turning.

The door closed behind him.

The room was set for work.

Screens active. Notes minimal. Sightlines clear.

Katarina moved to the desk and began speaking without preamble, her voice precise, controlled—information structured for immediate transfer.

Falk listened.

19

MAXWELL FOOD CENTRE — CHINATOWN, SINGAPORE — AFTERNOON

Connor moved amongst the stalls without committing.

Heat, steam, voices—metal on metal, ladles striking woks, the clipped cadence of Mandarin, the softer roll of Malay, English cutting through it all.

Ceiling fans turned lazily overhead, doing little more than shifting the humidity from one table to the next.

He let himself drift.

The aromas came in layers. Garlic and oil from a noodle stall. Sweet smoke from satay somewhere deeper in. Ginger—clean, sharp—cutting through it all. He slowed near one stall, then another, forcing himself past them. Too eager and you stood out. Too hesitant and you lingered.

Balance.

Eventually, he stopped.

The sign was simple. No theatrics. A short queue, but not long enough to draw attention.

Hainanese chicken rice.

Singapore’s national dish, he had read.

He ordered. Chicken. Rice. Extra chilli.

The plate came fast. Pale slices of poached chicken, skin glossy. Rice the colour of faint gold, fragrant with stock and fat. A small dish of chilli—red, aggressive—and another of ginger paste.

Connor took the tray and found a seat at a shared table, sliding onto the plastic stool.

The first bite was cleaner than he expected. Subtle. The rice carried most of the flavour—rich, savoury, deliberate. The chilli cut through it, sharp enough to wake the senses.

He let himself slow.

For a moment, his mind drifted.

Grace. Jackson. They might like it here.

He shifted the thought aside like closing a door.

Distraction got you killed. Game day hadn’t arrived, but it was close enough.

His mind leapt for a distraction and found Mara.

He didn’t lie to himself. He would meet her. She had framed it simply—food, a thank you for pulling her out of trouble at the station.

He set the boundary in his head now.

No play.

No reading into it.

Just a meal.

Still… he found her attractive.

Connor took another bite, more out of routine than hunger.

The phone buzzed in his ear.

He tapped it.

“Go.”

A pause. Then he and Jaime completed the security protocol.

“Proceed.”

Connor leaned back slightly, eyes still moving across the hawker centre without fixing on anything.

“Talk.”

There seemed to be a shuffle on the other end. Then Jaime again, lower now.

“Passing.”

Maya’s voice came through—calm, precise.

This surprised Connor—not the passing over to her, but that she seemed to be in the same room as Jaime. Connor knew that she had gone there originally after the St Fergus mission but hadn’t expected her to still be there.

“The recital is confirmed. Liang Yu-An. Three days. As you know, the family is staying at The Ritz-Carlton, Millenia Singapore. They are in a two-bedroom suite on the thirtieth floor. Mei-Hua has the master, the children are sharing the second room, and the two Taiwanese protection officers have separate rooms immediately adjacent.”

“Details on the protection officers?” asked Connor.

“We have extrapolated detailed dossiers on which we will send to you via the GC2 discretionary channels. But to highlight, both are members of the NSB Special Service Centre and not the National Police Agency.”

Connor understood the distinction.

The National Police Agency handled conventional policing and could provide security for senior officials and visiting dignitaries.

The NSB Special Service Centre occupied a different tier—Taiwan’s specialist protective apparatus, responsible for safeguarding the president, vice president and others whose survival carried national security implications.

Sending two of its officers rather than ordinary police protection indicated that Taipei was treating them as strategic state assets.

“Any potential inbound hostiles?” asked Connor, meaning had they identified any possible MSS agents—proxy or otherwise—arriving in-country.

“Cannot confirm,” she said. “We’ve run background sweeps. Nothing definitive. The volume is proving a hindrance, too.”

Connor glanced at the crowd around him. Office workers, tourists, labourers. Thousands of faces cycling through.

“How many?”

“Approximately thirty thousand Chinese nationals flying in and out in the past week.”

Connor nodded faintly.

“We would have to assume their legends would be tight?”

Legends were constructed identities allowing a covert asset to operate in an AO without drawing undue attention.

One of the advantages of Connor’s criminal background was that his extensive travel, even to some of the most volatile places in the world, could be put down to the pursuit of criminal enterprise.

Which, ironically, made Singapore more dangerous for him—the country’s relative lack of an organised-crime ecosystem and its harsh treatment of any foreigner attempting to usurp its order.

“Correct,” Maya said. “Unit 61398 involvement on the cyber side will make them increasingly difficult to decipher.”

“Watchers?” Connor asked, meaning, ‘Have you identified anyone watching the Liang family through hacking into the local cameras?’

A pause.

“Reduced success,” Maya said. “Singapore has deployed a new cybersecurity layer across municipal feeds. We are not familiar with it so we’re penetrating cautiously. No trace left behind.”

A thought hovered over his brain but struggled to land.

Then—

“Widen it.”

Silence for a fraction.

“Clarify.”

“Expand the search parameter to non-Chinese nationals.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“With respect,” Maya said carefully, “there were six hundred and fifty thousand arrivals in the last week. Expansion will degrade efficiency significantly.”

Connor watched a man two tables over laughing too loudly. A family sharing dishes.

“Filter it,” he said.

“How?”

“Passports showing frequent travel,” Connor replied, “but to multiple countries. Not repeat routes—diverse movement patterns.”

Maya was quiet, processing.

“Add professions with plausible mobility. Logistics. Consultancy. Engineering. Media.”

“Understood.”

“And…” Connor paused, thinking it through. “Cross-reference with criminal records. Military backgrounds. Anything that suggests capability.”

A beat.

“We’ll run it.”

The line went dead.

He sat there for a moment longer, the noise of the Maxwell Food Centre washing back in around him.

Connor picked up his spoon again and finished the last of the rice.

YONG SIEW TOH CONSERVATORY — REHEARSAL STUDIO — AFTERNOON

Lin Mei-Hua sat a few rows back, hands folded loosely in her lap, watching her daughter move through the passage again.

The conservatory encapsulated splendour in its restraint—clean lines, pale wood, glass and light arranged with quiet intent.

This was only the rehearsal.

The recital would be held here as well—formal, attended, watched.

Here contained the mistakes that could be removed.

Yu-An drew the bow across the strings, the note catching just slightly before settling. She adjusted without breaking rhythm. Again. Better.

Fourteen.

Mei-Hua watched the set of her shoulders, the way she held the instrument—not as something she was using, but something she understood.

It had been there from the beginning. No one had taught her to want it like that.

Yu-An’s teacher had once told Mei-Hua, ‘It isn’t discipline. It’s desire.’

She did not know where it had come from.

Neither she nor Wei-Shen possessed anything resembling musical instinct.

She knew the Christians in the West would describe such things as a gift from God.

The phrase had always felt imprecise to her, but she understood the intention behind it. A rare alignment. An ability that could be coaxed to bloom, not forced into existence.

Wei-Shen had it, in his own domain. That same quiet certainty when he spoke about things no one else fully grasped.

Perhaps there were two such gifts in her family.

Perhaps three, she thought briefly, her eyes drifting towards her son.

Wei-Jun sat beside her, small shoulders hunched forward, a book open across his knees.

How Do Aeroplanes Fly?

He had been absorbed in it since they had sat down. Diagrams of wings and airflow, annotated cutaways of engines—she could see the shapes reflected weakly in his glasses as he turned a page. The music seemed not to reach him at all.

His father’s genes, or influence, ran deep through him.

And her role, she knew, was to hold them together.

To keep the family’s shape intact and ensure their brilliance could fully manifest.

Yu-An paused, frowned slightly and reset her fingers.

Again.

Mei-Hua’s gaze softened.

“Our children will only be young once, Wei-Shen.”

She had not heard from him since yesterday.

A small thought surfaced.

Perhaps he is already on his way.

Perhaps he would arrive quietly, take a seat at the back, watch without announcing himself.

She let the thought exist for a moment longer than she should have.

Then she released it.

Yu-An had not asked.

Wei-Jun had not looked up.

The children adjusted to the truth faster than she did.

Hope, she thought, is often a private indulgence.

She noticed the two men again.

One stood near the rear wall, positioned to see both the entrance and the studio. The other remained seated closer to the aisle, posture relaxed but eyes attentive. Neither drew attention. Neither spoke.

Invisible.

She had considered them an intrusion in the beginning.

Now, she found their presence… steadying.

Not because she believed there was any real danger. Singapore was not a place where families like hers were taken.

But there was something about hearing her own language spoken quietly between them earlier, catching the cadence of home in a foreign place.

Two Taiwanese men.

A small, human comfort she had not expected to value.

Yu-An lifted the bow again.

Mei-Hua leaned back slightly, letting the sound settle around her.

Whatever else happened—whether Wei-Shen arrived, whether he did not—this moment belonged to her daughter.

Her responsibility was simple.

To be here.

To witness it.

And to ensure that nothing—neither absence nor expectation—made it heavier than it needed to be.

***

Eleanor followed Ryo Nakamura out through the discreet side entrance of the Marina Bay Hotel.

Ryo wore dark chinos, an untucked pale blue Oxford shirt, and loafers polished enough to suggest care without vanity. A lightweight shopping bag hung from one hand. Ayumi had dressed Eleanor to complete the illusion.

A simple cream blouse.

Dark skirt.

Comfortable shoes.

Nothing memorable.

They walked close enough that anyone observing them would unconsciously categorise them before promptly forgetting them.

The reconnaissance had begun the moment they stepped outside.

The Mercedes drifted through Marina Centre traffic before crossing Raffles Avenue.

Neither spoke for the first few minutes.

Ryo drove one-handed, never appearing hurried.

Eventually, he nodded towards a cyclist waiting patiently despite the empty crossing.

“They would have crossed already in Osaka.”

“You’ve spent time there?”

“I grew up near Yokohama.”

The Yong Siew Toh Conservatory appeared ahead, its pale timber-and-glass façade glowing softly beneath the afternoon sun.

Ryo parked across the road beneath a line of rain trees.

Neither exited immediately.

He adjusted the rear-view mirror a fraction.

“No unusual vehicles.”

Eleanor followed his gaze without turning her head.

“I count three cameras covering the entrance.”

“Four.”

She looked at him.

“The fifth is concealed beneath the overhang.”

She found it a moment later.

“So it is.”

They crossed together.

A passing observer would have seen little beyond a quiet East Asian couple wandering through the conservatory before a performance.

That anonymity fascinated Eleanor.

In Beijing she would have been another face amongst millions.

Here, too, they disappeared.

Singapore’s streets belonged to Malays, Chinese, Indians, Eurasians, Japanese expatriates, Korean students, Taiwanese professionals and every permutation in between.

Connor Reed would have stood out more.

Inside, music drifted faintly through polished corridors.

Ryo paused briefly before a display advertising upcoming recitals.

To anyone watching, he appeared interested in the programme.

His eyes, Eleanor realised, were actually studying reflections within the glass.

She mirrored him.

“Anything?”

“Nothing that makes me suspicious.”

The rehearsal studio sat exactly where Ayumi’s floor plans had indicated.

Through the observation window, Eleanor saw Mei-Hua immediately.

She sat three rows from the front, hands folded quietly in her lap.

Beside her, Wei-Jun remained entirely absorbed in a book whose illustrated aircraft wings were visible even from her vantage point.

How Do Aeroplanes Fly?

He had not looked up once.

Yu-An stood beneath the rehearsal lights.

Violin tucked beneath her chin.

Bow rising.

Lowering.

Again.

Again.

Every correction deliberate.

Every mistake challenged immediately.

Eleanor felt something tighten inside her chest.

Not fear.

Longing.

Ryo remained beside her, allowing the silence to exist.

Near the rear wall stood one of the Taiwanese Guardians.

Another sat close to the aisle.

Neither gave them any undue attention.

They continued walking past the studio.

Never lingering long enough to become memorable.

Outside, Ryo slowed, briefly beside a reflecting pool.

“You spot anything untoward?”

“No.”

“Neither did I.”

When they returned to the Mercedes, Ryo started the engine and eased them back into Singapore’s orderly traffic.

Neither remarked that the reconnaissance had been successful.

Professionals rarely did.

The absence of problems was success enough.

20

PARKVIEW SQUARE — SINGAPORE — EVENING

Connor saw it before he reached it.

Heavy lines. Bronze and stone.

He’d read the nickname somewhere—the Gotham Building. Not comic-book absurd, but the authority had carved itself into the façade.

He adjusted his cuffs as he approached.

Eli Norland’s dark charcoal creation seemed almost black in certain light, with a subtle grain that caught just enough to add depth.

The suit contoured his waist and the trousers broke perfectly over polished shoes, no bunching, no slack.

It moved with him because Norland said—a suit shouldn’t wear the man.

He pushed through the doors.

Cool air. Low lighting. The shift from street to interior touched on jarring.

At the entrance to Atlas, a host stepped forward.

Connor slowed slightly, a thought arriving late.

Marianne.

Despite him knowing it, she hadn’t given him her surname.

He opened his mouth—

The host didn’t ask.

“Good evening, sir. Follow me.”

A polite incline of the head. Then he turned, already moving with the Yorkshireman in tow.

The space opened out.

High ceilings, stretching upwards into shadow and gold. A towering wall of glass and metal behind the bar—rows upon rows of bottles rising like a library of spirits.

Art Deco lines everywhere—symmetry, geometry, polished surfaces. Brass, marble, velvet. Chandeliers casting warm light that didn’t quite reach the edges.

It felt less like a bar and more like a stage.

People spoke in low tones.

Connor’s eyes moved without fixing.

Entrances. Sightlines. Staff movement. Reflections in polished surfaces.

Then he saw her.

She stood as he approached, as if the gender roles had been reversed.

The dark, understated heels gave her the edge in height. The deep green dress jealously clung to her under the lighting.

No ornament beyond a watch, a plain band and the wrist brace.

Her hair fell shoulder-length, stroking the elegance of her neck.

Fuck me, she’s a bit of a worldie scrubbed up, he thought.

“I’ll take him from here,” she said to the host.

The man withdrew with a nod.

Connor found it amusing that she was playing the more masculine role in the exchange.

Or perhaps she wasn’t playing.

“Evening,” he said.

Before he could add anything—

“You look great in that,” she said, her gaze flicking once across the suit. “Have they chosen the next Bond yet?”

Connor allowed a small smile.

“I think my northern accent would exclude me from that role,” he said. “My tailor is fanatical—I meant fantastic. A Freudian slip perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” she replied simply.

Connor inclined his head slightly.

“You look regally attractive, Mara.”

“Thank you,” she said.

They sat.

A waiter appeared almost immediately, offering menus.

“Is there any reason you cannot drink tonight?” she asked before Connor could reach for one.

“No reason.”

She gave a small nod, then waved the menus away without looking at them.

“We’ll share a bottle of Opus One. The oldest vintage.”

The waiter just nodded and left.

Connor watched him go.

Oldest vintage. That would land somewhere around 2013. He did the rough conversion in his head. Four figures in Singapore dollars. Eight hundred pounds, give or take.

He said nothing.

He found it refreshing that with her footing the bill, she had ordered for them, sparing him the courtesy of choosing a—comparatively—cheap selection.

The black-and-gold food menus returned. The waiter withdrew again.

Connor scanned rapidly, but when he looked up, her menu was already closed.

The waiter hovered.

“Starters?”

“Seared scallops,” she said.

“Beef carpaccio,” Connor followed.

“Mains?”

“Roast lamb rack,” he said.

“Veal cutlet,” she followed.

The waiter nodded and moved away.

Connor picked up his glass as the wine arrived, watching the pour.

He took a sip.

Fuck, that’s good.

“First time in Singapore?” she asked.

“It is.”

“No change of opinion since we last spoke?”

“Not really, I still like it,” he said. “Clean. Ordered. Everything works.”

He set the glass down.

“And the food’s excellent. Was at a hawker centre earlier—good atmosphere. And it seems… cohesive. Different groups, same space. Transport’s efficient,” he said. “Minus drunk women throwing themselves onto the tracks.”

Her eyes regarded him for a moment.

“You said ‘Not really’—is there anything you don’t like?”

Connor took another sip of the wine before answering.

“Feels a bit…” He searched for the word. “…managed. Bit of a Big Brother edge to it. And some parts feel… sterile. Compared to other places.”

The starters arrived. Carpaccio laid thin, precise. Scallops seared clean.

They began to eat.

She cut into one scallop with quiet precision.

“There is inequality,” she said. “Less obvious than elsewhere. But present.”

Connor listened.

“Singapore looks cohesive,” she said. “But there are internal distinctions.”

“Heartlanders live within the system—public housing, local economies, fixed routines. Singapore is home to them. It provides continuity.”

A small pause.

“Cosmopolitans are outward-facing—finance, law, tech. Mobile. Singapore is a hub. A point of access.”

Connor took a sip of wine.

“Where there are people in groups, there will be a hierarchy, or inequality, depending on which sociologist you agree with.”

Mara raised her eyebrows. “I studied sociology. A second degree.”

Connor looked up.

“Why?”

“To better understand people.”

He considered that.

“I’m surprised you’re comfortable here,” she said.

Connor raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Why’s that?”

“Private security consultants do well,” she said. “But not typically at a level that sustains this environment indefinitely.”

A small pause.

“And your accent isn’t exactly… highbrow.”

Connor smiled.

“You’re suggesting I lack cultural capital,” he said.

A flicker of surprise crossed her face as she asked, “You’re familiar with the term?”

“Non-financial assets such as accent, formal education, taste and etiquette help people gain social mobility and power.”

She studied him now.

“You’ve studied sociology?”

“In my own time.”

She nodded once.

“Then you’ll know the bystander effect.”

“Diffusion of responsibility,” Connor said. “More people present, less likely anyone intervenes.”

She held his gaze.

“Why didn’t it apply to you when I fell on the track?”

“I guessed you had money,” he said, straight-faced. “Thought you might reward a heroic peasant with a meal. Though I could have claimed reparations.”

“Reparations?” she asked quizzically. “You’re a white man, and we are both British.”

“For eating the apple in the Garden of Eden.”

Her laugh sent a shot of dopamine through him.

She stated, “You don’t like talking about yourself.”

Connor took a sip of wine.

“You should feel lucky I’m not using the Metal Gear Solid Snake conversation method on you.”

A pause.

“The what?”

“It’s more of a trick. You take the last thing they said, and you echo it back to them.”

A slight tilt of his head.

“Say someone tells you they’ve just come back from a trip, that it was chaos from start to finish… You reply, ‘Chaos?’ Or they mention a project at work nearly fell apart at the last minute… You say, ‘Fell apart?’”

He looked at Mara.

“They’ll fill the silence by expanding and explaining. You’re just giving people the room to be heard.”

“That’s a very interesting technique.”

He noticed her non-braced hand moving with more dexterity than expected and assumed she might be left-handed.

“People adapt,” she said simply when he mentioned it.

The mains arrived.

They ate. Spoke. Drank.

Time moved without weight.

Connor became aware—quietly—that neither of them had gone into anything really personal about themselves.

And he liked it.

The waiter returned.

“Dessert?”

“I’ll let the gentleman decide,” she said.

Connor took a second.

“Panna cotta,” he said.

“No dessert for me,” she said. “Whatever the bill is, just bring the card machine over and put twenty per cent on.”

“Very well, madam,” said the waiter before leaving.

Connor didn’t ask why she wasn’t ordering.

They chatted amicably until the waiter arrived with both his dessert and the card machine.

She reached into her bag and produced a Coutts Silk Card—and tapped the machine without looking at the waiter.

He left with a flourish of a thank you.

Then she stood.

“I understand you’ve saved my life,” she said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Connor watched her.

“That said, I do have a task for you. It requires the full dexterity of two hands.”

A glance at her own.

“As you can see, I’m somewhat limited.”

A beat.

“If you’re inclined, I’ll be in 2805 at the Andaz Singapore. They’ll be expecting you.”

She stood.

Connor followed suit.

She leaned in—light, brief—pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Then she was gone.

Connor sat back down.

Let the room settle around him.

He briefly thought of Grace.

It’s OK, you’re halfway around the world, and Mara doesn’t even know your surname.

HSINCHU SCIENCE PARK — LATE AFTERNOON

Dr Liang Wei-Shen walked the corridor with heavy feet, knowing what was coming.

The polished floor reflected strips of white ceiling light beneath his shoes.

Beyond the windows, the fading afternoon hung over Hsinchu in a pale gold haze, the outlines of fabrication buildings standing like immense geometric fortresses against the mountains beyond.

He carried no folder.

Normally, when Ho Kuo-Hsin summoned him, there were reports involved. Yield metrics. Contingency modelling. Supply-chain volatility. Something measurable.

Today, he knew it would be about his request to attend Yu-An’s recital.

Liang adjusted his glasses as he approached the office. He already suspected how the conversation would go. Ho would be apologetic. Respectful. Perhaps even sincere.

But the answer would be no.

Too public. Too vulnerable.

Liang reached the door.

The assistant offered a polite nod.

“Dr Liang. Director Ho will see you now.”

Liang inclined his head once and stepped inside.

Ho Kuo-Hsin’s office felt more like a university dean’s study than the command centre of one of the most strategically important industrial ecosystems on Earth.

Bookshelves lined the walls. Economic journals sat stacked beside semiconductor journals. A kettle quietly steamed near the window.

Ho himself stood as Liang entered.

“Wei-Shen.”

“Kuo-Hsin.”

The older man smiled warmly and gestured towards the chair opposite him.

“Sit, please.”

Liang sat carefully, hands resting on his knees.

Ho poured tea himself.

Not delegated.

“How is Mei-Hua?” Ho asked.

“Well. Busy.”

“And your son still building aircraft carriers from plastic?”

“Aircraft now,” Liang replied. “Mostly Soviet designs for some reason.”

Ho laughed softly.

“An alarming preference.”

Amusement flickered in Liang’s eyes.

“And Yu-An?”

“She pretends not to be nervous,” Liang said. “Which means she is very nervous.”

Ho nodded knowingly and handed him tea.

For several moments they drank in silence.

Then Ho leaned back slightly.

“Wei-Shen,” he said gently, “you understand how valuable you are to this company.”

Liang felt the familiar tightening in his chest immediately.

There it is.

“And to Taiwan as a whole,” Ho continued. “There are perhaps… four or five individuals whose absence would create immediate strategic consequences. You are one of them.”

Liang lowered his eyes briefly towards the tea.

He had heard variations of this narrative before.

Ho’s tone softened further.

“You have given much of your life to this work.”

Then—

“It has been decided that you may attend the recital.”

Liang looked up immediately.

For the first time in several seconds, his expression genuinely lost composure.

Ho watched him carefully over the rim of his cup.

“We do not wish,” the older man said quietly, “for you to resent the government’s protectiveness of you.”

Liang understood instantly—this was strategic.

The Americans offered prestige, compensation, freedom of movement.

And the mainland offered all that but to an even greater degree.

Taiwan could not afford to let him become psychologically alienated.

A man did not need to defect physically to become vulnerable.

Ho was too intelligent to state any of this aloud.

So Liang did not acknowledge it either.

Instead, he bowed his head slightly.

“Thank you.”

Ho nodded once.

“There will be a couple of mandated visits. One with senior researchers at A*STAR’s Institute of Microelectronics, and a small conference of ministers at the MTI.”

“I understand,” replied Liang, still high on the prospect of spending time with his family away.

“There will be an additional two-man protective attachment assigned to you for the evening. They will integrate with the pair already assigned to your family.”

Liang absorbed that without complaint.

Four officers for a school recital.

Absurd or necessary—he hoped he never found out which.

Ho’s expression grew more serious now.

“Wei-Shen… I need you to do exactly what they tell you.”

Liang met his gaze.

“If they tell you to leave, you leave. If they tell you to move, you move immediately. No hesitation. No embarrassment. No concern about appearances.”

Liang nodded slowly.

“I understand.”

Ho held his gaze another moment, as if ensuring the answer was genuine.

Only then did he relax slightly.

“Your daughter will remember whether you were there.”

Liang looked down into the surface of the tea.

For a moment, he saw reflected there not fabs, not lithography models, not contingency maps—

—but Yu-An at eight years old, standing in their apartment with a violin too large for her shoulders.

He swallowed once.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“She will.”

ANDAZ SINGAPORE — ROOM 2805 — NIGHT

The suite carried a restrained luxury.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the illuminated grid of Singapore below—clean rivers of light threading between towers and distant ships scattered across the black water beyond Marina Bay. The lighting inside remained low and warm. Walnut panels. Cream stone. Brass fixtures that reflected amber against glass.

A luxuriant ash towel lay on the vast and perfectly made bed.

Mara stood barefoot beside it in one of the hotel’s fluffy white dressing gowns, the fabric loosely tied at the waist, hair still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends near her neck.

Mara had removed her wrist brace and was glad it felt stiffer than painful.

She rarely felt nervous around men.

Yet a low current coursed beneath her skin.

She checked the time once, then immediately disliked herself for doing so.

Perhaps he wouldn’t come.

Then came the knock.

Her pulse kicked.

Mara crossed the suite and opened the door.

He stood there in his gorgeous dark suit, emitting the same composed physicality that made him seem simultaneously relaxed and ready for violence.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then she stepped aside silently.

Connor entered, taking in the suite with a single sweep of his eyes.

“What’s the task you need help with?” he asked.

Mara smiled faintly.

She loosened the robe just enough.

“I am verging on being unkempt.”

His gaze flicked downwards once before returning to her face.

Connor nodded seriously, as though she had presented an entirely practical problem.

“Where’s your shaving tackle then?”

The answer nearly made her laugh.

“I’ll prepare it.”

She moved into the adjoining bathroom.

The kettle she had boiled earlier still held heat. Steam curled softly as she poured water into the wooden bowl beside the sink. Mara collected the shaving cream, balm, and the ivory-handled cutthroat razor she kept carefully wrapped in cloth.

By the time she returned, Connor had removed his jacket and rolled his cuffs once.

She placed the items carefully on the bedside cabinet before laying out the second towel for him.

Only then did she notice the tremble in her hands.

Mara reclined back on the towels and against the stacked pillows and parted the robe.

Connor rolled his sleeves higher.

His face morphed into a study of concentration.

He warmed the cream between his fingers first before touching her.

It felt like an electrical contact.

She inhaled carefully through her nose.

Connor glanced upwards briefly.

“Should we wait a moment?”

She knew he meant for the hair to soften and shook her head.

“I’m not long out of the shower.”

“Alright.”

His movements remained steady. Confident.

Infuriatingly calm.

Mara watched his face instead of what he was doing. The focus in his expression made the intimacy feel somehow even more intense.

Outside, somewhere far below, Singapore continued humming in orderly silence.

Inside the suite, her breathing gradually betrayed her.

And Connor’s restraint became its own form of pressure—as the blade glided over her pussy as if this was his profession.

By the time he finished, Mara’s nerves felt strung impossibly tight.

He set the razor aside carefully before gently dabbing the towel over her skin and drying his hands.

Then he looked at her.

For the first time that evening, she saw something less controlled in his eyes.

A widening in the pupils giving evidence of the desire he kept leashed.

Her own voice sounded hoarse with yearning.

“Take your clothes off.”

A slight smirk touched his mouth.

He stood and stripped without hurry or performance.

Just deliberate movements as each item disappeared piece by piece onto the chair beside the bed.

Mara felt an almost absurd sense of gratitude with every layer removed, revealing more of the hard density of his physique.

She thanked God as the underwear peeled off.

Connor stepped between her legs, one hand sliding around the back of her neck as he pulled her towards him.

Their first proper kiss erased the remaining distance between them.

Deep.

Controlled for barely a second before it wasn’t.

When he finally lowered her back against the mattress and eased inside her, the city lights beyond the windows had blurred completely.

21

ANDAZ SINGAPORE — ROOM 2805 — EARLY MORNING

Connor woke staring at the ceiling.

Thin recessed lights crossed the pale cream plaster above him, and a sombre glow bled through the curtains from the Singapore skyline beyond.

He tried to turn his head.

Nothing.

A pulse of confusion passed through him. He attempted it again, harder this time, commanding the muscles properly.

Still nothing.

His fingers next.

Nothing.

Connor felt his heartbeat increase slightly—not panic but awareness. He tried to swallow and realised even that felt wrong. Thick. Delayed.

His breathing came shallowly through his nose.

What the fuck—

Then memory returned in fractured pieces.

Mara beneath him.

The heat of her skin.

Her laugh against his neck.

Afterwards, her straddling his back in the dim hotel light, working balm into his shoulders and spine with slow, powerful hands—to show her ‘appreciation’.

He could remember the scent of it now. Herbal. Medicinal.

Could not remember falling asleep.

For a few seconds, oddly, his mind settled on sleep paralysis. He had experienced it once just before his teenage years—waking trapped inside himself, convinced something stood in the corner of the room.

The memory steadied him.

It would pass.

Just breathe.

Do not panic.

His eyes tracked towards the side of the suite as movement emerged from the darkness.

Mara.

Naked.

Beautiful.

And flecked with blood.

Connor’s pulse kicked hard now.

She climbed onto the bed without hurry and straddled his waist, looking down at him with an unreadable expression.

“The balm,” she said softly, “contained a carefully controlled mixture of opioids and tetrodotoxin.”

Cold spread through him far worse than the paralysis.

Tetrodotoxin.

Pufferfish toxin.

Voltage-gated sodium channel blocker.

Respiratory failure.

Locked-in paralysis.

Death.

His chest tightened instinctively, as though his body suddenly remembered it needed to breathe manually.

“You and Zhu Mingxin were both on the list,” Mara continued quietly. “Though you know her as Eleanor Zhu.”

Connor tried to speak.

Nothing emerged except the faintest constriction in his throat.

Mara brushed wet hair behind one ear.

“I could not stop thinking about that night,” she said. “I was already beginning the throes of alcohol and oxycodone when the request came through that I take you and the aforementioned off the board. Usually, these things are negotiated face-to-face, but I assumed time was of the essence and that they had identified your presence in Singapore. As luck would have it, so was I.”

She shook her head with incredulity.

“I saw a picture of you not much more than an hour before spotting you on the street. And in my miasma decided to follow you—thinking perhaps you might lead me to your hotel.”

She sighed.

“Then the incongruity of that damn unsealed glass screen door drew me in like a child to a still butterfly. It just had to be you that saved me, didn’t it? Fucking everything up.”

Her gaze lowered briefly.

“I have never refused a contract before. Nor failed one. But I imagine there is a special place in hell for killing a man who has risked his life for yours.”

From the bedside cabinet, she picked up an injector pen.

Connor’s eyes fixed on it instantly.

“I injected myself first,” she said. “The balm was on my hands.”

Then, without ceremony, she drove the injector into the side of his neck.

Pain bloomed sharply through the paralysis.

“This is NX-41,” she said. “Sodium Bridge compound. Maritime toxin research. Baltic origins originally, though the Chinese refined parts of it later.”

Her fingers remained lightly against his throat after the injection.

“It interferes with the binding long enough for the nervous system to begin recovering.”

Connor concentrated on breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

“It works,” Mara said quietly. “As you will soon discover.”

She leaned down slightly, close enough for him to smell traces of their tryst.

“But understand something, Connor Reed. Saving your life means I do not owe you anything beyond that.”

Then she climbed off him.

“I suspect you will fully appreciate the predicament I have left you in by the time I finish showering.”

The bathroom door shut.

Seconds later, water thundered against tile.

Connor focused entirely on survival.

His lungs felt marginally less constricted already. Air came easier now. Not normal, but better.

Come on.

Move.

His fingers twitched first.

Tiny.

Almost imperceptible.

Then his right thumb pressed the bedsheet with the faintest pressure.

The compound was working.

Slowly.

Agonisingly slowly.

He managed to turn his head perhaps an inch before exhaustion rippled through him like fever.

From the bathroom, he could hear Mara moving calmly. No rush. No fear of retaliation.

Because she knew exactly how paralysed he still was.

The shower stopped.

Drawers opened.

Fabric shifted.

Connor forced more movement into his wrist. His hand curled weakly against the sheet.

Not enough.

Not even close.

The bathroom door opened.

Mara emerged, now dressed in dark civilian clothes, her damp hair tied loosely back.

Connor finally managed to angle his head properly towards her.

She stood watching him for a long moment.

“It is a shame,” she said softly. “After last night, I think I would have liked spending more time with you.”

Her expression hardened almost imperceptibly.

“But I am bad for you, Connor. And perhaps you are bad for me.”

She stepped aside slightly.

Only then did Connor see the body.

Eleanor Zhu sprawled beside the sitting area, throat opened so deeply the white marble beneath her looked black in the low light.

Connor’s stomach tightened violently.

“I must go now—my flight leaves in little over an hour, and Singapore Changi Airport can be unforgiving when it comes to lateness.”

Mara drew a knife from her waistband and placed it carefully into his barely functioning hand, folding his fingers around the grip.

“As my father once told me, if disloyalty was forgivable, then the Devil would be sitting beside God.”

She moved towards the suite door.

Then paused.

Without turning back, she said, “I will inform reception that I heard some sort of disturbance coming from this room.”

The lock clicked shut behind her.

Connor lay motionless beside the knife, struggling for breath, staring at the corpse while sensation slowly returned to his body.

And somewhere beneath the paralysis, beneath the calculation, beneath the cold operational terror, he realised Mara Hawthorne was a Black Widow that had spared him.

SOUTH CHINA SEA — MORNING

The Gulfstream moved through the pre-dawn with almost unnatural smoothness.

No vibration.

No rattling panels.

Only the low, constant hum of the engines somewhere beyond the insulated cabin walls.

Dr Liang Wei-Shen sat in a cream leather seat beside the oval window, one hand resting loosely against the armrest as Taiwan disappeared beneath scattered clouds.

The cabin lighting had been dimmed to a warm amber glow.

Polished walnut veneer reflected strips of recessed light.

A bottle of imported mineral water sat untouched beside him. Across from him, a compartment held folded blankets, noise-cancelling headphones, and a tray of untouched food prepared by some private catering company in Taipei.

Everything about the aircraft projected quiet prestige.

Not vulgar wealth.

State wealth.

Taiwan did not possess the scale of America or the coercive reach of the mainland.

But it understood incentives.

Across the aisle, the two National Security Bureau protection officers sat in silence.

Both wore dark civilian suits with earpieces barely visible beneath close-cropped hair. One read from a tablet while the other watched the cabin with the passive alertness of a man who never truly relaxed.

Neither bothered Liang.

In truth, he had long since grown accustomed to them.

At times, he even forgot they were there.

Which, he suspected, was partly the point.

Liang looked out through the small window into the darkness beyond the wing.

The luxury surrounding him was not merely transportation.

It was retention.

A message without words.

Stay.

He thought of California.

Of the private offers quietly floated through intermediaries over the years.

Research campuses.

Equity.

Academic freedom.

American citizenship pathways.

Then the mainland.

The numbers there had become almost absurd.

Money beyond rational utility.

Housing compounds.

Security guarantees.

Research kingdoms built around him.

The sums no longer even felt real.

Liang had reported every approach—perhaps this had made his government look at him in a different light, almost like seeing your wife in a new way, observing another man taking an interest in her.

Liang shuddered at the thought—and he knew that all the trinkets any government could throw at him paled in comparison to his family.

He adjusted his glasses faintly.

Laozi—the Daoist philosopher—had once written: “He who knows he has enough is rich.”

Liang silently repeated the words to himself now.

He had enough.

More than enough.

His apartment in Hsinchu was comfortable. His children were healthy. Mei-Hua still smiled when he entered a room.

What more was required?

Another car?

Another property?

Another account filled with numbers he would never meaningfully spend?

No.

The danger was not greed itself.

It was the perception of his professional significance always being there and it being greater than the love and respect of his family.

Some died as lonely old men still seduced by this fiction.

His gaze lowered towards his reflection in the darkened window.

Perhaps it was time to begin stepping back.

Not suddenly.

Taiwan genuinely needed continuity.

But he could begin offloading more of his expertise.

Delegate more aggressively.

Build successors properly rather than merely supervising subordinates.

Perhaps in several years he could move into consultancy work.

Still useful.

Still contributing.

But present for his family.

Actually present.

The aircraft banked gently.

The pilot’s voice came softly through the cabin.

“Dr Liang, we are beginning our descent.”

Liang looked down through the window.

Singapore’s lights shimmered beneath the clouds like gold scattered across black water.

For the first time in weeks, he felt something close to youthful anticipation.

He had not told Mei-Hua he was coming.

He imagined the confusion first.

Then the surprise.

Yu-An’s expression trying and failing to remain composed.

His son abandoning whatever aircraft model currently occupied him.

Mei-Hua simply staring at him for a second before smiling.

The thought warmed him far more than the leather seat, the polished wood, or the millions spent protecting and transporting him ever could.

And for the first time in a long while, Dr Liang Wei-Shen allowed himself to wonder whether that feeling—not lithography, not strategy, not national necessity—might actually be the most important thing in his life.

ANDAZ SINGAPORE — ROOM 2805 — MORNING

Connor could barely move.

His heart hammered so violently he could feel it through the paralysis, each thud reverberating inside his ribs like a warning beacon.

The knife remained trapped weakly in his hand.

Not gripped.

Not properly.

But still there.

His breathing had improved marginally since the injection, though every inhale still felt manual, deliberate—as though his lungs required conscious permission to function.

Think.

The manager with security would arrive in the next few minutes.

Mara had planned it perfectly.

They would knock.

No response.

Enter under welfare protocol.

Find a butchered Eleanor Zhu with him holding the murder weapon.

Armed response units within minutes.

And if the Sodium Bridge compound had not reversed enough of the tetrodotoxin by then for him to release the knife—

He pictured the dark muzzle of a police-issued Taurus Model 85 pointed at his face with its owner screaming at him to drop the knife.

And if he couldn’t…

Connor knew how that ended.

His chest tightened.

Move.

He forced his fingers again.

Pain lanced through his forearm like electricity through dead wiring.

The knife shifted perhaps half an inch in his palm.

Exhaustion immediately washed over him afterwards, heavy and nauseating.

His eyes drifted towards Eleanor’s body.

Blood had begun to creep between the marble tiles in thin black-red veins.

Thoughts flickered suddenly through the operational terror.

What organisation did Mara belong to?

How did they know of him?

How had Mara managed to separate Eleanor Zhu from her protection detail?

Connor knew his own phone had not been compromised. The secure interface Bruce had arranged was hardened beyond what standard cloning methods could handle.

Unless—

No.

No time.

Move.

His entire existence narrowed to the single task of forcing his nervous system back online.

Then—

Footsteps.

Muffled through the suite door.

Voices.

Animated.

Close.

Connor’s pulse surged.

He fought harder.

His wrist twitched.

Another fractional loosening of the knife.

Come on—

A knock sounded at the door.

Distant somehow.

As though coming through water.

The toxin.

Or shock.

Another knock.

Voices again.

Closer this time.

Connor braced himself.

This was it.

He tried to open his hand.

Nothing.

The lock clicked.

His pulse exploded.

Footsteps entered the suite—

Then stopped.

A confused exchange followed.

A woman speaking.

A man replying.

Then movement again.

Retreating.

Connor stared towards the ceiling in disbelief.

No way.

They’ve gone to the wrong fucking room.

A miracle.

Or incompetence.

Either way, Connor did not waste the opportunity questioning it.

He attacked the paralysis with renewed desperation.

His fingers moved another fraction.

His wrist flexed weakly against the sheet.

More.

Come on.

More.

22

MARINA COASTAL EXPRESSWAY — MORNING

Mara sat silently in the back of the taxi to the airport as Singapore slid past in fractured ribbons of light.

The city remained immaculate even at this hour.

Everything in its proper place.

Unlike her thoughts.

She rested one elbow against the door and watched reflections ripple across the window as the driver merged through the sparse traffic towards the expressway.

Though she had told Connor her flight would be out of Singapore Changi Airport, it would actually fly from Seletar Airport, a much smaller civilian airport in northern Singapore.

Though she guessed he would see through the Bond-villainesque confession, throwing a spanner in the works further reduced the already minute odds that he would survive, let alone be believed should he attempt to pass her details onto the authorities.

Her name wouldn’t be on any manifest on the private flight for Aster Vale Aviation Pte. Ltd—an executive aviation and aircraft-management company as well as a Nerium-controlled cut-out. Her employer’s instructions had been clear.

Zhu Mingxin was the primary target.

Though adept at a variety of methods of killing, she felt knifing to be uncouth and beneath her. However, the opportunity had presented itself and it had been the most direct way, despite her sprained wrist.

Connor Reed was to be eliminated too if operationally possible.

And it had been possible.

More than possible.

She could still picture him lying paralysed on the bed, dark eyes alert despite the toxin shutting down his body one nerve at a time.

Her jaw tightened slightly.

The hotel staff would knock, and knock, and then open the room door.

The police would be called immediately—and if he hadn’t dropped the knife, shoot him before the antidote fully worked.

And if he had dropped it, the Nerium might assume that the hospital recognised the poisoning in time and treated it.

A failure on a technicality—the Nerium might show her a mercy after years of success.

By now, the hotel CCTV would already be altered by people she would never meet and never ask about. Timestamps shifted. Faces obscured. Entry logs amended. Entire narratives rewritten digitally before investigators even understood a crime had occurred.

Mara had long ago learned not to ask how such things were done.

Compartmentalisation existed for a reason.

Still, this felt different.

Because for the first time in her life, she had not completed a task cleanly.

Nerium had invested heavily in her when no one else could.

Languages.

Education.

Tradecraft.

Psychology.

Violence.

They had turned the daughter of a dead idealist mother into something precise and expensive.

And unlike most organisations of their kind, they had even offered her the right of refusal.

She had simply never used it—the damn Yorkshireman had spoiled everything.

The memory of the railway platform returned unwanted.

Connor dragging her away before the train thundered through where she had fallen seconds earlier.

No hesitation.

No calculation.

Just action.

Mara exhaled quietly through her nose.

Sleeping with him had initially felt almost transactional in her own mind. A distorted form of retrospective recompense before killing him.

But that had not remained true for very long—she had orgasmed three times to his twice.

She had found his intelligence deeply attractive when juxtaposed against the rough edges and northern wit.

He possessed none of the polished fraudulence of the financiers and diplomats she usually slept with when away from her husband too long.

Even his restraint had felt genuine.

Especially his restraint.

And his humour—

Her cheeks flushed despite herself.

In some ways, Connor had reminded her of her father.

A dangerous thing for a man to resemble.

Her thoughts drifted briefly to the suite again.

To his hands.

The way he took her.

She shook the thought away.

Hardly a compelling justification to spare a man marked for death.

The irony almost amused her if not for her still absorbing the consequences of his unlikely survival. With her being an assassin known outside the Nerium, even if The Stewardship decided to spare her life, then surely they would not use her again?

Did she secretly want ‘out’?

She had never shown such sentimentality to her ‘work’ in either profession before.

One of her mentors had told her that upon taking a human life, especially up close, most experienced such revulsion that they vow never to do it again.

Those that didn’t could go on to take many until they reached the arbitrary killer’s threshold that came from one too many or taking a life too innocent.

She doubted it.

Murdering Zhu Mingxin had inspired no hesitation whatsoever.

A woman without alignment.

Without loyalty.

A turncoat drifting between powers and principles depending on self-interest.

Mara felt nothing about cutting her throat open beyond operational necessity.

She and Andrew had spoken of adopting in recent times. Perhaps she no longer wished to take contracts extinguishing lives if she was to be a mother.

Or maybe she was overthinking all this and simply did not want to slay a man who had risked his life for hers, was great company and fucked her so well.

The taxi driver glanced at her briefly in the mirror.

“Business or pleasure?” he asked conversationally.

Mara looked back out towards the illuminated skyline.

Then she smiled faintly.

“Definitely a little of both.”

MARINA BAY DISTRICT — MORNING

The ArtScience Museum rose from the edge of Marina Bay like a white lotus unfurling towards the sky.

Its curved fingers caught the morning light through the vast glass frontage overlooking the water.

Inside, the air lay cool and faintly scented with polished concrete and recycled air conditioning—clean, almost antiseptic, softened by the murmur of tourists and the occasional laughter of children.

Wearing a dark green blouse and cream slacks, Lin Mei-Hua stood between her son and daughter and gazed upwards into the shifting installation before them.

Black shrouded the room. Not merely dim but submerged in darkness.

Suspended within it floated rings of light that expanded and collapsed like breathing organisms. White luminescent strokes curved through the void before suddenly unfolding into impossible geometric corridors that appeared to recede endlessly into space.

Walls formed from nothing. Stairways of light twisted and vanished. The installation felt less like something watched and more like something entered.

Wei-Jun stared open-mouthed.

“It looks like a spaceship,” he whispered in Mandarin.

Yu-An folded her arms but could not disguise the fascination in her eyes. At fourteen, she had begun trying to hide a childlike wonder behind teenage composure, but failed here.

Mei-Hua herself found it strangely calming.

Then a familiar voice behind her said quietly, in English:

“You are looking at the TeamLab piece based on the Japanese notion of Ensō.”

Her heart soared so hard she physically turned before her mind caught up.

Liang Wei-Shen stood there in a dark navy jacket over a white shirt, travel creases still faintly visible near the elbows. His protective detail lingered several metres behind him, careful enough not to intrude on the moment.

Yu-An gasped first.

“Bàba!”

Wei-Jun practically launched himself forward. Taiwanese restraint evaporated instantly under genuine joy. Liang caught the boy awkwardly but securely against his chest as Yu-An hurried in next, trying to maintain dignity for perhaps half a second before wrapping her arms around him as well.

Mei-Hua covered her mouth with one hand.

For a moment, she simply watched them.

Watched the exhaustion leave his face.

Watched the rigidness melt from his shoulders.

Liang looked over Wei-Jun’s head towards her.

“The Ensō,” he continued softly, “is a Buddhist motif. A monk attempts to paint a perfect circle with a single brush stroke. It is supposed to reflect the state of the mind in the moment. A form of meditation.”

Yu-An smiled meekly. “That sounds like something you would like.”

“It is something I like.”

Wei-Jun pulled back enough to look up at him. “Are you staying?”

Liang nodded once.

“Yes. For the recital.” His gaze shifted to Mei-Hua. “And we will return home together.”

The relief moved through her like a ghost.

She stepped forward then, finally embracing him properly.

“You surprised us,” she said quietly in Mandarin.

“That was the intention.”

She laughed softly through sudden moisture in her eyes.

Wei-Jun immediately seized Liang’s hand and began excitedly pointing at the shifting structures overhead while Yu-An started asking questions about whether he had actually taken leave or was still secretly working remotely.

Her husband had come.

He had chosen them.

And for the first time in weeks, Lin Mei-Hua felt genuinely, completely happy.

ANDAZ SINGAPORE — ROOM 2805 — MORNING

Connor finally managed to sit upright.

The effort alone left sweat clinging coldly to his neck.

His limbs still felt disconnected from him somehow—not numb anymore, but delayed. Every command travelled through his body like a signal moving along damaged wiring.

He sat breathing heavily for several seconds before forcing himself to look around properly.

The suite remained immaculate apart from the body.

Eleanor Zhu lay where Mara had left her, blood dried dark across the marble.

And beside the bed—

His clothes.

Neatly folded.

Connor stared at them.

On top sat his phone.

A fresh ripple of unease passed through him.

His mind felt sharp now, but his body still lagged frustratingly behind it.

He swung his legs from the bed and almost collapsed immediately as his knees failed to lock properly beneath him. He caught himself against the mattress with a violent grunt.

Jesus Christ.

Slowly.

He forced himself upright again.

Every movement improved fractionally by the second. The NX-41—or whatever the hell it truly was—appeared to be working.

Still, pulling on his boxer shorts took nearly thirty seconds.

His fingers fumbled repeatedly against the fabric.

By the time he reached his trousers, his breathing had quickened again from sheer exertion.

Connor found himself thinking unexpectedly of sufferers of Parkinson’s disease. Of multiple sclerosis.

The frustration.

Wanting your body to obey, only to discover it had become a negotiation instead.

He shoved one arm through his shirt sleeve awkwardly and paused, breathing through the tremor in his forearm.

Focus.

His eyes returned to the phone.

Do not touch it.

Not yet.

The thought settled heavily into place.

Mara could only have brought Eleanor Zhu back here by making Eleanor believe Connor himself had summoned her.

Which meant cloning.

Or spoofing.

Or somehow piggybacking the device authentication itself.

Jaime’s secure platform was designed to be hardened against normal interception methods, but no system was invulnerable forever.

Connor’s jaw tightened.

And if Mara had compromised the phone, then turning it on now might do more harm than good.

He finished dressing.

Everything still took twice as long as normal.

Buttons.

Belt.

Watch.

Even tying his shoes felt absurdly intricate.

Fuck me, thought Connor, the shag was almost not worth it.

But the coordination was returning steadily now.

Connor forced himself to think clinically.

Mara must have altered the hotel records somehow.

False identity.

False payment trail.

Possibly manipulated CCTV.

Because once a dead body was found in Singapore, the authorities would tear the hotel apart down to the wiring.

Singaporean police were not careless.

Even if they had found him holding the knife, they would still examine entry logs, facial recognition, service lifts, payment methods, timestamps.

Mara would know that.

So she must have planned for it.

Must have.

He needed to touch base with Jaime and Ciara. He needed to get a handle on who she worked for.

Connor realised in that moment he didn’t even feel any animosity towards her, despite the predicament she had put him in.

He stepped carefully around the suite, wiping every surface he could reasonably remember touching.

Door handles.

Bathroom fixtures.

Glassware.

Bedside cabinet.

The process calmed him slightly.

Action.

Movement.

Control returning.

By the time he finished, the tremor in his right hand had diminished noticeably.

Then he looked once more towards Eleanor’s corpse—she had started to grow on him.

That said, her choices had led her to this, just as he knew his own would.

No time to philosophise.

And there was only one exit from the suite.

Connor paced and shadow-boxed in an effort to release himself from looking like an inebriated person, then inhaled slowly through his nose.

Then crossed to the door.

He opened it carefully.

The corridor beyond stood empty and silent beneath soft amber lighting.

Connor stepped out, knowing that he would be caught on CCTV, but surmised Mara would have been, too.

Unless whatever entity she worked for had managed to interfere with them.

He placed the Do Not Disturb sign onto the handle.

And walked away without looking back.

23

SURREY — AFTERNOON

Maya Rahmani sat alone at the far end of Jaime Rangel’s kitchen, the black marble reflecting the soft glow of three floating displays projected above the work surface.

Outside, late afternoon sunlight filtered through the Surrey oaks.

Inside, the only sounds were the quiet din of climate control and the occasional click of her keyboard.

Jaime had finally conceded to taking a break.

Because she had insisted.

After thirty-six hours of almost continuous work supporting the Liang operation, even Jaime’s concentration had begun to suffer.

He would never admit it aloud, but she had learned to recognise the signs—the slight increase in typing errors, the longer pauses before switching tasks, the way his coffee grew cold beside him.

She had kissed him on the forehead, told him to lie down for forty-five minutes, and threatened to disconnect the server rack if he refused.

He had looked at her for several seconds.

Calculated.

Then complied.

Professionally, nothing had changed.

Personally, everything had.

The relationship still amused her occasionally. Friends imagined clandestine romance or whispered conversations over candlelight.

Instead, their evenings consisted of debating encryption standards, arguing over processor architecture and occasionally falling asleep on the sofa halfway through analysing foreign intelligence doctrine.

She rather liked it.

She returned her attention to the displays.

Connor’s suggestion set them down this road.

Expand beyond Chinese nationals.

Her search parameters evolved accordingly.

Rows of data streamed across the central display.

Immigration manifests.

Commercial flight records.

Corporate registries.

Hotel reservations.

Rental vehicles.

Known military service.

Firearms licensing.

Financial anomalies.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

She rubbed the bridge of her nose.

Come on.

Frequent international travel.

Multiple continents.

Short-duration stays.

No discernible commercial purpose.

The results shrank dramatically.

Now came occupation.

Consultants.

Engineers.

Infrastructure auditors.

Outdoor photographers.

Security advisers.

The sort of professions nobody questioned crossing borders.

She removed everyone with obvious digital footprints.

Influencers.

Executives.

Academics.

People who generated attention simply by existing.

The list shortened again.

Twenty-three.

Still too many.

Her fingers moved almost unconsciously.

Military records.

Competitive shooting.

Special operations associations.

NATO exercises.

The screen hesitated.

Tens of hours in, and then…

VARGA, KATARINA

Hungarian.

Private security consultant.

Infrastructure risk assessor.

Travel history covering twelve countries in eighteen months.

Every journey individually plausible.

Collectively…

Less so.

She opened the profile.

Minimal social media.

Professional website.

Corporate references.

Tax records.

Everything appeared correct.

Which immediately made her suspicious.

People were untidy.

Legends weren’t.

She dug deeper.

Corporate registration.

Created six years ago.

Perfect compliance.

Perfect accounting.

Perfect VAT submissions.

No disputes.

No litigation.

No online arguments.

No parking fines.

Nothing.

Nobody lived that cleanly.

Her heartbeat slowed.

She pivoted into archived sporting databases.

Regional Hungarian rifle competitions.

There.

A teenage Katarina Varga.

Three podium finishes.

National junior selection camp.

The records stopped shortly before military age.

Another search.

Hungarian Defence Forces.

Nothing.

Too clean again.

She searched older NATO exercise photographs, using facial recognition against degraded image archives.

The algorithm churned.

Possible Match: 82.4%

A woman standing half obscured behind two soldiers.

No caption.

Only an exercise designation.

Enough.

Not proof.

But enough.

Footsteps approached behind her.

“You have something.”

Jaime’s voice was gentle rather than questioning.

She turned.

He had changed into a fresh white T-shirt beneath an open checked overshirt, dark hair still untidy from sleep.

He turned on the super-quick coffee machine.

“I think so.”

His eyes moved with astonishing speed.

Travel.

Employment.

Sporting records.

Military absence.

Facial recognition.

He folded his arms.

“You filtered by behaviour.”

The coffee machine clicked, and he went over.

She nodded.

“Connor was right.”

“He frequently is.”

There wasn’t even the slightest hint of jealousy in Jaime’s voice.

He set the mugs down, then read one of the displays in silence.

“Her legend?” he asked.

“Excellent.”

“It is.”

He studied the screen for a few more moments.

“It is also excessively complete.”

Her mouth softened.

“No friction.”

“Exactly.”

Real lives accumulated untidiness.

Missed tax deadlines.

Expired passports.

Unpaid subscriptions.

Photographs one later regretted uploading.

Legends removed entropy.

Because someone had designed them.

Jaime enlarged Singapore on another display.

“Let’s see if we can find her.”

“You still want me to attempt municipal feeds?”

“I do.”

She hesitated.

“The Civic Sentinel architecture?”

He nodded.

Singapore’s nationwide municipal camera network had quietly undergone a substantial security upgrade less than a year earlier.

Rather than routing video through centralised storage for analysis—as most Western cities still did—the system processed facial recognition and behavioural analytics at thousands of encrypted edge nodes across the network.

Raw footage existed only fleetingly before being fragmented, encrypted and distributed across multiple government systems.

Intercepting one stream yielded almost nothing.

To reconstruct continuous footage required simultaneous penetration of dozens of synchronised nodes without disrupting the timing handshake that continually authenticated them.

Any measurable latency automatically triggered packet resequencing and rerouted the traffic away from the suspected intrusion.

Elegant.

Infuriating.

Jaime said, reaching for his own keyboard, “Let Connor know. I’ll begin the search.”

She composed the report.

Possible Identification

Subject: Katarina Varga

Nationality: Hungarian

Behavioural analysis indicates potential covert operative rather than civilian infrastructure consultant.

Confidence: Moderate.

Supporting indicators:

                 ​Highly structured multinational travel.

                 ​Exceptionally low personal entropy across public records.

                 ​Historical competitive precision shooting.

                 ​Probable military association despite absent service records.

                 ​Possible facial recognition match from archived NATO exercise imagery.

Recommendation:

Maintain surveillance.

Attempt confirmation through Singapore municipal camera network.

Maya encrypted the message through Fathom Light before forwarding it to Connor’s secure channel along with the degraded image.

Across the kitchen, Jaime looked up from his monitor.

“If she’s one of the Nerium…”

“…she won’t make many mistakes,” Maya finished.

“No.”

He took a sip of coffee.

“We only need her to make one.”

MARINA BAY DISTRICT — EARLY AFTERNOON

Katarina Varga knocked three times.

Not loudly.

Just enough.

Then she waited.

The hotel corridor stood empty behind her. Carpet swallowed sound. Air conditioning murmured somewhere overhead.

A moment later, a voice came from inside.

“Long flight?”

To anyone listening, it sounded like a perfectly ordinary greeting between colleagues.

Katarina answered immediately.

“Not long enough for decent coffee.”

The lock clicked.

The door opened.

Marius Falk stepped aside.

She entered.

The door closed behind her.

Falk returned to the desk.

“What have you got?”

Katarina suppressed a smile.

An excitement stirred beneath her professional calm. Not nerves. Anticipation.

“Our doctor has arrived.”

As Falk looked up, she nodded.

“Unexpectedly,” she said, moving beside the desk. “He arrived with two close-protection officers. The family already had two.”

She tapped the tablet screen.

“The original package was the wife and two children.”

Her finger shifted to a photograph.

“Now we have Dr Liang Wei-Shen as well.”

Falk studied the image.

Katarina folded her arms.

“Which means the job just became more complicated.”

For a second, she allowed herself a small measure of satisfaction.

The observation had taken effort to obtain.

Then Falk simply said:

“I know.”

The satisfaction evaporated.

Katarina frowned slightly.

“You know?”

For a moment, she almost felt disappointed.

Almost.

Falk’s mouth twitched but didn’t answer.

She refrained from asking how he knew.

Instead, Katarina shook her head.

“Four protectors change the equation.”

Falk sat silent for a moment before leaning back in his chair.

“The protection team is three.”

LUMIÈRE NOIRE — SINGAPORE — AFTERNOON

Connor exited the MRT station and joined the pedestrian flow moving through the Marina district.

Despite having the jacket folded over his arm, he still felt conspicuous in the Norland tailored suit from the night before.

He crossed a junction without appearing to hurry and glanced briefly at a glass office frontage as he passed. Not at the reflection directly. Beyond it.

A man in a grey polo continued walking.

A woman carrying shopping bags stopped at a crossing.

Nobody obvious.

Connor kept moving, still shaking out the remnants of the toxin.

A second check came five minutes later through the polished side of a parked black Mercedes.

Nothing.

He altered his route.

Entered a shopping arcade.

Exited through a different entrance.

Paused at a coffee kiosk long enough to buy a bottle of water.

Moved again.

The trick was not to look for surveillance.

The trick was to make surveillance reveal itself.

People who followed too closely.

People who appeared repeatedly.

People who arrived before they should.

Nobody did.

A final loop through a hotel lobby confirmed it.

Either nobody was watching him.

Or they were very, very good.

Connor chose optimism out of necessity.

By the time he reached Orchard Road, he reckoned he had most of his dexterity back.

Not all of it.

Ninety-five per cent perhaps.

Good enough.

His mind made a brief tally of what he had endured, physically at least, since entering the world of black operations: bruising, lacerations, shrapnel wounds, exertional collapse, cracked ribs and a severe concussion.

Not too bad considering, he thought. Mitch Rapp would laugh at that.

Lumière Noire occupied the upper level of a discreet commercial building tucked away from the main flow of shoppers.

Connor entered the private lift.

Moments later, the doors opened directly into the gallery.

In the daytime, it felt different from his last visit.

Cool air washed over him.

The atmosphere felt immediately different from the city outside.

Soft jazz drifted through concealed speakers. Something French. Piano and brushed drums.

The lighting sat somewhere between gallery and theatre. Paintings floated from charcoal walls while carefully directed spotlights illuminated individual works without spilling onto their neighbours.

The place smelled of coffee, old paper and expensive wood polish.

Connor had taken perhaps three steps inside when a man appeared beside him.

Not abruptly.

Just suddenly there.

Tall.

French.

Mid-forties.

Immaculately dressed.

“Welcome to Lumière Noire,” he said. “Julien Mercier.”

Connor shook his hand and said, “I once saw a wheellock pistol from 1570–1580 in an art gallery. I would have expected it in a history museum.”

Mercier’s face flickered and replied, “Until the sixteenth century, art meant mastery rather than decoration. A master gunsmith and a master painter were practising the same pursuit, and a superb wheellock pistol could be admired no less than a canvas hanging on a wall.”

“Interesting.”

“I can call someone who is more versed in this,” said Mercier. “Would you like that?”

“Yes, please.”

“Would you care for a drink while you wait?”

“Black coffee. No sugar. Please.”

“Of course.”

Julien disappeared as smoothly as he had appeared.

Not two minutes later, a young woman approached carrying a ceramic mug.

Pretty.

Dark-haired.

She handed him the coffee.

“Please follow me.”

Connor did.

They passed through a discreet doorway and entered a quieter section of the gallery screened from public view.

The assistant indicated the room and departed without a word.

Connor took a sip.

Perfect.

He wandered slowly through the private exhibition.

Several minutes later he stopped.

Two paintings hung beside one another.

The first showed a lone figure standing atop a rocky precipice.

His back faced the viewer.

Below him stretched a sea of mist swallowing mountains, valleys and forests alike.

Only the highest peaks pierced the fog.

The man stood alone before uncertainty.

Yet somehow appeared victorious.

The Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog.

The second painting could not have been more different.

A woman lay in a vast field of dry grass.

Thin.

Fragile.

She faced a distant farmhouse and outbuildings across the open ground.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing heroic.

Yet Connor knew the story.

Christina Olson.

Unable to walk properly.

Dragging herself across the landscape through sheer determination.

Christina’s World.

One painting depicted conquest.

The other endurance.

Connor found himself staring at both.

Footsteps clicked behind him.

Connor turned.

Anissa Rajah stood as elegant as ever.

Dark hair pinned neatly up.

Black clothing.

She joined him before the paintings.

“What happened?”

Connor took another sip of coffee.

Then began.

“A lady named Marianne Hawthorne—if that is her real name—drugged me with tetrodotoxin.”

“How did she manage that?”

“I spent the night with her.”

“I usually just ignore their calls after a bad performance—perhaps she is less forgiving than I am.”

Despite rating the joke, he continued.

“Then she slit Eleanor Zhu’s throat in the hotel room and left me paralysed beside the body with the murder weapon in hand.”

For the first time, genuine surprise flickered across her features.

Connor nodded.

“More annoying than trying to type in a password using the television remote control.”

“How are you standing here and not handcuffed to a hospital bed with a surgical team attempting to pump the pufferfish toxin out of you?”

She turned fully towards him.

“She administered a Sodium Bridge compound. Called it NX-41.”

“An antidote?”

“Seems so,” said Connor, still not fully trusting it. “Said it was the least she could do after I pulled her off the subway tracks—aside from my… performance.”

“Oh, she was the lady you rescued at the MRT?”

“You know about that?”

“It reached my ears the next day,” Anissa said. “Seems too much of a coincidence, does it not?”

“It’s a story, but it seems she has spared me.”

The older woman absorbed that.

“And yet she still framed you.”

“Apparently gratitude has limits.”

“How did you escape police custody?”

Connor shrugged. “Providence.”

She studied him for a second but didn’t pursue it.

“I doubt she is still in the country.”

“So do I.”

“Why are you here?”

“I don’t trust my phone. I think she might have cloned it. That’s the only way I can think she managed to lure Eleanor back to the hotel room—which was hers, not mine.”

The woman shook her head.

“No.”

Connor frowned.

“No?”

She folded her arms.

“Late last night, Ryo Nakamura dropped Eleanor Zhu at the Andaz Hotel before proceeding to the airport.”

Connor blinked.

“How do you know that?”

“When Julien informed me you had arrived and wished to speak with me, I contacted my people.”

Which meant Eleanor might not have arrived because of his phone.

Someone she trusted had brought her there.

A different problem.

Potentially a larger one, and he didn’t know if Ayumi Tanaka had a role in it.

Anissa looked towards the painting of the Wanderer.

“Do you know if he flew back to Japan?”

“Not as yet, but I will shortly. Don’t be surprised if it was somewhere else.”

“Like China.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Unfortunately, that is not our only development.”

Connor felt his stomach tighten as she continued. “Dr Liang Wei-Shen has arrived in Singapore.”

Connor stared at her.

“What changed?”

“I do not know.”

She met his eyes.

“But if he is here now, whatever is going to happen is going to happen now.”

24

MARINA DISTRICT — EVENING

Lin Chien-Hao stood near the restaurant entrance and watched the Liang family through the glass reflection.

The dining room hummed with the quiet confidence of expensive hotels. Soft conversation drifted between tables. Cutlery touched china. Somewhere nearby, a pianist worked through a restrained arrangement of an old jazz standard.

The family occupied a table near the windows overlooking the bay.

Normally, assignments like this belonged to officers still proving themselves.

For most of his career, Chien-Hao had occupied a different tier entirely.

His work had revolved around the Republic itself.

One month he might be accompanying the president during a diplomatic visit to one of Taiwan’s dwindling allies.

The next, standing discreetly behind the vice president at a military ceremony.

Election years brought the president-elect and vice -president-elect into the protective rotation, while state banquets and international summits meant shepherding visiting heads of government through meticulously rehearsed security bubbles.

On quieter days, he found himself protecting spouses, children and grandchildren—the first families who could never simply walk through a park or eat in a restaurant without someone calculating the risk.

It was demanding and prestigious work.

Work that said, without anyone needing to say it aloud, you are trusted with the people who embody the nation.

Dr Liang Wei-Shen represented something different.

Strategically, Chien-Hao understood the physicist’s value.

Half the officers in the bureau had heard whispered versions of the briefings: breakthroughs in semiconductor research, technologies the Chinese desperately wanted, expertise that could shift the balance of power across the Taiwan Strait. If Liang were compromised, the consequences would extend far beyond one man.

Intellectually, the assignment made perfect sense.

Emotionally, it felt like a step down.

Protecting a scientist—even one regarded as a national asset—lacked the prestige of walking beside presidents and foreign dignitaries beneath the glare of international cameras. It felt less like being entrusted with the face of the Republic and more like guarding one of its many valuable possessions.

He had accepted the posting with outward professionalism.

Privately, he had regarded it as another reminder that his career had drifted further from where he believed it should have been.

Liang Wei-Shen’s laughter floated across the room.

Not the polite smile he gave ministers, board members and foreign delegations.

Genuine laughter.

His son described something animatedly with both hands, while his daughter rolled her eyes in the universal language of older siblings.

His wife watched all three with a constant smile.

For a second, Chien-Hao felt something uncomfortable stir in his chest.

Regret.

Not because of what he was doing.

Because of what he had once intended to become.

Twenty years ago, he had entered service believing he was protecting people exactly like this.

Taiwan’s best.

The country’s future.

The men and women whose work kept the island standing.

Then reality arrived.

Promotions awarded elsewhere.

Political favourites advancing faster than capable officers.

A divorce that emptied his savings.

Child support.

Mortgage payments.

The slow humiliation of discovering that loyalty paid less than ambition.

The Chinese had never approached him directly.

That was the clever part.

A businessman first.

Then a friend.

Then opportunities.

Investments.

Advice.

Introductions.

Eventually, they knew everything.

The debts.

The gambling.

The mistress.

The offshore accounts.

By the time the truth emerged, saying no had become harder than saying yes.

And afterwards?

The money had solved problems.

Real problems.

His daughter would attend university debt-free.

His retirement would be secure.

Nobody had been hurt.

Not initially.

That was how every compromise had begun.

Nobody gets hurt.

Chien-Hao glanced back towards the family.

Liang helped his son cut a piece of food while his daughter pretended not to find the whole thing amusing.

Nobody gets hurt.

The lie sounded weaker tonight.

A voice interrupted his thoughts.

“You’re relieved.”

One of the other officers had approached as punctual as a Swiss watch.

Chien-Hao nodded.

“Thank you.”

The younger man took his position while Chien-Hao stepped away.

He crossed the lobby and entered the corridor leading towards the restaurant washrooms.

The air immediately felt cooler.

Quieter.

He pushed through the door.

The room appeared empty.

Then he saw him.

Tall.

Lean.

Ash-blond hair touched with grey.

Close-trimmed beard.

Almost certainly European.

A man who looked more suited to discussing architecture or investment portfolios than anything dangerous.

He stood at the sinks, washing his hands.

Without looking up, the man said, “Busy evening?” in shockingly good Mandarin.

Chien-Hao answered immediately.

“Depends who’s counting.”

The man nodded once.

Challenge accepted.

Password confirmed.

They were alone.

The stranger dried his hands.

“What have you got?”

Chien-Hao vomited the details.

“Tomorrow, they’re leaving the hotel at nine-thirty.”

The European nodded once and asked, “Vehicles?”

“Four Toyota Alphards. However, Dr Liang Wei-Shen will be riding separately from his family. I will be acting as the principal’s driver.”

“Why the separation?”

“He has a conference call on the way over that requires his full concentration.”

“What position will his vehicle be?”

“Front.”

“Route?”

“North Bridge Road. Nicoll Highway. Then East Coast Parkway.”

Chien-Hao glanced briefly at the door before continuing.

‘‘First stop is the ‘Gardens by the Bay’ visitor centre. They have tickets for the Cloud Forest and Flower Dome.”

‘‘Arrival?”

‘‘Ten o’clock. Give or take five minutes.”

‘‘How long?”

‘‘Until midday.”

‘‘Then?’’

“Then the wife, daughter and son will again leave in a separate convoy back to the hotel, as Doctor Liang will be taken to A*STAR’s Institute of Microelectronics to meet with some senior researchers. One of the stipulations for his allowance to leave Taiwan.”

“Then what?”

“Their full itinerary is not necessary.”

The European was silent for several seconds.

‘‘You’ve selected the point?’’

“Yes. The intersection of Alexandra Road and Jalan Bukit Merah. We will reach it just before the fifteen-minute mark, given the light to moderate traffic.”

The stranger considered it for several seconds.

Then nodded.

‘‘That might work.’’

From his jacket pocket, he produced a watch; for a split second, Chien-Hao thought it to be his own until he realised he could still feel it on his wrist.

At first glance, it appeared expensive but ordinary. Chien-Hao knew it was anything but.

Steel case.

Black face.

Understated.

He handed it across.

Chien-Hao accepted it.

‘‘A pager?’’

‘‘A very sophisticated one.’’

Then, with the effortless sleight of hand, he placed a small amber glass vial into Chien-Hao’s palm. An amber glass dropper formed the screw cap.

“A dropperful emptied into a five-hundred-millilitre bottle of water will render a fit adult male unconscious for at least an hour. It’s tasteless and takes effect within twenty minutes. More than three droppers, however, and you’re flirting with killing the subject.”

“Does it require him to drink the full bottle?”

“Ideally, yes, but a sip or two will put him out for at least ten minutes,” said the European. “It will be a particularly hot day.”

“What is it?”

The man’s expression remained neutral.

“Neither of us is a chemist, so neither of us needs to know.”

Chien-Hao nodded, and the man passed him a neatly folded slip of paper. “Written on there is an email address and the access details to it. The full operational brief will be sent as a draft at twenty-one hundred. The email address will remain live for one hour and no more. Use the time for any questions you might have. Do not, I repeat, do not send your messages. Simply draft them, and I will answer in kind. Understand?”

Chien-Hao nodded as he said, “Email communication by drafted messages only at twenty-one hundred tonight for one hour.”

The watch felt strangely heavy in his hand.

‘‘Good,” said the stranger, turning towards the exit.

At that precise moment, the washroom door opened, and another diner entered.

By the time the newcomer glanced around the room, the tall European was already passing him on the way out.

Chien-Hao stood alone before the mirror.

The watch sat in his palm.

Tomorrow.

Everything now depended on tomorrow.

He closed his fingers around it and stared at his own reflection for a long moment.

Then he took off his watch and pocketed it before replacing it with the other.

25

MARINA BAY SANDS HOTEL — SINGAPORE — MORNING

A cloud of dread had hung over Ayumi Tanaka since before dawn.

Eleanor Zhu was missing.

So was Ryo.

That fact troubled her almost as much.

Ryo had been scheduled to oversee the corridor outside Eleanor’s room between 02:00 and 04:00.

Punctuality riveted the Japanese psyche, redoubled given his role as a Gādian security officer.

Now neither he nor Eleanor could be located.

Ayumi wanted to exhaust all options before contacting the Gādian, so as not to shame Ryo over what might yet be a misunderstanding—as weak a hope as that now was.

She sat in the hotel manager’s office.

The room overlooked the bay through floor-to-ceiling windows. Singapore’s skyline gleamed beneath a pale morning haze.

Normally she might have appreciated the view.

Today she barely noticed it.

Attempting a cash bribe had never seriously entered her mind.

Singapore was not Tokyo.

The city-state’s reputation for integrity was well deserved. Offering money would have risked ending the conversation entirely. The manager would likely have contacted the police, and Ayumi’s team might have been looking at the walls of a cell.

Instead, she had relied on a different approach.

Professional pressure and charm.

The assertion that she represented Okada Engineering.

And finally, the simple suggestion that if the hotel felt uncomfortable granting direct access, the manager could personally review the footage and report back.

Eventually, he had relented.

Now they sat watching the security feed.

The manager operated the controls himself.

Ayumi leaned forward slightly.

There.

The timestamp appeared.

02:17.

The corridor outside Eleanor’s room.

A figure approached.

Ryo.

The manager slowed the playback.

Ryo knocked once.

The door opened.

Eleanor eventually appeared.

The footage contained no audio.

Only images.

The two exchanged several words.

Eleanor looked surprised.

Then thoughtful.

Then she nodded.

The door closed.

Nobody spoke in the office.

The manager fast-forwarded.

The timestamp rolled forward.

02:28.

The door opened again.

Eleanor emerged fully dressed.

A small overnight bag hung from one shoulder.

Ryo stood beside her.

They walked down the corridor together.

The lift doors opened.

Both stepped inside.

Then they were gone.

Ayumi stared at the screen as her stomach twisted.

For a moment, she genuinely wondered if she had misunderstood what she was seeing.

Ryo.

Not an intruder.

Not an unknown face.

Ryo.

Ayumi remained silent.

Emotion achieved nothing.

Information mattered.

Facts mattered.

She forced herself to catalogue what she had seen.

No visible coercion.

No obvious distress.

No sign of violence.

Eleanor had left voluntarily.

At least voluntarily enough to walk into the lift.

That fact frightened her more than a kidnapping would have.

The manager looked between them.

“I am sorry,” he said.

Ayumi straightened.

“No apology is necessary.”

She offered a small bow.

“Thank you for your assistance and your discretion.”

The manager visibly relaxed.

A few minutes later, she emerged from the office and stepped into the hotel lobby.

The air conditioning washed over them.

Tourists moved between restaurants and reception.

Business travellers crossed the marble floor carrying briefcases and coffees.

Normal life.

As if nothing had happened.

Then she saw Connor Reed entering through the main doors.

The moment he spotted her, he altered course.

Ayumi took a step towards him.

“Connor—”

He cut her off.

“Eleanor Zhu has been assassinated.”

Ayumi felt the blood drain from her face.

For perhaps half a second, her composure slipped.

Then discipline restored itself.

Connor continued.

“Ryo boarded a flight to Istanbul. If he’s still there or not, I don’t know.”

Now Ayumi’s eyebrows threatened to knot.

That made even less sense.

“Why would he…” Her voice trailed off.

Connor shook his head.

“There is no time to speculate.”

Ayumi studied him.

The Englishman had already moved beyond Eleanor’s death and onto the next problem.

“Why?” she asked.

“Dr Liang arrived unexpectedly.”

Ayumi blinked.

“I thought it might be only his family.”

“So did I.”

For the first time all morning, genuine alarm stirred inside her.

The timing was too convenient.

Connor seemed to reach the same conclusion.

“I reckon they’ll be moving in on him, or them all, today.”

The words settled heavily between them.

Ayumi looked through the glass wall towards the skyline beyond Marina Bay.

Somewhere in that vast, ordered city, somebody had just removed Eleanor Zhu from the board.

And the fumes from Ayumi Tanaka’s burning pride needed egress.

“I will help with whatever you need.”

“Good,” said Connor. “I have an ID on a possible enemy player—her name is Katarina Varga.”

GARDENS BY THE BAY — AROUND NOON

Lin Chien-Hao watched the Liang family say goodbye to one another beneath the covered entrance.

It was nothing dramatic.

That made it worse.

Mei-Hua reminded her husband not to let the meeting run into dinner. Liang promised it wouldn’t. Wei-Jun hugged his father without embarrassment, while Yu-An endured a kiss on the forehead with the long-suffering expression of a fourteen-year-old who considered public affection an assault upon her dignity.

Chien-Hao looked away.

Around them, Gardens by the Bay continued its daily rhythm. Tourists moved between attractions beneath the Singapore heat, phones held aloft, children complaining, cameras turning towards the Supertrees.

Everything ordinary.

Everything precisely as it should be.

Officer Huang stood several metres away, finishing what remained of his water.

Chien-Hao checked his watch.

The timing was good.

The family were separating here.

Mei-Hua and the children would return to The Ritz-Carlton under protection, while Liang travelled west to A*STAR for meetings with senior researchers—one of the professional engagements Taipei had stipulated when approving his visit.

Chien-Hao would drive him.

Liang embraced his wife briefly.

“See you at the hotel.”

“Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.”

They separated.

Chien-Hao felt the words settle unpleasantly.

See you at the hotel.

Mei-Hua and the children climbed into their Alphard.

Liang stood watching until the door closed.

The vehicle pulled away, another Alphard falling in behind it.

For several seconds, Liang continued looking after them.

Then he turned.

“Work,” he said with theatrical resignation.

Chien-Hao produced a polite smile.

“I’m afraid so, Doctor.”

Huang approached them.

His complexion had changed.

Only slightly.

A sheen of perspiration across his forehead could easily be attributed to the humidity, but his movements had lost some of their precision.

Chien-Hao noticed because he was looking for it.

The European had said twenty minutes, give or take. More importantly, Huang needed to reach the vehicle under his own power.

Any obvious signs of illness here would bring the other protection officers across to investigate and potentially derail everything.

Two Toyota Alphards remained waiting.

Chien-Hao would drive the lead vehicle with Liang and Huang.

The second would follow immediately behind, carrying two additional Taiwanese protection officers.

Huang opened the rear door for Liang.

“Doctor.”

Liang climbed inside.

Huang followed, taking the seat beside him while Chien-Hao walked around the front of the vehicle and slipped behind the wheel.

He entered A*STAR’s Institute of Microelectronics into the navigation system.

The route appeared.

Chien-Hao checked his mirror.

The second Alphard sat behind them.

Two familiar faces were visible through the windscreen.

He pulled away.

The protection vehicle followed.

For the first several kilometres, Chien-Hao intended to follow the route exactly.

He checked the mirror again.

Huang appeared normal.

Five minutes passed.

Then seven.

Traffic carried them away from Marina Bay.

Chien-Hao kept his eyes predominantly on the road, resisting the temptation to keep checking behind him.

Finally, Liang spoke.

“Are you alright?”

Chien-Hao glanced into the mirror.

Huang had loosened his collar.

A sheen of perspiration covered his forehead.

“Yes,” Huang replied.

The answer lacked conviction.

He shifted in his seat, swallowed and looked through the window.

“Didn’t sleep well.”

Chien-Hao said, “Close your eyes for a few moments, Huang.”

Before his fellow officers could protest, Chien-Hao immediately initiated a conversation with Liang about the CPBL (Chinese Professional Baseball League) and whether the Rakuten Monkeys would remain champions or the CTBC Brothers would reclaim the crown.

However, the scientist seemed aware of Huang’s plight as the protection officer’s head dipped before catching himself and straightening.

Liang turned towards him.

“Huang?”

“I feel—”

The sentence never finished.

His body sagged against the seat.

Liang caught his shoulder.

“Huang?”

No response.

Chien-Hao looked into the rear-view mirror, allowing alarm to enter his expression.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. Pull over.”

“There is an intersection up ahead. I will find a place after it—if we pull over now, we remain vulnerable.”

Chien-Hao immediately indicated.

The second Alphard remained behind them.

That was the complication the European had already accounted for.

Chien-Hao looked ahead.

For now, he continued driving.

Twenty years protecting presidents, vice-presidents, foreign leaders and their families.

All those years spent becoming the sort of man people followed without questioning where he was taking them.

Now that trust had finally acquired a monetary value.

Behind him, Liang was trying to rouse Huang.

Behind them, two more officers remained alert and operational.

Not for much longer.

Chien-Hao stiffened when Liang asked, “Should you not alert your fellow officers?”

“He might awaken in a few moments,” said Chien-Hao. “Let’s not embarrass him until it is necessary.”

***

The Mercedes-Benz E-Class moved smoothly through Singapore traffic.

Ayumi Tanaka guided the vehicle with relaxed precision.

Connor Reed sat in the passenger seat, one arm resting against the door, his other scrolling through photographs of what looked like Chinese men.

“Who are they?”

“Members of the National Security Bureau protection team assigned to the Liang family.”

After a few moments, he put the phone away and sat watching the city pass through the lightly tinted glass.

Neither had spoken much since leaving the hotel.

Ayumi found the silence a little strange but refreshing.

Most men in her company felt the need to fill quiet moments with noise.

Eventually, curiosity overcame her.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

She navigated a roundabout before speaking.

“Why are you involving yourself in this matter of Dr Liang? It is fundamentally a dispute between China and Taiwan.”

Connor continued to look out of the window.

For several seconds, she thought he might not answer.

“The extraction operation is being run by a particularly talented senior MSS officer.”

Ayumi remained silent.

“So talented,” Connor continued, “that he has been permitted to break away from the Chinese strategy.”

“What strategy?”

“They think in decades. Economic leverage. Industrialising countries south of the Brandt Line, indebting them both financially and philosophically to them. Soft power.”

Ayumi considered that.

It sounded plausible.

“And this officer?”

“He conducts aggressive operations. Though he mostly adheres to the MSS protocol of using proxies, they are invasive, high-risk operations.”

“Successful?”

“Some more than others.”

Outside, Singapore slid by in clean lines of glass and concrete.

“And he’s targeted your country.”

Connor said, “If this operation succeeds, he’ll gain more influence. Resources. Freedom of execution.”

Ayumi thought about that for a moment.

“Why the United Kingdom?”

“Because we’re still plugged into everything. Intelligence-sharing, finance, universities, defence research, media.”

“Other countries could fit that description.”

Connor glanced at her.

“Because we’re vulnerable. People might describe the Chinks as totalitarian by keeping their citizens’ phone apps in-house and controlling their press, but they are less divided as a result. Our phones’ algorithms send us down echo chambers of fury against one another. Not to say there aren’t genuine issues.”

Ayumi raised an eyebrow slightly.

“It sounds like you admire them—the Chinese, I mean. Despite you calling them Chinks.”

“I admire that they have a sense of national identity—something we now lack since almost all the World War II veterans have passed on. To an intelligence officer, an influential nation that lacks an identity is like finding a house with the lights on and the front door unlocked—look now, you’ve got me preaching.”

Ayumi glanced briefly towards him.

The self-awareness surprised her.

Connor seemed almost embarrassed by how long he was talking for.

Ayumi drove in silence for several seconds.

Then she asked, “Do you not think it is too late?”

Connor looked out over the skyline.

“No.”

The answer came immediately.

Its certainty caught her attention.

“Why?”

“Your own country lost a war and an empire with it. Lost millions of people and two cities to atomic chill-pills. And rebuilt itself into an economic power.”

For a moment, she pictured photographs she had seen as a child.

Hiroshima.

Nagasaki.

Black-and-white ruins stretching to the horizon.

Connor gestured vaguely towards the city beyond the glass.

“And the country we’re currently driving through shouldn’t exist either. No natural resources. No fresh water at first. Surrounded by larger neighbours. And yet it found a way.”

Ayumi found herself nodding.

Connor continued.

“While I am on my soapbox, Poland was erased from the map in 1795. Then restored and gained its independence in 1918. Invaded and occupied by zee Germans and the Ruskies. And now one of the most prosperous countries in the European Union.”

“What does it mean to be ‘on a soapbox’?”

“Before microphones, people used to stand on wooden crates in the street to make speeches. Soap manufacturers shipped their products in sturdy boxes, so political activists, preachers and every other self-appointed expert would climb onto them and start lecturing passers-by.”

The Mercedes moved beneath the shadow of another tower.

Then his phone vibrated.

He answered immediately.

“Red-Three-Seven.”

A pause.

Then:

“Green-Five-Nine.”

Ayumi kept her eyes on the road but listened carefully.

Connor’s posture changed slightly.

The conversation lasted less than thirty seconds.

When it ended, he lowered the phone.

Ayumi caught his reflection in the mirror.

“What is it?”

“That was a contact here. Head for Marina South, Bayshore Quays.”

Without another word, Ayumi flicked on the indicator and guided the Mercedes towards the expressway.

26

SINGAPORE — MORNING

Lin Chien-Hao kept his eyes on the road.

The Toyota Alphard moved smoothly through the afternoon traffic, air conditioning humming softly beneath the faint sounds of the city outside.

In the rear-view mirror, he caught another glimpse of the now-unconscious Officer Huang.

Wei-Huang.

A good man.

Reliable.

Conscientious.

The sort of man Chien-Hao had once been.

A flutter stirred inside Chien-Hao’s chest.

Fear.

Relief.

Guilt.

He could no longer separate them.

Without looking down, he slipped a hand into his watch, pressed the buttons and sent the message.

The point of no return was crossed.

In the rear seat, Dr Liang shifted slightly.

A moment later, Chien-Hao’s earpiece crackled.

“Lead vehicle, this is Alpha Two.”

The voice sounded strained.

“We have suffered an electronics systems fault.”

Chien-Hao kept driving.

“Halt your vehicle to maintain unit integrity.”

He didn’t reply.

The voice returned seconds later, more urgent.

“Lead vehicle, acknowledge.”

Still, Chien-Hao drove on.

His grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

The city seemed quieter now.

Or perhaps that was simply his imagination.

His phone began vibrating.

He glanced at the display.

Ignored it.

The phone vibrated again.

Then again.

Behind him, Dr Liang spoke.

“Why are you not answering?”

Chien-Hao shrugged. “Unknown number.”

The explanation sounded weak even to his own ears.

“Probably a sales call.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

In the mirror, he saw the calculation behind Liang’s eyes.

The man was no fool.

Everyone assigned to the protection detail knew the communications protocols.

Spam calls did not reach these devices.

Unknown numbers did not simply appear.

For the first time, genuine alarm entered Liang’s expression.

Not panic.

Understanding.

The engineering guru looked at the sleeping Huang.

Then at the road ahead.

Then back to Chien-Hao.

Neither man spoke.

The silence became heavier with every passing second.

A navigation prompt appeared on the dashboard.

Chien-Hao followed it.

The route altered.

Gradually leaving behind the polished public spaces, they moved towards newer developments still under construction.

Tower cranes stood against the skyline.

Concrete skeletons waited to become homes.

The sort of place most people never noticed.

The sort of place where cameras existed, but footage went unwatched unless someone gave security staff a reason to care.

Chien-Hao swallowed.

His mouth felt dry.

The coordinates counted down.

Two kilometres.

One.

Eight hundred metres.

He could feel Liang watching him now.

He had told himself the same mantra.

Nobody gets hurt.

As the unfinished towers rose ahead of him, that lie finally sounded hollow.

***

Dr Liang’s heart grew heavy with fear and regret.

All he had ever wanted was to help humanity move forward. To push semiconductor science another step beyond where it had been yesterday. To help ensure Taiwan remained prosperous, secure and free. To provide a good life for Mei-Hua, Yu-An and Wei-Jun.

It seemed the universe had decided he could not have both.

Had he not insisted on meeting his family in Singapore, none of this would be happening.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

Enough.

Self-pity had never solved a problem.

He opened them again and looked over at the comatose protection officer, whose head lolled as if hung by the seatbelt. Whatever had been administered to him had rendered him as good as dead.

Even if Liang had the confidence in his resolve to use a gun in anger, he knew Huang did not possess a firearm on his person.

Singaporean firearms restrictions meant the Taiwanese detail travelled unarmed. Had Liang been the president, arrangements might have been different.

For a scientist—even one guarded by the NSB—Taipei had accepted the host nation’s rules.

He met Chien-Hao’s eyes in the rear-view.

Since the truth was now obvious, there was little point pretending otherwise.

“How did they get to you?”

The bodyguard’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.

For several seconds, only the dulled hum of the engine filled the cabin.

Finally, Chien-Hao spoke.

“It began at a security conference in Kuala Lumpur. I met a business consultant. We had dinner. Talked shop. He introduced me to people who understood investments.”

A humourless smile crossed his face.

“I thought I’d made a useful contact.”

“And then?”

“It continued for years. Advice. Opportunities. Small favours.”

His eyes never left the road.

“By the time I discovered who he really worked for… they already knew everything.”

“What did they know?”

“My debts.”

A pause.

“My gambling.”

Another.

“My mistress.”

He swallowed.

“My undeclared overseas accounts.”

“They threatened to expose you?”

“No. They didn’t need to.”

He loosened one hand from the steering wheel before placing it back again.

“They simply offered to solve my problems.”

Liang remained silent.

“They cleared my debts. They established investments that would provide for me after retirement. They guaranteed my daughter’s university fees in Canada.”

His voice became quieter.

“All they wanted was information.”

“At first,” Liang said.

Chien-Hao nodded once.

“At first.”

Silence settled over the cabin.

“You don’t think of yourself as a traitor.”

“No.”

Though the answer came without hesitation, it seemed to Liang to carry a forced insistence.

“China will absorb Taiwan one day, whether either of us likes it or not,” said the bodyguard. “Them obtaining the semiconductor technology means that the United States does not have to intervene and cause a global war.”

Dr Liang sighed. “They convinced you that you are only adapting to history, not changing it.”

A bitter laugh escaped the bodyguard.

“You look down on me from your position of privilege, Doctor.”

Liang Wei-Shen responded, “Does the thought that I have had to work hard and make sacrifices provide a comfort to you, Lin Chien-Hao?”

“Your hard work and sacrifice are recognised and rewarded far above mine,” sneered the bodyguard. “You forget I have been guarding your type for years.”

“Then you should know that I have, for years, lacked the freedom you enjoy. To be on hand every single day. To work from dawn to dusk. To race home in an often failed attempt to wish my children a good night’s sleep. To constantly tell my wife the lie that next year will be easier. To be hunted by one of the world’s most powerful economies. At least own your dishonour.”

The quiet until Chien-Hao spoke echoed in the ears.

“You are right,” he said. “I have been a weak man. But there is no path back.”

“There is always a way back.”

Derision escaped with Chien-Hao’s laugh.

“If I stop now, Beijing abandons me. If I return, Taipei imprisons me.”

Liang watched him for several moments before speaking.

“Perhaps,” said Liang, looking over at the inert bodyguard beside him. “Is he dead?”

“Unconscious, for at least an hour.”

He looked ahead through the windscreen.

“Then you are not yet at the point of breaking the cauldrons and sinking the boats, Chien-Hao.”

A quiet stretched out between them, and then the SUV slowed.

However, Liang Wei-Shen saw his hopes quickly extinguished.

Ahead stood a tall electric gate with the pinned black tarpaulin obscuring what lay beyond it from view, as did the surrounding wall.

A weatherproof keypad protruded from a steel post beside it.

Chien-Hao reached into his jacket and withdrew a narrow tactical knife. Its satin-finished blade caught the afternoon light.

“If you do not do exactly as I say,” he said evenly, “I will drive this through your kneecap.”

Liang’s eyes lingered on the blade as Chien-Hao produced a pre-threaded black cable tie.

He considered his options.

He was almost fifty years old.

Chien-Hao had spent two decades protecting government officials. He was stronger, younger and professionally trained.

Resistance now would achieve nothing.

Liang gave a single nod.

Chien-Hao returned it.

“Hook your wrists beneath your thighs and bring your hands together.”

Liang complied.

Chien-Hao slipped the cable tie over his wrists and cinched it down until it bit into the flesh, tight enough to restrict the blood flow.

He then stepped out from the vehicle and walked to the keypad.

Rather than entering numbers, he inserted a key into a concealed lock beneath the housing.

A relay clicked.

The heavy gate began to slide open.

The construction site beyond appeared deserted.

No workers.

No machinery in motion.

No life.

Chien-Hao climbed back behind the wheel and drove through, stopping only a few metres inside.

He stepped out once more.

This time, he used the same key on the keypad mounted on the inner side of the gate.

Liang twisted in his seat and watched the steel gate begin sliding shut behind them.

The rumbling echoed over the site like a tomb closing.

Chien-Hao returned to the driver’s door.

Once seated, he reached to close the door.

A heavy boot slammed into the opening, stopping the door from closing.

“What—”

A pair of powerful hands shot through the gap and seized Chien-Hao by the front of his jacket.

The protection specialist stomped the accelerator, and the SUV hurtled forward.

The rapid acceleration threw Liang back into his seat and his potential rescuer to the ground as the tyres screeched across the concrete.

Despite the shocking adrenal dump, Liang registered that the boot belonged to a báirén—a white man.

The vehicle smashed into a steel bollard with a deafening clang.

The impact rocked the cabin.

Before Liang could gather his bearings, Chien-Hao burst from the driver’s seat.

Sunlight flashed across the blade in his hand.

***

The Mercedes-Benz E-Class crawled the final few metres towards the construction site entrance, boxed in by the afternoon congestion.

She had watched Connor react the instant the rear of the Toyota Alphard disappeared through the narrowing gap.

Before she had even brought the Mercedes to a complete halt, he had already thrown open the passenger door.

He ran with demon-like speed across the tarmac.

She watched him launch himself at the closing gate.

For one impossible moment, she thought he had mistimed it.

Then he disappeared through the gap a fraction of a second before the steel panels slammed shut behind him.

The walls surrounding the site stood well over three metres high, wrapped in black tarpaulin that concealed everything beyond.

She could neither see nor hear what was happening inside.

For the first time in years, Ayumi found herself unable to influence the outcome of a protective operation.

Every instinct urged her to follow.

To climb.

To force the gate.

To find another entrance.

Instead, she forced herself to think.

Connor had committed.

Her responsibility now was not to duplicate his actions, but to support them.

She scanned the perimeter, searching for another access point, a security office, an emergency vehicle entrance—anything that would get her inside before events overtook them.

27

MARINA SOUTH, BAYSHORE QUAYS DEVELOPMENT — MORNING

Connor sprinted across the concrete as the Toyota Alphard shuddered to a halt against the steel bollard.

The construction site swallowed sound differently from the city outside.

Tower cranes loomed overhead like skeletal giants. Half-finished apartment blocks boxed in the area, their exposed concrete columns and rust-stained reinforcing bars creating a maze of hard angles and deep shadows. Dust hung in the humid air. Somewhere nearby, a loose sheet of corrugated metal clattered in the breeze.

Then the driver’s door burst open.

A tall, broad man emerged with surprising speed.

Connor recognised him as Lin Chien-Hao from one of the study files Jaime had sent; an NSB Protective Security Officer assigned to Dr Liang.

Of course they have a guy on the inside, he thought as he closed the distance without hesitation.

The black operations agent had no doubt the Taiwanese officer possessed skill, but equally little doubt that, in a straight fight, he would eventually break him down.

Then he caught sight of it.

The knife seemed to appear from nowhere, the satin blade whipping towards Connor’s abdomen.

He snapped backwards like a mongoose from a cobra strike.

The blade hissed through empty air less than an inch from his stomach.

The fear butterflies in his stomach threatened to eat him alive.

He forced it under a harness of self-control.

Epinephrine acted as an antihistamine, reducing saliva production; forcing its production and swilling it around the gums could help counteract adrenaline fraying fine motor skills.

The two men began circling one another across the dusty concrete.

Connor had no illusions about knives.

Every reputable instructor he had trained under had begun with exactly the same lesson.

“Run.”

If there was any possibility of escape, you took it.

Pride killed people.

Unfortunately, running would also mean abandoning Dr Liang.

He could not do that.

The second lesson had been equally as sharp.

Expect to be cut.

Victory did not mean walking away untouched. It meant surviving.

Beyond that, the principles were brutally simple: stay mobile, don’t become mesmerised by the blade, manage distance, attack only when opportunity genuinely presented itself, and never assume the fight was over until the weapon was no longer in play or the attacker was no longer capable of using it.

Connor had faced a knife before.

But not wielded by someone with twenty years in the security industry and the temperament to go with it.

That said, it could be difficult for anyone with the knife not to become reliant upon it.

Fear was healthy.

Panic was fatal.

He allowed the fear to show.

His hands rose in a mock surrender.

He stepped his left foot backwards.

Connor hoped Chien-Hao saw it as a retreat.

In reality, Connor had settled naturally into a southpaw stance, disguising it by keeping his left hand only slightly ahead of his right.

The smallest relaxation crossed Chien-Hao’s face.

Connor exploded forward.

His straight right jab cracked against Chien-Hao’s face.

Solid.

But not clean enough.

The bodyguard rolled with just enough of the impact to steal any potential dropping power.

Connor was already withdrawing as the knife carved through the space his ribs had occupied a heartbeat earlier.

He reset.

That would be the only free shot.

In fist fighting, Connor knew the jaw was the king to be protected.

The temple the next priority.

The liver was a distant third.

Against a knife…

The priorities changed.

The blade could not be allowed to touch the throat or the underside of the wrists.

Everything else was secondary.

Chien-Hao twitched the blade.

Connor twitched with him.

The feint drew the stab he wanted.

He met the attacking forearm with the hard ridge of his own, knocking the line just enough off-centre before snapping a quick left into Chien-Hao’s face.

Pop.

Connor skipped back out of the arc of the return slash.

The bodyguard stumbled.

Connor’s instinct screamed at him to swarm.

Finish him.

He ignored it.

His father had once told him about the best British post-war boxer never to win a world title—Herol Graham. Indeed, ‘The Bomber’ was one of the most elusive boxers Britain had ever produced.

Julian ‘The Hawk’ Jackson had been Greg Ryder’s pick for the hardest pound-for-pound puncher that he had seen outside of the heavyweight division.

He was also comparatively easy to hit, at least by Graham in their 1990 world title fight, as he outclassed the Virgin Islander for almost four rounds.

“Jackson being easy to hit ironically made him more dangerous, as it encouraged Graham to stay in the pocket to hit him more. All he had to do was pick him off from the outside. Let Jackson make the mistakes,” Connor’s dad had told him.

Graham had grown greedy, and The Hawk’s hellacious right hand knocked him out before his body hit the floor.

Chien-Hao jabbed with the knife.

Stopped halfway.

Connor realised his mistake a fraction too late.

He had become so focused on the blade that he’d forgotten the man attached to it.

The left fist smashed into his cheekbone.

A flash of a white blotch burst across his vision.

At the same instant, the knife swept in.

Connor twisted violently at the waist.

Instead of disappearing into his abdomen, his reaction caused the blade to rake across the outside of his ribs.

Heat.

Then wetness.

Pain followed a heartbeat later.

He instantly knew the cut to be a bad one.

Both men disengaged.

Connor breathed once through his nose.

Twice.

This was going badly.

He had landed twice.

His opponent had landed once and also sliced him.

Bruce Lee might have encouraged him to finger-strike the eyes or chop the throat.

However, Connor understood that trying to spear a small target like a man’s eye or generate the force to crush his windpipe while he was moving, resisting and trying to stick a knife through you was considerably more difficult than cinematic depictions.

Precision disappeared quickly under violence. Connor could improve the odds by controlling Chien-Hao first—tie him up, engineer a grapple, take away the movement—but closing onto a trained man with a live blade was its own particularly unpleasant gamble.

The Brit centred himself.

Feint.

Reaction.

Slash.

Connor slipped outside it, clamped both hands onto Chien-Hao’s knife wrist before the backswing could develop and drove his knee into the man’s solar plexus, thrusting his hips through the strike to maximise penetration.

Air exploded from Chien-Hao’s lungs.

The older man folded and staggered backwards.

Again, Connor’s instincts demanded pursuit.

Again, he resisted.

Too convenient.

Too obvious.

Possibly a trap.

Chien-Hao straightened slowly.

Was he genuinely tiring?

Or selling exhaustion?

Connor couldn’t tell.

He refused to gamble.

Pressure.

Constant pressure.

Another feint.

Another reaction.

Connor fired a distracting punch high while stamping hard into Chien-Hao’s lead knee.

The joint buckled.

Connor committed.

Steel kissed flesh.

A second cut opened across the top of his forearm.

Ignoring the pain, he rotated his grip around the weapon arm and locked on a Kimura.

The shoulder twisted.

Chien-Hao reacted expertly.

Instead of fighting the lock, he released the knife and dropped his weight, reaching for the fallen blade with his free hand.

Connor kicked the knife beneath a forklift before reaping the bodyguard’s base from beneath him.

Chien-Hao crashed onto his back.

Connor stepped in to finish it—

Movement.

A blur.

His left forearm snapped upwards on instinct.

The telescopic baton struck it with a vicious crack that numbed his arm to the fingertips.

Connor staggered a half-step, his forearm screaming from the impact.

Katarina Varga.

There were differences from the degraded image he had seen, but it was her.

Compact. Athletic. Dark hair tucked neatly behind her ears. No wasted movement. The telescopic baton sat perfectly balanced in her right hand, her posture calm rather than aggressive.

A look passed across her face when she should have been following up.

It gave him enough time to stab her in the stomach with the ball of his right foot, skittering her back a few steps.

Connor’s stomach tightened as Chien-Hao began to get up.

And running meant leaving Liang.

He still could not do that.

***

Katarina Varga thought she had heard the impact almost a minute earlier.

Metal.

Concrete.

She had paused only briefly after Marius Falk’s confirmation that Lin Chien-Hao had successfully gained entry to the construction site.

Falk had already completed his task. The second Taiwanese vehicle had been neutralised exactly as planned, allowing Chien-Hao to separate Dr Liang from the remainder of the protective detail.

By now, Falk would be en route to the private airfield where the aircraft waited to carry Liang to the Chinese mainland.

Originally, it was to be the wife and kids, but circumstances—fortuitous or not—had landed Liang in the country, making the rendition of the rest of the family unnecessary.

Everything was proceeding to schedule.

Then came the crash.

Katarina abandoned the blue Toyota Corolla Altis and her overwatch on the exit.

The hitwoman ran towards the sound.

She reached the vehicle access road and immediately saw the problem.

A European.

Caucasian.

British or perhaps Dutch.

Dark blond.

Her first instinct was to call Falk.

She dismissed it almost as quickly.

There wasn’t time.

By the time Falk returned, it would be too late anyway.

She widened her approach, circling until the stranger’s attention remained fixed entirely upon Chien-Hao.

Two seconds.

That was all she needed.

Two seconds was enough to tell her he knew how to fight—really knew.

She closed the final distance as the European stripped Chien-Hao of the knife with a textbook Kimura, before kicking it away.

Two strides.

He swept Chien-Hao’s feet out, sending him crashing.

A skip.

The telescopic baton cracked through the humid air towards the side of her victim’s head.

His forearm snapped upwards as he turned, as if pulled up by an invisible string like a combat puppet.

Impossible.

The hardened steel struck the ulna with a sickening crack.

She immediately changed angle, whipping the baton towards his knee.

The movement never came.

Instead, he drove a brutal front kick into her abdomen.

Air exploded from her lungs.

She staggered backwards across the dusty concrete, boots scraping for purchase.

Recognition arrived a heartbeat later.

Not just from his face.

From the way he moved.

Three years earlier.

Amsterdam.

Raymond Van Der Saar.

She had been less experienced then, providing secondary overwatch while more senior operatives executed the elimination.

She remembered watching in disbelief as this same man—a British man—identified her fellow assassin role-playing a waitress before smashing a wine bottle into her face from several metres away.

The potential of a clean assassination dissolved into chaos.

Several Nerium operatives never left the building.

The mission became one of the organisation’s few genuine embarrassments.

And now…

Fate had delivered him to her.

Chien-Hao regained his feet.

Katarina assessed him in an instant.

Useful.

But only if he understood his role.

Taiwanese protection officers received excellent training in defensive tactics, weapon retention, restraint techniques and close-quarters control. Many supplemented it with judo, sanda or Shuai Jiao.

Against ordinary opponents, that made them formidable.

Against this man-predator, it had proven not enough.

She drifted laterally, deliberately widening the angle between herself and Chien-Hao.

Present the enemy with a dilemma.

The Britisher looked worse than he let on.

Two knife wounds and almost certainly a fractured ulna.

Yet, not once had his expression betrayed pain.

Chien-Hao lashed out with a kick.

Katarina frowned.

Amateur.

The strike was checked effortlessly.

He should have clinched.

Occupied the man’s hands.

Forced him to wrestle.

That would have created the opening she needed.

Instead, the Brit remained free to move.

She feinted.

Nothing.

He refused to bite.

Very good.

Chien-Hao circled correctly towards the man’s damaged side.

Then ruined it.

He mistook injury for incapacity and rushed.

The elbow landed with savage precision.

Chien-Hao collapsed.

Katarina stepped in immediately.

Her baton smashed towards the outside of the Brit’s knee.

At the last instant, he rotated the leg.

Instead of destroying the joint, the blow landed behind the knee.

Less damage.

Still enough.

She dipped beneath the backfist that followed by inches.

The exchange confirmed what she needed to know.

The strike had compromised his mobility.

Blood oozed from the score around his ribcage and the top of his right forearm.

The lifelessness of the left hand indicated nerve damage along with the fracture.

She slowed her breathing.

There was no need to hurry now, especially as Chien-Hao rose, albeit a little unsteadily.

Only impatience would lose this fight.

The man continued to advance, every movement disciplined despite the pain she knew he must be suppressing.

Katarina found herself respecting him.

That respect did nothing to diminish her purpose.

If anything, it would make ending him more satisfying.

***

Connor knew the odds against him had grown giant.

The throb of his left forearm fracture pulsed nausea into his gut. Worse, the damaged nerves meant he could no longer properly close his fist.

Even if he switched southpaw, the baton strike behind his knee had robbed him of the ability to properly transfer power through his lead leg. His punches would lack their usual authority.

A grapple would negate some of those disadvantages.

Against one.

Against two, it would be suicide.

Varga—vaguely familiar now that he studied her properly in person—seemed to understand that as well as he did.

In his peripheral vision, Chien-Hao pushed himself onto his hands.

The Spartan ideal of Karteria had been ingrained in him on the precipice of his teens.

The crimson cloaked warrior culture had taken the Greek ideal of steadfast endurance to the point that one did not simply endure pain; one denied it existed.

Connor remembered his father telling him, long before the Royal Marines, long before Chameleon, that sometimes you lost every advantage in a fight except one.

Don’t let the bastard see he’s hurting you.

If pain was all they had left to inflict, refusing to acknowledge it became its own victory.

Connor had practised that lesson for almost thirty years.

His breathing remained steady.

His face remained blank.

Inside, every heartbeat felt like broken glass grinding through his arm, which took his mind off the blood soaking his ribcage.

He had never devoted much time to training head kicks.

He had always considered them a poor investment of his time and energy, as they demanded greater range, impeccable balance and committed the body for longer than a punch ever did.

Also, two feet on the ground was always preferable to one during the volatility of a street or bar fight.

Now he wished he had them in his locker.

He deliberately centred all his attention on Varga.

It might be exactly what she expected. Varga held the baton, the killer instinct, skill and intent.

She was the immediate threat.

The wing mirror of a parked forklift showed him everything else.

There.

Chien-Hao lunged.

Connor drove a spinning back kick into his liver without looking.

The heel landed with a sickening thud.

Chien-Hao folded, all the air leaving him in a strangled grunt.

Connor pivoted off the kick, sprang forward and buried a flying knee beneath the Taiwanese officer’s chin.

Bone cracked.

Chien-Hao’s body seemed to switch off, collapsing as though the supports had been blown from beneath it.

Connor’s momentum carried him over the falling body.

Too long.

He knew it the instant it happened.

Instinct snapped his head sideways as he threw up his ruined left arm.

CRACK.

The baton smashed into the already broken ulna.

White exploded across his vision.

For the first time, Connor came within a heartbeat of crying out.

Instead, he threw himself into a forward shoulder roll, creating precious distance before forcing himself upright.

The Hungarian killer advanced without hurry.

She showed no emotion—the expression of a banker closing down an account.

Connor scanned the loading yard.

Nothing.

No pipe.

No chain.

No length of timber.

Nothing worth calling a weapon.

He cursed the Singaporean builders’ housekeeping.

Circling the Alphard would only buy him more time to bleed out.

She drifted sideways, ensuring Chien-Hao remained between Connor and any avenue of escape.

Professional.

Then, unexpectedly, she spoke.

“Amsterdam. How did you know the waitress was armed?”

Connor frowned but remained silent.

“The appendix carry,” she clarified. “Inside the waistband. There was no print.”

So that was it—that’s why she was vaguely familiar to him.

And the professional in her wanted to know.

Buying seconds was the only reason he decided to indulge her.

“It wasn’t one thing,” he said.

She waited.

“I first noticed her watching Van Der Saar’s security instead of the guests. Once is curiosity. Several times is surveillance.”

A faint nod.

“Then she kept unconsciously protecting her abdomen. At first, I thought she might be pregnant.”

“But?”

“But her hand always drifted to the same place.”

He pointed vaguely towards his own right hip.

“The right shoulder of her jacket sat lower than the other. Tiny difference. Then she served us again.”

“And?”

“She moved like someone pretending to be a waitress.”

For the first time, genuine interest flickered across Varga’s face.

Connor continued.

“Her right hip didn’t rotate naturally. The tray handling wasn’t instinctive. Every movement was just a fraction too controlled.”

“You noticed all that?”

“I noticed enough.”

Silence settled between them.

Then she inclined her head.

“Very good.”

“Why thank you.”

A wolfish grin.

“Ready?” she asked.

Connor rolled his shoulders despite the agony—he couldn’t even be bothered to summon a ‘born ready’ quip.

“Ready.”

They circled.

A cobra and a wounded mongoose.

Her feints were flawless.

Every twitch threatened violence.

Every shoulder dip forced a reaction.

Yet she never overcommitted.

She was denying him the counter.

The baton blurred.

THWACK.

It crashed into the outside of Connor’s right thigh.

His leg almost buckled.

Pain radiated from hip to ankle.

He understood then.

She wasn’t going to make a mistake.

Which meant… she wasn’t going to lose… which meant… she was going to kill him.

Connor suddenly widened his eyes.

“Ayumi!” he shouted, looking over her shoulder. “She’s got a baton!”

The killer’s instincts betrayed her.

She glanced.

Only for a fraction.

It was enough.

Ayumi wasn’t behind her where his eyes indicated—she sprinted into her flank.

The Japanese close-protection officer exploded inside the arc of the swinging baton before it had completed its path.

Her hips dropped.

One hand seized the sleeve.

The other controlled the arm.

Perfect timing.

Perfect kuzushi.

A perfect Ippon seoi nage.

The shoulder throw launched the woman like a Catherine Wheel over Ayumi’s back.

Varga struck the concrete with explosive force.

Connor ignored the screaming protest from his leg.

He lurched forward and pelted the toe of his boot into the side of her skull.

Her body went limp.

“Check on Dr Liang,” he rasped, gesturing to the crashed Toyota Alphard, which now sat over thirty metres away as the fight had migrated.

Ayumi nodded and took off in a sprint.

He turned at the sound of Chien-Hao groaning.

Still alive.

Connor limped over, collapsed astride his chest and pinned him beneath his weight.

The Taiwanese officer blinked up at him through unfocused eyes.

Connor’s right fist rose with his temper.

“You like using knives?”

The blow crashed into Chien-Hao’s face.

“You…”

Another punch.

“…like…”

Blood sprayed.

“…using…”

Another crunch of cartilage.

“…fucking…”

Crack of bone.

“…knives?”

The final blow landed.

Connor stared down at him, breathing hard.

Only then did he realise the darkness creeping into the edges of his vision wasn’t just exhaustion.

The world tilted.

Then disappeared.

***

Liang hadn’t realised he had stopped struggling against the restraints the moment the fighting began.

His wrists remained pinned beneath his thigh, but all thought of escape had evaporated. He could only watch.

It felt like being pushed from an aircraft without knowing whether the parachute on his back would open.

His dread deepened with every passing second.

The báirén had somehow survived a knife attack, only to find himself facing a second opponent armed with a black baton.

Liang knew almost nothing about fighting, yet even he could recognise the hopelessness of the situation. The white man bled from multiple wounds, one arm hung unnaturally, and his left leg no longer seemed to obey him.

Still, he refused to stop.

Liang had spent a lifetime around mathematicians, physicists and engineers. They solved impossible problems with intellect.

This man—like a badly wounded Formosan black bear—appeared to solve them through sheer refusal to surrender.

Then everything changed.

A young dark-haired woman burst into view from somewhere beyond Liang’s field of vision, covering the distance with astonishing speed. Before Liang fully understood what he was seeing, she had crashed into the woman with the baton, the pair becoming a blur of limbs before the attacker sailed over her shoulder and struck the concrete with a sickening impact.

The báirén limped forward and stamped once.

Hard.

The woman did not move again.

The woman who had thrown her sprinted straight to the Alphard, yanked the sliding door open and met Liang’s bewildered stare.

“I am here… help,” she said in hesitant Mandarin—Japanese.

Relief washed over him so suddenly it almost hurt.

She immediately seemed to notice his wrists trapped beneath his leg and began searching frantically around the interior of the vehicle, clearly looking for anything sharp enough to cut the restraints.

Liang found himself watching only her.

So intently, in fact, that he almost missed the distant wail of sirens.

At first, they sounded remote.

Then they grew louder.

Much louder.

They were almost at the construction site’s gates.

Liang looked back towards the scene of the fight’s aftermath.

The báirén now lay motionless, slumped across the chest of the man who had abducted him.

For one awful moment, Liang feared he was dead.

Movement caught the corner of his eye.

The woman with the baton.

Like a corpse dragging itself from the grave, she slowly pushed herself upright.

Her head turned once towards the unconscious foreigner.

Then, without another glance, she broke into a run in the opposite direction just as the first police sirens reached the other side of the gates and the protection officer next to him began to stir.

28

SINGAPORE — INTERNAL SECURITY DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, DIRECTOR’S OFFICE.

THREE HOURS BEFORE THE HOMEFRONT CRISIS MINISTERIAL COMMITTEE (HCMC)

Dato’ Adrian Tan Wei-Ming had learned over thirty-five years in intelligence that the gravest threats rarely announced themselves with gunfire or explosions—not in this country.

They arrived as disconnected anomalies—each innocuous on its own, but together forming the outline of something far more dangerous.

Today, the pieces were arriving faster than his officers could assemble them.

As Director of Singapore’s Internal Security Department, Wei-Ming occupied one of the Republic’s most influential yet least recognised offices.

Charged with protecting Singapore from espionage, foreign interference, subversion and politically motivated violence, his department lived in the shadows so the nation did not have to. Success was measured not by headlines, but by the crises that never reached them.

At fifty-eight, he possessed the quiet authority that decades of responsibility inevitably bestowed. Lean and immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit, he stood beside the panoramic window overlooking Singapore’s gleaming skyline, one hand resting lightly in his trouser pocket.

Silver threaded through otherwise black hair at his temples, while the pale scar beneath his left jaw caught the morning light whenever he turned his head. Rimless spectacles rested between his fingers rather than on his face; he had removed them several minutes earlier without consciously realising he had done so.

Behind him, three briefing folders sat perfectly aligned on the polished conference table.

Deputy Director (Operations) Lim Jun-Hao and Senior Director Evelyn Koh waited silently.

Both knew their director disliked speaking before every available fact had been laid upon the table.

Lim eventually broke the silence.

“The attempted kidnapping occurred at approximately sixteen-forty hours yesterday, sir.”

Wei-Ming gave a small nod.

“Location?”

“Bayshore Quays construction site.”

“The victim?”

“Dr Liang Wei-Shen.”

One of Taiwan’s foremost semiconductor scientists.

One of Singapore’s most important foreign guests.

If Liang had disappeared from Singaporean soil, the diplomatic consequences would have echoed throughout the Indo-Pacific.

“What is your assessment?”

Lim inhaled once.

“Our preliminary assessment indicates the hallmarks of a professionally planned foreign intelligence operation.”

Wei-Ming slipped his spectacles into his breast pocket.

“Your leading candidate?”

“The Chinese Ministry of State Security.”

“Confidence?”

“Moderate and increasing.”

“Proceed.”

Lim touched the display.

A photograph appeared.

Protection officer Lin Chien-Hao.

His face had swollen into something almost unrecognisable.

Bruising.

Blood.

Bone.

Even after thirty years in intelligence, Wei-Ming had never become entirely accustomed to violence.

“Status?”

“Alive.”

“Barely,” Koh added quietly. “He’s undergone emergency surgery.”

Wei-Ming studied the image for several seconds.

The next photograph appeared.

Koh said, “This is Wei-Huang. Another NSB protection officer. Could not bear witness to the event due to ingesting a sedative, which Dr Liang Wei-Shen suggests was surreptitiously administered by his colleague Lin Chien-Hao.”

“What was the sedative?”

“The hospital cannot yet be certain. Wei-Huang has corroborated Wei-Shen’s assertion that Chien-Hao had drugged him.”

Wei-Ming jutted his chin, and Koh passed him the next photograph.

A European male lay unconscious on the ground, partially covering Chien-Hao’s body.

“Identity?”

“A Connor Reed. No identification was found on his person, and his phone seemed to perform a factory reset upon our attempt to bypass its security.”

“Very strange,” he said before asking. “How do you know his name?”

“I will come to that, sir,” said Koh. “His injuries include a fracture of the left forearm. Deep laceration to the left forearm. Additional laceration to the right flank. Bruising to the face and especially the right leg. Significant blood loss.”

Wei-Ming frowned.

“He was assaulting Chien-Hao?”

Lim shook his head.

“Quite the opposite, sir.”

“Explain.”

“According to Dr Liang, Mr Reed intervened to prevent his kidnapping.”

“And Chien-Hao?”

“Dr Liang alleges Chien-Hao was complicit.”

Silence settled over the office.

Wei-Ming finally looked away from the display.

“Go on.”

“Dr Liang further states that Mr Reed fought Chien-Hao before engaging an unidentified black-haired female believed to be operating alongside the kidnappers.”

“Another operative?”

“So we believe. White—European is our best guess currently.”

“Mr Reed overcame both himself?”

“Not exactly. Liang states he was eventually aided by a Japanese national.”

Lim consulted his notes.

“Ayumi Tanaka. An Okada protection officer. She gave us Connor Reed’s name but nothing else at this time. We haven’t yet reached out to the British Embassy regarding his background until we have had a chance to speak to him directly.”

“Is Ayumi Tanaka injured?”

“No.”

“Relationship to Mr Reed?”

“Dr Liang assumed her to be a girlfriend.”

Wei-Ming’s expression remained unchanged.

“Verified?”

“Not yet.”

“The security vehicles had been fitted with trackers. Dr Liang is adamant that Reed had thwarted his attackers and Tanaka was in the midst of extracting him from the vehicle moments before responding officers arrived and arrested her.”

Wei-Ming slowly resumed pacing.

A suspected foreign intelligence operation.

An apparent insider.

A British civilian intervening.

A Japanese accomplice.

Nothing about the situation made immediate sense.

Koh spoke.

“Unfortunately, sir, that isn’t our only problem.”

Wei-Ming turned.

“The deceased female recovered from the Andaz Singapore has now been identified.”

“Name?”

“Zhu Mingxin.”

“Alias?”

“None confirmed.”

“Nationality?”

“A dual Chinese and British national.”

“Cause of death?”

“Homicide, as we suspected,” Koh said. “I regret to inform you, Director, but the room’s occupancy records have somehow been professionally scrubbed, and the CCTV professionally replaced with a forty-eight-hour loop. Our analysts are attempting to work out how this was achieved.”

Wei-Ming stopped walking.

Whoever did this possessed both capability and confidence.

Singapore’s greatest strategic asset was not its port.

Nor its financial sector.

Nor even its armed forces.

It was trust.

Foreign governments invested, negotiated, and exchanged sensitive technologies in Singapore because they believed the Republic remained secure, predictable and incorruptible.

If hostile intelligence services had conducted covert operations across the island undetected, that reputation would suffer consequences measured in years rather than days.

He glanced at the clock.

Three hours.

In precisely three hours, he would sit before the Homefront Crisis Ministerial Committee.

Convened only for matters of exceptional national significance, the HCMC brought together the Prime Minister, the Coordinating Minister for National Security, the Ministers for Home Affairs, Defence, Foreign Affairs, and Finance, as well as Singapore’s senior security chiefs and permanent secretaries.

Every ministry represented would be expected to account for its actions.

The Internal Security Department most of all.

There would be no shouting.

No political theatre.

Simply questions.

And they would expect answers.

A sharp rap sounded against the office door.

Wei-Ming suppressed a sigh.

“Come.”

His secretary stepped inside.

“Director… one of your associates is here requesting an urgent audience.”

“I’m unavailable.”

“Yes, sir, I explained that.”

“Then explain it again.”

The secretary hesitated.

“It’s… the art curator.”

Wei-Ming’s eyes lifted.

Neither Lim nor Koh moved.

“What message did she leave?”

“She said she has information regarding the Andaz Singapore homicide…”

He swallowed.

“…and the heroics surrounding the attempted kidnapping at Bayshore Quays.”

The office fell silent.

Wei-Ming looked from the secretary to his two senior officers before deciding.

“Show her in.”

He turned towards Lim and Koh.

“Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”

Neither questioned the instruction.

Within moments, the office belonged solely to Wei-Ming once more.

Exactly thirty seconds later, the door opened again.

The woman who entered had changed remarkably little in twenty-eight years.

Time had softened neither her poise nor the quiet confidence she carried into every room. Dressed in understated black, Anissa Rajah moved with the effortless grace of someone equally at home among diplomats, billionaires and intelligence officers.

Her dark brown eyes found his immediately, carrying the familiarity of two professionals whose paths had crossed countless times since the winter of 1998.

For the briefest moment, the weight of the past three hours eased.

Anissa offered the faint suggestion of that enigmatic half-smile he remembered so well.

“Let’s begin the construction of our story.”

SINGAPORE GENERAL HOSPITAL — THE FOLLOWING MORNING

Consciousness returned by degrees.

First came sound.

A slow, rhythmic beep… beep… beep… somewhere to Connor’s left.

Then the constant hum of air conditioning.

Low voices beyond a curtain.

The faint squeak of rubber soles against polished flooring.

Only then did the pain begin introducing itself.

Not the sharp, all-consuming agony of fresh wounds, but a dull catalogue of aches spread across his body. His mouth felt as though it had been lined with sandpaper, his tongue thick and dry. Every muscle seemed to weigh twice what it should, while an unnatural heaviness settled over his limbs like wet concrete.

Hospital.

He hadn’t even opened his eyes yet, but he knew.

He forced his eyelids apart.

White ceiling tiles.

Recessed LED lights.

An IV bag hung from a stainless-steel pole beside the bed, clear fluid dripping methodically through transparent tubing disappearing beneath the blanket. ECG leads disappeared beneath the open neck of a pale blue hospital gown, while a pulse oximeter was clipped lazily onto the index finger of his right hand.

He lay still for several seconds, allowing the world to settle into focus.

Singapore.

The construction site.

Liang.

Ayumi.

The baton.

The knife.

Sirens.

His memory arrived in fragments before finally knitting itself together.

He glanced left.

His left forearm rested heavily upon pillows, encased in a rigid plaster cast that reached almost to his elbow. Beneath it, the broken ulna throbbed with a deep, insistent ache.

His right forearm bore a thick white dressing held firmly beneath layers of bandage.

Without lifting the gown, he could already feel the tightness beneath the dressing wrapping around his right ribs. Every breath reminded him the sutures were there.

He inhaled slightly deeper.

Mistake.

Pain radiated through his flank.

Not catastrophic.

Manageable.

His eyes drifted to the bags of intravenous fluid.

Blood loss.

Enough to put him down.

For him to have blacked out after the fight, he had probably lost somewhere in the region of a litre and a half.

Lucky.

However, the reminders of his own mortality seemed to be arriving with increasing frequency.

He remembered listening to an interview with a former special forces soldier stating that the shelf life of a man in such a profession rarely extended beyond his mid-thirties. Forty, if he was exceptionally good.

After that, experience no longer compensated for slowing reflexes, accumulating injuries and the simple mathematics of probability. Stay in the game long enough and eventually somebody catches up with you.

Connor was now in his early thirties—perhaps the onset was beginning to bite.

Maybe he’d lost his edge.

Maybe he’d gone soft.

Or maybe, he thought, you’ve just survived a two-on-one against a bodyguard with a knife and an assassin wielding a baton. And you still won. After being poisoned, for fuck’s sake, you melodramatic pussy.

He snorted to himself.

Even if one was a chick, and you were saved by a chick.

And McQuillan had been way past fifty before he succumbed.

None of this was a priority right now. The pressing issue was everything that came afterwards.

If he failed to convince the Singaporean authorities that he was nothing more than an English tourist who’d stumbled into somebody else’s nightmare and done what any decent bloke might have done, then this room could easily become the prelude to an interrogation suite.

Singapore did not tolerate foreign intelligence services operating on its soil; not that the British Government would acknowledge him, nor would SIS, even behind closed doors.

Connor Reed did not officially exist in any capacity worth claiming.

He was a deniable asset.

Always had been.

If Singapore decided to make an example of him, Whitehall would issue carefully worded diplomatic statements while privately pretending they’d never heard his name.

His career would evaporate overnight.

Worse still, the Chameleon Project would be dragged into scrutiny it could ill afford, taking Bruce’s life’s work down with it.

His thoughts drifted to the gravelly-voiced advice Uncle Michael had given him when he was barely out of school.

“If you’re ever caught in a compromising position, Deny, deny, deny… then re-accuse.”

A movement beside the bed interrupted his thoughts.

A nurse had silently appeared.

She noticed his eyes were open and immediately smiled.

“Mr Reed?”

He gave the smallest nod.

“I’ll fetch the doctor.”

She disappeared before Connor could reply.

Barely two minutes later, a middle-aged man in navy scrubs entered carrying a tablet computer.

“Good morning, Mr Reed.”

His English carried the crisp cadence common among Singapore’s medical professionals.

“I’m Dr Lim. It’s good to see you’re awake.”

Connor nodded again.

“How bad?”

“You sustained what we call a nightstick fracture of your left ulna. Fortunately, the bone broke cleanly and remained well aligned. The orthopaedic team decided surgery wasn’t necessary.”

Connor looked towards the cast.

“We’ll keep it immobilised in plaster for around six weeks and monitor it with repeat X-rays to make sure it heals in the correct position.”

Connor felt thankful for the lack of plating, considering the forearm had received two blows.

The doctor continued.

“Your right forearm required layered closure after a deep laceration. Fortunately, there was no significant tendon or nerve damage.”

He gently touched the dressing covering Connor’s right flank.

“The stab wound along your lateral chest wall narrowly missed entering your chest cavity. You were fortunate. Had the blade travelled another few centimetres…”

He left the sentence unfinished.

“We thoroughly irrigated the wound before repairing it. You’ll have a rather impressive scar—to go along with the others.”

The doctor briefly glanced at him before consulting his tablet.

“There is… one matter that puzzled us.”

Connor remained expressionless.

“Your initial blood work indicated trace quantities of tetrodotoxin.”

Connor felt nothing.

Show nothing.

“Subsequent treatment was administered accordingly.”

The doctor looked up from the tablet.

“Curiously…”

He paused.

“…we were later advised not to pursue that finding.”

Connor said nothing.

“It has therefore not been included within your formal hospital record.”

Silence settled between them.

Though his tone had remained entirely professional, Connor detected a frustrated curiosity beneath it.

Someone had reached into the investigation.

Someone sufficiently influential to persuade a consultant physician to disregard his own clinical findings.

The question was—

Who?

“The authorities will naturally wish to speak with you,” Dr Lim continued. “I’ve informed them that won’t happen until I’m satisfied you’re medically fit to undergo questioning.”

Connor blinked slowly.

“You’ve only been awake for a few minutes.”

“I know.”

“You remain lucid, but I would like several more hours before declaring you capable of providing a reliable account.”

Connor found the logic mildly amusing.

The man had just trusted him to understand complex surgical procedures and toxicology results, yet apparently not enough to answer questions.

He kept the observation to himself.

Dr Lim checked Connor’s observations once more before slipping the tablet beneath one arm.

“One further thing.”

Connor looked up.

“A colleague from Okada has been waiting to see you.”

Connor’s face betrayed nothing.

“Shall I send her in?”

“Please.”

The doctor gave a courteous nod before leaving.

The door opened again almost immediately.

Ayumi Tanaka stepped inside.

Gone were the bloodstained clothes.

She wore a dark blouse and charcoal trousers, her hair neatly tied back once more. To anyone else, she might have looked like a concerned colleague visiting an injured friend.

Connor knew better.

She closed the door quietly behind her.

He waited until it latched.

Then whispered, “What the fuck is going on? I thought the Singaporeans would be on me like a cheap suit the second I opened my eyes.”

Her eyes creased.

“A bodhisattva must be watching over you, Reed-san.”

Connor glanced down at the cast, the dressings and the web of tubes attached to him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Some fucking job it’s doing.”

Ayumi gave a micro nod.

Then the smile disappeared.

“We need to make sure our accounts remain consistent.”

Connor looked at her steadily.

“Start talking.”

29

THE ISTANA

HOMEFRONT CRISIS MINISTERIAL COMMITTEE (HCMC)

The Homefront Crisis Ministerial Committee met behind doors that rarely opened.

Unlike the British COBRA meetings so often depicted by the media, Singapore’s HCMC possessed little appetite for theatrical crisis management.

No one raised their voice, no one competed with egos, and no one sought soundbites. Every individual seated around the long oval table had earned their place through decades of public service, and every one of them understood the gravity of being summoned.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked immaculate gardens, though few spared them a glance.

The prime minister occupied the head of the table.

To his immediate right sat the Coordinating Minister for National Security, alongside the Ministers for Home Affairs, Defence, Foreign Affairs and Finance. Around them were the permanent secretaries of the relevant ministries, the Chief of Defence Force, the Commissioner of Police, the Director of the Security and Intelligence Division and Dato’ Adrian Tan Wei-Ming, Director of the Internal Security Department.

Every folder before them carried the same classification.

SECRET

Wei-Ming rose.

Dozens of years briefing ministers had taught him that confidence mattered almost as much as accuracy.

“Our investigation into yesterday’s events has now reached a provisional conclusion.”

The room remained silent.

“The attempted abduction of Dr Liang Wei-Shen was conducted by individuals operating on behalf of the Chinese Ministry of State Security.”

No one interrupted.

“The operation was coordinated locally by MSS officer Zhu Mingxin, a dual Chinese and British national.”

He advanced the first slide.

Photographs.

Financial transfers.

Travel records.

Communications metadata.

Some genuine.

Some incomplete.

Some… considerably more convenient than the evidence alone might ordinarily permit.

“Ms Zhu’s responsibilities included surveillance of Dr Liang and his family, operational coordination, and the recruitment of Lin Chien-Hao, who exploited his position within Dr Liang’s protective detail.”

Another slide.

“The attempted extraction failed following intervention by Internal Security Department officers operating alongside responding police units.”

Again, nobody challenged the statement.

“Following the operation, Zhu Mingxin took her own life inside her suite at the Andaz Singapore before she could be detained.”

Wei-Ming knew precisely what was passing through the minds of several people around the table.

Not because they believed every word.

Because they recognised a statecraft solution when they heard one.

Anissa Rajah’s material had provided the skeleton.

The ISD had added flesh where the bones proved inconveniently absent.

Nothing presented was impossible.

Not all of it was demonstrably true.

There was a distinction.

In another country, such ambiguity might have been unacceptable.

Singapore occupied a different sphere.

Surrounded by powers vastly larger than itself, the Republic had survived by understanding that absolute honesty and absolute secrecy were luxuries afforded only to nations protected by geography or overwhelming military strength.

Singapore possessed neither.

It survived by remaining indispensable.

And occasionally by ensuring every major power left believing it had avoided a worse outcome.

Wei-Ming concluded.

“The assembled intelligence provides the government with a credible basis upon which to seek explanations—and appropriate concessions—from the People’s Republic of China.”

Silence lingered.

The Director of the Security and Intelligence Division slowly closed his folder.

“Will it withstand scrutiny?”

He did not specify whose scrutiny.

He didn’t need to.

Wei-Ming met his gaze.

“I welcome your department’s review.”

A pause.

“As I do the review of every department represented here.”

No further explanation was necessary.

The invitation carried an unspoken meaning every experienced official in the room understood.

Find the weaknesses.

Identify the inconsistencies.

Strengthen the narrative before it ever leaves Singapore.

No one regarded the suggestion as improper.

Singapore’s internal institutions were uncompromising in their stance on corruption. Public trust remained sacred.

Foreign intelligence, however, existed in another arena entirely.

There, survival depended not merely on honesty but on judgement.

Sometimes that judgement required revealing everything.

Sometimes it required revealing only enough.

Besides, it had been an MSS-backed operation—that was the main thing. Some of the details might have been amplified, minimised or redacted, but the overall narrative was true.

The prime minister rested both hands upon the table.

“Very well.”

His voice was calm, almost conversational.

“Let’s make certain every document, timeline and supporting exhibit can withstand the questions that will inevitably follow.”

Around the table, heads nodded.

The prime minister looked towards Wei-Ming.

“When you’re satisfied the package is ready…”

He allowed the sentence to hang for a moment.

“…inform me.”

Another pause.

“I’ll decide when it’s appropriate to telephone Beijing.”

Nobody misunderstood what he meant.

The first conversation would not be an accusation.

It would be an opportunity.

Whether China accepted it remained to be seen.

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY HEADQUARTERS, 11TH BUREAU OFFICES, BEIJING — LATE AFTERNOON

Liu Ren recognised the ritual.

The corridor outside Zhao Jianguo’s office had become familiar over the years.

He arrived precisely on time.

The aide neither smiled nor apologised.

“Director Zhao will see you shortly.”

Liu inclined his head.

He waited.

He knew the delay to be deliberate—an instrument of authority.

Liu accepted it, seeing no value in resentment.

When the door finally opened, Zhao Jianguo was alone.

Immaculate folders lay aligned with mathematical precision across his desk, the national flag behind him, the washed-out Beijing skyline beyond reinforced glass.

Nothing had changed.

Except, perhaps, Liu’s standing.

“Comrade Liu.”

“Director.”

“Sit.”

Tea arrived.

Neither man touched it.

Zhao opened a folder without looking at him.

“I have completed my review.”

Liu remained still.

“The European theatre.”

Another page turned.

“Your restructuring of our academic influence network exceeded expectations.”

A pause.

“Recruitment targets surpassed projections.”

Another page.

“Your cultivation of policy advisers in Westminster has been exemplary.”

Another.

“Unit 8119 reports measurable amplification of social fragmentation following the St Fergus operation.”

He closed the folder.

“You were correct.”

Liu looked up.

“The British political environment proved considerably more vulnerable than previous assessments suggested.”

Liu acknowledged the observation with the slightest inclination of his head.

Zhao reached for a second folder.

Its cover was red.

“The Leeds operation.”

Silence.

“Failure.”

A page turned.

“The disappearance of Zhu Mingxin.”

Another.

“Failure.”

Another.

“The Singapore operation.”

Zhao stopped there.

“Failure.”

Liu said nothing.

“Liang Wei-Shen has returned to Taiwan. His family remains beyond our control. Ministry activity has been exposed to the Singaporean Government. Private diplomatic concessions have been extracted from the People’s Republic.”

Another page.

“Foreign intelligence services now possess a significantly improved understanding of your methods.”

The final page.

“The unidentified British operative.”

Zhao’s eyes settled upon Liu.

“Still alive.”

The room became very quiet.

Liu neither defended himself nor attempted to dilute the record.

The ledger spoke adequately.

Zhao closed the folder.

“The Singapore operation was undertaken without authorisation from this office.”

Liu understood immediately.

Zhao had constructed the arrangement with exquisite care.

Now the debt had matured.

“Yes, Director.”

“Ministry resources were redirected at your discretion.”

“Yes.”

“The selection and employment of the external organisation were yours.”

“They were.”

“The decision to proceed was yours.”

“Yes.”

Zhao regarded him across the desk.

“Then responsibility for the consequences is also yours.”

Liu held his gaze.

“Entirely.”

There it was.

The arrangement made months earlier had finally reached its conclusion.

Success would have travelled upwards.

Failure had acquired a name.

Liu Ren.

Zhao allowed the silence to remain.

“Ordinarily, the unauthorised diversion of Ministry resources for an operation resulting in significant diplomatic exposure would require referral for disciplinary investigation.”

Liu knew what that could mean.

The loss of rank would be the least of it.

His career.

His liberty.

Potentially more.

“But,” Zhao continued, “institutions are not strengthened by destroying useful men merely to demonstrate that they can.”

Liu remained expressionless.

“Your failures do not erase your successes.”

Zhao placed one hand upon the first folder.

“Nor do your successes excuse your failures.”

A pause.

“I once described you as exceptionally capable.”

“I remember.”

“I also described you as excessively interpretive.”

Liu remained silent.

“I have concluded that both assessments remain accurate.”

Zhao leaned back.

“Europe has become too warm.”

Not dangerous.

Not compromised.

Too warm.

The choice of words told Liu everything.

Operational visibility had exceeded acceptable limits.

“The Ministry will therefore not pursue disciplinary proceedings regarding Singapore.”

Liu knew better than to mistake the statement for mercy.

“Instead, you will accept full internal responsibility for the operation and relinquish your operational authorities with immediate effect.”

There it was.

The sentence.

Delivered without accusation.

Without anger.

Without even the satisfaction of humiliation.

Liu inclined his head.

“I understand.”

“The Ministry has approved your reassignment.”

Reassignment.

Not dismissal.

Not disgrace.

“The Special Strategic Research Office.”

Another beat.

“The Policy Planning Group, with advisory responsibilities to the Central Commission.”

For the first time in many years, Liu felt genuine heat rise into his face.

Not anger.

Shame.

He had spent decades shaping events.

Now he would study them.

An office.

Papers.

Assessments.

No networks.

No assets.

No operations.

No command.

He understood immediately.

In every bureaucratic sense, it was a promotion.

Vice-ministerial visibility.

Greater proximity to power.

Policy influence.

A larger office.

A better title.

It was also exile.

The institution would preserve his dignity while quietly removing his freedom to act.

Liu almost admired the symmetry.

Zhao had protected him from the consequences that might destroy him while imposing the only punishment Liu would truly feel.

Irrelevance to the field.

“I am honoured by the confidence placed in me.”

The words emerged smoothly.

Years of discipline prevented any trace of bitterness.

Zhao regarded him for several seconds.

“You understand.”

“Yes.”

“You have become visible.”

“I have.”

“The institution cannot permit Europe to become associated with a single officer.”

“No.”

“Particularly one educated at Oxford.”

The observation landed gently.

Which somehow made it heavier.

Zhao folded his hands.

“There remains another matter.”

Liu waited.

“Before assuming your new responsibilities, all remaining operational activity carrying meaningful risk of diplomatic exposure will be terminated.”

Liu considered his response carefully.

“There is one matter still unresolved.”

Zhao said nothing.

“The British national.”

Names granted significance.

Descriptions did not.

“The external organisation employed to resolve that matter possesses an exceptional record.”

He chose every word deliberately.

“They have not withdrawn.”

Zhao’s expression remained unreadable.

“They will complete their assignment.”

“The assignment,” Zhao replied evenly, “has already exceeded its strategic value.”

“It is not merely the individual.”

“I know.”

“He has repeatedly interfered with Ministry objectives.”

“I know.”

“He now possesses contextual understanding of—”

Zhao raised one finger.

The gesture was enough.

“I know.”

Silence returned.

Then Zhao regarded him for several seconds.

“You are still attempting to complete the operation that ended your operational career.”

The words landed harder than any reprimand.

Liu said nothing.

“The British operative was initially an obstacle,” Zhao continued. “Then an adversary. Somewhere along the way, Comrade Liu, you permitted him to become something else.”

Liu met his gaze.

“A strategic threat.”

“No.”

The answer came immediately.

“A personal one.”

Liu’s expression did not change.

Zhao continued.

“One man has interfered with your operations repeatedly, and you have responded by assigning increasing strategic importance to his removal.”

“He has demonstrated an unusual capacity to disrupt—”

“So have you.”

Liu stopped.

Zhao leaned back.

“Yet I do not propose assassinating you.”

A silence followed.

“The state does not pursue men because they irritate its officers.”

Liu lowered his gaze by a fraction.

Zhao continued.

“You sought permission to depart from our traditional doctrine.”

“I did.”

“You argued that Europe had reached an inflexion point.”

“Yes.”

“I authorised that experiment.”

Another pause.

“It produced valuable results.”

Liu waited.

“It also produced unnecessary visibility.”

Zhao’s voice remained almost conversational.

“Our traditional approach continues to demonstrate satisfactory effectiveness.”

He reached for his untouched tea.

Cold.

He drank it anyway.

“The West is engaged in dismantling its own confidence. The fragmentation of identity. The erosion of institutional trust. The multiplication of competing truths.”

He placed the cup back upon its saucer.

“These developments require remarkably little encouragement.”

Liu recognised the concession.

Zhao was acknowledging that his analysis had not been wholly wrong.

Only that Liu had mistaken insight for permission.

“Freedom of expression,” Zhao continued, “is proving a more effective instrument than many operations we might conduct ourselves. The attritional model remains sufficient. Our adversaries continue to expend extraordinary energy arguing amongst themselves.”

He looked directly at Liu.

“There is no requirement to interrupt them. Especially no requirement to unite them in a common cause against us.”

Liu lowered his gaze briefly.

“I understand.”

Zhao studied him.

“Your mistake was not Singapore, Comrade Liu.”

Liu looked up.

“Your mistake was believing that because you understood the risk, you were entitled to take it.”

For the first time, Liu had no immediate response.

Months earlier, he had considered risk an expenditure.

Something to be measured against potential return.

Something an intelligent man could spend when the prospective reward justified the price.

Only now did he recognise the flaw in the calculation.

The risk had never belonged to him.

It belonged to the Ministry.

To the state.

And he had spent it without permission.

Zhao allowed him several seconds to absorb the distinction.

“The remaining contracts will be terminated.”

Not a question.

A statement.

“The appropriate intermediaries will be informed that further services are no longer required.”

No organisation was named.

None needed to be.

“The matter will end.”

Liu understood precisely what Zhao intended.

A quiet settlement.

Compensation where necessary.

Mutual disengagement.

No further blood.

No further exposure.

No further noise.

He rose.

“I remain grateful for the opportunities you afforded me.”

It was not entirely diplomacy.

It was mostly true.

Zhao stood as well.

“You served the Ministry well.”

A pause.

“And you will continue to do so.”

Liu inclined his head.

Zhao regarded him for a final moment.

“You merely forgot that institutions endure because they survive the ambitions of exceptional men.”

Liu absorbed the words without outward reaction.

He bowed his head.

Then turned and walked from the office.

The door closed quietly behind him.

For several seconds, he remained in the corridor.

No guards approached.

No security officers waited to take his identification.

His telephone remained in his pocket.

His rank remained intact.

Tomorrow, he would still possess an office inside one of the most powerful institutions in the People’s Republic.

Perhaps a larger one.

Men would still call him ‘Director’.

They would still stand when he entered rooms.

His assessments would travel farther than they had before. His opinions might eventually reach people whose names never appeared on organisational charts.

By every visible measure, Liu Ren had been promoted.

Only he and Zhao Jianguo understood what had actually happened.

History had not rejected him.

It had simply decided that from now on, he would advise the men permitted to write it.

KADRIORG PARK, TALLINN — EARLY MORNING

Maarja Kallas preferred mornings that offered no surprises.

The gravel paths through Kadriorg Park carried the familiar rhythm of Tallinn waking without haste. Parents shepherded children towards the playground. Elderly couples occupied the same benches they had claimed for years. Joggers passed with the solemn determination of people keeping promises to themselves.

The trees had begun surrendering their leaves.

Maarja approved.

Healthy systems knew when to let go.

The previous evening, Zhang Wei had travelled to Tallinn to meet her. That alone had been unusual. Standard protocol dictated that such meetings took place on neutral ground.

He had come bearing an unexpected proposal.

The MSS wished to withdraw its contract on Zhu Mingxin’s protector.

More surprising still, Zhang had offered almost no resistance when negotiations turned to the fee owed to the Nerium. The Chinese fixer—normally cautious to the point of obstinacy—had conceded with barely a token effort to bargain.

Maarja had told him she would consult with her colleagues—meaning The Stewardship—and provide an answer before noon.

The Nerium’s reputation was built upon certainty. Contracts were honoured, and withdrawals carried consequences. Even so, the MSS’s abrupt reversal presented an opportunity to preserve everyone’s dignity, provided the terms were acceptable.

Still, one detail lingered in her thoughts.

This Connor Reed.

He had killed more of the Nerium’s people than any individual in the organisation’s history. The contract might be ending, but a small part of her found the prospect of him walking away from it unsettling.

She had noticed the younger, statuesque blonde woman almost twenty minutes earlier.

Not only did she possess a face that couldn’t decide whether to be pretty or handsome, but its owner allowed herself to be noticed.

She sat alone beneath the awning of a small café overlooking one of the park’s paths, nursing a coffee she scarcely seemed interested in drinking. Early thirties. Athletic rather than overtly muscular. Blonde hair tied back with little concern for fashion. Clothes chosen to become part of the background—well-made without drawing the eye. She possessed the posture of someone accustomed to remaining alert for long periods without appearing tense.

Initially, Maarja predicted her to be Scandinavian before switching her guess to British.

Not from appearance.

From cadence.

Even before the woman spoke to the waiter, her tiny movements betrayed a lifetime of navigating British spaces.

Maarja had continued walking without acknowledging her.

If someone wished to begin a conversation, the burden of doing so belonged to them.

Seven minutes later, footsteps settled into pace beside her.

Neither faster.

Nor slower.

Precisely matched.

“Beautiful morning,” the younger woman observed.

The voice wasn’t quite as cultured as she anticipated, despite the confidence and intelligence it carried.

“It improves if one keeps walking.”

“Especially for me. I haven’t been to this park before.”

They continued beneath a canopy of chestnut trees.

“Here on business?”

“Yes.”

They walked a few more paces before the younger woman gestured towards a red squirrel.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw one of them in England.”

“Why?”

“I was told why by a man who seems to know a little about a lot,” smiled the Englishwoman. “Victorian landowners imported grey squirrels from North America as status symbols for their estates. They outcompeted the natives and brought squirrel pox with them, which the greys were mostly immune to but fatal to the reds.”

“Interesting how some animals just unexpectedly possess something. This is a nightmare for other creatures,” said Maarja. “Have you ever watched a tarantula hawk hunt?”

“No.”

Maarja continued. “It is a wasp that hunts tarantulas. Larger, stronger creatures. Yet it possesses one adaptation uniquely suited to defeating them.”

“The sting’s venom.”

“Precisely. The spider remains a formidable predator—just not against that particular opponent.”

She glanced up at the blonde.

“Nature occasionally produces… inconvenient match-ups.”

Ciara held her gaze for a moment before nodding.

“I watched a wildlife documentary on the flight over. Snow leopards.”

“Elusive creatures.”

“Very. The narrator mentioned their relationship—if you could call it that—with the Himalayan wolves.”

Maarja waited.

“Apparently they occupy much of the same mountain range,” the younger woman continued. “You’d imagine they’d spend half their lives running into one another. But they rarely do.”

“Different hunting strategies?”

The Brit nodded.

“Different territories. Different priorities.”

Maarja made her point for her: “They avoid each other because an unnecessary fight benefits neither.”

“Precisely.”

They continued walking beneath the chestnut trees.

After a few moments, Maarja said quietly,

“I’ve found our conversation unexpectedly enjoyable. It would be unfortunate if two people with a shared interest in wildlife had to rely on chance meetings.”

The younger woman looked ahead for a moment, then produced a card and handed it to her.

“There is the email account we will share and the details to access it. Draft the messages but do not send them.”

“Sometimes the old ways are the best.”

“If you’re uncomfortable with the arrangement, then I am open to suggestions, either now or in the future.”

“I will consult with my fellow wildlife fans,” said Maarja. “I do not at present see a problem with your suggestion.”

“You know,” the Englishwoman began, “speaking of animals… In the ghastly world of dog fighting, if one dog refuses to fight or kill the other, its owner usually puts it down.”

Maarja regarded her in silence.

The implication was unmistakable.

She was asking for permission to eliminate Marianne Hawthorne.

Unexpectedly, it offered a solution to one of The Stewardship’s more awkward dilemmas.

Had Marianne completed her contract and killed the Englishman, Dr Liang Wei-Shen’s rendition to China would have succeeded, and the Nerium’s reputation would have been further strengthened.

Ordinarily, such a failure would have carried only one consequence.

Yet The Stewardship had hesitated.

Marianne was one of the Nerium’s most accomplished operators. Ordering her death would not only squander years of investment and experience but would also place their own personnel at risk and invite unnecessary exposure. Even failure had to be weighed against cost.

Maarja held the Englishwoman’s gaze.

“I have no conviction against regarding the practice,” she said evenly.

The younger woman smiled once, turned onto the eastern path, and disappeared among the trees without looking back.

Maarja continued towards the coast.

The arrangement was imperfect but perhaps workable.

30

NORTHUMBERLAND — HAWTHORNE COTTAGE — EARLY MORNING

It had been seven weeks since Singapore.

Perhaps the longest she had spent at home in their seven-year marriage.

Marianne leaned forward and kissed Andrew lightly.

He smiled.

Whatever distance had quietly accumulated over the years had, for now at least, begun to recede and would likely stay that way—her galivanting around the globe having been curtailed for the foreseeable future.

“You’ll be late,” she said to her forestry infrastructure engineer husband.

“So will the trees.”

He grinned, pulled on his jacket and clipped the lead onto their Golden Labrador.

“Come on, Marci.”

The dog bounded eagerly towards the front door, tail sweeping happily against the skirting board.

Marianne followed them into the hallway.

Andrew stepped outside, Marci trotting faithfully beside him. Parked on the gravel sat his work vehicle—a mud-splashed dark green Land Rover Defender.

Practical rather than polished, which suited the woodland regeneration projects he attended to, the wheel arches still carried dried clay from forestry tracks somewhere west of Kielder.

He looked back once.

“I’ll be back about six.”

“I’ll make something decent.”

“You always do.”

He climbed into the Defender.

Marci leapt into the rear without invitation.

The diesel engine caught on the second turn before the vehicle rolled down the drive and disappeared between the hedgerows.

Marianne remained in the doorway for another few seconds.

Only once the Defender had vanished did she quietly close the door.

The kettle clicked.

She poured hot water over loose Longjing tea leaves and watched them unfurl inside the pot.

The ritual slowed her breathing.

Routine mattered.

Routine revealed disruption.

Movement outside drew her attention.

A Royal Mail van.

She frowned.

Andrew slowed the Defender almost to a stop, exchanged a friendly wave with the postman, then continued towards the lane.

Marianne’s lips tightened.

Andrew knew better.

Visitors, expected or otherwise, were always checked.

Always.

She crossed to the small monitor mounted discreetly beside the kitchen doorway.

The camera feed appeared.

The postman wore a red baseball cap pulled unusually low.

His head remained angled towards the parcel in his hands.

Marianne felt her pulse climb.

Her mind reached its conclusion long before conscious thought caught up.

Connor Reed.

She moved immediately.

The study door opened without sound.

Inside, bookshelves lined one wall while a substantial gun cabinet stood recessed within another, exactly where anyone would expect to find it in a rural Northumberland home. Andrew’s firearms were lawfully stored there, alongside the necessary paperwork and accessories expected of a responsible deer stalker.

In spite of all the people she had assassinated, gunplay was not her forte—her skillset went before that. That said, she did have a familiarity with at least one gun, albeit in a different setting and circumstance than the one she now faced.

Marianne paused.

She withdrew one of Andrew’s sporting rifles and returned silently to the hallway.

She inelegantly duck-walked the rifle barrel’s distance to the front door, where she could remain unseen.

Mara used the muzzle to lift the letterbox cover a fraction and rest it on the edge. It now pointed directly at the postman’s crotch.

Shame, she thought.

She steadied her breathing.

Then called out, calmly, as she watched the monitor with her heartbeat in her eardrum.

“Who is it?”

The postman finally raised his head.

Morning sunlight caught his face.

Paul.

Their regular postman.

Recognition arrived all at once.

The tension left her body like a party balloon released of air.

“A parcel that needs signing for, Mrs Hawthorne.”

She closed her eyes for the briefest moment.

“Sorry, Paul,” she called. “The monitor isn’t working. Just a minute.”

Mara hoped he wouldn’t question the fact that they had a spyhole.

She returned the rifle to its secure storage, ensuring everything was exactly as she had found it before making her way back through the cottage.

Opening the front door, she smiled apologetically.

“New uniform?”

Paul chuckled.

“Management reckons the caps’ll stop us frying this summer.”

“I’m not convinced it suits you.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

He handed over the electronic pad.

She signed.

The parcel was addressed to Andrew.

“Forestry catalogues?” Paul asked.

“Almost certainly.”

“Have a good one.”

“You too, Paul.”

She watched him climb back into the van before closing the door.

Only then did she allow herself a slow breath.

Ridiculous. You almost castrated your postman.

She carried the parcel into the kitchen.

The parcel slipped from her fingers and struck the stone floor with a dull thud.

Without thinking, both hands moved instinctively lower.

Then a quiet voice behind her.

“Any movement you make from this point forward will be under my direction. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“Turn around.”

Marianne did so.

Connor Reed stood less than three metres away with a suppressed Beretta 92FS held steadily at a low-ready position.

Marianne felt the black smoke ice her insides.

***

Connor gestured towards one of the kitchen chairs.

“Sit and place your hands on the table, Mara.”

She did without protest.

Connor sat across from her, the rested hand holding the Beretta pointing lazily in her general direction.

For several moments, neither spoke.

Finally, Marianne broke the silence.

“How did you find me?”

The corner of Connor’s mouth lifted.

“Next you’ll want to know how I got in.”

She held his gaze.

The next question scared her, but she asked anyway,

“Why are you here?”

“To get to you before you got to me.”

He paused.

“But then I realised you won’t be getting to anyone for a while,” he said. “Not in your condition.”

The words landed with surprising force.

Marianne’s composure held, but only just.

“How did you know?”

“When you realised someone else was in the room.” He nodded towards her. “Your hands went to your stomach before your brain had caught up.”

She looked down unconsciously.

“So… you’re a very sensitive man, aren’t you?”

“Thank you,” Connor replied evenly.

The faintest smile threatened the corner of her mouth despite her staring at death.

“How far along?” he asked. “If you had to guess.”

There seemed little point in lying.

“About seven weeks.”

Connor absorbed the answer without visible reaction.

“Have you told him?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know?”

She understood what he meant.

“My husband and I haven’t used contraception since we married.”

A beat.

“So, yes, he’ll have his suspicions, but—”

“But never underestimate the power of delusion,” Connor said.

Mara answered, “But he’s delighted, and he’ll make an excellent father.”

Connor was quiet for a moment.

“Let’s hope children are shaped more by nurture than nature.”

She recognised the implication immediately.

“Was you becoming a killer,” she asked quietly, “nature or nurture?”

Connor looked past her, as though considering someone long absent.

“Putting genuine psychopaths aside…” he said, “I don’t think anyone is born a killer.”

His eyes returned to hers.

“I think they’re infected first.”

“By hate?”

“I was going to say anger, but perhaps you’re right.”

Silence settled over the kitchen.

“I heard the chief technology officer was rescued from rendition,” she said. “You must be very talented.”

Connor smirked through his nose. “A stab wound to the chest wall, a deep laceration of the right forearm, a fracture to the left ulna, not to mention passing out and getting caught by local authorities at the scene, hardly makes me Orphan X.”

“But the doctor and his family are back safe in Taiwan, and you’re here.”

“That I am.”

“And we both possess a psychological robustness.”

“That is true,” agreed Connor. “You’re not going to believe this, but I am that mentally strong. I can watch the telly with the volume on an odd number…”

She raised her eyebrows comically high. “Surely that is hyperbole.”

He smirked in response.

“Can I ask you,” began Mara. “How did you escape arrest for the murder I framed you for?”

“The reception staff did come… but to the room next door. They either misheard the room number you gave them,” he said. “Or you mistakenly gave them the incorrect one.”

“Must have been their error,” she said. “I would never make such a blunder.”

“You seem to forget the first image I have of you is of you falling between glass doors.”

They stared at one another in amusement despite themselves.

Connor finally holstered the pistol beneath his jacket to a flourish of her hope.

“I’d appreciate it,” he said, “if you didn’t send that organisation after me.”

Marianne gave a weary shake of the head.

“I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m effectively persona non grata after failing to kill you. My record before Singapore was apparently impressive enough to spare my life… that and I fulfilled the primary objective.”

Connor regarded her for a moment.

“I meant the Child Support Agency.”

A short, involuntary laugh escaped her—the joke was funny enough, but relief flooded her.

Connor gave her a ghost of a smile before leaving.

31

ZRENJANIN, SERBIA

Ryo Nakamura watched the late afternoon drift past the tinted window of the company SUV.

Zrenjanin was not beautiful the way Kyoto was. It possessed no ancient temples tucked between mountains, no cherry blossoms drifting across narrow canals.

Instead, it was a city built upon practicality. Austro-Hungarian facades sat beside grey Yugoslav apartment blocks, while new glass-fronted offices rose amongst reminders of another era. The flat plains of Vojvodina stretched endlessly beyond the outskirts, broken only by church spires, silos and the occasional stand of poplar trees.

It suited industry.

It suited China’s ambitions.

The Chinese-owned factories continued to expand every year, bringing investment, employment and promises of prosperity.

Officially, his employer was an international consortium developing industrial partnerships across the Balkans. In reality, everyone senior enough understood exactly whose money had built the factories.

The security department reflected that philosophy.

Serbs.

Hungarians.

Croats.

A Romanian.

A former Austrian police officer.

Even himself—a Japanese expatriate.

The multinational composition wasn’t accidental. It softened perceptions.

A Chinese enterprise guarded by an obviously international team appeared commercial rather than geopolitical. It made the Belt and Road Initiative look less like strategic expansion and more like global business.

It was clever.

Financially, he had never been better rewarded.

The apartment.

The company car.

The generous salary.

Private healthcare.

Expense accounts.

The respect of his staff.

His family’s crippling money woes had disappeared.

He reminded himself of that almost every day.

Yet there were moments—usually when he was alone—when something stirred beneath the surface.

Not regret.

Dishonour.

It settled somewhere behind his sternum and refused to leave.

He had betrayed comrades who would once have trusted him with their lives.

That was it—not that he could trust them with his life, but that they could trust him with theirs.

His inferno-like resentment at being made subservient to Ayumi Tanaka—a woman—had simmered to embers.

The SUV rolled through the gates of a modern residential complex before stopping outside a neat four-storey apartment building.

“Good evening, Director Nakamura,” the Serbian driver said.

“Thank you.”

Ryo stepped out and watched the vehicle disappear back towards the gate before entering the lobby.

His apartment occupied the second floor.

Two bedrooms.

Minimalist furniture.

Everything clean.

Everything temporary.

Everything paid for by somebody else.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The familiar silence greeted him.

He had barely taken three strides into the hallway when the doorbell sounded.

His hand paused.

The cleaner normally came before he returned, but he had come back an hour early today.

He turned and approached the door without making a sound, instinctively keeping himself just off-centre from the frame.

Through the peephole, he saw a woman wearing a cleaner’s uniform.

Beside her stood the housekeeping trolley.

She appeared to be reaching beneath it.

Her face disappeared from view.

His pulse quickened.

Ayumi.

He didn’t wait to confirm it.

If she was reaching for a weapon, every second mattered.

He pivoted and sprinted towards the bedroom.

His own pistol lay in the bedside cabinet.

The Chinese had assured him the Serbian firearms licence was progressing through the Ministry. Until then he officially remained unarmed.

Officially.

The Glock 19 hidden in his bedside drawer was insurance.

He reached the living room.

Stopped.

Kai Aramaki stood in the centre of the room as though he had been waiting there all afternoon.

Compact.

Impeccably dressed.

Motionless.

Ryo’s pistol rested in his hands. Except it had a suppressor attached, its muzzle level with Ryo’s chest.

Ryo’s stomach sank.

Slowly, his eyes drifted beyond the pistol.

Resting neatly upon the polished wooden floor were two swords within their scabbards.

A wakizashi.

A katana.

Neither had been placed there carelessly.

They had been arranged.

Presented.

His throat tightened.

He understood immediately.

Kai’s expression remained unreadable.

“Step to your left.”

Ryo obeyed.

“Kneel.”

Again, he complied.

The Glock never wavered.

For several long seconds, neither man spoke.

Then the apartment door opened behind him.

No splintering wood.

No forced entry.

Someone had unlocked it.

The real cleaner, Ryo realised, had been convinced to hand over her keys.

Measured footsteps crossed the hallway.

They stopped beside him.

Ayumi Tanaka entered his peripheral vision wearing the maid’s uniform.

***

Ayumi listened intently as Ryo Nakamura began to confess.

His voice remained admirably steady.

“My father is ethnically Chinese. He still has family there—we still have family there.”

He lowered his eyes.

“The Ministry of State Security began with questions… then tax investigations… then my uncle’s business licence was suspended. My cousins were questioned repeatedly by the police.”

He swallowed.

“They told me exactly what would happen if I refused to cooperate.”

“You knew all along you were going to betray us?” Ayumi asked.

“No. The instructions came through my handler—on an encrypted app—the night I...” Ryo faltered, then composed himself. “I thought I was delivering Zhu to an MSS contact. They gave me the hotel and room only shortly beforehand.”

Ayumi’s expression hardened.

“The woman waiting for her?”

“I knew nothing about her. Not even her name.”

Ayumi understood before he finished.

Fabricated criminal allegations.

Frozen bank accounts.

Businesses destroyed.

Family members disappearing into a system from which few emerged unchanged.

She closed her eyes for the briefest moment.

She understood and even pitied him.

Kai Aramaki remained unmoved.

“Upon your choosing to become one of us,” he said quietly, “what oath did you swear?”

Ryo looked up.

“That the Gādian came before myself.”

“And?”

“My family.”

Kai gave a single nod.

Neither man raised his voice.

Neither needed to.

The apartment settled into silence.

Ayumi watched Ryo’s face.

She wasn’t convinced he would do it.

There remained something fighting behind his eyes.

Her own thoughts drifted unwillingly to Yasuhiro Takato when she met with him after Singapore.

He had been far kinder than she believed she deserved after Eleanor Zhu’s death.

“It was not your failure alone,” he had said.

“It was ours.”

“We should have anticipated that a man with close family still living in China presented a vulnerability. We accounted for many things… but not cooperation between Japanese law enforcement and the MSS.”

If anything, his kindness stoked her guilt.

She looked back at Ryo.

No decent son wished suffering upon innocent parents or cousins.

But every Gādian member understood the price of joining—it was repeatedly impressed upon them.

Then another thought struck her.

She was about to witness a killing.

Even if Ryo completed the ritual willingly, any Serbian prosecutor would almost certainly view it differently. They had arrived armed. They had confronted him. Any apparent consent would inevitably be interpreted as coercion.

It would be murder.

The second realisation followed immediately.

She had never been blooded.

Not truly.

Not into this family.

She wanted to be.

The thought surprised her with its intensity.

Her pulse quickened.

“Kai…”

He looked towards her.

“If he chooses…” She struggled to keep the tremor from her voice. “…allow me to serve as kaishakunin.”

Kai regarded her for several seconds.

Then slowly shook his head.

“No.”

She felt an unexpected sting of disappointment.

“It is not an execution but an act of mercy.”

He looked towards the katana resting on the floor.

“The stroke must be delivered at precisely the correct angle, with perfect edge alignment. Enough force to sever the spine in a single movement… yet sufficient control to leave the head attached by only a narrow bridge of flesh.”

He rested a hand lightly upon the scabbard.

“I have spent over a decade studying Japanese swordsmanship.”

Another pause.

“I have performed thousands of controlled cuts.”

He met her eyes.

“I will not risk him suffering because you wish to prove yourself.”

The words carried no criticism.

Only logic.

Ayumi bowed her head.

“I understand.”

Ryo slowly removed his jacket.

Then his shirt.

His torso exhibited a muscular leanness.

Kai knelt and lifted the wakizashi.

The short sword rested within a black lacquered scabbard adorned with understated silver fittings. When withdrawn, the polished blade reflected the apartment lights with almost mirror-like clarity. Its edge appeared impossibly fine.

Kai placed it respectfully before Ryo, keeping the handgun trained on him.

Ryo accepted it with both hands.

Kai picked up the katana, then handed her the suppressed Glock.

He drew the katana from the scabbard, and the blade whispered with terrible elegance as it emerged.

Kai held the katana angled respectfully towards the floor.

Ayumi then mirrored him by lowering the suppressed pistol to the same angle.

Neither wished to dishonour what Ryo was attempting.

He inhaled deeply.

Again.

Again.

His shoulders rose and fell.

Ayumi felt an overwhelming sadness.

Despite everything…

He had chosen to reclaim something of himself.

Then everything happened at once.

Ryo exploded upwards.

The wakizashi flashed not towards his own abdomen—

—but towards her.

The Glock rose almost of its own accord.

The clack struck the round into his throat.

A violent spray of arterial blood erupted across the room, striking walls, floor and all three of them in a crimson mist.

Ryo staggered.

His hands clawed instinctively at his ruined neck.

He collapsed onto his knees.

Then onto his side.

The wakizashi clattered across the wooden floor.

Convulsed gurgling.

Then silence.

Ayumi stared.

She could neither move nor breathe.

Her ears rang despite the suppressor.

She remained fixed upon the widening pool of blood beneath him.

A distant voice slowly penetrated the fog.

“Ayumi.”

She blinked.

Kai stood beside her.

“You did what you had to do.”

She looked down at Ryo.

“He was offered honour.”

Kai’s expression never changed.

“He chose instead to die like a frightened dog.”

His words settled inside her.

Slowly, she nodded.

Kai glanced towards the hallway.

“We change.”

He looked at the blood covering their clothes.

“Everything.”

Only then did Ayumi remember the holdall they had carried into the apartment.

Fresh clothing.

Cleaning equipment.

Planning.

Kai had prepared for every outcome.

Including this one.

32

EDINBURGH — EARLY AFTERNOON

The Witchery would suit Anissa Rajah, thought Ciara.

The Englishwoman had realised that within seconds of walking through its heavy oak doorway.

Candlelight flickered against dark timber beams and centuries-old stone. Rich tapestries softened the walls while polished silver caught the glow from chandeliers that seemed to belong to another age.

Conversations remained comfortably muted beneath the gentle clink of crystal and cutlery.

This time, Ciara had arrived first.

She occupied a table tucked into one corner of the restaurant where she could see both the entrance and the staircase without appearing to watch either.

She checked the time. Three minutes past, another minute to be fashionably late.

Almost exactly on cue, Anissa entered.

Three years had passed since they had first met in Mayfair.

She still moved with effortless composure.

The navy dress had given way to charcoal silk, the silver now more prominent amongst her dark hair, but her posture remained impeccable.

Ciara noticed something else.

The room noticed her, too.

Several men looked up.

Two women paused their conversation.

One waiter glanced for a second longer than professionalism normally allowed.

Ciara had noticed the same tilt of atmosphere upon her own arrival. However, around thirty years separated her and the French Indonesian.

She reached the table.

“Ciara.”

“Anissa.”

They embraced lightly before sitting.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Only a few minutes.”

A waiter appeared almost immediately.

Anissa ordered roast halibut and a glass of Sancerre.

Ciara settled on venison loin and sparkling water.

Once they were alone again, Anissa folded her napkin onto her lap.

“So.”

She smiled faintly.

“Why Scotland?”

Ciara returned the smile.

“I like to check in on Bruce’s family every now and then.”

“I had assumed they still lived in Glasgow.”

“They do.”

Anissa tilted her head.

“So why Edinburgh?”

Ciara’s lips curved.

“I thought it would be more… your sort of place.”

One elegant eyebrow rose.

“My snobbery that obvious?”

“I would have termed it ‘appreciation of refinement’ myself.”

Anissa laughed quietly before taking a measured sip.

“I’ve just come from Milan.”

“Nice city.”

Anissa rested her glass down.

“It struck me that people rarely associate Italy with fascism, nor Spain, for that matter.”

Ciara nodded.

“Germany tends to carry that burden.”

“Their dictatorships seem to have become historical footnotes.”

Anissa gave a thoughtful hum.

“Interesting, isn’t it? Nations inherit reputations almost as stubbornly as families.”

Their orders arrived.

Conversation paused while plates were placed before them.

Once the waiter had withdrawn, Anissa cut delicately into her fish.

“I’ve been thinking about Bruce. He had the gift of being comfortable—relatively speaking—almost anywhere.”

Ciara nodded. “And amongst all types of people.”

“This is true,” said Anissa. “I see the same quality in this Connor Reed.”

“He seems to adapt to various situations,” replied Ciara, not wishing to elaborate too much on one of her agents despite Anissa proving to be an ally.

“He is exceptionally talented.”

There was genuine admiration in Anissa’s voice, which surprised Ciara given the fallout.

“I apologise about the mess,” began Ciara, in an attempt to feel her out, “and I would like to thank you for helping to clean it up.”

The older woman dismissed it with a gentle movement of her hand, before spearing another piece of halibut.

“My own contribution was failing to discover that the… pathogen specialist was a professional assassin.”

Ciara shook her head.

“That lady belongs to an extraordinarily capable organisation,” the younger woman said in a low voice. “Even after the fact, we struggled to uncover anything meaningful about her.”

Anissa accepted the point with a slight incline of her head.

For a while, they simply ate.

Comfortably.

The silence between them now belonged to friendship rather than caution.

Eventually, Anissa reached into the leather satchel resting beside her chair.

She withdrew a narrow parcel wrapped in plain brown paper and secured with twine.

No markings.

No indication of what lay inside.

She placed it gently on the table between them.

Ciara’s expression became more serious.

“What is it?”

“A gift.”

“Thank you.”

Anissa smiled.

“It is not for you.”

She slid the parcel across.

Ciara rested her fingertips upon it, but Anissa kept her own on it and said, “I had access to more information on the rescue of Dr Liang. As an old friend of mine, indeed an old friend of Bruce’s, used to say, ‘Some wins are pretty, some wins are ugly, but a win is a win.’”

“I understand.”

“Please protect it as if it is an original Henri Matisse.”

Ciara lifted the package.

“Understood.”

Anissa lifted her wine once more.

Outside, Edinburgh settled into another cool Scottish evening.

Inside, the two finished dinner while enjoying a conversation that did not again touch work.

LONDON — LATE AFTERNOON

The Wiltons had been one of Alexander Norland’s favourite restaurants for years now.

It possessed the sort of confidence that only came with centuries of doing something exceptionally well.

The oak panelling glowed beneath warm lighting, silverware caught the soft reflections of crystal chandeliers, and conversations remained pleasantly subdued despite every table being occupied.

The maître d’ had greeted him by name.

He watched Eli fold his napkin onto his lap before taking a sip of the chilled sparkling water already poured for them.

“Can I ask you something, Grandad?”

Alexander smiled.

“You just have.”

Eli rolled his eyes.

Their oysters arrived, nestled in crushed ice, accompanied by shallot vinegar and lemon. Alexander squeezed only the smallest amount of lemon over his before lifting one from its shell.

“You said this was a celebration—what’s it for?”

Alexander picked up his wine glass, a Chablis he’d ordered almost without looking at the menu.

“The oncologist tells me that, for now at least, I’m in remission.”

For a heartbeat, Elijah simply stared.

Then he smiled with what looked to be genuine relief.

“That’s fucking brilliant, Grandad.”

“Cheers.”

“When are the rest of the family getting here, then?”

“We’ll have a shindig with the rest of the family at the pub tomorrow. They think I get my results tomorrow morning.”

Eli nodded with a frown.

“Why the smoke and mirrors?”

Before he could answer, the waiter came and cleared their starter plates.

Only once the waiter had disappeared did Alexander speak again.

“I wanted to bring you here because I need to talk to you.”

Eli immediately sensed the change in tone.

“OK.”

A different waiter came shortly and placed their mains—roasted lamb for Alexander and fillet of Dover sole for Eli.

Alexander cut a piece of lamb before setting his knife and fork down.

“The Norlands were never supposed to end up in… the other game.”

Using one of his euphemisms for organised crime.

Eli nodded slowly.

“I know.”

“Do you know how we got there?”

“My great-grandad made a local gangster’s suit. He refused to be extorted, and the gangster had him beaten nearly to death—then you sorted it out.”

Alexander nodded.

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I stepped onto it. One compromise became another, then another. And before long, I became just as evil a cunt as those people who had the old man beat up.”

“Grandad, I don’t think you are—”

“Shut the fack up and listen,” he said, meeting Eli’s eyes. “You don’t know what I’ve done to get to the place I have.”

He put his cutlery down to emphasise what he was about to say. “If you don’t already know, there is no romance in crime.”

Eli remained silent.

“It is a cliché, but it is true that there is no honour amongst thieves. Only competing interests. You never fully relax. You never completely trust your friends because they’re criminals, too.”

He smiled thinly.

“You spend your life wondering which one is about to shop you to the old bill.”

He picked up his knife and fork to carve another piece of lamb.

“And in the end, there are only three destinations. Death. Prison.”

He paused.

“Or round after round of podcast interviews on YouTube explaining what a dangerous fellow you used to be.”

Eli laughed despite himself.

Alexander pointed his knife towards him.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“The latter may actually be the crueller punishment.”

They both chuckled.

When it subsided, Alexander became serious once more.

“I have never used Norland Tailors as a front.”

Eli nodded immediately.

“I know.”

“It has always been legitimate. Every penny earned honestly. Every suit. Every alteration. Every commission.”

Alexander glanced around Wiltons.

“That’s why I built it.”

He leaned forwards slightly.

“When I’m gone… the Greens will try to use it.”

Eli’s expression hardened.

Alexander continued.

“And your father is too weak a man to stop them. You know this already.”

Alexander held Eli’s gaze, whose expression suggested he did know.

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

The waiter appeared to refresh their wine glasses before discreetly retreating again.

Alexander waited until he was out of earshot.

“The world is changing. You hear people talk about artificial intelligence as though it’ll replace everyone.”

He smiled.

“It’ll replace mediocrity. But our thing—the tailoring, I mean—will only become more sought after as a result.”

Eli leaned forward as Alexander continued. “The rich and wealthy will always crave rarity. The footballers, musicians, actors, heads of state and captains of industry wearing garments that no machine can reproduce. Two categories—the ones who will want people to ask, ‘Who made your suit?’ And the second lot who want to wear a work of art. The types who collect paintings. Both sets will pay fortunes, not merely to own something unique but to own something made by a particular pair of hands.”

He looked at his grandson.

“Your hands.”

Eli looked down at them instinctively.

He reached across the table, placing a hand over Eli’s wrist.

“You’ll have more money than you would know what to do with—well, maybe. And I’ll tell you something, Eli, you’ll never have to wonder whether the police are about to pounce. And tailors rarely shoot or maim other tailors.”

Eli laughed quietly before his expression became solemn once more.

“I understand, Grandad.”

Alexander searched his eyes.

This time, he believed him.

Or perhaps he simply wanted to.

Either way, he found himself hoping that this young man—his greatest success and, perhaps, his last chance to put right the compromises of generations past—would inherit only the workshop, and never the shadow that had followed the Norland name for almost half a century.

LEEDS — EVENING

Connor let himself into his house after passing the security measures.

Silence greeted him.

After leaving Marianne Hawthorne’s farmhouse, he’d found himself unable to make the short detour to Grace’s.

He needed time.

Time to process that he would have a secret love child—if you could refer to him or her as that.

The drive south from Northumberland had passed in a blur, broken only once.

Ciara had called and requested they meet at the Sedbury Layby Transport Café on Scotch Corner.

He had pulled in to find her waiting beside her car with a coffee in hand.

Ciara had given Connor the address and tacit permission to assassinate Marianne Hawthorne if he felt the burning desire to do so, though she hadn’t ordered it.

He could see her surprise when he told her he hadn’t gone through with it, and she mercifully hadn’t pressed him on the reason why.

Ciara then informed him that their mission had been a success. Intelligence chatter and corroborating reports indicated that Liu Ren had been ‘promoted’ to a division that oversaw and reported on foreign operations rather than directed them.

Connor had felt a brief, deep satisfaction at the news.

The Chameleon Project boss then took out a plain brown cylindrical parcel and gave it to him.

She hadn’t lingered.

“Anissa asked me to give you this.”

“What is it?”

“A gift. That’s all she told me.”

She had wished him a safe drive before disappearing back onto the A1.

Now the parcel rested on his coffee table.

Connor switched his phone to flight mode.

He sank into the sofa and stared at the black television screen opposite.

It had never even occurred to him to ask Mara whether she was taking contraception.

He had simply assumed she was.

He exhaled slowly.

If this Andrew Hawthorne accepted the child as his own…

…then perhaps that was for the best.

The boy—or girl—would grow up in a stable home.

Financial security.

Two married parents—albeit one a killer, but then, so was he, and he practically lived with his son when not away.

Eventually, his eyes drifted towards the parcel.

He reached across and untied the twine.

Inside lay an old cylindrical metal film can.

It reminded him simultaneously of an anti-tank mine and one of those oversized waterproof containers soldiers occasionally buried equipment inside.

On top of it sat a small USB drive.

A handwritten card rested on top.

Connor recognised neither the paper nor the elegant script.

Connor,

The original remains in the can. Please treat it accordingly.

The enclosed USB contains a restored digital transfer.

In addition, our mutual friend told me that you have risked your life to save others, including his. I thought you, more than anyone, would appreciate it.

– Anissa

Connor frowned.

Curiosity displaced everything else.

He connected the USB to the front of the PlayStation 5 before opening the media player.

Only one file appeared.

He selected it.

Static.

Scratches.

Flickering monochrome.

His brow furrowed.

Then the image steadied.

A boxing ring.

Crowds pressed around it.

Men in straw hats.

Something about the movement…

Connor leaned forward.

The first boxer exploded into life.

Constant motion.

Head moving.

Feet moving.

Punches arriving from impossible angles.

Wide hooks.

Short uppercuts.

Backhands masquerading as jabs.

The second man stalked him patiently, forever trying to set his feet.

Connor’s eyes widened.

“No way…”

He leaned even closer.

“No way is this real.”

Harry Greb.

Facing Mickey Walker.

Connor watched, transfixed.

Every written description he’d ever read suddenly made sense.

Greb wasn’t simply fast.

He was incessant.

He never seemed to occupy the same place for more than a heartbeat and looked deserving of the moniker ‘The Pittsburgh Windmill’.

‘The Toy Bulldog’ Walker looked every bit the murderous puncher history remembered, repeatedly trying to time Greb’s erratic entries with compact hooks that carried obvious menace.

Connor found himself smiling.

Then another story surfaced from memory.

The old tale that after one of their fights, Greb and Walker had supposedly encountered one another in a speakeasy after the fight.

After pissing it up together, the mood altered, leading to a fight on the street between the pair after closing.

Whether it had happened exactly that way or not hardly mattered.

The bell sounded for the interval between the first and second rounds.

Connor snatched up his phone, disabled flight mode and opened his AI assistant.

If someone owned the original camera negative or original nitrate film reel of Harry Greb versus Mickey Walker, authenticated and complete, what would it likely be worth today?

The response appeared almost instantly.

Estimated value: £2 million to more than £10 million, depending on provenance, condition and ownership rights. Potentially the most valuable piece of boxing memorabilia ever discovered.

Connor looked towards the old metal film can sitting innocently on the coffee table.

He laughed quietly.

Not because of the money.

Because Anissa Rajah had somehow managed to acquire what generations of boxing historians had believed no longer existed.

He leaned back into the sofa.

For the first time in days, the weight on his shoulders seemed fractionally lighter.

He was alive.

Dr Liang Wei-Shen was back in Taiwan with his family.

Liu Ren had been promoted and fucked off sideways into another department, meaning he would no longer be orchestrating aggressive operations against the United Kingdom.

Grace and Jackson were healthy and thriving.

The Ryder family’s business remained on an upward yet manageable trajectory.

And financially, Connor had more money than he needed or even wanted, even before Anissa had casually gifted him a small metal tin worth millions.

He understood better than most that periods like this were borrowed time—peace merely occupied the ground until chaos returned to reclaim it.

So, when his phone rang and Luke told him he was at The Buxton with his new Swedish girlfriend, Carina, along with the rest of the family, Connor didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed his keys, locked the front door behind him and drove out beneath a sky that, for the first time in what felt like an age, seemed almost cloudless.

LONDON — EVENING

The conversation drifted onto lighter things as dessert arrived.

Alexander declined pudding altogether, settling instead for an espresso.

“Surely beating cancer deserves an ice cream?”

“Beating cancer ’as reminded me to keep as healthy as I can.”

“Suit yourself,” replied Eli, ordering a lemon sorbet.

It arrived quickly, and Alexander watched him for a moment before asking, “How’s Amara?”

Eli’s smile broadened.

“It’s good you’ve remembered her name. She’s great, thanks. We went to see Obsession the other night.”

“And?”

“I loved it—terrifying.”

Alexander laughed.

Eli continued. “I was just relieved she liked it. It was her last chance. She’s already ruined the previous two films for me.”

Alexander sipped his coffee.

“Which films?”

“She didn’t really ruin them…”

Eli reconsidered.

“…she just points things out that make it impossible to suspend your disbelief afterwards.”

“Go on.”

“We watched The Terminator. The first one.”

Alexander nodded.

“Amara says if the Terminator was designed to infiltrate humanity, then why did Skynet make him look like Arnold Schwarzenegger?”

A grin appeared on his grandad’s face.

“Then she asked whether Skynet got all its information about humans from the Joe Rogan podcast.”

Alexander barked out a genuine laugh, attracting a brief glance from a neighbouring table.

“What was the second film?”

“You won’t like this, it’s one of your favourites.”

“Go on.”

“The Dark Knight.”

“What’s she got against Nolan’s masterpiece?”

“She said…”

Eli smiled despite himself.

“…if the Joker’s anarchist and insane, how does he organise an armed gang with military precision?”

Alexander sat silently for several seconds.

“Fack… I’d consider banning her from discussing films altogether.”

“She says critical thinking is healthy.”

It pleased Eli to see his grandad smile.

“Harry is waiting. Let’s go,” said Alex.

By the time they left Wiltons, the streets of St James’s had begun to empty.

The early autumn evening remained pleasantly warm.

The black Mercedes-Benz S-Class sat waiting on the opposite side of the road beneath a streetlamp.

Eli walked beside his grandfather in comfortable quiet, still elated that the old man—if he could be called that—had beaten the Big C.

His mind remained fixed on the conversation they’d just shared about his direction in life.

He felt a buoyancy in now seeing his future perfectly clearly.

A lifetime mastering cloth.

Building Norland Tailors into the finest bespoke house in Europe.

Creating garments that people crossed continents to commission.

A legitimate legacy.

As they crossed the road, Eli noticed four young black men approaching from the opposite pavement.

Probably in their early twenties.

Their clothing looked mismatched, inexpensive and practical rather than fashionable—hoodies despite the warmth, worn trainers, cheap rucksacks slung over one shoulder.

None seemed particularly comfortable in their surroundings, glancing repeatedly along the street rather than into shop windows or restaurants. Their accents, when one called something to another, sounded East African rather than London.

Eli paid them little attention.

London was full of people finding their feet.

Until they altered course, angling towards them and then… quickening their pace.

Without a word, his grandad stepped half a pace in front of Eli.

The four men began shouting over one another.

“Boss!”

“Please!”

“We need money!”

“Please!”

Alexander’s voice remained calm.

“It’s alright. I’ll give them something.”

“Fuck that,” Eli muttered.

Alexander lifted a reassuring hand and reached inside his jacket for his wallet.

Across the road, Harry had already opened the driver’s door.

One of the men suddenly lunged.

To Eli, it looked like a shove.

Or perhaps a punch to the chest.

Instinct took over.

He exploded forwards, driving a right hand into the attacker’s jaw.

The man’s head snapped sideways; the others grabbed him, bundling him to the floor.

He expected an avalanche of trainers, but they ran.

Gone before Eli could even pursue them.

He turned back—

His grandfather was on one knee.

His white shirt bloomed crimson beneath the open jacket.

Blood spilt between Alexander’s fingers.

For one frozen second, Eli couldn’t understand what he was looking at.

Then he saw the wound.

Harry reached them at a run.

“Jesus Christ—”

“Pressure!” Eli barked, shrugging off his jacket and throwing it to Harry.

Harry pressed the folded jacket hard against the wound.

“Let’s drive him to—”

“No.”

Eli was already pulling out his phone.

“We’ll hit traffic. He’ll bleed out.”

He dialled 999.

His voice felt oddly calm to himself.

“Emergency. Which service?”

“Ambulance.”

“Go ahead.”

“My grandfather has sustained a stab wound to the left side of his chest.”

“Location?”

“Outside Wiltons Restaurant, Jermyn Street, St James’s.”

“Is he conscious?”

“Yes. Male. Fifty-nine. Heavy bleeding. Yes, we’re applying direct pressure.”

“Is the weapon still in place?”

“No. It has been removed by the attacker.”

“Is he breathing?”

“Yes. Rapid and shallow.”

“Any other injuries?”

“None that I can identify.”

“Stay where you are. Ambulance and police are already en route. Estimated arrival in under four minutes.”

“I understand.”

He ended the call.

“Harry. Keep people back.”

Harry immediately turned towards the gathering crowd.

“Back! Give him some room! The ambulance is coming!”

Eli slipped an arm behind Alexander’s shoulders, gently supporting him.

His grandfather’s breathing had become wet.

Laboured.

Alexander slowly lifted one blood-covered hand.

Eli took it immediately.

The old man’s grip remained surprisingly firm.

His lips barely moved.

“Trust…”

He coughed.

Blood flecked the corner of his mouth.

“…no one…”

Another breath.

“…inside…”

His eyes found Eli’s.

“…Get…”

A pause.

“…Connor Reed.”

His grip loosened.

Eli held on anyway.

The first distant sirens echoed through the streets of Mayfair.

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GLOSSARY

A*STAR’s Institute of Microelectronics (IME) – Singapore research institute specialising in microelectronics and semiconductor technologies. Part of the government-backed Agency for Science, Technology and Research (A*STAR), it conducts research into areas including advanced chip manufacturing, packaging, photonics and next-generation semiconductor technologies.

AO – Area of Operations

Beckett’s Approval – Jargon for deliberately deniable authorisation. Named after Henry II’s alleged outburst concerning Archbishop Thomas Becket, traditionally rendered as ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’—which four knights interpreted as a royal desire for Becket’s removal, culminating in his murder at Canterbury Cathedral in 1170.

Blacked – An adult pornography series/brand primarily known for interracial scenes, particularly featuring Black male performers with women of other ethnicities, and for its high-budget, polished production style. (So I’ve heard, anyway).

Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) – A global infrastructure and investment strategy launched by China in 2013 to strengthen trade and connectivity through the construction and financing of ports, railways, roads, pipelines, energy projects, and digital networks across Asia, Africa, Europe, and beyond. While Beijing presents it as a programme of economic cooperation and development, critics argue it also expands China’s geopolitical influence and strategic reach.

Bene Gesserit – A secretive, all-female order in fictional Dune Universe known for its mastery of political manipulation, psychological conditioning, and advanced bodily control.

Blitzkrieg (German: ‘‘lightning war’’) – A rapid, highly coordinated form of warfare that uses speed, surprise, and concentrated force to break through enemy lines and cause systemic collapse before effective resistance can form.

Bodhisattva – In Mahayana Buddhism, a compassionate enlightened being who postpones entering nirvana in order to help others attain enlightenment. In Japanese culture, bodhisattvas such as Kannon are often associated with mercy, protection and guidance, making them the closest traditional equivalent to the Western idea of a guardian angel.

Brackish– A mix of salt and freshwater.

(The) Brandt Line – A conceptual division proposed by economist Willy Brandt in the 1980s. It’s a visual line on the world map that separates the “Global North” (wealthier, industrialised countries) from the “Global South” (poorer, developing countries).

Cock of the… – Derived from traditional cockfighting, where the victorious bird was considered the ‘‘top cock.’’ The term entered broader British slang to describe a person who has asserted dominance over others. The term Cock of the School, lingered on in working-class northern English areas but has largely died out now.

Dame Edna Everage – A flamboyant fictional character created and portrayed by Australian comedian Barry Humphries. Dame Edna is known for her lilac hair, extravagant glasses, and razor-sharp, satirical wit.

David Brent – Ricky Gervais’s character from The Office (2001–03), an insecure, self-important manager desperate to be seen as funny and popular. His name became shorthand for a cringeworthy boss lacking self-awareness.

Del Boy – The nickname of Derek “Del Boy” Trotter, the fast-talking, overconfident market trader and would-be entrepreneur played by David Jason in the British sitcom Only Fools and Horses.

Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg (ERR) – A Nazi organisation established in 1940 under Alfred Rosenberg tasked with the systematic confiscation, looting, and cataloguing of cultural property—particularly from Jewish collectors, institutions, and occupied territories—during World War II.

Fumiko Taoka (1912–1981) – The third leader (kumichō) of the Yamaguchi-gumi following the death of her husband, Kazuo Taoka. Although her leadership was intended to be temporary while the organisation sought a permanent successor, she successfully maintained unity and stability during a potentially volatile transition. Widely respected within the Yakuza, Fumiko Taoka remains one of the few women to have led a major organised crime syndicate in modern Japanese history.

Gaijin – Japanese term literally meaning outside-person—a foreigner.

Geordie (noun) – A person from the Tyneside area of North East England, particularly Newcastle upon Tyne, or the distinctive dialect spoken there, known for its unique vocabulary (see Marra), pronunciation, and strong regional identity.

Greg Davies – British comedian, actor, and television presenter (b. 1968). Known for his towering height (6’8’’) and commanding stage presence, Davies built his career on sharp, often authoritarian humour delivered with dry wit.

Jægerkorpset – Denmark’s elite special forces unit within the Danish army.

Kaishakunin (介錯人) – In the Japanese ritual of seppuku, the trusted second appointed to deliver a swift, skilled sword strike to end the person’s suffering. The role was considered both an honour and a solemn responsibility, requiring exceptional mastery of the katana.

Kuzushi (Japanese) – The judo principle of unbalancing an opponent to create the opportunity for a successful throw.

Lee Kuan Yew (1923–2015) – Singaporean statesman and founding Prime Minister of Singapore, serving from 1959 to 1990. Widely regarded as the architect of modern Singapore, Lee transformed the small, resource-poor island from a struggling post-colonial trading port into one of the world’s most prosperous and efficient city-states. His governance emphasised disciplined administration, anti-corruption policies, meritocracy, strong state institutions, and long-term strategic planning. Though often criticised in the West for authoritarian tendencies and strict social controls, Lee argued that stability, social cohesion, and economic growth were essential for Singapore’s survival in a volatile region. His political philosophy blended pragmatism, technocratic governance, and elements of Confucian social values, prioritising collective prosperity and order over Western-style liberal democracy.

Little Tyke – An affectionate or lightly teasing term for a young child, especially one who is cheeky, spirited, or a bit mischievous. Though Tyke alone refers to a person from Yorkshire.

Marra (noun, slang) – A North East England colloquial term, especially in Geordie and wider pit-community dialects, meaning friend, mate, or work companion. Historically associated with miners, where a ‘‘marra’’ was a trusted coworker underground.

Ministry of Trade and Industry (MTI) – Singapore Government Ministry responsible for economic growth, trade, industry and investment policy. It oversees and works with agencies involved in developing strategic sectors, including Singapore’s significant semiconductor and advanced-manufacturing industries.

MSS (Ministry of State Security) – China’s main civilian intelligence and state security service, responsible for foreign intelligence, domestic surveillance, counterespionage, political security, and safeguarding Communist Party rule.

Ne-waza (寝技) Ground techniques – The branch of judo concerned with fighting on the ground, including pins (osaekomi-waza), joint locks (kansetsu-waza), and strangles/chokes (shime-waza).

NSB (National Security Bureau) –Taiwan’s primary civilian intelligence agency, responsible for national security, counterintelligence, foreign intelligence gathering, and protecting government leadership.

Ozzy – Scouse slang for hospital, adopted by the Ryder clan.

Shieldmaiden – A woman described in Norse sagas and later Scandinavian tradition as taking up arms and fighting alongside men.

Unit 61398 – A cyber operations unit of the People’s Liberation Army, widely alleged by Western intelligence agencies and cybersecurity firms to conduct state-sponsored cyber-espionage.

Worldie – Slang for a very attractive woman.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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Quentin Black is a former Royal Marine corporal with a decade of service in the Corps. This includes an operational tour of Afghanistan and an advisory mission in

Iraq.

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IN THE CONNOR REED SERIES

The Bootneck

How far would you go for a man who gave you a second chance in life?

Bruce McQuillan leads a black operations unit only known to a handful of men.

A sinister plot involving the Russian Bratva and one of the most powerful men within the British Security Services threatens to engulf the Isles.

Could a criminal with an impulse for sadism be the only man McQuillan can trust?

Lessons In Blood

When the ruling class commoditise the organs of the desperate, who will stop them?

When Darren O’Reilly’s daughter is found murdered with her kidney extracted, he refuses to believe the police’s explanation. His quest for the truth reaches the ears of Bruce McQuillan, the leader of the shadowy Chameleon Project.

As a conspiracy of seismic proportions begins to reveal itself, Bruce realises he needs a man of exceptional skill and ruthlessness.

He needs Connor Reed.

Ares’ Thirst

Can one man stop World War III?

When a British aid worker disappears in Crimea, the UK Government wants her back—quickly and quietly.

And Machiavellian figures are fuelling the flames of Islamic hatred towards Russia. With ‘the dark edge of the world’ controlled by some of the most cunning, ruthless and powerful criminals on Earth, McQuillan knows he needs to send a wolf amongst the wolves before the match of global war is struck across the rough land of Ukraine.

Northern Wars

The Ryder crime family are now at war… on three fronts.

After ruthlessly dethroning his uncle, Connor Reed must now defend the family against the circling sharks of rival criminal enterprises.

Meanwhile, Bruce McQuillan, leader of a black operations unit named The Chameleon Project, has learnt that one of the world’s most brutal and influential mafias are targeting the UK pre-BREXIT.

Counterpart

Can Connor Reed survive his deadliest mission yet?

Bruce McQuillan’s plan to light the torch of war between two of the world’s most powerful and ruthless mafias has been ignited.

Can his favoured agent, Connor Reed, fan the flames without being engulfed by them?

Especially as a man every bit his equal stands on the other side.

An Outlaw’s Reprieve

‘‘When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you.’’

Reed, a leader within his own outlaw family, delights in an opportunity to punish a thug preying on the vulnerable.

However, with his target high within a rival criminal organisation, can Reed exact retribution without dragging his relatives into a bloody war?

The Puppet Master

For the first time in history, humanity has the capacity to destroy the world.

When a British scientist leads a highly proficient Japanese engineering team in unlocking the secrets to the biosphere’s survival, some will stop at nothing to see the fledging technology disappear.

In the Land of the Rising Sun, can Bruce McQuillan protect the new scientific applications from the most powerful entities on Earth?

And can his favoured agent Connor Reed defeat the deadliest adversary he has ever faced?

A King’s Gambit

Can the Ryder clan defeat a more ruthless organisation that dwarfs them in size and finance?

When the dark hands of a blood feud between Irish criminal organisations begin to choke civilians and strategies to halt the evil fail, fear grips law enforcement in the United Kingdom, the Republic of Ireland and continental Europe.

When this war ensnares the Ryder clan, Connor finds himself with the choice between trusting the skill and mental fortitude of untested family members, along with the motives of his enemy’s enemy…

Or the complete annihilation of his family.

The Devil’s Nemesis

Connor Reed owes a lethal debt.

A year on from a brutal encounter with Irish mobsters, the Ryder clan have solidified their standing as one of the UK’s most efficient outlaw organisations.

However, when Carlo Andaloro calls in a favour, Connor Reed has no choice but to travel to Canada to face its most savagely cruel crime lords.

As the black operations agent gets closer, he discovers a plan to flood Canada’s cities with death.

And the intent lays higher than anyone could imagine.

Armageddon Games

Can Bruce McQuillan unravel a web of deception and prevent a global inferno?

The fires of war burn in the Middle East and along the Ukrainian-Russian border.

When the notoriously guarded Israelis request the British black operations maestro Bruce McQuillan, examine the security failings of the Simchat Torah Massacre, he senses his entanglement in a deadly spider’s web.

The question is— Who has spun it?

A flame ignites to draw the world’s superpowers into a confrontation of holocaustic consequences.

It is up to McQuillan and his premier agent, Connor Reed, to put it out.

Storm Rider

The test can only begin when the lesson ends.

After the turmoil of his last mission, a restlessness finds Connor Reed in a reprieve from black operations.

Meanwhile, a brutal war between the Askanar Syndicate and the Black Hollow MC scorches through Sweden.

When the flames singe two civilian members of his family, Reed is compelled step into the fire.

But is he the same man who once thrived in it?

Ashes of Albion

A fractured country requires no invasion.

As the United Kingdom fractures under rising ideological unrest, a hidden hand selects one devastating objective—to ignite a war within Britain’s own streets.

As the plan accelerates toward civil war, Connor Reed and the Chameleon Project race against time, knowing that if they fail, the streets will burn long after the attack is over.

Nerium Kill Chain

Connor Reed has made enemies around the world. Now they are beginning to find one another.

Taiwan’s foremost semiconductor engineer has become a prize in the shadow war between China and the West.

When his family is targeted in Singapore, Connor is drawn into a brutal operation involving compromised intelligence officers, professional mercenaries—and The Nerium.

No flag. No ideology. No public existence.

They have operated for decades between governments, intelligence services and organised crime, taking the assignments others cannot achieve or afford to acknowledge.

Europe’s most efficient freelance assassination network has accepted the contract.

Connor Reed is standing in the way.