Page 41 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

Beneath the fruit, a double metal wall is revealed. The agents use a tool to pry it open. Inside, dozens of compressed cocaine bricks, vacuum-sealed to mask any scent.

"Bingo," a customs officer mutters, grabbing a sample for testing.

I quickly pack up my gear.

"I need to go. My train leaves in less than an hour."

"I’ll drive you," my contact replies, starting the engine immediately.

As I leave the customs office, a shiver runs down my spine. I feel watched. Instinctively, I lower my head and slip into the unmarked car. My contact starts the engine.

In the rearview mirror, I notice a car pulling out of its parking spot, sliding into traffic behind us. After two turns, I whisper to the driver.

"We’re being followed."

"I can call for backup," he offers.

"No. Just buy me some time."

"Got it. Safe travels."

He drops me off in the middle of a crowded area, slowing down just enough for me to slip away unnoticed. Then, he steps out calmly, walking purposefully toward the suspicious car. It hesitates, then suddenly reverses before vanishing into traffic.

I duck into a clothing store, quickly grab two items, and head to the fitting room. Five minutes later, I step out completely transformed—bright top, plain jeans, an unremarkable silhouette blending into the crowd. Before leaving, I linger near the checkout, catch my reflection in the glass, check my blind spot. Nothing unusual.

The train to Paris is about to depart. On the platform, I spot three women my age. Without hesitation, I slip into their group and strike up a conversation—casual, relaxed. Two men scan the passengers. They don’t see me. They’re looking for a woman alone.

The Le Havre–Paris train is packed. Perfect. But I spot them quickly. Two figures too polished, too stiff. Tailored suits, spotless shoes, overly straight posture. They might pass for busy executives, but their eyes sweep the car with practiced precision. They walk past our group without stopping.

As we near Saint-Lazare, I stay close to my "friends." The two agents are stationed at the end of the platform. Their stance is meant to look casual, but their sharp gazes betray their mission—watching every passenger leaving the train. I walk past them, eyes straight ahead, still deep in conversation.

The moment to part ways comes in front of the taxi stand. These strangers have no idea they may have just saved my life.

Before getting into my cab, I glance toward the station’s glass doors. The men remain behind.

"Take a left, then loop around by the docks," I tell the driver, handing him a bill.

He nods and changes course. At every red light, I scan the mirrors. No suspicious cars. No lingering silhouettes.

In front of my building, I pay the fare and step out calmly, despite my heart pounding frantically. This time, I really came close to disaster.

21. The gala

RUSLAN

I stare at the timeline projected by Nicholas on the wall. Akim remains silent beside me.

"Stanford has infiltrated Gloventis at every level," explains Nicholas. "All the advice and contacts he provided us only served to establish his control over us. It starts with MetaLog, the management software he recommended."

He displays the system logs and continues:

"Looking closer, I discovered repeated nighttime access..."

He zooms in on a week.

"Five connections between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m., always from an external IP address."

Then he displays a comparison chart.