Page 74 of Mr. and Mrs. Novak

But one thing is certain: Stanford made a move. And he won’t stop there.

My legs threaten to give way under the sudden relief that washes over me. Ruslan understands. Without a word, he lifts me into his arms and carries me to our room. Overwhelmed by emotions, I fall asleep in his embrace and don’t wake up until dinner.

Ruslan never left my side, despite the insane workload he had. And my heart warms at the thought of being his priority.

Two days pass. Unfortunately, I still can't get my hands on Stanford's ghost convoys.

"Damn it!" I rage.

Ruslan, who is working in the other room, gets up and approaches.

"What's going on?" he asks me.

"I've lost all trace of Stanford's illegal trafficking in the digital networks. No more convoys taking the same routes, no more attempts to mask their trajectory! All the shell companies I had spotted suddenly seem perfectly clean. No new suspicious structures, nothing!"

"Could he have temporarily suspended his operations to cover his tracks?"

"No, that's unlikely. You don't shut down trafficking of this scale overnight. He probably already has another solution ready to take over."

I work feverishly on my screens, scrutinizing databases, transactions, connections between shell companies, tracking the slightest indication of underground activity, desperately trying to understand how Stanford now intends to move his merchandise. The freight flows are still there, but Stanford has made himself invisible. Ruslan observes me, sitting across from me, and says in a calm tone:

"There may be another way to find Stanford."

I look up, intrigued.

"Explain."

"Stanford isn't the only one using our logistics platform for his trafficking," Ruslan says. "He introduced us to other business partners. From what I've been able to observe in our transactions, these companies could be linked in one way or another to Nexora Trade."

He looks at me hesitantly, aware of the limits of his knowledge.

"I only have access to Gloventis data, of course, but certain patterns caught my attention. These clients came through Stanford, use similar routes. They could be straw men actually all working for him, or at least be part of his network."

I listen carefully, making connections with my own investigations.

"These secondary structures aren't under surveillance for now," Ruslan continued. "They probably haven't needed to disappear. If I were Stanford, I'd use them to avoid being detected. If you analyze their flows from the data I can provide you and compare them with what your own sources have taught you about Stanford, you might be able to identify his new circuit."

I look at him, realizing the potential of this approach. Ruslan displays a satisfied smile, happy to be able to contribute to the advancement of my work.

"Give me names," I say, moving aside to give him space in front of the screen.

He settles in without hesitation and, in a few minutes, lists several clients who move their merchandise via Gloventis. Names I haven't yet come across in my investigations, but which can perfectly fit into the puzzle I've been trying to piece together for months.

"That's what I can give you from Gloventis's perspective. I don't know if these companies are involved in illegal activities, but their connection with Stanford seems suspicious to me."

I'm already taking notes, my mind racing. These new leads can be cross-referenced with my own data on Stanford, the networks I've mapped, the financial transactions I've traced. If Stanford is no longer directly visible, then perhaps these companies, his possible accomplices, will allow me to find his trail and understand how he has reorganized his network.

"There's something else you should know," adds Ruslan. "I discovered the name of one of Stanford's clients, the one to whom the Le Havre seizure you caused was destined. His name is André Korzton."

"How did you discover that?"

"During my last meeting with Natasha," Ruslan says, avoiding my gaze, and my heart tightens.

A silence settles between us, heavy with unspoken words. The mention of this woman revives a jealousy that I strive to suppress. I turn my eyes to the screen, pretending to focus on the data, but my mind is elsewhere. Images impose themselves on me without my being able to push them away.

Ruslan seems to perceive my distress. Without a word, he stands up and walks around the table. His steps resonate on the floor, measured and determined. He stops beside me, and I feel the warmth of his body before he even touches me. His hands invite me to stand and face him. Then, with unexpected tenderness, he gently raises my face toward him. Our eyes meet and lock. I see in his eyes an intensity that unsettles me. He stares at me for a long moment without speaking, as if searching for the right words... or perhaps as if he wanted me to read directly in his soul what he struggles to express.

"She doesn't matter," he finally whispers, his voice barely louder than a breath. "There's only you."