LOCATION: SINGAPORE — THE MARINA BAY FINANCIAL CENTRE
21:12 SGT (Singapore Time)
Zayed Iqbal didn't believe in digital ghosts. To him, power wasn't a number on a screen; it was the weight of a loaded magazine and the silence of a jammed signal.
He stood on the 48th floor of the MBFC Tower 3, looking through a floor-to-ceiling glass window. Below, the city-state of Singapore glowed like a circuit board. Most of that circuit board belonged to the House of Al-Maqtoum and the Rockefeller-Standard Group.
In five minutes, it would belong to no one.
"Status," Zayed said into his bone-conduction mic. His voice was a flat, lethal rasp.
"Electronic Countermeasures active," a voice whispered in his ear. "The building's security thinks the servers are undergoing a routine firmware update. We have a three-minute window before the physical override triggers."
Zayed checked his watch. He wasn't wearing a tactical suit. He wore a bespoke Italian blazer over a charcoal turtleneck—the uniform of a high-tier hedge fund manager. He looked at the man tied to the ergonomic chair in the center of the office: Julian Vane, the Lead Custodian for the Septagon's Asian bullion reserves.
"Julian," Zayed said, stepping toward him. He didn't pull a gun. He pulled a small, obsidian-black USB drive. "The Bardi Ledger requires a physical key-turn from a Custodian. Your biometric signature is the final gate."
Vane's eyes were wide with terror. "You don't understand... if I authorize this, the Straits Times Index will collapse by morning. Millions of people will lose their pensions. This is economic terrorism."
Zayed leaned in, his scarred face inches from the banker's. "No, Julian. This is a repossession. Your masters haven't paid the rent on this planet since 1981. I'm just the locksmith."
Zayed grabbed Vane's hand and forced his thumb onto the biometric scanner of the main terminal.
On the massive wall-mounted monitor, a progress bar appeared. It wasn't transferring money. It was de-registering ownership.
Six hundred tons of physical gold, held in vaults beneath the Changi airport, were being digitally "orphaned"—their legal deeds transferred to a non-existent Bardi shell company.
"Done," Zayed said. He didn't kill Vane. He simply tapped the man's cheek. "Tell your friends in Basel that the Angel of Death doesn't accept credit."
Zayed walked out of the office as the red emergency lights began to pulse. He didn't take the elevator. He headed for the roof. A blacked-out Airbus H160 was already hovering, its rotors silent against the Singaporean humidity.
As he climbed into the chopper, he looked at his phone. The first "Bardi Default" notification had hit the dark-pool markets. The Septagon was bleeding.