In Earl's Court Road, at the corner of Longridge, a tall, fair-haired man with a hard, clean-shaven face and a beat-up hoodie idled near a bus stop, acting like he was waiting for a ride.
It was 11:30 AM, a gray and rainy Tuesday. Delivery drivers on e-bikes dodged traffic in the quiet, respectable Kensington neighborhood. While the main road hummed with the vibration of double-decker buses, Longridge Road stayed still—the kind of quiet that usually hides something.
Sandy Paton of the Special Branch—it was he—kept his eyes glued to one of those high, old-fashioned townhouses with a deep basement. He'd been there since ten, playing it cool, pretending to scroll through a sports app on his phone. To anyone passing by, he looked like a guy who'd spent his last twenty on a parlay that didn't hit. Every so often he'd move down the block to keep from looking suspicious, and whenever he did, his spot was taken by a thick-set man in a seedy tan raincoat and a baseball cap.
It was Marcus. The two of them were running a high-stakes stakeout.
They pulled the tag-team surveillance until noon, when Paton finally saw the front door click open. A well-dressed, older man with a military posture and a silver, close-cropped mustache stepped out. He scanned the street with a predator's eyes before heading toward the main road. He wore a sharp navy overcoat and expensive leather boots. His face was a map of scars and hard miles, a "sinister" look earned from years in a French prison at Toulon—though the neighborhood likely thought he was just a retired colonel.
Paton ducked into a crowd at the bus stop, while Marcus, seeing the signal, turned the corner and vanished. Paton doubled back to a side alley where a delivery van for a global courier service was parked. He hopped in the back, where a uniform and a branded cap were waiting. He threw them on, tied a heavy canvas apron over his waist, and grabbed a small brown box from the shelf. It was covered in "Fragile" tape, insurance stickers, and high-priority labels.
"Let's go," he Gemini saidVOLUME 1, CHAPTER VI.THE HOUSE OF SUSPICIONtold the driver. "I want this delivered and done."
The disguise was flawless. He looked exactly like the overworked courier who spends his day banging on doors for signatures. Minutes later, the van pulled up to the target house. Paton hopped out with the box.
A red-haired maid answered the door.
"Got a delivery for a Mrs. Caborn," Paton said, clicking his pen.
"Doesn't live here," the girl snapped. "Never heard of her."
Paton frowned at the label. "That's weird. It's addressed care of Mr. Peke O'Brien. He lives here, right?"
"Yeah. If it's for him, I'll take it."
"I can't do that, sorry," Paton said, pulling the box back. "It's marked 'Jewelry' and it's insured for five grand. Signature only. When's O'Brien back?"
"Not until eight tonight. He's usually home for dinner. Can't you just leave it?"
"Company policy, miss. I'll tell you what—tell Mr. O'Brien I've got a high-value package for Mrs. Caborn and I'll be back at eight sharp to get his signature."
"Fine," she said, closing the door. Paton climbed back into the van and they rolled out.
Back in the alley, the Inspector ditched the uniform and rejoined Marcus in the bustle of Earl's Court Road. He broke down the encounter in ten seconds.
"Perfect," Marcus laughed. "A five-thousand-dollar jewelry box is going to get O'Brien's attention. But that guy is gonna be a tough nut to crack. I can feel it."
"I'll be a diplomat when I see him at eight," Paton said. "I wonder who the hell he really is?"
"We'll find out. He might be a clean skin, or he might be a shark like the rest of 'em," Marcus remarked. "Either way, the play worked. You looked like you've been delivering packages your whole life."
They split up, agreeing to meet later that night.
The plan to find Joan's location was all Marcus. His mind for the "ruse" was legendary. He had personally designed the digital encryption his department used—a code that foreign intel agencies would have paid millions to crack. His brain never stopped building traps for foreign diplomats or throwing smoke screens over the conspiracies aimed at the city.
He did it all in silence. Despite moving massive amounts of "off-the-books" government funding, he never took a paycheck for this side of his life. He paid his own way so no one could ever call him a sell-out or a fed. He spent his book royalties on the very department he ran, and his only reward was a private, handwritten "Thank You" from the higher-ups—and two offers for medals of honor that he'd quietly turned down. He had his reasons for staying in the shadows, reasons he'd never told a soul.
All morning, while the taxi took him back toward his rooms in St. James's, he was thinking about Edris Temperley. He wondered if he should just go to the winter sports meet in Switzerland. She'd be there. She'd begged him. But he hesitated, the same way he had for a year. She'd invited him to her family estate a dozen times, and he'd run out of excuses. She probably thought he was ghosting her for good.
When he walked into his apartment, his man Drew met him at the door. "Mr. Bennett paged you, sir. Said it's urgent."
Marcus didn't even take off his coat before hitting the secure line. Bennett told him he needed to get to the office—fast.
Thirty minutes later, Marcus walked into a dingy office building near Trafalgar Square. He used a specialized key to enter a suite through a private door. The name on the glass outside said Spanish Mining Corp, a company that didn't exist. To the public, it was just a corporate office for a firm in Madrid.
The room he stepped into was plush—Turkish carpets, leather chairs, and a fire in the grate. A vase of fresh yellow chrysanthemums sat on the side table. He smiled, shed his coat, and sat at a desk overlooking the square. He only came here when he had to, fearing that if he was followed, the "Architect's" true headquarters would be burned.
Bennett walked in as soon as the bell rang. "What's the fire?" Marcus asked.
"Lola is back. She's demanding to see you," Bennett said, dropping an orange file on the desk. "Her reports from Germany are in there."
"Good. Bring her in when I'm done," Marcus said. "And who bought the flowers?"
"Lola brought 'em this morning."
Marcus grunted and started reading. The file was a deep dive into German naval tech and secret stashes in Hamburg. It was gold. Lola Price was one of his best—a ghost who could get into any room.
He rang the bell, and a dark-haired, stunning woman in high-end fashion walked in. She looked about twenty-three, but her eyes held a century of secrets.
"Welcome back, Lola," Marcus said, gesturing to a chair. "Five months in Berlin, right?"
"Five months and two days, Marcus," she smiled, dropping her furs.
"I read the files. High-level work as usual. How'd you flip the target?"
Lola shrugged a shoulder, her smile turning mysterious. "The usual. I made him think I was in love."
They both laughed. It was the oldest trick in the book, and she was the master.
"You're a pro, Lola. You always keep your head," Marcus said.
"I have to. I always keep an exit strategy ready, no matter how hot it gets."
"That's why you're still alive," Marcus said. "Thanks for the flowers. Now, what's the real reason you're here?"
Lola leaned forward. "I want to go to Brussels."
"Why Brussels? There's no action there."
She went quiet for a second. "I could help Harry with the German intercepts."
Marcus remembered a rumor he'd heard. "You're in love with Harry Piper, aren't you?" he asked with a rare, kind smile. "You want to be near him."
Lola turned red. "I… yeah."
"Fine. You're in Brussels for three months. Same pay, same perks. Go see your man."
"You're the best, Marcus!" she cried, jumping up to grab his hand.
"Is it for real this time, Lola? No faking it?"
"It's real," she beamed. "I'm catching the late flight tonight."
Marcus paused. "Wait. When you were in Berlin, did you ever run into a guy named Karl Weiss?"
"Weiss? Yeah. Total lady-killer. He told me he was gonna marry some rich German heiress for her bank account. He was always at the clubs, spending more than he had."
"You think he's unreliable?"
"He's a liability, Marcus. If you're thinking of hiring him back, don't. He's not serious enough for this life."
Marcus thanked her, and she left, glowing with happiness. Alone, Marcus sighed. "I guess we were right to cut him, but it's still a shame. He was a good kid once."
Bennett walked back in with two more encrypted texts from overseas. The office never closed. Marcus's department never slept. The game was always moving.