GREGORY EVANS CHECKED Saul's location on the computer. He had just left The Holme. Gregory watched the blinking dot on the digital map as though tracking the path of a predator. Every movement the journalist made corresponded to a piece on the board that Gregory needed to anticipate, calculate, and, if necessary, sacrifice.
— I need to get rid of this damned organization... — he muttered, scanning the room while keeping his eyes fixed on the screen. — And the best way is to blow it apart from the inside out. There's no better bait than the journalist, but everything has to be done with surgical precision, with timing and exact measurements.
The Vice President cannot suspect anything... — Gregory reasoned as he opened the word processor, his fingers hovering over the keyboard as though plucking the strings of a perfect plan.
He clenched his fists, took a breath, and began mentally dictating an execution routine. He transformed thought into task, task into lines, lines into an almost mechanical script:
Operation: Intercept the goddess;
Location: L'oscar London;
Time: From 8:00 p.m. onward;
Strategy: Monitor all movement during the press conference and capture the courier;
Objective: Hunt the Bastard (alive or dead?);
Location: Surrounding area;
Time: From 9:00 p.m. onward (end of press conference — monitor surveillance feed);
Strategy: Set up watch at the exit, pursue and capture the target;
Return to Headquarters — Origin: Undetermined;
Time: Undetermined;
Note: Choose and follow the best escape route, preferably with the target alive.
— Let's go through the checklist, Mr. Vice President, and work out the best organizational chart — he said to himself, like someone drawing up the blueprint for a logistical masterpiece, and then began materializing his reasoning with agile fingers over the keyboard: short notes, commands, priorities. Every item needed its own timing; every step had to account for contingencies and alternative routes.
He decided that relying on virtual coordinates would not be enough. He needed to know the battlefield the way a general knew his own trench.
— I need to scout the terrain — he concluded aloud. He downloaded maps, printed several sheets, and spread everything across the table like someone studying an ancient painting in search of a missing piece. The luxurious hotel, the adjacent streets, the squares: everything mapped out in lines and numbers.
— After Operation Lux, the Bastard will probably head through the park on the block behind the hotel. It's the best way to escape unnoticed, especially if he has strange marks on his body. He'll look for natural hiding places, areas with cover, routes offering discreet exits. — He was thinking aloud, pointing at the short distance separating the rear of the hotel from one of London's largest parks.
Red Lion Square Garden. The name — short, decisive — sounded like a warning. Gregory picked up a red pen and traced the route across the map: L'oscar London, the Catton Street intersection, the side entrance to Red Lion Square Garden. Every stroke represented a hypothesis; every hypothesis, preparation. He folded the map precisely, slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat, put on dark glasses more for concealment than necessity, and left.
IN THE PARK, HE WALKED the pathways with the calculated calm of someone conducting reconnaissance. For nearly two hours, he wandered past benches, shrubs, and secluded corners. He assessed the Bastard's likely escape routes and catalogued the places where someone might disappear into the crowd: secondary entrances, alleys, rows of trees that interrupted lines of sight, groups of tourists providing unintentional cover. In his mind, he constructed a web of probabilities upon which he could pull the strings of fate.
It was time to go home...
He headed back with long strides, the map already tucked away, his mind occupied by lists and contingencies. His phone interrupted his thoughts; an international call — United States — from a number he did not recognize. He answered cautiously, with the habit of a man who always expected either a blow or an order. He remained silent until a familiar voice came through the line.
"... Hello, Greg, how are you?..."
— Mr. Vice President? — he replied evenly.
"... I only called to make sure everything is proceeding as planned..."
— So far, everything is fine... has something happened? — Gregory replied, trying to conceal the tension tightening around his chest.
The voice on the other end came calm and glacial:
"... We have a small problem. One of our allies has just started playing both sides..."
— Sir... we've had three players on the field the entire time. What's surprising about that? — Gregory asked without missing a beat. He knew the game involved pieces capable of switching sides in the blink of an eye.
"... I assumed you would already be aware of the sacred interests involved..." — Faradday said through clenched teeth, though the irony in his voice carried weight.
Gregory Evans understood that there was more at stake than simple infiltration or minor acts of disloyalty. It was a strategic mutation: internal betrayals, networks coming apart.
— I didn't think it was something worth putting on the table, after all, they still haven't made any move beyond the... — he tried to explain.
"... I understand, Greg..." — Faradday cut him off. The sentence rang like a bell, short and ominous.
The tension rose another notch. Gregory drew a deep breath:
— As soon as I have more information, I'll pass it along to you. — He promised firmly. He knew every second could change the entire scene.
"... I greatly appreciate your efforts..." — the voice on the other end continued, now carrying a hint of gratitude that did little to conceal the pressure behind the command. — "... I've sent you an email with instructions for tomorrow. You'll be opening an exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum. Good luck. Goodbye..." — Faradday hung up.
Greg remained motionless for a moment, the completed call still echoing in his memory.
— What the hell is that son of a bitch thinking? — he muttered through clenched teeth as he tried to piece together the logic behind the sudden order.
The shift in focus toward the Victoria and Albert sounded like a diversion, a sophisticated lure designed to draw curious eyes elsewhere. The more disturbing news, however, gnawed at his mind with far greater intensity: they had discovered the Archangel's connection to the Servant of God. The leaked information was moving powerful pieces across the board.
Who the hell was the traitor?
A razor-sharp thought sliced through his synapses like a blade. They were in checkmate. There was no room for hesitation. He knew he would have to carry out the mission without depending on the priest. He could no longer rely on loyalties that were coming apart.
He breathed again, burying his hands in his pockets. A living plan demanded flawless execution. He turned his back on L'oscar London and walked away, merging into the crowd like a man carrying the weight of a sentence between his fingers.