* **
Morning came slow and gray, Paris wrapped in drizzle and soft light.
Sebastian stood in the kitchen, espresso warm in his hands, the sleek machine humming quietly behind him. The box Jérôme had given him still sat on the marble counter. He looked inside and saw a scarf folded neatly, some rolls of film tucked beside a stack of letters. He’d have to develop those later.
Jérôme entered, barefoot but perfectly composed, dressed in a cashmere robe. He raised an eyebrow at the box, then at Sebastian.
“So.” A pause. “You’re going back already.”
Sebastian nodded. “Yes. If I’m going to take it apart, I have to be there to do it.”
Jérôme moved toward the espresso machine, tapped the panel with the ease of someone who’d never once tolerated instant coffee. “Good. It’s about time someone stood up to Charles.”
Sebastian finished his espresso, set the cup in the sink, and picked up his bag. He looked over at his uncle and gave a faint smile. “Thank you. For all of it.”
Jérôme nodded once, sharp and quiet. “Of course. Now, go make Charles miserable.”
Sebastian paused at the door and smiled. “That was always the plan.”
And then he was gone.
8
The Whistleblower
The Anchor & Hope was the kind of pub that survived on location rather than charm. It was wedged between a laundrette and a betting shop on a narrow street where the evening foot traffic consisted mainly of commuters hurrying toward the tube station. Harper had chosen it precisely for its unremarkable nature. The kind of place where three people having a quiet drink wouldn’t draw attention, where the music was loud enough to mask conversation but not so loud as to seem suspicious. She had finally managed to arrange a meeting with the potential whistleblower, Sarah, and introduce her to the new point of contact.
Sarah Chen sat with her back to the wall, fingers working methodically through the paper napkin she’d been shredding for the past ten minutes. The pile of white confetti grew beside her untouched gin and tonic while she glanced repeatedly at the door. Harper had arrived early with Geoffries and positioned them both to watch Sarah’s approach—she had circled the block twice before finally entering, and even now her shoulders remained rigid with tension.
Harper offered Sarah a small, reassuring smile as Geoffries, seated opposite them, maintained a neutral expression. “Sarah, thanks for coming. This is David Geoffries. He’s a senior investigative reporter here at the paper. As we discussed, he’ll be taking the lead on your case going forward.”
Sarah’s eyes, dark and wary, flickered between the two of them. “Thelead?” Her voice was barely audible above the ambient noise of the pub. “I thought… I was supposed to be working with you.”
“You are, in a way,” Harper said gently, trying to project calm. “It’s a necessary step to ensure the integrity of the investigation and, most importantly, your protection. David is one of the best in the business, and he has the full backing of the paper.” Harper gave him a subtle nod, prompting him to speak.
Geoffries leaned forward slightly, his demeanor calm and professional. “Ms. Chen, Harper has briefed me thoroughly. I understand the sensitive nature of your situation and the risks you’re taking. My priority is to get your information, verify it rigorously, and ensure that your identity is protected throughout the process.”
Sarah still looked unconvinced, her gaze lingering on Harper. “But… why the change? Is something wrong?”
Harper kept her hands wrapped around her pint, affecting casualness while every instinct screamed at her to lean forward, to press for details. Three years of investigative journalism had taught her that sources spooked easily, especially ones this nervous. “Not at all, Sarah. It’s about strategy. My role at the paper has shifted, and this allows us to continue the investigation with even more resources and a clearer path forward. Think of it as an extra layer of protection for you.”
Sarah’s dark eyes darted to the bar, where a group of construction workers were settling in for what looked like a long session. The barman, a grizzled man in his sixties, was engrossed in a football match on the television mounted above the till. Safe enough. She took a deep breath. “I’ve been there three years as a financial controller,” she began, her voice gaining a fractional amount of strength. “At first, I thought the irregularities were just… sloppy bookkeeping. Rich people being careless with money.”
Geoffries pulled out a small, unassuming notebook and a pen. “When did that change, Ms. Chen?” he asked, his voice steady and non-judgmental.
“Six months ago. I noticed a reimbursement for ‘educational materials’—£15,000. But the invoice was from a luxury travel agency.” Sarah’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Mediterranean Escapes. A week inSantorini, five-star resort, private yacht excursions. When I queried it, my supervisor told me to stop asking questions and just ignore it.”
Geoffries made notes, his handwriting neat and legible. “Your supervisor—that would be…?”
“Marcus Webb. Finance Director.” Sarah’s laugh was bitter. “He’s been there since the Foundation started. Completely untouchable. When I pushed back, he reminded me how competitive the job market is right now, how a negative reference could really damage my career prospects.”
The threat was delivered with the casual brutality Harper had come to associate with white-collar corruption—no raised voices, no dramatic gestures, just the quiet application of economic pressure. She’d seen it destroy sources before, watched good people retreat into silence when their livelihoods were threatened.
“That must have been frightening,” he said, his voice empathetic. “What did you do?”
“I started paying attention.” Sarah finally took a sip of her drink, grimacing at the strength. “Really looking at what was coming across my desk. The patterns became impossible to ignore. Donor money disappearing into consulting fees for companies that don’t seem to exist. Reimbursements for ‘research trips’ that line up perfectly with the trustees’ family holidays. Educational grants to schools that turn out to be shell organizations.”
Harper saw the familiar thrill of a story coming together on Geoffries’s face, but he forced himself to remain calm, professional. “Ms. Chen, I want to be completely transparent with you. If you decide to share information with us, we will protect your identity absolutely. But I need you to understand the potential consequences.”