“That’s amazing,” Harper said.
“I aim to please,” quipped Ethan.
Harper glanced at her stack of notes. “We’re also trying to prove a pattern of bribery, influence peddling, and illegal campaign financing funneled through shell companies that are very good at looking legitimate on the surface,” Harper clarified, watching him.
“Ah, my favorite kind of Tuesday,” Ethan murmured, fingers already flying across his keyboard.
“I did some preliminary digging yesterday. Let me show you what I found. His digital security was better than expected, I’ll give him that. Old-school paranoia meets new-school encryption. But he has a weakness.”
“Which is?” Harper leaned forward.
Ethan paused, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “He does business with other people who are exceptionally greedy and not exceptionally bright. And those people leave dirty little digital fingerprints everywhere, especially when they think no one’s looking.”
He didn’t wait for a response, already clicking through layers of encryption,his entire being locked onto the screen. It was like watching a storm condense into a lightning strike.
He then pulled up a complex flow chart on his screen. “This, for example, is one of his primary holding companies in the Caymans. Standard stuff. But dig into the financials… and you find this.”
He clicked, and a new, more convoluted diagram appeared, showing connections to a series of smaller, almost invisible entities.
“These are his ‘ghost accounts,’” Ethan explained. “The ones that don’t officially exist. Money gets washed through three or four layers before it lands here, then it’s often converted to crypto and moved again. But the initial transfers, the ones from his ‘legitimate’ businesses to the first shell? Those have to be logged somewhere, even if it’s on a server in a country that barely qualifies as a country.”
Harper studied the screen, then Ethan. “You can access them?”
“Access, decrypt, and serve them up with a digital bow,” Ethan said. “I’ve already done a preliminary sweep for Sebastian. Found a few interesting payments coinciding with specific parliamentary votes he was interested in.”
Sebastian interjected, “Ethan is the best there is at this, Harper. He can find trails that conventional investigators would miss, and he’s… discreet.”
Harper considered. She was a damn good investigative journalist, one of the best at sniffing out corruption and cultivating sources. But deep-level digital forensics of this nature was a specialized skill. And Hawthorne’s empire was built on decades of carefully concealed digital and financial maneuvers.
“If you’re involved, Mr. Klein,” Harper said slowly, “you understand the risks. Charles Hawthorne doesn’t take kindly to people poking into his affairs.”
Ethan’s smile was gone, replaced by a serious understanding. “Ms. Sinclair, I spent years in the cybersecurity and threat intelligence space, I’ve made a habit of poking into the affairs of unpleasant people and sometimes governments. It’s something of a hobby. And right now, Charlie is my new project.” He glanced at Sebastian with a look of camaraderie. “Consider meyour pro-bono digital crowbar.”
Harper was silent for a moment. Ethan Klein was an unknown quantity—another of Sebastian’s unpredictable friends. But his demonstration was impressive, and he seemed genuine. She needed what he could offer if she was going to truly dismantle Hawthorne’s empire.
“Alright, Klein,” Harper said, a reluctant respect in her tone. “Let’s talk strategy. I have a list of specific transactions and entities I need you to trace. Everything needs to be verifiable, admissible if it ever comes to that. And absolute discretion is paramount.”
Ethan grinned, the easy confidence back. “Music to my ears. Let the games begin.”
Harper allowed herself a small, determined smile. This alliance was unorthodox, but potentially game-changing. With Ethan’s technical wizardry supplementing her investigative journalism and Sebastian’s insider knowledge, Charles Hawthorne’s secrets might not stay buried for much longer.
16
The Part He was Born to Play
Charles Hawthorne’s study was all mahogany and menace—leather-bound books untouched for decades and hunting trophies from animals that deserved better endings. Hawthorne sat behind an antique desk, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed documents with meticulous care.
Sebastian stood before him, maintaining careful balance—back straight enough to avoid outright disrespect, but leaning slightly against a bookshelf with practiced nonchalance he knew would irritate his so-called father.
“The palace communications strategy is being entirely overhauled,” Sebastian reported.
“And the wedding plans?”
“Moving forward. Official announcement next month, security protocols being finalized.” Sebastian drifted to the window, seeking momentary escape in Hawthorne’s pristine gardens.
“And what of that reporter that’s always nosing around—Sinclair, isn’t it? Still playing dress-up with royalty, or has she finally been contained?”
Sebastian’s casual stance faltered imperceptibly. “Didn’t you hear? She’s been reassigned to the business desk. Ethics committee flagged her—too close to the future Queen, not enough distance for a political reporter.”