1
ARON
Ministry of Industry and Natural Resources, Kosamaya. 10:40 p.m.
THE name was already there before he opened the drawer. It occupied a place older than any folder, a place he had spent ten years making sure never took up too much space. Tonight, on the fourteenth floor of the building he least wanted to enter, the name carried a different weight.
Lenna Sarri.
He had not opened the drawer. He had not seen the list. And yet, he knew the name would be there. Anya would never send go now over something minor.
The elevator stopped on the fourteenth floor. The chime sounded too loud at this hour.
Aron waited. The doors opened onto a dark corridor. Only the emergency light at the far end was on, its pale green glow casting the shadows in the wrong direction.
He stepped out and counted twelve paces to the left, as he always did, until the mahogany door appeared. The brass plaque was dulled with age. He had memorized the shape of every letter ten years ago.
Ivan Vale, Minister of Strategic Resources.
He slid his access card into the slot. Red. Then green. A click, too loud in the silence, and the door opened.
The room still smelled of old wood and something faintly like tobacco. Ivan had stopped smoking twelve years ago, but the smell had refused to leave.
Aron left the overhead lights off. The desk lamp was enough. The third drawer from the right was unlocked. Inside lay a thin gray folder with no title, only a reference code he knew by heart.
NF-2 / Operations / East Limina.
He had read the data three weeks ago. Mapped the structure. Verified the sources. Identified the gaps.
Tonight he read it differently. The first page contained the operational schedule: dates, coordinates, personnel numbers by sector. The second outlined target-handling procedures in two columns. Code T on the left, Code N on the right.
Then the third page.
Names.
Aron's hand was already on the flash drive. One command, and the copying would begin. The names in the right-hand column moved beneath his eyes.
His hand stopped. The third page had changed. Two names were new. The version Anya had shown him three weeks earlier had not included them.
Lenna Sarri. Kira Sarri. Both marked N. Beneath the second name was a set of coordinates. The map in his memory placed them near the old bridge on the East Bank. He had not crossed that bridge in ten years.
Old Quarter, Shell, East Bank.
The side of the river he had not entered in ten years.
He read the first name twice, then a third time. Three days. The flash drive was still waiting.
There were other names on the page. He pulled his thoughts back to the list.
The second name. Kira Sarri had been seven years old when he left. Code N.
He started the copy and watched the progress bar while directing his attention to the technical specifications, the section headings, the personnel numbers, anything except the two names in the right-hand column. Three minutes and thirty seconds.
Done.
He removed the flash drive and slipped it into his left pocket. The folder went back exactly where he had found it, closed and undisturbed.
At the doorway, he stopped and looked at the plaque.
Ivan Vale.
He knew the shape of every letter, the distance between the name and the title, even the way the desk lamp caught the brass, now dulled with age.
Everything he needed was in his pocket. He closed the door.
✦ ✦ ✦
In the elevator, he took out his phone and sent Anya a message.
Done. The two N names you mentioned are there. There are more. A lot more.
The elevator descended. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven.
Anya replied before he reached the lobby.
Go now.
Two seconds later.
And be careful with your name there.
Aron read the second message three times before sliding the phone into his pocket.
Two years had been enough for Aron to learn that Anya Rais never sent a warning without already thinking three moves ahead.
The first message had been an order. The second concerned the name he carried with him.
The elevator reached the lobby.
✦ ✦ ✦
The bus station was twenty minutes from the ministry. Aron walked. The streetlights followed the same route he had memorized years ago, but tonight the buildings seemed closer, the sidewalk narrower.
At the ticket window, the cashier checked the screen. Her eyes lifted briefly to his face, no more than a second, then returned the card without comment.
The bus arrived at five to eleven, and Aron took the fourth row from the back, the left side, where the windows gave him a view of the entire cabin and the emergency exit was within reach. It left Kosamaya at eleven sharp.
The border checkpoint came at one in the morning. The bus stopped. The cabin lights came on, and two Sarayan soldiers boarded to check identification cards, moving from the front to the back.
Aron took out his card before they reached him and laid it on his lap. The soldier assigned to the fourth row was young. He took Aron's card, scanned it, and stopped. Not for long. Long enough. His eyes lifted from the screen to Aron's face. The scan had taken two seconds. Then three. The soldier had stopped reading the card. He was reading Aron instead.
"Vale," the soldier said quietly.
Not the name printed on the card. Aron said nothing. The soldier returned the card and moved on.
Behind him, two passengers whispered. He caught a single word.
Vale.
Aron put the card away and looked into the darkness beyond the window.
Be careful with your name there.
He had taken it as a warning about his status, a name too well known along official routes. It made sense. But at the checkpoint, the soldier had not called him by his position. Vale. Behind him, the bus had gone quiet.
The bus began moving again. The cabin lights went out.
In his pocket, a flash drive containing 287 names. In his wallet, a ministry card bearing a name better known than he had ever imagined. The bus continued south with three days ahead of it.
✦ ✦ ✦
— TO BE CONTINUED —