The night reeked of damp stone and city grime as Dominic Sinclair stepped out of New Scotland Yard and among fellow commuters flooding the streets. Streetlights bled gold onto the rain-slick pavement. He moved fast—his thoughts tangled. The intelligence from Washington burned in his mind, each piece gnawing at him, refusing to settle. Fragments twisted together, forming something he could almost see, but not quite. He knew he was onto something big. The shape of it hovered just beyond his grasp. When he finally put the pieces together, it wouldn’t just be big—it would be career-makin.

   His legs followed the familiar route, barely registering.

   He was on autopilot.

  He reached Victoria Street, and ahead was Westminster Underground. The sight of it yanked him back into the present. If he moved quicker, he’d make the next train. Inside the station, the air was thick with the acrid scent of bodies pressed too close—stale breath and damp wool. The tunnel walls pulsed with the vibration of approaching trains, sending gusts of hot air rushing through the station. The crowd pressed in from all sides, a dense mass of bodies moving with the same intent, heads down, expressions vacant.

   He slipped into the flow, moving with the crowd.

   Then—impact. A sudden jolt—hard.

   Not enough to send him sprawling, but enough to break his rhythm. He caught the railing, his fingers digging in. His pulse jumped. He turned, scanning the bodies around him, but no one looked back. Whoever had done it was gone, lost in the shuffle. Typical London. No one stopped. No one cared.

  The platform was suffocating—heat rising off bodies, damp air curling around him. He exhaled, rolling his shoulders, pushing the tension aside. Then it hit. Something was wrong.

  A slow warmth spread through his chest. Not a sharp pain—something dull, creeping. The edges of his vision blurred. His head felt light, unsteady. He blinked and rubbed his temples. The press of bodies eased him forward, closer to the edge.

  The sound of a train rumbling closer vibrated through the platform—the Eastbound 6:50. Its headlights cut through the dim tunnel. He tried focusing on the rhythm of its approach, grounding himself.

  Then—. A slight pressure against his back.

His balance wavered. He tilted forward, shooting out his hands, but there was nothing to catch. No rail. No hold. Just empty air.

  A gasp rippled through the crowd. One or two grabbed at him as the train’s headlights appeared out of the blackness.

  And then—he fell.

 

♦♦♦♦

​

Later that Evening—

British Embassy, Brussels, Belgium:

The Embassy hummed with low conversation and clinking glasses, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and cologne. The grand banquet hall stretched out in opulent detail—tall, arched windows veiled in thick burgundy drapes. Two large chandeliers cast fractured light across a polished parquet floor. Servers weaved between tables, draped in white linen, set with fine porcelain and silverware. In the far corner, a string quartet played soft Baroque melodies—a gentle backdrop to the assembly of diplomats and dignitaries. The room exuded power and influence—refined and at ease. Protocols were discussed, and tentative agreements made behind polite nods. Promises in half-words. Laughter broke out here and there.

  Edward Harrington stood near the head table, a pleased smile across his face. At his side, the British Ambassador, Sir Reginald Fitzwilliam, played host, trading pleasantries with European Economic Community officials.

  At precisely 8 o’clock, the Master of Ceremonies stepped forward, resplendent in a crimson tailcoat, a white waistcoat, and a white bow tie. With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his hand. The quartet’s music immediately faded. Conversations tapered off, and a hush rippled through the hall. Every glance turned toward him as he adjusted the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” his smooth baritone voice carried. “Dinner is served. If you’d kindly take your seats, the evening may begin.”

  A pause followed, then a murmuring shuffle as guests moved to their places.

  The waitstaff glided into action. A chilled lobster tail salad was set down first, followed by the delicate pour of Sauvignon Blanc—a crisp white wine. Silverware clinked as conversations resumed. Thirty minutes in, the scent of sirloin and truffle butter had settled into the room. France’s Minister of Finance raised his glass of Bordeaux, his voice smooth with practised diplomacy,

  “To the continued success of the European Union.”

  Harrington lifted his own in return, sitting next to the Minister, declaring,

  “Hear, hear.”

  The glass touched his lips. Then—Pain.

  A sharp, clawing force clawed beneath his ribs. His breath hitched, and his fingers spasmed. The glass trembled—then slipped from his grasp, shattering against the floor. He gasped as his hand shot to his chest—a tearing sensation, deep and relentless.

  Heads turned. Eyes widened. His wife’s voice—panicked, distant—broke through the fog. He reached for the table, clutching the tablecloth. Silverware tumbled. Plates crashed to the floor, and wine spilt in red trails. His limp body followed, hitting the ground hard.

  With a shallow breath, his vision dimming, the Right Honourable Edward Harrington gave a final, stuttering grasp at life. His fingers twitched.

  Then—nothing.