Kotto, three seventeen in the afternoon. Rain drummed on the café's glass roof. Nadia wiped the counter with one hand, the other tapping the encrypted terminal hidden under the till. The metadata Kom had pushed her at dawn scrolled past, tight columns, timestamps, IP prints.

Mister Etoundi pushed the door open, umbrella dripping.

"My Nadia, my double Ngonda, tight as usual."

"Right away, uncle."

She slipped two Ngonda doses into the portafilter, tamped hard, launched the extraction. The machine growled, hot, obedient. On the hidden screen, a line froze. Download of Kom's thesis, chapter seven included, May 2013, Georgetown university terminal, student session Marcus D. Hale, Fulbright scholar.

Nadia blinked. She typed the name into the open State Department database.

Marcus D. Hale. Deputy Under Secretary of Defense. In post fourteen months.

The coffee poured, black, thick, perfect. She handed the cup to Etoundi with a calm smile, encrypted the file, hit send.

Nevada. Kom read, passed the phone to Elena. She went pale.

"Marcus signed my mission order. I had dinner with him three days before Vandenberg. He spoke to me about you that night."

Kom barely smiled.

"Nadia, tu viens de trouver l'homme qui a vole ma these, bravo, ma soeur."

Want to know what Hale whispered to Elena that night? Write me on Messenger, I'll tell you close to your ear. ☕