Novosibirsk Airport, tarmac swept by wind, eight o'clock. Irina handed Kom a sealed folder, red wax, unmarked crest.

"Five Meridian nodes identified. Two in Zurich, one in Rio, Dubai, Singapore. I track from inside. FSB thinks Volkov alone, we let them. Leave it."

Kom slipped the folder into his jacket. Snow fell sideways.

"Irina, no promise, na so we dey do."

She barely smiled. "Same rule as your Mexican, I know."

On the tarmac, she leaned in, kissed him quick, without closing her eyes, like sealing a contract. Then stepped back, hands in pockets, professional again.

Kotto, seven o'clock. Cafe Kom smelled like waxed wood. Nadia behind the counter, a stack of diplomatic envelopes sorted by country.

He set down his jacket, ground the Menik slowly, poured water at ninety-two degrees. Return ritual. He handed a cup to Nadia. She drank it standing, silent, then smiled.

"Nadia, home sweet home, but rest no dey for we."

From the stack, a postcard jutted out. Rio, Christ the Redeemer arms open. One sentence, slanted handwriting: the third node dances samba, come fast. Signed with a lipstick print, shade unknown.

Nadia raised an eyebrow. "She has taste, at least."

Want to know who kisses a postcard before mailing it to a Cameroonian agent? Messenger, we take the plane to Rio together. ☕