CSATA basement, 8am. Blue neon. Ngonda smoking. Three screens: Moscow, Washington, Yaoundé.

"Kom, neither the Kremlin nor Langley trusts the other on KOSCHEI. Cameroon is neutral mediator. Moscow asked for you by name."

Kom set down his cup.

"Director, if they call me by name, na piège or na respect?"

"Both, my son. You leave tonight. Cover: mathematics conference in Novosibirsk. Nadia holds the quantum channel inherited from Sentinel."

Nadia nodded.

"I keep the line open, doctor. Don't lose your phone in the snow."

Tolmatchevo Airport, minus twenty-one. A woman at the foot of the gangway. Anthracite coat, eyes that assessed before greeting.

"Doctor Kom. Irina Sokolova. Welcome to Siberia."

"Madam Sokolova, make we go, time no dey."

Armored car. Kom pulled out a Kymie capsule, handed it to her.

"Cameroonian coffee makes people talk better than vodka."

She barely smiled, pocketed the capsule. Then handed him a plastic badge. His name. His photo. Terrace of Cafe Kom, Kotto, three days ago. Blue shirt he was wearing that morning.

Want to know who in Kotto held the lens pointed at me Tuesday last? Write me on Messenger, I'll show you the exact framing. ☕