VOLUME 1, CHAPTER VII.THE SPECIAL BRANCH
Fueled by a couple of sliders and a shot of espresso, Marcus stayed locked in that quiet, heavy-curtained room, grinding through the reports handed to him by Bennett. The office crew was elite—ex-intel officers and street-smart analysts chosen for their tongues, their deep knowledge of the European underworld, and their ability to read the political wind. This crew stayed in the shadows of the city, never crossing the border. The field agents—the "ghosts" and "sirens"—were the ones doing the heavy lifting abroad, each identified only by a burner number and a rotating encryption key. No mail ever hit this office; everything went through a web of shell companies and "clean" front addresses across London.
Marcus's unit was a ghost department, entirely separate from the feds at Scotland Yard, but he had a skeleton key to every door in the city. He ran a private cabinet noir—a digital and physical intercept unit where the texts and DMs of high-level targets were skimmed and cloned by experts. If he needed muscle or a legal perimeter, the Special Branch was one page away.
Very few people—maybe nobody—held the kind of quiet leverage Marcus did, but he was a straight shooter. He never sold out. More than once, a high-level lobbyist or a desperate politician had offered him a bag of untraceable cash to leak a rival's private data. Marcus had shown them the door every time. His crew was loyal because he paid them like kings. His top lieutenant, usually stationed in Paris or Berlin, pulled a salary that would make an Ambassador jealous, yet Marcus himself lived off his book royalties and covered his own travel.
To the outside world, Marcus was just a "moody" genius, a best-selling author who was too exclusive for his own good. In the high-end hotels where he spent half his life, he never mingled. He had his own world, his own war, and that was enough.
If a civilian had seen the files on his desk that afternoon—discussed with Charlwood Collings, a former embassy attache who knew the Balkan power players by their first names—they would have lost their minds. Marcus was sitting on the kind of intel that determined whether the Foreign Secretary slept soundly or woke up to a crisis.
For an hour, they broke down a brewing storm between Berlin and Rome that Marcus's agent in the "Eternal City" had sniffed out three days ago. Downing Street knew about it before the Italian Prime Minister did, thanks to Marcus.
Marcus spent the afternoon on secure lines to Whitehall, his voice low and steady. He dictated a dozen encrypted blasts to Madrid, Stockholm, and Belgrade—orders to his "lambs" to move or go dark. By seven, he was grabbing a quick steak with the French naval attaché, and by 7:55, he'd swapped his designer gear for a low-key blue suit. He was back on the corner of Longridge Road, fading into the shadows.
Right on time, the delivery van rounded the corner. Paton, back in the courier uniform, hopped out and hit the buzzer at the target house.
"Yeah," the maid said, opening up. "Mr. O'Brien just got in. I'll see if he's taking visitors."
Paton waited in the hall, the "jewelry" box tucked under his arm. A minute later, he was shown into a back study where the gray-mustached man stood waiting.
"You got a package for Joan Caborn?" O'Brien asked, his voice gravelly. "I'll take it. I'm a friend."
"Does she live here, sir?" Paton asked, playing the part of the bored hourly worker.
"Sometimes. She's out right now."
"Then I can't leave it, man," Paton said, sounding annoyed. "Boss's orders. High-value insurance requires a personal signature from the addressee."
"I'm the homeowner. I'm a responsible person. I'll sign for it."
"Look, sir, this thing is insured for five grand. It's jewelry from a resort overseas." Paton squinted at the labels. "Looks like it's from the Hotel St. George in Corfu. That's in Italy, right?"
"Greece," O'Brien corrected, his eyes zeroing in on the box. He was hooked. He figured Joan had left some ice behind in her hurry to bounce from the islands.
"Well, if you don't know where she is, I gotta return it to the sender," Paton said, turning to leave.
"Wait. Is there no other way? I'll give you my personal guarantee for the insurance amount."
"Doesn't work like that. The policy says her hands or nobody's," Paton replied firmly. He could tell O'Brien was loyal to Joan, but greed was a powerful lever. "If she's still in the UK, I can reroute it to a local hub and they'll deliver it tomorrow. Otherwise, it's going back to Corfu on the morning flight."
Mentioning the return flight did the trick. O'Brien didn't want five thousand dollars in jewelry sitting in a Greek lost-and-found.
"I don't think she's abroad," O'Brien said, hesitating. "But I don't want her annoyed that I gave out her spot."
"Whatever, man," Paton shrugged, reaching for the door. "I'm just trying to do my job. It's a shame to send this all the way back to Greece because of a missed signature."
O'Brien went quiet for a full minute. The bait was dangling right in front of him.
"Look," O'Brien said finally. "I have an idea where she might be. Not 100%, but it's a lead."
"If she's in the country, we'll find her," Paton said, pulling a stubby pencil from his pocket. "Where to?"
O'Brien took a breath. "Check Edinburgh. No. 286 Strathnairn Road."
Paton scribbled it down on the yellow form, hiding the surge of adrenaline. "Got it. I'll get it on the night train to Scotland."
"Remember, I might be wrong," O'Brien added, looking a bit nervous now.
"We'll find out," Paton said. He walked out, the box still under his arm. Three minutes later, he met Marcus under a street lamp.
"Got it, Marcus. She's in Edinburgh."
Marcus was electrified. "Edinburgh! Nice work, Sandy. We hit King's Cross tonight. We're catching the sleeper."
As they headed for the tube station, Paton broke down the play.
"We're heading north, Sandy. Let's see what she's cooking in Scotland."
"Right with you, sir," the fair-haired Scot said. "But we need to check out this O'Brien guy. He's got a 'bad actor' vibe."
"He knows where Joan is. That's all the reason we need to watch him," Marcus said. He patted Paton on the shoulder. "Great work on the delivery act, Sandy."
"Your play, sir. I just followed the script."
Marcus hit a phone booth at Earl's Court to book two berths on the Scotsman, while Paton hit the next booth to call the Yard. He told his crew to put a 24-hour tail on Peke O'Brien while they were out of town.
At 11:30 PM, the two of them boarded the midnight sleeper at King's Cross. The platform inspector, who knew Paton was the heavyweight of the Special Branch, gave them a nod, knowing something big was going down.
"I'm crashing, Sandy," Marcus said as they reached their cabin. "Big day tomorrow. We roll into Waverley at 7:30. Have the porter bring my tea at seven."
"You got it, sir. Get some rest."
Marcus slid the bolt on his cabin door and tossed his jacket. He stared out the window as the train began to pull out of the station.
Had O'Brien really given up the ghost? Or was Edinburgh just another layer of the trap? Marcus closed his eyes, thinking of the disaster he had to stop. Caborn and Joan were in the country for a reason, and if he didn't find them at 286 Strathnairn Road, the Architect's empire might not be the only thing that crumbled.