He pulled up a split screen. Palace data on one side. Tonight's haul on the other. The patterns matched. Perfect overlap.
“Without tonight's files, I had suspicions,” Noah continued. “Strong ones. But nothing concrete enough to bring to you. Nothing that would hold up as proof.” His fingers moved across keys. “Now I have both. Pattern and confirmation. Surveillance and evidence.”
“Show us,” I said. Voice tight. Because Sebastian was shaking beside me and I needed to see what was worth keeping him in the dark for three weeks.
Noah's screen blinked. Final decryption complete. Data populated in neat columns.
“Four cells,” Noah said. “All funded from the same source. Hub and spoke pattern. One central controller coordinating multiple operations.”
“Ghost Zero,” I said.
“Not exactly.” Noah zoomed in on transaction records. “Ghost Zero is what they call themselves. But the funding source? That'sCrown money. Routed through offshore accounts. Laundered through legitimate business fronts. But it all traces back to palace accounts.”
The room went silent. Heavy. Suffocating.
“Someone inside the palace is funding terrorist cells with Crown money,” Adrian said. Voice flat. Final. “Someone with authorization to move millions without oversight.”
“Show us who,” Sebastian demanded. His voice was hollow. Empty. Like he'd already guessed and was bracing for impact.
Noah pulled up authorization records. Digital signatures. Encrypted access codes. Layer after layer of security that someone had used to hide their tracks.
“Three weeks ago, I identified the authorization pattern,” Noah said. “But I couldn't crack the encryption on the signatures. Couldn't prove who was actually signing off on these transfers.” He pulled up tonight's files. “What you got tonight had the decryption keys. The missing piece I needed.”
His fingers flew. Running analysis. Comparing signatures. Building proof that couldn't be disputed.
The screen blinked. Analysis complete.
Noah went still. Stared at the screen like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
“Noah.” Adrian's voice carried warning. “Show us.”
Noah pulled up the document. Zoomed in on the signature. Ran it against palace records. Match probability appeared in green text.
Ninety-eight percent.
Duke Marcel Devereux.
The name hung in the air like cordite after gunfire.
Sebastian didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just stared at the screen where Marcel's signature glowed in harsh light.
I watched him. Watched the color drain from his face. Watched his hands curl into fists so tight his knuckles went white. Watched something inside him crack open and bleed.
“No,” he said. Quiet. Broken. “No, that's not. It can't be.”
“I ran it four times,” Noah said. Voice gentle. Careful. Likeapproaching wounded animal. “Handwriting matches. Digital signature authenticated with his personal encryption key. It's him, Sebastian.”
“Marcel.” Sebastian's voice cracked on the name. “Marcel, who. Who's been advising my father for twenty years. Who taught me chess. Who. Who was there after she died. Who helped. Who.”
He stopped. Swallowed hard. I saw his throat work. Saw him fighting for control and losing.
“Show me everything,” he said finally. Voice empty. Hollow. “Every payment. Every authorization. Every connection. I want to see all of it.”
Noah pulled them up. Months of transactions. Millions of pounds flowing through offshore accounts. All traced back to Crown funds. All authorized by Marcel's signature.
Payment after payment after payment. Each one forty-eight hours before an attack. Like clockwork. Like a man ordering assassination attempts the way other men order dinner.
“He's been doing this for eighteen months,” Noah said. “At least. There are references to earlier operations. Deleted files. Could go back years. But eighteen months is what I can prove right now.”
