“Second, evidence. If your people touch a scene, they document it with body cam and upload to a secure bucket. I will give you a one-way drop. Chain of custody lives or dies on habits. We keep it alive.”
“Understood.”
“Third, crowds. Your extraction routes are your choice. If you move the prince, you text my liaison two words: 'Phoenix moving.' Time stamp. Direction if possible. We adjust our units in the area and clear what we can. No heroics. No mystery tours. Clarity beats style every single time.”
“Agreed.”
He wrote three tick marks. Then he closed the notebook and looked at me in a way that had weight. The kind of look that said we were done with official business and about to start the real conversation.
“Now the part that is not on paper,” he said. “Belmont.”
I held his gaze. “You have my attention.”
“I am going to ask you a question you will not answer,” he said, voice low enough that any listening devices would have to work for it. “Not for me. Not in this room. Did you have anything to do with the Belmont warehouse incident last night?”
“No.”
We stood in the quiet with that single syllable between us. He studied my face like he was reading a document in a language he'd learned but didn't quite trust. Then nodded once. He believed me, or he believed I wouldn't lie foolishly enough to get caught in two words. Either way, we moved forward.
“Someone with training was there,” he said. “Not a boy with a fantasy or a thug with a grudge. My people found arrow shafts where they should not be and where they would be if the shooter understood angles. Trajectories. Kill shots versus warning shots.” He paused. “Whoever it was contaminated my scene, which is a rage I do not have time to indulge.”
“You think it is the same actor as last month.”
“I think it is a person who believes he is necessary.” He glanced at the closed door, then back at me. “This city will forgive a martyr if he bleeds pretty enough for the cameras. It will not forgive a prince dead on the pavement. I need you to understand that distinction.”
“I am aware.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I know your background, Viktor. I know you can hunt and not be seen. If you decide to hunt here, tell me first. If you discover who is hunting, tell me immediately. I do not care how important he believes he is. I care how many funerals I have to attend in dress uniform.”
“I am not your problem,” I said.
“Today you are my solution,” he said. “Accept the compliment.”
He took out a printed sheet and slid it across the table. A short list. Rally permits. Names of organizers. Two whispers about off-book gatherings that smelled wrong, the kind of wrong that ended with ambulances and riot gear.
“Reform Coalition,” he said. “Publicly, they are slogans and leaflets and university students who think revolution means posting on social media. Privately, a few of them are guns and pipes and people who've decided democracy takes too long. I do not confuse the two. Your prince should not either. Keep him at the line where speech is still speech. Do not let him wander across when it becomes theater for violence.”
“He will test the line.”
“Then make it a wall,” he said. “A polite one if you can manage it. A brick one if you cannot.”
He gave me a card with a number written in pen. “My mobile. Direct line. If a handler answers and it is not me, use the phrase 'bluecorridor' and hang up. I will call you back within two minutes. If I do not, assume I am in a situation and act with your best judgment.”
“Understood.”
His phone buzzed. He checked it, thumbed a reply with the speed of someone who lived on their device, slid it away.
“One more thing,” he said. “You will see pressure from inside these walls to handle things quietly. To make problems disappear before they become headlines. My job is to stop bad stories from becoming bodies. I will not sell a headline for a corpse. If you are asked to compromise a scene or silence a witness, you tell me.”
“I do not compromise scenes,” I said.
“I know,” he said, and for a moment there was something like respect in the words. “Which is why we are having this conversation and not a different one involving lawyers and uncomfortable questions.”
He picked up the notebook again, flipped to a clean page, wrote nothing, and set the pencil on the spine. A ritual. The closing of official business.
“Are we clear?”
“We are.”
