Estelle Ryan

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The

Anquetin Connection

Looted heirlooms. A dangerous fugitive. Crypto laundering.

Driven by an unwavering sense of justice, Doctor Genevieve Lenard is consumed by the hunt for the elusive mastermind behind a recent high-profile kidnapping and countless other crimes. Every new lead turns out to be futile, intensifying Genevieve’s frustration and determination like never before.

A breakthrough comes when this organised crime boss makes an emotional decision—a rare moment of vulnerability that offers Genevieve and her team a crucial glimpse into his twisted psyche. Relentless in their pursuit, the team tracks him to a specific location, only to discover that he has a terrifying endgame none of them had foreseen.

Genevieve must decipher the intricate puzzle of his plan, connecting seemingly disparate clues to pinpoint the location of his final, catastrophic act. With the lives of thousands hanging in the balance, can she unravel the truth and stop him before he unleashes unimaginable chaos?

The Anquetin Connection

A Genevieve Lenard Novel

By Estelle Ryan

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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First published 2025

Copyright © 2025 by Estelle Ryan

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely incidental.

Chapter ONE

“Once upon a time, a tiny star floated down from the sky and gently landed on a cosy blanket and giggled.” I frowned at the book in my hands and shook my head. “That’s outrageous. A star cannot land or gigg... No. This will not do.”

Vivi clapped her hands and wiggled on my lap. Her six-month-old hands grabbed the book and she brought it to her mouth. I gently took it from her and put it next to me. We were sitting on the large patio facing the swimming pool. Nikki—Vivi’s mom—was getting her oldest, Eric, ready for his last day in kindergarten. Next year he’ll be in first grade. Pink, Nikki’s husband and a member of the French elite emergency response team, was currently away for a week on a training course.

Vivi was at an age where she needed more sensory input and Nikki had given me this book to read to Vivi. I gave the book a look of disgust and turned Vivi to face me. My top lip curled again when drool glistened on her chin. Teething was not a pleasant time—not for Vivi and most definitely not for my neurodiverse mind that abhorred uncleanliness.

I wiped her chin with a soft cloth and took her hands in mine. “The world is quiet in the morning. Do you hear how quiet it is?”

It was indeed uncommonly quiet for a property with Vivi’s older brother and my best male friend Vinnie’s twins always running around, making a noise. It had taken me some time to get used to the constant motion and sounds, but after eight months sharing the property with the people I consider my family, I now associated this kind of noise with love and joy.

“Ba-ba-gah-gah.” Vivi grabbed my index fingers and waved our hands around.

“The blanket is smooth under our hands,” I continued my own story and brought her hands down to touch the blanket on my lap. It was a lovely, sunny morning. In Strasbourg, that meant daylight started at half past five in the mornings when I woke up to go for my daily run. This morning, I’d decided to do yoga instead and had loved the sleepy silence next to the pool. When we’d moved in, I would never have guessed that I would enjoy the garden in this large estate as much as I did.

The morning air carried the scent of jasmine from the nearby flower beds. I found the consistency of this daily routine comforting—the same time, the same sequence of events. Even though sitting out here with Vivi was not part of my usual routine, it still brought me pleasure. I’d learned to ensure extra minutes were always allocated to each task in case of special moments like these.

I shook Vivi’s hands slightly, then pointed at a large oak tree next to the main house. “Do you hear the bird? It sings the same note three times. Listen... one, two, three.” I had quickly become familiar with the warmth spreading in my emotional core when I looked at this little girl who’d been named after me. “I’m also happy, Vivi,” I said softly, touching her chest. “Happy and loved.”

Vivi’s eyes tracked my movements as I pointed to different objects around the patio, talking about their purpose, their colour, their texture. Her mouth formed a small ‘o’ shape as the bird was joined by another one, their song breaking the silence in the garden.

“Here you are.” Colin walked from our cottage, which was attached to the main house, onto the patio and smiled. “Hello, Vivi. How’s my beautiful girl this morning?”

She twisted in my lap, her cheeks lifting with a joyful smile as she raised her arms toward him. Nikki joked that Vivi loved Colin, my life partner, more than her own mother. Colin lifted her from my lap and spun her around. She squealed and kicked out her legs in delight. He put her on his hip and turned to me, his eyebrows raised. “You will never guess who phoned me.”

“Correct.” I shook out the blanket, folded it and placed it neatly next to me, positioning the factually inaccurate book on top of it. “I’m not even going to attempt to guess.”

He chuckled. “Then I’ll just tell you. Konstantin Khristov.”

“The art dealer from Bulgaria?” I straightened as my brain went on full alert. “Does he know where Ivanov is?”

Dimitar Ivanov was a ruthless, highly organised crime boss who had built a vast criminal empire in Bulgaria. In our last case, he had kidnapped the president’s sister-in-law and, a few days later, the first lady. Our investigation in Sofia had revealed his complex criminal operation that included counterfeit goods, money laundering, human trafficking and even hints of art fraud.

Even though we’d found the president’s wife and her sister and had exposed Ivanov for the criminal he was, he’d managed to escape. There was still an Interpol red notice out for his arrest and I spent at least three hours a day looking for any clue we might have missed that could lead us to his current whereabouts.

Colin kissed Vivi’s head. “No, he doesn’t know where Ivanov is, but he wanted me to contact his niece.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t know why. He only told me that she asked him to reach out to me. She knows about the work we do and she has some information that she’s convinced we would be very interested in.” He shifted Vivi to his other hip as she began to fuss a bit.

I narrowed my eyes as I studied him. His pupils were slightly dilated, indicating heightened interest. His zygomatic major muscles lifted the corners of his mouth, yet there was slight tension in the masseter muscles in his jaw. “Why haven’t you called her yet?”

“Because I want to test Francine’s new secure comms.” He glanced towards the house, his smile widening. “We can do a video call and you can read her nonverbal cues.”

I raised one eyebrow. “My skills are not required for this call.”

“But you are also curious about Francine’s system.” He narrowed his eyes in the way he did when he was confident about something and knew he could convince me. “I’ve already got everything set up. Yasmine is in the kitchen, so she could take Vivi.”

“We should be leaving for the office.” I hated changing my routine.

“Only in fifteen minutes. We have time.”

He was correct on all accounts. My best female friend, Francine, was also our team’s technical and cyber support. Recently, she’d altered the home theatre on the ground floor of the main house. The design was still the same, with seating for sixteen people—enough to host all of us, including the children, for a movie night. I didn’t enjoy going to the cinema for the predominant reason of the shockingly unhygienic state of the seats.

In our own theatre, I was assured that the seat that I always occupied was cleaned to my specifications. I still had to tolerate the crunching sounds of popcorn being consumed around me during movie nights. The neurotypicals had tried to convince me that a movie looked, sounded and felt better when one was eating popcorn. I remained unconvinced by their arguments.

I nodded once and got up. “Francine had explained all the technical changes she made. I am indeed curious how well it functions.”

“Well, I’m very curious what Konstantin’s niece wants.” He followed me into the house, Vivi still contentedly perched on his hip.

Doctor Yasmine Abidar was still in the kitchen and she turned when we walked in. She was wearing light blue linen pants, a cream-and-navy striped silk blouse and navy boat shoes. She flipped her layered dark hair over her shoulders with a smooth motion and pulled a funny face at Vivi. “Hello, Vivi.”

“Ya-ya!” Vivi grinned at Yasmine, but still clung to Colin’s shoulder. Her grip strength had increased noticeably over the past few weeks. “Yayayayaya.”

Yasmine laughed—a genuine expression evidenced by the bilateral contraction of her orbicularis oculi muscles, creating authentic crow’s feet around her eyes. She walked closer with measured steps. “Nikki will not be happy if this beauty says my name before she says, ‘Mama’.” She poked Vivi’s side gently with her index finger. “Mama. Mama. Mama.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” Nikki rushed into the kitchen. “At least someone is teaching my child to say my name. Pink is trying to indoctrinate her to only say, Papa and Dada. And now Eric is in on it, too.”

Nikki’s smile was warm when she looked at me. “Thanks for taking her off my hands for a few minutes, Doc G. Eric is an angel and gets most things right when he gets himself ready, but sometimes Mommy is still needed.”

“You’ll always be needed.” I was deeply proud of this young woman. I’d seen her grow from a sassy teenager to a successful art restorer and loving mother.

“Aw, thanks, Doc G.” Nikki blew me a kiss. “I’ll hug you later. Right now, I need to grab this little drooling monster so I can drop her and Eric off for the day.” She took Vivi from Colin and pressed loud, exaggerated kisses on her daughter’s cheek. “Then off to work I go.”

She waved over her shoulder as she rushed to the garages, shouting for Eric to hurry up.

“We’re going to test Francine’s secure comms.” Colin smiled at Yasmine. “I’ll let you know how it works out.”

“I used it last night. It’s fantastic.” Yasmine worked for Europol, her specialisation was in organised crime. On numerous occasions, she’d joined our investigations when we’d needed her expertise in a case. Her life partner, Lieutenant Daniel Cassel, was Pink’s superior and the team leader of the emergency response unit. They were a solid, well-matched couple. “I spoke to one of my old contacts in Italy, but they also haven’t heard or seen anything that might lead us to Ivanov.”

Yasmine’s agency was equally committed to finding Ivanov as we were. His criminal reach throughout Europe had placed him on the most wanted list of many law enforcement agencies.

Colin winced. “Damn. It would be nice if we could catch a break.” He took my hand. “Let’s go find out what that niece has to say.”

“Let me know if it’s about Ivanov.” Yasmine turned to the patio. “I’m going to have a last coffee before I’m off to work as well.”

“Have a good one,” Colin said over his shoulder as we made our way to the home theatre.

The moment Colin closed the door behind us, the soundproof room’s silence enfolded me like a weighted blanket. The absence of ambient noise was complete and immediate. I loved this feeling of absolute peace so much that we’d soundproofed the second bedroom in our cottage, which we’d converted to a reading room.

Colin walked to the small table at the front of the room and opened the laptop. Two minutes later, we were standing in front of the large screen, the sound of a ringing phone coming over the sound system.

The call was answered after the third ring. A young woman was looking into the camera, her expression a combination of confusion and surprise. “Hola?”

“Good morning.” Colin’s tone was polite but warm. “I’m Colin Frey. Your uncle Konstantin asked me to call you.”

“Oh. Oh! Oh.” The young woman moved the camera a bit away from her face and tucked her shoulder-length auburn hair behind one ear. Her warm brown eyes were wide with pleasure as she studied us. “I’m so glad you called. Oh, my goodness. I didn’t think you would. I begged my uncle for your number, but he told me that he didn’t give out numbers without permission. Oh, my goodness. I’m so glad you called.”

She truly was. Her lifted cheeks, the genuine engagement of the muscles around her eyes, the rapid speech pattern and repetitive expressions all indicative of her excitement.

Colin’s smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Could we maybe start with a name?”

“Oh, of course!” Her nose wrinkled when she laughed, drawing attention to the smattering of freckles across her nose and the tops of her cheeks. “I’m Oficial de Policía Natalia García.”

“A police officer?” Colin blinked in surprise.

“Yes.” Her smile widened even more. “I work for UDEF.”

I frowned. “The Unit of Economic and Fiscal Delinquency in Spain.”

“Of course you would know.” Her expression became awed and she leaned in. “It’s such an honour to meet you, Doctor Lenard. And you, Mr Frey. I... well, all of us here, know about the amazing work you guys do. That’s why I wanted to get in touch with you.”

“You are a specialised branch within Spain’s National Police, right?” Colin asked.

“Correct.” Her English was accented, but fluent. “We are responsible for investigating economic and fiscal crimes, including those related to art crime, such as theft, forgery and illicit trafficking.”

“We’re listening,” Colin said when she hesitated.

This was most interesting. Until this very moment, she’d been confident, excited and appeared sure of herself. Now she was biting down her lower lip, glancing down and shifting slightly—all signs of self-doubt.

“Well... um...” She cleared her throat. “My boss doesn’t know that I’m speaking to you. Neither of my bosses is in the office yet.” She looked around. “Never mind that. Um... I think I have a case that might connect to your investigation in Bulgaria.”

“What investigation?” Even though Colin asked, I knew there was only one investigation that this could be.

Natalia inhaled deeply and blurted, “A person you are still looking for might have bought a painting here in Valencia.”

“Is there a reason you’re not saying his name?” Colin asked.

“I’m breaking protocol in so many ways.” She lowered her voice. “Look at Casa Artevalencia’s portfolio for the most recent auction.”

I took half a step forward. “You are aware that I’m able to detect when you’re lying, correct? You should’ve also kept in mind that I can see how careful you are not to tell the complete truth.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Mierda. Of course. Damn. I’m sure I’m on the right track, but I’m not sure anyone here will believe me.”

“Yet you’re taking your chances with complete strangers?” Colin’s question was gentle.

“Maybe because you are complete strangers.” She inhaled deeply and pulled her shoulders back. “I’m new in this unit. I don’t want to anger my new bosses by wasting their time with something that might be nothing.”

I was sure this young woman had no idea how much her nonverbal communication betrayed her true thoughts. “Who did you anger before?”

“Your previous boss?” Colin added.

“—es. Bosses. Plural.” She swallowed and looked around again. “I hope you won’t be pissed off at me. I really believe that I won’t be wasting your time, but please have a look. I don’t want to tell you anything else.”

“In case we were asked if you gave us privileged information.” Colin nodded. “Got it. Tell you what, I will have a quick look at this and then I’ll get back to you in a few hours.”

“Oh, oh.” She pressed her palm against her suprasternal notch, the depression at the top of the sternum. It typically showed a state of vulnerability or was a self-soothing gesture. “Thank you so much. Oh, Doctor Lenard. Thank you.”

Colin ended the call and turned to me. “What do you think?”

“She knows a lot more, but the insecurity over her job and her bosses’ reaction made her hold back.” I sighed. “It would’ve been much easier to know what we were looking for.”

A slow smile spread over Colin’s face. “But then it wouldn’t be as much fun.”

Chapter TWO

“What am I looking at, Frey?” Colonel Manfred Millard stood behind Colin, his hands in his trouser pockets.

We were in my viewing room, a glass-enclosed room that blocked out most of the sound coming from the large open space our team occupied on the top floor of the building we owned. Colin had his own small desk in my room, but often shared the large desk facing the bank of monitors with me.

Francine was at the back of the room, next to the two antique-looking cabinets. Vinnie was, as usual, leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed. All our attention was on the monitors.

Colin pointed at the monitor on the left. “That is Anquetin’s Moulin Rouge.”

“And?” Manny glared at the painting on the screen.

“And it’s a masterpiece.” Colin shook his head at Manny and turned to look at the monitor. “In real life, it’s a huge piece. A bit more than two metres by a hundred and sixty-eight centimetres. Louis Anquetin created this vibrant work around 1893. See how he captured the bohemian and risqué ambience of the café-concert in bold, modernist strokes? Oh, man. That really exemplified the Post-Impressionist movement.”

As always, Colin became animated when he talked about art. His smile was soft as he looked at the painting that showed the interior of the Moulin Rouge with its characteristic energy. “It is an oil on canvas with cloisonnist technique that Anquetin had helped develop.”

Manny sighed loudly and long. “Tell me more about this Antique Tin. And for the love of the saints, keep it short.”

“Louis Anquetin was born in 1861, a French painter who was associated with the Post-Impressionist movement. He was renowned for his vibrant use of colour and innovative techniques that bridged Impressionism and Art Nouveau. Many of his works depict Parisian nightlife, street scenes and portraits in a lively, expressive style. He played a pivotal role in developing the Cloisonnism style.” He turned to grin at Manny. “I know you’re dying to know what it is.”

“Yes, I can’t contain my curiosity.” Manny’s bored tone and annoyed expression belied his words.

“Then I won’t let you wait any longer. Cloisonnism was characterised by bold outlines and flat areas of colour. It influenced many later artists and even the Nabi movement.” He raised one hand, palm out when Manny’s frown deepened. “Louis Anquetin was an important artist. His contributions significantly impacted the transition from Impressionism to Symbolism and Art Nouveau.”

Colin looked at the second painting on the monitor next to the Moulin Rouge. “L’Intérieur de chez Bruant: le Mirliton was equally significant in art history. Anquetin painted this around 1886 and it’s also a large work, about one and a half metres by one and a half metres. It shows the interior of Aristide Bruant’s famous cabaret.” He pointed at the woman in the centre of the painting. “Here you have a famous cancan dancer and other iconic figures. Again, this perfectly illustrates Anquetin’s mastery of the cloisonnist technique. Just look at the flat areas of colour surrounded by dark outlines. Isn’t it amazing?”

“Hmm. Yes.” Manny snapped his fingers. “Why are these paintings important?”

“There have been many rumours for many years that Moulin Rouge and L’Intérieur de chez Bruant: le Mirliton were both looted by Nazis.”

“Still doesn’t tell me a bloody thing, Frey.”

Colin swung his chair around to face Manny with a fluid motion, his expression shifting. “This morning, I got a call from Konstantin Khristov.”

Manny straightened slightly. “Does Constant Chris know where Ivanov is?”

“He doesn’t.” Colin, like the rest of us, had grown used to Manny’s perpetual mangling of names. “His niece, on the other hand, might know something.”

Colin told them about the call we took this morning, his voice gaining momentum as he explained the details. “As soon as we came in, Jenny and I started looking at the items from the last auction at Casa Artevalencia.” Colin pointed at the Moulin Rouge. “That painting was sold two days ago.”

“Who put it up for auction?” Francine asked.

“A shell company. We haven’t yet determined who owns it.” He smiled at her. “We left that for you.”

Francine rubbed her hands together, her bracelets jingling. “Ooh, digging for dirt. You’re the best.”

Manny cleared his throat, his lips pulled into a thin line. “What did you find, Frey?”

“The buyer was determined to get his hands on that painting.” He paused. “The bidding went on for some time and finally it was sold.” Another pause. “To a shell company.”

“Colin!” Francine snapped her fingers, her bracelets jingling. “You’re killing me. Just spit it out. Who bought it?”

“Varna Horizon Solutions. Surprise, surprise, it’s also a shell company.” Another short pause. “That belongs to another shell company registered by none other than Pirin Group.”

“Holy hellfire.” Manny rubbed his hand over his face.

This had been a shocking find indeed. Pirin Group was a legitimate business entity registered in Bulgaria. The current president had established the company many years before, but it had been dormant for most of its existence. Dimitar Ivanov had somehow managed to take control of that company, but kept the president’s name as the owner. Ivanov had used it as a front for the wide range of his illegal activities, creating a labyrinthine network of shell companies and false identities.

By the time we’d left Bulgaria, Pirin Group’s illicit operations had been exposed and all its assets seized. The company had been involved in everything from money laundering to human trafficking, with its reach extending right across Eastern Europe. Two weeks ago, the president had been cleared of any involvement with that company, his reputation restored. When I’d looked into the origins of the company who’d bought the Moulin Rouge, I’d been shocked to see it connected to Pirin Group. The connection meant that Ivanov was not only still active but had somehow managed to reconstitute his criminal network.

“What the freaking frick?” Vinnie pushed away from the doorframe. “Ivanov is in Spain?”

It had been a difficult two months for me, not being able to close the case completely. Loose ends weren’t kind to my neurodiverse brain, creating a constant state of mental agitation that interfered with my ability to focus on other tasks. For some reason, it appeared to have bothered Vinnie even more. Many days, he’d sat with me while we looked for anything that could lead us to finding Ivanov, his own frustration with the unresolved case matching my own need for closure.

Colin looked both confused and amused by Vinnie’s reaction. “Working on our swearing again, are we?”

Vinnie huffed. “Last night, Julian dropped his toothbrush on the floor. The word that came out of his mouth starts with an ‘f’ and ends with an ‘uck’. Roxy made me swear on my Aunt Helen’s recipes that I’ll try harder not to swear around the kids.”

Colin chuckled. “Tell them it’s an adult word that adults use when they’re so frustrated that they can’t find a better, more intelligent word.”

“Thanks, dude.” Vinnie crossed his arms. “Now my kids are going to think I’m dumb.”

“No.” Colin shrugged. “They’re going to learn that their dad can have big emotions and sometimes not have the right words. Maybe give them an alternative word to use. One that will make them laugh. Like crocosaurus or giraphant.”

“And you know this how?” Francine asked.

“Eric said the same word the other day.” Colin had told me about it and I loved the maturity of Nikki and Pink and Colin’s wisdom. “Nikki, Pink and I talked about handling it without shaming the kid.”

“For the love of the saints.” Manny sighed. “I know this is important, but can we get back to Ivanov?”

“Of course.” Colin took a moment, most likely to gather his thoughts after the diversion. “What interested Jenny and me is that Moulin Rouge was bought by Ivanov’s shell company, Varna Horizon Solutions, two days ago. But L’Intérieur de chez Bruant: le Mirliton was bought three years ago. By the same company—Varna Horizon Solutions.”

“Same auction house?” Manny scratched his chin when Colin nodded. “And both paintings were looted by Nazis?”

“Rumoured to be looted,” Colin settled back in his chair, the corners of his mouth turned down. “The Nazi art looting operation was the greatest theft in history. During World War II, Nazi leaders established vast looting operations in occupied countries that systematically targeted public and private property, especially the possessions of Jews. The magnitude of this theft was unprecedented. Experts estimate that at least two hundred thousand works of art were taken from their mostly Jewish owners in Germany alone. The total scope was even larger across all occupied territories, with the Nazis stealing countless paintings, sculptures, books and religious treasures.

“After the war, the Monuments Men and Women—members of the Allied Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives section—managed to return nearly four million stolen cultural objects to the countries from which they had been taken. However, according to various estimates, only about fifty per cent of the looted artworks have been recovered, leaving more than a hundred thousand items still missing and likely in private hands or state museums. The FBI reports that fewer than ten per cent of stolen artworks are ever recovered, making any connection to Nazi-looted art extremely significant in tracking criminal networks.”

Manny stared at the two paintings on the monitors for almost a minute. The silence in the room was complete except for the barely audible hum of the electronic equipment. Then he nodded slowly, as if agreeing with himself after making an internal decision.

“Pack your bags, we’re going to Spain.”

Chapter THREE

“Did you hear Yasmine talk about the jazz concerts?” Vinnie leaned between the front seats, his tone brimming with excitement as we entered Valencia.

It had been a short discussion before we had all agreed to take the fourteen-hour drive here. A commercial flight from Strasbourg would have taken nine hours with a stopover since there were no direct flights. The thought of navigating through chaotic airports—crowds pressing in from all sides, the cacophony of announcements and the legion of health hazards lurking in such public places—had made me want to wash my hands for no reason, my skin prickling with imagined contamination.

Colin was currently driving after taking over from Vinnie an hour ago. We had taken turns every three hours. I had managed to sleep enough to feel ready for the upcoming meeting with Natalia and her team. Manny had warned us that he had spoken to Natalia’s bosses and even though they welcomed our help, they were not pleased about the breach of protocol.

Manny and Francine were in the SUV behind us. Daniel was currently driving, Yasmine next to him. When she’d heard that we might have a lead on Ivanov, she’d insisted on joining us. But when she’d heard that we were coming to Valencia, her excitement had far outweighed her interest in capturing Ivanov. Apparently, Feria de Julio—the July Fair—was a month-long festival dating back to the late 1800s. Daniel had arranged permission to join us as well. Pink and Nikki wanted to join us, but Vivi was still small and both of them had work commitments.

“The jazz festival sounds amazing.” Colin nodded at the traffic in front of us, his hands steady on the wheel as he navigated the busy streets. “Seems like people are already flocking here. I’ve seen registration plates from Germany, Italy and even Latvia.”

“Rox would love this.” Vinnie’s voice softened at the mention of his wife. Doctor Roxanne Ferreira had grown to love jazz when Yasmine had insisted on educating everyone about the many talented classic and modern jazz artists.

Mozart would always be my first choice to calm my mind and to relax. Classical music in general brought me great joy, but jazz was a close second, especially the subgenres with greater harmonic and structural complexity. Since there were more than thirty subgenres, jazz allowed for many preferences, including the more mainstream melodic style that Roxy and Nikki enjoyed.

We drove through the heart of Valencia as the morning sun cast golden light across the city. The streets were lined with a mix of old and new architecture—baroque churches with ornate facades standing shoulder to shoulder with sleek, glass-fronted office buildings. Tall, elegant palm trees swayed gently in the breeze and the sidewalks bustled with commuters, tourists and locals enjoying coffee at outdoor cafés. The city pulsed with energy, vibrant colours and chaotic sounds.

“Almost there.” Colin turned onto a side street and slowed down, his eyes scanning for a parking spot.

It had been a relatively smooth journey here, but I was ready to get out of this vehicle and move. We drove past the building housing the UDEF team and were lucky to find parking on the same block. No sooner had Colin turned off the engine than I opened the door. Immediately, the morning heat entered the car. It was still a comfortable twenty-one degrees, but the blue skies and bright sun indicated that it was going to be a hot day.

I got out and stretched to the side, grateful to move. Vinnie joined me and groaned as he raised his arms high above his head. “Dude, I remember the days travelling on uncomfortable train seats for a full day and not feeling this stiff and... creaky.”

Colin chuckled as he walked around the front of the SUV, his posture relaxed despite the long drive. “Should I start calling you ‘old man’?”

“Not if you like your pretty face to stay pretty.” Vinnie glared at Colin, his teeth bared in a mock threat. “You look all fresh and like you didn’t just spend three hundred hours in a car.”

Colin’s heavy sigh was outrageously fake as he looked down at his light green cotton-blend trousers and striped tailored shirt. Then he pushed his fingers through his hair and sighed again. “Oh, the burden of my youthful good looks.”

“Fluff you, dude.” Vinnie’s top lip curled. “I don’t think I can do the non-swearing thing.”

“What the bloody hell are you doing just standing around like this?” Manny walked up to us, his khaki trousers wrinkled, his short hair looking as if he had just gotten out of bed. It did look, however, like he was wearing a fresh, wrinkle-free shirt.

“Waiting for you.” Colin’s tone was amused as he looked at his shirt. “Obviously, you needed a wardrobe change first. Should’ve thought about brushing your luscious locks.”

“Bugger off, Frey.” Manny raked his fingers through his short hair, then stopped with an irritated grunt. “Are you all awake?”

I frowned at him. “We are standing in front of you with our eyes open. Yes, we are awake.”

Manny’s lips tightened as he glared at me. “Good. Fine. Stay alert, Doctor Face-reader.”

“Is General Grumpy grumping his grumpy complaints again?” Francine stopped next to Manny and kissed his cheek, her face a mask of faux sympathy. “The last two hours were just too much for his delicate buttocks.”

“For the love of all the saints, woman.” Manny stepped away from her and pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. “We have eyes on us.”

“So?” Francine turned to look at the entrance of the building.

I recognised Natalia García from our video call. She was coming down the stairs, her body language tense. This morning, her hair was tied in a high ponytail. If it weren’t for the fitted cream summer jacket over her jeans and light-blue T-shirt, her attire would have appeared more suitable for a weekend away.

Daniel and Yasmine joined us just as Natalia walked to Colin, her hand outstretched. “Such a pleasure to meet you, Mr Frey.”

“Call me Colin.” He shook her hand, his smile warm and reassuring. “Thank you for meeting us outside.”

Her single nod was tense before she turned to me. She didn’t hold out her hand. “Doctor Lenard. Thank you for making the long trip here.”

“It was long, but also beautiful.” Even though the majority of our journey had been at night, the days were now long in Europe and we travelled through truly beautiful countryside. I studied her for three seconds. “Why are you so nervous?”

She swallowed. “My bosses are not pleased with me at all.”

“Let us worry about that.” Manny held out his hand, his tone gruff yet gentle. “Colonel Millard.”

“I’m Francine.” My best friend smiled warmly as she shook Natalia’s hand. “And that’s Doctor Yasmine Abidar and Lieutenant Daniel Cassel.”

“Oh, Doctor Abidar.” Natalia shook Yasmine’s hand, her eyes wide with admiration. “You work for Europol, no? Oh, I read about your work in Italy. I’ve used it as a reference for two of our investigations.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, agente García.”

“Ooh, no.” A blush crept up Natalia’s neck. “Please call me Natalia. Our whole team prefer first names. Formality always seems so pretentious.”

“Then that’s how we’ll roll.” Vinnie held out his hand. “I’m Vinnie.”

Natalia glanced at the scar on the left side of Vinnie’s face. “A pleasure. And again, thank you for driving here.”

“Shall we meet your team?” Manny failed to keep the impatience from his voice.

“Of course.” She turned to the building, her shoulders tensing even more. “They’re waiting.”

Francine laughed softly. “It sounds like you’re leading us to your doom.”

“To be honest, their disappointment in me is worse than if I’d been shouted at or even demoted,” she said as she led the way to the stairs with quick and purposeful steps. At the top, she entered a code in the keypad and held the door open. “Please, enter. We’re on the first floor, so I usually take the stairs.”

“I would prefer it too.” Colin walked past her, following me into the foyer. “I don’t think any of us minds stretching our legs a bit.”

The interior of this building was immediately striking in its balance of function and style. The floor was tiled in a pale, polished stone, cool underfoot and reflecting the morning light. The walls were lined with framed photographs of the city—vibrant street scenes, historic landmarks and candid shots of local life. Natalia led us up the stairs and through another two security doors, the latter opening to a large room.

Manny, Daniel and Yasmine followed Natalia into the open office space. Inside, five desks were arranged in a loose semicircle, each equipped with modern computers and ergonomic chairs. Four large monitors were mounted on the far wall, displaying real-time data feeds and case files. An electronic whiteboard dominated one corner, its surface covered in notes and diagrams. Natural light streamed through the wide windows, casting long rectangles of sunlight across the tiled floor.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with short greying hair and a neatly trimmed beard stood by the whiteboard, his posture commanding as he stopped speaking to an athletic-looking woman with dark, curly hair tumbling halfway down her back. The two men sitting at their desks looked up when we entered and a striking woman in her fifties immediately got up and walked towards the whiteboard.

The broad-shouldered man briefly pressed his lips tightly together before breaking away to meet us. He held out his hand to Manny, his grip firm and confident. “Colonel Millard. Thank you for coming.”

“Inspector Jefe Marín.” Manny shook his hand. “Thank you for inviting us.”

The chief inspector studied Manny for a moment. Then he glanced at Natalia and, with a small sigh, looked back at Manny and smiled. “It seems that we are going to be working together, so let’s forego all formalities. I prefer my team to function as a close-knit group.”

“Agreed.” Daniel stepped forward, shaking the chief inspector’s hand. “Lieutenant Cassel, but Daniel is much better for me.”

“Javier.” Chief Inspector Marín shook Daniel’s hand. “Welcome to Valencia.”

“It’s beautiful and busy.” Yasmine stepped forward and introduced herself.

The rest of the UDEF team moved closer. The athletic woman stepped next to Javier and shook Manny’s hand. “I’m Lucía Vásquez.”

“Inspector Vásquez is the team leader. I’m directly above her.” Javier glanced at Natalia. “Due to the importance of this case, I’ll be joining in.”

Natalia seemed to shrink within herself, her shoulders hunching slightly. The older woman walked to stand next to her, exuding an air of quiet authority. She wore white linen trousers and a blue blouse that perfectly matched her eyes. Her silver-streaked black hair was in a sleek bob. She was an elegant woman, her posture confident and graceful. “I’m Marta Soler.”

“Doctor Soler.” Colin shook her hand. “You’re a renowned art historian and provenance expert.”

“As are you, Mr Frey.”

“Colin, please.” His smile was warm. “What a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” She gestured at the two men, both with their hips resting on the closest desk. “That is Subinspector Antonio Ruiz and Oficial de Policía Carlos Gómez.”

Subinspector Antonio Ruiz was a stocky man in his mid-thirties with a short, military-style haircut and a square jaw. He quietly studied us, but his gaze lingered on Daniel and Vinnie as if sizing up their strengths.

When Vinnie shook his hand, he looked pointedly at the scar on the other man’s face and grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Seems like we’re scar twins.”

Antonio raised both eyebrows, but the left one didn’t move all the way, the deep scar running through it must’ve damaged some muscle tissue. “Hmm.”

Vinnie snorted at his non-answer and turned to shake Carlos Gómez’s hand. “If he’s the muscle, you are the...?”

“Brains.” He returned Vinnie’s grin as they shook hands. “I analyse financial records, track illicit transactions and do most of the digital forensics.”

Carlos was tall and lanky, with short black hair and wire-rimmed glasses. His pale complexion added to his studious appearance, which contrasted with the rest of the team’s much more active demeanour.

“And of course, you know Natalia.” Javier glanced at the young woman.

“Give her a break, Jefe.” Marta took half a step closer to Natalia. “She knows she overstepped by getting in touch with these people.”

“And to be clear.” Colin paused until Javier looked at him. “She didn’t tell us anything except to look at the items on auction at Casa Artevalencia. We came to the conclusion that Anquetin’s Moulin Rouge might be one of the many paintings looted by the Nazis and that the person behind the company who bought it is very likely Dimitar Ivanov. Natalia didn’t tell us any of that. We decided to come here. We weren’t invited.”

“We were.” Manny sighed. “Javier and I spoke at length yesterday.”

Marta turned to Javier, her hands on her hips, thumbs facing backwards. “Natalia might’ve made a mistake not coming to us first, but she was right about the painting’s provenance.”

Javier looked at Marta for two seconds, then turned to Natalia. “Why didn’t you first speak to Lucía? Or even one of the others on your team?”

Natalia blinked a few times and I was surprised to see her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, Jefe.” She swallowed hard. “I... I had bad experiences in the past. In my previous positions, I wasn’t taken seriously. My opinions were always immediately dismissed as naïve, young or as ‘scattered and chaotic as my freckles’.”

“Ah, the misogyny of the Spanish workplace.” Marta sighed heavily. “You won’t find it here, Natalia. Lucía won’t allow it. Neither would Javier. Or the men on our team.”

“She’s right.” Lucía looked at us. “Both of them. Unfortunately, Natalia’s experience is not unique. Spain is still suffering from entrenched sexist attitudes and gender-based discrimination. This is still a machismo culture and we have rigid hierarchical structures. Despite the law mandating gender equality, it’s badly implemented everywhere, especially in male-dominated sectors.”

“Like the police force.” Francine nodded. “Barriers to advancement, wage gaps and an environment where our voices are marginalised, verbal, psychological and even sexual harassment. Yup. It’s very similar in France. The law is fantastic, but the reality is far from it. And most women don’t report because they fear for their jobs.”

Lucía nodded. “We have high feminist awareness and proactive public policies in Spain, but the practical enforcement... we struggle with it.” She looked at Natalia. “You’ve been on my team for less than a month, so I understand that your previous experience still dictates your beliefs. I hope this will be a step closer to enabling you to trust us and treat us like your team members, not potential enemies.”

Natalia took a moment to compose herself. She pulled her shoulders back and nodded. “Thank you, Lucía.” She turned to Javier. “Again, I’m sorry, Javier.”

“That’s how we learn.” He lowered his chin. “But please learn quickly.”

“Yes, Jefe.” The relief on her face was pronounced.

Francine cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, but I just have to ask. Your English is fantastic. My experience in Spain is that not many people speak with such fluency.”

“It’s a requirement I have.” Lucía shrugged, her tone matter-of-fact. “Many of our cases included international elements. I can’t have someone on my team who can only communicate in one language. Most of us are fluent in more than four languages.”

“That’s... impressive.” Yasmine looked at our team. “I suppose much the same can be said for our side.”

Javier was studying Marta. He narrowed his eyes when she raised one eyebrow at him in challenge. Their relationship appeared to be akin to siblings, with her being the older sister.

He huffed. “Are you going to tell us what else you learned?”

“Who said I did?”

He crossed his arms, one eyebrow raised in a challenge. “Didn’t you?”

Her smile was filled with humour. “I was curious, so I did a bit of digging last night.”

“You found something else?” Natalia leaned towards the older woman.

Marta glanced at the monitors against the wall. “Settle in and I’ll show you.”

Chapter FOUR

“These are the five paintings I found in the last three years.” Marta stood next to the centre monitor, the glow of the screen casting shadows across her silver-streaked hair as she tapped the screen of the tablet in her hands. “This is the L’Intérieur de chez Bruant: le Mirliton by Louis Anquetin.”

Colin shifted his weight, his hands clasped loosely behind his back as he studied the image. “We also found that one.”

Carlos and Antonio had returned to their desks, their chairs creaking as they settled back to work. Lucía and Javier stood in front of an unoccupied desk at the front of the room, their arms crossed in mirrored stances, revealing their professional rapport. Natalia sat at a desk at the back, its surface a chaotic archipelago of sticky notes and an array of pens scattered without any discernible system. The sight made my skin crawl—the complete absence of organisation was a sensory assault that made me want to immediately restore order to the chaos.

“Then you know it was sold three years ago,” Marta continued, her voice steady as she glanced between the monitor and her tablet. “Same company listed it and the same company bought it, as in the case of the Moulin Rouge. We have three other paintings. Those were also sold by the same shell company, but bought by private individuals.” She tapped the tablet screen with precision and another painting materialised on the monitor. “This is Matisse’s Still Life with Oranges. It was lost from the Museum of Modern Art in Paris during the Nazi occupation.” Another deliberate tap. “This is Frans Hals’ Portrait of Michiel Jansz van Middelhoven.”

The portrait on the screen depicted a man in a black doublet and white ruff, his weathered face lined with age and wisdom, his steady eyes gazing out with quiet authority. The painting radiated dignity through Hals’ masterful brushwork that captured the precise texture of fabric and the subtle interplay of light on aged skin.

Colin leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinised the image. “More than seven hundred paintings were seized from the Führerbau in Munich. This is one of the more than four hundred that have not yet been recovered.”

Vinnie pushed off from the doorframe, his forehead creasing into deep furrows. “How did this not set off any red flags before?”

Marta turned back toward the monitor, her fingers drumming a soft, rhythmic pattern against the tablet’s edge. “Most artworks didn’t have detailed provenance in those years. This is one of those without clear ownership records. Thousands of paintings are still missing, but very few are both individually named and publicly confirmed as still missing. Most of the paintings’ statuses are unclear because of incomplete documentation from the war period.”

She tapped the tablet screen again and looked up at the monitor. “This is Camille Pissarro’s Rue de village. Also put up for sale by this mysterious company. So far, I’ve traced back five paintings, all suspected to be looted by the Nazis, all sold by Company X and both Anquetin paintings bought by Varna Horizon Solutions, which we traced to Pirin Group, which we know because of your investigation was under the control of Dimitar Ivanov.”

Yasmine tilted her head, a frown pulling her brow down. “Company X?”

“That’s the company on the auction house’s records that put all five paintings up for auction.” Marta shook her head once, her jaw tightening with disapproval. “That is an unacceptable mistake Casa Artevalencia made. The seller’s legal name should always be on record.”

I studied the image of Pissarro’s Rue de village—a quiet village street lined with modest stone houses, the brushstrokes loose and vibrant, the muted colours still pulsing with life despite their restraint. The impressionist technique created a sense of movement and atmosphere that made the scene feel almost tangible.

While processing everything Marta had just told us, a persistent question nagged at the back of my mind like an itch I couldn’t reach. I turned to Natalia. “How did you know to look into the sale of the Moulin Rouge?”

Natalia’s shoulders tensed, but she inhaled sharply and forced them back. “Two days ago, I came home and found a note pushed under my front door.”

Javier and Lucía spun in perfect unison to look at the newest team member.

Natalia swallowed hard, her throat working visibly as her fingers twisted the hem of her jacket into wrinkled knots. “I sent it in for testing and fingerprints yesterday morning.”

“Do you have a photo of the note?” Lucía waited, her gaze steady and unblinking, until Natalia nodded. “Good. Put it on the monitor.”

Natalia lifted her smartphone from beneath a precarious stack of papers, her movements quick and nervous. A few seconds later, the monitor on the right flickered to life with a soft electronic hum. On it was a note, handwritten in blue ink on ordinary white lined paper. “Feminine handwriting.” I stepped closer, tilting my head. “Graphology is known to be inaccurate, yet there are many indications here of the writer being nervous. The irregular and shaky lines, the compressed and smaller writing and the meandering baseline. I wouldn’t state it as a fact, but this person is likely female. And I would like to know why she was nervous writing this note.”

The note’s brevity was striking in its simplicity. There was nothing in the sparse wording that offered any insight into the writer’s identity or motivation. All that was written on the note was the date of the auction, “Moulin Rouge,” and the auction house’s name, Casa Artevalencia. I turned around to face Natalia. “Do you have any idea who wrote this?”

Natalia chewed her lower lip for a long moment, her teeth working at the skin while her eyes darted between the faces watching her. “I live in urbanización de adosados. You would call it a townhouse complex or terraced houses. There are twelve attached houses in a gated area. We share a large swimming pool with a beautiful garden.” She shrugged, her fingers unconsciously brushing away a loose strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail. “I know I’m young to own something like that, but my grandfather insisted that I buy property with the money he left me in his will. When he died two years ago, that’s what I did.”

Colin nodded. “Smart choice. Property is almost always a good investment. Tell me more about the complex. Is it easy to access?”

“Yes and no.” Natalia winced, her eyes flicking nervously toward Javier. “We have security codes and electronic gates, but people give their codes to their families and friends for easy entry. I’ve done the same with my parents and sister.”

Javier stroked his beard thoughtfully, his fingers tracing the greying line of his jaw. “This means anyone could’ve left it there. Do they know you work for the UDEF?”

She nodded, her shoulders rising and falling with a deep, steadying breath. “We all know each other pretty well. It’s that kind of neighbourhood where everyone talks. I’ve thought about this constantly since finding the note and really can’t even guess who might’ve left it. Most of us didn’t think it was necessary to install doorbell cameras, so we agreed to block such installation since our front doors all face the communal driveway. Now I regret that decision completely.”

Lucía straightened to her full height, her jaw set with determination. “We’ll figure out who sent it.”

Javier turned to face our group, his arms folding across his chest in a gesture that commanded attention. “Tell me everything you have on Ivanov.”

Manny jerked his chin toward me. “Doc, you can keep it short.”

I took exactly five seconds to organise my thoughts, categorising the information by priority and relevance. Everyone in the room was neurotypical and that always factored into my communication planning. “Until two months ago, when Dimitar Ivanov vanished from sight, he was the most feared and formidable organised crime boss in Bulgaria. His influence reached deep into the country’s business, political and law enforcement circles. He’d spent decades building and consolidating his criminal empire through systematic intimidation and strategic alliances.”

I paused to ensure everyone was following before continuing. “From what we’d learned about him during our investigation, he’s highly intelligent, plans with meticulous care and has cultivated a vast network of enforcers and collaborators spanning multiple countries. His operations were sophisticated enough to evade detection for years.”

“Most of those people cooperated with him because they feared him rather than respected him.” Yasmine drummed her fingers against her crossed arms as she added her expertise. “He’s the stereotype of stereotypes in what we see every day in organised crime syndicates. He rose from humble beginnings in rural Bulgaria. The little we’d learned about his past shows that he came from a very poor family where violence was normalised. Over the years, he honed his manipulative and intimidation skills, leveraging fear and loyalty to expand his influence across Eastern Europe.”

“Sounds like most politicians.” Antonio sniffed. “I have no patience for those gilipollas.”

Vinnie smirked, the expression pulling at the scar tissue on the left side of his face as he leaned against the doorframe. “Not all politicians are jerks, but generally I agree, dude.”

I cleared my throat pointedly, reclaiming control of the conversation. “There is an Interpol red notice out on Ivanov and most of his vast and multifaceted empire has been dismantled across Europe. All his legitimate assets have been seized by the Bulgarian authorities, but we believe he has access to substantial funds in accounts we haven’t traced to him yet. On the surface, he maintained the facade of being a successful businessman and real estate developer—”

“—who was married four times and engaged to a much younger woman,” Francine interjected, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “That gilipollas only had transactional relationships. I doubt he ever loved or cared for anyone but himself and his bank account.”

I barely suppressed my annoyance at the interruption and continued. “We have provided the Bulgarian government with comprehensive evidence that shows Ivanov raided legitimate businesses to use them as fronts to produce counterfeit goods, he flooded the EU market with fake Euros, he trafficked vulnerable individuals mostly from Romania, he laundered money through complex shell company networks and he often used kidnapping and violence to eliminate obstacles to his goals.”

“He built his empire on the suffering of others.” Francine put her fists on her hips. “He exploited every weakness in the system and used every tool possible to evade justice and maintain his power. I now want us to use every tool possible to end his reign of corruption and fear.”

Javier’s intense gaze locked onto Francine. “But we will do it within the guidelines of the law. We do not break the law to enforce the law.”

Francine sighed and lowered her arms. “That is much less fun, but I can work with it.”

Javier’s eyes swept from Manny to Vinnie, studying each face carefully. “I would like for all of us to work on a basis of trust.” He returned his attention to Francine. “You don’t have to hack our system to get access to our personnel records. I will gladly share them.”

Francine turned to me, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arching in a silent question. “Girlfriend?”

Suddenly, all eyes were on me, the weight of their collective attention pressing against my consciousness. I ignored Manny’s piercing glare and Vinnie’s curiosity, which mirrored Francine’s expression, focusing instead on Javier’s steady gaze. “There is no need to share your personnel files with us. Like our team, yours is also composed of an interesting selection of individuals with diverse skills and backgrounds. I’ve seen no indication that we need to be wary.” I shifted my attention to Manny. “We treat you with the same trust you have extended to us.”

Javier’s shoulders relaxed marginally. “Estupendo. Fantastic. I consider unnecessary distrust to be a stupid waste of time and energy.”

I agreed entirely with his assessment. Moreover, egos often robbed people of learning and discovering essential elements that could be crucial to intellectual and emotional growth, insight and success. In our case, it would slow down our investigation considerably and potentially allow Ivanov to disappear even further. Starting on a basis of trust accelerated everything. I didn’t need to spend more time with these people to be confident in my conclusion that they were trustworthy—their body language, speech patterns and behavioural consistency all supported this assessment.

Manny scratched his stubbled chin. “Doctor Marta, would you go with us to the auction house?” He glanced at Javier. “She and Frey can do their art thing, Doc here can do her face-reader thing.”

Marta’s lips twitched upward in barely contained amusement. “And you?”

“I’m backup.” Manny gestured toward Vinnie with a sharp jerk of his thumb. “Me and the big guy.” He turned back to Javier. “If that works for you.”

Francine sidled up to Carlos, nudging him with her elbow. “Carlos and I will do a deep dive into the auction house’s previous deals and transaction histories.”

Carlos nodded, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose with a flick of his index finger. “And look into Pirin Group and Varna Horizon Solutions financial activities in Spain and try to figure out who or what this Company X is.”

“Well, don’t just stand there, Doc.” Manny snapped his fingers. “Let’s go.”

Chapter FIVE

“This is so typical Europe.” Colin shook his head at the crammed street.

We had found parking three blocks away from Casa Artevalencia and were walking to the auction house. We were in the heart of the city and as Colin had said, the lack of parking spaces in European cities was the norm.

Like the other streets in Valencia’s L’Eixample district, this one was just as elegant, lined with stately nineteenth-century buildings featuring ornate facades and wrought-iron balconies. The July heat was already intense at eleven, the sun reflecting off the cream-colored limestone and pale stucco buildings, creating a shimmering effect that made the air seem to vibrate. The wide, tree-lined boulevard of Carrer de Ciril Amorós offered minimal shade as we walked, the temperature climbing steadily toward the day’s expected high of thirty degrees Celsius.

We’d anticipated the lack of parking and had all come in one SUV. Vinnie and Marta had chatted in the back for most of the fifteen minutes it had taken us to drive here and find parking. Marta impressed me. Not only was she exceptionally erudite and articulate, but she also had a gentle sense of humour. And she loved talking about Valencia.

“It’s marginally better in the off-season months. The city is quieter, but it’s also less vibrant in a way.” Marta sped up to walk in front of Vinnie, making space for a couple coming from the opposite direction, her movements fluid. “I suppose we have the same love-hate relationship with tourists as most other European cities.”

I didn’t enjoy visiting the Old Town in Strasbourg during the height of tourist season. The throngs of tourists clamouring for a good place to take a selfie were most distressing for my neurodiverse mind.

Marta paused mid-stride, her hand extending toward an impressive neo-Gothic structure rising between apartment buildings on the opposite side of the street. “That’s the Basilica San Vicente Ferrer, one of Valencia’s hidden architectural gems. It was designed by Joaquín María Arnau Miramón in the early 1900s and features magnificent stained-glass windows and twin towers that dominate this part of the street. Most tourists miss it entirely while rushing between the more famous landmarks.”

“And that is our destination.” She pointed at the next building ahead of us, her posture straightening.

The auction house was nestled between a restaurant to its left and an interior design shop to its right. Casa Artevalencia occupied a renovated ground floor space in one of the district’s characteristic buildings, its entrance discreet yet elegant with polished brass fittings. The two large glass windows showcased a gallery filled with numerous artworks, their gilded frames catching the morning light. Marta pulled the glass door on the side open and entered. Vinnie stood to the side of the door and gestured for us to enter.

“I’ll wait out here while you talk your arty things.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, positioning himself strategically where he could observe both the street and the entrance.

Cold, air-conditioned air greeted us as we walked in and Manny closed the door behind us. The interior was a large open space with polished concrete floors and pristine white walls that made the artwork pop with vivid intensity. Recessed lighting in the high ceiling created perfect illumination for each piece, eliminating shadows and glare. Glass display cases housed smaller sculptures and objets d’art, while larger installations commanded their own dedicated spaces. The minimalist design of the gallery itself ensured that nothing competed with the artwork for attention.

“Buenos días y bienvenidos.” A short man in his late thirties walked from the back of the gallery to meet us, his footsteps nearly silent on the polished floor. He wore fitted navy trousers, a tailored striped dress shirt, a brown leather belt and shiny brown leather shoes. There was no doubt that this man only had high-end designer clothes in his wardrobe, each piece selected to convey subtle wealth and impeccable taste.

Marta was the first to shake his hand. “Buenos días. Do you speak English?”

“I do.” He took his time to look at each one of us, his smile smooth and practised, his eyes conducting a rapid assessment. “Welcome to Casa Artevalencia. My name is Miguel Casillas and I’m the owner. How may I help you?”

“I’m Doctor Marta Soler.” She paused when Miguel’s eyes widened in recognition. “I’m from UDEF and my colleagues here are from France. We are investigating a possible unpleasant situation.”

“Oh, Señora doctora Soler, no.” His hands flew to his chest, his palms pressed hard against his sternum, the blood draining from his face. “Please, not in Casa Artevalencia. We work hard to never, never have any artworks with a black mark on their provenance. My grandfather was friends with Salvador Dalí when no one yet knew who Dalí was. My grandfather sold one of his first paintings from the 1910-1915 period. That’s how our small business started. My father took over when my grandfather was too old to continue and now I’m helping my father with most of the daily management of the business.”

His speech increased as he continued, his breathing shallow. “Our family name is connected to the integrity of this business. Our family reputation. None of us would ever risk damaging what took three generations to build.” He pointed at a large poster in the centre of the room. It advertised an art festival where Casa Artevalencia was a sponsor as well as one of the exhibitors. “Look at all the international businesses we cooperate with—banks, sports companies and even AldaiaCripto. I would never, never, ever risk losing my good name or these proud connections.”

Manny sighed and pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, his shoulders hunching forward slightly.

“Thank you for sharing that with us.” Marta’s smile was warm. She was good at putting people at ease. “At the moment, we only have questions.” She paused, allowing the silence to settle between them. “No accusations, just questions.”

Miguel exhaled heavily, his shoulders dropping as he released a breath he’d been holding. “I will answer all your questions. We have nothing to hide.”

Manny glanced at me and I nodded. Miguel was being truthful, his physiological responses consistent with anxiety but not deception.

“Three days ago, you held an auction.” Marta took a tablet from her navy-blue handbag, her movements deliberate and unhurried. “You sold Anquetin’s Moulin Rouge.”

His eyes shot wide open, genuine surprise registering in his dilated pupils. “What a beautiful work. Yes, we sold it.”

“Who put the painting up for sale?” Marta’s voice lost some of its gentleness, taking on a more clinical edge.

“I have to check my books.” He glanced at the back of the room, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. “Or even better. Let me get our in-house provenance expert in here. Give me a moment, please?”

Marta nodded and Miguel rushed to the back of the room, the tension in his body making his gait appear awkward, almost mechanical. Colin immediately took the opportunity to walk around the gallery, looking at the paintings and sculptures. His expression softened when he looked at two paintings, signs I’d come to recognise when he saw an artwork that resonated with him—a slight relaxation around his eyes and a barely perceptible tilt of his head.

“Here.” Miguel rushed back, an older man following him at a much more leisurely pace, making him look both nonchalant and dismissive of us. Miguel waved his hand impatiently at the man, his fingers fluttering in agitation. “Hurry up, Guillem.”

Guillem was probably in his late forties, his scholarly looks making him appear older. He walked up to Miguel and raised his chin at us, the gesture perfunctory and lacking warmth. “I’m Doctor Guillem Flores. What do you want to know?”

Colin stiffened where he was looking at a painting and swung around. He walked to Guillem, his hand outstretched, his posture shifting subtly. “A pleasure to meet you, Doctor Flores. I’m Colin Frey.”

Guillem’s eyes first widened slightly in recognition, then narrowed as he reluctantly shook Colin’s hand, his grip loose and brief. “You have questions?”

“We do.” Colin’s tone was admiring as if he were meeting a role model, his head tilted at a deferential angle. When I’d first met Colin, he’d often adopted fake personas to gain information from criminals in the art industry. After he’d been outed as working with law enforcement, he’d let go of those personas, much to my relief. I deeply loathed it when he pretended to be someone he was not. Like now. His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Can you tell us more about the Moulin Rouge that was sold at the auction here three days ago?”

“Yes.” Guillem raised his chin, looking down at Colin with barely concealed condescension. “What do you want to know? Anquetin’s Moulin Rouge is a masterpiece of the cloisonnist technique. Created around 1893, it captures the bohemian atmosphere of the famous cabaret shortly after it opened in 1889. The large-scale oil on canvas demonstrates Anquetin’s association with other post-impressionist artists like Toulouse-Lautrec and Émile Bernard, who were also regulars at the establishment.”

This man was most fascinating to watch. His nonverbal cues clearly revealed his motivations, yet he continued as if he were not at risk of being found out. The glances he directed at Colin and Manny indicated to me that he was aware they were investigating something he’d had a hand in. I, on the other hand, was the recipient of one single dismissive glance. After the initial introduction, he refused to look at Marta again.

This was a man who didn’t consider women worth his time and definitely not a threat to whatever it was he clearly felt guilty about. Guilty and very uncomfortable, as evidenced by the tension in his jaw muscles and the slight perspiration forming at his temples.

“Yes, Anquetin was truly an amazing artist.” Colin nodded enthusiastically, his eyes widening with apparent awe. “Do you do all the due diligence for the provenance of the art on sale?”

“Of course.” Guillem’s chest puffed out, his chin lifting even higher as his hand made a dismissive cutting motion through the air.

I pointed at his face. “You are clearly being deceptive. You didn’t do the due diligence. Who did?”

Guillem’s face flushed crimson, his nostrils flaring as he took a half-step backwards. “How da—”

“No.” Manny’s single, harsh word sliced through the start of what would undoubtedly have been a tirade. “Now is the moment you think very bloody carefully about your next sentence, lad. It had better not be a single rude word to anyone here. And it had better be the truth.”

Guillem’s surprise made me wonder if he always got away with speaking to people with such disrespect. He blinked a few times and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “Well, huh. Fine. I’m highly offended at the suggestion that something might be amiss with our due diligence.”

Colin’s smile held no warmth or humour, his eyes now cold and assessing. “No one suggested anything, Guillem. And who is this ‘we’ in ‘our due diligence’? Who did the work while you sipped your tea?”

Guillem’s masseter muscles tightened his jaw, but one glance at Manny and he took a step back, his body language shifting from aggression to self-preservation. He straightened his shoulders and tried to regain some of his poise. “We have a new employee, Carla Martín. She’s very eager and I was weak enough to indulge her when she begged me to allow her to prove herself by doing the due diligence for the Moulin Rouge. I double-checked her work, but if there is anything wrong, it will all come back to me.”

I inhaled to point out the multiple physiological indicators of deception, but Colin shook his head almost imperceptibly without even looking at me.

He studied Guillem for a moment, then nodded as if he believed the older man. “Tell us more about Carla.”

“She’s young and inexperienced, but very clever.” Guillem was far too eager to speak about this young woman, his words coming faster now. “I warned her a million times to check all the records we have to make sure none of the works on offer had any red flags. In her defence, it is not uncommon for paintings owned by anonymous companies or art that is held in freeports to be placed on auction. We see it all the time.”

Did this man even realise how much he was admitting to by denying things we hadn’t even mentioned? I pressed my lips tightly together to prevent the words from bursting forth, my teeth clenching behind closed lips. Colin had taken control of the conversation and Marta clearly approved.

She nodded as if in understanding and agreement, her expression carefully neutral. “Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to give us all the documentation connected to the Moulin Rouge.” She paused, her gaze growing less friendly. “We also want all documentation connected to L’Intérieur de chez Bruant: le Mirliton by Louis Anquetin, Frans Hals’ Portrait of Michiel Jansz van Middelhoven, Matisse’s Still Life with Oranges and Camille Pissarro’s Rue de village.”

She turned to Miguel, her posture shifting subtly to include him in the conversation again. “I assume that would be no problem.”

“Not at all, Señora doctora Soler.” He wrung his hands. “I will send it over to you the moment you leave here. You will have everything we have.” He paused, glanced at Guillem, swallowed and exhaled heavily. “Guillem has worked with us for the last three years. He has a PhD in art history and I’ve never found anything amiss in his work. He’s also put us in touch with a few of our major clients, including AldaiaCripto. He’s been a true asset to our auction house.”

“Thank you for telling us that.” Marta’s gaze was earnest, her head tilted slightly to one side. “Please remember to include in the documents you will send to us the sellers of each of those paintings as well as the buyers.”

I frowned. Why would Marta ask for information we already had? It took less than a second for me to include her neurotypical thinking into my attempt to understand. She was likely testing Miguel or Guillem or both.

“Absolutely.” Miguel shifted from one foot to the other, his weight never settling. “I will send everything as soon as you leave.”

“We will do so now.” Marta nodded once at Miguel, then once at Guillem, the movements final. “Que tenga un buen día.”

“May you also have a good day.” Miguel swallowed heavily as he watched us leave.

The heat from the street was pronounced after spending time in the air-conditioned gallery. Vinnie pushed away from the wall next to the gallery’s door, unfolding his arms as he straightened. “Any good news?”

“Marta is testing Miguel and Guillem.” I looked at Marta as I said this, noting the slight upward curve of her lips.

She smiled, satisfaction evident in her posture. “If either of them is trying to hide anything in the documentation they’ll send, we’ll catch it. We already have all that intel. It would give us a very strong case to get court orders for a deeper investigation if Miguel sent us altered records.”

“Uh, who’s Miguel and Guillem?” Vinnie waited for a teenager walking a beagle puppy to pass, then rushed to walk next to me, placing himself between us and the street, his protective instincts automatic and unobtrusive.

“Miguel is the owner of the auction house.” Colin shrugged. “He seems all above board. Right, Jenny?”

“I didn’t observe any cues of deception. Just deep distress that the reputation of his family business might be at risk.”

“Guillem?” Marta was walking two steps ahead of us and spoke over her shoulder, her pace slowing as something caught her attention. “He’s one... to... Well, what do you know?” She stopped and looked pointedly at a man coming from the alley next to the building. Guillem was speaking on his phone, his face a mask of distress as he whispered urgently, the device pressed hard against his ear. Marta huffed softly. “Definitely one to watch.”

The man who’d patently lied a few minutes ago didn’t even notice the five of us standing on the pavement watching him rush to the cars parked on the side of the street. He pressed the remote in his hand and the hazard lights of a small silver city car flashed once.

The explosion that followed stole every molecule of air from my lungs, leaving me gasping in a vacuum of silence that lasted two long seconds before the screaming began.

Chapter SIX

The sound wasn’t just loud. It was a physical blow. A pressure wave slammed into my chest, driving the air from my lungs before the noise even fully registered.

The silver car Guillem had approached was obliterated. One moment it was parked neatly, the next it was a fragmented, twisting mass of metal launched violently upwards. It flipped end-over-end, shedding doors, panels and glass like shrapnel before crashing back down onto the street, landing heavily on its roof. Instantly, flames erupted, greedy and orange, licking at the twisted wreckage and the spilt fluids beneath it.

Debris rained down. Large chunks of scorched metal clanged onto the pavement and nearby cars. Smaller pieces, sharp-edged shards of plastic and glass, pattered down. Dust and smoke billowed outwards in a thick, acrid cloud that stung my eyes and coated my throat with the taste of burnt rubber, fuel and something metallic and wrong. Screams erupted from all directions – high-pitched terror from a woman nearby, guttural shouts of panic from men, the frantic wail of a child further down the street.

With every bit of mental power I possessed, I forced Mozart’s Missa brevis in G major into my mind. Note by note, I mentally wrote the first movement, the Kyrie—a solemn, structured plea for mercy, its clear choral lines a stark contrast to the chaos. It was the only way to prevent the darkness from taking me. My body felt disconnected, my senses overloaded. The smell of smoke and burning chemicals was overwhelming.

“Guillem! Guillem!” The raw, agonised pain in the man’s voice next to me as he screamed anchored me, cutting through the mental fugue. Miguel. It was Miguel screaming.

I became aware of pressure around my torso, the rough texture of fabric against my cheek. Colin’s arms were locked tightly around me, pressing my face against his chest. My own keening sound registered, a thin, high-pitched whine escaping my throat as I rocked back and forth minutely within his hold, a desperate self-soothing motion I couldn’t control. The pavement beneath us was gritty, littered with chunks of concrete knocked loose from the building facade, sparkling fragments of glass and twisted bits of unrecognisable metal.

“We’re okay, Jenny. We’re all okay.” Colin’s voice was right by my ear, muffled slightly against my hair, his head pressed firmly against mine as he held me in a tight embrace. His breathing was rapid, his heartbeat a frantic drum against my ear.

We were sitting on the pavement, debris scattered around us. Miguel was standing next to Marta, both his hands gripping his hair as he screamed again, his face contorted in disbelief and horror. “No! Guillem! Guillem!” His voice went hoarse on the last scream, cracking with strain, his next words collapsing into a desperate, choked whisper. “No es posible, esto no puede estar pasando.” 

There wasn’t much left of the silver car. The front end was crushed into the ground, the rear section buckled upwards. Flames roared from the engine compartment and licked out of the shattered windows, sending thick black smoke coiling into the hot Valencian sky. The heat radiating from it was intense. Shards of metal were scattered in a wide radius. Guillem had touched the door handle when the car had exploded. Surviving such a blast, being at that precise point of detonation, was a complete impossibility. The wreckage offered no sign of life, only destruction.

“Guillem.” Miguel sobbed, the name a broken sound. He sagged, staring blankly at the inferno that had consumed his friend. Marta put her arm around him, speaking quietly in rapid Spanish, her voice low and soothing despite the chaos. Her elegant outfit was ruined, her white linen trousers ripped at the knee and smeared with black grime and dust, her blue silk blouse torn at the shoulder and stained with dark red blood that dripped from a small, jagged cut high on her cheekbone, tracing a path down her jawline.

“You good, Jen-girl?” Vinnie walked past Marta and Miguel, his boots crunching on debris. His eyes were constantly moving, scanning the rooftops, the windows, the panicked crowd, the side streets, as he glanced at me. He quickly returned to checking the street, his body tense, ready. A streak of soot marked his temple.

I took a moment to assess my body systematically. I frowned. “I have no injuries.” My voice sounded flat, detached, even to my own ears.

I changed from mentally writing the second movement of the Missa brevis, the Gloria – a complex, layered expression of praise – to mentally playing it while studying Vinnie. His black T-shirt didn’t show stains clearly, but there were several dark, shiny patches on his shoulders and back that looked suspiciously like wet blood soaking into the fabric. “Are you injured?”

“Little scratches.” He shrugged, a tight, dismissive gesture. He didn’t turn his head, his focus still outward.

“You shielded me.” The realisation clicked into place. The force that knocked me down had come from behind and slightly to the side—Vinnie’s position. If he hadn’t bodily thrown himself between me and the car, I would very likely have been struck by flying debris—the metal shards, the chunks of pavement. “Vinnie.” My voice held an edge I couldn’t define.

“What are you doing on the ground, missy?” Manny pushed Vinnie out of the way with surprising force and glared down at me, his face pale, his eyes fierce. “Are your legs broken?” His voice was harsh, abrasive.

“I’m unharmed,” I stated again, the repetition grounding.

“Then get your arse off the ground and start doing your job.” He snapped his fingers at me, a sharp, demanding sound. Then his glare intensified when my eyes focused on his shaking hands. “Now, missy. Frey, get yourself together and get off the bloody pavement.”

Marta took a step closer, concern flashing in her eyes, but Vinnie stopped her with a subtle shift of his arm. “Don’t mind the old man. Complaining and threatening is his love language.” His voice was low, almost conversational, but his eyes never stopped scanning.

Her eyes widened slightly before she looked down at me.

I stopped halfway through a sigh, realising that this exchange had been distracting enough to afford me crucial control over my neurodiverse mind. The overwhelming sensory chaos receded slightly, contained by the familiar pattern of Manny’s bluster. I turned awkwardly in Colin’s arms, the rough pavement scraping against my legs and kissed him on his cheek. “I’m okay.”

He leaned back, his arms loosening but not letting go, to study my face for a second, searching my eyes. Then he managed a small, gentle smile. “I’m glad.” The relief in his voice was palpable.

As we stood up, my legs felt unsteady, the muscles shaky. The sound of sirens, which had been a distant wail, suddenly came much closer, a cacophony of overlapping high-pitched wails bouncing off the narrow street’s tall, scarred buildings. I registered the sheer number of people now crowding the pavement, spilling out of shops and doorways. Some looked unharmed, merely shocked, huddled together or staring dumbfounded at the burning car. Others bore visible injuries.

Across the street, near a shop with blown-out windows, two men and a woman were carefully helping an older lady sit on the low windowsill. Her face was ashen, etched with pain. Her left arm hung limp, bent at an awkward angle where it met the shoulder—clearly dislocated. A young man nearby clutched his forearm tightly, blood welling between his fingers. A woman sat slumped against a wall, dazed, a deep gash on her forehead bleeding freely down the side of her face, dripping onto her light summer dress. The street itself was a mess. Building facades were pockmarked with shrapnel. Car windows were blown out. A motorcycle lay on its side, its front wheel bent. Glass glittered everywhere under the harsh July sun, mixed with scattered personal belongings—a handbag, a child’s shoe, a shopping bag.

“Guillem.” Miguel had regained a fragile control over his emotions. He stood straighter, but his face was blank, his eyes fixed on the burning car, now surrounded by firefighters. “Is he...?” The question hung, unfinished, hopeless.

“Yes.” Marta’s voice was gentle but firm, leaving no room for false hope. She resumed rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles. “I’m so sorry, Miguel.”

“Do you have any idea who would’ve done this?” Manny asked, his voice still rough but lacking its earlier snap.

Miguel shook his head slowly, his gaze still locked on the flames. “We’re not that kind of people. We deal in beauty, in history. We don’t know people who do this kind of thing.” The words sounded hollow, lost.

The sirens reached a crescendo as emergency vehicles converged, the piercing, oscillating sounds overwhelming my mind, threatening to fracture my hard-won control. I gripped Colin’s hand tightly, my knuckles white. I breathed out in sharp relief when he immediately pressed the back of my hand firmly against his chest, against the steady, reassuring thump of his heart. With his other hand, he rubbed my arm gently, the repetitive, predictable stroke acting like a counter-rhythm to the sirens, calming my racing thoughts.

The first paramedics sprinted towards our group, their bags bouncing, but Vinnie pointed emphatically towards the older lady with the dislocated shoulder across the street. They changed course instantly. A fire engine arrived, blocking the end of the street. Firemen in heavy protective gear rushed towards the burning car, not with hoses immediately, but with large, industrial-sized handheld fire extinguishers. They directed thick, white plumes of chemical foam directly at the base of the flames engulfing the engine compartment and the spilt fuel pool beneath the wreckage. The foam hissed and crackled violently as it smothered the fire, creating a thick, expanding blanket that starved the flames of oxygen. More firefighters began unfurling a hose line from the truck.

“Jenny?” Colin turned me to face him fully, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders. His eyes searched mine again, his brow furrowed with concern. “Are you really unharmed? No cuts or bruises you haven’t noticed? Nothing feels wrong?”

As I shook my head, a cold wave of realisation washed over me. I hadn’t even thought about his health. The moment the thought that Colin could’ve been injured entered my mind, a familiar, terrifying darkness flooded my peripheral vision, narrowing my sight to a tunnel focused only on his face. My breath hitched.

“Hey.” Colin’s voice sharpened. He took my face gently but firmly between his hands, his nose almost touching mine, forcing my gaze to lock with his. “Stay with me. Look at me. Stay with me, love.”

I grabbed onto that command, that anchor point. “We’ve been sharing a home and a bed for more than a decade. I have been staying with you.”

A strained but genuine grin touched his lips. “The happiest decade of my life.”

I swallowed as I tried to push the necessary words past the constriction in my throat, but they wouldn’t come. I swallowed harder, the motion painful. I tried again. Silence. It took a third attempt, forcing air through my tightened vocal cords, before I could finally ask the question that terrified me. “Are you injured?”

“No, love.” He lowered his hands slightly, one thumb brushing my cheek. He raised one shoulder in a casual half-shrug. “I might have a bruise or two where something landed on me, but that’s nothing.” He looked past me at Vinnie. “He has a few cuts, Millard probably has a few scrapes too and Marta has that cut on her cheek. We were incredibly lucky.” His gaze swept over the foam-covered wreck, the injured being tended to and the emergency personnel swarming. “Very lucky.”

The street was filling up, becoming crowded and chaotic. Police were cordoning off the area with tape, directing stunned onlookers back. More paramedics tended to the injured. A large black SUV with tinted windows forced its way through the periphery and parked haphazardly. Two men in dark suits jumped out. They scanned the scene with cold efficiency before their gazes locked onto Marta. They marched straight towards her, their postures rigid, commanding, radiating authority.

The moment she saw them, a small, almost imperceptible wince pulled at her lips. Then she gave Miguel a final, tight hug, murmured something to him and visibly pulled her shoulders back, squaring them. Her chin lifted. She glanced at us, her expression composed but serious. “The big bosses are coming. Stay here and I’ll handle them until Javier arrives.”

“Go get them, girl.” Vinnie offered her a tight, encouraging grin. “Doctor Girl.”

A flicker of a smile touched her lips, then vanished as she schooled her expression into professional neutrality. She turned around and walked with deliberate calm to meet the two men halfway.

Another car, a dark sedan, parked behind an ambulance and two familiar figures exited. Daniel looked around, then said something sharp to Antonio when he spotted our group through the chaos. Both men immediately broke into a jog, weaving through the emergency personnel. Javier got out of the driver’s side and ran to catch up with them. They slowed down briefly, making way for paramedics pushing a gurney towards the ambulance, but their focus didn’t linger on the injured woman. Like Vinnie, their eyes were in constant motion, scanning the buildings, the crowd, the side alleys, the rooftops, their hands never far from their concealed weapons.

It made me feel simultaneously more secure and significantly more in danger. Did they expect another bomb to explode? Was that a real, tangible possibility? After all these years working on cases that often brought me far too close to such violent situations, the visceral reality of it, the smell, the sounds, the suddenness of death, still slammed into me with primal force. I doubted that I would ever become truly accustomed to it.

Javier glanced towards Marta, who was speaking to the two suited men, but didn’t stop. Not even when the taller of the two men caught his eye with a hard stare. Javier simply followed Daniel and Antonio as they passed a young couple huddled together on the curb, the man clutching a bloody handkerchief to his hand, the woman sobbing into his shoulder.

“Everyone okay?” Javier demanded when they reached us. He looked at each one of us in rapid succession, his gaze sharp, assessing. He looked specifically at Vinnie. “Do you need the medics?”

Vinnie shook his head. “Just scratches. We can check it later.” His posture slumped for just a moment. “If I don’t, my wife will take away my cooking privileges for a month.”

Antonio stared at him. “You cook?”

“A little.” Vinnie snorted a short, humourless laugh. “A lot. Banning me from my kitchen is the worst thing my wife could ever do to me. Believe me.”

“Huh.” Antonio blinked, then refocused, looking at Javier. “They’re good, Jefe. Go.” He jerked his head towards Marta and the men in suits.

“The joys of command...” Javier sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. He turned. Both men speaking to Marta were leaning in slightly, their postures imposing, trying to tower over her. Their gestures were sharp, dismissive. Marta looked utterly unfazed by it. Her posture remained relaxed but alert, her movements natural, her expression one of calm attentiveness. She held her ground. “Looks like Marta has it under control. I’ll just go as her backup.” He strode towards them, his own posture shifting into authoritative readiness.

Antonio turned his attention back to Vinnie. “All secure?”

“Looks like it,” Vinnie confirmed, his eyes still scanning. “I had a quick look at the car, but the flames were too intense. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t remotely detonated. The explosion happened a second or two after Guillem pressed the remote. Felt like contact or a very short timer.”

“Three seconds,” I stated flatly. The sequence played in my mind with perfect, unwelcome clarity: Guillem’s hand reaching, the small remote glinting, the press of the button, the three-second pause, then the cataclysm. It was going to take mentally writing several complete Mozart compositions to get my mind not to fixate on that precise, horrifying interval.

“Huh.” Antonio stared at the car, now largely obscured by thick, white fire-retardant foam that covered the wreck and pooled on the street, steam rising where it met hot metal. “I agree. Not remotely detonated. Too tight a window for a signal delay or observer error. Our bomb squads are good at tracing components. If there’s a signature in the construction, they’ll find it.”

“A signature?” Miguel asked quietly, his voice raw. He’d been listening, his eyes red-rimmed. “Do people sign their bombs? What kind of sick people do that?”

“Not a literal signature,” Antonio explained, his tone softening slightly. “Bombers tend to have a specific way of building their devices – the type of explosive, the detonator, the wiring, the casing. Like a fingerprint in the chaos. If there is something like that in what’s left, we’ll find it.”

“Why would anyone want to target Guillem?” Miguel lifted both his hands in a helpless, questioning gesture, letting them fall limply to his sides. “He was a gentle man. A scholar, a man of the arts. Birds, paintings... quiet things.”

“How well did you know him?” Colin asked gently. “His friends? His family? Did he have any enemies? Anyone who might benefit from... silencing him?” He phrased the last part carefully.

Miguel blinked a few times, as if waking up. “Um... I... I really don’t know if he’s married. He never talked about his family or private life. Not once. We spent hours talking about art, music history, his love for bird watching in the Albufera... I...” His voice broke. “I don’t even know where he lives. I thought I knew him. I don’t. Oh, Guillem.” He wrapped his arms tightly around himself again.

“Do you think it might’ve been possible,”—Colin pressed carefully—“that he would give his approval for a painting with questionable provenance to be auctioned? Knowing it might be problematic?”

“An hour ago,” Miguel whispered, staring at the foam-covered mound that had been Guillem’s car, “I would’ve told you never in this lifetime or the next. Now...” He shuddered, his shoulders pulling up high towards his ears. “Now I don’t know anything about the man I thought was my friend.”

“And he never mentioned his family? Not even in passing?” Colin persisted.

Miguel shook his head slowly. “Never. Not a brother, a sister, parents... nothing. I just assumed he was private, perhaps estranged. I’m not one to pry.” He turned abruptly when someone from the gallery staff called his name from behind the police tape, waving frantically. “I should... I should go back to the gallery. They need... I will be there if you need me.” He walked away, his steps unsteady, looking suddenly much older.

“A tough day for him,” Colin murmured, watching Miguel’s retreating back.

“What’s your interest in Guillem’s family?” Manny took a step closer to Colin, his gaze sharp. “Is that why you put up such a bloody performance earlier?”

Colin twisted his mouth, thinking. “I’ve never met Guillem, but listening to him speak... his voice, its timbre, the slight inflexion... It’s almost an exact copy of his cousin’s. Uncannily so.”

“There a reason why you’re not using names, Frey?” Manny’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes, Millard.” Colin shook his head tiredly at Manny. “His cousin is a fence. A very good one who specialises in high-end art and antiquities and moves in very discreet circles. I haven’t spoken to him or heard anything about him in many years. And honestly don’t even know where he is at the moment. Or,” Colin added, his expression grim, “if he would want to talk to me.”

“Find him,” Manny ordered bluntly. “Find him and talk to him.” He pointed his chin towards Javier and Marta, who were walking back towards us, the two suited men now talking intently to the captain of the firefighters.

“Trouble?” Manny asked Javier as they approached.

“In a way.” Javier turned his back deliberately on the two men, lowering his voice. “Both of them are my superiors. The shorter one, Ramirez, is someone I trust. He’s directly above me. I answer to him. The tall one, Vizcaya...”

“His ambitions make him reckless,” Marta finished when Javier’s pause stretched out, her voice cool. “He insisted that looking into this ‘reputable’ auction house would be a complete waste of time and resources. He wanted us to stand down immediately and take the three new high-profile cases he brought with him.”

“My boss, Ramirez, told him that was unacceptable.” Javier scratched his beard. “He instructed us to put a junior team on Vizcaya’s three cases and continue working on this one. He gave us three days.” Javier’s expression was hard. “With the orders to dig and dig deep. Find the connection, find Company X.”

“What happens after three days?” Vinnie asked, his gaze flicking towards the tall superior, Vizcaya.

“They have a meeting,” Javier said flatly. “And my boss will have to answer to his boss.” His top lip curled in distaste. “The tall one. Vizcaya.”

“I don’t trust that man.” Marta pulled her shoulders back. She looked at me, her gaze intense. “I’m sure your expertise would tell you that there is something very underhanded about him.” She looked at Manny, then back at Javier, her voice dropping lower. “We need to solve this fast.”

Chapter SEVEN

“How do you survive in this place without a proper kitchen?” Vinnie put another tray of sandwiches on the unoccupied desk we were using as a serving table.

Carlos put one of the toasted sandwiches on a napkin and shrugged, his shoulders lifting in a gesture of resigned acceptance. “Antonio brings his tapas and we snack.”

Vinnie swung around to look at the stocky man standing next to the electronic whiteboard, his eyebrows rising with genuine curiosity. “Tapas, dude?”

Antonio’s lips twitched with a smile. “I also cook a little.”

Vinnie chuckled at his words being thrown back at him. “A little or a lot?”

“Somewhere in between.” Antonio walked to the desk with three heaped plates of sandwiches. “I grew up in a family that didn’t really enjoy cooking. When I was a rookie, I dated a girl whose grandmother was so shocked that I didn’t know how to make a simple meal, she forced me to visit her every weekend for more than six months.” He took a sandwich, his expression softening with the memory. “The girlfriend didn’t last long, but I still visit her grandmother every month. She’s ninety-three now and still insists on teaching me new recipes.”

“Madre mía.” Natalia finished chewing and looked at the sandwich in her hands with wide eyes before she looked at Vinnie, her voice filled with genuine appreciation. “What is in here? This is amazing.”

Vinnie’s chest puffed out ever so slightly. “I bought sourdough loaves from the bakery down the street, lettuce, avocado and tomato from the vegetable stand next to it and the feta cheese in the small shop on the corner. They also had interesting spices. A quick grill in the air fryer and we have a light lunch.”

“Where did you get an air fryer?” Javier took another sandwich and bit into it.

“In your excuse of a kitchen. Took me a hard twenty minutes to scrub it clean.” Vinnie had called me in to look at the kitchen and the ingredients before he’d started cooking. He knew that my mind resisted accepting food that had not been prepared in a completely hygienic environment. “The toaster in your kitchen is toast, though. Deader than dead. I think it might be older than some of the artwork we’re investigating.”

“You are hereby ordered to leave your job and family and move to Valencia.” It was only the micro-contractions of Javier’s small muscles around his eyes that belied his commanding tone. “You will report to duty tomorrow.”

Vinnie laughed. “Only in your dreams, Jefe. Only in your dreams.”

“This is really good, Vin.” Colin crumpled up his napkin and threw it at Francine. “You need to eat something, Francine.”

She hadn’t yet stopped working on her laptop to join us for a quick lunch. Her fingers moved across the keyboard in rapid bursts, pausing only to scroll through data streams on her monitor. The moment we’d arrived from the auction house, Javier had ordered Vinnie to visit the clinic across the street to have his minor cuts properly examined and treated.

Marta, Colin and I had changed into different clothes. Marta’s new outfit was one she’d kept in her locker here—red linen trousers and a white shirt with tiny red dots. She had a butterfly plaster on her cheek, the cut not as bad as it had looked when it was bleeding.

Colin had retrieved our suitcases from the SUV and I had quickly taken out a new outfit. I was relieved to feel the fresh, unsullied material of my cotton trousers and soft blouse on my skin. Francine had bought me this outfit for my last birthday. I wore it often.

Vinnie had changed when he returned from the clinic, while the rest of us continued looking into Casa Artevalencia’s business records. Francine and Carlos had turned their full attention to Guillem Flores’s digital footprint.

Colin’s napkin landed on Francine’s keyboard and she immediately flicked it away. Her quick glare at Colin lasted less than a second before she returned to her laptop. “You are interrupting my geniu... I am... wai... aha! Got i...”

“Want to finish a sentence there, Franny?” Vinnie picked up a large glass of water and took a sip.

Francine turned her chair to face us, her expression triumphant. “I got into Guillem’s phone.” She looked at Javier with satisfaction. “It’s great that you got permission so quickly.”

“It’s a bombing.” Javier shrugged, his matter-of-fact tone not quite masking the underlying tension in his voice. “The bosses and everyone else want this to be wrapped up as quickly as possible. Especially with the start of Feria de Julio. The city is already full of visitors—hotel bookings are at capacity, restaurants are booked solid and the streets are packed with tourists. Anything that could threaten the success of this month’s celebrations will be a disaster in many ways. Small businesses, the city and everyone in between will feel the financial consequences. Politicians are worried about the impact on their reputations, authorities are worried that it might be the start of something worse and so on and so on.”

“One step at a time.” Manny looked at Javier with understanding. Leading a team came with a lot of pressure that I often observed weighed heavily on Manny’s mind, creating tension in his jaw muscles and causing him to clench his fists more often. He turned to Francine. “What did you find?”

She was working on her laptop again and took a moment to reply, her fingers dancing across the keys. “An app.”

Manny sighed loudly. “Anything special about this bloody app?”

“Ooh, yes. Sorry.” She looked up from her laptop. “It’s an obscure app similar to WhatsApp. It’s not nearly as secure as the popular communication apps—actually, it has several vulnerabilities that make it easier to crack than most people realise. Guillem used it with only one person.”

“Who?” Natalia straightened in her chair, her posture becoming more alert.

“That’s where things get interesting.” Francine looked back at her laptop, scrolling through the recovered data. “I haven’t been able to figure that out yet. The phone is most likely a burner phone and it’s not turned on at the moment. Guillem has him listed as Artman.”

“What did they talk about?” Marta sat down at her desk, her movements graceful. “Can you send it to us?”

“I already did.” Francine leaned back in her chair, not taking her eyes off the laptop monitor as she continued to type. “You can read everything, but the most relevant to our case is that Guillem sent Artman a message last night. He told Artman that the police are looking into the sale of the Moulin Rouge.”

Complete silence settled in the room for two seconds. The UDEF team had similar responses to that news—their eyes widening slightly, the tension in their facial muscles increasing and shifting where they were sitting or standing. Only Nadia showed cues of regret and guilt.

She crossed her arms in a self-hug, her voice barely above a whisper as the colour drained from her face. “How... how would he have known that?”

“You gave the note to be tested.” Javier raised both hands, his palms facing upward in a typical ‘what-can-you-do’ motion. “We all know that there are leaks in every department. Someone along the way found out about this and alerted Guillem. It could have been someone in forensics, someone in administration, or even someone who overheard a conversation.”

Natalia took a shuddering breath, her shoulders trembling slightly. “He could still be ali—”

“No.” Marta’s tone brooked no argument, her voice cutting through Natalia’s self-blame. “You didn’t plant the bomb, Natalia. Do not take a responsibility on your shoulders that is not yours to carry. The person who leaked that information bears some responsibility, but ultimately, the person who planted that bomb is the only one truly to blame.”

Natalia nodded, but without conviction.

“Was there a reply?” I would study the entire exchange later, looking for linguistic clues and patterns that might reveal information about Artman’s identity or location.

“Yup. Artman replied with a question mark. Guillem then wrote that the police are not interested in who sold the painting, but rather who bought it.”

“So, he knew we were looking for Ivanov.” Yasmine put her empty coffee mug on the serving desk, the ceramic clinking against the wooden surface. “He definitely had a source in the police.”

“Which is something you had no control over.” Marta stared at Natalia until the younger woman nodded, this time with more certainty, though the tension in her shoulders remained.

I took out my tablet and tapped the screen. The neurotypicals were too easily distracted by their need to process emotions. I needed to stay focused on the factual elements of the case.

I opened the file Francine had sent and read the rest of the short exchange between Guillem and Artman. It contained only one more response, this one from Artman.

“My Spanish is passable, but I don’t understand this.” Daniel looked up from his phone, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Am I reading right? ‘Ni a loro’. Not a parrot?”

“Not even the parrot.” Lucía smiled. “We have an expression that translates to ‘don’t even tell the parrot’. It’s usually used in a very humorous manner when you want someone to keep a secret.”

“I don’t think this guy was being funny.” Francine shook her head, her expression darkening as she studied the message thread. “The previous messages from Artman gives me the impression he’s a brutal arsehole.”

“Example?” Manny took a sip of his milky tea, his eyes fixed on Francine.

“Um...” She scrolled down the message feed on her laptop monitor. “Here, Artman told Guillem to make sure there are no traces back to him or Guillem will bleed out before he feels the cut.”

“Well, that’s descriptive.” Daniel sat down on one of the extra chairs that had been brought in for us. “If Artman is the one who put the bomb in Guillem’s car, we’re dealing with a bloodthirsty person.”

“Most likely a man.” Lucía played with a pencil, twirling it around her fingers. “Firstly, Guillem listed him as Artman. Secondly, statistically, men are more likely to use explosives than women.”

“How far back do the messages go?” Yasmine sat down next to Daniel, her tablet in one hand, her phone in the other.

I had already scrolled back to look and recalled the first timestamp I’d noticed. “Three years and four months.”

“Hmm.” Colin looked up at the ceiling for a moment, his gaze unfocused as he processed the timeline. “Miguel told us that Guillem has been working for Casa Artevalencia for three years. And Anquetin’s L’Intérieur de chez Bruant: le Mirliton was sold three years ago.” He looked at Marta. “The other three paintings that were also put up for auction by Company X, when were they sold?”

She tapped her tablet screen, her eyes narrowing as she accessed the auction records. “The Matisse was sold three months after the Anquetin, the Hals and Pissarro the next month.”

“All around three years ago.” Colin tilted his head. “Not a coincidence.”

“You were right.” Francine was looking at her laptop with renewed intensity as she leaned even closer to the monitor.

“Of course, I was.” Vinnie tapped his chest twice with his closed fist. “As usual. But can you be more specific?”

“Not you, Vinster.” Francine looked at Colin. “Guillem is Lucas Durand Blanco’s third cousin on his father’s side.”

“Who is this Luke Blank?” Manny’s eyes narrowed. “Is he the fence you didn’t want to name?”

Colin nodded once. “I met Lucas many years ago. He grew up in the south of France, but worked all over Europe. The three times I met him in person, I had the impression that he had high standards. Don’t even start, Millard. Not all criminals are vicious murdering monsters. Like I said before, he specialised in high-end art and antiquities, but refused to deal in anything that had blood on it.”

“A Robin Hood.” Lucía shook her head, her lips pressed together in disapproval. “A crime is still a crime.”

“True, but I would rather deal with criminals whose victims only had injured egos and investment funds.” Colin looked at Francine. “Any idea where... of course, you know where he is.”

Her faux haughty look turned into a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “He’s on holiday.”

“No way.” Colin blinked in surprise at Francine’s expression, his eyebrows rising. “Here? In Valencia?”

“Both convenient and suspicious.” Lucía studied Colin. “Do you think he could be involved in the bombing of his nephew?”

“The man I met many years ago, no.” Colin raised both shoulders. “But people change, so anything is possible. The best way to know is to speak to him.” He looked back at Francine. “Did you learn anything interesting about Lucas and Guillem’s relationship?”

“Nope.” She frowned as she continued scrolling, her concentration divided between the conversation and her screen. “Lucas is very secretive and has a tiny digital footprint. He’s in his late fifties and Guillem was forty-eight. Lucas has no active social media accounts. Guillem was very active on his Facebook account. He often posted videos of paintings while he droned on about their historical significance and artistic techniques. I only checked two videos and drone is the right word—the man could talk a charging rhino into a coma. There is no mention of Lucas on his Facebook account, but his Myspace account is a different story.” She stopped scrolling. “That’s what I’m looking at now.”

“What?” Javier chuckled. “I’m forty-seven and I never had a Myspace account.”

“It was launched in Europe in 2006, so you were in your twenties then.” Francine grinned as she narrowed her eyes dramatically and tapped her manicured index finger on her lips. “How long did it take you to even have a Facebook account?”

“Very long.” Javier sniffed. “I have all the social media accounts now, so I know what my kids are up to and for work. So much of our investigations have a social media angle these days. I’m sure you know how many criminals incriminate themselves with their online posts.”

“True.” Francine glanced at me. “Okey-dokey... getting right back to Guillem’s Myspace account. He was very active in the beginning. He posted every meal, every art lecture he attended, every tiny accolade he received. He also posted a lot about his family. There are many photos of him and Lucas. But only until fifteen years ago. After that, no more family photos at all. It seemed like he lost contact with his family.”

“I met Lucas about fourteen years ago for the first time.” Colin paused as if to confirm the timeline with himself. “Yes, fourteen years. He talked about his children and cousins, but never a word about a third cousin.”

“Maybe they had a falling out so bad that Lucas now came here to kill him.” Antonio shrugged. “Family feuds happen. Especially in families involved in criminal activities.”

“Possible, yes.” Colin twisted his mouth and shook his head slowly. “My gut is telling me, no.” He looked at Francine. “Send me his location.”

She tapped the keyboard. “Done.”

“Is, or was, Lucas active here in Spain?” Lucía frowned when one corner of Colin’s mouth lifted with a knowing smile that clearly indicated he knew about said activities. “He has never been on our radar at all. Nor has Guillem.”

“I can’t speak for Guillem,” Colin said, his tone becoming more serious. “But Lucas is one of the best fences in Europe. He can trade works of art in ways that no one will ever be able to trace. He’s got connections in auction houses, private collectors and museums across multiple countries.”

“Doc, go with Frey and speak to his Blank criminal.” Manny looked at Colin. “We need to find out who this Artman is.”

“It’s as important as finding Ivanov,” Javier added, his voice carrying the weight of urgency. “I’m beginning to think that finding one will lead us to the other.”

“And maybe more looted artworks.” Marta leaned back in her chair, her expression growing thoughtful. “Spain has an unpleasant history when it comes to Nazi-looted art. Spain became a safe haven for fleeing Nazis after the Second World War.”

“Franco left a bad legacy.” Colin shook his head. “Not only did his government offered asylum to war criminals trying to escape justice, but the country’s collaboration with the Nazi regime extended beyond politics. Spain participated in art trafficking networks that helped launder stolen artworks.”

“Something we are not proud of at all.” Marta sighed. “But not all of us. After the war, many Nazi-looted paintings found their way into Spanish collections through various channels, including direct purchases by Spanish institutions and private collectors who may not have fully investigated the provenance. We don’t have all the records of these paintings, but it’s speculated that many families still have looted artworks in their homes. Artworks they inherited either from the Nazi ancestors or from a Spanish father or grandfather who got their hands on those paintings in some way. Maybe for payment or a bribe to give a false identity to a Nazi to start over.”

Natalia nodded. “Even today, Spanish museums have been reluctant to return Nazi-looted artworks to the families of their original owners.” She jerked when her phone pinged and looked at the screen. “Madre mía.” Her face grew pale with shock. “I did not see that coming.”

“What do you have?” Lucía was already walking to Natalia’s desk at the back of the room, her stride quick and purposeful.

The young woman looked up, her eyes wide with shock and her voice barely above a whisper. “I know who sent the note.”

Chapter EIGHT

“I’ve never been to her job.” Natalia craned her neck to look up at the building’s sleek glass façade, the mid-afternoon sun reflecting off the mirrored surfaces in dazzling geometric patterns that made her squint. Her posture was straight and alert, though her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against her thigh.

Vinnie glanced at her and his expression softened before he continued scanning our surroundings.

The high-end modern edifice stood tall among the older architecture of Valencia, its clean lines and minimalist design signalling wealth and exclusivity to anyone who passed by. The building’s tinted windows absorbed the intense July sunlight, casting deep shadows across the entrance where a uniformed doorman stood, his eyes scanning every person who approached.

Colin had parked our SUV next to Javier’s white sedan in the shaded car park, the vehicles side by side, their engines ticking softly as they cooled. Since this building was directly on our route to the luxury hotel where Lucas Durand Blanco had a booking, we’d decided to stop here first. I was very curious to meet the person who’d sent Natalia the note.

“All right.” Javier nodded at Natalia, then looked at us. “Let’s do this.”

Without waiting for a reply, he walked to the entrance, his stride purposeful. He pushed through the revolving glass doors, his reflection briefly distorted in the polished panels before disappearing. We followed him, Colin acknowledging the doorman with a quick smile as we made our way into the air-conditioned building.

Once inside, Javier headed straight for the security desk, his footsteps echoing on the pristine marble floor that reflected the overhead lighting like a mirror. The upmarket foyer was decorated in neutral tones of cream and grey, plush leather seating arranged in intimate groupings around low glass tables and a central water feature that sent gentle ripples across its surface. The sound of flowing water blended harmoniously with the hushed conversations of well-dressed professionals coming and going. The air was cool and lightly scented with something floral, a welcome relief from the oppressive heat that had pressed against us on the street.

I followed behind Colin, my eyes automatically cataloguing the environment. The large directory mounted on the wall caught my attention—brass lettering on black marble that listed dozens of companies. Solstice Strategic Investments was listed on the third floor, suite 312. That was where we were to meet Maria Montoya, Natalia’s neighbour and the woman whose fingerprints had been found on the mysterious note.

Natalia joined Javier at the imposing security desk, both of them producing their police credentials. The stern security officer, a man in his fifties with greying temples and alert eyes, straightened visibly at the sight of official badges, his demeanour shifting from routine politeness to professional attention. He glanced at us over Natalia’s shoulder, his gaze lingering for a moment as if assessing whether we posed any threat, before nodding at something Javier said.

Javier turned around and gestured for us to join them. As soon as we reached them, the glass security doors that led to the bank of elevators buzzed open. We walked through and waited in front of the elevators.

“Maria is expecting us.” Natalia’s voice was tight with tension. She rubbed her palms down her jeans, a self-soothing gesture that betrayed her nervousness. “I really like her. Maria, I mean. She’s always been kind to me.”

“So you’ve said. Five times already.” I turned to face her fully. I noted the slight tension in the masseter muscles in her jaw and the way she avoided direct eye contact, classic indicators of internal conflict. “Are you doubting your previous impression of her?”

Natalia’s shoulders slumped slightly, her hands falling to her sides as she released a slow breath. “Yes and no. I suppose I’m more worried that I might’ve missed something important.”

“I will set up a meeting for you with my therapist.” Javier’s tone was firm but filled with kindness. His eyes remained steady on Natalia’s face, conveying both authority and genuine concern. “Don’t even think of coming up with excuses. In our line of work, there are very few people who can do what we do day after day and not be affected by it in ways that compromise our effectiveness. We’re well past the era of shame connected to needing professional help.”

“I wasn’t going to come up with excuses,” Natalia replied, staring at the polished elevator doors as they slid open with a soft chime. Her lips twitched in a faint smile as she looked at Javier. “I was going to tell you that I’ve already made an appointment with my therapist. For next week.”

“Good for you, Nat.” Vinnie said before Javier could respond. Then he looked around the foyer and to the open elevator doors. “I think I’ll stay down here and keep watch. Jefe and Natalia have guns, so I reckon my eyes down here will be of more use to everyone.”

Javier’s smile was filled with genuine warmth and humour, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he stepped into the elevator and put his hand against the door to prevent them from closing. “Not your Jefe, but I’ll take it. And good call.”

The elevator’s interior was spacious enough for a dozen people, with mirrored walls that multiplied our reflections infinitely. We joined Javier and the door slid closed. Even with only the four of us inside, I felt the first familiar flickers of claustrophobia beginning to pulse at the edges of my consciousness.

The next twelve seconds passed in contemplative silence as we watched the floor numbers change on the digital display, the elevator’s mechanism humming steadily beneath our feet. The doors opened with another soft chime to reveal an elegant reception area that radiated professionalism and success.

The muted colour palette of soft greys and blues created a calming atmosphere, enhanced by modern furnishings. A large abstract painting took up most of one wall, its bold brushstrokes in deep blues and silver providing a striking contrast to the otherwise minimalist décor. The receptionist, an impeccably groomed woman in her early thirties, looked up from her sleek computer monitor and offered us a practised smile of professional courtesy.

“Natalia!” A woman’s voice called out warmly from across the reception area.

Maria Montoya was in her early forties, with light brown curly hair that bounced with each hurried step as she made her way to us. Her green eyes revealed the pleasure of seeing Natalia, but also showed flashes of anxiety every time she glanced at the rest of us. She was slightly overweight, her curves accentuated rather than hidden by her carefully chosen professional attire—a tailored navy dress that flattered her figure and a matching blazer. A delicate gold necklace with a cross pendant rested against her collarbone, catching the overhead lighting as she stopped in front of us.

“Hola, Maria,” Natalia responded warmly, stepping forward to embrace her neighbour. They exchanged the traditional Spanish greeting—a kiss on the right cheek, then the left—before stepping back. This is my boss, Inspector Jefe Marín.” She gestured at Javier, then toward me. “And this is Doctor Genevieve Lenard and her colleague, Colin Frey. They are from France, working with our team on an important case.”

“Encantada,” Maria replied, her smile genuine despite the micro-tensions around her eyes. She clasped her hands in front of her waist, fingers interlaced, a defensive gesture that revealed her discomfort with the situation and turned her attention back to Natalia. “Let’s go to the conference room where we can speak privately.”

We followed her down a wide hallway lined with framed photographs showcasing the company’s history and achievements—group photos from corporate retreats, ribbon-cutting ceremonies and team-building events. The thick carpet beneath our feet muffled our footsteps completely, creating an atmosphere of privacy and discretion that was undoubtedly intentional.

Maria led us into a spacious private conference room dominated by a large oval table surrounded by high-backed ergonomic chairs in soft leather. Floor-to-ceiling windows provided a panoramic view of Valencia’s skyline, the afternoon sunlight streaming in to cast long rectangles of golden light across the polished wooden surface of the table.

Maria attempted to project confidence, but her composure was deteriorating by degrees. Her fingers found her cross pendant, rubbing it between her thumb and index finger in a repetitive motion that served both as a nervous habit and a self-soothing mechanism. The gesture became more pronounced as the seconds ticked by. She sat down stiffly and gestured at the chairs. “Please sit. I must admit that I’m feeling a bit... what is the English word? Nerviosa?”

“Nervous,” Natalia supplied gently, her voice soft and reassuring. She settled into one of the chairs, her posture open and non-threatening. “There’s no reason to be nervous, Maria. We just have a few questions.”

“About?” Maria’s gaze darted from Natalia to me to Colin and back again in rapid succession as we sat down, her fingers tightening around her necklace until the delicate chain pressed visibly into her skin.

Natalia studied her neighbour for three seconds, her eyebrows rising almost imperceptibly as she processed Maria’s obvious distress. “The note.”

Maria’s hand clenched around her necklace with such force that her knuckles turned white, the blood draining from her fingers as she inhaled sharply through her nose. “What note?”

“Hey.” Natalia reached across the space between them to place her hand gently on Maria’s arm. Her touch was deliberate and supportive, establishing a connection. “It’s okay, Maria. I know you sent me the note about the painting that was auctioned at Casa Artevalencia. Your fingerprints were on the paper. The good news is that you’re clearly not cut out for a life of crime.”

Maria inhaled deeply, her chest rising and falling as she looked around the conference room with the desperate air of someone seeking an escape route. Her gaze lingered on the panoramic view outside. I saw the exact moment when her internal decision-making process concluded—her shoulders relaxed slightly, though her grip on the necklace remained vice-like. “What do you want to know?”

“Why did you put the note under my door? Why not speak to me?”

Maria’s eyes flicked toward the closed conference room door, as if checking for potential eavesdroppers, before returning her attention to Natalia with visible effort. “This is exactly why I couldn’t speak to you face-to-face. I had to work extraordinarily hard to reach my current position. I’m forty-one years old and still, every single day, I have to prove that I’m competent at my job. That I deserve to be here.”

“Because you’re a woman?” Natalia’s tone remained gentle.

Maria nodded emphatically, her lips pressing together in a thin line of frustration. “The finance sector remains a predominantly male-oriented industry, especially at the executive level. The only reason I’ve managed to become CFO is because I never, ever allow my emotions to show when I’m dealing with male colleagues or clients. Make no mistake—I cry and shout and scream when I get home, but here? Here, I maintain only calm, collected professionalism at all times. What does this have to do with the note, you might ask? Everything. If there’s even the smallest hint that I have any ties to Nazi-looted art, the men who want my position will grab onto that information like a drowning person grabs a one of those ring things.”

“What kind of ties might you have to such artwork?” Natalia’s question was without a trace of judgment.

Maria blinked once, slowly, regret tightening the small muscles around her eyes in a way that was impossible to miss. “Not ties in the sense of personal involvement or ownership, but rather the professional risk associated with the fact that I was the one who alerted you to the painting’s presence at auction.”

“What made you take notice of the Moulin Rouge specifically?” Natalia continued, her voice maintaining its steady, non-threatening cadence. “Do you visit Casa Artevalencia often?”

“The auction house? Oh, no, not at all,” Maria replied quickly, touching the back of her neck with her free hand, her fingers lingering there for several seconds before returning to her necklace. “No, I’ve never actually attended a live auction. I love art and I’m fascinated by the auction process, but I’ve never been to one in person. However, I do subscribe to their newsletters and receive email notifications every time they announce an upcoming auction. Then I spend hours—sometimes entire evenings—looking at all the artworks that will be sold, reading about their histories and provenance.”

I exercised considerable self-control to avoid pointing out her three distinct nonverbal cues of deception: the touching of her neck, the shift in her baseline eye contact patterns and the micro-expression of anxiety that flashed across her features before she controlled it.

Natalia was proving exceptional at interviewing her neighbour and observing Maria provided me with a legion of information. Thus, I stayed quiet.

“Spain’s history with war and conflict makes me profoundly sad,” Maria continued, her voice taking on a more passionate tone. “All the civil wars, the bloodshed, the innocent lives lost throughout our past. I recently watched a documentary about Spain’s role in the systematic looting of artworks during and after World War II. That’s where I first saw an image of Anquetin’s Moulin Rouge. So when I was browsing through the items scheduled for sale at Casa Artevalencia’s auction a few days ago, I was absolutely horrified to recognise one of the paintings from the documentary. I know you work for UDEF, so I thought it would be much smarter to ask you to investigate it rather than expose myself to a situation that might seriously jeopardise my career.”

Natalia nodded, her expression remaining open and understanding. Even though she hid it relatively well, it was clear to me that Natalia didn’t believe her neighbour’s account. The slight tightening around Natalia’s eyes that betrayed her scepticism was the only reason I was able to restrain myself from immediately challenging the obvious inconsistencies in Maria’s story.

“You could have simply told me this in confidence, Maria.” Natalia reached out again to briefly squeeze Maria’s arm in a gesture of reassurance. “Any time, day or night. I would have kept it completely between us until we determined whether there was cause for concern.”

“Thank you for saying that.” Guilt flashed across Maria’s features, her eyes dropping to study the polished conference table. “I didn’t want to cause any problems for you or for anyone else.” She looked up at Javier, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “I apologise that I can’t give you anything more substantial than my suspicions based on a television documentary.”

“You’ve been extremely helpful, Maria,” Javier assured her as he rose from his chair with athletic grace. “We truly appreciate your civic-mindedness and we won’t take up any more of your valuable time.”

Natalia also stood, her movements smooth and unhurried, designed to avoid creating any sense of urgency or pressure. “Please feel free to speak to me in person whenever you’d like, Maria. Call me or knock on my door. It can be completely off the record if that would make you more comfortable. Okay?”

More guilt pulled at Maria’s features, the emotion playing across her face before she managed to school her expression back into a professional mask. Her lips curved into what was clearly a forced smile. “Thank you so much, Natalia. We are all incredibly lucky to have you as a neighbour.”

We exchanged final pleasantries and goodbyes, the social rituals neurotypicals needed. Three minutes later, we emerged from the building into the blazing afternoon heat. Vinnie was the last one to pass through the revolving doors, his posture alert and his eyes continuously scanning the street for any signs of unusual activity or potential threats.

“I know she wasn’t telling the complete truth,” Natalia blurted out the moment we were beyond earshot of the building’s entrance, her voice low but filled with frustrated urgency. She looked at each of us in turn, her eyes wide with a mixture of disappointment and determination. “I’ve only met Maria a handful of times since I moved into the complex and we’ve never had what you’d call a deep conversation. I don’t know much about her personal life, except that she’s divorced, has no children and shares her home with two cats.” She took a deep breath. “I want to do some thorough research before I speak to her again.”

“I agree.” Javier glanced at me. “Genevieve, what’s your take on Maria’s behaviour and statements?”

“She felt genuinely guilty about lying to Natalia.” I looked at Natalia. “She respects you a lot, but she’s truly worried about her professional standing and job security. However, there’s a deeper fear—something beyond simple career concerns. That would indeed require more investigation and a longer, more detailed conversation to fully understand.”

“I’ll ask Carlos to dig up more comprehensive information about her background.” Natalia rubbed her palms against her thighs again and looked at me with hopeful anticipation. “Do you think Francine would mind helping with the digital research?”

Colin chuckled. “She loves digging up information on anyone and everyone. She would consider it a personal challenge and a professional pleasure.”

“She would.” I opened the passenger door as we reached our SUV.

Colin stopped beside me, his hands resting on the roof of the car as he surveyed our surroundings. “On to the hotel?”

“We’ll meet you there.” Javier nodded for Natalia to follow him toward their sedan, his posture remaining relaxed but alert.

“This is going to be interesting,” Colin muttered as he waited for me to settle into the passenger seat, his voice low. “The last time I met Lucas Durand Blanco, he made it abundantly clear that he was not a fan of law enforcement in any form.”

Chapter NINE

“This is exactly the kind of place I would’ve thought Lucas would spend his holiday.” Colin stood next to our SUV and studied the hotel in front of us, his eyes taking in the opulent facade with obvious amusement. “Nothing but the absolute best for him.”

The Hotel Mediterráneo Exclusive rose before us like a vision of obvious luxury, its cream-coloured stone walls gleaming in the late afternoon sun. The five-storey boutique establishment was positioned just metres from the pristine sandy beach, its Mediterranean architecture featuring elegant arched windows framed by wrought-iron balconies adorned with cascading bougainvillaea in vibrant fuchsia and deep purple. Palm trees lined the circular drive, their fronds swaying gently in the sea breeze that carried the salt-tinged scent of the nearby waves. The meticulously manicured gardens surrounding the hotel burst with oleander, jasmine and rosemary, their colours creating a tapestry of Mediterranean flora that perfumed the warm air with intoxicating fragrance.

The sun was moving lower on the horizon, casting long golden shadows across the hotel’s terraced gardens and reflecting off the azure waters beyond in brilliant shards of light. The beach stretched endlessly in both directions, dotted with high-end sun loungers upholstered in crisp white canvas, many still occupied by guests reluctant to abandon their prime positions. Several figures lay motionless in the sun, their skin glistening with tanning oils, heavy gold necklaces and bracelets catching the light as they shifted positions. The rhythmic sound of the small waves lapping against the shore provided a constant, soothing backdrop to the distant laughter and conversation drifting from the beach.

Javier joined us and looked down at his navy-blue suit trousers and white dress shirt, tugging at his collar as beads of perspiration formed along his hairline. “I think I’m going to stand out in there like a neon sign.”

“Very likely,” Colin agreed with a knowing smile, then shrugged as he gestured at his cream linen slacks, pastel blue cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms and light tan loafers. “This is more the speed for an establishment like this.”

“What about me?” Natalia grinned as she looked down at her outfit—faded blue jeans that hugged her curves, a simple blue T-shirt and white espadrilles with rope soles that spoke of Spanish summer traditions.

“Hmm.” Colin pinched his chin between thumb and forefinger in an exaggerated gesture of thoughtful contemplation as he looked her up and down with theatrical seriousness. “A wealthy young woman deliberately shopping at thrift stores and using second-hand apps to appear trendy or rebellious, or perhaps to make an environmental statement about sustainable fashion.”

Her eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise, her lips parting slightly. “I actually did buy the shoes and jeans on a second-hand app. How could you possibly know that?”

“My wife absolutely loves those.” Vinnie’s expression softened every time he talked about Roxy. “She says she’s giving clothes a second life instead of contributing to fast fashion waste. She also sells items she doesn’t wear anymore.”

“She does?” Colin’s eyebrows rose with genuine surprise. “I had no idea.”

“What’s your plan for approaching Lucas?” Javier thankfully redirected us back to the matter at hand, his tone becoming more businesslike as he surveyed the hotel’s imposing entrance.

“Jenny and I will go in.” Colin took my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine in a gesture that appeared casual but always grounded me. “If Lucas is still the same creature of habit I remember, he’s either holding court in the bar—if they have one worthy of his standards—or he’s enjoying a light meal in their restaurant. Let’s first see if we can locate him. If not, we’ll proceed to plan B.”

“Which is?” Javier raised one eyebrow.

“Currently being developed as we speak.” Colin grinned at him, then his expression sobered. “Would you mind staying out of sight? Lucas isn’t keen on law enforcement.”

“We can do that.” Javier’s posture shifted to a more tactical stance. “We’ll position ourselves within shouting distance but maintain visual cover.”

“Thank you.” Colin’s expression conveyed both respect and appreciation. He turned to me. “Ready?”

I nodded. If I were to open my mouth, I would start pontificating about the numerous things I was decidedly not ready for. I wasn’t ready for another explosion that might shatter glass and human bodies alike. I wasn’t ready for substandard hygiene protocols in the hotel’s kitchen facilities. I wasn’t ready for drunk, loud tourists whose voices would assault my auditory processing systems. I wasn’t ready for crowded spaces where bodies pressed too close and conversations overlapped in cacophonous layers. I wasn’t ready for many things that might await us inside.

But I was absolutely ready to catalogue nonverbal cues and detect deception, so I walked with Colin toward the hotel’s entrance. We passed through an archway supported by marble columns beside a doorway crafted from rich mahogany and adorned with brass fittings that gleamed in the afternoon sun. The foyer beyond was a symphony of marble and crystal, with Persian rugs scattered across polished floors and fresh orchids arranged in tall crystal vases that caught and refracted the light from enormous chandeliers.

We followed the signs to the terrace restaurant that led us to large, open French doors. Beyond which tables covered in white linen cloths on the beautiful patio were shaded by elegant cream-coloured umbrellas. The outdoor dining area overlooked an emerald golf course that stretched toward the horizon, its fairways dotted with sand bunkers and water hazards. In the distance, the golf course melted seamlessly into golden sand dunes that rolled down to the Mediterranean.

We stood next to the polished brass sign that requested patrons to wait to be seated. Most of the tables were unoccupied. Not surprising at eleven minutes past five. In Spain, dinner was traditionally served around nine in the evening, a cultural rhythm that differed significantly from French habits, where dinner appeared around eight. In our combined household, Vinnie had established his own schedule, preparing dinner at seven on days when we weren’t completely absorbed in the complexities of a case.

“Ah, there he is,” Colin murmured, turning his back on the restaurant with deliberate casualness as he looked at me. “Lucas is the gentleman wearing the cream Panama hat, beige linen shirt that probably cost more than most people’s monthly salary and navy shorts. The other man at his table is wearing blue linen trousers and—”

“A white golf shirt. I see them.” I put my sunglasses on. Not only because the sun’s rays bounced off the terrace’s light-cream stone surfaces with eye-watering intensity, but because the tinted lenses allowed me to freely observe Lucas and his companion without arousing suspicion. I was far more interested in analysing their nonverbal cues than cataloguing their attire and that level of scrutiny required prolonged, careful observation.

Lucas and the other man displayed fascinating contradictions in their body language—they maintained the relaxed postures of vacationing gentlemen enjoying an afternoon drink, yet their eyes continually scanned their surroundings with the wariness of men accustomed to danger. Their conversation appeared casual, but the tension in their shoulders and the way they leaned slightly toward each other suggested the exchange of sensitive information rather than holiday pleasantries.

Colin turned back in time to see a waiter approaching us, his steps measured and precise across the terrace’s stone floor. It was most fascinating to observe the slender young man’s gaze as he scrutinised Colin’s outfit first, then mine, before finally rising to our faces—a clear indication of the establishment’s priorities regarding appearances. His smile bloomed with genuine approval as he stopped before us, his posture straightening imperceptibly.

“Hola. Table for two?” His English was slightly accented, his tone conveying both deference and professional warmth.

“That would be marvellous,” Colin replied, his accent suddenly shifting to crisp British English that jarred against my auditory expectations. The abrupt transformation required me to mentally write the first two bars of Mozart’s Serenade No. 12 for winds in C minor to maintain control over my expression. Colin’s smile was polite but deliberately restrained, lacking the spontaneous warmth he typically displayed. “If at all possible, a table closer to the golf course would be most appreciated.”

The waiter’s posture straightened even further, his chin lifting slightly in response to Colin’s aristocratic tone. “Of course, sir.”

He led us through the scattered unoccupied tables to one positioned at the far end of the patio, offering an unobstructed view of both the golf course and, crucially, Lucas’s table. Colin nodded once in approval, the gesture precise and measured. “Thank you.”

The waiter waited for us to be seated before placing heavy linen-bound menus before us, his movements displaying the choreographed elegance of someone trained in high-end hospitality. “May I suggest our chef’s seafood salad and a local white wine? Or perhaps sangria? It’s particularly refreshing in this afternoon heat.”

“Hmm...” Colin looked out over the golf course, feigning deep consideration while actually positioning himself to keep Lucas in his peripheral vision. “I’ll take the salad and we’ll share a pitcher of sangria.” He opened the menu and glanced inside with haughty indifference before closing it decisively. “My wife will ha... you know what, make it two salads.”

The flash of approval that crossed the waiter’s face at Colin’s presumption of ordering for me was quickly replaced by professional neutrality. He nodded once, collected the menus with a fluid motion and departed without further comment.

“Deep breaths, Jenny.” Colin reached across the table to take my hand, his thumb tracing soothing circles against my skin. “You don’t have to eat or drink anything.”

“I wasn’t planning to.” Even though the restaurant appeared to maintain impeccable standards of cleanliness, my mind simply wouldn’t allow even the consideration of consuming anything prepared in a kitchen I hadn’t personally inspected for adherence to proper hygiene protocols.

Colin smiled and glanced to the side, his gaze casual but calculating. Four tables separated us from Lucas and his guest. Colin had strategically chosen the seat that didn’t place him directly in Lucas’s line of sight, allowing me to observe the older man without drawing attention. By looking just past Colin’s left ear, I could study Lucas’s expressions and gestures with ease.

“He’s noticed you.” Having my sunglasses obscure my eyes was most convenient. “If you were to turn your face slightly toward the golf course, he would have a clearer view of your profile. Currently, he’s trying to determine if he recognises you.”

Colin immediately followed my suggestion, angling his body toward the panoramic view beyond the terrace. Several golfers moved across the golf course, their white attire stark against the verdant backdrop.

Colin raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare, the gesture allowing him to turn his face more fully toward Lucas while appearing to focus on a tall golfer selecting a club from his bag. “Is he looking at me now?”

“He recognised you.” I followed Colin’s gaze and nodded as if I agreed to whatever he was saying about the tall man taking a long time to choose the correct golf club. I turned back to study Lucas over Colin’s shoulder. “He’s exhibiting cues of surprise and pleasure.”

Colin’s smile softened with relief as he turned back to face me. “Good. I genuinely liked him during the few times we met. Despite his profession, he had principles.”

The waiter returned with our sangria, the deep ruby liquid glistening in a crystal pitcher beaded with condensation. He took a long eighteen seconds to position the chilled pitcher with ceremonial precision before pouring the fruit-studded beverage into large, wide-brimmed wine glasses with equal care. Colin thanked him and the young man departed with a promise to return shortly with our salads.

“It’s absolutely beautiful here.” Colin’s gaze moved across the landscape beyond the terrace. “Peaceful and quiet, yet so close to the vibrant energy of Valencia. I can understand why Lucas would choose this place for his holiday.”

We sat in comfortable silence for several minutes while Colin sipped his sangria, the ice cubes clinking softly against the crystal. “This is delicious. The perfect balance of wine, fruit and sweetness.”

I glanced at my untouched glass, the condensation forming droplets that traced paths down the crystal surface. Despite the appealing presentation, I felt no temptation to taste the fruity alcoholic punch.

Colin glanced toward the building and quickly swapped our glasses with a deft movement that would have escaped most observers. “This way, the waiter won’t take offence that you’re not drinking anything.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Might it be that you are enjoying this performance a bit too much?”

He grinned at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I admit nothing.”

The waiter arrived with our salads, placing them before us with a flourish before ensuring we had everything we needed and departing once more. The dish before me consisted of succulent prawns, tender octopus and delicate scallops arranged atop a bed of vibrant greens, drizzled with golden olive oil and scattered with herbs.

“Explain to me why we are waiting for Lucas to approach us rather than initiating contact ourselves.” I picked up my fork and pushed the food around on my plate in a convincing simulation of eating.

“When I met him, I was still using my aliases and no one knew I wasn’t actually a criminal.” Colin took a bite of his salad and chewed thoughtfully before continuing. “Lucas knows me as Ben Jonson. He—the real Ben Jonson—was known as a seventeenth-century playwright, but he was also a significant poet, especially known for his epigrams and odes.” Colin’s mouth twisted. “The Ben Jonson Lucas met had long blonde hair and spoke with a Scottish accent.”

I sighed heavily, the sound conveying my lingering discomfort with that period of our professional relationship. It had been extraordinarily challenging for me when Colin had adopted those personas, the inconsistencies between his natural behaviour and his assumed identities creating cognitive dissonance that I found deeply unsettling. “I vastly prefer you as you are now.”

Colin’s hand froze halfway to his mouth, his expression softening with surprise and affection. “Thanks, love.”

I nodded once and continued moving the food around my plate in geometric patterns. “You still haven’t answered my original question about our approach strategy.”

“What... oh, yes.” Colin set down his fork as he organised his thoughts. “Lucas always maintained a mild opposition to law enforcement in general, but he harboured a particularly intense dislike for anyone who assisted the authorities.” He shrugged. “I’m hoping that giving him the opportunity to choose to approach us will create a more productive conversation than if he felt cornered or ambushed.”

“It appears that your plan worked.” I was relieved to see Lucas watching the other man go and turning his attention to our table. Three seconds later, he pushed back his chair and stood. “He’s coming over now.”

Lucas Durand Blanco approached with a slight limp that favoured his left leg, his movements deliberate but confident. His rotund stomach strained against the fabric of his expensive shirt, creating tension lines across the material. Despite his physical limitations, he carried himself with the unmistakable confidence of a man accustomed to solving problems. He pulled out the empty chair positioned between Colin and me, settling into it with a soft grunt of effort.

“Ben Jonson, as I live and breathe.”  His voice carried the distinctive blend of French and Spanish accents. He studied Colin’s appearance with unabashed scrutiny. “Or would you prefer to be called by your actual name these days? No, I think I’ll continue calling you Ben.”

“Good to see you, Lucas.” Colin’s smile was genuine despite the tension that briefly tightened the muscles around his eyes. “So you know.”

“That you’re working for the other side now? Of course I do. Everyone does,” Lucas stated with a dismissive wave of his hand. He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Are you trying to get me arrested? Or even worse, killed?”

Colin leaned back in his chair, his posture deliberately relaxed as he studied Lucas. A slow smile spread across his face, lifting his cheeks. “You’re actually happy to see me, aren’t you?”

“I’m fucking furious,” Lucas contradicted, though the micro-expressions flickering across his face told a different story. He turned his attention to me, his gaze sharp and assessing. “Mind if I eat that since you’re just pushing it around?” He barely waited for me to lean away from the plate before pulling it toward himself. “Why on earth would you waste such a good meal?” His head jerked up suddenly, his eyes widening with recognition. “You’re Doctor Lenard. The autistic art savant.”

“I am no such thing.”

“That’s why you’re not eating this food,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken, his focus shifting to the plate he’d appropriated. He looked back at me with unexpected insight. “You don’t know the kitchen staff or their hygiene practices.” He turned to Colin, his expression brightening with genuine pleasure. “I see you haven’t lost your love for good food.”

“Not in this lifetime,” Colin replied with an easy smile, watching as Lucas attacked the salad with enthusiasm. “You’ve clearly maintained your appreciation for fine cuisine as well.”

Lucas paused between bites, setting down his utensils with deliberate exactness. He sat back in his chair and fixed Colin with an intense stare. “Why are you here, Ben?”

“Guillem,” Colin replied simply, his expression sobering as he met Lucas’s gaze directly. “Your third cousin.”

“I know who Guillem is.” Lucas’ eyes narrowed as his top lip curled. “What about him?”

He clearly had no knowledge of his relative’s violent death just hours earlier.

Colin inhaled slowly, his shoulders rising and falling with the measured breath before he turned to fully face Lucas. “Guillem died in a car bomb this morning.”

“That fucking idiot.” Lucas’ lips contracted in anger, his reaction not typical of a recipient of such sad news. “I told him. I warned him repeatedly that he was going to get himself killed.”

“I’m sorry, Lucas.” Colin’s tone was gentle, his expression conveying sincere compassion.

“Oh, fuck that, Ben.” Lucas tossed his napkin onto the table. “I’ll feel sad when I’m done being angry. What did Guillem get himself into?”

“We were hoping you might help us answer that question.” Colin paused. “Why did you warn him that he might be killed?”

Lucas’s smile held no warmth or humour. “Ah, so that’s the copper in you asking questions now, is it?”

“I’ve never been a police officer and never will be.” Colin leaned forward with quiet intensity. “This is me asking a friend to help find the person who killed his cousin.”

“Third cousin,” Lucas corrected emphatically, holding up three fingers and shaking them. “Third cousin. Fuck.” He slumped in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the golf course as he visibly gathered his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its combative edge. “Guillem dabbled in art fencing for a few years. He spent some time learning from me, picked up a few techniques, but mostly he insisted on doing things his own way. We lost touch for almost a decade. Then, three years ago, Guillem came to me practically bursting with excitement. He’d found a client with extremely problematic artworks that needed to be moved discreetly.”

He turned back to face us, his expression contorted with disgust. “Nazi-fucking-looted art, Ben. You know I never touched that category of merchandise.”

“I know.” Colin nodded. “You always refused to handle any artwork with violent origins or blood-soaked provenance.”

“Never. Not once,” Lucas insisted vehemently. “And then that idiot approaches me with a list as long as my arm. All of it drenched in the blood of millions of innocent people. No. Absolutely not.” He looked out over the manicured grass again, his jaw working as he processed his thoughts. He turned back to me, his gaze direct and challenging. “You read body language, right? Read me now. I never knowingly traded in art that was looted by Nazis.” He paused, his eyes locked with mine. “Do you believe me?”

“You are being truthful.” Which was not the same as me believing him. I believed that he believed what he was saying was true. “Do you know the identity of Guillem’s client? The owner of the looted art?”

He shook his head firmly, the movement emphatic. “I severed all contact with Guillem the moment he showed me that list. But when I learned he had successfully sold the first painting?” He crossed his arms tightly across his chest, his face contorting with disgust. “I cut him out of my life completely. That meant revoking his access to my contacts at the freeports and everyone else in my network. I blacklisted him throughout the industry. Then that stubborn fool still went ahead and sold more of those paintings. Successfully.”

He glared at Colin with sudden intensity, leaning forward across the table. “How the fuck did none of you people catch that? I thought you were supposed to be this amazing art crime investigator?”

“You of all people understand how many crimes slip through the cracks.”

“This is one hell of a crack.” Lucas rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Okay, let me think. I definitely don’t know who this person is who owns the looted art. But... Guillem did mention that his client also had looted gold that needed to be laundered.”

“Gold?” Colin’s eyebrows rose with interest. “That’s significantly easier to fence than artwork.”

“Easy to melt away the blood and criminal connections.” Lucas snapped his fingers. “And voilà! You have clean money.”

“Where does your instinct tell you Guillem’s client might be based?” Colin asked.

“Spain,” Lucas answered without hesitation, conviction evident in his tone. “Definitely here.”

“How would someone go about fencing gold in this region?” Colin leaned forward.

Lucas lowered his chin, fixing Colin with a withering stare. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Colin’s expression hardened with determination. “Help us put this fucker away.”

“Well, when you put it like that...” Lucas straightened and sniffed. “Give me a few hours. I’ll get you a name.”

Chapter TEN

The cool water of the swimming pool lapped gently around my ankles, a welcome counterpoint to the lingering Valencian heat that clung to the air even as the sun began its descent. The scent of chlorine, thankfully faint and overlaid with the clean mineral tang of the water itself, mingled with the perfume of blooming bougainvillaea cascading over the nearby wall. 

Daniel put his plate down on the smooth, sun-warmed natural stone tiles behind him, shifting his feet slightly to create small ripples in the pool’s surface. He raised his glass, the amber liquid catching the low light. “This was great, Vinnie. Perfect in all the ways.”

We were in the secluded garden of the villa Francine had booked for us before we’d even crossed the border into Spain. The moment we’d arrived at the villa, Daniel had thrown open the expansive sliding doors leading from the elegant lounge and declared that dinner had to be taken poolside. The large swimming pool, its turquoise water sparkling, was precisely half in deep, cooling shade cast by the villa itself and half still bathed in the rich, golden light of the early July evening.

Now, arranged along the ledge, we all sat with legs submerged to varying degrees, savouring the light, delicious meal Vinnie had made. The garden itself spoke of luxury. Mature citrus trees, heavy with glossy green leaves and the promise of fruit, framed the space. Carefully sculpted box hedges bordered beds overflowing with lavender, rosemary and vibrant red geraniums.

“A toast to Vinster.” Francine also raised her glass and waited until we followed suit. “The bestest cookiest cook there is.”

“Hear, hear.” Yasmine took a sip of her sangria, the ice cubes clinking softly in the glass. “Where did the inspiration strike from? It’s not your usual repertoire of Italian go-to meals.” She gestured towards the colourful array of seafood and greens on her plate.

Colin, who had laughingly apologised at least three times already, shifted, sending a small wave towards Francine. “Vin was monumentally pissed off that I didn’t order him a seafood salad at the hotel.” He pointed at the half-eaten pineapple ring abandoned beside him. “And this one teensy-weensy little bit of pineapple is my punishment. That’s all I get for dinner.”

“You had a huge frigging salad, dude.” Vinnie raised his chin in faux offence. “A whole frigging salad.”

When we’d left the hotel, Javier had ordered us to take the rest of the night off. After the gruelling journey, the day’s unsettling discoveries and an explosion, I’d welcomed Javier’s directive and we’d come straight to the villa.

The property radiated understated wealth. Accessed via a gated driveway, the main building offered four spacious bedrooms, each with its own pristine en suite bathroom with sleek fittings and deep soaking tubs. The heart of the house was a vast, open-plan living area. A gourmet kitchen with professional-grade appliances seamlessly flowed into a dining space large enough for ten, which in turn opened onto a sophisticated entertainment lounge furnished with deep, cream sofas and low glass tables. Sliding glass walls, like those Daniel had opened, dissolved the boundary between the interior and the lush garden oasis. 

On our way here, Vinnie had insisted on a detour to a brightly lit supermercado and had bought ingredients for what he called a ‘betrayal seafood salad’. When he’d heard what Colin had ordered for lunch, he’d pretended to suffer from severe heartache, much to Javier and Natalia’s amusement. I was glad Vinnie had decided to make a salad. The one in the restaurant had looked most appetising.

I always had reservations about crustaceans, so Vinnie’s choice of a grilled salmon salad was even better. The sangria was light and refreshing. Equally restorative was the sensation of the clean, cool water swirling around my calves and feet. As much as I loved swimming, the idea of immersing myself in a public pool was unthinkable. Statistics consistently revealed alarming levels of contaminants, which included bodily fluids alongside chlorine-resistant parasites, making public pools veritable petri dishes of potential illness. The controlled, private environment here was a sanctuary.

“Anyone want to gossip about the UDEF team?” Francine wriggled her eyebrows at me. “Genevieve?”

“I don’t gossip. You know tha...” I sighed. “You’re being deliberately ridiculous again.”

“Me? Ridiculous? Never.” She offered an unrepentant grin, hiking the hem of her dress a little higher, revealing more of her tanned legs as she lazily swirled them through the water. “Maybe a little. Come on. Tell me what you think of Lucía, Javier and the others.”

“No.” I didn’t indulge in such conversations. “I will only comment on their behaviour or character if it presents a concerning anomaly.”

“Fine. Pah.” She grinned at me, then grew more serious. “I think Javier is a good leader. And respected. The way Carlos spoke about him and Lucía while we were alone told me everything. Carlos told me that Lucía got the promotion and the team leadership position because of something really bad that happened in her previous department. I didn’t ask and I’m not going to look.” Her voice grew soft. “That is her story to tell. Or not.”

Yasmine placed her near-empty glass carefully beside her on the tiles, leaning back onto her palms, her face tilted slightly towards the darkening sky. “She’s the type of woman who learns from every single experience—her own as well as others’ successes and failures. I won’t be surprised if her previous experiences made her the wise leader she is today. Her team’s respect for her and for Javier, is obvious. Genuine.”

Daniel looked at her. “Have you told them yet what you learned?”

“Not yet.” She straightened. “I asked my AI app to give me a quick overview on Nazi gold.”

“Which app?” Francine leaned towards Yasmine. Her latest project was to find a way to integrate AI analyses into our investigations without compromising the sensitive nature of most of the information we gathered.

“I asked four different apps to compare their answers.” She looked up and left, recalling information. “They all kept coming back to the massive, calculated looting carried out by the Nazis. And it wasn’t just the usual stuff like central bank reserves—we’re talking about huge amounts of gold taken from private citizens, especially Jewish families and countries under occupation. Everything from wedding rings and family heirlooms to even dental fillings was stripped and melted down into bars.

“A lot of this gold didn’t just vanish into thin air. Neutral countries played a key part in moving it around. Spain, under Franco, had a particularly murky role. Officially, they stayed neutral during the war, but some people in the regime quietly helped smuggle the loot. There are even reports of German submarines bringing gold into Spanish ports like Vigo.

“Swiss banks were the main place where the gold was laundered, but Spain offered crucial routes and safe spots along the way. After the war, things got even more secretive. The Allies managed to recover some of the gold, but a massive amount just disappeared—hidden away in secret accounts, used to fund Nazi escape routes or even buried in hidden stashes across Europe. Maybe even nearby. The scale of it all, and how little we still know, is honestly mind-blowing.”

Francine lifted the heavy fall of her hair off her damp neck, twisting it deftly into a thick rope that she draped over one shoulder. “How does one move on from the atrocities?”

“Some people never move on.” Manny had been quiet this whole time. His trouser legs were wet, but he didn’t seem to mind. “It’s a bloody evil and this time I mean bloody in the literal sense. History has proven to us that we don’t learn from history. People will always find some reason to wage a war, whether it is territorial, religious or something else, if they need to create a bloody reason, they will.”

“Yet, there are still countless genuinely good people.” Colin leaned forward to trail his fingers through the water, watching the droplets fall. “I strongly believe that the vast majority of us just want to live out a boring, peaceful life.”

Manny turned slowly to stare at Colin. “Frey, really? Boring? You?”

A slow, self-deprecating smile spread across Colin’s face. “Huh. Point taken. Well, maybe a boring day here and there isn’t a bad thing.”

“If I may rephrase?” Yasmine waited until Colin nodded. “Most of us want a peaceful life with the only excitement being of our choosing, adventures and events that hurt no one.”

“Well said, Jazzy.” Francine blew her a kiss, then yawned. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m ready to be boring tonight. Damn, I’m tired.”

“It’s been a bloody long day.” Manny pulled his feet out of the water and got up. He glared down at Vinnie. “This old man is going to retire for the night.”

“Do your creaky bones want some tea before you start snoring?” Vinnie also got up.

“No. Stay.” Manny shook his head. “I know how to work a kettle if I need a cuppa.”

Vinnie picked up his plate. “Can your old joints handle carrying the empty plates to the kitchen?”

“Barely.” Manny picked up Francine’s empty plate and soon the two men walked to the house, leaving us in the quiet early evening.

We sat around the pool for another forty-seven minutes. I was content simply to listen to my friends talk about the beauty of Valencia, the intricacies of this case and the long list of things we had to investigate tomorrow. It was still daylight and not even nine o’clock when we all went to our respective rooms for much-needed sleep.

Chapter ELEVEN

“I found something.” Natalia sprang from behind her desk the moment we entered the UDEF office, her chair spinning wildly from the force of her movement.

“She’s been here since sunrise, I think.” Carlos manoeuvred through the office space, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. “This might be her fifth coffee of the day.” He leaned closer to us as he passed, stage-whispering with theatrical concern, “I don’t think it’s wise to ask.”

“This is my fourth if you have to know.” Natalia took her coffee and thanked him. Steam rose from the dark liquid and she inhaled deeply before taking a careful sip. “I just wanted to get a head start on looking into Maria.”

“Your neighbour.” Yasmine surveyed the office layout, noting the additional furniture that had been added to the office. She gestured toward a desk positioned near the window, its surface bare. “These for us?”

Javier got up from his desk. “We don’t have enough space for individual desks for everyone, but this should make things easier.”

“Jenny and I will share.” Colin pointed at the desk next to Natalia’s at the back of the room. It had plenty of space around it. I wouldn’t feel crowded. I approved.

“I don’t need a desk.” Vinnie leaned against the doorframe, his focus on Natalia. “What did you find?”

Natalia settled into her chair and took a sip of her coffee. She glanced at Carlos, then at Javier. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came in at two this morning and started a comprehensive investigation into Maria’s background—her childhood, education, career, family connections, anything that might be relevant to our case.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Maria’s life appears completely unremarkable. Well... if you don’t count a divorce, then she’s had a lovely, safe life.”

I positioned my handbag on the pristine desk surface and examined the office chair. It appeared to be new, plastic still wrapped around part of one arm. I sat down and raised one eyebrow at Natalia, the shift in her tone alerting me to there being more to her last statement. “Whose life wasn’t safe?”

“Maria’s grandfather.” Natalia swivelled toward her computer monitor and turned it for me to see. Multiple windows were open and she moved from one to the other—genealogy databases, historical records, immigration documents. “Jorge Romero. He’s ninety-eight years old and currently lives in an assisted living facility in Cuenca.”

A brief smile flickered across her features. “I had to research the English terminology. These types of residential care facilities are only now becoming more common here in Spain. Traditionally, elderly family members remain in their own homes or move in with relatives until the very end of their lives.” Her expression sobered as she looked at Lucía. “Anyway, I had to dig quite extensively through various archives and databases to uncover more substantial information about Jorge’s background.”

The transformation in her demeanour was unmistakable. What had begun as professional research had clearly evolved into something more disturbing. The contraction of the orbicularis oculi muscles around her eyes, the slight quiver in her chin and the way her hands trembled almost imperceptibly as she navigated through the digital records all indicated that whatever she had discovered had shocked her deeply.

She swallowed hard, her throat working visibly. “Jorge isn’t originally from Spain and his name wasn’t always Jorge Romero.”

“Oh, Natalia.” Colin leaned against my desk, his expression regretful. “He came from Germany?”

“He arrived in Spain in October 1944 as a seventeen-year-old child.” The last word came out with tremendous disgust in her tone, her expression equally strong. “A child.” She released a shuddering breath. “He changed his identity from Heinrich Geerling to Jorge Romero and began constructing an entirely new life for himself. No matter how extensively I searched through official records, police files, court documents, or community archives, I couldn’t find a single negative incident or concerning behaviour attributed to him from the moment he became Jorge Romero.

“Instead, I only found great things. He learned Spanish and first finished his high school education before studying to become an accountant. He married, had four children and became a pillar of the community in Cuenca.” She paused to sip her coffee, using the moment to compose herself. “He frequently donated his professional accounting services to community projects and charitable organisations. His wife organised numerous civic improvements and cultural events. They were, and he continues to be, genuinely loved and respected throughout Cuenca. He moved into the assisted living facility four years ago when declining health made independent living unsafe.”

“I will ask the difficult question.” Colin folded his arms across his chest, his tone solemn. “Was he a Nazi?”

“Yes, but he was just a child.” Natalia’s defensive posture was unmistakable—shoulders squared, chin lifted and a challenging glint in her eyes as she stared at her computer monitor. When she turned back to face Colin, her expression carried both defiance and sorrow. “Did you know that the Nazi regime systematically recruited children as young as ten years old into the Hitler Youth organisation?” She changed to another window on her computer monitor. “By 1939, membership in the Hitler Youth was mandatory, with almost nine million young Germans enrolled. The organisation specifically targeted children and adolescents, indoctrinating them with Nazi ideology through physical training, propaganda education and military preparation. Near the end of the war, children as young as twelve were being conscripted into combat roles.” Her voice cracked slightly. “The 12th SS Panzer Division ‘Hitlerjugend’ was composed primarily of sixteen and seventeen-year-old boys who suffered sixty per cent casualties during the Battle of Normandy.”

Colin’s lips were pressed in a thin line. “All wars inflict unimaginable suffering, but the Second World War was unspeakably despicable.”

The office fell silent for two seconds.

Manny sat down heavily on a chair next to the desk Francine occupied. He looked at her for a few seconds while she typed with singular focus. Then he looked back at Natalia. “Did you find any connection between Romeo and Ivanov?”

“Who... Oh, Jorge Romero.” Natalia’s lips twitched as she frowned at Manny, unsure if she should laugh. She cleared her throat, her shoulders slumping. “No. What I just told you is all I found so far.”

“That’s a lot.” Javier was wearing light grey suit trousers and a crisp white shirt this morning. He tugged at his sleeves. “If Maria’s grandfather was indeed a Nazi collaborator, that connection might provide the key to understanding how she knew about the Moulin Rouge.”

“I have something else.” Francine waved her hand in the air, bracelets jingling for a moment before she went back to typing.

Everyone looked at her, but for three seconds she didn’t speak. She just continued working furiously.

“For the love of all the saints.” Manny rapped his knuckles against the desk surface next to her keyboard, the sharp sound echoing through the office. “Speak up, woman.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” She waved him away dismissively without breaking her typing rhythm, her concentration absolute. “In... a... There.” She finally leaned back in her chair, rolling her shoulders before looking up to discover all eyes trained on her. “So, I’ve just uncovered another Nazi connection.” She paused with dramatic flair. “An Ivanov-Nazi connection.”

“Francine.” Manny’s tone dropped to a dangerous low register, his scowl deepening. “Speak.”

She grinned at him for a moment, before her expression sobered. “Solomon Gilkman was an extremely wealthy Jewish businessman who had built a successful life in Bulgarian-occupied Macedonia during the interwar period. When the Nazis invaded and began their systematic persecution, only his wife and their one-month-old daughter survived the initial round-up. I had to access some restricted historical databases, but the evidence shows they escaped because local church officials moved them to safety just hours before the mass arrests began.”

“Macedonia during that period was under Bulgarian administration, which collaborated extensively with Nazi deportation policies.” Yasmine’s expression held no trace of her usual warmth as Daniel took her hand in his, offering silent support. She looked back at Francine. “I digressed. Sorry. Please continue.”

Francine’s expression softened with compassion. “So, Great-grandmother Glikman and baby Grandmother Glikman survived the Holocaust and Great-grandmother eventually remarried after the war ended. Her new husband was none other than Great-grandfather Kiril Ivanov.”

“Holy hellfire.” Manny sank deeper into his chair. “Dimitar’s family were victims of the Nazis?”

“It appears so, yes.” Francine looked at her laptop monitor. “I was only able to uncover this information because of preserved historical records and survivor testimony archives. It seems that Great-grandmother Glikman and Grandmother Glikman never discussed their Holocaust experiences with subsequent generations. The documentation shows that when they joined the Ivanov family, they also converted to Orthodox Christianity, effectively leaving their Jewish heritage and traumatic experiences in the past.”

“Sadly, many Holocaust survivors made similar decisions.” Yasmine’s expression reflected deep sadness. “Historians estimate that approximately a hundred thousand Jews converted to Christianity during the Holocaust era, often as a survival strategy, though only about fifteen per cent of these conversions continued after the war ended. Post-war conversion was frequently driven by the desire to assimilate completely into their new communities and avoid further persecution.”

“To ensure their safety and that of their children, no doubt.” Lucía glanced toward the window for a moment, her gaze distant. When she refocused on the room, her expression was thoughtful. “We have no way of knowing whether Dimitar Ivanov possesses any knowledge about his family’s Jewish heritage or whether this historical connection has any bearing on our current investigation.”

“But that’s where my fabulous skills come in.” Francine interlaced her fingers and stretched them out in front of her. “I discovered a small newspaper article from 1936 of Great-grandfather Glikman standing proudly beside a painting in his home.” She raised her index finger toward Colin before he could interrupt. “No, it’s not one of our paintings here. But it turns out that Great-grandfather Glikman was quite the art patron and collector. The article discusses his impressive collection of paintings, with particular emphasis on his preference for turn-of-the-century artists.”

“Like Anquetin.” Colin’s posture straightened. “He sold his first paintings at an informal exhibition in July 1887, organised by his friends in a Parisian café. One of those friends was Vincent van Gogh. His popularity was relatively brief. By the turn of the century, he had returned to studying and emulating the Old Masters, which made his artistic influence and public recognition wane significantly. However, his earlier Cloisonnist works from the 1880s and early 1890s remained highly sought after by discerning collectors.” 

I considered everything we’d learned. “We are missing crucial elements.” I counted on my fingers. “Did the Glikmans own Anquetin’s Moulin Rouge and the other four paintings on our investigation list? Who currently possesses them? Who arranged for them to be put up for auction with Guillem? Who murdered Guillem and what was their motivation? Is there a direct connection between Ivanov and Guillem?” I looked at Lucía, then at Marta. “Who is Company X and who is Artman?”

“We need to interview Maria’s grandfather.” Manny looked at Natalia, then at Javier. “I think the two of us should sit this one out.” He jerked his chin toward me. “Doctor Face-reader can do her thing, Doctor Marta and Frey can do their art thing, Yasmine will be an asset, so Dan can go as well.”

“I’m going.” Natalia stood up, her palms resting on her desk. “For all the logical reasons, including the fact that I’m armed and trained for field operations.”

“My gun and I are also going.” Vinnie stepped away from the doorframe. “The old men and the computer nerds can stay safely here in the office.”

Chapter TWELVE

“Señor Romero is in apartment two-nineteen.” The middle-aged woman behind the curved walnut desk smiled warmly, her gaze drifting towards the two elevators down a softly lit corridor. “He’s going to love receiving so many guests.”

Sunlight streamed through tall windows, spilling across polished oak floors and soft cream-colored walls. A graceful chandelier hung above a central seating arrangement of plush armchairs and a tufted velvet sofa, flanked by fresh flowers and glossy lifestyle magazines on a low marble table. The gentle hum of Mozart’s Piano Trio No. 2 in G major in the background immediately calmed me. I liked this place.

Natalia shifted the potted African violet, its vibrant purple blooms a stark contrast to the white pot, to her other hand. “We hope to bring him some joy today.”

“Oh, he will love the flowers and the cake.” The woman’s eyes flickered appreciatively towards the large, sturdy paper bag emblazoned with the prominent logo of a local, held securely in Yasmine’s grasp. It had taken their largest size to accommodate the lavish assortment of pastries Natalia had insisted upon. “Just make sure to give him plenty of water. He tends to forget to drink enough fluids.”

“We’ll do that.” Natalia’s smile radiated genuine warmth. Though lacking the extensive field experience of her other team members, her natural, unforced manner consistently forged a near-instant rapport with strangers, proving her value in yet another way.

The journey to Cuenca had presented a significant challenge for me. I had reluctantly agreed with everyone that it didn’t make sense to drive here for two and a half hours when the train took an hour and twenty-two minutes. Marta had opted to remain behind, confident in Colin’s more than adequate expertise for any art-related discussions. Consequently, we’d navigated the city traffic to the station, fortunate to endure only a seven-minute wait on the bustling platform before boarding.

My relief upon seeing the sleek, modern train had been profound. The first-class carriage had offered a sanctuary of relative calm. Plush, deep-blue seats in pairs and singles, each boasting ample legroom and individual reading lights, lined the aisle. The large, double-glazed windows had given me a stunning view of the blurring Spanish countryside.

The first-class wagon had not been to capacity, but it had taken mentally writing three Mozart concertos to prevent my mind from fixating on sharing an enclosed space with people other than those I trusted. I’d insisted on walking the thirteen minutes from the train station to this facility, not only to stretch my legs and calm my mind, but also to avoid getting into a taxi or any kind of public transport.

“Vin and I will stay down here.” Daniel nodded at Yasmine, then Natalia. “The ladies have everything else under control.”

“Holler if you need us.” Vinnie tilted his chin towards the lush garden visible through the reception windows. “But wait ‘til I had my ice cream first.”

The landscaped grounds outside were meticulously maintained, offering mostly shaded respite beneath mature trees. Neat paths wound between vibrant flowerbeds and sculpted shrubs, dotted with numerous inviting benches. Vinnie’s singular focus, however, had been fixed on the ice cream shop he’d spotted on the corner of this quiet block.

Natalia and Yasmine led the way towards the elevators, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. I paused at a heavy glass fire door adjacent to the elevators. “I’m taking the stairs.”

“We can all do that.” Yasmine hefted the bakery bag with a wry lift of her eyebrows. “We might need to walk all the way back to Valencia just to burn this off, anyway.”

Natalia’s foresight in arriving laden with gifts for Maria’s grandfather had been partly strategic, aimed at securing his cooperation, but also stemmed from her sincere belief he would appreciate the gesture.

The stairwell, clearly designed with accessibility in mind, featured deep treads and a gentle rise. We ascended past landings adorned with serene landscape prints. Soon, we emerged through another identical glass door onto the second floor. The hallway exuded quiet luxury. Thick, sound-absorbing carpet in a neutral taupe ran the length of the corridor. Soft, recessed lighting illuminated tasteful abstract art on walls painted a restful pale cream. Wide doorways, each marked with discreet brass numbers, suggested spacious apartments within. This was clearly a high-end residence.

“This is it.” Natalia located apartment 219 and immediately pressed the illuminated doorbell button set beneath the number.

Almost instantaneously, a soft electronic snick announced the door unlocking. Natalia pushed it open a fraction, then glanced back at us, her eyebrows arched in silent question.

“He most likely has a remote release mechanism inside.” Yasmine peered at the doorbell unit. “There’s a tiny camera lens at the top, so he can see who’s calling.”

“Clever.” Natalia stepped inside, her voice adopting a bright, melodic tone as she called out, “Hola?”

“Hola.” The response came from deeper within the apartment, a voice resonant with age—deep and slightly gravelly.

Colin and I followed Natalia inside, with Yasmine bringing up the rear and gently closing the door behind us. In the strictest sense, this qualified as a flat. Yet, stepping inside felt more akin to entering a spacious, well-appointed hotel suite designed specifically for seniors. The main living area was open and flooded with natural light from the sliding doors leading to a generous balcony. A comfortable-looking sofa faced a large flat-screen television mounted on the wall.

To one side, a small but functional kitchenette offered gleaming countertops, a compact fridge, a microwave and a two-burner stove—sufficient for preparing tea, coffee or a simple meal. A sturdy wooden dining table with two robust, high-backed chairs occupied a corner near the kitchenette. The sleeping area wasn’t entirely enclosed. A partial wall offered a degree of separation, allowing a view of the neatly made bed from the living space. The overall impression was one of comfort, safety and practicality, designed for ease of movement and filled with personal touches – framed photographs, a well-loved armchair beside a floor lamp, shelves lined with books and knick-knacks. We trailed Natalia towards the source of the voice.

Jorge Romero sat in a padded recliner, a hardcover book lying open on his lap. An empty ceramic mug rested on the small, sturdy coffee table beside him. His deeply wrinkled face, framed by thick, neatly combed grey hair, lit up with unfeigned pleasure as he took us in. His gaze finally settled on the vibrant African violet cradled in Natalia’s hands. “Qué hermosa sorpresa.”

Natalia’s smile mirrored his genuine happiness. “Habla usted inglés, señor Romero?”

“I do speak English.” He adjusted his position, pushing himself slightly more upright in the supportive chair with a small grunt of effort. “Learned it at university three million years ago.”

“Surely not that long ago.” Natalia placed the potted plant carefully next to his empty mug, then leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice to a loud whisper. “A maximum of two million.”

He chuckled, a rich, rumbling sound and pointed a slightly shaky finger at her. “I like you.”

Her smile deepened as she straightened. “I’m Natalia García and these are my colleagues, Doctor Genevieve Lenard, Colin Frey and Doctor Yasmine Abidar.”

“So many doctors.” He feigned wide-eyed alarm, the expression deliberately overdone. “Am I dying?”

“We all are.” I took an involuntary half-step back as he erupted into a loud snort of laughter.

“What kind of doctor are you?” His smile was genuine, lifting his cheeks and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“I specialise in nonverbal communication.” Listing my full academic pedigree rarely served a purpose. This concise description usually sufficed.

“Will you be able to decipher anything meaningful between all these?” He chuckled again, tracing a finger along the deep creases of his cheek, then turned his amused gaze back to Natalia. “Since you’re the youngest, why don’t you be a darling and make us all some tea? Then we can properly appreciate whatever delights the other doctor has concealed in that large bag.”

“With pleasure.” Natalia turned immediately and headed back towards the kitchenette.

Colin followed her, returning moments later carrying the two dining chairs. He took the large bakery bag from Yasmine and disappeared back inside to assist Natalia.

“Sit, sit.” Jorge waved a welcoming hand towards the chairs Colin had placed near his recliner. “Please, doctors, make yourselves comfortable.”

“Oh, please, no titles,” Yasmine said as she settled onto one of the chairs with an easy grace. “Yasmine is perfectly fine, but my friends call me Jazzy.”

“Jazzy.” He tested the name, his smile growing soft. “What a perfect name for such a vibrant young woman.” His gaze shifted to me. “And your preference?”

“Genevieve.” I enunciated clearly and deliberately, forestalling any inclination towards the French pronunciation.

“Elegant. Sophisticated.” He gave a slow, approving nod. “It suits you well.” He relaxed back into the cushions of his recliner, the leather sighing softly. “Please, call me Jorge. Not George. I could never be a George. Just Jorge. A perfectly normal, average Jorge, that’s me.”

“Something tells me you are anything but average, Jorge.” Yasmine’s smile indicated her immediate fondness for this man. It was abundantly clear why he commanded such affection within his community.

“Well, I suppose not many people reach the ripe age of ninety-eight.”

Natalia laughed softly as she returned, carefully balancing a tray laden with mismatched cups and mugs, each steaming with fragrant tea. “Ripe? Like a fruit?”

“An old, wrinkly, slightly overripe fruit,” he amended as he watched Natalia place a mug and a napkin within easy reach on his table. “Ah! Earl Grey. You found the good stuff.”

“There’s plenty more steeping in the big pot inside.” She nodded back towards the kitchenette. “I can easily brew another.”

Colin joined us, presenting a large plate artfully arranged with a tempting selection of pastries. He offered it first to Jorge. “This represents only half the bounty in that bag.”

“I don’t know the reason for your visit,” Jorge selected a perfectly formed churro, its surface dusted with cinnamon sugar, “but you are cordially invited to return every single day.” He took a small, appreciative bite, closing his eyes momentarily as he savoured it before sighing with exaggerated bliss. “This will give me a bit more energy, but I must warn you.” He opened his eyes, focusing on me with surprising clarity. “My afternoon nap approaches. Like clockwork, my mind begins its orderly shutdown process in approximately half an hour.” His gaze swept over us all, settling back on me, the earlier levity replaced by a quiet gravity. “What do you need from me?”

I studied his open expression, the lines of his face etched with both humour and a lifetime’s experience. I came to a decision. “Maria sent Natalia a note to warn her that a painting had recently been auctioned was looted by the Nazis.” I registered Natalia’s sharp, surprised glance in my peripheral vision before she took a deliberate step back to stand near Colin by the balcony railing. “We confirmed it was Maria through fingerprint analysis on the note paper. She claims she learned about the auctioned painting by watching a documentary. However, no such documentary exists. We are also aware of your origins.”

“Enough.” The word cut through the air, quiet but firm. He placed the remainder of the churro carefully back on the table and meticulously wiped the sugar from his fingers onto a small napkin. His depressor anguli oris muscles pulled the corners of his mouth downwards into a deep frown. He lifted his chin, a gesture of both defiance and weary acceptance. “I’ve been waiting for this day.”

“What day?” Natalia asked softly, moving closer and perching on the small, padded stool beside his recliner.

“The day I would finally have to stand accountable for my own past.” His gnarled hands clasped together tightly in his lap, his knuckles white. “The day the silence would end and the words would have to be spoken.”

“We’re listening.” Natalia’s voice was a gentle murmur. “That’s all we plan to do today. Just listen.”

“Today.” His smile was fleeting, tinged with resignation as he looked at her. “You’re a smart one.”

She didn’t say anything, just continued looking at him, her expression open and without judgment.

He studied her face intently for a full six seconds, as if searching for something specific. Finally, he gave a slow, heavy nod. A heavy sigh escaped his lips. “I was born in a small village near Leipzig, into a simple family. My parents worked long hours in a local factory. Our lives were uncomplicated, a typical village life—no grand ambitions, no sophistication. Then came Hitler. Then came the war.” His eyes lost their focus, staring unseeingly over the balcony railing. “My parents shielded me and my two younger brothers as much as they could. But when membership in the Hitler Youth and the Deutsches Jungvolk became mandatory... we had no choice.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to regain his composure. “It was... brutal. They tore us apart. I was separated from my brothers, assigned to a schar—a platoon—with thirteen other terrified boys. I was fifteen. The youngest in our schar was barely fourteen. Our Scharführer—our leader—was seventeen. Our Gebietsführer—the regional commander...” He closed his eyes tightly, his chin trembling violently. When his eyes opened again, the raw horror of what he’d witnessed and endured was etched into every minute micro-expression on his aged face. “No monster conjured in a nightmare could compare to that man. Now, I understand he would likely be diagnosed with Sadistic Personality Disorder. Then? He was simply evil incarnate and we were utterly terrified of this man who loved being a Nazi, who loved inflicting suffering on others.”

He drew in a shuddering breath, the air rattling slightly in his chest and reached for the mug Natalia had placed beside him. His hands trembled so violently he had to steady the mug with both hands, clasping it tightly before he could risk a small sip. “Children... forced to do the things we did? To see what we saw? To be what we became?” He took another sip, his hands still shaking. “I have spent every single day of my life since then trying to atone, in whatever small way I could, for the role I played.”

“What role was that?” Natalia asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She gently took the mug from his grasp as it threatened to slip.

“Our Scharführer... he saved us, in his way.” Jorge’s face held a complex mix of gratitude and grief. “He volunteered us constantly for the most despised duties—cleaning latrines, digging trenches, hauling refuse. Tasks that were foul, exhausting, degrading, but blessedly, mercifully, not bloody.” He rubbed a trembling hand over his face. “But then... our Gebietsführer selected our schar and a few others to accompany him. To Macedonia.”

He paused, gathering strength. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the small city beyond the gardens. “I will never forget the cold,” he whispered, his voice distant. “It was March. We hoped for spring, for warmth. Instead, a bitter front came in. The world turned white. Our uniforms, threadbare and inadequate, offered no real protection. We huddled together for warmth in the freezing metal bed of the truck as we drove towards Skopje. Such a beautiful city...”

Another pause, heavy with unspoken memories. “Our Scharführer volunteered us for raids. We weren’t in the platoons that rounded up the Jews in Skopje. Our jobs were to wait until the properties were empty, then go through them and take anything that looked valuable.” He drew another ragged breath. “The Gebietsführer came once, to inspect our haul. The youngest boy in our schar, the fourteen-year-old, had overlooked a small jewellery box on a high shelf. That man...” Jorge pressed a shaking hand hard against his chest, his face contorting. “He shot him. Right there. In front of me. In the middle of that plundered room. Then he ordered us to be more thorough, to take everything, including the painting that had been hanging on the wall right behind where the boy fell.”

His watery eyes locked onto Natalia’s. “It was the Moulin Rouge.” His voice broke. “Oh, God forgive me. I... I stepped over that child’s body. I took that painting down. And nineteen others from that house.”

Natalia reached out, her movement slow and deliberate and took his trembling hand in both of hers. She offered no platitudes, just the solid, silent comfort of her presence and the warmth of her touch.

He gulped air, fighting for control. “Later... much, much later, I learned the full horror. By the end of that March, over seven thousand souls—men, women, children—were rounded up in Skopje. Sent to... to Treblinka.” The name came out as a choked whisper. “I think two hundred survived.”

“You understand,” Natalia said, her voice thick with empathy but firm, “that you are not responsible for their deaths? You were a child. Just a child.”

“In here?” He tapped his temple with a shaky finger. “Logically, yes. I know the arguments. I’ve recited them to myself for eighty years.” His other hand, still clasped in Natalia’s, pressed against his chest. “But in here? The guilt is a stone I carry. My body weakens, day by day. Perhaps my punishment is that my mind remains cruelly sharp. The memories... they haven’t faded. They are as vivid, as raw, as if it happened yesterday. The cold. The fear. The sounds... the smells...”

“Do you recall the other paintings you saw in that house?” Colin’s voice was a model of gentle respect, cutting through the heavy silence without intrusion.

“Every single one.” Jorge took another steadying breath, visibly drawing himself up. He lifted his chin, squaring his frail shoulders with an effort that spoke of deep resolve. “I was the one who saw the announcement about the Moulin Rouge auction five days ago.  I couldn’t sleep that night and knew I had to do something.”

“You told Maria.” Natalia nodded slowly. “Did you know about me? About my work?”

He met her gaze. “She really likes you and talked about her UDEF neighbour quite a few times.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Of all my children and grandchildren, Maria is my closest confidante. She visits every two or three days without fail, spends most Saturdays right here with me. I keep telling her that’s why she hasn’t found a husband yet.” His expression turned serious again. “I knew if I told her to contact you, she would demand to know why. I also feared... feared that the truth about my past might come out before I had the chance to tell my family how deeply sorry I am. For the boy I was. For the things I did.”

“They don’t know?” Natalia asked softly.

He shook his head. “Nobody knows. Only my wife knew the full truth and we decided together not to tell anyone else. Ever.” He paused, gathering himself once more. “I phoned Maria the day after the auction. I told her... everything.”

He stopped, closing his eyes as if the memory of that conversation was physically painful. When he opened them, they shone with unshed tears. “She cried with me.” His voice broke, a fragile sound. Tears escaped, tracing paths through the deep wrinkles on his cheeks. “She held me and cried and told me... she loved me more. That she respected me more for the life I chose to live afterwards.” His grip tightened convulsively on Natalia’s hand. “She said she was deeply honoured to carry my blood, to call herself my grandchild.”

The profound wisdom and boundless compassion in Maria’s response resonated within me. “You are not your worst moment. You are the sum of the love and the respect you leave behind.”

His gaze snapped towards me, startled. For a heartbeat, his face remained frozen. Then, it crumpled. A deep, shuddering sob wracked his frail frame, the sound raw and filled with eighty years of pent-up anguish.

I blinked, worried for a moment that I’d said the wrong thing. But then I saw Natalia’s eyes, bright with tears she didn’t bother to hide. I saw the love on Colin’s face as he looked at me with pride.

Yasmine pressed a clenched fist hard against her mouth, her own tears escaping, tracing silent paths down her cheeks before she closed her eyes tightly for a long moment.

We sat enveloped in a soft, gentle silence, the only sounds Jorge’s gradually subsiding sobs and the birds in the garden below. Minutes stretched as he slowly regained his composure, wiping his wet cheeks with the small, crumpled napkin. Finally, he looked directly at me, his eyes red-rimmed but clear. “Thank you.”

I nodded, not knowing how else to respond.

He looked at Colin, then Yasmine and finally at Natalia. “I will tell you everything I remember about the house with the Moulin Rouge.”

Chapter THIRTEEN

“You would be lost without us computer nerds.” Francine lifted her chin as she regarded Vinnie with theatrical disdain. “Brawn is nothing without brains, Mister Muscles.”

“Did you find something, Franny?” Vinnie ambled towards her workstation. “Or is it more gossip about some reality housewives?”

“Hey, those ladies work hard!” Her smile turned mischievous when Manny’s predictable groan filled the air. “It’s not easy having a successful, entertaining scripted reality show.”

“It’s as real as a bloody haggis running sideways up a Scottish hill.” Manny studied us individually for a moment, then nodded as if satisfied at what he saw. “The train ride back productive?”

“Definitely.” Yasmine placed her handbag carefully on an empty desk, the leather making a soft whisper against the wood as she approached what had served as yesterday’s sandwich station. “What’s this?”

Antonio glanced up from his screen, fingers still poised over the keyboard. “Tapas. With the same sourdough bread Vinnie used for sandwiches yesterday. They make a good base.” His gesture encompassed the transformed desk. “There are enough small plates for everyone, so please help yourselves.”

“Dude.” Vinnie’s eyes widened in pleasure as he took in the ceramic bowls filled with glistening marinated olives, wheels of aged cheese, paper-thin slices of jamón ibérico and colourful Mediterranean salads. He reached for a white plate. “This looks fantastic.”

The aroma of herbs and olive oil permeated the air as Yasmine selected her own plate. As the others joined Vinnie and Yasmine, I walked over to Francine and Manny, my attention caught by the telltale crumbs and empty plates scattered across her workspace.

“You’ve already eaten.”

“We were hungry.” Javier brushed a few remaining breadcrumbs from his shirt front as he joined our small cluster. “We finished the first serving. Fortunately, Antonio brought more than enough.”

I acknowledged this with a brief nod, but my focus remained fixed on Francine, whose posture radiated barely contained excitement despite her casual demeanour. “What did you find?”

“Artworks.” She pivoted her laptop screen towards me with a flourish. “This is a list of the works that Varna Horizon Solutions bought in the last three years.”

“Varna?” Colin moved closer, balancing his generously laden plate with an assortment of tapas and two thick slices of the sourdough. “That’s Ivanov’s company that traces back to Pirin Group, right?”

“Right.” Francine’s manicured fingertip tapped against the laptop monitor. “Carlos and I looked into the Casa Artevalencia’s books while you guys went to Cuenca. Miguel sent us the exact same books that Marta and Natalia had worked through. I’m not surprised that he only sent it last night. Yesterday was a tough one for him.”

“We didn’t find anything new, so Francine suggested a new approach.” Marta swivelled her chair to face us, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. “We looked into anything else that Varna Horizon Solutions bought in the last three years.”

“I suggested five years.” Carlos’ shoulders lifted in a casual shrug. “But we only found transactions dating back three years.”

Francine nodded. “Six paintings came from auctions held by Casa Artevalencia, the other eleven from two other auctions and two galleries. Firstly, look at the list.” She pointed at the monitor. “All five of the paintings Marta found yesterday are here, plus—”

“The Cradle.” Colin’s intake of breath was audible, his eyes widening with recognition and wonder. “Berthe Morisot painted that in 1872, if I remember correctly. Oh, my. Oh, Jenny, look. Eva Gonzalès’ Nanny and Child is one of her most accomplished paintings. Francine, can you show us the painting?”

He sighed happily when the laptop screen filled with the painting, a gentle portrayal of a seated woman cradling a small child in her lap, their bodies close and still, with a sense of calm affection conveyed through their relaxed posture and the soft, quiet atmosphere surrounding them.

“Just look at that lush brushwork, the minimised detail and the restrained palette.” Colin leaned a back. “This technique reflects the influence of Manet, who was her mentor. Hmm... This is another painting from the late 1800s. Go back to the list.”

He waited until Francine closed the image of the painting and the list, once again, filled the monitor. He straightened, then took a few seconds studying it. His expression was sombre when he looked at Javier, then at Manny. “All those paintings were on the list that Jorge gave us. They all come from the same house that Jorge and his young friends had to raid.”

“Jorge’s list made it easier for me to do a focused search.” Francine settled back into her chair. “The paintings that I found are only the ones listed by legit auction houses and galleries. My list has seventeen paintings. Jorge’s list has twenty. Who knows if there are more.”

Colin’s head tilted as he absorbed the information displayed before him. “Hmm... Yes, all those paintings come from that era.”

“Which fits perfectly with the article I found that talked about Great-grandpa Glikman collecting art from that time.” Francine’s fingers flew across the keyboard, bringing up a new window displaying three names in stark black text. “These are the three companies that sold the paintings to Varna... well, sold them to Ivanov.” She lifted her hand, extending one perfectly manicured finger after another. “SerenoLab Innovaciones, SendaViva Consulting and Ventura Azul.”

“Bloody shell companies.” Manny slouched deeper in his chair. “Did you find out who owns them?”

“Of course, I did.” Francine’s wounded expression was magnificently theatrical, her dark eyebrows arching towards her hairline. “But you need to wait. Jazzy must add her findings first.”

Yasmine froze, the piece of crusty bread suspended halfway between her plate and her parted lips. She lowered it with exaggerated care, her movements suddenly self-conscious under our collective gaze. “Yes. My findings.” She set her plate aside and retrieved her tablet. “Genevieve helped me with this, so it’s not only my findings. I did, however, know where to look.”

She tapped her tablet screen. “As we know, many works of art fell through the cracks because record keeping was not a priority in those years, especially not during the war. What we did find is that on eight March 1942, Gebietsführer Weisenbach was put in charge of rounding up the Jews in Bulgaria-ruled Macedonia. On the eleventh of March, he led a few platoons, schar, into Skopje and proceeded to not only round up the people, but also raid their homes.

“One of those families was the Glikmans. For some reason, the commander took a special interest in their property. He didn’t often visit the properties raided, but he did go to that one to make sure all the valuables were taken. He reported that there wasn’t much worth taking.”

“Bloody hellfire.”

“Mierda.” Lucía’s arms folded across her chest, her knuckles white with tension. “He took it for himself.”

“That’s what I think, too.” The corners of Yasmine’s mouth turned downward, her voice tight with anger. “What was on the report was the individual soldiers who searched the property. Hitlerjunge Heinrich Geerling was one of those young soldiers.”

“Jorge.” Natalia’s voice broke and she cleared her throat. “How awful.”

“That means that Ivanov’s great-grandfather’s home was raided by Jorge’s platoon under the orders of Regional Commander Weisenbach.” Marta’s eyes had narrowed to dark slits, the muscles in her body tense with controlled anger as she fixed her stare on Francine. “What do you have on him?”

“The key to this case.” Francine looked at Manny, her expression grim. “Hans Weisenbach came to Spain like so many other Nazis to hide themselves and their loot here. He also changed his name.” She turned towards Javier and Lucía, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “To Salvador Estiarte.”

The room exploded into chaos. Profanity erupted in Spanish, English and what I assumed was Catalan, the entire UDEF team shifting as if struck by an electric current.

Manny’s scowl deepened into something truly fearsome as he glared at the UDEF team members. “Who the bloody hell is this Estate person?”

“Are you talking about the Estiarte?” Antonio’s eyes widened even more when Francine nodded. “Dios mío.”

Manny snapped his fingers at Francine. “Talk.”

“Are you sure?” Javier scratched his beard. “Diego Estiarte?”

“And...” Francine’s attention returned to her laptop, her fingers moving across the. “Those three shell companies? And Company X? Don’t ask me how, but I traced them back to AldaiaCripto.”

“That is not good at all.” Javier sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging for a moment as he turned to face Manny. “Diego Estiarte is one of the richest and one of the most influential people in Spain.”

Chapter FOURTEEN

“The bosses aren’t happy.” Javier leaned against the bonnet of his sedan, his posture deliberately casual despite the tension radiating from his shoulders. His eyes swept across the wide expanse of green that stretched before us, alert and calculating.

The Turia Gardens unfurled beneath the merciless July sun, a ribbon of nature winding through Valencia’s centre. At three in the afternoon, the heat rose in shimmering waves above the meticulously maintained lawns and elaborate fountains that dotted the landscape. The Passeig de l’Albereda bordered the gardens—a grand promenade lined with towering palms whose fronds rustled in the faint breeze, their sculpted hedges providing geometric contrast to the organic curves of the parkland. Families meandered along the shaded pathways, children’s laughter piercing the afternoon air as they chased fat pigeons across the grass and couples seeking sanctuary beneath the ancient olive trees.

“Unhappy about what exactly?” Manny’s scowl intensified as his gaze tracked the modern towers that loomed over the park. These steel and glass architectural monuments reflected the brilliant azure of the Mediterranean sky in their countless windows, yet their imposing shadows stretched across the manicured lawns. Manny pushed his hands in his trouser pockets. “Are they unhappy that one of their heroes might have been selling art that his Nazi great-bloody-grandfather looted? Or that an international criminal is hiding here in Spain, buying that art?”

“All of the above.” Diego light scratched his neatly trimmed beard, the gesture slow and contemplative, before he turned to face the shimmering corporate tower that rose behind us. “Let’s get this over with.”

“The big guy and I will stay out here.” Manny turned to me. “Go do your thing, Doc.” His attention shifted to Natalia. “You too.”

Her eyes widened, dark pupils dilating slightly as her hand rose instinctively to press against her sternum. “Me too what?”

“Do your thing.” His tone implied that she should’ve known what he was talking about.

I released a slow breath as I looked at the young woman. “We have all seen your natural ability to build rapport with people, your instinctual talent for connecting with them and asking the right questions at exactly the right moments. That’s what he wants you to do now.”

“Oh.” Her mouth remained slightly agape as she looked from me to Manny and back again. “Oh. Um. Thank you.”

“Hmph.” Manny’s glare swept over me with familiar intensity before he pivoted sharply towards the building’s entrance. “Don’t just stand there, Doc. Go.”

Javier’s chuckle rumbled warm and genuine as he looked at Francine. “Hats off to you for putting up with him.”

“Aw, he’s just a cuddly widdle teddy bear.” She laughed when Manny deliberately turned his back and stalked towards the building’s entrance.

“He actually reminds me of my ex’s grandmother.” Antonio smiled when Vinnie burst out laughing. “Not in that way, obviously. She’s also perpetually grumpy, but has the biggest heart imaginable. The way she scolds me when I don’t prepare or cook or clean to her liking is absolutely brutal. Yet somehow, it’s never malicious. I know beyond any doubt that she would give her last slice of bread and the shirt off her back to someone in genuine need.”

“Yup.” Vinnie crossed his muscular arms, his grin wide. “That’s our old man, alright.”

“He’s not that old.” Javier’s frown deepened. “Manny is what... maybe five years older than me? Eight years at most.”

Vinnie leaned forward with deliberate slowness, his voice dropping to a loud whisper. “Ancient.”

Javier laughed as he shook his head. “Okay, enough of this procrastination. Let’s go talk tech.”

That was why Carlos and Francine accompanied us here. They were the obvious choices to meet with a man whose cryptocurrency investment empire had grown from an ambitious startup to a billion-euro powerhouse in less than half a decade.

It had been unanimously decided that Colin would remain at headquarters to investigate what he could uncover about the gold Lucas had mentioned during his nervous ramblings. The fence hadn’t yet provided Colin with any useful information regarding who might facilitate gold transactions here in Valencia, or even throughout Spain’s shadowy underworld. Marta also remained at the UDEF office, wanting to dig deeper into the paintings on Jorge’s surprisingly long list and Yasmine had immediately volunteered to help.

Daniel stood next to his black SUV, his easy smile never wavering as he watched Vinnie and Javier. Since both Javier and Carlos carried their service weapons and would accompany us, the tactical decision had been made that Daniel, Manny, Antonio and Vinnie would strategically position themselves at different vantage points throughout and around the building’s perimeter to provide comprehensive security coverage.

We followed Javier towards the building’s gleaming glass doors, their surfaces so perfectly polished they seemed to disappear into the afternoon light. He stopped abruptly halfway across the plaza, his expression shifting to deadly seriousness. “Let me handle the initial conversation. Remember, we are here to request additional funding.”

“Francine and I know what to ask, Jefe.” Carlos smiled at my best friend. “Our grand international multi-departmental task force will provide his business with the golden opportunity to penetrate the French market the way he’s been desperately wanting to for years.”

Apparently, Diego Estiarte’s cryptocurrency empire had been mounting an increasingly aggressive campaign to convince the French government to invest their considerable pension funds with AldaiaCripto. Spain had already committed a substantial portion of their national pension fund to Estiarte’s operation, demonstrating either remarkable confidence or spectacular foolishness. France, however, had shown absolutely no interest in his overtures, maintaining their traditional financial conservatism. Francine would represent our so-called French delegation. It had required an intense fifteen-minute discussion with my best friend to prepare me for the elaborate deception I was about to participate in.

My childhood had been significantly complicated by my neurodiverse aversion to lies of any magnitude. I’d been forced to learn early in life that strategic untruths simplified social relationships in ways that brutal honesty never could. Informing a stranger that he absolutely should not be looking at me with such obvious lust visible in his nonverbal cues, particularly not while holding his wife’s hand in public, was decidedly not conducive to polite social interaction at a gala event.

That disconnect was why I harboured such deep loathing for meaningless small talk. Discussing thoroughly banal topics while manufacturing fake friendliness required enormous mental and emotional effort that left me utterly drained.

Francine had worked hard to convince me that today’s conversation wouldn’t venture into banal territory. I wasn’t expected to contribute meaningfully to the dialogue, for which I felt immensely grateful. I was, however, genuinely curious to meet this man who’d built his cryptocurrency trading empire from absolutely nothing just five years ago. In that remarkably brief span, he’d positioned himself barely a hundred million euros away from achieving billionaire status. He dined regularly with A-list celebrities, received invitations to the world’s most prestigious social events and held private counsel with global political leaders.

Javier gave a curt nod and continued purposefully towards the building bearing AldaiaCripto’s elegant modernist logo above its entrance. Manny’s appraising stare fixed on me, then shifted to Francine with the same intensity, before he deliberately returned his attention to the bustling street and its potential threats.

Francine stopped dead in her tracks the moment we crossed into the building’s opulent foyer, her sharp eyes absorbing every carefully designed detail with professional appreciation. The polished cream tile floors in the foyer reflected the subtle warmth of strategically placed recessed lighting, the walls showcasing sleek digital displays that scrolled continuously through real-time global market data and carefully curated company achievements. At the far end of the space, a state-of-the-art facial recognition scanner stood sentinel before a pair of frosted glass doors, its subtle crimson light blinking rhythmically as it awaited the next authorised visitor’s approach.

“We are lucky.” Javier joined us at the gleaming elevators, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “My boss has a lot of contacts in high places and managed to arrange a short meeting with Diego himself. We have exactly fifteen minutes to make our case, so every single word must count.”

“Understood, Jefe.” Carlos’s entire bearing radiated confidence—his arms hung naturally at his sides, his smile appearing both effortless and completely genuine.

“Easy-peasy.” Francine flipped her dark hair over her shoulder. “We’ll charm both the Euros and the secrets straight out of him.”

A spacious elevator arrived and carried us smoothly to the seventh floor, its doors sliding open onto an expansive reception area that seemed designed to intimidate and impress in equal measure. The walls were lined with contemporary artworks that probably cost more than most people’s annual salaries and floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking panoramic view of the Turia Gardens sprawling far below.

A receptionist, her appearance so immaculately groomed it seemed almost artificial, greeted us with a professionally warm smile before personally escorting us to a conference room that epitomised corporate sophistication. The space featured a massive polished table that could easily seat twenty, ergonomically designed chairs and additional windows that flooded the room with golden Mediterranean light.

“Hola!” A distinguished man in his mid-fifties strode into the conference room, his presence immediately commanding the attention of every person present. He possessed an undeniable elegance—his bespoke suit had been tailored to accentuate his trim, athletic frame, his perfectly styled silver-grey hair lending him an air of distinguished authority. He approached Javier directly, extending a firm hand in greeting. “Diego Estiarte.”

“Inspector Jefe Javier Marín.” Javier’s reciprocal smile was quite convincing, his grip confident and appropriately firm. “It’s truly a pleasure to meet you.”

“Ah, English.” Diego’s calculating gaze flicked briefly in my direction, but his attention almost immediately settled on Francine with intense focus. For several long moments, his eyes conducted a thorough appraisal of her figure, lingering noticeably on her hips, then her chest, before finally meeting her face. His micro-expressions betrayed unmistakable interest, evidenced by a subtle tightening at the corners of his mouth. “Are you international guests?”

Francine extended her hand with deliberate grace, her grip delicate. “We represent the French component of this ambitious project. My name is Francine and this is my esteemed colleague Genevieve.”

He acknowledged me with a perfunctory nod, his attention immediately snapping back to Francine. “Is this your first visit to our beautiful Valencia?”

“It is indeed.” Francine’s body language underwent a subtle but unmistakable shift, introducing a hint of sensuality in the way she tilted her head and allowed her fingertips to linger against the polished edge of the conference table. “And I can assure you it won’t be my last.”

“I sincerely hope not.” Diego gestured towards the chairs, his smile broadening with obvious pleasure. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.” He moved with confidence to claim the seat at the head of the table, his attention shifting back to Javier with reluctant professionalism. “To what do I owe this unexpected honour?”

“Your legendary generosity.” Javier’s smile was respectful as he settled into the chair positioned to Diego’s immediate right. “You have already opened your company’s considerable coffers to support police initiatives so many times that it almost feels presumptuous to approach you with yet another project requiring substantial funding.”

I deliberately chose the seat furthest from Diego, a strategic position that afforded me an unobstructed view of every person in the room, but also ensured I remained largely invisible to our host. This was certainly not the first time I had felt profoundly grateful for being overlooked. Diego had already completely forgotten my presence and a single dismissive glance at Carlos had similarly relegated him to irrelevance.

“If you would graciously allow me to explain our proposal.” Francine settled into the chair to Diego’s left, her demure smile very convincing.

“I am, as they say, all ears.” His smile carried distinctly predatory undertones, his unwavering gaze locked onto her face with uncomfortable intensity.

It was only because I knew my best friend so well that I caught the microscopic flash of disgust that flickered across her features before she expertly schooled her expression back to professional charm.

She leaned forward with deliberate intent, her smile remaining convincingly warm as she placed her tablet on the polished table surface, positioning her smartphone strategically beside it. “We are in the process of forming a comprehensive joint task force specifically designed to address the growing epidemic of cryptocurrency-related crimes. As you can undoubtedly imagine, our primary focus encompasses crypto theft, sophisticated fraud schemes, complex money laundering operations and the increasingly prevalent darknet market transactions that cross international boundaries with impunity. Our specialised department in France approached Inspector Jefe Javier Marín directly and he generously agreed to collaborate with us since these particular crimes leap across national borders as if there weren’t any.”

“I had the privilege of hearing you speak at the last police year-end function.” Javier’s tone carried precisely the right amount of admiration mixed with professional respect. “You talked with such passion about protecting your company’s integrity and leading by example.”

“Absolutely true.” Though Diego’s gaze flickered briefly towards Javier in acknowledgement, his torso remained deliberately angled towards Francine, his body language speaking volumes about his priorities. He looked back at her, his shoulders squaring and his chin lifting with obvious pride. “With nearly one hundred high-net-worth clients who have each invested more than one million Euros, plus sixteen major institutional investors entrusting us with family wealth, hedge funds and even government pension funds, it becomes absolutely imperative that we not only adhere rigorously to the highest standards of international law and all relevant regulations, but that we also maintain complete transparency to avoid even the slightest hint of impropriety.”

I was genuinely impressed with this man’s perfectly rehearsed response. It flowed smoothly, representing public relations craftsmanship at its absolute finest.

He adjusted his designer shirt’s platinum cufflinks. “Our current total assets under management have reached one point three billion Euros. We employ only the absolute best professionals in the industry to ensure we experience no security breaches, avoid liquidity crises and guarantee that the market’s inevitable volatility won’t destabilise our carefully balanced portfolio.”

By this point, Francine’s eyes had widened with what appeared to be genuine approval and admiration. She looked at me. “You see? This is precisely why I fought so hard to include Señor Estiarte in our planning.”

“Oh, please, no.” He reached out smoothly and rested his tanned hand on Francine’s forearm, his touch lingering four seconds longer than strictly necessary. “Diego. You must call me Diego.”

Her blinking increased as if she was overcome by the suggestion of familiarity. “Thank you...Diego.” She deliberately added more breath to his name, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. “I knew that approaching you directly would prove beneficial for absolutely everyone involved.”

“Everyone?” He raised one eyebrow, his lips pursing with calculated interest. “Exactly how would this arrangement benefit me personally?”

“Well...” She picked up her tablet and subtly pushed her phone a bit closer to Diego. “We have the ear of the president of France.”

Both his eyebrows shot upward in obvious surprise. “Do you now.”

“We know you’ve been pursuing the French government to invest with you.” She glanced meaningfully at Javier. “If we successfully secure sufficient funds to establish this joint task force, we’ve received private assurances that the supervisory board of the General Pension Reserve Fund will look very favourably upon your future proposals.”

Diego turned his full attention to Javier, his expression sharpening. “Is this true?”

Javier nodded with convincing solemnity. “We desperately need this task force to become operational.”

“Hmm.” Diego’s attention returned to Francine. “I have worked hard to be where I am today. My grandfather came from very humble beginnings—poverty that most people today cannot even imagine. He laboured with his bare hands until they bled, saving every centavo until he finally had enough to purchase a small farm. In those days, agricultural land was not nearly as expensive as it is in today’s market. Bit by bit, my abuelo continued working and saving and buying additional acreage until he could proudly call his expanded property Hacienda del Sol—Farm of the Sun.

“He sacrificed everything to send my father to university and today he owns a retail franchise empire worth multiple millions. Even at eighty years old, my father maintained active control of his business operations until he died. He made similar sacrifices to send me to university and here we are today. All of this success because my abuelo had a dream and he never gave up on it.”

A sharp knock on the conference room door interrupted his nostalgic monologue. A powerfully built man appeared in the doorway, his hands clasped rigidly behind his back, his military bearing and professionally blank expression suggesting either security or an ex-military background. “Tenemos una situación, señor.”

The man’s nonverbal cues were subtle but unmistakable as he announced a ‘situation’. The barely perceptible tightening around his dark eyes and the almost subtle shift in his stance were clear indicators that something was causing him significant distress that he was desperately attempting to mask beneath his disciplined military bearing.

Diego’s eyes narrowed dangerously for a brief moment, processing whatever silent communication had just passed between them, before he nodded curtly in acknowledgement. He looked back at our small group with obvious regret. “Give me a moment, please.”

The moment he joined the man outside the conference room, their heads were close together and the other man was whispering with an urgency that sent a small surge of adrenaline through my body. Diego jerked and pulled away to stare at the other man. His posture went from relaxed and confident to deeply concerned. He said something to the other man, who nodded once and rushed away.

Diego walked back into the conference room, his attempt to recall his previous friendliness and confidence only partly successful. “I am deeply sorry to cut this productive meeting short, but my immediate presence is required elsewhere.” He focused his attention on Javier. “Please send me a comprehensive outline of what you’re planning and exactly what financial resources you require. I promise to review everything thoroughly. But for now, I must insist that you tell absolutely no one about this conversation.” He looked directly at Francine and delivered a forced flirtatious wink. “Not even a parrot.”

Chapter FIFTEEN

“No way!” Natalia stared at Francine, her mouth dropping open in disbelief. Her eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into her fringe. “He said that?”

“Word for word.” Francine leaned against her desk, her bracelets clinking with each tiny movement. She’d been impatient to get back to the UDEF office, refusing to tell the team over the phone what Diego had said. She wanted to see their reactions. It had been worth the wait.

“Holy hellfire.” Manny’s boots scuffed against the floor as he paced in front of the window. He had been muttering variations of that phrase throughout the drive back, alternating between glowering silence and explosive swearing.

“Yup, honeybuns. Hellfire and all of that.” Francine smiled at Natalia. “There is no way on this planet I would ever believe it’s a coincidence that Diego told me to tell”—she lifted her fingers into the air with dramatic flair as she made air quotes—“not even a parrot, when Artman used that exact phrase to threaten Guillem to stay silent about the paintings.”

“Bloody unbelievable.” Manny scrubbed both hands over his face. “Are we saying that Artman, the person who has been supplying Guillem with Nazi-looted art, is the same self-loving idiotic almost-billionaire who trades in cryptocurrency?”

“The self-same.” Francine had given Manny this exact answer all three times he’d asked this question on the way back.

“Diego Estiarte is the one selling the Nazi-looted art?” Lucía spoke slowly, also in disbelief. Her head shook almost imperceptibly. “The fallout from this is going to be... catastrophic.”

“Not our problem.” Vinnie stretched his arms behind his head and then dropped them with a smack against his thighs. “I know the higher the rank, the messier the politics, but dude.” He raised both palms and shrugged loosely. “In this case, the truth is much more important than rich and powerful people’s delicate egos.”

The truth.

I turned my attention to Francine. “Do they know?”

“What?” Her tone changed halfway through the words when she looked up and saw my raised eyebrow. She put her hands on her hips. “You know, Genevieve. It’s mighty easy to love you, but man, you make it hard to do anything sneaky.”

“Oh, joy.” Manny lowered himself into the chair beside her desk, his elbows hitting the armrests with a dull thump. “What in the name of all the saints did you do now?”

Francine lifted her chin and sauntered past him. She settled into her chair with careful poise, reached into her handbag and placed her tablet and phone side by side next to her laptop. “I might have cloned Diego’s phone. I couldn’t miss an opportunity like that. My programme is strong enough to clone his phone even though it was in his pocket.”

“Bloody hellfire, woman.”

“Maldición.” Javier walked up to her desk, his arms crossed tightly and brows pulled together in. “What did I say about not breaking the law to uphold the law?”

“Um... that’s exactly what you said.” She raised one shoulder, her expression of contrition utterly fake. “Sorry?”

Javier tilted his head back and closed his eyes, lips pressed together. His fingers tapped against his bicep until he finally dropped his gaze back to her. “I truly would appreciate it if you didn’t do this again.”

This time her contrition was genuine. Her tone softened. “I can’t promise that. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t even try, Javier.” Manny sighed tiredly and turned to Francine. “Just do your thing and tell us what you find.”

Francine grinned at him and plugged her phone into the laptop. The moment the screen lit up, her fingers became a blur of keystrokes and her eyes were locked onto the monitor.

I carefully placed my handbag onto the corner of my desk and walked over. “Francine, check for any messages in the last half hour. That man who interrupted our meeting—his face, his posture, everything—he was greatly distressed. Whatever he said caused Diego immense concern bordering on outright fear. Maybe there is something on Diego’s phone that might give us an idea what that was about.”

“On it,” she mumbled without so much as a glance in my direction.

It took only twenty-four seconds.

Francine’s head jerked up, her eyes wide. “Oh, shittidy-shit. This is bad.”

“Compared to what we’ve uncovered in the last two days?” Marta also walked closer, a worried frown pulling her eyebrows together. “Are you exaggerating?”

Francine shook her head. Her eyes were still fixed on the screen, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “Diego received a video while we were talking to him. I’m putting it on the main monitors.”

Everyone moved at once, chairs scraping, footsteps echoing on the tiled floor as we turned to face the four oversized monitors lining the wall.

Three seconds later, the top-left monitor flickered to life.

A matte-black box truck, its sleek sides emblazoned with the AldaiaCripto logo, came into view. Two masked men, dressed in black, moved around in what looked like a subterranean chamber. Dust motes swirled in the beams of battery-powered lanterns, accentuating the rough texture of rock walls.

The taller man lifted a painting swaddled in protective cloth. His posture was careful, almost reverent. The second man crouched, guiding the frame into the truck’s depths. Their bodies obscured the artwork itself, but the deliberate gentleness betrayed its value. Behind them, two reinforced steel doors hung askew on their hinges, their surfaces covered in dents and burn marks. A sliver of daylight sliced through a high crevice in the rock.

The shorter man hefted a heavy metal crate, its corners nicked and scarred. He rotated it onto his shoulder, muscles flexing beneath the tight fabric of his black T-Shirt. He set it inside the truck and lifted the lid with a slow, deliberate gesture. A gold bar caught the dim light, streaks dancing across its gleaming surface. He paused, fingertips grazing its edge before laying it beside the crate.

Then the taller figure pivoted and I took a step back.

That gait. The slope of the shoulders. The casual swing of his arms, the slight tilt of his head before he spoke.

This was Dimitar Ivanov.

His mouth started moving behind his mask, but no sound came over the speakers.

“Wait, what?” Francine frowned. “Let me check... oh, come on!” Francine typed on her laptop for a few more seconds before looking up, frustration pulling her brows together. “The sound file is corrupted. Cloning is never a perfect operation. Dammit.”

“Continue the video.” Most times, I learned more from people’s nonverbal cues than from their words or tone of voice.

What counted against me in this video was that Ivanov was wearing a mask that limited my view of his face. I stepped closer to the monitor and studied the exposed skin around his eyes just as he stepped aside, arm extended toward the truck like a game show host unveiling the prize.

The camera zoomed in on a metallic drum covered in labels. My eyes were drawn to the most visually concerning one: black skull-and-crossbones on a white background, bordered in black with ‘6.1’ at the bottom. Stencilled in red was ‘UN 1558 ARSENIC’ and in yellow ‘Substance toxique’.

The camera zoomed out and focused again on the man I believed was Ivanov. He spoke for a few seconds, then the screen went black with a large ‘48 hours’ in red block letters.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

“Doc?” Manny’s tone indicated he’d already called me a few times. He raised one eyebrow when I turned to look at him. “So?”

“Whatever Ivanov said was a threat. The way his body leaned forward, his arms pushed away from his torso, his lowered brow. He was angry and he delivered a threat.”

“La madre que me parió.” Carlos’s voice sliced through the stillness. He was gaping at the monitor. “If that threat involves the arsenic in that drum... Did you see how much was in there?”

Natalia nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “It said, ‘Net quantity: 5 kg.’”

“Give me a minute.” Francine was already typing, her brows knit in concentration. She paused, exhaled. “Here. Oh, shit. These calculations say that five kilogrammes of arsenic could contaminate Valencia’s entire daily water supply.”

The room erupted in expletives.

“Valencia has around eight hundred thousand residents.” Lucía pinched the bridge of her nose. “In July, we get about half a million visitors throughout the month, so who knows how many additional people’s lives will be in danger if that drum gets dumped in the water supply.”

“Mierda.” Javier spun on his heel and strode toward his desk, already fishing for his phone. “I need to alert my bosses. Now.”

Lucía followed him, muttering about potential political repercussions, cross-border implications and total reputational collapse.

Daniel looked up from his tablet. “Are we all agreed it was Ivanov in the video?”

“No doubt in my mind.” Vinnie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a cold sneer on his face. “Wearing a mask? Cowardly, but recognisable.”

“Was that Diego’s company logo on the truck?” Yasmine narrowed her eyes. “Did Ivanov steal one of Diego’s trucks?”

“Doubt it.” Antonio scratched his jaw. “Diego runs a tech company. SUVs, maybe sports cars. Not box trucks. Ivanov probably added the logo himself—to frame him.”

Marta played with the four pens in front of her, moving them from side to side. “My bigger worry is that big forty-eight hours. Is Ivanov giving Diego an ultimatum?”

“I would like to know who that second man is.” Antonio lifted his chin towards the dark monitor. “And the person behind the camera.”

“Could be Ivanov’s two bodyguard dudes who escaped with him.” Vinnie’s top lip curled. “They should never have been able to leave Bulgaria at all.”

My mind was racing with all the details I’d registered in the video, yet hadn’t had time to process all of it. Even though Lucía’s assumption made sense, I wasn’t going to waste time speculating what Ivanov planned to do with the Arsenic. I slowed my breathing and mentally pushed Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 4 in G major into my mind, allowing the notes to glide in and anchor me.

The first few measures. That was all I needed.

I turned to Francine. “Play the video again.”

She nodded and tapped a few keys.

The monitor flared to life once more.

This time, I ignored the men loading the truck and focused on the surroundings. There was only a small sliver of the sky visible. I stepped closer to the monitor and raised my hand. “Pause. There. What is that?”

Francine zoomed in on the section of the video I was pointing at. I tilted my head. “That looks like a signal mast. Top of a hill or small mountain.”

Carlos stared at the image. “There aren’t many large antenna stations like that in the mountains. If we just knew which mountain...”

“How about Serra Calderona?” Natalia’s voice buzzed with restrained energy as she leaned back from her computer.

“And why would I look there?” Carlos asked, already typing on his keyboard.

“Because I looked through the records of all properties registered to Estiartes.” She glanced at Javier and Lucía, who had stopped talking and were paying close attention to our conversation. “Diego owns a villa here in Valencia, his father has two villas and a small farm, but I looked deeper and found that Diego paid property taxes for a farm registered to Ventura Azul.”

“One of the shell companies that sold the looted art.” Francine grinned at Natalia. “Good job, Nat. That’s another connection between Diego and the shell companies and the looted art.”

“Where is the farm?” Carlos asked.

Natalia gave the exact address, then looked at me. “It’s close to Parc Natural de la Serra Calderona.”

“It’s less than an hour’s drive north of Valencia.” Carlos narrowed his eyes as he worked on his computer. “Let me see if I can find where it would have the exact view of that antenna service station. Most of that mountain range is a natural park and it has many caves, so we’re likely looking for a cave.”

“You also thought it looked like the inside of a cave?” Yasmine asked. “Yet it has rooms.”

“Which is not impossible to create in a cave.” Antonio looked at Vinnie. “Did you bring your hiking boots?”

Vinnie raised his left foot and slowly pointed at his combat boot. “No, dude. I’m wearing my ballerina slippers.”

Chapter SIXTEEN

“The end of the road.” Colin looked at the destroyed bridge in front of us. “Literally.”

We were deep in the mountains, the peaks creating deep shadows in the valleys. The Serra Calderona stretched before us in all its Mediterranean grandeur, a tapestry of ancient limestone cliffs that caught the late afternoon light and threw it back in harsh, bleached reflections. The woodland was dense with the characteristic trees of this region—towering stone pines with their distinctive umbrella-shaped crowns and hardy Aleppo pines, their needle-covered branches creating patches of deep shade and the magnificent cork oaks with their thick, spongy bark and broad, rounded canopies that provided blessed relief from the relentless heat. 

The July sun, even at half past five in the late afternoon, beat down mercilessly upon the rocky terrain, the temperature still hovering near thirty-two degrees Celsius, turning the air thick and oppressive with the particular intensity only Mediterranean summers could deliver.

I got out of the SUV and looked around, feeling the heat rise from the rocky ground in shimmering waves. Javier’s sedan was next to our SUV and Daniel had stopped behind us. The three vehicles now formed an impromptu convoy at the end of what had once been a passable mountain road.

Francine, Marta and Carlos had stayed in the UDEF office, running different searches through databases and surveillance networks. Javier’s bosses had given Francine access to all the security camera footage in the city and she was currently focused on finding the box truck. Another shudder threatened to shake my body just at the thought of that quantity of arsenic in the hands of Ivanov.

“They got him.” Javier walked to us, his phone clutched tightly in his hand, relief evident in the loosening of his shoulders. “Diego Estiarte is in custody. He’s not been arrested yet, but he won’t be going anywhere soon.”

“Good.” Antonio joined us, his voice carrying grim satisfaction. Natalia emerged from behind him, gathering her auburn hair and tying it in a high ponytail.

“The GPS coordinates Carlos sent will take us about a kilometre that way.” Vinnie gestured towards the other side of the creek, his eyes scanning the terrain. He walked closer to the creek, his boots crunching on the loose stones and dried vegetation. “Dudes! This bridge was blown up.”

“Bloody hellfire.” Manny approached with purposeful strides, his frown intensifying. “This is recent.”

“Very recent.” Vinnie crouched down, pointing at the disturbed earth around the blast site. “The ground hasn’t even settled yet. Look at how the soil’s still loose, still shifting.”

The bridge had been a modest structure—a small, low concrete span that had once carried the mountain road across the narrow creek bed below. Now it lay in ruins, completely out of commission. A massive chunk of reinforced concrete rested at an unnatural angle against the thick trunk of an ancient cork oak, the tree’s bark scarred and stripped where the debris had struck it with devastating force. The rest of the bridge was in pieces—concrete slabs cracked and fragmented, twisted reinforcement bars jutting out, the entire structure rendered impassable by what could only have been a deliberate act of sabotage.

“Heads on a swivel, people.” Daniel’s voice carried the unmistakable authority of command as he moved to the back of his SUV. He retrieved an assault weapon, checking it with the fluid motions of long practice before slinging the strap across his chest. Yasmine shouldered a small tactical backpack, adjusting the straps before looking at Daniel, her expression focused and alert. He looked at me. “Stay between us, Genevieve.”

I nodded and exhaled gratefully when Colin took my hand, his fingers warm and reassuring against mine. I had been in two minds about coming along on this mission. Francine had convinced me that my eye for detail might prove to be more valuable here in the field than sitting behind a desk in the office. Looking at the blown-up bridge, surveying the calculated destruction and the ominous implications it carried, made me regret my agreement to join these people who had been trained for situations such as this, who moved through danger with a confidence I could never hope and didn’t have the desire to match.

“We’re okay, Jenny.” Colin squeezed my hand gently and I realised my grip had tightened to a point where it must have been causing him discomfort. His smile was warm and encouraging when I consciously relaxed my hold slightly. “We’re okay.”

“At the moment, yes.” The words came out more sharply than I’d intended. I cleared my throat and took three deep breaths.

Colin chuckled softly, the sound somehow managing to cut through my rising anxiety and tugged gently on my hand. “Come. Let’s stay behind Millard. That way, I can irritate him with my observations about him wearing Daniel’s running shoes and you can count how many times he says, ‘bloody’.”

“Bugger off, Frey,” Manny said over his shoulder and everyone chuckled.

A few years ago, Vinnie had made us all prepare small backpacks that we left in our vehicles. Survival packs, he called them. I checked mine every two months, replacing the packets of snacks, checking the first aid kit and putting in fresh clothes. I always had one short-sleeve T-shirt, one long-sleeve T-shirt, a raincoat, a pair of yoga trousers and running shoes. Colin’s backpack carried much the same. Both of us were wearing our running shoes, but Manny hadn’t brought his backpack, so Daniel loaned him his sneakers, which were a size too small. In his opinion, snug toes were better than attempting a mountain path with his city shoes.

I didn’t reply to Colin’s deliberately silly suggestions, recognising them for what they were—his attempt to lighten the oppressive mood that had settled over our group. Instead, I walked with him as the others fanned out. Daniel and Javier took point, their weapons at the ready as they moved with careful, measured steps. Manny and Lucía positioned themselves several metres behind them, creating a protective formation. Vinnie moved to our right flank, his eyes constantly scanning the treeline, as Yasmine took up position to our left, her own weapon held in a relaxed but ready grip. Natalia and Antonio brought up the rear, ensuring our backs were covered.

We made our way carefully over the tumbled rocks and jagged pieces of concrete that littered the creek bed, the remnants of the destroyed bridge creating an obstacle course of sharp edges and unstable footing. The water that trickled through the creek was barely more than a whisper, reduced to a thin stream by the summer drought. Once across, we followed a narrow road that led deeper into the mountain’s embrace, the trail winding between towering limestone outcroppings and dense clusters of Mediterranean woodland. Vinnie and Yasmine moved off the road, taking parallel routes through the light undergrowth.

“These tracks are fresh.” Colin stopped abruptly, crouching down to examine the ground more closely. He pointed at the tyre tracks impressed into the loose, rocky soil of the mountain road. The ground was parched and dusty from weeks of relentless summer heat, making clear impressions difficult to discern, but the places where the tyres had pressed deep enough to leave their mark was revealing. “Much larger than a car.”

Manny hunched over beside him. “These could definitely be from that box truck.”

“Hold!” Daniel’s fist shot up in the universal military gesture, his entire body going rigid with sudden alertness. I’d seen Daniel and his team use this signal numerous times during our operations together, but it had never failed to send a surge of pure adrenaline flooding through my system, triggering every survival instinct I possessed. “The ground is disturbed up front.”

The forest around us fell silent except for the distant calling of birds and the whisper of wind through pine needles.

“Oh, shit.” Yasmine’s soft words carried clearly through the mountain air and they immediately brought a familiar darkness pressing at the edges of my peripheral vision. I’d never heard fear in her voice until this very moment—not real fear, not the kind that stripped away all pretence and left only raw, honest terror.

Daniel’s body jerked slightly, but he maintained his forward-facing position, his weapon trained on the path ahead. “Jazz?”

“Alive.” Her voice cracked slightly and she cleared her throat with deliberate control. “I stepped on something that clicked. And it’s not a twig that snapped.”

“Bloody hellfire.” Manny spun around to look at her, his face twisting into an expression of alarm and frustration.

Yasmine stood motionless, looking down at her right foot with the kind of absolute stillness that spoke of immense internal control. She was about five metres from the main path, where the forest floor was thick with the detritus of countless seasons—dried leaves from the oak trees, pine needles fallen from the towering conifers above and the scattered remnants of pinecones that had dropped during previous autumns. 

It was only when I looked closely, forcing myself to focus despite the encroaching darkness at the edges of my vision, that I could see the disturbed soil around her foot, the subtle signs that something artificial lurked beneath the natural camouflage of the forest floor.

“Before anyone else moves,”—Yasmine’s voice was carefully controlled now, each word measured—“please check the soil around you. I’m pretty sure I stepped on a mine.”

“Why the fuck put an IED off the road?” Vinnie’s question carried genuine bewilderment as he looked around himself with new wariness, then leaned over to pick up a fallen branch. With infinite care, he used it to gently move the leaves and pine needles around his feet, searching for any signs of disturbance. He took a careful step towards the road and repeated the action, his movements slow and deliberate. “It would make more sense to put those in the road if you plan to blow someone up?”

“Not if you put that in the road to push the driver over here.” Yasmine’s gaze fixed pointedly on a large boulder positioned directly in front of Lucía. The massive piece of limestone would have made it impossible for any vehicle to continue straight along the path. The tactical implications were clear.

The rock had been placed there deliberately, forcing anyone who reached this point to veer off the established route and into the area where the explosives waited. It was a trap laid by someone who understood how people moved, how they reacted when faced with obstacles, how they could be channelled into predetermined killing zones.

Javier turned around slowly, carefully. “Antonio, Vinnie, Natalia, keep your eyes on our surroundings. Watch for any movement, any sign that we’re not alone out here.” His attention shifted to Colin and me. “Colin, Genevieve, stay exactly where you are for the moment.” He looked back at Daniel, the silent communication passing between them was the kind of wordless understanding that came from years of working in dangerous situations. I’d seen that countless times on the faces of Daniel and his team. “Let’s clear a path.”

I clung onto Colin’s hand as the others began the painstaking process of following Vinnie’s example, each team member making slow, methodical progress towards us while constantly checking the ground for signs of additional explosives. I forced myself to stop watching their agonisingly careful advance and turned my attention to Yasmine instead. Her posture appeared outwardly relaxed, her stance casual and controlled, but the tension visible around her mouth and the tight lines at the corners of her eyes told me that she was fighting an internal battle against terror.

I forced Mozart’s Violin Sonata No. 18 in G major into my mind, using its familiar mathematical precision as an anchor against the chaos of fear that threatened to overwhelm me. I catalogued every micro-expression visible on Yasmine’s face, noting the way her breathing had become slightly more shallow, the almost imperceptible tremor in her hands that she was working so hard to conceal. Still, the darkness kept pushing closer to the centre of my vision, threatening to take me away.

She noticed my intense focus on her and managed to give me a wan smile. “I could really do with a distraction right now.”

The vulnerability in her admission broke through my own fear and I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind. “Feet are one of the most honest parts of the body in nonverbal communication. People often focus on controlling their facial expressions and even their hand gestures, but they seldom even consider their feet revealing their inner thoughts.”

From the corner of my eye, I could see Daniel and Lucía working their way carefully towards Yasmine’s position, each step requiring careful examination of the ground ahead. The moment when fear for Daniel’s safety entered Yasmine’s expression was unmistakable—the slight widening of her eyes, the way her lips pressed together more tightly, the subtle shift in her breathing pattern.

I turned up the mental volume of the sonata and pushed strength into my tone, determined to keep her anchored to the present moment. “In social situations, people often point their feet toward the person they’re most interested in, whether romantically, socially or professionally. When someone’s feet are angled away from a person or a group and pointed towards the exit—door, hallway, elevator—they want to leave that situation as quickly as possible.”

“Let’s go, Jen-girl.” Vinnie’s voice came from behind me and I realised with surprise that I hadn’t even noticed him completing his careful approach and reaching our position.

I shook my head firmly and for a moment worried that the motion would trigger one of my compulsive episodes where I couldn’t stop the repetitive movement. Finally, I managed to stiffen my neck muscles and halt the motion, turning my focus back to the woman who’d become someone I not only respected but also loved. “I’m staying until Yasmine can move.”

The relief that flooded across Yasmine’s face was immediately replaced by fierce resolve, her expression hardening with determination. “You’re too close, Genevieve. Go with Vinnie, but keep talking. Please.”

I pointed directly at her face, reading the conflict between her words and her emotional needs. “That’s not what you want. No. Don’t deny that.” I glanced sharply over my shoulder at Vinnie, but immediately returned my attention to Yasmine. “I’m not leaving. Whenever someone feels threatened or experiences heightened stress, their feet freeze. They will stop tapping, shifting or swinging. This is an instinctive survival response that dates back to our earliest evolutionary development.”

“Like the way I feel very frozen right now.” Her attempt at humour was brave but unsuccessful, her smile quivering with the effort before it froze completely when Daniel and Lucía finally reached her position. “What’s the plan, Dan?”

Vinnie managed a chuckle despite the tension. “You made a funny, hunny.”

“For the love of the saints.” Manny snapped his fingers sharply next to my face, the sound making me flinch. “Get your arse out of here, missy.”

“No.” I tried to release Colin’s hand, but found that I couldn’t make my fingers obey the command. I knew Colin would never leave me at a time like this. Not even if I told him to.

“You’re in luck, Jazzy.” Lucía dropped smoothly to her haunches beside the potentially lethal device, her movements displaying the kind of calm competence that only came from extensive training and experience. With infinite care, she began removing the top layer of dry leaves and pine needles that concealed whatever Yasmine had stepped on. “Before I became the leader of this UDEF unit, I spent five years in the bomb squad.” She glanced up with a grin that managed to be both reassuring and swaggering. “I was one of the best.”

“Yay me.” Yasmine’s voice was dry with forced humour, but her eyes remained locked onto my face with desperate intensity. “Feet.”

“Rapid foot tapping or bouncing, especially when seated, shows that the person is eager, impatient or anxious about something specific.” I spoke faster now, forcing myself not to look at what Lucía was doing with her careful excavation, doing everything I could to school my own face and body language to communicate relaxed confidence rather than the terror that was clawing at my insides. “When someone stands or sits with the ankles tightly crossed, it often suggests self-restraint, discomfort or their desire to hold something back—emotionally or verbally.”

Daniel positioned himself next to Lucía on the ground, their voices low as they had a technical conversation about whatever they were examining. I consciously relaxed my shoulders, but couldn’t relax my grip on Colin’s hand. Instead, I found myself holding on even tighter. “The closer someone’s feet are to another person, the more comfortable or trusting they are likely to feel. When people dislike or distrust someone, they tend to keep a greater distance, especially with their lower body positioning. When the level of trust is high, people will mirror each other unconsciously, especially each other’s foot placement or stance.”

“We’re good to go.” Lucía sat back on her heels and looked up at Yasmine with satisfaction. “You can take a step.”

Yasmine’s entire body seemed to slump with relief, but she didn’t immediately move. She looked down at Daniel. “Are you sure?”

He got up and took her hand, his expression sober, his face pale. “I’m sure. This is a VS-50 mine. They are pressure-activated.”

Yasmine gasped loudly, the sound carrying clearly through the mountain air. “It was supposed to detonate when I stepped on it?”

“Yes.” His full focus was on her, his voice gentle but completely certain. “This one is a dud.”

Lucía rose to her feet and dusted off her hands with matter-of-fact efficiency. “This one’s plastic casing is so badly warped that it shifted the internal alignment. It happens with these modern mines—the manufacturing tolerances aren’t always perfect and environmental factors can cause component failure.”

“Oh.” Yasmine stared into Daniel’s face. “That means the explosive compound might still—”

“You’re safe.” Lucía squeezed her shoulder reassuringly and took a step back, giving them space. “You can step off.”

Yasmine’s breath came out in a shuddering exhale, her gaze never leaving Daniel’s face, as if drawing strength from his presence.

He took a small step backwards, extending his other hand towards her. “Come.”

“I love you.” The words were barely above a whisper as she stepped off the mine and directly into Daniel’s embrace.

He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair, whispering something I couldn’t hear.

Colin put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me against his side. “You were amazing.”

“No.” I shook my head and again had to consciously force myself to stop the motion. I leaned against Colin. “I was terrified.”

“He’s right.” Yasmine straightened and walked directly to me, her steps steady despite everything she’d just endured. She stopped in front of me, her expression soft. “You were amazing. You kept me safe and sane.” Tears filled her eyes. “Can I hug you?”

I stiffened instinctively at the prospect of physical contact, but nodded when Colin moved slightly away from me. Yasmine’s hug was gentle and careful, but I could feel the restraint in her muscles as she enfolded me in her arms, the conscious effort she was making not to hold me too tightly or for too long. “Thank you, Genevieve.”

I patted her back awkwardly and stepped back. “We should go to the cave.”

Chapter SEVENTEEN

The rest of the walk to our destination took much longer, each step taken with great care. Daniel, Lucía and Javier, the only ones in our group with Incendiary Explosive Device training, led the way with painstaking slowness, clearing the road of any loose or suspicious leaves and pine needles. They found four more landmines, each a silent threat. Walking around them had required mentally turning Mozart’s sonata to top volume, breathing in time with the music’s measured pace and focusing on the rhythm to keep the fear at bay while we navigated the treacherous path.

The forest seemed to close in around us as we climbed higher, the trees growing larger and older, their trunks scarred by decades of mountain storms and their branches forming a cathedral ceiling that filtered the light into a green-tinted twilight. Wild boar had left their marks here—deep gouges in the earth where they had rooted for truffles and acorns and the musky scent of their passage lingered in the still air. Somewhere in the canopy above, a red squirrel chattered angrily at our intrusion, its voice echoing off the stone walls that rose on either side of the narrow valley.

“We’re almost on top of it.” Antonio checked his satellite phone, the device’s screen glowing blue in the forest’s green twilight, his brow furrowed in concentration as he compared our position to the coordinates Carlos had provided. Javier had also brought one along, in case we found ourselves in an area with no cell phone reception. Given the depth of the mountains surrounding us, this seemed increasingly likely. Antonio pointed to our left, where the slope rose more steeply. “It’s somewhere over there.”

It was easy to see where we were supposed to go. The deep tracks Colin had noticed earlier led directly to a two-track dirt path on our left that looked like it hadn’t seen regular maintenance in years. The path was slightly overgrown, vegetation creeping in from the sides like nature’s attempt to reclaim what humans had carved from the wilderness. But the tyre marks were clear, the soil churned up by the passage of a heavy vehicle that had compressed the earth and crushed the undergrowth flat.

Wild rosemary grew thick along the edges of the path, its silver-green leaves releasing their pungent fragrance with each breath of wind. Gorse bushes, still showing the last of their yellow flowers despite the summer heat, formed thorny barriers that would have made it impossible to deviate from the track without serious difficulty. The air here was different—cooler, carrying the smell of deep stone and hidden water, the scent of places where sunlight rarely reached.

There, carved into the living rock of the mountainside, was the dark opening of a cave. The entrance was wide enough for a small truck to pass through, its edges weathered smooth by countless years of wind and rain. Lichen crusted the stone around the opening in patches of orange and green.

I mentally turned down Mozart’s sonata, letting it play in the background as Javier, Daniel, Vinnie and Antonio went into the cave first, their weapons at the ready, their movements controlled. Their torches cut through the darkness, revealing glimpses of the stone walls as we waited outside for them.

“Clear.” Vinnie stepped out of the cave and looked at Colin. “Dude. They completely cleared out this place. There’s nothing.”

The interior of the cave was larger than I had expected, the entrance merely the mouth of a complex system that delved deep into the mountain. The main chamber was spacious enough to house a small aircraft, its ceiling lost in shadows that our lights couldn’t penetrate, its walls rough and uneven like the inside of a stone bubble formed by some ancient geological violence. A few battery-powered lanterns had been left on throughout the space, casting a warm light that gave the cave an almost theatrical atmosphere. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like stone icicles, some as thick as tree trunks, while their corresponding stalagmites rose from the floor to meet them in impressive columns. In other circumstances, I would’ve enjoyed this exploration.

Tunnels led off to three other chambers, their entrances dark and mysterious. Two of those chambers had reinforced steel doors that had been blown off their hinges, the metal twisted and bent from the force of carefully placed explosives. The doors lay against the stone walls, their surfaces scarred and blackened by the blast that had opened them.

Colin stopped in front of one of the destroyed doors, his fingers tracing the edge of the twisted metal. The steel was thick, military-grade, designed to withstand everything short of a direct assault. “This is some serious security. These doors are nigh-on impossible to open without the correct key.”

“Perfect hiding place.” Natalia turned in a slow circle, her eyes wide with fascination as she took in the scope of the underground complex. The cave’s acoustics made her voice echo. “The chances of someone finding this cave are very low and then to open these doors? I’m not surprised Diego hid the looted art and gold here.”

I walked into the chamber beyond the destroyed door, the light of the single lantern left inside surprisingly bright after the relative darkness of the main cavern. The illumination revealed a space that had been modified for storage, with shelves that lined the natural walls in rows. Every shelf was empty now, the dust disturbed, but no trace of what had once been stored there remained. The air here was different—drier, carrying the faint scent of old wood.

In the far corner stood a small wooden desk, a simple piece that looked hand-crafted, with an upturned wooden crate serving as a chair. The desk’s surface was worn smooth by years of use, its edges rounded by countless hands. All the drawers had been pulled out and thrown onto the floor, their contents long gone, leaving only the empty wooden shells and the scattered detritus of hasty evacuation.

“What do you see?” Colin joined me, his voice low in the cathedral-like space.

“If all these shelves were full...” My voice trailed off as I took in the scope of the empty storage space. The sheer scale was staggering—dozens of shelves, hundreds of potential storage spaces, room for a collection that would rival many national museums.

“Oh, Jenny.” Colin swallowed, his expression filled with grief. “If there were artworks on only half of these shelves, where have they gone? There is no way they were all loaded into that box truck.”

Natalia stepped up beside us, her eyes wide. “It would be a lot of art we should be looking for. Or gold. Or both.”

I moved to the desk, running my fingers over the weathered surface. The wood was oak, old and dense, with the patina that came only from decades of use and care. I had seen a desk like this at an antique market in Strasbourg, when Colin had insisted we go early one Saturday morning to avoid the crowds. The market had been pleasant enough, but the highlight had been the conversation with an elderly restorer who had told us about the hidden compartments that craftsmen used to build into furniture during times of war and uncertainty.

I felt along the underside of the desk, my fingers searching for any irregularities in the smooth wood, any depression or button that might trigger a concealed mechanism. I found it. A small indentation, barely noticeable. I gently pressed into it and a soft snick sounded, the noise sharp in the cave’s stillness.

“A hidden compartment?” Colin leaned forward, peering into the empty drawer spaces where the mechanism had revealed itself. “Ah, there it is.”

He pulled the hidden drawer open and stepped back, revealing the cavity that had been concealed within the desk’s construction.

“This is so cool.” Natalia stared at the three leatherbound books nestled inside the secret space, her eyes wide with excitement and wonder. “I feel like Lara Croft.”

I frowned. “Why would you feel like another person?”

She laughed softly, the sound echoing strangely in the stone chamber. “It’s a fictional character who is this kickass adventurer and archaeologist.”

“There are three books in a hidden drawer.” My frown deepened as I tried to understand the connection. “It has nothing to do with archaeology.”

Natalia’s smile lifted her cheeks, transforming her face with genuine amusement. “True. Very true.”

“It does have to do with Nazi-looted gold.” Colin held one of the books, its pages yellowed with age, the handwriting on the visible pages neat and precise, each letter formed with careful attention.

I took the second book and opened it to the first page, my eyebrows rising as I turned page after page of detailed entries. Each line was a story, each number a piece of stolen history finally coming to light. “These are meticulous records.”

“What did you find, Doc?” Manny walked into the chamber, a scowl on his face. “We found bugger-all out there.”

I turned my attention back to the book in my hands, scanning the entries with growing astonishment at their thoroughness. “This is a ledger with details of every artwork that has been sold. It has the dates, the amounts, the buyers—everything.” I flipped to the last page with writing on it, my finger tracing the final entry. “Last entry was a week ago. The Moulin Rouge.”

“Holy hellfire.” Manny looked at Colin. “Your book the same?”

Colin shook his head. “This ledger is only for the gold.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at Manny with an expression of stunned disbelief. “There were three hundred gold bars.”

“Holy Mary, Joseph and the saints.” Manny shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “That’s worth what?”

“I’ll check,” Yasmine said from the doorway, her phone already in her hand, its screen providing another source of light in the stone chamber. Her fingers moved quickly across the device’s surface. “At the current gold price and assuming those were standard-size bars? Huh... one-point-one-seven million Euros. Per bar.”

“Mierde.” Natalia stared wide-eyed at Yasmine. “Times three hundred?”

“Three hundred and fifty million Euros in today’s value.”

Colin paged back and forth in his book, his finger tracing entries that spanned decades. “Diego’s grandfather sold three gold bars in 1947, most likely to buy land. And then a gold bar now and then.” He held the book for us to see, pointing to one of the last pages with entries. “Here, the handwriting is different. This must be Diego, taking gold five years ago.”

“When he started his crypto business.” Natalia took a step back from the ledger. “That’s how he funded his business.”

“What about the art?” Manny looked at me.

I handed the book to Colin. “The list of artworks is in the back.” I turned to Manny. “There are no entries of selling art until three years ago. I’m sure if we look closer, it will be the same handwriting as in the book with gold.”

“What’s in the third book?” Natalia took it from the hidden compartment, her movements careful. She opened it, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “It’s written in German.” She turned the pages, the paper crackling softly in the cave’s silence. “It’s a journal.” She looked up, her expression appalled. “It’s Hans Weisenbach’s journal.”

Chapter EIGHTEEN

“What did you learn?” Marta pulled her chair closer to Natalia’s desk and looked at me, her dark eyes intense with anticipation. The fluorescent lights overhead cast shadows across her face, accentuating the dark rings under her eyes.

I’d taken the journal of Diego’s Nazi grandfather, Hans Weisenbach—the regional commander who had shot a fourteen-year-old boy—and had started reading it on our way back. As soon as we'd walked into the UDEF office, I'd continued and had put it down mere seconds ago. Marta must’ve been watching me. I looked up and realised everyone was watching me, their expressions ranging from curiosity to apprehension.

“This individual would’ve benefited from psychiatric care.” I suppressed a shudder, my fingers feeling contaminated from touching those pages. I would need to mentally write many Mozart compositions to cleanse my mind from what I’d read. “There is no doubt in my mind that Hans Weisenbach was indeed a sadist. He writes about the pleasure he derived from torturing people and the satisfaction of taking what they valued so much.”

My gaze drifted across the room, first to Manny, then to Javier, whose normally relaxed posture had stiffened.

“It’s a complete written confession of a Nazi officer, admitting to atrocities that should’ve put him in prison for life. Unfortunately, there is nothing here that implicates Diego or gives any indication where Ivanov might be.” My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears, the clinical detachment a necessary shield against the horrors documented in those pages.

“I might have something.” Francine’s eyes were bloodshot and her posture was slightly slumped. She was exhausted. It was three minutes past nine and the sky outside the windows was filled with the lingering glow of sunset—deep oranges and purples stretching across the horizon.

We’d waited until two other teams of police officers had arrived at the caves before we’d returned. One team consisted of officers who secured the area—grim-faced professionals who’d nodded tersely at us as they established a perimeter with yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the mountain breeze. The others were part of the crime scene investigation unit, carrying their cameras and collection kits into the cave, their white coveralls ghostly in the cave’s dim lighting. They were still there. By the time we’d arrived back at the office, it had been thirteen minutes past eight and we’d spent the last hour going over every part of this case.

Francine had not moved from her desk during the time we’d been away. Even the water bottle beside her keyboard was still untouched. She narrowed her eyes as she looked at her laptop. “So, I found Diego’s social media. Hah.” A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “I should say, I found the posts he deleted before he started his crypto trading company five years ago. Six months after his father died.”

“The grandfather’s last entry in his journal was thirty-five years ago.” I had been relieved when I’d reached the end of his writing, the final pages bringing an end to the catalogue of cruelty. My shoulders had physically relaxed, as though putting down a tangible weight. “He complained about no longer being able to see.”

Marta straightened in her chair, her spine aligning with sudden interest. The silver streaks in her dark hair caught the light as she moved. “I’ve been working through the financial ledgers. The entries we assume are in Diego’s handwriting started five years ago. That was when he sold three gold bars. That gave him just under three million Euros.”

“That is exactly the amount he spent on cryptocurrency when he registered his business.” Carlos pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been going through Diego’s finances and also his company’s. There is a lot that doesn’t make sense. If we are going to start digging, I’m sure we will find money coming and going that should not be coming and going.”

“And here the gossip rags thought the son of the famous retail mogul found his way to the righteous path when his dad died.” Francine rolled her eyes, the gesture exaggerated by her exhaustion. “Diego reposted at least four articles in newspapers and magazines praising him for how he turned his life around after his many, many, many years of being a party boy.”

“Boy?” Manny’s top lip curled in disgust. “That bloody idiot is a man.” He glared at the tablet in his hand, his thumb jabbing at the screen with unnecessary force. “I’ve watched three interviews with him and I have not seen many people as self-absorbed and self-loving as this...”

“Man-child?” Francine provided when Manny appeared at a loss for words. “Billionaire brat? Peter Pan? Silver fox with a midlife crisis?”

Manny just glared at her.

“Anyhoo,” she continued after grinning at Manny. “Diego started his company and as egoistic as he might be, he’s really made a success of it.”

“Until he didn’t.” Marta pulled her chair back to her desk and looked at her computer monitor. “Three years ago, the crypto market crashed.”

“Ooh, I remember that.” Francine winced, her hand instinctively going to her heart as though recalling a physical pain. “The price of most cryptocurrencies dropped almost fifty per cent. The crypto market is known for being very volatile, but that one hurt. Trillions were wiped out.”

“Shit.” Daniel stared at Francine, his coffee mug frozen halfway to his lips. “Euros? Trillions of Euros? Or Dollars?”

“Both.” Francine looked at Marta. “How did that affect Diego’s business?”

“Badly.” The older woman paused, her finger tracing a downward slope on her screen. “Until he recovered miraculously.” She pointed at the ledger in Colin’s hands, the leather-bound book incongruous amongst our modern technology. “That shows all the paintings he sold.”

“Nothing was sold until three years ago.” Colin had made a few phone calls, but mainly had been studying that ledger. “In the first five months, he sold paintings to the value of seventeen million Euros.”

“The exact amount of money that had been lost by the crash.” Marta frowned. “I can’t find a reason why he started selling paintings again. His portfolio looks relatively healthy and the crypto market hasn’t given off any ripples of warnings recently.”

“Lucas finally answered my call.” Colin looked at Manny. “Guillem’s third cousin—the fence who was going to get back to me about someone in this area willing to move gold.”

“And?” Manny rolled his hand in an impatient gesture.

“Lucas told me this guy refused to have anything to do with Diego after the initial few gold bars. He said Diego kept threatening him with police investigations if this guy didn’t give Diego better prices on the gold. As it was, Diego got almost market value for the gold, which is not something a fence ever wants to do. So he cut Diego off and warned other fences about Diego’s methods.”

“And Diego started selling art to fund his business.” Yasmine’s voice was quiet but carried across the room.

“And lifestyle.” Marta picked up a tall glass next to her, saw it was empty and put it back down with a sigh of disappointment. “His personal finances tell a story of wild spending and wild living.” She gestured towards a spreadsheet on her screen, one column highlighted in bright yellow, another in an angry red.

“Ooh, guys. Ooh.” Francine stared at her laptop, her eyes wide. “We have sound for the video Ivanov sent Diego. The cops took Diego’s phone when they took him into custody and just linked me up to download the phone’s brain.”

“Stop talking and put that video on the bloody monitor.” Manny got up and walked to the front of the room.

The top right monitor flickered to life to show the same cave scene as before. Ivanov walked up to the camera and a computerised voice spilled from the speakers, its synthetic flatness making the words more chilling.

“Tell the world where your family got their money, how your grandfather paid for this land. Not the story that you tell everyone. You know as well as I do that your grandfather never worked his hands until they bled. Tell the world how you paid for your first crypto trades. Tell them or I will not only reveal your secret,”—He stepped aside and allowed the camera to zoom in on the drum—“I will dump your gold into Valencia’s water supply with a nice dose of that.”

The camera pulled back, refocussing on him. “You have forty-eight hours. Don’t try to buy my silence.” He pointed once more at the truck. “There’s enough wealth in there.” A beat. “And more than enough arsenic. Forty-eight hours. An international statement or...”

“Holy bloody hellfire.” Manny rubbed his hands over his face as he stared at the monitor that was now black with red lettering. He turned around and looked at Lucía. “You were right.”

“I hoped to God I wasn’t.” Her face lost some of its colour as the room went silent for a few seconds.

“Got it!” Natalia hopped in her chair, the sudden movement and exclamation startling in the stunned quiet of the room.

“What did you find, Nat?” Yasmine asked when Natalia didn’t say anything else, but was still working on her computer.

“The arsenic.” She glanced up immediately, shaking her head, causing her ponytail to swing. “No, sorry. I didn’t find it. I found where it was stolen. I didn’t find any reports of stolen or lost arsenic in Spain or any of our neighbours, but then I thought about looking in Bulgaria, Ivanov’s territory.” Her words tumbled out rapidly, excitement making her normally measured speech pattern accelerate.

“So, I know that Arsenic is often a by-product of gold mining because it naturally occurs in the same mineral ores and is released during the extraction and processing of gold.” Her smile became pleased when Javier nodded in approval. “I started looking for gold mines. Especially in Bulgaria and found two active mines. I also found a few exploration sites, but decided to ignore them for now.”

She glanced at her computer screen. “I learned that one of the mines has legacy operations, which means some discontinued industrial activities with old equipment and waste. Yes, there are leftover toxic materials stored that came from decades ago. And yes, arsenic is one of those toxic materials and yes, they are stored in the same sealed drums we saw in that truck.” Her voice rose with each confirmation, the pieces falling into place. “A few phone calls and one police officer promised to send me information. That’s what I just received. The hazardous material vault of that gold mine was robbed ten weeks ago.”

“That’s two weeks before we went to Bulgaria.” Daniel’s expression darkened as he made the connection.

Natalia nodded. “The Bulgarian police are looking into it now because the main detective who’d been leading the investigation into the theft was also implicated in Ivanov’s huge network of people he controlled.”

“Holy hellfire.” Manny scratched his jaw, the rasp of his stubble audible in the sudden silence. “How much arsenic was stolen?”

“Fifteen kilogrammes.” Natalia’s voice had dropped to almost a whisper, concern tightening the orbicularis oculi muscles around her eyes.

“Madre mío.” Lucía pinched the bridge of her nose, her green eyes widening. “That’s three times the amount we thought Ivanov planned to dump in Valencia’s water.”

“There will be no coming back from that.” Javier rubbed his beard, then pulled at it. “We need to send more patrol units to the water plants.”

“Send them to Nuevo Agua Treatment Facility.” Lucía turned to Javier, her movements sharp with urgency. “I’ve been thinking about the arsenic, the only real threat I came up with is the water supply, so I looked into all the employees at the water treatment plants in and around Valencia. I found one employee who bought himself a BMW after he resigned three weeks ago. The money in his account came from one of the three shell companies connected to Ivanov’s Pirin Group.”

“Oh, shit.” Francine grabbed her laptop and furiously started working on it, her fingers a blur across the keyboard. “My system just gave me an alert.” She continued typing. “Lucía told me about her concerns and I programmed the system to pick up any movement around all the water treatment plants. Most of them have security cameras all over the place, so I’ve been keeping an eye on the cops watching the plants as well.”

The tension in the room crystallised, everyone’s attention riveted on Francine as she worked. The soft clicks of her keyboard seemed unnaturally loud in the silence.

She tapped her keyboard once more and the four monitors on the wall in the front of the room came to life. All four had different angles of the front gate, the name of the water plant on a large signage board against the closed gate. The Nuevo Agua Treatment Facility stood isolated against the darkening sky, its industrial silhouette ominous in the twilight.

Two police cars were parked on either side of the gate, their windscreens shattered—a spider’s web of cracks spreading across the glass. Walking away from the cars was the same man who’d appeared on the cave video. He was dressed all in black, his face covered with a mask that obscured his features but couldn’t hide the cold determination in his stance. In his hands was an automatic assault rifle, its deadly silhouette unmistakable even in the waning light.

Ivanov was already at the water treatment plant.

Chapter NINETEEN

“I want one of these.” Francine looked around the inside of the operational truck. The calculating expression on her face told me she was seriously considering investing in such a large and complex vehicle.

The mobile command centre’s interior was the perfect combination of tactical efficiency and technological sophistication. Banks of high-resolution monitors lined the walls, their screens casting an ethereal blue glow across the cramped workspace. Multiple workstations featured ergonomic task chairs positioned before sleek control panels bristling with switches, dials and LED indicators. 

Above our heads, aluminium cabinets with stainless steel hardware provided secure storage for sensitive equipment, their magnetic closures designed to prevent accidental opening during transit. The floor was covered in non-slip surfaces to maintain stability during travelling, the surface-mounted raceways carried the complex web of electrical and data cables that powered this mobile nerve centre. A compact galley area housed essential amenities—microwave, refrigerator and running water—transforming this vehicle into a completely self-contained operational base.

We were parked outside the Nuevo Agua Treatment Facility and I was looking at the footage from the truck’s side-facing camera. Two and a half metres from us were the two police patrol vehicles. Fortunately, the angle and the shattered windows didn’t allow me to see the four deceased officers.

We’d arrived moments after GEO—Grupo Especial de Operaciones—Spain’s version of SWAT. Two teams had gathered by the front gate as some of the members checked the officers in the cars. The slight slump in their shoulders as they shook their heads had made it feel as if a vice had tightened around my chest. It still felt like that as I looked from monitor to monitor.

Colin stood next to me, his solid presence grounding me as I watched the UDEF team, Manny, Vinnie, Daniel and Yasmine joining in with the GEO team entering the facility. On the multiple screens before us, real-time body camera feeds streamed live footage from each officer’s perspective. The high-definition displays showed the teams breaking into smaller tactical units as they penetrated deeper into the facility’s maze-like interior. 

Through Manny’s body camera, I could see the facility’s industrial corridors stretching ahead—concrete walls lined with massive pipes and electrical conduits, emergency lighting casting harsh shadows that danced with each movement. Yasmine’s feed revealed a different section entirely, her tactical boots echoing against metal grating as she navigated between towering filtration tanks, their surfaces gleaming under fluorescent strips. The audio quality was crystal clear, picking up every whispered communication, every tactical signal passed between team members. 

“Are you the hacker?” A short male officer looked at me from workstation and I took a step closer to Colin. The GEO officer was the only one who’d stayed in the truck and had warmly welcomed us when we’d entered.

“What do you need?” Francine walked to his chair, eagerness radiating from her posture.

“Our best cyber guy has gripe... er, influenza and I can’t get into the system. Someone has shut off parts of the system that detect contaminants and has put a block on it.” He winced. “I’m good, but not great with cyber work.”

“Ooh.” Francine rubbed her hands together with barely contained excitement. “Scoot over and let me see what I can do.”

She took his seat and her fingers started moving over the keyboard. “Hmm... they shut you out of the... syst... Oh, shit. They shut off the arsenic monitoring and detection system.”

“And we need to get that back online.” The short officer leaned closer to look over Francine’s shoulder, his voice tight with urgency. “Yesterday.”

“Jenny.” Colin brought my attention back to the monitors. “What is that?”

Manny and Natalia were with two GEO officers. The tactical specialists were immediately recognisable by their comprehensive protective gear—ballistic helmets with integrated communication systems, tactical body armour with MOLLE webbing for additional equipment and assault rifles equipped with tactical accessories including flashlights and laser pointers. 

Their movements were fluid and coordinated as they cleared the section where treated water would flow into the city’s distribution pipes. Night vision goggles hung ready on their helmets and their tactical gloves maintained a perfect grip on their weapons despite the facility’s humid environment.

“Millard found something.” Colin narrowed his eyes at the monitor as Javier’s body camera footage showed Manny’s body tensing. He was standing in front of the massive concrete reservoir structure—the interior a cavernous space with thick concrete walls and a flat limestone ceiling supported by sturdy pillars. Crystal-clear treated water filled the basin, its surface reflecting the harsh industrial lighting from above. The water level indicators and chemical dosing points were visible along the walls, testament to the critical role this structure played in ensuring safe drinking water.

Manny stood still for two seconds before he snapped his fingers with sharp urgency. “We have two drums here.”

The two GEO officers raced over and one immediately donned protective gear before carefully reaching into the water to extract the drums. Their training was evident as they tested the exterior surfaces of the containers for contamination before carefully bringing them to the concrete platform surrounding the structure.

“Holy hellfire.” Manny’s voice crackled through the communication system as he stared at something off-screen. “Lucía! Get your arse over here.”

Colin snorted softly. “Ever the professional.”

Lucía rushed into view with her explosive ordnance disposal kit, her focus immediately zeroing in on the small electronic boxes attached to the sides of each drum.

“Oh, shit.” Colin’s tone was quiet, but shocked. “Those are explosives.”

Darkness shot into my peripheral vision. Manny was standing right next to Lucía, completely exposed. If those drums had been compromised, if those explosives detonated...

Through the high-definition camera feed, I watched Lucía’s steady hands as she carefully opened the casing of the explosive device. Her EOD training was apparent in every measured movement. Her voice remained calm and professional as she identified the mechanism. “This is a remote detonation system. It could activate at any moment.”

The muscle tension of the men around her increased as she began the delicate process of separating the wires, her expertise the only thing standing between catastrophe and safety.

“They’re safe, Jenny.” Colin rubbed my forearm with gentle reassurance, his eyes studying my face with concern. “They have everything under control. Look.”

When I looked back at the monitors, I realised that I’d missed a few minutes. Lucía was sitting back on her haunches, exhaustion and relief evident in her posture and one of the GEO officers dropped his hands down from where he’d clutched his helmet.

“Disabled.” Lucía looked up at Manny, wiping perspiration from her brow. “Where is the third drum?”

“For the love of all the saints.” Manny looked around, then stared directly into the body camera of one of the GEO officers. “Find that bloody drum, Doc.”

I nodded as if he could see me and started scanning the other monitors. With Mozart’s Symphony No. 23 in D major playing loudly in my mind, I made sure to register every detail. The multiple camera feeds created a complex tapestry of the unfolding operation—each screen revealing different aspects of the facility’s layout and the methodical search being conducted by the tactical teams. 

Yasmine and Daniel were still moving through the administrative building, their tactical boots silent against the polished linoleum floors as they advanced in perfect synchronisation with three GEO officers. The building’s sterile corporate atmosphere—complete with motivational posters on cream-coloured walls and potted plants positioned strategically in corners—created an eerie contrast to the deadly serious nature of their mission.

Each office they cleared revealed the mundane remnants of interrupted workdays: computer screens still glowing with half-finished spreadsheets, coffee cups on wooden desks and family photos. Their weapons swept methodically from left to right in overlapping arcs of coverage, muzzles tracking potential threat zones. The tactical flashlights mounted beneath their rifle barrels cast harsh white beams into darkened corners, illuminating filing cabinets, ergonomic office chairs and the occasional spider plant drooping from lack of water.

Yasmine’s breathing was steady and controlled, her finger resting alongside the trigger guard of her weapon as she maintained perfect muzzle discipline. Daniel’s movements complemented hers flawlessly, their partnership honed through their recent joint operations.

Meanwhile, Carlos and Antonio pressed forward through the facility’s industrial underbelly alongside two heavily armed GEO specialists, their footsteps echoing hollowly against the concrete flooring as they followed the massive water pipeline deeper into the facility’s poorly illuminated sections.

The pipeline itself was a steel conduit nearly two metres in diameter, supported by reinforced concrete pillars and surrounded by a maze of smaller pipes, electrical conduits and valve systems. Emergency lighting strips provided sporadic pools of sickly yellow illumination, but vast stretches of the corridor remained shrouded in impenetrable darkness.

Their tactical flashlights cut through the gloom like silver sabres, the high-powered LED beams revealing a labyrinthine network of industrial infrastructure. Massive filtration tanks loomed out of the darkness like sleeping giants, their curved surfaces gleaming wetly in the artificial light. Control panels with rows of gauges and switches lined the walls, their digital displays casting an eerie green glow. The sound of rushing water through the pipes created a constant background hum that masked the subtle sounds of their movement and made communication challenging.

It was in this subterranean maze that Carlos first caught sight of a fleeting shadow that didn’t belong among the static industrial equipment. His hand signal brought the entire team to an immediate halt, weapons raised. The two GEO officers flanked outward, creating overlapping fields of fire while maintaining tactical spacing. Antonio pressed his back against the cool steel of a filtration tank, his weapon’s tactical light probing the darkness ahead.

Two men dressed entirely in black tactical clothing emerged from behind a cluster of pipes, their faces concealed behind balaclavas, their hurried movements indicating their desperate determination. One carried a compact submachine gun, the other gripped a pistol with white-knuckled intensity. For a millisecond, both groups froze in mutual recognition.

The first shot shattered the tense silence, the muzzle flash strobing through the darkness as one of the masked men opened fire. The confined space amplified the gunshots into thunderous explosions that echoed off concrete walls and steel pipes. Carlos dove sideways as he sought cover behind a massive valve housing. Brass casings clinked against the floor as automatic weapons chattered their deadly rhythm. Antonio rolled behind a concrete pillar, chunks of masonry exploding where bullets struck the surface inches from his head.

The GEO officers responded with devastating precision, their superior training and equipment immediately apparent. One dropped to a knee behind a support beam, his assault rifle barking measured bursts as he laid down suppressing fire. The other flanked wide, using the industrial equipment as cover. The tactical lights mounted on their weapons created a disorienting strobe effect as they moved with slow care.

One of the masked men cried out in pain as a bullet found its mark, his weapon falling from his hand before he collapsed behind a cluster of pipes. I gasped at the dark arterial blood spreading across the concrete floor as he clutched his shoulder.

The second assailant, seeing his companion fall, made a desperate break for what he must’ve perceived as an escape route. But the GEO officer had anticipated this move. As the masked man sprinted across an open section of floor, the specialist launched himself from behind a massive pump housing in a textbook tackle. The impact sent both men crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs and tactical gear.

The struggle was brief but violent. The masked man twisted and writhed like a serpent, his training evident in the way he attempted to break free using combat techniques designed for close-quarter fighting. The GEO officer’s superior size, strength and experience proved decisive, though. He pinned the assailant’s gun arm while simultaneously immobilising him with a knee to his groin. The man’s weapon skittered across the concrete floor, spinning to rest against a drainage grate where it could do no further harm.

Within seconds, the GEO officer used reinforcement zip-ties to secure the captured man’s wrists behind his back. His balaclava was removed to reveal a face twisted with rage and defeat. The wounded accomplice was also secured, both men were now in custody.

“Only Ivanov left.” Colin’s voice was grim as he looked from one monitor to the other. “And the third drum.”

Javier and Vinnie were positioned next to what appeared to be another water storage structure—a large, rectangular concrete basin with reinforced walls and observation platforms along its perimeter. The tension in their bodies brought the darkness back to my peripheral vision. As one, they raised their weapons at something or someone off-screen.

“That’s another clearwell.” The short officer was next to Colin and pointed at another monitor. “These are the security cameras covering that area. Treated water is held here before it enters the distribution system.”

I turned to watch as Javier and Vinnie approached a man dressed in black clothing, his posture communicating menace and desperation. Dimitar Ivanov’s hands were covered in thick rubber gloves and he held a detonator device, his grip awkward. “Any closer and I’ll press the button.”

“Then you will die too.” Javier stopped, his voice steady. Vinnie positioned himself slightly behind Javier and the two GEO officers moved with effortless stealth behind a cluster of industrial pipes, their assault rifles trained on Ivanov.

“Francine, can you scramble signals from here?” Colin didn’t take his eyes off the monitors.

“I can do that.” The short officer rushed to another workstation, his fingers immediately working with frantic intensity across multiple keyboards and control panels. “Just say when.”

Colin nodded. “Let’s give Javier and Vinnie a chance to de-escalate first. I don’t want to lose comms with them.”

Onscreen, Ivanov lifted his mask, his face twisted with rage and resentment. He looked directly at Vinnie. “You were in Bulgaria. You are responsible for destroying my legacy.”

“Oh, fuck.” Vinnie’s soft mumble was captured clearly by his body camera’s sensitive microphone. “Jen-girl, I can really do with your help. If I say what I want to this fucker, he’s gonna blow us all up. What should I say?”

“Here.” The short officer held out a tactical headset. “Use this to communicate with them.”

Colin took the headset and the officer turned back to his workstation.

Without offering the headset to me, Colin pressed a button on the side and held it close to me. “Vin can hear you.”

I didn’t waste a moment, immediately leaning closer to the headset. “Ivanov is angry and scared. Most likely fearing that you will take away his revenge plan. Tell him you know all about his past.”

“Dude,” Vinnie said loudly as he took half a step forward, keeping his movements slow and relaxed. “I know all about your past. Your family’s past. It’s totally fucked up that some Nazi fuckers took your great-grandfather and his family to a concentration camp.”

“They did more than that!” Spittle flew from Ivanov’s lips. “They took everything that belonged to my family, to me. They took our paintings, my great-grandmother’s jewellery, my great-grandfather’s watch. They even took his reading glasses!”

“At least your great-grandmother and grandmother survived.” Vinnie cleared his throat, his voice carrying a note of genuine empathy as he mumbled, “Jen-girl?”

“Ask him about his family. How he became so powerful. Compliment him.”

“Uh.” Vinnie cleared his throat again. “Look, dude. I’m gonna be honest with you. I think you’re a sick fucker, but I also think you are incredibly smart. I mean, who else could build such a successful empire? Sure, it’s all built on crime, but dude. You’re epic.”

Manny’s stream of profanities came through the speaker system with crystal clarity and Colin groaned with exasperation. “My eloquent best friend.”

“It’s working.” I pointed at Ivanov on the monitor, noting the subtle changes in his body language. “His chest is puffing out, his shoulders are relaxing. That means his hold on that detonator is also relaxing.”

Onscreen, Ivanov sneered. “It was a struggle. My grandmother might’ve survived the Nazis, but she made many bad choices. My grandfather was an idiot. And my mother also married an idiot. Those two women didn’t have the same intellect as the Glikman men. I spent most of my childhood embarrassed because I had to wear clothes that were so threadbare, any wrong move and the seams would fall apart. When I was twelve, I promised myself that I would break the cycle.” His smile was vicious. “I did. I made a success of myself.”

The two GEO officers moved silently through the shadows behind the massive industrial pipes, their tactical boots soundless against the concrete flooring as they circled around to approach Ivanov from his blind spot. He didn’t see or hear them, so focused was he on his confrontation with Vinnie.

“I spent all my energy making sure I had more power than others. I was never going to be anyone’s victim. Not like the Glikmans, not like my grandmother or my mother. No.” His nostrils flared as his arms moved away from his torso—classic signs of escalating aggression. I inhaled, ready to tell the officer to activate the signal scrambler if the GEO officers didn’t reach Ivanov in time.

Ivanov leaned forward. “And then I find out some rich fucker here was selling my family’s paintings. My paintings! I was not going to have that. I found out the Nazi-scum who took everything from my family was here in Spain and his grandson was one of the most respected people here. What the fuck? There was no way I would allow him to continue rolling around in my family’s wealth. So, I decided to take it all back and make him pay.”

He huffed a cruel laugh. “Not with his life. That’s cheap. Not with death. That’s too easy. With shame. I want the world, who loves and respects this revolting idiot, to know who he really is and how he paid for his reputation. He didn’t work hard for that money. He stole it. And now he’s going to pay for it.” He raised the detonator with renewed determination. I gripped Colin’s hand, trying to keep the darkness from taking me. “He will pay. And everyone who thinks he’s so—”

Both officers rushed out of the dark shadows with perfect coordination. One grabbed Ivanov from behind in a textbook takedown as the other grasped his arm holding the remote detonator. Ivanov screamed in outrage and struggled against their overwhelming force. The snap of the bone in his arm went through me like a gunshot. His scream turned into one of pure agony as he let go of the detonator and the second officer caught it before it could fall to the ground.

I sagged against Colin as the darkness took me.

Chapter TWENTY

“Oh, no.” Roxy’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening with genuine alarm. “Please tell me they found the third drum.”

“They did.” Yasmine took a deliberate sip of her sangria, savouring the moment before continuing. The glass caught the late afternoon light as she raised it. “Ivanov dropped it in the clearwell and was ready to blow up all three.” She raised her glass towards Lucía. “Luckily, we had one of the best bomb techs there to save the day.”

Lucía shook her head, her dark hair catching the breeze that swept across the patio. “We all saved the day.”

My shutdown had lasted three hours—enough time for the GEO units to go through the entire facility again, securing it. And for Ivanov and his accomplices to be taken away. Colin had stayed with me the entire time after placing me on one of the chairs in the truck. When my mind had finally released me, my legs had gone numb from sitting unmoving in one position for such a long time.

We’d spent most of yesterday being debriefed about the investigation and completing numerous forms—page after page of official documentation that would eventually find its way into filing cabinets in Madrid. Javier had insisted that the UDEF team would handle all the paperwork after this explosive case, but I’d be happy to help. I genuinely enjoyed the meticulous detail that went into case reports once an investigation was concluded, the way each piece of evidence could be catalogued and cross-referenced until the entire picture emerged with crystalline clarity.

Not that every part of this case was resolved. Much of it would be ongoing for a considerable while, rippling outward like stones thrown into still water. Already, there was a massive fallout from the revelation that the Estiarte riches were built on Nazi looted art and gold—a discovery that had sent shockwaves through Spain’s financial and cultural institutions. The search for the looted paintings from the cave room logged in the ledger had already started. The government had ordered AldaiaCripto to stop trading with immediate effect, their digital empire crumbling overnight. People and institutions were in uproar about their cryptocurrency investments, which were now hanging in precarious jeopardy.

Natalia put her empty glass on the large wrought-iron dining table on the shadowed patio of our temporary home in Valencia. “Fortunately, Ivanov is locked up and his two bodyguards, security guys, accomplices, whatever you want to call them, are also locked up.”

“Are you still talking about the bloody case?” Manny’s voice carried across the patio as he walked from the pool to join us, water still dripping from his shoulders as he dried himself off with a large towel. “For the love of the saints, give it a break for a few hours.”

Manny had been the one to invite the UDEF team to our rented villa for dinner. Vinnie had been more than happy to cook for fifteen adults and two children, his excitement genuine at the challenge of feeding such a diverse group. When Roxy had heard that Yasmine and Daniel were planning on staying for a few extra days to attend several jazz concerts, she’d immediately booked a flight for herself and the twins, her typical spontaneous nature taking charge. When Phillip had heard about this impromptu gathering, he’d also booked a flight and was currently sitting next to me, leisurely sipping his second sangria and observing the animated conversations around him.

Phillip Rousseau was the father I never had. His steady presence in my life for almost two decades had not only been the catalyst for me being part of this incredible group of people, but he’d been the first person to show me true acceptance and unconditional love. The kind of love that didn’t require me to mask or pretend to be someone I wasn’t. It brought me immense joy to watch his face light up as he discussed the finer points of Renaissance brushwork with Marta, their conversation flowing between English, Spanish and French with the ease of true art enthusiasts.

“Only two more questions.” Roxy raised two fingers and tilted her head, causing her curly ponytail to bounce. “Please, Manny?”

Manny scowled at her with exaggerated exasperation and walked into the house, shaking his head. He’d been checking in on the activities in the kitchen every twenty minutes. Vinnie was not cooking alone. Antonio had arrived earlier with several bags filled with fresh ingredients from the local market and the two of them had been discussing recipes and spices for the last hour, their voices carrying through the open doors in animated culinary debate.

“What is going to happen to Miguel’s auction house?” Roxy looked at Javier. “Is there a way you can protect him from prosecution?”

Javier put down his glass with deliberate care and picked up a fresh strawberry from the large ceramic bowl in the centre of the table. The bowl, painted with traditional Valencian patterns, was one of many local touches in this villa that Lucía had pointed out. “Unfortunately, he won’t be able to avoid an investigation. His auction house was responsible for the sale of five Nazi-looted paintings.”

“Eleven.” Natalia lifted her hair off her neck, gathering it into an impromptu ponytail. Today had been especially hot, the kind of Mediterranean heat that seemed to press down from above and rise up from the sun-baked stones below. It was still two hours before sundown and the heat radiating from the western sun was most uncomfortable. Natalia waved at her face with her hand in a futile attempt to create some relief. “We are finding more and more paintings that Guillem had systematically added to auctions over the last three years.”

“With forged certificates of authentication and provenance.” Marta shook her head. “An absolute travesty.”

“Last question.” Roxy turned her attention to Francine with a mischievous grin I’d come to recognise as trouble. “How do you like my shoes?” She raised one foot with theatrical flair to display sneakers with holes that looked as though a particularly determined rodent had systematically eaten through the canvas.

“Oh, the horror.” Francine slapped the back of her hand against her forehead. “How can you do this to me? What kind of friend are you?”

Natalia laughed, the sound light and relaxed. “I prefer flip-flops or bare feet myself, but I actually like those. They have character.”

“Thank you.” Roxy lowered her leg and demurely flattened her flowing sundress over her lap with exaggerated propriety. “I think they’re very sophisticated.”

Before Francine could deliver what was undoubtedly a scathing retort about Roxy’s choice of footwear, Julian called from the pool, interrupting the moment.

Julian and Bianca had recently celebrated their ninth birthday in very different ways, their contrasting personalities evident even in their celebration preferences. Julian had requested an obstacle-course adventure party. Two days before their actual birthday, our backyard had been transformed into a challenging course with strategically placed stations—hula hoops, jump ropes, foam tunnels and other activities the children had to navigate as they raced, laughing and screaming, against time.

Bianca’s party had been held the next day, in a corner of the garden, where Francine had helped Roxy transform the space into a cosy reading nook with cushions scattered across colourful picnic blankets and delicate fairy lights strung between the tree branches. Bianca’s three best friends had brought their favourite books and they’d spent the afternoon engaged in literary discussions that impressed me. Both parties had ultimately concluded in the villa’s media room with bowls of buttery popcorn, fizzy sodas and a movie of their choosing.

Roxy walked over to the pool’s edge with the easy confidence of someone completely comfortable with chaos and laughed when Julian deliberately splashed her, sending droplets sparkling in the afternoon light. She was excited about taking the children to two of the more mainstream jazz shows. They’d arrived yesterday afternoon on a flight that had been delayed by a thunderstorm. Last night, Phillip had spent over an hour with Yasmine and Roxy, methodically booking tickets for numerous shows after careful research of both the artists and the venues.

After that logistical marathon, Vinnie and Roxy had made a huge bed in the spacious living room, complete with soft pillows and lightweight blankets, which they shared with the excited children. Phillip had taken the room Vinnie had been using.

“Sure you don’t want to stay, Genevieve?” Lucía’s warm smile reached her eyes as I turned to face her. “You don’t have to attend the concerts. I would be more than happy to show you some of my favourite quiet spaces in Valencia—places where tourists never venture.”

“I want to go home.” The words came out more abruptly than I’d intended and I blinked when Colin’s hand found mine under the table, his fingers intertwining with mine in a gentle squeeze of understanding. “Thank you for offering.”

The car bomb that had killed Guillem and the anti-personnel landmines had been extremely distressing. Yet it was the words from Hans Weisenbach’s journal that had kept me awake last night. The unimaginable, sick cruelty of one person wouldn’t let go of my mind. The only way I could rid myself of those words running through my thoughts on a loop was by being back in my familiar and safe environment, keeping to my strict routine. I needed that more than the creative joy of jazz.

Lucía’s smile softened with genuine warmth. “You are welcome here anytime, Genevieve. I would genuinely like for you to consider this your second home.”

“Thank you,” Colin responded before I could formulate a response that might be considered rude by neurotypical social standards. “I truly love being here. When the tourist season is over and the crowds are gone, we might take you up on your generous offer.”

I thought about it carefully. Often, neurotypicals would offer these kinds of placating statements without any genuine intention of following through—social politeness masquerading as a real acceptance of an invitation. “I’ve been in Valencia once before, but it had been for an academic conference at the Universitat de València. I gave lectures on neurodiversity in criminal investigation and nonverbal communication patterns in interrogation. Like now, I didn’t see much of the actual city beyond the conference centre and my hotel.” I glanced at Colin, then made sure Lucía could see the sincerity on my face. “I will take you up on your offer.”

“Fifteen minutes out!” Vinnie’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “Move your sexy asses and get the table ready. We’re coming in hot!”

Carlos chuckled and got up. “What can I do to help?”

Lucía immediately took charge, delegating tasks. Soon, the table was properly set with mismatched but charming crockery and the children were settled at a smaller table positioned on the lawn. Most of the garden was in the shade at this time of the day, which made the swimming pool area particularly pleasant. I’d enjoyed having a quiet coffee on the patio in the early morning hours when the air was still cool, but could imagine that it would be scorching for most of the day once the sun reached its zenith overhead.

Vinnie, Antonio, Javier and Manny emerged from the kitchen, carrying platters of aromatic food that filled the air with the most incredible scents. A few minutes later, we were all enjoying the Italian-Spanish feast they’d prepared. It was a loud dinner, filled with laughter, good-natured bantering and enthusiastic suggestions from the UDEF team about places the others absolutely must visit while still in Valencia.

I loved these moments. There were no pressing matters demanding immediate attention, no time-sensitive threats looming over us, no unsolved cases gnawing at the edges of my consciousness. Not now. Not yet. The temporary peace was invaluable.

I took another sip of my sangria, the fruity sweetness perfectly balanced with the slight bite of the wine and allowed the positive sounds of friendship and contentment to flow over me. Later, I would methodically place the last two small suitcase organiser bags in my suitcase, everything neatly arranged and ready for our early morning departure on the journey home.

There would be no hurry, so we might make several leisurely stops along the way to properly appreciate the beautiful landscapes we’d driven past too quickly on our arrival. I glanced at the man sitting beside me, noting the relaxed set of Colin’s shoulders and the genuine contentment in his expression, then let my gaze drift around the table to encompass the others who’d become such an integral part of my world. In that moment, surrounded by the gentle chaos of people I cared about, I revelled in the profound knowledge of how incredibly, impossibly fortunate I was.

******

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****

Turn the page to read the first two chapters of Samaritan—the first book in The Duchess Report trilogy.

Chapter ONE

“What the f...?” Gabriella Reuben swallowed the expletive and stared at the woman outside her front door. For a moment, fear flashed through her, immediately replaced with white-hot rage. “How dare you come to my home?”

“Bree, please.” Petra Keller took a step closer and flinched when Bree jerked her hand up to stop any further movement. “I need to speak to you. I need your help.”

“My help?” Bree’s top lip curled. The audacity of this woman was astounding. She pulled in a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm her. “Leave. I never want to see you again. Never.”

She didn’t give Petra a chance to respond. With control so tight she was shaking, she closed the door and turned all three locks. Such security wasn’t necessary here in Düsseldorf, but the last three years... hell, her life had proven that one could never be cautious enough.

Bree leaned against the door, closed her eyes and tried three of the many calming techniques she’d learned. It didn’t work. Seeing Petra had been like a punch in her gut. It brought back emotions she’d worked hard to lock up.

“Bree? You okay?”

Bree opened her eyes. Her assistant Tobias Hoss was standing in the hallway. Today, he was wearing a black t-shirt with ‘It takes a lot of balls to golf the way I do’ in neon-orange writing. A bandage on his forearm covered the latest addition to the sleeve tattoo covering his entire left arm and shoulder. Once his new Celtic rose had healed, he was considering adding to the sleeve tattoo across his shoulder blade. Or maybe his muscular chest.

He walked closer, concern written all over his face. Tobie was not only her assistant. He was a dear friend and the husband of her best friend, Amita.

Bree sighed. “I’ll be fine.”

“Who was that?” He nodded at the door.

For a moment Bree wished being dogged about detail wasn’t part of Tobie’s character. This trait made for a great assistant, but an annoying friend. She pushed away from the door and walked to the kitchen.

Bree had fallen in love with this house the moment the estate agent had opened the door. The two-storey house in Düsseldorf’s suburbs had high ceilings, making the compact home feel much larger. It had only needed a fresh coat of paint and some minor work to the three bedrooms upstairs. Downstairs was an airy space with two French sliding doors separating the living area from the office she shared with Tobie. When she sat at her desk, she had a view through the living room all the way to the front door.

She walked into her bright kitchen and went straight for the appliances in the corner. She glanced over her shoulder at Tobie. “That was Petra Keller.”

“Wait. What?” Tobie hurried around her and blocked her access to the coffee machine. “CEO Petra Keller? The wench who tried to ruin your life?”

“The one and only.” She poked him in the side until he shifted away from the coffee machine.

But in true Tobie fashion, he didn’t let this go. He snatched her coffee mug from her hands and towered over her. His height, muscled body and bald head might intimidate others, but Bree had seen him wipe tears from his bearded cheeks when he watched videos of puppies being rescued. She knew he was a teddy bear. An annoying teddy bear who was waiting until she looked at him. “Talk to me, Bree.”

She leaned against the kitchen counter and pulled her braid over her shoulder, fiddling with the band keeping her long, curly hair contained. “I don’t know how Petra found out where I live.”

“Maybe from the same low-life PI who dug up your medical records.”

“Stole, you mean.” Bree still got angry whenever she thought about the underhanded manner in which Petra’s private investigator had acquired her medical history. She hated to admit that he’d been very thorough in his investigation despite his utter lack of ethics. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Stanley ‘Lowlife’ Busby still works for Petra. Two rotten peas in a pod, those two.”

“What did she want?”

“My help.” She held out her hand and smiled her thanks when Tobie gave back her mug. She placed it under the coffee machine spout and pressed the button for an extra shot of caffeine. “Hell will freeze over first.”

“Did she say what she needed help with?”

“Nope.” Bree flicked her braid over her shoulder. “And I didn’t ask. I closed the door in her face.”

“That’s my girl.” Tobie grinned. “Er... boss.”

“Hmph.” Her eyes were drawn to Tobie’s smartwatch as it pinged.

He tilted his wrist and tapped the screen. “Tor email.”

Bree grabbed her coffee and walked to her desk. The emails she received on her darknet account were from the seventeen journalists and editors working for her, and the few individuals who wanted to share sensitive information, but didn’t want to be—or were too scared to be—identified.

There was no magic bullet for becoming an award-winning journalist. Most rookie reporters dreamed of being widely recognised not only in the media community, but by the public as well. That didn’t happen often. The few reporters and journalists who’d reached that pinnacle had got there by hard work, determination, knowing the right people and having an outrageous amount of courage.

Six years ago, Bree had been on the fast track to become a household name with her in-depth investigative articles. Instead, she’d become a household name for a very different reason. The same reason that had seen Petra publicly fired and Bree packing up her whole life and career to start over in Düsseldorf, the seventh largest city in Germany.

As soon as she’d settled here, she’d set up CDF Media—CareFull Disclosure Media, a current affairs news site. Within a year, she’d had an exceptional team of journalists contributing high-quality content. Last year, her site had been nominated for the World Media Award. Her site hadn’t won, but her journalists had won a European Press Prize and a Hanns Joachim Friedrichs Award.

Bree sat down at her desk and opened the Tor web browser. The usual double-digit red notification icon hovered above her email app. She tapped the email icon and frowned when she scanned through the unopened emails. Two of the eighteen new emails weren’t from her editors or journalists. But only one really drew her attention.

The username merely read ‘Neil’ and the subject ‘Bree’. She tapped on the email. It opened to no content. She frowned.

“It’s an empty email.” Tobie stared at his computer monitor as he leaned back in his chair. He had full access to all of Bree’s accounts. “Not even an attachment.”

It hadn’t taken her long to trust Tobie with her life. He proved on a daily basis that she could rely on him for anything. His wife was exactly the same.

Bree had met Amita when she’d lived and worked in London. They’d bumped into each other in a cupcake shop and it had been friendship at first sight. That had been three weeks after the Petra débacle and a year before Bree had decided to relocate to Germany. Amita had never pushed Bree for details about what she’d been going through, just lending her unconditional acceptance and support. To this day, Amita had not once asked Bree any questions about being a trans woman.

Tobie on the other hand was one of the nosiest people Bree had come across. That might be why they worked so well together in their investigations. Bree had met him six months after she’d become friends with Amita. At that point he’d been managing a prestigious events company and had hated every minute of it.

When Bree had told them that she was thinking about moving to Düsseldorf to run an investigative news site away from the drama, Amita had squealed in a way that had made Bree cringe. Amita had been about to turn down a job offer in Düsseldorf, because there had been nothing enticing her to Germany except an extremely lucrative position as a programmer.

Tobie had promptly announced that he would become Bree’s assistant and had immediately taken over all the logistical arrangements for the move. She’d not once regretted allowing him to employ himself as her assistant.

Bree pulled her braid over her shoulder and played with the curly end as she looked at her darknet inbox. “Was it on purpose or did they forget to attach a document or photo or something?”

Even though the darknet was notorious for illegal trade and horrid crimes, it had been a ray of hope for journalists and dissidents. The email server she used was not exclusive to the darknet. One could also receive emails sent from the surface web—the internet most people used. Other darknet email servers were exclusive to the darknet, which made all emails—sent and received—completely untraceable.

“Most likely forgot.” Tobie shrugged. “If this Neil is a typical whistleblower, he’s probably—”

“Terrified,” Bree finished. Far too many times, she had been unable to get information from someone who had lost their courage. There was a point where people felt like they’d had enough and wanted the injustices or illegal activities or harassment in their companies to stop. Out of anger or desperation they would reach out to her, but when things got serious and they had to commit to giving actionable evidence, they bowed out.

She understood what it was to be petrified of the consequences of speaking out, of being truthful. That was why she never pushed any of the people who’d come to her. If only this emailer had given her something more than a name.

“Do you know any Neil?” Tobie asked.

“A few.” She shrugged. “School friends, colleagues and such. But this might not even be his—or her—real name.”

“True.” He sighed. “So we have nothing.”

“Essentially, yes.” Bree glanced at her watch. “It’s late and this is obviously a non-starter. I’m meeting the other Musketeers for dinner, so I won’t be looking at my phone or email until tomorrow.”

“And I plan to drag Amita to the movies.” His grin warned her she wasn’t going to like his next sentence. “That conspiracy movie I told you about.”

“I forbid you to watch that.” She picked up her smart-phone and started looking for Amita’s contact details. “I’m telling your wife right now that you’re not allowed to watch that.”

“You can’t forbid me.” Tobie chuckled.

“I can. And I will. The last time you watched a conspiracy movie, every news event for the next month was an attempt by your so-called powers-that-be to control the masses. It was frigging exhausting. Not again. No.” She tapped her phone screen to start the call. “Just no.”

“Stop, stop.” He laughed. “You’re too easy to rile, Bree. Amita wants to watch a superhero movie. We’re going to gorge on popcorn and watch fantastically silly Hollywood entertainment.”

Bree stopped the call before it even rang and pressed her palm on her chest. “You’re a cruel man, Tobes. I might just tell Amita about this in any case. And tell her how much you enjoyed the meringue she made last month.”

“Oh, God.” He groaned. “Now who’s being cruel? The amount of sugar she put in that thing nearly destroyed all my teeth. It was horrid. I love my wife, but she can’t bake to save her life.” He turned off his computer and righted his already spotless desk. “Enjoy your visit tonight. Tell them Amita is going to invite them over for her birthday next month, so they’d better keep the date open.”

Andrea Jürgen, Kevin Anderson and Léon Kohl were relatively new friends and supported Bree in a way few people could. Bree had met Léon first when he’d sought her out soon after she’d arrived in Düsseldorf. Somehow news had spread that she was settling here and with him understanding the challenges of being transgender, he’d been determined to make sure Bree settled in without any mishap.

He’d introduced her to Andrea and Kevin. Soon they’d started meeting every two weeks for dinner and had been doing it for the last four years. Bree lacked words to describe how much Amita and Tobie meant to her, but Andrea, Kevin and Léon understood her on a different level. It was an understanding borne from shared experiences, from facing similar challenges that accompanied their gender identities.

Not that their dinners were about gender assignment. Most of the time they spent the night talking about topics ranging from world politics and investments to the latest celebrity scandal.

“I’ll tell them. You know Kev is going to insist on cooking or baking something.”

“And I’ll never say no to anything Chef Kev cooks or bakes.” Tobie got up. “See you tomorrow, boss.”

“Hmm.” Bree waved at him as he closed the door and wondered if Kevin had made his delicious cupcakes for tonight. There was only one shop in Düsseldorf that came close to the decadence her friend prepared in his chef’s kitchen. If he hadn’t made any cupcakes, she’d have to pop over to the shop tomorrow morning.

Chapter TWO

“Honey?” Andrea’s worried tone jerked Bree back to the conversation. Bree liked her friend’s new hairstyle—the sides trimmed very short and the tips of her shoulder-length brown hair dyed blond. Today she was wearing a flowy red skirt, three t-shirts layered over the other and her usual military boots. Her nose ring and the rose tattoo on her wrist completed the picture of an artistic soul. She leaned closer to Bree. “Hey, are you okay?”

Bree glanced around the room to find Kevin and Léon also looking at her, concern stamped on their features.

Léon’s fists tightened on his thighs. “Who did what to you?”

Bree sighed heavily, then pulled her shoulders back. “Pour me more wine and I’ll tell you.”

“You didn’t even touch the glass I poured you an hour ago.” Kevin raised his chin and looked down his nose at her. “You’ve been drinking that cheap, disgusting cider crap.”

“Not everyone is a wine snob like you, Chef Kev.” Andrea glanced at the empty bottle of cider in Bree’s hand. “If you want another cider, I’ll get you one.”

“Nah.” Bree put the bottle on the coffee table and picked up her still-full wineglass. “I’ll have Kevin’s fancy merlot.”

Kevin gasped when she lifted the glass and downed half of it. “Sip it, you philistine. I swear you people have no class.”

“Bree has more class in her pinkie than all the people in this Mercedes-driving neighbourhood.” Léon was the quiet one. He seldom spoke, but never missed an opportunity to reprimand anyone who said anything negative about them-selves or others.

Kevin filled up everyone’s glasses and sat down next to Bree. Not only was he one of the best chefs in Düsseldorf, he also liked to eat. Bree glanced at his shirt stretching over his stomach—tighter than it had been two weeks ago. He noticed her gaze, patted his stomach and raised one shoulder. “I’ve had a rough month.”

“You’ve been baking again?” Andrea leaned across her armchair to slap Kevin’s arm. “If you’re going to comfort-eat Black Forest cake, the least you can do is share your misery with us.”

“He brought cupcakes.” Bree rested her head on Kevin’s shoulder. “Which means I forgive him all his sins. Even if they are mini-cupcakes. They’re cute and delicious.”

“You’re deflecting.” Léon raised a dark eyebrow. Like Bree, he was also mixed race. His mother German and his father Japanese. Even though the Japanese side of his family had found his gender identity hard to accept in the beginning, they’d come around. His entire family supported him and celebrated each of his achievements. Léon’s quiet confidence brought a special quality to their group—balancing out Kevin’s loud sense of humour and Andrea’s artistic eccentricities.

Bree inhaled deeply and straightened. The urge to wrap her arms around herself was strong, but she didn’t. Instead she gulped some more wine, put her glass down and took another cupcake. One with sprinkles. “Petra Keller came to my house today.”

“The Petra Keller?” Andrea’s eyes stretched wide. “Drkadžijo.”

All of them stared at Andrea in shock.

“What the... huh?” Kevin’s face was scrunched up as he looked at Andrea. “Duh-kah-djeeoh? What the hell does that mean?”

“Hey, your pronunciation is quite good.” Andrea laughed. “Drkadžijo. It translates to ‘wanker’ or ‘motherfucker,’ depending on who you ask.”

“So why don’t you just say ‘motherfucker’?” Léon asked.

“Because I’m trying to broaden my horizons.” She uttered a very unladylike snort at Léon’s expression. “Don’t look so sceptical. We have a new violinist and she’s from Serbia. I wanted her to feel welcome—”

“So you asked her to teach you a swearword?” Kevin leaned away from her. “What’s wrong with you, woman?”

Andrea’s cheeks dimpled, her red lips twitching in an unsuccessful attempt to hide her ever-present smile. “Hey, don’t mock my methods. It worked. She loved my first terrible attempts, but now she’s very proud of my accurate pronunciation. Apparently, I sound like a native gangster.”

“Oh, Andy.” Kevin shook his head. “That’s really not something to be proud of.”

“Swear all you want.” Léon moved to the edge of the sofa and stared at Bree. “How the hell did that Keller woman find you?”

“Good question.” Bree broke a piece off her cupcake and stuffed it in her mouth to prevent the anger boiling inside her from rushing out of her mouth.

All levity left Andrea’s face as she leaned forward. “What did she want?”

“I don’t know.” And Bree didn’t know if she wanted to find out.

“Okay, I’m a bit late to the party.” Kevin twisted so he could lean against the arm of the sofa to better see Bree. “Is this the woman who outed you?”

The pain in Kevin’s question was palpable. Of the four of them, Kevin’s road to living as a trans man had been the most difficult. The most traumatic. At the age of nine, he’d been removed from his family home in Manchester after he’d landed in hospital due to malnutrition. After a few failed foster families, his aunt in America took him in—until he came out as transgender. He’d barely turned fifteen when they’d kicked him out and had threatened to have him arrested for trespassing if he ever showed his face again. His first job at a diner had led to his current success as a chef.

Andrea and Léon had entered Bree’s life four months after she’d moved...well, escaped to Düsseldorf. Kevin had joined their small group a few months later. Even though they had a broad idea of what had brought Bree here, she’d never told them the whole story.

Bree stuffed the rest of the cupcake in her mouth to give her a few more seconds to decide how much she wanted to tell them.

“You’re the one always telling us that we need to rely on each other, trust each other.” Andrea huffed. “Look at you avoiding the topic.”

“Bree.” Léon waited until she looked at him. “We’re here to help.”

Bree slumped, contrite. “I’m sorry, guys. You know how hard this is.”

“Oh, we do, sweetie.” Kevin pointed at Bree’s mouth. “You have icing on your bottom lip.”

Bree swiped her mouth with the back of her hand and winked at Kevin. “Your fault for making irresistible cup-cakes.” She raised both hands when Andrea and Léon started talking. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you. I just need... hell, I don’t know what I need.”

“Start at the beginning.” Andrea’s suggestion was gentle.

“Then we’ll be here all night.” Bree crossed her legs under her and pulled her braid over her shoulder. “You guys know that I wrote that article six years ago that exposed the international internet marketing company for their unethical acquisition and use of millions of people’s data.”

“Hm-mm.” Andrea licked the icing off her chocolate cupcake and narrowed her eyes. “This Petra woman was the owner of that company, right?”

“Not the owner. The CEO.” Bree remembered the disgust she’d experienced with her discoveries. “This happened shortly before the social media data-sharing scandals. Petra’s company had used third parties, even hackers, to buy, steal and trade user data. They—Petra’s company—would then use it to tailor advertising for major companies. We’re talking top brands who used her services for their on-line marketing campaigns.”

“I so need to learn more about this stuff.” Andrea sniffed and shook her head. “But then I think about it again and I reckon my cello is much safer than the internet world out there.”

“True that.” Bree loved Andrea’s simple approach to life. Her friend was a cellist in the Düsseldorfer Symphoniker orchestra and lived for her music. In the off season, she would go for short holidays before jamming with all kinds of bands. Last year, Bree had gone to three of Andrea’s concerts—jazz, rock and some weird indie thing. She’d loved them.

“So? How did this Petra bitch out you?” Kevin asked.

“Okay, firstly, she didn’t out me. I’ve been living as a trans woman since I was ten. I didn’t go around advertising it, but I also didn’t keep it a secret.” Bree winced. “Well, that was until I went to secondary school. Those were rough years. We finally moved to another city and I spent my last three school years with everyone thinking I was a girl.”

“You are a girl.” Andrea’s tone was sharp. Hers had also been a challenging journey, in some ways similar to Kevin’s. Her conservative Indian parents had kicked her out of their Bristol home when she was fourteen, after years of unsuccessfully forcing her to be a boy. She’d spent the rest of her school years living here in Düsseldorf with her very open-minded maternal grandmother Sanah. Bree loved the elderly lady. She’d retired from her successful career as an architect, yet she kept herself busy with designing gardens, doing her own gardening and cooking. The rose tattoo on Andrea’s wrist was in honour of her grandmother’s favourite flower.

“Oh, I’m not a girl.” Bree pushed out her chest. “I’m all woman, baby.”

They laughed and the heaviness of a moment ago lifted.

Bree turned to Kevin. “What Petra did to me was so beyond the pale that the entire corporate community condemned her. When she realised I was about to reveal her personal involvement in the data scandal, she sent some arsehole PI to investigate me. At that point, I had been working for the newspaper for seven years and not once told anyone I am a trans woman.”

“It’s none of their business,” Léon said quietly.

“Exactly. And I had long before that proven myself to be a great journalist.”

“And ever so humble.” Andrea winked at Bree.

She winked back and smiled. “Hm-mm. Anyway, this bastard PI got hold of my medical records through all kinds of illegal and unethical manoeuvres. And then Petra didn’t hesitate to hand it over to a gossip rag two days before my article about her was to be published.” Her smile dropped and she swallowed. “I was on the front page, the headline: ‘Award-winning journalist in transgender sex scandal.’”

The tabloid had exaggerated Bree’s entire transgender history, adding sensational—and completely false—details. When Bree’s lawyer had threatened to sue the tabloid within an inch of their lives, they’d quickly revealed their source. Bree had gleefully added all that information to her article when she’d exposed Petra for the corrupt woman she had been—and likely still was.

“What?” Kevin stopped halfway to the plate with cupcakes and turned to Bree. “A sex scandal?”

Bree shrugged. “If you consider kissing a man in a restaurant a sex scandal, then yes.”

“Oh, I know that look.” Andrea shook her index finger at Bree. “Who was the man?”

Bree couldn’t help but smile. “Richard Hughes.”

“No way! Not Superman.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Bree! You actor-kissing tart!”

Bree laughed at their reactions. “In case you’re wondering, he’s a wonderful kisser. He deserves to play super-heroes.”

“He’s also the sexiest trans man on this planet.” Andrea’s eyes were wide. “Did he know?”

“That I’m a trans woman?” Bree nodded. “Yes. But he was pissed off with me. We’d only been on that one date and even though the kiss was great, I didn’t feel like we clicked, so we never had a second date. I had to tell him three times that I wasn’t interested before he stopped calling me. He then told everyone I never told him I was a trans woman. He was ever so shocked. Bastard.”

“Do I remember correctly that he once said that he would only have a relationship with a ‘normal’ person?” Kevin’s top lip curled as he scoffed. “Normal.”

Bree nodded. “Yup. Normal.”

“Is that why you moved here?” Léon asked.

“No.” If only. “At first, I thought the stupid scandal would blow over, but Petra’s PI gathered the villagers and they came at me with their pitchforks.”

Through hard work and consistency, Bree had established a reputation as a person of integrity within the media community as well as with her informants. All the reputable news outlets had immediately come to Bree’s defence. It had meant the world to her that her counterparts didn’t care about her gender, only about the attack on her as part of their tribe.

It had made things much worse for Petra and it had seen her publicly fired. But it had also made life harder for Bree. Not only had her gender become gossip fodder, it had sparked international debates. It had been a trying time.

“Um... what does that mean, pitchforks?” Kevin asked.

“I was trolled. In the worst way.” Bree couldn’t stop the shudder that shook her small frame. “They trolled the newspaper I was working for, sent death threats to the editor, rape threats to my female colleagues, threats to my parents, my brother, his wife, her parents. God, everyone in the slightest way connected to me.”

“Isn’t your brother police?” Léon asked. “Didn’t he do anything?”

Bree rolled her eyes. “He drove me up the frigging wall, yes. But in reality, he saved my life. He pushed for an investigation when not only did the vitriol become increasingly vicious, but my life was also threatened.”

“And they promised they would rape you?” Andrea’s lips thinned when Bree nodded. “Fuckers.”

“Scotland Yard discovered that Stanley the arsehole PI was hired by Petra, but paid by her company. The company begged to settle out of court.” That might’ve been the only good that had come from that traumatic time. “Already their stock had plummeted and they were trying to save face with their investors. And with the public.”

Kevin leaned back in the sofa and looked around Bree’s living room. He stared at the top-of-the-range sound system and the art on the walls before his gaze returned to Bree. “How much did they pay out?”

“Enough.” Bree didn’t like talking about it. Five point nine million pounds would never undo the terror her parents, brother, sister-in-law and colleagues had experienced. It would also not bring back her reputation and her career at the newspaper, but it had made it easy for her to emigrate and start a whole new life. “I lie. More than enough. My lawyer was convinced we could’ve pushed for more, but I didn’t want that. Already it felt like I was selling myself.”

“Hogwash.” Andrea sliced through the air with her hand. “After all they put you through, I’m sure they didn’t give you enough.”

“Word.” Kevin nodded slowly. “If we’d been there, we would’ve fought at your side for more.”

“I know, Kev.” She pressed her palm against her chest, her smile gentle. “You guys are the best. But there was plenty of fighting, believe me. My God, my brother was at war with them. Then with me. When the threat became really serious, Gareth made me stay with him and his wife. And wouldn’t let me go anywhere, do anything, think, breathe. Urgh. He was too much.”

“He loves you.” The pain was back on Kevin’s face. He’d worked hard to graduate high school and put himself through culinary school. And he’d done that all alone. He’d only started making friends when he’d moved to Düsseldorf eight years ago.

“The idiot does.” Bree smiled. “And I love him. I used to joke that he was born old and serious. By the time he was fifteen, he was more than a head taller than me and declared himself my protector. Then it was cute that my baby brother was looking out for me. It was no longer cute when he started with Scotland Yard and became a chest-beating Neanderthal. The older he got, the more worried about me he was. And when Petra’s thing happened? Urgh. I could only take so much. I also didn’t want to continue intruding in his family life. His wife, Norah, is an angel and made my stay with them a wonderful experience, but I’d been on my own for too long. I need my independence and my freedom to breathe.”

“But why Düsseldorf?” Léon had grown up here and had never lived anywhere else. He loved this city.

“Because Gareth came here once for a conference and hated the tea. Yes, the tea. He was here for a week and couldn’t find any”—Bree deepened her voice to imitate her brother—“‘real English tea.’” She shook her head. “I remembered him saying he would never come back here.”

“You moved here to spite your brother?” Kevin’s whole body shook as he laughed. “And here I admired the maturity with which you handled everything.”

Bree blushed. “I’ll admit that was not one of my shining moments. I threw that in his face one night when we were arguing. He was horrified that I would move here. I started making plans the next day. By the time I’d calmed down”—she looked at Kevin—“and acted more mature, I’d fallen in love with the idea of living in a city on the banks of the Rhine.” She winked at her friends. “I love it here.”

“We love you too, girlie.” Kevin’s smile turned into a scowl when Bree reached for another bottle of cider. “Even if you drink that bile.”

They were quiet for a few seconds. Léon was the first to speak. “You really don’t know why this Petra was here?”

Bree shrugged. “She sent me an email through the contact form on my site days ago. When I saw it was from her, I ignored it.”

“You didn’t read it?” Andrea asked.

“Nope.” In fact, she’d recoiled from her computer screen, her eyes tightly shut when she’d seen Petra’s name.

“Did you delete it?” Andrea asked.

“A journalist never deletes anything.” That had been one of the first and most important lessons Bree had learned. “I archived it.”

“Maybe you should look at it,” Andrea said softly.

“Andrea is right.” Léon nodded. “This might have something to do with your safety.”

Léon was a mixed martial arts instructor. Despite his short stature, he was strong and well respected in the MMA community. He was the only one of them who hadn’t undergone gender reassignment surgery. His sexuality and gender identity were more complex than theirs. Bree didn’t know what had happened in his life to make him so protective of their little group. He was not overbearing in the same way Gareth had been and still was. In his quiet way, Léon asked questions and took action to make sure that the four of them were always aware of their safety.

Bree didn’t have to think long to know that Léon was right. She nodded and got up to fetch her tablet from her desk in the far side of the room. She walked back to the sofas, tablet in hand. The others were now arguing with Kevin about the wine and the cupcakes. Bree sat down and unlocked her tablet.

“You going to share with us what she sent?” Kevin nudged her with his elbow, but Bree ignored him.

She frowned at the new email in her Tor inbox. Her eyebrows were riding high on her forehead when she looked up at her friends. “Forget Petra. This is... huh... I don’t know what this is.”

“Is it something you can share?” Andrea rubbed her palms together. “A juicy scandal?”

Bree shook her head. “Not a scandal. Just... hmm... I have to think about this.”

“Then figure it out later.” Kevin made as if he wanted to take Bree’s tablet. “We want to know what Petra sent.”

Bree knew she wouldn’t get rid of them until she’d shared that email with them. Reluctantly she closed the cryptic new email and went into her archives. She opened Petra’s email and huffed a laugh. “Well, this is anticlimactic.”

“What?” Andrea leaned forward. “What did she say?”

Bree looked down at the email on her tablet. “‘I need to speak to you. Please reply.’”

“That it?” Kevin grunted and took another cupcake.

“What about that other email?” Léon asked. “Does it affect your safety?”

“Huh?” Bree looked up and noticed the concern on Léon’s face. “Oh. No, I don’t think so.” She frowned and added distractedly, “No. Definitely not.”

“Well, there goes the evening.” Andrea sighed dramatically. “I was planning on getting sloshed.”

Bree snorted and put her tablet down. “No, you weren’t. I’ll look at this email later.”

“Later?” Kevin turned slowly with theatrical flair to look up at the large steampunk clock on the wall. “It’s just after midnight.”

“Oh, drkadžijo. It’s time for my beauty sleep.” Andrea winked at a frowning Léon. “Don’t be so judgy. My new swearword works well for all occasions.”

Kevin rolled his eyes and turned to Bree. “If we leave now, are you going back to work?”

Bree glanced at her tablet. “There’s not much to work with.”

“We know you, Bree.” Andrea picked up her handbag. “Whatever email you got has you thinking or worried or both.”

“Bree?” Léon got up and stared at her.

She shook her head, a soft smile lifting her cheeks. “This is just an old friend who sounds drunk. And you know I have locks and alarms everywhere.” Thanks to her paranoid brother. Bree settled back into the sofa. “I love you guys.”

“We love you too, sweetie.” Andrea got up and kissed the top of Bree’s head. “Come on, gents. Let’s leave Bree-baby to her friend’s drunken email.”

Kevin poked her thigh. “Remember to eat your veggies and take a shower.”

Bree laughed. “I always shower.”

“Veggies.” Kevin kissed her cheek and got up. “I’ll phone you in the morning to make sure you’re okay.”

Léon stared at Bree. “Do you need me to stay?”

“I’m safe. Thanks, Léon.”

“Call me if you need me.”

Bree smiled. “I will.”

Léon made her follow them to the front door and waited until he heard all three locks tumble into place before he gave his usual two quick knocks on her door as a final goodbye.

Bree stared at her front door for a moment, then rushed back to the living room. She flopped down on the sofa and picked up her tablet. She opened the email and read it again. Still it didn’t make sense. Maybe if she read it out loud?

“Bree. Desk9. Cupcake addict. Neil. Desk17. Cupcake hater. CoL. Ovaltine. Weetabix. Limb. Green. Slug.”

Nope. Most of it still didn’t make sense. Bree took the last sip of her now-warm cider and stared out of the dark window. At least now she knew which Neil was emailing her.

************

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