GREGORY EVANS stepped off the plane after seven long hours of flight that felt like an eternity. London's damp weather wrapped around him like a veil of fog. Not that he wasn't used to it — over the past twenty years, the man had crossed oceans in pursuit of killers, corrupt politicians, fugitive magnates, and secrets that brought down empires. Being invited to conferences like that was almost routine, the price of a reputation built on courage, precision, and silence.
Greg adjusted his jacket, straightened his tie, and walked down the terminal corridor with the steady stride of someone walking through a minefield, knowing exactly where each explosive was buried. On the other side, a tall woman with almost theatrical elegance held a sign bearing his name. She wore a navy-blue coat and black leather gloves.
— Hello, you must be Junnie Far — he said, with a faint, tired smile.— It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Evans. Welcome to London.
Her voice had something crystalline about it, yet carried firmness.
Greg checked his watch and realized the time zone left him five hours behind:
— I believe that won't be necessary, Mr. Evans. You will be accompanied throughout the entire journey; it's the least we can do as an apology for what happened the last time you were in our country and did everything you did to help us.— These things happen, Miss Far... now let's go.
He noticed something strange. That woman — her posture, her gaze, the way she touched her hair — reminded him of someone.
They are almost identical...
— Is something wrong, Mr. Evans?— No... I just noticed you look very much like someone I met recently.
She smiled faintly.
— They say there are five identical people to each of us in the world. Perhaps I'm one of them.— Of course... after all, we are on another continent.— Exactly... I hope my lookalike is beautiful.— She certainly is. Otherwise, the resemblance wouldn't stand out.— I like that new way of calling someone ugly.— When one isn't beautiful, it's easy to invent a thousand names for one's lack of beauty.
They laughed together, the sound light, as if both knew that moment would be the last relaxed one for the rest of the day.
THE CAR CROSSED THE HEART of the city until the imposing building of New Scotland Yard unfolded before them, a colossus of glass and steel reflecting London's low clouds. The headquarters of the most respected police force on the planet — and, ironically, also one of the most watched.
— Popularly — Junnie began, as the wind stirred her perfectly pinned hair — the term New Scotland Yard is used as a metonym for the Metropolitan Police Service of London. The name comes from its former location on Great Scotland Yard, a street in Whitehall.
Greg nodded, adding:
— I know the exact origin of the name is a mystery.
— Yes, but there are curious theories. One says it was the site of the Scottish kings' diplomatic mission before the 1707 Union between England and Scotland. Another claims the land belonged to a man named Scott. Some swear that the stagecoaches to the north departed from that street.
Greg smiled, impressed by her encyclopedic memory.
— I see you're more than just a charming guide, Miss Far.
She merely raised an eyebrow, not returning the compliment.
THEY REACHED THE LOBBY. The marble floor reflected the cold lights and the imposing columns.
— In the seventeenth century — Junnie continued — several government buildings were constructed here. The architect Christopher Wren lived nearby, and between 1649 and 1651, the poet John Milton lived in the area during the republican period of the Commonwealth of England under Cromwell.
Greg walked beside her, absorbing every detail. An exhibition in the hall caught his attention — banners, panels, display cases with manuscripts. Junnie noticed his interest but chose to follow protocol:
— The original New Scotland Yard buildings, now called the Norman Shaw Buildings, were erected between 1887 and 1906. The Metropolitan Police itself was founded in 1829 by Sir John Peel.
— One of the few places in the world where politics still seems to work.
— That's what it looks like from the outside — she replied. — But we have our share of corruption and failures like any other country.
— I can imagine...
— In 1829, the police occupied number 4 Whitehall Place, which became known simply as Scotland Yard.
— Famous because of Hercule Poirot, from Agatha Christie.
She laughed.
— We could say he became famous because of our name. After all, they say we are the best police force in the world.
— Makes sense — he replied. — And maybe that's why the best also make the worst mistakes.
They were greeted by an officer at the entrance. After the formalities, Junnie continued the tour.
— In 1890, the headquarters moved to Victoria Embankment. Since 1967, it has been here, at 10 Broadway, near the Palace of Westminster, home to the two Houses of Parliament.
Greg observed the surroundings and felt the déjà vu of a city that had once humiliated him.
— May I ask a question?— Of course.— That exhibition... is it about a sixteenth-century Englishman named...
— John Dee — she completed.
Greg stared at her.
— You know John Dee?
— One of the greatest geniuses of our country. Mathematician, astrologer, alchemist... and advisor to Queen Elizabeth I.
Suddenly, Gregory Evans froze. The name struck him like a distant memory.
— John Dee... — he repeated, feeling the echo of the dream that had awakened him days before.
— I hope you're not confusing him with that American hillbilly who invented tractors — she joked.
Greg laughed loudly.
— My wife said exactly the same thing.
— Then we share the same sense of humor — Junnie replied, arching her eyebrows. — After all, not everyone can be called "The Queen's Key to victory."
— And few understood the weight that carries — he answered darkly.
THE LECTURE WENT FLAWLESSLY. At the end, Gregory Evans was given a standing ovation. The audience — agents, investigators, and journalists — rose in prolonged applause.
— It is an honor to have you here, Mr. Evans — said Chief Standhaw.
— Thank you, sir.
— Leave the formalities, please. Call me Morris.
— Of course, Morris.
— Come to my office. A good English tea always helps digest applause.
MORRIS STANDHAW'S OFFICE was spacious, lined with fine wood and decorated with portraits of former Scotland Yard chiefs.
— Sit down, Greg.
— I know you're going through turbulent times, Morris...
— Our fault. We trusted the wrong people and paid dearly.
Standhaw's gaze hardened.
— We owe you an apology for everything you went through here in London. The media was cruel and unfair.
— These things happen... — Greg murmured, avoiding showing resentment.
— The former head of the Metropolitan Police resigned. She said the mayor had lost confidence in her.
Greg interrupted with a bitter smile:
— After a terrorist attack, she and MI5 arrested me and treated me like a criminal.
— That was exactly what the press needed to attack the American government.
Greg nodded.
— The mayor claimed dissatisfaction with the institution's handling of racism and sexism.
— Fair enough — Greg replied.
— The Independent Office for Police Conduct report revealed misogynistic messages, harassment, corruption. The content was described as "shocking."
Greg sighed.
— Unacceptable, but predictable.
— She was also under fire because of the partygate scandal. The whole country is still breathing that scandal.
Greg crossed his legs and looked out the window. The London he knew seemed older and more exhausted than ever.
— I know you were hurt by the press, Greg, but we're taking action.
— It doesn't bother me that they talk about me — he said. — What bothers me is when they lie.
— That's democracy: the price of being able to speak and the risk of hearing lies.
Morris stood up.
— Get some rest.
But Gregory Evans wasn't thinking about rest. Inside him, something burned. A name pulsed like a mantra: Mick Gallagher.
He wanted to find him and repay him in kind.
Then a scream echoed from the hall, cutting through the air like a blade.
Greg and Morris looked at each other. Tension filled the silence. Something was about to happen — and Greg felt that scream would be the beginning of something far greater than any previous case.