GREG WAS STARING intently at the screen. The image was clear—yet absurd. The hall was completely empty—and suddenly, the body simply appeared in the middle of the room, among John Dee's relics, as if it had been materialized by some invisible force. No sound, no prior movement, nothing to indicate an intrusion.It was as if someone had erased the previous minutes of the recording...
Greg pushed his chair back, leaning closer to the monitor and rewinding the scene frame by frame. Even so, there was not the slightest trace of logic.It was impossible...
— Do you know if anything was taken? — he asked, without taking his eyes off the screen.
The agent, nervous, replied:
— In theory, no, sir. This exhibition held symbolic value, not financial. Pieces without major historical importance. The museum merely loaned the collection to promote the event.
Greg crossed his arms, skeptical.
— Nothing has little value when someone risks a life to obtain it — he murmured.
He knew that feeling: when everything seemed too small, too insignificant—that was exactly where the real secret was hidden.
Scotland Yard... — he thought — loved to boast of its infallibility, but that night, it seemed like just another station lost in its own pride...
— Some religious items are missing — the officer added — crucifixes, medallions, scrolls... old things, but with no apparent value.
— "No apparent value"... — Greg repeated, raising an eyebrow. — That's always where the problem begins.
Standhaw, the head of New Scotland Yard, grumbled irritably:
— That bastard came into our house and practically pissed with the door wide open.
— He just took advantage of the opportunity, sir — Far replied, trying to maintain a rational tone.
Greg, however, intervened:
— I don't believe you let your guard down. This wasn't negligence—it was provocation.
Far looked at him.
— You mean he wanted to be discovered?
— I can't say anything for sure yet — Greg said, taking a deep breath. — But I can work with hypotheses, and all of them point to someone with privileged access.
A tense silence spread. The distant sound of rain hitting the stained-glass windows echoed like a countdown clock.
— So it's true what they say about you, Evans — Standhaw remarked.
Greg gave a faint, enigmatic smile.
— Exactly.
The three looked at each other, and in a mix of irony and respect, said together:
— Everyone is guilty until proven otherwise.
Standhaw broke the moment.
— Send an apology to the museum immediately — he said to the guard near the door. — And make sure they know we'll do everything possible to recover the items as soon as possible.
— Yes, sir.
The agent hurried out, leaving behind the echo of his boots on the marble.
— It makes no sense for this to happen here — Junnie Far said, frustrated.
— It never makes sense — Greg replied thoughtfully, his eyes still fixed on the screen. — Not until the pieces of the puzzle fall into place.
— That's what makes the cat-and-mouse game worthwhile — Standhaw commented with a bitter half-smile.
Greg slowly turned to him and said:
— The problem is that sometimes the cat doesn't realize the mouse is armed too.
Standhaw slammed his fist on the table, making the coffee in his cup tremble.
— Then let's hunt these rats, Evans.
Greg took a deep breath, but deep down, a doubt gnawed at him:In that silent race, who was the cat and who was the mouse?
HOURS LATER, GREG REMAINED thoughtful, isolated in the office. The images spun in his mind like pieces of an impossible puzzle. His role in the American police had always been this: to think differently, to notice the detail everyone else ignored—but something about this deeply unsettled him. No sane person would break into the headquarters of the most respected police force in the world just to leave a corpse behind.
That wasn't a crime... It was a message... A challenge...
— Greg, are you okay? — Junnie Far asked, interrupting his thoughts.
He took a moment before answering:
— I'm fine... I was just thinking about what we saw here.
— I found it strange too — she said, leaning on the desk. — The camera shows the impossible, but... what if it isn't impossible?
Greg looked up, intrigued. Before he could respond, a young agent rushed in, holding an envelope.
— Mr. Evans — he announced, breathless — here is the information about your mission in London.
Greg frowned.
— Mission in London? — he repeated slowly. — I don't know anything about that.
The young man handed him the envelope with both hands. Greg took it, noticing its weight and the official seal stamped in gold—and his pulse quickened.
Who the hell knew I was here besides my boss?
He turned the envelope over, and in the upper right corner, an embossed eagle and the words:
The White House
Greg leaned back in his chair, a chill running down his spine. It was no longer just a homicide investigation—it was a political, diplomatic... and personal game. And this time, the board was the world.