An hour later, Jeremy and Alexandre exit the huge tinted glass tower.

"And there you have it, Alex. Another satisfied customer, another excellent reference, and seven hundred thousand euros well earned."

"A million," contradicts Alexandre.

"Hmm?" murmurs Jay incredulously.

"Following your little performance, I had no trouble convincing the IT director about the benefits of a maintenance contract."

"Respect, Alex... What would I do without you?"

"You'd sell your ideas for a song and 'Blue Jay' would have already been bought out for next to nothing by the competition."

"You're not wrong..."

Now in rush hour, the esplanade is teeming with people. Through the ambient noise, Jeremy barely discerns the melody of his voicemail indicating a message awaiting.

"Jay... It's Sarah... Something happened to Brian... Call me back quickly, please."

Alexandre understands the seriousness of the situation seeing the sudden pallor of his boss and friend. He doesn't have time to ask what about.

"It's Sarah," Jeremy declares in a white voice. "I'm calling her back," he adds, pressing the speed dial button for the international number.

"Sarah? It's Jay."

"..."

"Sarah?" Jeremy insists.

"Jay... It's Brian... He's dead..."

Jeremy remains quiet for a moment, crushed by the weight of the news. After a long silence, he just manages to stammer:

"When? How?"

"I don't know. A taxi found him an hour ago in the middle of the street in front of his work. The police just informed me. I... I..."

Jeremy can hear her crying four thousand miles away.

"Sarah? Sarah? Listen to me Sarah, I'm coming, OK? I'm taking the first plane."

He turns to Alexandre. The latter has already retrieved his own phone in the thick of the conversation and checks flights to Toronto.

"Direct flight, Air Canada, departure at 11:20 terminal 2A."

Jeremy quickly glances at his watch. "I'll be there..."

"I'm booking, you'll just have to pick up your ticket at a kiosk. Jay?"

Jeremy, who is now running, turns around as Alexandre rummages through his briefcase to pull out a small burgundy notebook.

"Your passport..."

He hands the object to Jeremy, who moves back to grab it. Jay considers Alexandre with eyes full of gratitude. For years, he has cared for his affairs, his appointments, his papers. Left to himself, Jeremy would probably have spent the rest of the morning searching for the precious document.

"Thanks, Alex..."

"Go, you'll miss the boarding. And don't worry about anything, I'll clear your schedule, OK? Stay there as long as you want."

Already, Jeremy disappears into the nearest RER station. During rush hour, trying to get from La Défense to Roissy airport by taxi would equate to a wishful prayer, and he knows it well. His most logical choice remains to trust public transportation. In less than two hours, he would be on a plane heading across the Atlantic.

3

London, United Kingdom

An airplane flies above Portobello Road in West London. The slender townhouses and small, brightly colored buildings mostly date from the post-war reconstruction. The owners have maintained them well, and over the years, each has added their personal touch.

This feels far from the vast green expanses of the bourgeois Hampstead area and the urban conformity of the North American suburbs. Here, only a narrow sidewalk separates the facades from the roadway. Occasionally, wrought iron gates defend tiny gardens that border the few concrete stairs leading to the doorsteps.

From north to south, Portobello Avenue crosses the neighborhoods of Notting Hill in capricious meanders. It undulates, tightens, and broadens according to the many markets and shops. A long pedestrian section invites browsing among its famous antique dealers. But if one bothers to follow it beyond the tourist glitz, one will reveal a rather quiet residential area. The few trees planted on the wider sidewalks add a certain charm to the dwellings. The exteriors keep unusual colors, however, with far less vibrant hues. The red, yellow, or blue paints have given way to softer pastels.

In the nascent light of early morning, shadows form in the yet-empty street. The few parked cars resemble large felines dozing in front of their masters' steps. A cherry tree, which does not bear fruit but produces remarkable pink flowers in spring, stands its ground opposite a scaffolding intended for a facade renovation.

A little further on, two houses—one pale blue and the other off-white—have combined their small gardens, enclosed by a black iron fence. A single gate jealously protects access to the two front doors.

Strangely, while the exterior is frequently maintained, behind the thick curtains time seems to have stopped. Yellowed sheets cover the furniture, the wallpaper patterns testify to a bygone age, and the stale air reeks. Only repeated footprints on the dusty parquets refute that the homes remain uninhabited. But the sole owner of the premises uses the upper floors very little, his life is confined to the occupation of the basement.

"The Doctor" operates from a World War II bomb shelter. However, his lair no longer resembles the uncomfortable refuge of the Blitz era. It extends under the total surface of the two houses, entirely remodeled into a cozy loft filled with cutting-edge technology and surveillance equipment. A socially phobic and paranoid individual, the Doctor never surrounds himself with enough such equipment to feel reassured.

A tormented genius since childhood, unable to function properly in society, the Doctor received a bourgeois education at home. But even the presence of tutors ultimately became unbearable to him. He had early on channeled his reclusive and obsessive behavior by fervently turning to the then-nascent field of microcomputing. His many psychological pathologies had found a favorable ground there to unleash all the potential of his talent. His introverted and paranoid personality led him to the fringe of the information technology world, propelling him to rank as the most gifted hacker of all generations.

He is currently working on penetrating the network that Jeremy Baltac indicated to him. For more than a quarter of a century, the Frenchman has demonstrated his unbreakable attachment to him. He is his only and genuine friend. The many trials they have overcome together have earned Jay the most precious thing the unsociable Briton possesses: his trust. Only Jeremy knows the Doctor's true identity.

Generally, Jay does not encourage Doc to access his clients' data, and penetration attempts end after circumventing the first security perimeters. This time, however, he gave him carte blanche, including the retrieval of confidential information. For Doc, this type of mission feels like a real treat.

He breezed through the early shield with ease, undoubtedly triggering a yellow alert on the other side of the Channel. Knowing his friend, the Doctor expects to face several different safety barriers to reach the data itself. The protection set up by "Blue Jay IT Security" aims only to slow down and analyze the assailant's strategy in order to repel him, securing the information before he accesses it. The Doctor understands that time represents the worst enemy of his offensive. He glances distractedly at his watch and notes with satisfaction that barely an hour has passed since he started his attack.

He crosses the second line of defense before being expelled from the network. Like Ulysses facing the Trojans, he then exploits one subsystems' credulity to launch his final assault stealthily. Just before 6 a.m. London time, the citadel collapses. The encryption fortifications conquered, Doc begins to plunder the confidential data lying unprotected.

A few minutes after the red alert sounded in the client's premises, the Doctor receives a message of surrender from Jay. He immediately halts his attack. When he inquires about his performance with his accomplice, the latter confirms he remains the best. However, Doc quickly notices the uselessness of the retrieved information and shows an appreciative smile. He returns the compliment to his friend.

Hardly has the brief exchange of texts ended when Doc's own security systems also sound an alert. Turning to one of his many control screens, he types a few commands to display the analysis report. He immediately spots inconsistencies in the digital signals transmitted and concludes that his pal's line is tapped...

4

New York, United States

"Someone else is on the line... Please hold, I'll put you through in a second."

The receptionist presses a button on her switchboard and gestures towards the man waiting in front of her, indicating she'll be with him shortly. She then resumes through the headset:

"Mr. Seymour is not in yet, could you call back in half an hour?"

Two minutes later, the phone calls cease, and the young woman turns to the visitor. The man, a tall, well-built blond wearing a leather jacket and large dark sunglasses under a crew cut, has stayed without a fuss. The hostess flashes him a manufactured smile.

"Bienvenue chez Piquet International, welcome to Piquet International. Que puis-je faire pour vous, how may I help you?"

"You could trigger the silent alarm for me..."

And as the receptionist seems not to understand, he repeats, in impeccable French: "Vous pourriez déclencher l'alarme silencieuse pour moi..."

To emphasize his request, he pulls a revolver from his leather jacket.

The sight of the weapon snaps the hostess out of her reserve. Frightened, she lets out a long hysterical shriek.

The bullet, leaving the suppressor, produces no more noise than a stale bottle of champagne's cork, but instantly quiets the employee's shrill screams. The assassin pivots, smooth and precise. He shoots the guard stationed at the entrance of a wide corridor before the latter has time to finish drawing his gun.

"I said silent alarm," he continues as if to maintain his conversation with the receptionist.

As the air gradually fills with the iron smell of the victims' blood, the killer moves behind the welcome desk. He gropes the underside of the counter with the flat of his hand, finds a push button, and presses it.

He then activates the tiny communication device he wears in his right ear. "We can go now..."