Chapter 65: The Debt of a Favor

The safehouse felt different after the Interpol alert. The four walls that were once just a refuge from the cold felt like the boundaries of a cage, and the bars were digital, tightening with each passing minute. Sabe had spent the morning like a caged wolf, systematically destroying the burner phone and running counter-surveillance sweeps on the apartment's single ancient landline. The world was officially hostile territory.

Anton, by contrast, had grown still. The first fury had cooled to a focused, glacial calm. He stood by the window, looking out as a lone swan cut across the steel-grey surface of the lake. His mind was not on the water, but on the intricate map of power and obligation that was his birthright.

“Evelyn has the high ground in the digital space,” he said, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “She can create ghosts in the machine. But she’s forgotten about the real world. About favors owed.”

Sabe looked up from where he was meticulously cleaning his pistol, a ritual of maintenance and control. “What kind of favors?”

“The kind my father collected,” Anton replied, turning from the window. His face was etched with a grim nostalgia. “He believed contracts were for enemies. For allies, you used handshakes and remembered debts.” He walked to the small table and picked up the landline receiver, a clunky, beige relic. “There is a man. Klaus Richter. The Swiss Minister of Economic Affairs. My father funded his first election campaign when no one else would. He once told me, ‘Klaus will always answer this number.’”

It was a gamble of an altogether different sort. Not a sprint through icy streets, but a reach across a chasm of years, trusting in the integrity of a ghost.

“If he’s part of this…” Sabe warned, the implication clear.

“He isn’t. Klaus is an old-school Swiss. Neutrality and integrity are his religion. He abhors the kind of corporate espionage Evelyn’s engaged in. It sullies his country’s pristine reputation.” Anton’s finger hovered over the rotary dial. “But he will have access. Corporate registries, flight manifests, private port authorities. The logs Evelyn can’t fabricate.”

He dialed the number from memory. The line clicked and whirred, a sound from another era. It rang once, twice. Then, a crisp, familiar voice answered.

“Ja, Richter hier.”

"Minister Richter," Anton said, his voice shifting into the polished, confident tone of the CEO. "It's Anton Rogers."

There was a profound silence on the other end of the line. It wasn't a silence of confusion, rather one of immediate grave understanding. Anton knew his face would be splashed across news screens, linked to the so-called 'fugitive' Sabatine Stalker.

"Anton," Richter's voice was low, cautious. "This is a. surprise. The news, it is. troubling."

“The news is a lie, Klaus,” Anton said, the use of the first name a deliberate echo of their personal history. “A carefully constructed lie by Evelyn Voss. She has stolen the Aethelred prototype and is attempting to sell it to the Zorya Collective. She has framed Mr. Stalker, and she is trying to dismantle my father’s company.”

Another pause. Anton could almost hear the minister weighing the word of a disgraced billionaire against the cold, hard evidence being broadcast to the world.

"These are very serious accusations, Anton."

"They are," Anton agreed. "And I would not make them if I did not have proof of my own. But I need yours. I need to see the truth."

“What truth?”

"My brother, Marcus," Anton said, the name tasting like acid. "I need to know who he has been meeting. Not the public appearances, the private ones. Corporate flight logs, hangar records, anything you can access from the Geneva and Zurich registries. For the last six months."

It was a gross breach of protocol, bending the very rules Richter was sworn to uphold. Anton held his breath, the silence stretching taut. He was not just asking for information; he was asking the minister to risk his career, to bet everything on Anton’s word and the memory of a dead man’s favor.

Finally, Richter spoke, his voice heavy. "Your father was a good man. A man of his word. He believed this country was a place where business could be conducted with honor." He let out a sigh-a sound of resignation and principle. "I will see what I can find. Wait one hour. I will call this number back."

The line went dead.

The next hour was the longest of Anton's life. He paced the small room, while Sabe was a statue of watchful stillness by the door, his ear tuned to the sounds of the building and the street below. The trust forged in the night was being tested now in the harsh light of day, its strength measured by the actions of a politician in a far-off office in Bern.

The sudden ringing of the phone was as jarring as a gunshot.

Anton grabbed the receiver. “Richter?”

“I am sending a courier,” the minister said, his voice clipped now, all business. “A young man on a red Vespa. He will have a sealed envelope. Do not attempt to contact me again, Anton. This debt is now paid.”

The line went dead a second time. Twenty minutes later, the putter of a scooter engine approached and then faded. Sabe, from the window, gave a sharp nod. Anton slipped out the door and returned a moment later with a plain manila envelope.

They laid it on the rickety table. Inside, instead of reams of paper, lay a single, printed log from a highly restricted, government-monitored database for corporate aircraft movements and associated customs pre-clearances. It was the record of the jet from Rogers Industries, the exact one Anton had been supposed to use.

But the flights listed were not his.

They were Marcus's.

Anton’s finger traced down the list. Geneva to Toulouse. Geneva to Tel Aviv. Geneva to Dubai. All within the last three months. All under the guise of “marketing outreach” and “client entertainment.”

"Toulouse," Sabe said, his voice like gravel. "That's the heart of the European aerospace industry. Not our clients."

"Tel Aviv," Anton said, his blood running cold. "A hub for cyber-intelligence brokers. The kind who don't ask questions."

“And Dubai,” Sabe finished, his eyes locking onto Anton’s. “A primary financial and logistical conduit for the Zorya Collective.”

It was a map, not of geography, but of conspiracy. Each flight was another stitch in a tapestry of betrayal. Marcus wasn't just the entitled vengeful brother; he was the active, traveling liaison. He met with the engineers who could weaponize the prototype, the brokers who could fence it, and the buyers who would pay for it.

The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place with a dreadful, silent thud. Evelyn was the architect, safe in her London office, weaving her digital lies. But Marcus was her hands, her voice-her smiling, charming face in the room with the enemy-shaking the hands, making the deals, and guaranteeing the physical transfer of the world's most dangerous technology.

Antón stared at the names of cities, the evidence of his brother's treachery an ache in his chest. The personal betrayal went deeper than any corporate espionage.

Sabe watched him, saw the pain war with the resolve on his face. He didn't offer empty comfort. He just laid a hand on Anton's shoulder, a solid, grounding weight. "We have him," Sabe whispered. "We have the trail." Anton's gaze lifted from the damning page; his eyes cleared, the pain hardening into a cold, clean purpose. 

The minister's clue had not just given them a target. It had given them a path. "Now," Anton said. His voice was firm. "We know where to go."

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