Chapter Seventy-Six: The Flight

The plane left at six in the morning.

I didn't sleep the night before. I didn't try to. I packed a bag. I checked my phone. I read Felix's final report. I stared at the ceiling until the alarm went off.

Adrian was waiting in the car when I came downstairs. He didn't speak. He just opened the door. I got in. He followed.

Sloane drove. Daniel sat in the front. Leo followed in a second car.

We didn't talk. There was nothing to say.

The airport was quiet. Private terminal. No cameras. No journalists. Felix had arranged everything. We boarded the plane without a word.

I sat by the window. Adrian sat across from me. He didn't reach for me. He didn't take my hand. He just sat there.

The plane took off. The city disappeared beneath us. The clouds swallowed everything.

I closed my eyes. I didn't sleep. I just rested.

---

The flight was three hours.

I spent most of it reading Felix's report. Claude Fournier. His history. His habits. His connections. His weakness.

He was careful. He didn't use a phone. He didn't leave his apartment except to meet with Volkov. He didn't trust anyone. He didn't have a family. He didn't have friends. He had money. He had power. He had Volkov.

And he had a routine.

Every Thursday night, he went to the same restaurant. He sat at the same table. He ordered the same meal. He waited for Volkov. Sometimes Volkov came. Sometimes he didn't.

Tomorrow was Thursday.

I set the report down. I looked at Adrian. He was reading something on his tablet. He didn't look up.

"You should sleep," he said.

"I'm not tired."

"You're never tired."

I didn't respond. I just looked at him.

He set down the tablet. He looked at me.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing."

He didn't push. He just went back to his tablet.

I looked out the window. The clouds were thick. White. Endless. I couldn't see anything else.

---

We landed in Marseille at nine.

The airport was small. Quiet. We walked through the private terminal. No cameras. No journalists. A car was waiting.

Dana was there. She was standing by the car. She looked the same as she always did. Blonde. Tall. Serious.

"Welcome to Marseille," she said.

"Anything?" I asked.

"Everything's in place. The restaurant is under surveillance. Claude Fournier is at his apartment. He hasn't left since yesterday."

"Good."

We got in the car. Dana drove. Sloane followed in a second car.

The city passed by. Old buildings. Narrow streets. The sea in the distance. I didn't see any of it.

I thought about my mother. About her journal. About her hope.

I thought about the woman I used to be. The woman who trusted too easily. The woman who died.

I wasn't her anymore.

---

The hotel was on the waterfront.

Small. Private. Expensive. The kind of place where no one asked questions. Felix had arranged everything. We had the top floor. Four rooms. A conference room. A security room.

I walked to my room. I set down my bag. I looked out the window. The sea stretched to the horizon. Blue. Endless. Calm.

Adrian appeared in the doorway.

"You should eat," he said.

"I'm not hungry."

"You're never hungry."

I turned. He was standing there. He looked tired. He looked like he hadn't slept either.

"Fine," I said.

We walked to the restaurant downstairs. We ate in silence. The food was good. I didn't taste it.

After a while, he said, "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," I said.

Neither of us moved.

---

That afternoon, I met with Dana and Marcus.

They had photographs. Maps. Schedules. The restaurant. The street. The exits. The blind spots. Everything.

"Claude arrives at eight," Dana said. "He sits at table twelve. He orders the same thing. He waits for Volkov. Volkov usually arrives between eight-thirty and nine."

"And if he doesn't come?"

"Then Claude leaves at ten. He walks home. He doesn't take a car. He doesn't take a taxi. He walks."

"Then that's our window."

Marcus nodded. "If Volkov doesn't show, we take Claude on the walk home. If he does show, we take them both at the restaurant."

I looked at the photographs. The maps. The schedules.

"Good," I said.

---

That evening, I found Adrian on the balcony.

He was standing at the railing. The sea stretched out in front of him. The sun was setting. Orange. Pink. Gold.

I stood beside him. He didn't turn.

"It's beautiful," I said.

"Yes."

"I haven't been to the sea in years. Not since I was a child. My mother used to take me. We'd drive to the coast and spend the day on the beach. She'd read. I'd swim. We'd stay until the sun went down."

He didn't respond. He just listened.

"I forgot about that. Until now."

He turned. He looked at me.

"You're remembering," he said.

"I'm trying."

He looked at me. He looked at me the way he had a hundred times before. Like he knew something I didn't.

"Good," he said.

I looked at the sea. At the sun. At the light.

Tomorrow, this ends.

Tomorrow, I start living.