The conference room had emptied hours ago. Dayo sat alone at the table with five sheets of paper spread in front of him like a hand of cards he wasn't ready to play. The Lagos feed was long dead. The city outside his window had slowed to a crawl, the late-night traffic reduced to scattered headlights moving through the dark.
He pulled a different laptop from his bag. Not the company machine. Not the one Alice or Valery or anyone else in the building had ever seen. This one was older, heavier, the casing scratched near the hinge from years of travel. He opened it on the conference table and waited for the screen to wake.
