JUST A FEW YARDS FROM HIS HOME OFFICE, Vice President Adameck Faradday felt his cell phone vibrate inside his trouser pocket like a metallic warning. He pulled out the device, looked at the screen, and saw the short, curt message:
"... Call me in fifteen minutes..."
He checked the time when he had received it, frowned, and glanced at his wristwatch, whose hand was already racing mercilessly forward—only three minutes remained before the deadline expired. His head throbbed with possibilities.
Operation Lux is today. Could he want to call it off? — he thought, bitterly hoping the answer would be a cancellation. A phone call capable of dismantling weeks of planning—or, on the contrary, giving the final green light.
He sat down in the comfortable leather armchair, the kind that belonged in an executive's office, smelling of fine tobacco and polished wood. His hand trembled slightly as he pulled the phone from his briefcase. He dialed the banker's confidential number—the contact that opened doors and sealed mouths—and, with his anxiety mounting like the beat of a drum, heard the call answered on the first ring.
"... Hello, Vice President. How are you?..." — the voice on the other end was controlled, as always, unhurried.
— I'm fine. The pieces for the exhibition at the Victoria and Albert Museum arrived today — Faradday replied, delivering his report with the cold precision of someone cataloguing items in an inventory of life and death. Every word had to fit within the confines of security.
"... Did you supervise the shipment of the collection?..." — the banker asked, without changing his tone.
— Down to the smallest detail. — Faradday allowed a trace of pride in his professionalism to slip through. He had taken care of every bowl, every crate, every label. He knew that those crates contained far more than art.
"... And the Frenchman's sculpture?..."
— I followed every instruction. It's flawless.
The banker's breathing was like a clock without hands.
"... So the treasure is safely guarded?..."
— Yes... — Faradday filled the syllable with confidence forged through sleepless nights.
"... And our curator?..."
— Everything's fine with him as well. He'll be the wunderkind — Faradday spoke of the young man with restrained affection; the curator was the most vulnerable piece—indispensable and disposable at the same time.
"... Perfect! Operation Lux..." — the banker began, his voice low and measured — "... ends tonight with the delivery of the head..."
Faradday swallowed hard. The plan had always seemed sinister; now, spoken aloud like that, it sounded final.
— Everything is already prepared... the Archangel will make sure there are no problems. — He stated it firmly, trying to force upon himself the calm he needed to feel.
"... Tomorrow there can be no outside interference with the exhibition..." — the instruction came like a straight line of command.
— Everything will be in order. — Faradday repeated the words as though sealing a contract with an oath.
"... Because of Gregory Evans?..." — The banker's voice turned piercing, as though testing the tension of a wire.
— Exactly... — he confirmed, aware that the name always carried a shadow with it.
"... You are aware that you are responsible for the outcome of this mission?..."
Those words fell like lead. Terribly threatening and laden with implications.
Faradday swallowed hard. He knew he had chosen the best professionals, that he had followed every stage even from a distance, monitoring spreadsheets, records, flights, and security personnel. Even so, the mission was a finely tuned mechanism, and every movement increased the chances of failure—step by step, day after day.
— He's the most reliable person for this mission — he replied, trying to convey authority.
"... There can be no failures..." — the banker's voice scraped like a razor.
— If that depended solely on me... — Faradday began, only to be interrupted. A deafening roar tore through the line like a thunderclap; for a second, the room seemed to lose its color, and he felt a chill climb from the nape of his neck to his jawbone.
"... You are the commander! If the ship sinks, you drown with it!..." — the banker bellowed, leaving no room for metaphor. The threat was clear and direct.
— I'm trying to navigate as best I can — Faradday murmured, almost as though he were already justifying every choice before an invisible judge.
"... Perhaps you chose the wrong equipment, and you will be held responsible for that..." — the banker threatened, his voice becoming a slowly drawn blade.
— Could you be more explicit, please? — Faradday stammered, asking for a map through that labyrinth of intentions.
"... Do you trust the Archangel?..." — the question came sharply, testing loyalties.
— I'd put my hand in the fire for her. She's the best we have — he replied, his voice laden with certainty. He knew the Archangel—a name that carried the weight of faith among the operatives.
"... If we were in the Golden Hall, Vice President, I'd lend you the blowtorch the chef uses to make crème brûlée—with your hand..." — The remark was cutting, dripping with sarcasm and menace.
Faradday felt his heart accelerate like a gambler staking everything on a single hand.
— Like I said... would I stake my life at a poker table? — he ventured, his chest tightening.
"... Because the Archangel was approached by the Servant of God, and she sold her loyalty..." — the banker fired back, without pausing for pleasantries. The revelation struck like a shard through the glass of trust.
Impossible! — Faradday thought as disbelief rushed in to fill the void. Then, already arming himself with determination, he added:
— I'll take care of it.
"... I certainly hope so... because in our world, it is important to be willing to sacrifice those we love for the greater good..." — The words were delivered like a sentence. Another threat, this time flavored with doctrine.
— I know that very well — Faradday replied, a chill running through his body. He knew that, to a billionaire banker, that fortune was nothing—but money was a power that moved souls, capable of making even the Archangel risk everything.
Bitch... You're going to pay for this, he cursed inwardly, a furtive flame of hatred burning inside him.
— What do you suggest I do? — he asked, hoping, perhaps in vain, to share the responsibility.
"... You know very well what you have to do..." — the banker said, then hung up.
The click ending the call echoed through the room like a chapel bell. Faradday remained motionless, the final words lingering in the air. At that moment, the pieces aligned in his mind: he understood the message, heavy and unmistakable.
It was time to act.