Page 16 of Skotos
Thomas
Neither of us slept much, so when the sun slipped through the cracks between our curtains, we rose without a word.
I stood at the sink, shaving cream still clinging to my jaw, listening to Will shuffle around behind me, a man half asleep, half hungover.
He grunted. “Tell me we don’t have to actually do anything today.”
I smirked. “Only pick up our laundry. After that? Coffee and croissants?”
He groaned. “Croissants I can handle. Coffee is mandatory. The cleaners?” He groaned again, this time sounding even more pained. “You know they have some scheme. We’re about to get sent to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what.”
“At least God knows. The last few missions had me wondering if anyone knew what we were supposed to do.”
He grunted yet again, his only reply to a long-standing conversation of ours. We respected our leaders, revered a few of them—like Manakin—but the machinery of government was flawed to its core, and that often resulted in men on the ground—men like us—having to navigate turbulent waters with wafer-thin support. While I was curious what Washington had brewed up for us, I shared Will’s trepidation. The last thing either of us wanted was to leave the comfort of our Paris flat. We’d almost created a normal life for ourselves.
Almost.
I finished scraping the blade down my chin and reached for the towel. “At least you looked good while chaos unfolded. You should wear a tux more often.”
I toweled off the last of the shaving cream and followed him into the living room. His shirt was still untucked, and his tie dangled from his neck like a forgotten scarf. The latest edition ofLe Mondelay open on the coffee table, its front page filled with headlines screaming in bold type.
Will dropped onto the couch with a sigh, the cushions wheezing under his weight, then grabbed the paper, flipping it open with more force than necessary.
“You read that a few hours ago,” I said.
He snapped the pages, smoothing out whatever article caught his eye. “I read the front page. Only skimmed the rest.”
I leaned down, kissed his head, then padded into the kitchen to make some coffee. Outside, the city buzzed softly—Paris in motion, pretending everything was fine.
“Thomas, listen to this,” he said as I shoveled far too many grounds into the filter.
PARIS — Less than twenty-four hours after the shocking assassination of Swiss President Max Petitpierre during a state dinner at the Élysée Palace, French intelligence sources are investigating the possibility of foreign involvement—chief among them, the Soviet Union.
According to officials close to the Ministry of the Interior, emerging evidence points to a possible geopolitical motive rooted in Cold War tensions. Switzerland’s position as a neutral but strategically significant mediator between East and West may have made Petitpierre a target for those seeking to disrupt European diplomacy.
In recent months, intercepted correspondence and informant chatter have hinted at mounting Soviet frustration over covert cooperation between Swiss and Western intelligence, particularly on matters of industrial and scientific espionage. President Petitpierre’s recent speech in Geneva urging Europeanunity “against oppression in all its forms” may have been interpreted in Moscow as a veiled rebuke.
An anonymous source within the French foreign ministry commented: “We know the Soviet Union has no qualms about sowing confusion across Europe. This assassination may well have been their way of reminding the neutral states that no one is beyond their reach.”
Swiss authorities, still reeling from the national tragedy, have declined to comment on rumors of foreign orchestration. However, French, British, and Swiss intelligence agencies are reportedly cooperating closely in the ongoing investigation.
A statement from the Élysée emphasized France’s commitment to “collective security and continental peace.”
“Damn,” I said while staring at the coffee maker as though eye contact might make it brew faster. “Fucking Soviets. They’re going to get us into another war.”
“There’s no link—”
“Will, come on. Who else would do something like this? Who else could even pull it off but a state actor? The rest of Europe is rebuilding, not jockeying for position.”
“I don’t think any of these countries ever stop jockeying.” Will tossed down the paper. “The minute Hitler was killed—probably monthsbefore—the key players were squabbling over who would control what. They’re still doing it.”
“Here.” I handed Will a mug. “Drink fast. We need to get to the embassy. I’m not sure I buy the Soviet angle, but I doubt whoever is behind Petitpierre’s murder is done. This feels a lot bigger than killing the head of a neutral state.”
Will froze mid-sip.
“What? I know that look.”
He set his cup atop the paper on the coffee table and turned toward me. “What if—and just humor me here—what if Petitpierre wasn’t the target? What if the shooter missed the pro-West, pro-democracyFrenchPresident and took out a neutral player by mistake?”
