The safe house smelled of bergamot and paranoia. Freya’s voice, stripped of its earlier warmth, crackled through the encrypted line with the precision of a bomb disposal technician.
“The vault’s encryption is a Russian nesting doll. Layer one: her vocal fingerprint. Layer two: a timestamped geolocation lock. It only opens within 200 meters of a specific GPS coordinate, between 11 PM and 1 AM local time.”
Stella stared at the map projection on her laptop. A blue dot pulsed in central London. Not the Barbican, not their Kensington home. A private members’ club in Mayfair—The Aetherium.
“The gala venue,” Stella said flatly.
“Tomorrow night. The ‘Arts & Legacy’ fundraiser. She’ll be performing the Elgar Cello Concerto’s Adagio at approximately 10:45 PM.” Freya’s keystrokes were audible. “T
