I gave her my room at 4:47 PM.
I know the exact time because I checked my watch the moment I closed the door behind me, the way I checked everything, the way I had learned to timestamp the moments that matter so I can go back later and examine them with the cold precision they deserve. 4:47 PM. That was when I walked out of my own bedroom in my own Paris apartment and stood in the corridor and understood, with the specific and humiliating clarity of a man who prides himself on anticipating problems, that I had made a catastrophic miscalculation.
Not about the room. The room was the right call. The east suite was compromised, the sweep had confirmed it, and the only space I could guarantee was the master. That was logic. That was correct. That was the kind of decision that kept people ali
