I read Mrs. Wati's message four times.
Not because I didn't believe it—but because a mind already exhausted needed more repetition than usual to turn information into something it could process.
*Harto knows you already know his name. He's coming to Jakarta tonight.*
Tonight.
Not tomorrow. Not next week. Tonight, when we had just finished a three-hour confrontation that drained us, when Mr. Hendra had just walked out the door, when our heads were still filled with names, connections, and questions that had no answers yet.
I went up to the third floor.
Damian was in his study, sitting in front of two monitors with several tabs open—documents, a network map he had made himself, and a browser window whose contents I couldn't see from the doorway.
He didn't look up when I entered. He al
