Chapter 8

The Café des Artistes was a cramped, dimly lit establishment tucked between a bakery and a secondhand bookstore in the old quarter. Adrian arrived to find the investigator already there, sitting at a corner table with a man whose hands bore the unmistakable stains of ink and chemicals.

"Mr. Frost," the investigator said, rising. "This is Pascal Rougier. He's the forger who made the passports."

Pascal looked up at Adrian with nervous eyes. "I want you to understand, monsieur — I did not know what they were for. I was paid well and I asked no questions. That was my mistake."

"Who paid you?" Adrian asked, his voice flat.

"A man called Veltrick. Not the founder — a younger man. He used the name 'Daniel' but I suspect it was not his real name." Pascal swallowed. "He was precise. Demanded exact specifications. Said it was for a client who was being relocated for their own safety."

"Relocated for their own safety." Adrian's jaw tightened. "Did he mention a woman? Pregnant? Around this age?" He held up his phone, showing a photo of Sofia.

Pascal studied it, his face going pale. "Oui. Yes. He had a photo like this. He said she was a witness in a criminal case who needed new identity. He said she would be grateful for the escape."

Adrian's fury rose, hot and uncontrolled. "She wasn't a witness. She was my wife. He helped take her."

Pascal held up his hands. "I did not know, monsieur. I swear, I did not know. I am just a craftsman. I make papers. I do not ask questions."

"You're going to answer some now," Adrian said. "Everything Daniel told you. Every detail. Every name. Every place he mentioned."

Pascal nodded rapidly, his eyes wide. "He spoke of a safe house. In the mountains — somewhere in the Alps, near the Austrian border. He said the client would be moved there after the passports were ready. He had a contact there — a woman, I think. He called her 'the matron.'"

The matron. A safe house in the Alps. Adrian's mind raced, piecing together the puzzle — the passports, the false-bottomed cart, the network of disappearances. Daniel Page wasn't just helping take Sofia; he was building a system, a better, more efficient way to make people vanish.

"Where in the Alps?" Adrian asked. "Do you have an address? A name?"

Pascal shook his head. "I only know what he told me. But he carried a notebook with him — a leather one with a gold clasp. He was obsessive about it. I saw him write in it once, when he thought I wasn't looking. If you find that notebook, you'll find everything."

The notebook. A trail. Adrian pulled out his phone and dialed Marcus.

"I need you to find something," he said. "A leather notebook with a gold clasp. Daniel probably keeps it with him or hidden somewhere. Check his old offices, his bank vaults, any storage he might have."

"I'm already on it," Marcus said. "I found his last known address — an apartment in Vienna. I've got a contact there who can search it if we give the word."

"Do it," Adrian said. "And tell them to be careful. Daniel isn't moving alone. He has connections, resources, a network. If he's there, we need to know before he knows we're coming."

He ended the call, turning back to Pascal. "You said Daniel was precise. Demanded exact specifications. What else did he require?"

Pascal thought for a moment. "He wanted the passports to match a specific profile. 'A woman who could pass for a servant,' he said. 'Quiet. Unremarkable. Someone who could walk through a hotel without being remembered.'"

A servant. A maid. The realization hit Adrian like a freight train. Daniel hadn't just been planning to take Sofia — he'd been planning to make her disappear in plain sight, to turn her into a ghost who could move through the world without being noticed. The hotel uniform, the brass cart, the carefully cultivated invisibility — it wasn't just happenstance. It was design.

"He was using her," Adrian said slowly. "He wasn't just hiding her. He was training her to be invisible."

"I do not know what his purpose was," Pascal said, shaking his head. "I only know what he asked for."