Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rhodes
The woman before me stuns in black lace that hugs every curve, diamonds glittering at her wrist like captured stars. Beautiful, daring, and trained in deception.
I so much want to trust her. More than that, I want her to be the fun, carefree woman I met on vacation—the one who challenged me on the mountain, who looked at me as just a man.
I want to spend time with that woman again, and I want to do it far past the conclusion of this weekend.
But, as the Rolling Stones noted, we don’t always get what we want.
In less than thirty minutes, we’ll be walking into the Russian embassy—a surveillance fortress.
Where my refusal to buy a highly desired database will make me an inconvenience to people who don’t tolerate inconveniences.
Where Sydney will attempt to plant surveillance software that could be interpreted as espionage if discovered.
The stakes have never been higher, and trust has never mattered more.
Yet, who can I trust? My partner Miles showing up at the Russian embassy, when he’s not even supposed to be in D.C.
, feels like a betrayal, regardless of his motives.
We’ve been friends since Stanford, survived the lean years of ramen and shared apartments, built ARGUS from nothing but lines of code and caffeine-fueled ambition.
Although, we also fight like brothers and aren’t prone to caving during disagreements. Still, why would he show up there?
My best guess is he’s looking for leverage to force me to agree to a public offering—he’s been pushing for it relentlessly since our last valuation—although I can’t be entirely sure that’s his end game.
The Miles I knew five years ago wouldn’t go behind my back like this to make a point.
But power and money change people, reshape priorities, erode principles.
The thought makes my stomach turn, but I can’t dismiss it.
He’s my friend, but he’s convinced I’m wrong about keeping ARGUS as a private entity, convinced that my “ethical concerns” are holding back the company’s true potential.
If I confront him, he’ll tell me he’s saving me from my worst impulses, just as he did when I refused the China contract last year.
What he doesn’t understand is that some lines, once crossed, can never be uncrossed. Some technologies, once unleashed, can never be contained.
And what about Sydney?
Here she is, wearing my mother’s diamonds. Agreeing to play a role that will help me uncover exactly what’s going on. But how to know if I can trust her?
“ It’s not a setup .” Yes, I read the message.
There are those who claim they succeeded in business by developing the ability to read upside down papers across conference room tables. The ability to read phone screens at all angles is my generation’s form of upside-down pages.
And ARGUS takes it several steps further. Our neural networks can reconstruct partial text from reflection patterns in glass, predict message content from subtle finger movements on virtual keyboards, even analyze micro expressions to determine if someone is communicating truthfully.
I’ve created systems that can extract secrets from the smallest digital traces—and yet here I am, reduced to reading over someone’s shoulder like a curious teenager.
The most sophisticated surveillance technology in the world, and human trust still comes down to these primitive observations.
The irony would be amusing if the stakes weren’t so high.
Her phone lights up with an incoming message.
Are we working together? Or will she walk away to discuss with her team?
“Can we take a few minutes? Before we leave?”
“Certainly.” The muscles in my chest loosen with the word, although I’m not certain what she’s planning to do. It’s her eyes, the softness in her words. I hope I’m reading her correctly.
She dials a number and sets the phone to speaker, holding the device in her hand in such a way that the light reflects off the diamonds circling her wrist.
“Hello,” a man’s voice says.
“This is Sydney.” Her voice shifts subtly—more formal, clipped at the edges. Professional Sydney reporting in. “I got the message.”
“Where are you?” The man’s voice is authoritative, with the measured cadence of someone accustomed to command.
“I’m in the hotel. With Rhodes.” Her eyes flick to mine, a silent question in them. “And you’re on speaker, Hudson.”
A beat of silence—milliseconds long but heavy with the unspoken risk assessment happening across the connection.
“Copy that,” Hudson says, though I detect the slightest modulation in his tone. “It’s good to update you both.”
I position myself closer to Sydney, my shoulder nearly touching hers—a subtle claim to partnership that won’t be visible over the phone but sends a message to her. We’re in this together, or not at all.
“Quinn identified communications between congressional staffers and known Russian operatives. When I looked at the list of names, I recognized one of them—Benjamin Dristol.”
The name means nothing to me, but Sydney pales.
“Chief of staff for Senator Crawford,” she explains. “Any communications from Crawford?”
“Not that we’ve seen but…”
“He could use Dristol for all communications.”
“As a member of the Senate Foreign Intelligence Committee, that would be a wise move.”
“You know, when we ran into him the other day, Dristol was there, seated at a table. I bet they were having cocktails together. I didn’t think anything of it.”
“To be fair,” I hear myself saying, “He likely has after work sessions with his staff regularly.”
“Maybe.” There’s a faraway look in Syd’s eyes, and I can’t help but wonder how much of this is because of Crawford, and if she is in fact not over him. The idea doesn’t sit well. “Is Quinn on the line?”
“Right here,” a feminine voice answers.
I take that to mean Quinn is a woman.
“Did you find any connection with the FBI agent?” I catch Syd’s eye in such a way she knows I want more information.
“I confirmed the FBI does not have a current investigation into ARGUS. I also confirmed your FBI contact’s real name is Jason Reid. He’s not FBI, nor was he ever FBI. He did however work for the CIA from 2007 to 2015.”
“Interesting. Before my time. Anything on why he left?” Sydney asks.
“No, but I didn’t access his employee file.”
“How’d you confirm–”
“Jake’s visual recognition and first name assisted and believe it or not, one of my contacts at a foreign intelligence agency had the information.”
“Which one?” I ask, curious.
“Classified,” Quinn answers, and Syd gives a little shrug.
Fair, I suppose. I mean, this is a private black ops group and nothing is technically classified but protecting her sources is completely understandable.
“By the way, another person on our team, Noah, has been trailing Reid. He observed him meeting with an employee at a private security firm. Westinghouse. Did a search and Crawford has hired them in the past. Didn’t make an effort to keep it secret.
It’s in public records. But rumors are Westinghouse has taken odd jobs from the Russians, too.
It’s all speculation, but we know for certain Jason Reid pretended to be Ian Gregory with the FBI, he’s familiar with Senator Crawford and Crawford’s chief of staff, Dristol, and he had a meeting with Westinghouse, a private security firm with rumored connections to Russia. ”
“So tonight we should watch Crawford in addition to the Russians,” Sydney says. “I can’t imagine this Jason Reid or Dristol would be at the events, but if they are, we should keep an eye on them too.”
“If you’re able to access intel from the Russians, it could be highly valuable. We have circumstantial information at best and no comprehension,” Hudson says, referring to my plan to install a surveillance virus onto a computer tonight. That’s what Sydney’s text to her team must’ve been about.
I have Sydney attempting the install but hearing all of this has me questioning my plan. Perhaps I should be the one attempting to break into a Russian office. They want something from me so it will be easier to sweep under the rug if caught. Only trouble is, I doubt I’ll be left alone.
“Understood,” Syd says.
“Jake and Noah are in position to provide support outside of the Russian embassy. I’m working on getting a waiter into the event, but Russian security is tight. I don’t think it’s going to happen. If you need backup, you’ll need to get off Russian embassy property. Copy?” Hudson asks.
“I’ll bring my security with me,” I say.
“That’s good. But they won’t be allowed into the party with you. Standard protocol.”
Hudson’s statement makes sense. I haven’t given it much thought, but it’s true security personnel don’t usually mingle at events I attend.
“Are you on the way in a hot minute?” Quinn asks.
Sydney’s posture changes subtly—a barely perceptible straightening of her spine. “Yes. I need to go to the ladies, but we’ll be out the door in a hot minute.” Her voice remains casual, but the repeated phrase isn’t subtle.
“Safe travels,” Hudson says before the call disconnects, leaving an electric silence in its wake.
I watch her hips sway as she seductively saunters to the restroom, the black lace dress highlighting every curve.
But my appreciation is tempered by suspicion.
“Hot minute” repeated twice—not a coincidence—an obvious signal to get her alone before our departure for the embassy, and she acknowledged it without hesitation.
The coded phrase should bother me more than it does.
But I find myself analyzing not what she said, but how she said it.
The slight tension in her shoulders when she had to use operational language.
The way her eyes kept finding mine during the call, as if anchoring herself to something real.
Miles and I have worked together for years and he chose secrecy and most likely deception.
Sydney had minutes to exclude me from this call and chose transparency.
She could have taken this conversation in the bathroom, but she put it on speaker.
She could have hidden her team’s positioning, but she let me hear their operational support.
The bracelet she’s wearing—my mother’s diamonds, signifies my own leap of faith.
If I can’t trust the woman wearing my mother’s diamonds and walking into a Russian embassy for me, then I can’t trust anyone.
And a man who trusts no one is already defeated.
I coded the tracking device myself, but the real surveillance tech is simpler: I’m watching someone choose to trust me while asking me to trust her in return.
Some algorithms can predict human behavior with 94 percent accuracy.
But trust isn’t about probability—it’s about choosing to believe in the 6 percent chance that someone might surprise you.
Tonight, we’re entering a digital panopticon where every surveillance trick will be leveraged and likely used against us. If Sydney and I can’t establish genuine trust now, we won’t succeed.
Trust goes both ways. I stare at the closed bathroom door and make my decision. When she emerges, we’ll face tonight together—whatever that means for both of us.