Chapter 4
LEX
The ancient clock near the bedroom door chimed six times, pulling me from a surprisingly deep sleep. I lay still for a moment, orienting myself in the unfamiliar surroundings of Blackmoor Castle. The countess’s suite. Conrad Carnegie’s ancestral home. Project Labyrinth.
Despite my initial reservations about staying here—not that I’d had much of a choice—I’d slept better than I did in weeks. The suite was spectacular, elegant without being ostentatious, its decor complementing the original medieval stonework. For all his faults, Con Carnegie had great taste.
A knock at the door interrupted my assessment.
“Come in,” I called, sitting up against the pillows.
A gentleman who appeared slightly older than Con and me entered carrying a silver tray. “Good morning, Dr. Sterling. I’m Bastion, Lord Blackmoor’s butler. I’ve brought your breakfast.”
“Thank you, Bastion.” I watched as he set the tray on a small table by the window. Tea in a porcelain pot, fresh scones, clotted cream, and fresh berries.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ensuring the Wi-Fi details are beside your tablet,” he said, indicating a small card on the tray. “Should you need to review any online information this morning.”
While Con made sure I had access yesterday, I was impressed by the level of service despite the circumstances. I repeated my thanks.
“His lordship mentioned you might require a change of clothes.” Bastion gestured toward a garment bag draped over a chair I hadn’t noticed, along with a holdall on the floor next to it.
“That’s very thoughtful,” I said, genuinely surprised by Con’s consideration. “Is Lord Blackmoor available this morning?”
“His lordship is in his offices with Mr. Drummond. Will there be anything else, Dr. Sterling?”
“No, thank you.”
After he departed, I got out of bed to examine the clothing—simple but well-tailored trousers and blouses in neutral tones, along with a navy blazer that would complement my coloring. Practical choices, neither too formal nor too casual. Another unexpected insight into Con’s character.
I ate while reviewing my notes on Project Labyrinth.
The data we’d gathered so far pointed to a sophisticated AI-weapons system with potential global implications.
The Tower-Meridian connection had opened the first door for us to understand the consortium’s structure, but we still lacked crucial information about who made up the collective and their ultimate objectives.
What troubled me most was the speed with which Labyrinth was advancing.
I was certain the shell companies Sullivan had traced to Tower-Meridian were now channeling funds toward quantum computing facilities and specialized neural processors.
They had merely shifted operations without missing a beat after Fallon’s death, suggesting her role, while significant, had been just one piece in a much larger structure.
The name being tossed about, at first in regard to her, was Janus. The mastermind. Only when we learned she was known instead as Chimera did we realize the horrific threat Labyrinth represented remained.
I finished my breakfast, showered, then prepared for the day, choosing the navy blazer, charcoal trousers, and a burgundy blouse from the options Con had provided. The fit was impressive—either a fortunate coincidence or evidence of a more detailed observation on his part than I’d realized.
Before leaving the suite, I ran a quick set of diagnostics on my mobile, checking for any signs of intrusion or monitoring.
Working in Con’s territory required caution, regardless of our temporary alliance.
The scan showed no irregularities, but I activated an additional encryption layer as a precaution, then made my way through the castle’s labyrinthine corridors toward the east wing.
Portraits of Carnegie ancestors watched from gilt frames—stern-faced men and elegant women spanning centuries, their eyes seeming to follow my progress through their domain.
The ancient structure felt like a physical manifestation of Con himself—imposing, complicated, with secrets hidden beneath its surface.
The modern defensive technology he’d introduced me to yesterday presented a stark contrast to the historical surroundings. Each checkpoint required increasingly complex verification methods that I hoped I’d remember how to activate.
After passing through the final barrier, I entered Con’s underground operations hub to find him deep in conversation with a man I recognized as Angus Drummond.
I’d met Gus briefly during the Tower-Meridian investigation, though we hadn’t worked closely together.
Where Con was all intensity and sharp edges, Gus projected a quiet competence that inspired immediate trust.
“Good morning,” Gus said, standing as I entered.
“Dr. Sterling,” Con acknowledged, his gaze lingering longer than strictly necessary. “I trust you slept well?”
“Better than expected,” I admitted. “Though not everyone starts their day before zero five hundred hours.”
His mouth curved slightly at one corner. “Time waits for no one, especially when chasing Russian scientists who should be dead.”
“Any progress with that?” I moved to stand beside them, glancing at the financial data scrolling across one of the multiple monitors.
“Gus has been tracing potential funding sources,” Con explained. “Following the money might lead us to the consortium’s infrastructure.”
“These transactions originate from the same accounts Sullivan linked to Tower-Meridian,” Gus added, pulling up a digital chart.
“But instead of funneling money through their humanitarian aid fronts, they’ve created new shells specifically focused on research facilities.
The financial architecture is identical—they’re using the same distribution methods Sullivan uncovered, just with different endpoint accounts. ”
I was impressed by his competency. The analytical framework Gus used was a painful reminder of Dr. McLaren’s methodologies.
My mentor would have appreciated his thoroughness.
A momentary flash of doubt crossed my mind—what would Evelyn do with this data?
—before I pushed it aside. I was on my own now, and I’d navigate this investigation my way.
“You’re looking for microtransactions that aggregate over time rather than large, suspicious transfers. Smart.”
“Exactly.” Gus’s eyes flashed. “Tower-Meridian’s fall—via Chimera’s death—left numerous financial channels vulnerable. Someone’s been exploiting them systematically.”
I watched as the two men exchanged theories, finishing each other’s sentences and communicating with minimal words.
“Incoming call,” Con announced as an alert flashed across the main screen. “It’s Ash.”
The display shifted to reveal a striking blond man with piercing green eyes alongside a dark-haired woman I recognized as Sullivan Rivers, the investigative journalist whose work had helped expose Tower-Meridian.
The scene behind them revealed they were in an ornate study, all dark wood and leather-bound books—the quintessential Scottish estate library.
“Morning.” David Evans—code name Savior, though everyone seemed to call him Ash—greeted us. His voice was measured and direct. “Thanks for reaching out, Con.”
“Appreciate you getting back to me so quickly,” he replied, shifting slightly closer to the screen before turning to Gus and me. “I sent a message, asking if Ash and Sullivan could meet with us this morning. I thought a firsthand account would be more valuable than my summarizing.”
“Dr. Sterling,” Sullivan said with a slight wave. “Good to see you again.”
The diamond on her left hand caught the light as she adjusted her position. “Likewise. I understand congratulations are in order regarding your engagement.”
She smiled. “Thank you. I’m still getting used to the idea myself.” The way she glanced at Ash spoke volumes about their connection.
Con cleared his throat, drawing my attention back. The subtle tension in his jaw suggested he was uncomfortable with personal topics. “I was hoping you could verbally brief Lex about the tunnels beneath Ashcroft Castle.”
Ash leaned closer to the screen. “Of course. Though I wasn’t aware of them until Con discovered them while updating the security infrastructure of Thistle Gate, the cottage closest to the shore of Loch Fyne.
” He paused briefly. “At the time, I didn’t believe the tunnels were viable anymore.
” He glanced at Sullivan. “Sully, perhaps you should tell Dr. Sterling what you found.”
She leaned closer to the camera. “Right. Based on records found in the former monastery’s library, there are tunnel systems that connect all three estates—Glenshadow, Blackmoor, and Ashcroft.
They likely date back to the Jacobite rebellion.
” Her fingers absently traced the edge of an antique desk blotter.
“I’m still not convinced they exist in the suggested entirety,” Con added, his shoulder brushing against mine as he adjusted his position. The brief contact sent my pulse racing. “And if they do, like Ash mentioned, their viability is questionable.”
“We discovered the Ashcroft ones were—” Gus began, but stopped when Con shifted in his chair and their eyes met. Interesting.
The dance of half-truths was familiar territory in our line of work, but something about this particular evasion bothered me.
Omissions from people who were supposed to be allies in what could be the most significant threat to humankind we’d faced in years didn’t sit well.
We didn’t have time for territorial games.
“What exactly are you trying to hide?” I asked directly, looking between the faces on the screen and then to Con beside me. My tone carried the edge of someone who’d navigated enough bureaucratic mazes to recognize deflection when I heard it.
Ash cleared his throat and seemed about to speak, his expression shifting to one of reluctant admission, when Con intervened.
“What we’re not saying,” Con admitted, running a hand through his dark hair in a rare display of discomfort, “is that Fallon was the one who found the monastery records at Glenshadow, then shared them with Sullivan.” His voice tensed slightly at the mention of her name.
“And the way we know the tunnels beneath Ashcroft are viable is because that’s where Fallon took Sullivan after abducting her from the library in Ashcroft Castle.
We haven’t explored them enough to know the state they’re in beyond that section. ”
I considered Con’s words silently, mentally mapping the new information against what I already knew.
The MI6 briefing on Tower-Meridian had mentioned Sullivan’s abduction and Fallon’s death, but it didn’t contain additional details about the monastery records or the underground network’s extent.
The idea that three aristocratic estates were connected by hidden tunnels dating back centuries was both fascinating and alarming.
“How long ago were these discoveries made?” I asked.
“Approximately ten days ago,” Ash replied, his gaze steady but guarded. I suspected there were still elements of the story being withheld.
As the call was drawing to a close, an elderly man wandered into frame behind Ash and Sullivan.
“Has anyone seen my book on Scottish architectural history?” he asked, seemingly unaware of the video call.
His tweed jacket and knotted tie spoke of old-world elegance.
“I left it somewhere yesterday, and now, I can’t—” He stopped, noticing us on the screen.
“Oh. Good morning, Angus. Conrad.” His eyes, sharp despite his apparently scattered demeanor, assessed me with unexpected keenness.
Mairi Drummond, Gus’s mother and the head housekeeper at Ashcroft according to the files I’d reviewed, hurried in after him.
There was something protective in her posture as she approached.
“Ambrose, as I told you, Ash and Sullivan asked not to be disturbed,” she scolded with the familiar exasperation of someone who’d had this conversation many times before.
“It’s all right, Mairi,” David interjected with quiet reassurance.
I observed how the woman’s demeanor subtly shifted as she addressed the older man.
She was polite but spoke in the same way one might with a child or a difficult relative—patient but with an underlying tension.
She shook her head and sighed. “The book you’re looking for is in the front sitting room on the side table near the fireplace. ”
“Ah, thank you, Mairi.” He wandered off again, seemingly lost in thought.
After exchanging a few more pleasantries and agreeing to share any new developments, the call ended, leaving the three of us in Con’s operations hub surrounded by the soft hum of advanced technology.
“That was Ambrose Ashcroft,” Gus explained, catching my questioning look. “David’s slightly eccentric uncle. He occasionally lives on the estate.” Something in his tone suggested there was more to it, but he offered nothing further.
The tunnel story continued to turn over in my mind.
However, I couldn’t allow myself to get distracted by historical curiosities.
We needed to follow up on Con’s source claiming Orlov was still alive, determine his connection to the neural processor shipments, and establish whether any of this related to Labyrinth.
The thought that he’d possibly survived the explosion gave me a chill—his neural research had been revolutionary but deeply controversial.
“If there’s nothing else we need to address now, I think I’ll head back to Ashcroft,” Gus announced.
Con stood, rubbing the back of his neck, where tension had clearly built during long hours of work. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow. Zero seven hundred?”
Gus raised a brow. “Let’s make it zero eight hundred since it’s New Year’s Day, ya old taskmaster.” He waved to both of us before departing, the hub’s doors sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss.
I was sure Con had forgotten it was a holiday, given I had too. However, in our line of work, there was no such thing as a day off in the midst of a mission.
Con turned to me, fatigue evident in the lines around his eyes despite his composed expression. In the artificial light of the operations hub, shadows accentuated the angles of his face. “Would you like to tour Blackmoor’s grounds? We could both use some fresh air.”
The invitation surprised me. I’d expected Carnegie to retreat to whatever private space he maintained in this ancestral fortress.
I composed my features, not wanting to reveal my reaction.
Perhaps a walk would clear my mind and help me understand my enigmatic colleague better.
And maybe, just maybe, we could establish enough trust to work together effectively against the looming threat we faced.
That spending time with him unrelated to the mission held more appeal than I cared to admit was hard to acknowledge, even to myself.