Paris, France, 16th arrondissent.
An unremarkable white Renault van was parked by the roadside two blocks away from the British Embassy.
The van had "Paris Municipal Works - Sewer Inspection" printed on its side, and a middle-aged man in overalls was casually gnawing on a baguette on a folding chair next to the driver's seat.
The interior of the van presented an entirely different scene.
Three walls were covered with screens, and the sound of keyboards being tapped was as frequent as raindrops. Five technicians, wearing headphones, stared intently at the continuous stream of data.
"Audio Line Three's clarity has improved, and the filter has eliminated the air conditioning noise," a young female technician reported, her na tag reading "Isabella M, Signal Processing Specialist."
The man seated at the very back of the van nodded.
It was Reinhardt!
Damn…
Such a figure was operating in the field.
"The target has entered the conference room." Isabella switched the display, showing infrared images secretly captured through the Embassy's window, with seven or eight people seated around a long table, "The British Ambassador to France, Military Officer, Cultural Attaché, and two unfamiliar faces."
Reinhardt leaned closer to the screen: "Can we get audio?"
"Working on it. They're using an electronic jamr, but it's an old model 'Thunderbird-2,' and we have the decryption protocol," another technician tapped away at the keyboard, "Thirty seconds, connected."
English dialogue emanated from the speakers, echoing but discernible.
"The situation in Scotland is concerning."
It was the Ambassador's voice, "London hopes we raise the issue of 'separatist terrorist threats' at the European Council, but the French attitude is ambiguous."
"Of course they're ambiguous," the MI6 Paris Station Head's tone was sarcastic, "France has its own Corsican and Basque issues, how could they support our heavy-handed suppression? They'd love to see us make fools of ourselves."
The Military Officer interjected, "But intelligence shows the Highland Freedom Army has recently acquired new equipnt. AK-74s, RPGs, these aren't things your average separatist group gets a hold of. There's external interference."
"The Russians?" the Deputy Station Head asked.
"Doesn't fit the Russians' style. They prefer handing over cash and letting the locals buy from the Black Market themselves. This batch of equipnt is too new, too uniform, like a direct allocation from a national armory."
There was a few seconds of silence in the conference room.
The Ambassador spoke up, "xico is the main suspect. They just pulled a stunt in Guatemala, now maybe they're trying to spark a fla on our ho turf. But we need evidence, without evidence, accusing a sovereign state of supporting terrorism in an international forum would make us a laughing stock."
"Evidence will co," the Station Head sneered, "Our people in Scotland have been tracking a Middleman, we may have a breakthrough in the next few days. Once xico's interference is confird—"
"Then what?" the Ambassador interrupted, "Send a fleet to the Gulf of xico? Do we even have a fleet capable of crossing the Atlantic? Or ask the Aricans? They're in no position to help right now."
Another bout of silence.
Reinhardt made a gesture, and Isabella lowered the volu.
"Record it, send it back to headquarters,"
Reinhardt said, "Highlight: the British suspect us but lack evidence; they're attempting to isolate us in the European Council but are hampered; the Scottish operations are partially monitored."
"Should we warn McTavish?" Isabella asked.
"No."
Reinhardt shook his head, "Proceed as planned with the Scottish line. The British monitoring is a good thing—it will make them believe that the 'Highland Freedom Army' is a genuine threat, rather than a baited trap we've designed."
He checked his watch, "It's ti for shift change. Tell Group B to continue monitoring for eight hours, focus on gathering communications from the British and EU embassies. I want to know the stances of Germany, Italy, and Spain."
"Understood."
Reinhardt pushed open the van door, stepping into the fine Parisian winter drizzle. He walked two blocks and took a seat at an outdoor café table, ordering an espresso.
Five minutes later, a man with glasses and a briefcase sat across from him, also ordering coffee.
They looked like strangers who had randomly decided to share a table.
"Vienna's ready," the man with glasses said in a low voice, speaking in Spanish, "The conference venue is booked at the 'Swiss Hall' in the side wing of the Hofburg Palace, under the guise of a 'European Cultural Heritage Symposium.' There are thirty-seven family representatives on the attendee list, but based on our evaluation, truly influential ones number no more than ten."
Reinhardt stirred his coffee, "What about Friedrich von Habsburg-Lorraine's security?"
"He's brought twelve people, officially 'personal assistants.' Six of them have backgrounds in forr Eastern European Special Forces, two are ex-French Foreign Legion, and the remaining four are local Austrian bodyguards, average level."
The glasses man pulled a photo from his briefcase, sliding it over under the pretense of adding sugar, "This is their security chief, Ivan Klaus. Forr Czech Military Intelligence, dismissed in 1993 for unknown reasons. Our contact in Prague is digging into his dirty history."
Reinhardt glanced at the photo: a man with a square face, eyes alert.
He tucked the photo into his pocket, "What about Friedrich's schedule?"
"Arriving in Vienna in three days, staying at the Imperial Hotel. The day before the conference, he'll attend a private banquet at Schönbrunn Palace, hosted by the Austrian Royalist Party 'Black and Yellow Alliance.' That's a pri opportunity, with plenty of tourists at Schönbrunn Palace, security is relatively lax."
"Don't make a move before he arrives in Vienna," Reinhardt said, "Wait until he feels secure and the conference seems set for success, then hit him with a knockout blow."
The man with glasses lowered his voice further, "A Hydra group is already in Vienna, on standby, four n."
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