10:00 AM - Five Eyes Secure Video Conference

  DNI James Cartwright looked at his screen, where five of the most powerful intelligence directors in the world were preparing drinks like they were settling in for a football game.

  This was his life now.

  "Alright," he said, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism. "Let's establish ground rules."

  "For the drinking game?" Volkov asked, already pouring his second vodka.

  "For the monitoring operation."

  "Which includes a drinking game," Beaumont added, swirling his wine.

  Cartwright gave up. "Fine. Yes. Ground rules for both."

  "I've got a notepad," Rachel Thompson said cheerfully from her office in Ottawa. She was the only one who looked like she was actually working, though Cartwright noticed a bottle of maple whiskey on her desk. "Ready to take notes."

  "Thank you, Rachel. You're the only professional here."

  "I'm drinking too," she admitted. "But I'm taking notes while I do it."

  "That's the Canadian way," Nigel Pierce said, raising his whiskey glass. "Efficient multitasking."

  Sarah Webb leaned into her camera. "Okay, seriously though—what are our intervention protocols? At what point do we actually deploy response teams?"

  "Good question," Cartwright said. "Agent Foster, you're still monitoring?"

  Amanda's voice came through the speaker. "Yes, sir. Perseus is currently in the warehouse. They've secured him to a chair with zip ties. He's sitting quietly."

  "Quietly?" Volkov asked. "Not trying to escape?"

  "No, sir. He looks... curious? Like he's waiting to see what they do next."

  "Of course he is," Nigel muttered. "Two thousand years old and still entertained by amateurs."

  "Intervention protocols," Cartwright repeated, steering them back on track. "I propose we deploy only if: one, Perseus activates the Echelon Protocol; two, the kidnappers attempt actual violence; or three, Perseus signals he needs extraction."

  "Agreed," everyone said.

  "What if they try to hurt him but fail because he's, you know, Perseus?" Beaumont asked.

  "Then we watch," Webb said. "If they shoot him and he doesn't die, they're going to panic. That might be when he needs extraction."

  "You think they have guns?" Rachel asked.

  "Agent Foster?"

  Amanda pulled up her notes. "Preliminary surveillance shows one handgun, poorly maintained. No other weapons visible. These are amateurs in debt, not professional criminals. I don't think they're planning violence."

  "Just terrible life choices," Nigel observed.

  "Exactly."

  "Next question," Volkov said. "The drinking game. We need clear rules or this becomes chaos."

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  "It's already chaos," Webb pointed out.

  "Organized chaos. There's a difference."

  Cartwright pulled up a document and shared his screen. "I've prepared a draft."

  Everyone stared.

  "You made a PowerPoint presentation," Nigel said slowly, "for an international intelligence drinking game."

  "I like organization."

  "James, this is beautiful," Beaumont said, genuinely impressed. "Look at these metrics. 'Points of Advice,' 'Career Counseling Moments,' 'Tactical Recommendations.' You've categorized Perseus's potential responses."

  "I've been tracking his patterns for six months. I know how he operates."

  Rachel was reading the rules. "So, standard drink if he gives basic advice. Two drinks if he gives career counseling. Three drinks if he suggests tactical improvements to their kidnapping technique. And finish your drink if he compliments them on something they did right?"

  "Correct."

  "This is the most professional drinking game I've ever seen," Webb said.

  "Also," Cartwright continued, "we're using the honor system. No one lies about drinking. If Perseus gives advice and you hear it, you drink."

  "What about bathroom breaks?" Volkov asked.

  "You can pause your drinking during bathroom breaks, but you have to catch up when you return."

  "Fair."

  "And food?"

  "Encouraged. This might go on for hours."

  Nigel raised his hand. "Question about the betting pool. We have wagers on when he escapes. What about side bets?"

  "What kind of side bets?"

  "Whether he teaches them a skill. Whether they cry. Whether they ask him for life advice. You know, the interesting stuff."

  Cartwright looked at Webb. "Is this appropriate?"

  "We're already having an international drinking game. I think we're past 'appropriate.'"

  "Fair point. Nigel, set up a spreadsheet for side bets. Keep it clean."

  "Define 'clean.'"

  "No betting on whether anyone dies."

  "Obviously. I was thinking more like: 'Does Perseus recommend books to them?' or 'Do they apologize for kidnapping him?'"

  "That's acceptable."

  Beaumont leaned forward. "I want to bet on whether he helps them write the ransom note."

  Everyone went quiet.

  "Oh my God," Rachel said. "He's absolutely going to help them write the ransom note."

  "Put me down for yes," Volkov said immediately. "100 rubles—no, wait, bragging rights. Put me down for yes with bragging rights."

  "Everyone who thinks he'll help them write the ransom note, say aye," Cartwright said.

  "AYE!" came the chorus.

  "Motion carries. Nigel, add it to the spreadsheet. Now, Amanda, status update?"

  "Sir, they're starting the interrogation. Audio is clear."

  "Put it through to everyone."

  A click, then the sound of the warehouse echoed through five offices across three continents.

  "—your name?"

  "Perseus Jackson." Perseus's voice was calm, almost bored.

  "Your real name."

  "That is my real name."

  "Bullshit. Nobody's named Perseus."

  "My mother was fond of Greek mythology. What can I say?"

  Cartwright watched his fellow directors lean toward their screens. Volkov was grinning. Beaumont had his wine ready. Nigel was taking notes. Rachel had her whiskey but hadn't drunk yet—waiting for the first advice.

  "Smart woman," Webb muttered, doing the same.

  "Who do you work for?" the kidnapper continued.

  "Myself, mostly. I'm between jobs at the moment."

  "You live in Manhattan. Studio apartment. That's expensive. Where does your money come from?"

  "Investments. Savings. Careful financial planning."

  "What kind of investments?"

  "Diversified portfolio. Some stocks, some bonds, real estate. The usual."

  One of the kidnappers—younger voice, nervous—spoke up. "You don't look like you work in finance."

  "I don't. I just happen to be good with money."

  "How good?"

  Perseus paused. Then, carefully: "I've had a lot of time to learn."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means I've been investing for a while."

  "How long is 'a while'?"

  Another pause. Cartwright could practically hear Perseus deciding how much to reveal.

  "Long enough to understand compound interest," Perseus said finally.

  Nigel snorted. "He's dodging. They don't even realize he's dodging."

  "They will," Volkov predicted.

  The lead kidnapper spoke again. "We need you to call someone. Someone who'll pay to get you back. Family, friend, employer. Someone with money."

  "I don't have family. Most of my friends are... scattered. And I told you, I'm between jobs."

  "Everyone has someone."

  "Not everyone."

  There was genuine sadness in Perseus's voice. Brief, quickly hidden, but there.

  Cartwright saw the mood shift among the directors. The levity faded slightly. Even Volkov looked more serious.

  "Four hundred years," Webb said quietly. "Maybe five hundred. That's a lot of people to lose."

  "Everyone he's known from before 1700 is dead," Rachel said softly. "And we keep arresting him."

  "To Perseus," Beaumont said, raising his wine glass. "Who protects humanity and asks nothing in return."

  They drank. Not because of the game, but because it felt right.

  The audio continued.

  Amanda cut in. "Sir, they're about to search him. Should we—"

  "Let it play out," Cartwright said. "Unless he signals otherwise."

  The directors leaned forward, drinks ready, waiting to see what would happen next.

  This was going to be interesting.