Framed by a mysterious glass sphere in a locked study, a disgraced WWII investigator must outsmart his military mentor.
The heavy steel door to Supply Vault 4 groaned open, echoing through the vast space. Colonel Garrick stepped inside, alone, his silhouette stark against the weak light from the corridor. He wore his crisp uniform, his posture ramrod straight.
“Arthur,” Garrick said, his voice calm, almost cordial. “I knew you’d resurface. You always were tenacious.”
Arthur stepped out from behind a stack of crates, the lens pouch held conspicuously in his hand. “Tenacious enough to find out the truth, Thomas.”
Garrick chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Truth is subjective, Arthur. You, of all people, should know that. Especially with your… condition.”
“Helena Krol was Alistair’s sister,” Arthur stated, cutting to the chase. “She knew you murdered him in 1944 to cover your property seizures. She wasn’t just blackmailing you for money; she was after justice for her family.”
Garrick’s smile didn’t falter, but a subtle tension tightened his jaw. “She proved remarkably persistent. Demanded fifty thousand dollars to destroy her ‘duplicates.’ A rather quaint sum for such incriminating material.”
“You killed her because she tried to destroy the financial ledger,” Arthur pressed, his voice steady. “She didn’t want the money. She wanted to burn your records.”
Garrick sighed, a theatrical gesture. “A messy business. But necessary. You see, Arthur, some secrets are better left buried.” He took a step closer. “And you, my unfortunate protégé, were the perfect fall guy. Your history of alcoholism, your combat-trauma blackouts from ’45… it all made for a most plausible legal insanity confession. Nobody would believe a word you said.”
Arthur felt a surge of cold fury. Garrick hadn’t just framed him; he’d weaponized his trauma, his battle for sobriety, turning his deepest weaknesses into the tools of his destruction.
“You knew the military tribunal would seal the records under national security, didn’t you?” Arthur said, his voice hard. “Your real goal wasn’t just to cover up the slush fund; it was to use my supposed insanity to make the entire project vanish, keeping dozens of other high-ranking officers safe.”
Garrick’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his face. “You’re smarter than I gave you credit for, even with your affliction.” He held out his hand. “Now, the film. And then, we can discuss a comfortable, permanent retirement for you. Far away.”
Arthur didn’t move. “I recorded this conversation, Thomas. Every word.” He tapped his chest, revealing a tiny wire unit. “And this isn’t just about me. The microfilm has another track. With forty names. Every officer involved. And their Zurich account numbers.”
Garrick’s composure finally cracked. His face hardened, his eyes blazing with a sudden, lethal rage. “You fool! You’ve ruined everything!”
Before Garrick could take another step, a piercing, automated security lockdown klaxon blared throughout the facility. A tripwire, breached by the night guards outside, had triggered the system.
Heavy steel blast doors, thick and unforgiving, began to drop automatically from the ceiling, their descent thunderous. One slammed down directly between Arthur and Garrick, cutting off the confrontation instantly.
Garrick cursed, hammering his fist against the impenetrable metal. “This isn’t over, Finch!” he roared, his voice muffled by the steel. He vanished into the compound corridor, his escape guaranteed by the very system he trusted.
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