“The Zürich Memorandum”
The encrypted USB burned in my pocket like a live coal. “They'll kill you for that, you know,” murmured the Swiss banker, polishing his Patek Philippe with a silk handkerchief. Outside, the Bahnhofstrasse hummed with oblivious luxury. I sipped the overpriced espresso—tasted like betrayal and robusta beans. His smile didn't reach his glacier-blue eyes. “The 1973 oil embargo was just the prototype.” The elevator dinged. Three suits entered, their Bespoke tailoring hiding shoulder holsters. I dropped the saucer. Glass shattered. Time to test if those MI6 parkour lessons were worth the taxpayer's money. The banker sighed. “Americans. So dramatic.”