The Third Code

Caspian stepped off the jump platform before the disorientation fully cleared, his boots hitting the polished wood of the Bureau’s Switzerland forward post with a sharp crack. The room smelled of beeswax and old paper, the kind of scent that clung to archives like a second skin. No artillery here. No mud. Just the quiet hum of a kerosene lamp and the faint scratch of a pen from the next room.

Rumo was already there, leaning against a desk with his arms crossed. He didn’t look up from the ledger in his hands. “You’re late.”

“By three minutes.” Caspian checked his wrist. The jump marker read Bern, November 12, 1917, 14:37. No countdown. This mission was open-ended. “Traffic on the tram.”

Rumo’s mouth twitched. “Funny.” He set the ledger down and finally looked at Caspian. “You look like hell.”

Caspian didn’t answer. He was too busy cataloging the room—the single exit, the locked cabinet in the corner, the way Rumo’s scar pulled tight when he frowned. The last time they’d been in a forward post together, a man had died in his arms. This time, the only casualty would be whatever illusion he still had about the Bureau’s operational integrity.

Rumo tossed him a folder. “Cache is in the basement. Bureau document retrieval, nothing fancy. In and out before the archivist gets back from lunch.”

Caspian flipped the folder open. The mission brief was sparse: Retrieve file #47-B from neutral archive, Bern, 1917. Authorization code: 111217-SHAD-891. The same committee identifier he’d seen on the Sarajevo routing code. The same committee that wanted him dead.

He closed the folder. “This is a test.”

Rumo didn’t deny it. “Everything’s a test.”

Caspian exhaled through his nose. “They’re watching how I handle the retrieval. Whether I follow protocol or improvise.”

“Or whether you pocket something you shouldn’t.” Rumo’s gaze flicked to Caspian’s satchel. “You’ve got a habit of that.”

Caspian didn’t react. The leather satchel from Sarajevo was still slung over his shoulder, its weight a familiar comfort. The folded card from Ypres was still in his pocket, its edges worn smooth from handling. The routing code from Verdun was memorized. He didn’t need to steal anything. He just needed to find the third.

The basement stairs creaked under his weight. The air grew colder with each step, the scent of mildew rising from the stone walls. The archive was a single room, shelves lined with leather-bound ledgers and yellowed folders. A single lamp cast long shadows.

File #47-B was exactly where the brief said it would be. Caspian pulled it from the shelf, the paper brittle under his fingers. Inside were administrative records—supply requisitions, personnel transfers, nothing that screamed kill order. He flipped through them anyway, his eyes scanning for the committee’s signature.

There. A routing code at the bottom of a transfer request: 031518-SHAD-227. The same structure. The same committee.

He committed the string to memory, then tucked the file back into place. The retrieval was clean. No improvisation. No deviation.

But the basement had more than one shelf.

Caspian moved to the next row, his fingers brushing the spines of the ledgers. Most were dated 1916, 1917. One was older. The label read 1914–1915 Personnel Transfers. He pulled it free.

The ledger was heavier than it looked. Inside, names were listed in neat columns—operatives, handlers, support staff. Most were crossed out. Some had notes in the margins: KIA, Extracted, Terminated.

And then, halfway down a page, a name he recognized: Strek, Elias. The operative from Ypres. The one who’d given him the folded card.

Caspian’s pulse didn’t spike. It didn’t need to. He’d already calculated the probability of this being a coincidence. It was negligible.

Strek’s entry had a routing code next to it: 061215-SHAD-472. The same code from the card. The same committee.

He turned the page. More names. More codes. And then, at the bottom, a list of six names under the heading Committee Authorization. Four of them were Bureau senior staff. Two were unknown.

Ansel’s name wasn’t there.

Rumo’s name wasn’t there.

That was worse.

Caspian closed the ledger. He didn’t take it. He didn’t need to. The names were already cataloged.

He climbed the stairs, the weight of the discovery pressing against his ribs. Rumo was still at the desk, flipping through a different ledger. He looked up. “Done?”

“Done.” Caspian set the retrieved file on the desk. “Anything else?”

Rumo hesitated. “You hungry?”

Caspian blinked.

Rumo tossed him an apple from his pack. “Swiss food’s better than Belgium. Eat while you can.”

Caspian caught the apple. It was cold and heavy in his palm. He took a bite. The flesh was crisp, the juice sharp. It tasted like nothing he’d eaten in weeks.

Rumo watched him eat. “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t doing this?”

Caspian chewed. Swallowed. “No.”

“Liar.”

Caspian didn’t answer. He finished the apple in three more bites, then tossed the core into the wastebin. “We should go.”

Rumo didn’t move. “You ever wonder why I don’t jump?”

Caspian stilled. “You can’t.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Caspian met his gaze. Rumo’s scar was a pale line in the lamplight, his expression unreadable. “No.”

Rumo exhaled. “I was infantry. Before the Bureau. Did a tour in the Balkans. Saw things I still dream about.” He tapped his temple. “Jumping’s not for everyone. Some of us don’t bounce back.”

Caspian didn’t know what to do with that. Rumo had always been the one with answers. The one who knew the rules. Hearing him admit to something like vulnerability was like watching a cipher unravel.

Rumo stood. “Let’s go. Before the archivist decides to take a shorter lunch.”

Caspian followed him out of the forward post, the cold Swiss air hitting his face like a slap. The street was quiet, the buildings tall and narrow, the kind of place where secrets could hide in plain sight.

Rumo adjusted his satchel. “You ever think about running?”

Caspian didn’t look at him. “Where?”

“Anywhere.”

Caspian checked his wrist. The jump marker was dark. No countdown. No destination. Just the steady pulse of the present. “I have a plan.”

Rumo didn’t ask what it was. He already knew Caspian wouldn’t tell him.

They walked in silence, the weight of the ledger’s revelations settling between them like a third presence.

Back at the Bureau’s intake facility, Caspian’s desk was exactly as he’d left it—neat, sparse, the only personal item a single folded note with the words Project Forty scrawled across it. He sat down, pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, and began writing.

Three routing codes. Six committee names. Four known, two unknown.

Ansel’s absence from the list was a variable he couldn’t solve yet. It could mean she was clean. It could mean she was running the committee through cutouts. It could mean she was the one who’d authorized his termination and was now managing the fallout.

He set the pen down. The math was getting harder. Every jump cost him something—memory, time, a version of his mother he’d never meet again. Every discovery put someone else in the crosshairs. Rumo. Ida. Even Ansel, if she was telling the truth.

His terminal chimed. A new message from the Bureau’s archival division: Retrieval log anomaly detected. File #47-B accessed by unauthorized personnel. Review pending.

Caspian stared at the screen. Someone had flagged his retrieval. Someone who knew what he was looking for.

He deleted the message. Then he pulled out the folded card from Ypres and set it on the desk next to the list of names.

The committee was real. The kill order was real. The cost was real.

And he was still alive.

For now.