Caroline crouched low beneath the large mahogany desk, breath held as Martin’s aide-de-camp opened the office door. She could hear the soft rustle of papers as he approached the desk, unaware of her presence. The plan had been simple: get in, gather information, and get out without being seen. But the aide’s sudden appearance had complicated things.

Her gloved fingers were steady as she reached into the pocket of her blazer and pulled out a syringe. Reaching up, she jabbed the needle into the aide’s leg and depressed the plunger. The muscle relaxant took hold almost immediately, and he slumped to the floor in a daze. Caroline dragged his limp body to a nearby armchair and propped him up. Then, with a practiced hand, she loosened his necktie and swilled some vodka from a nearby bottle into his mouth. She splashed some onto his shirt. He looked like he had passed out drunk. The scene was set.

Caroline quickly surveyed the corridor: no sign of Martin. She slipped back to the desk, her heart racing. She knew she had to move fast. In the next few seconds, she picked up the phone, and dialled the Deputy Head of Mission’s home number. If he answered, she knew she was safe.

The phone rang twice before it was picked up. A woman’s voice answered on the other end. It was his wife.

“Krueger residence,” the woman said with a hint of disinterest.

Caroline’s voice came through, calm and composed, as if this were a mundane work call. “Mrs. Krueger, Caroline Lundqvist, cultural attaché calling from the Embassy of the United States. Is Martin there?”

There was a brief pause before a muffled conversation, followed by Martin’s voice on the line. Caroline was relieved, but Martin immediately launched into a pompous tirade.

“Caroline? You can’t call me at home like this!” His voice was harsh, scolding, as if reprimanding a child. “You should know better by now.”

Caroline’s lips twitched in a near-smile as she placed the receiver on the desk. She was operating a small camera she had fished out of her pocket. She adjusted it to capture pages from a notebook she had found in Martin’s desk drawer. The pages were filled with coded transactions—names, dates, figures. It looked like a ledger. She guessed she was looking at damning evidence of money laundering and covert deals. The names alone told her that the information could implicate a glittery roster of European public officials and business people.

“I wanted to confirm something about our meeting tonight, Martin,” she replied, her tone balanced and unfazed. “I thought …”

He scoffed. “We are in the middle of something. And my aide knows my schedule. You’re interrupting me and my children.”

Caroline carefully captured another set of pages, trusting that a cryptologist would make sense of them later. Martin, of course, had no clue that she was collecting intel inside his own office.

“I wasn’t trying to disrupt your evening,” Caroline said, her voice dripping with sweet innocence. “I couldn’t raise your aide on the phone. Maybe he’s out drinking?”

His tone shifted, but only slightly. The condescension was still heavy. “Caroline, you can’t call me at home!”

Caroline’s chuckled silently as she explored the desk drawer, in case there was more to find. “I understand completely. You mean I shouldn’t call when your wife is at home, right?”

There it was. The unspoken truth that hung in the air. Martin fell silent, as though the words had cut through him. He was trapped, unwilling to confront the reality of his own infidelity, and too cowardly to address the truth. Catherine had called his bluff.

“Let’s please be professional, alright?” Martin’s voice, though still dripping with superiority, faltered slightly. “I’ll see you later this evening. But… don’t do this again. It’s unacceptable.”

She shrugged casually and, with her fingers, firmly pressed down on the bottom of the drawer. A thin layer of wood popped upwards. “Yes, Martin,” she replied smoothly. Then she hung up the phone with a soft click.

From the hidden compartment she retrieved a stack of Polaroids. The images appeared to be the Deputy Head of Mission posing in bed with the wife of Czechoslovakia’s First Minister. Caroline assumed this spontaneous photo session was meant to ‘keep the spark alive.’ Martin’s face was contorted in an absurd mix of pleasure and hubris. The affair was dismissed as dinner party gossip, but these photos were proof.

Caroline tucked them into the pocket of her blazer. She thought about the kind of punishment Martin deserved. Cheating on your married mistress with a younger mistress was peak bullshit. He could lecture her all he liked, but she had what she needed to take him down.

She gave one last glance to the aide slumped on the chair. He was still out cold, thanks to her quick thinking. She left the office of the Deputy Head of Mission as quietly as she had entered. And as she stepped into the corridor, she could already feel her anxiety dissipate. Martin’s secrets were hers now, and he had no idea what was coming.