August, 1986

The Palais Brunner had once been a symbol of old-world power. It was an opulent 19th-century estate built for an Austro-Hungarian noble family, its marble columns and gilded ceilings a testament to aristocratic excess. But history had reshaped it. After the war, the Communists seized it, stripped out its former grandeur and repurposed it for state functions and political gatherings. And tonight, for this particular diplomatic event, the old palace had come alive again.

The main ballroom was an elaborate stage for a performance. Beneath the glittering chandeliers, well-dressed diplomats moved in scripted, choreographed unison. Pricey French champagne flowed freely, laughter rang a little too loud, and every interaction was masked in a thin layer of polite insincerity.

Caroline Lundqvist had seen this all before. She was here as a translator for her new boss, the Deputy Head of Mission, Owen Richardson. From her perch near the grand staircase, right behind her boss’ shoulder, she let her gaze drift over the room. She absently sipped from the glass of wine in her hand. Her real assignment was simple: observe, listen, and report.

But then she saw Helena Štěpánová. She blended into the crowd with ease, as if this were her party. Helena was a spiritualist known in elite circles for her special brand of crystal healing and gong thrumming.

Dressed in a deep indigo silk gown, Helena moved through the ballroom like smoke. A gentle touch on a shoulder, a shared glance over the rim of a glass, a light tap against a champagne flute. All were subtle signals that an amateur would not even notice.

Caroline had been trained to watch for patterns, and she guessed that since Helena had not stopped to chat, she was selecting participants for a closed meeting. Caroline’s guess was confirmed when she saw that each person Helena selected had slipped away through the narrow corridor near the library doors, past an unmarked entrance.

She was not invited, but she was going anyway. After a half-hearted shrug to her boss, she followed a sprinkling of guests who were going in the same direction.

The Salon

Unlike the lavishly restored ballroom, the salon was a room forgotten by time. The walls, covered in ornate paneling, seemed to absorb the golden glow of the low chandelier. It cast deep, flickering shadows over the room’s rich green and burgundy upholstery. A grand, unlit fireplace dominated the far wall, its mantel cluttered with half-melted candles, crystal glasses, and old books. The air carried a faint trace of incense, tea, and aged paper. The scent was both intimate and unsettling.

A long mahogany table was in the centre of the room, and seated around it were the real players of the night. Viktor Mikhailov, a Soviet trade envoy with KGB ties, sat with the patience of a man used to waiting for others to budge first. Marie-Claire DuPont, a French arms liaison, lazily tapped her cigarette into a delicate porcelain ashtray, feigning boredom she didn’t feel. Hiroshi Takeda, a Japanese corporate intelligence asset, sat stiffly, as though he wanted no part in whatever was unfolding.

Beside them was Andrew Lancaster, an American intelligence officer buried so deep in cover that even the CIA wouldn’t acknowledge him. He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. And then there was Countess Katarzyna Wilczek, a Polish aristocrat with a taste for both medieval weapons and classified information. She was twirling the stem of her wine glass between two gloved fingers.

Caroline tried her best to blend in with the other curious onlookers. She shouldn’t stay but she couldn’t leave. Sure, they could be the type of people to sit for a tarot reading, but these were political heavy hitters and Caroline wanted to find out what they were up to.

Now, at the head of the table, Helena sat poised and serene. She was caressing a customised Carter-Walsh tarot deck. The cards were new with golden edges. She shuffled and the whispering slide of paper against paper filled the silence.

“The cards are restless tonight,” Helena murmured.

Caroline almost scoffed aloud, but she forced herself to stop. Helena laid the first card.

The Tower: Crisis and Upheaval

The reaction was subtle but immediate. Mikhailov barely moved, but his jaw clenched. Marie-Claire’s cigarette stilled between her fingers. Hiroshi exhaled sharply through his nose.

Helena tilted her head slightly and drew another card. She said, “And following that we have the Eight of Wands. Change is coming. What has been built will not last. And because of this, a highly exalted masculine energy is trying to avoid a disaster. They are sending an urgent message asking for a new beginning.”

Caroline resisted the urge to roll her eyes. But then she saw the way Lancaster’s gaze darkened, how Marie-Claire’s nails tapped once, twice against the table’s surface. Was it an unconscious tell? Or maybe they were reacting to some information.

The Emperor: The Ruler

Helena placed the next card down gently. “The card is showing two strong leaders standing across from one another,” she murmured. “Their choices in this time could reshape the world. Below the deck we have the Page of Pentacles, confirming the message of opportunity, planting seeds for the future.”

She ran her fingertips along the edges of the card deck. Lancaster’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers flexed against the armrest of his chair, a bit too tense. The Tower. A major political shift. The Emperor. Two leaders, facing off. It hit her then, all at once. Caroline had heard of a classified memo about possible diplomatic talks between the United States and the Soviet Union. But it was still a fragile negotiation. A major political player could influence the outcome in their favour if they had the right details.

Caroline’s grip tightened around the stem of her wine glass. Much to her annoyance, she realised that she was still holding it. And then it all made sense. This was a bidding war disguised as a tarot reading. It was in the small things. Mikhailov gave a slow, nearly imperceptible nod. Helena held his gaze for a beat, then flicked her eyes toward Marie-Claire. The Frenchwoman hesitated, then tilted her head slightly.

This was how the game was played. It was subtle, invisible to the onlookers in the room, but absolutely understood by everyone seated at the table. Caroline’s gut told her she was observing the sale of highly classified intelligence, a transaction which was far above her pay grade.

Helena continued, her words encoded in the language of the tarot, but Caroline was reviewing the main message. The Emperor. The Tower. The Eight of Wands. Translation: A deal was closing soon but some part of the negotiation was on the edge of collapse.

Mikhailov made the final move. He was the highest bidder. Or so Caroline thought. Helena hesitated. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she placed one last card on the table.

The Final Card: The Empress

“The Empress. A wild card,” announced Helena. Then she turned her head sharply and looked directly at Caroline. “One bold move to usher in a brighter future.”

Caroline’s mouth went dry. Everyone in the room was staring at her. She felt the floor shifting beneath her feet. She was only an observer. But she understood, with a terrible certainty, that Helena had invited her to be a player.

She lifted her chin slightly and gave the smallest of nods. Helena smiled and then, with a flick of her wrist, swept the cards away, sealing the night’s dealings.

The bidding was over, and tonight’s game had ended. But Caroline had entered a new one.