I’d used him exactly once before—three years ago, when a former MIRI researcher left for a competitor and we suspected he’d taken proprietary data with him. Callum confirmed it within forty-eight hours. The researcher returned everything and signed an NDA with teeth.
This was different, though. This was personal.
I picked up the phone and dialed.
Two rings.
“Aye.”
“Hey cousin.”
“Patrick.” Callum’s voice came through smooth and amused, the Scottish burr polished to a dangerous shine. “Twice in three years? I’m honored.”
“Are you in California?”
“San Francisco. Just flew in from Zurich. Why?”
Relief loosened something in my chest. “I need a favor. The kind you’re good at.”
A pause. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that widow you’ve been seeing, would it?”
I didn’t even blink. Callum made it his business to know things before they were news.
“Her company’s being sabotaged. Hostile takeover. I need to know everything about the man behind it. Every skeleton, every offshore account, every secret he’s ever whispered.”
“Ah.” I could hear the interest sharpening in his voice, like a blade being drawn. “Now that sounds more interesting than patent disputes. Lunch? I’m free today.”
“Name the place.”
“The Cavalier. One o’clock. And Patrick?” His tone shifted slightly, losing the warmth. “This is going to cost you.”
“I know.”
“Not money. A favor. The kind where you don’t ask questions.”
I understood what he was offering—and what he was asking in return. Callum operated in circles where information was currency and debts were paid in kind. If I asked for his help now, eventually he’d ask for mine. And it might not be something I’d want to do.
“I understand.”
“Good. See you at one.”
The line went dead.
I sat back in my chair, staring at the San Francisco skyline through my window. I’d just crossed a line—called in a favor from someone who trafficked in corporate secrets and political connections. The kind of person who made problems disappear through channels that wouldn’t hold up in court.
This isn’t who you are.
The thought came automatically, trained into me by years of scientific ethics. But it rang hollow.
Who was I? A grieving widower trying to build a new life? A father failing his children? A man falling for a woman who was drowning in grief and corporate warfare?
All of the above, apparently.
Rita knocked and entered with a cup of tea—Scottish Breakfast, the way I took it when I was thinking too hard about something.
“Your two o’clock called to reschedule,” she said, setting the cup down. “And you have three messages from Edinburgh.”
“Thank you, Rita.”
