France, Paris

Paris, Charles de Gaulle Airport.

The arrivals hall was packed with people. Beta carried a black duffel bag and walked calmly through the bustling space. Flight announcements alternated between French and English over the PA, mingling with the rumble of suitcase wheels and the hurried footsteps of travelers.

His gaze swept quickly across the crowd, never lingering, yet taking in every detail. Locker 16D was just ahead, its gray-blue metal door gleaming coldly beneath the fluorescent lights.

He went straight to it. His treated hand pulled open the locker door, and the hinges gave a faint squeak. Inside lay a crumpled McDonald's wrapper, grease stains spreading pale yellow across the paper bag.

Beta picked up the bag. A BMW key slid into his palm, cold and heavy.

Without a change in expression, he slipped the key into his pocket and surveyed the area again. The security cameras turned lazily. Travelers hurried past with their suitcases, and no one gave him a second glance. The face beneath his baseball cap and sunglasses was his own, but for now, he needed it to become someone else's.

He turned and slipped into the narrow passage between two rows of lockers.

The camel-colored coat had a lead-gray lining, so turning it inside out was like changing into a different jacket. He stuffed the baseball cap into his backpack, revealing short, dyed-black hair. The handle of his duffel bag folded away, and he slung it over his shoulders as a backpack. Then he put on a different pair of sunglasses to hide his eye color.

When he rejoined the crowd, even his gait had changed. His shoulders slumped slightly, his steps loose, like a local who had just gotten off a plane. Ten seconds. The transformation from international traveler to local passerby had taken place in a blind spot of the security cameras.

Beta walked along the wall. Trash cans stood at regular intervals beside the corridor.

Without breaking stride, he deftly opened the key casing, removed the remote's battery, and tossed it into the nearest trash can. Then he applied enough force to snap the key's chip and slid it silently into the next bin. Now all he had left was a bare mechanical key.

The cars in the parking lot stood in neat rows, their paint gleaming with a metallic sheen under the cold white lights.

Beta's gaze swept over each row as he walked steadily, looking just like a local searching for his car. His footsteps echoed faintly through the empty space. After passing a few rows, he spotted a dark-blue BMW parked quietly in a corner, a thin layer of dust on its body. It was the car Charley had given him, obtained under the name Golmingo. Now it was a disposable pawn in his plan.

He went to the car and used the mechanical key to pry off the plastic cover on the driver's door handle. He slid the key into the lock and turned it gently. The door clicked open.

He didn't get in. He simply left the key in the lock. The thieves in Paris were efficient; the car would be gone within a day.

Beta took two steps back and gave one last look at the car that was about to be stolen. It had been a carefully designed smokescreen from the start, meant to throw off any investigation that might follow. The best option was to let it disappear with a little help from some "good Samaritan."

He turned and disappeared into the shadows of the parking lot.

Following the security cameras' blind spots, Beta turned into the restroom at the far end of the parking lot.

He pushed open the door and quickly surveyed the place: an empty wash area, vacant stalls, and only the exhaust fan humming overhead.

He locked himself in the innermost stall and took a transparent sealed case from a hidden compartment in his backpack. With his fingertips, he lifted out a neatly trimmed fake mustache, wiped the area around his lips carefully with an alcohol swab, then pressed it firmly into place.

He stuffed the empty case back into his backpack and popped open another small metal box. Inside were two contact lenses. He held his eyelids open and covered his ice-blue irises with black lenses.

He folded the sunglasses into a dust bag and replaced them with vintage tortoiseshell-framed glasses with clear lenses. Their slightly worn arms held a newly attached gray-white hairpiece in place at his temples.

He took off his coat and packed it into his backpack, the fabric rustling softly. He turned his plain cotton T-shirt inside out, changing it from white to black.

He laid the backpack across the toilet tank and pulled open a concealed zipper. The black outer fabric came away, revealing brown leather underneath.

At last, he raised his right foot and dug his fingernail into the seam of the sole. He peeled away the three layers of molded height-increasing insoles one by one. Then he did the same with his left foot, deliberately leaving one layer in place.

When the stall door opened again, a stooped, scholar-like man emerged, carrying an old brown briefcase and wearing a black T-shirt. His eyes behind the lenses looked tired and dull; he walked with an uneven gait, his temples graying and wrinkles creasing the corners of his eyes.

The exhaust fan kept spinning, swallowing every faint sound of his transformation. Beta stood before the mirror and checked his disguise. There were no flaws.

Beta left the parking lot, his stride blending naturally into the stream of people in the taxi pickup area.

His gaze quickly swept across a line of waiting drivers.

Some were looking down at their phones, some leaned against their car doors and yawned, and others impatiently tapped their steering wheels. At last, he picked out a middle-aged driver lounging against his hood. The man held half an unlit cigarette between his fingers, his uniform shirt collar hanging open and crooked.

"The Avenue des Champs-Élysées, please." Beta lowered his voice, giving his French a hint of a southern accent.

The driver slowly straightened and casually opened the door for him, his movements perfunctory and indifferent.

A faint mixture of tobacco and mint candy lingered inside the car. Only after starting the engine did the driver finally light his cigarette. Gray-white smoke curled through the gap in the window.

The tires bumped lightly over a speed hump as the taxi eased into the airport highway traffic, leaving the steel dome of Charles de Gaulle Airport far behind.

The driver clearly didn't care about the passenger in the back seat. He puffed on his half-smoked cigarette, ash sprinkling onto the front of his wrinkled shirt. He spun the steering wheel roughly between his fingers and occasionally leaned out the window to spit a string of heavily accented curses at the driver in the next lane.

Then a Mercedes cut in front of them. The driver took one last drag, and its glowing cigarette butt traced an arc through the air before landing precisely inside the other car's open window.

As the other driver scrambled in a panic, the taxi driver stomped on the gas. The cab roared under the strain and shot forward just as the traffic light turned red.

In the rearview mirror, the Mercedes driver's furious figure grew smaller and smaller. Only then did the taxi driver turn back, satisfied, and put both hands on the steering wheel.

With smoke-stained fingers, the driver twisted the radio dial. A hoarse song immediately filled the car.

Oblivious to how grating his own gravelly voice was, he sang along at the top of his lungs. His gap-toothed mouth mangled the lyrics. Whenever he reached a high note, the veins in his neck bulged, making him look like a rooster being strangled, yet he kept time blissfully, swaying the steering wheel to the rhythm.

When the tires rolled over a pothole, the driver's off-key notes were jolted into fragments. He only grew more excited, slapping the dashboard so hard that the plastic cover over the meter rattled.