Maya looked at the last line of the text file, which she hadn’t read fully until now. Below the signature—just a single letter, K —was a postscript: I’m in the OANDA London office. Third floor. Server room B. They don’t know I’ve been logging everything. They’ll check the backup logs at 6 a.m. UTC. That’s 90 minutes from now. Don’t send police. Send someone who can move through a financial district without being seen. And Maya—don’t use your real name when you come. She stared at the screen. She’d never told anyone her real name. Not in five years of ghost tracing.
The flash drive had been clean of malware. But it had contained one other thing she hadn’t noticed until now: a hidden partition, 2 MB in size. Inside, a single image file. A photo of herself, taken last week, walking past that same coffee shop. oanda+coinpass+compromised
They weren’t watching the platforms.
She opened a fresh terminal and ran a WHOIS on the IP. Nothing remarkable. Then she cross-referenced it against known OANDA login IPs from her account’s security log. Three matches over the past two weeks. Each one preceded by a Coinpass login from a different IP—but the same ASN. Maya looked at the last line of the
She grabbed her jacket and her lockpicks. The 6 a.m. deadline didn’t leave time to be right. Only time to move. Server room B
Another pause, longer this time. “Where’s the source now?”