Chapter Seventeen: The Art of Vanishing
The moment the encrypted message from Lucia arrived, Theo smirked, his fingers drumming lazily against the laptop's frame. The cool glow of the screen flickered across his face as he opened the message, his sharp eyes scanning the contents. His smirk deepened when he saw the name she'd chosen for him.
Lucian Wesset.
A quiet chuckle escaped him. He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head, the ghost of amusement dancing in his expression.
"Really, Lucia?"
It had her style written all over it—practical, elegant, but with just enough personal flair to amuse him. He could picture her now, lips quirked in that infuriatingly smug way, knowing full well that he'd roll his eyes at her choice.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he exhaled sharply, shaking off the thought. Maybe he'd get her a gift when this was over. Something small but meaningful—perhaps a rare bottle of that absurdly expensive French wine she adored.
Still smirking, he rolled his shoulders and turned his focus to the real task at hand.
---
Inside the safehouse—an unregistered flat tucked away in an industrial district of Florence—Theo moved with meticulous precision. The dim overhead light flickered slightly, casting sharp-edged shadows as he laid out his tools on the worn wooden table.
His expression was calm, but his movements were methodical, deliberate. No wasted motions. No room for error.
Spread before him were the essentials:
Three burner phones, each preloaded with anonymous SIM cards. One would be used only once—for a final message before it, too, disappeared.
A modified laptop, stripped of unnecessary software, running a ghost OS with no persistent storage. Every traceable action would be erased the moment he powered it down.
A backpack, packed with precision:
A change of clothes—neutral, forgettable.
A stack of untraceable cash in multiple currencies—euros, dollars, and Serbian dinars.
Two passports—one real, one forged.
Theo reached for the second passport, running his thumb over the embossed seal.
Lucian Wesset. Austrian national.
His lips twitched, but the smirk faded as his mind sharpened. A fake identity wasn't enough. He had to erase himself entirely.
---
Seated before his laptop, Theo cracked his knuckles and powered it up. The glow of the screen reflected in his eyes—cool, unreadable.
Lucia's script executed flawlessly, lines of code scrolling in a rapid cascade. A digital symphony of deception.
It wouldn't erase him outright. That would set off too many alarms. Instead, it wove a carefully curated lie:
His Italian residence now showed that he had departed for Thailand three days ago.
His bank transactions recorded a withdrawal in Hong Kong.
His last known phone signal pinged somewhere off the coast of Greece.
It was a web of disinformation, each thread designed to mislead, to confound.
Theo watched the execution unfold, fingers steepled against his lips. The room was silent, save for the soft hum of the laptop.
"Damn, Lucia. You really are something."
His pulse remained steady, but there was a quiet satisfaction in his gaze. It was almost… poetic.
Then, a thought surfaced—one last layer of misdirection.
His fingers flew over the keyboard, opening an encrypted chat.
Theo: Dmitry, I need some noise. Make it loud, make it messy, but nothing too obvious. Just a little misdirection. I owe you one.
A few seconds later, a reply blinked onto the screen.
Dmitry: Ah, Theo, you finally ask for my help. I'm touched. Consider it done. And I'll take my payment in vodka.
Theo rolled his eyes, a flicker of amusement breaking his composure.
Theo: You drink enough to kill a horse. Just get it done.
A laughing emoji popped up. Then:
Dmitry: Check the news in a few hours. Spasibo, my friend.
Dmitry's "noise" would be unpredictable—perhaps a cyber attack on a minor government system, a financial anomaly, maybe even a controlled information leak. Nothing traceable to Theo, but enough to muddle the waters further.
Satisfied, Theo wiped the laptop's drive. The screen flickered, then went dark.
His fingers lingered on the lid before he closed it with a quiet click.
One last deep breath.
Everything was in place.
Now, he just had to vanish.
---
Theo changed out of his usual attire, shedding his sharp, tailored presence for something unremarkable—a gray hoodie, worn jeans, and a simple cap.
In the mirror, his reflection shifted as he adjusted his posture—shoulders slightly hunched, gaze lowered. A man trying not to be noticed.
He slipped on rimless glasses, subtly altering the shape of his face.
The transformation was subtle, but to the casual observer, Theo Moretti no longer existed.
When he stepped outside, he was nobody.
---
He didn't go directly to Serbia. That would be reckless.
Instead, he walked several blocks to a dimly lit café, where a pre-arranged ride waited.
A black Opel Astra idled at the curb.
The driver, a Serbian fixer named Kovač, barely spared him a glance as Theo slid into the backseat.
"No names," Kovač muttered.
Theo grinned. "What if I call you Handsome?"
Kovač's only response was a deadpan stare in the rearview mirror.
Theo chuckled. "Fine, fine. No names."
---
Their first stop was an abandoned truck yard on the outskirts of Florence.
Inside one of the rusting shipping containers was a hidden compartment—a temporary hideout. No windows. No signals.
Theo spent the next six hours in darkness.
No phone. No internet. No traceable footprint.
By the time they reached Venice, he had already disappeared from Florence.
---
Venice was a misdirect.
Authorities would expect him to flee via private jet or an international flight.
So he did the opposite.
Using the forged documents, he checked into a small, nondescript guesthouse near the canals. The system registered Lucian Wesset as an Austrian national.
That night, Theo triggered a small cyberattack on the hotel's database. Nothing catastrophic—just enough to corrupt recent check-in logs.
By morning, any trace of Lucian Wesset had been wiped.
But he was still there.
Waiting.
---
From Venice, a private car took him toward Slovenia.
Every border crossing was flawless—a quiet exchange of cash, a nod, a wave-through.
Slovenia.
Hungary.
Romania.
Each stop, he changed something. His clothes. His posture. The way he walked.
By the time he entered Serbia, he was no longer Lucian Wesset.
He was someone else entirely.
---
Belgrade.
Rain drummed against the pavement, neon lights shimmering in puddles, the hum of traffic blending with distant laughter.
Theo walked through the city like a shadow, his movements fluid, effortless.
His final safehouse was a rented apartment—under yet another alias.
No digital records. No paper trail.
Powering on a burner phone, he typed a single encrypted message to Vincenzo.
"I'm in. The job begins now."
Then, without hesitation, he snapped the SIM card between his fingers and strolled to the edge of the Danube River.
The fragments fell into the water.
No traces. No mistakes.
The heist was about to begin.