A New India

The morning light barely pierced the heavy curtains in Francois Delacroix's Parisian apartment.

The room was sparse but elegant, the kind of place that didn't draw attention.

A single leather armchair faced a small table where an ashtray sat, half-filled with the remnants of last night's cigarettes.

Francois lit another cigarette, the match flaring briefly before dying in his hand.

His mornings were always like this: quiet, deliberate, calculated.

He didn't rush into the day.

There was no need to.

He operated in shadows, and the shadows waited for him.

The phone on the desk buzzed once, a discreet vibration that barely disturbed the stillness of the room.

He exhaled, smoke curling around him as he reached for it.

It was a secure line, encrypted beyond the reach of curious ears.

"Yes," he said, his voice low and even.

A familiar voice came through, clipped and professional. "The situation in Istanbul has been handled. The courier will not be speaking to anyone."

Francois closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the information. "Good. And the package?"

"Delivered. But there's a complication. Someone else is asking questions Turkish intelligence."

Francois opened his eyes and flicked the ash from his cigarette into the tray. "Are they asking or digging?"

"Digging. Quietly, but they'll find something if we don't act."

"Then make sure they don't," Francois said, his tone sharpening. "If they're digging, fill their shovels with dirt. I trust you know how."

"Understood." The line went dead.

Francois stepped out into the cool Parisian morning, his footsteps silent on the cobblestone streets.

He wasn't a man who dressed ostentatiously; his tailored gray suit was expensive but unremarkable.

A black trench coat hung from his broad shoulders, and a simple hat shaded his face.

In a crowd, he was invisible.

The café on Rue du Bac was small and unassuming, its windows slightly fogged from the heat inside.

Francois walked in and took his usual seat in the corner, where his back was to the wall, and he had a clear view of the door.

The waiter brought him a black coffee without being asked.

Across the room, a man with a thick mustache entered, carrying a leather satchel.

He was visibly nervous, his eyes darting around the café before settling on Francois.

He approached slowly, hesitating before sitting across from him.

"Mr. Delacroix," the man said, his voice trembling slightly.

"Speak," Francois replied, his tone neutral, as he sipped his coffee.

"I… I think there's a leak in Budapest. Someone's been asking about my movements, my contacts. I don't know who, but—"

Francois raised a hand, silencing him.

He leaned forward, his expression calm but cold. "You came here to tell me you don't know who is leaking information? You're wasting my time."

The man swallowed hard, his hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the table. "I can find out. I just need more time."

"Time is not something I give freely," Francois said, his voice soft but menacing.

He took another sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving the man's. "You have three days. If you can't fix this, you'll no longer be my problem. Do you understand?"

The man nodded quickly, his face pale. "I understand."

"Good." Francois leaned back, dismissing him with a slight wave of his hand.

The man hurried out of the café, his satchel clutched tightly to his chest.

Francois watched him go, his expression unreadable.

Traitors and weak links were inevitable in his world.

It wasn't a question of if they would fail but when.

And when they did, Francois made sure their failure served a purpose.

Later that afternoon, Francois sat in a dimly lit office in Berlin, a temporary base of operations.

The room smelled of dust and old paper, the kind of place where deals were made and lives were ended.

A young operative stood before him, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

"We've identified the source of the leak in Budapest," she said. "A low-level courier. He was careless talked to the wrong person at a bar."

Francois sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Carelessness is contagious. If one courier talks, others think they can, too."

"I've already sent someone to deal with him," the operative said quickly. "It won't happen again."

"It never does," Francois replied dryly. "Until it does."

The operative hesitated. "Do you want me to handle his contacts as well? Tie up any loose ends?"

Francois shook his head. "No. Make it look like a robbery. Quiet, clean. We can't afford to draw attention in Budapest right now."

"Yes, sir."

As the operative left, Francois turned to the stack of files on his desk.

Each one represented a thread in the vast web he controlled agents, contacts, informants, all connected by loyalty, fear, or greed.

He didn't care about their motivations as long as they served his purpose.

Later that evening he recieved another phone call.

"Report," Francois said into the receiver, his tone sharp.

"Budapest is under control," the voice on the other end replied. "The courier was neutralized. We used the robbery cover you suggested."

"Good. And his contacts?"

"Still in the wind, but they're being tracked."

Francois didn't react. "Bring them in. Quietly. No public messes."

"Yes, sir."

By late night, Francois was in Vienna.

The city had always been a hub for spies, a crossroads of East and West where deals were made, alliances forged, and betrayals carried out.

He liked it for its utility, not its beauty.

He met his contact in a modest café tucked into a quiet alley.

The man, a nervous accountant who managed money for one of Francois's smaller operations, sat hunched over a cup of coffee.

"Mr. Delacroix," the man said as Francois slid into the chair across from him.

His voice trembled slightly, though he tried to hide it.

"Speak," Francois said, pouring sugar into his coffee without looking up.

"The funds you requested have been moved to the Zurich accounts," the accountant said quickly. "But there's been… unusual interest from local banks. They're asking questions."

Francois stirred his coffee, his hand steady. "What kind of questions?"

"Small ones, but persistent. Transactions flagged for exceeding thresholds. They're not connecting it to you yet, but…"

"But they might," Francois finished, his tone flat.

He took a sip of his coffee, his cold gaze locking on the accountant. "Resolve it. Or I'll resolve you."

The man paled, nodding quickly. "Of course. I'll make it disappear."

"See that you do." Francois stood abruptly, leaving his half-finished coffee behind.

Later, in Berlin, Francois sat in an underground room lit by a single flickering bulb.

Across from him sat a young woman, her face pale but composed.

She was new to the network, recruited for her linguistic skills and her ability to blend into crowds.

But she had made a mistake.

"You gave the courier the wrong package," Francois said, his voice cold as ice. "Do you know what happens when we make mistakes like that?"

The woman swallowed hard. "It won't happen again."

"You're right," Francois said, leaning forward. "Because if it does, there won't be a next time for you."

The woman nodded quickly, her hands trembling slightly.

Francois watched her for a moment, then leaned back in his chair.

He didn't need to say more.

Fear was his most reliable tool, and it worked better than any weapon.

By 4 AM in the morning, Francois was back in Paris, this time in a secluded office on the edge of the city.

A man sat in the corner, his face bruised and swollen, his breathing labored.

Two of Francois's enforcers stood nearby, their knuckles bloodied but their expressions blank.

Francois entered the room, his steps measured.

He took off his coat and draped it over a chair, rolling up his sleeves with deliberate precision.

The man in the corner tried to straighten himself but winced in pain.

"You've been sloppy," Francois said, his voice calm but menacing. "Sloppiness breeds attention. Attention brings risk. And I do not tolerate risk."

The man tried to speak, but his words were slurred.

Francois raised a hand, silencing him.

"I don't care about your excuses," Francois continued. "What I care about is order. Loyalty. Efficiency. You've jeopardized all three."

He turned to one of his enforcers. "Make sure this problem disappears."

The man nodded, grabbing the prisoner by the arm and hauling him to his feet.

Francois watched impassively as they dragged him out of the room.

Back in his car, Francois checked his watch. It was late, but the day wasn't over.

He had one more meeting to attend.

The location was a small, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city.

The person waiting for him inside was one of his most trusted operatives, a middle-aged man named Marco.

"Everything is in place," Marco said as Francois approached. "Vienna, Berlin, Budapest all clean."

"And the new recruits?" Francois asked.

"Trained and ready," Marco replied. "We've tightened security on all fronts. No leaks, no distractions."

Francois nodded, his expression unreadable. "Good. I don't like distractions."

Marco hesitated for a moment, then added, "There's talk about tightening controls in Zurich. Financial oversight is increasing."

"Let them tighten," Francois said with a faint smile. "We'll slip through the cracks as we always do. Zurich is a tool, not a crutch. If it becomes inconvenient, we'll move elsewhere."

Marco smiled faintly, knowing better than to question Francois's confidence.

They had worked together for years, and he knew that Francois was always five steps ahead of anyone trying to catch him.

"Anything else?" Francois asked.

"No, sir," Marco said.