History: "Schrödinger's Algorithm"

 

Schrödinger's Algorithm

The morning in London was cold and gray, like a brief mist covering the buildings, as if someone had pulled down a curtain from the sky to keep some secret hidden. London , in those days, was a city with many secrets.

In a small, intimate, Victorian-style café two blocks from Victoria Station, Marcus Davenport sat quietly at a table by the window. He slowly scrolled on his phone, more as a pastime than reading any real information. The place smelled of freshly ground coffee and freshly baked bread, which had worked up an appetite.

Alexia Stevens arrived punctually to the meeting, dressed in a fitted beige coat and wearing sunglasses she didn't need. She took them off upon entering, as if winking at the world, and approached the table with a smile that mixed irony and a desire to play.

—"Were you expecting me, or were you just pretending to read the news so you wouldn't look like a loner?" — he asked, sitting down without waiting for an invitation.

Marcus looked up with that measured gesture that characterized him so much: a slight arch of his eyebrow and a contained smile that said nothing, but insinuated many things.

—"I'm glad to know that punctuality is still part of your repertoire, Alexia."—

—"And seduction too," — she replied, crossing her legs with deliberate elegance. —"Though I never seem to surprise you." —

—"Because with you, my dear agent, one must always be prepared for the unexpected."—

The waitress approached with the robust clumsiness of someone unaware she was interrupting a heated chess game. Alexia ordered a black coffee. Marcus didn't order anything because his coffee was untouched.

As the wild young woman walked away, he slid an opaque envelope across the table.

—"We're having trouble in Frankfurt, Alexia. The British consulate," — he said, lowering his voice , —"has a certain Jeremy Dalton on its payroll in the telecommunications department. A gray, efficient man, and more ambitious than his position should allow. He disappeared three nights ago." —

Alexia opened the envelope with a graceful sweep of her hands. A grainy photo of Dalton entering a building with the Qryptonix logo stared out at her from the paper.

—"A German quantum encryption company?" — Alexia mentioned as she read the first paragraphs of the report . —"I've heard rumors. People with big ideas and small ethics" — she commented, without looking up from the document.

Davenport nodded slowly as he took a sip of coffee. —"It's a shame he chose the German startup Qryptonix. They don't have the best reputations. Dalton was working with them unofficially. We knew that because we were keeping tabs on him." —

—"And they let him continue? A British consulate official collaborating with a foreign startup in the midst of a technological revolution?" — The agent raised her left eyebrow slightly in question.

—"Sometimes letting the rabbit run in a controlled direction is better than intervening. We wanted to know how far it went. The problem is, we think it went too far."—

Marcus leaned his elbows on the table. The dull light from the window highlighted the fine lines around his eyes. He had slept little. Now the seriousness in his voice cut through the air like a blade.

—"The consulate servers were hacked, Alexia. Two days after Dalton delivered the initial prototype of the algorithm. We know there was a breach we couldn't trace. We suspect the initial encryption was stolen. The algorithm was still in alpha stage, but it's good enough to sell. Or worse, use."—

Alexia slid the photo back into the envelope.

—"And that's why you're sending me to Germany... Fine. I'll arrive then with a smile and a fake title. 'Temporary Communications Technical Assistant.' Nice euphemism." —

—"You're our best option. We need to know if Dalton was a victim or has turned traitor. And of course, we want to recover the prototype before someone uses it against us."—

—"Someone like who? The Russians? Or our old friends from the east who still believe the Cold War isn't over?"—

—"Honestly, we're not ruling anyone out, my dear," Marcus replied firmly. —"But beyond international espionage, this could turn into a diplomatic bombshell. If Berlin finds out we were monitoring our own officials on their soil, there'll be a scandal. Your mission is to solve it without leaving a trace." —

Alexia took a sip of coffee. Her lips glistened slightly, as if the risk excited her.

—"So you want me to go in, smile, play secretary... and hunt down the traitor without anyone seeing me."—

—"Exactly." —

She leaned slightly toward him, just enough so that Marcus could smell her citrusy, expensive, and dangerously enveloping perfume.

—"What if I get bored? Can I cause a minor diplomatic incident just to see each other again?" —

Marcus stared at her for a second too long. He knew he shouldn't. She was an agent, one of the best. She was also a trap with long legs and a sharp brain.

—"Only if absolutely necessary," — he finally replied curtly, although his eyes said otherwise.

She smiled, satisfied. She finished her coffee in one gulp, put on her sunglasses, and stood up.

—"Then see you in Frankfurt, boss. I promise to misbehave only when necessary."—

And without waiting for a reply, he left as he had entered, leaving behind the feeling that something important had just changed, although no one could say exactly what it was.

Marcus stared into his still-full cup, somehow knowing that every mission tested Alexia 's loyalty ... and his own as well.

Alexia stared out the plane window as the clouds slowly dissolved beneath the right wing. The flight to Frankfurt would only last an hour and a half, but her mind wouldn't let up. There was something in the air, thicker than the cabin pressure. Maybe it was the familiar feeling of being on a mission. Maybe it was Marcus .

Years ago, being an MI6 agent had seemed like a privilege. But now, as the years passed, she saw it more as a dangerous concession. A game with uncertain rules where pawns didn't always know they were pawns. Field agents like her were expendable, she knew. She'd seen it. She'd felt it. And sometimes she'd had to execute one or another. And the profession itself had taught her not to fall in love with anything... or anyone. Perhaps with one exception... or one temptation.

She thought of Marcus Davenport . Serious, methodical, correct to the core, but with that way of looking at her that stuck to her like a hot pin. She knew somehow he wanted her. And he knew she knew it. That tension kept them tied to a perfect game that balanced itself without resolution or end, a game that, deep down, they both enjoyed finishing it. But the question was how long they would be able to hold their positions in this delicate and sensitive chess game that their profession proposed to them.

The plane landed with a soft metallic screech. Outside, the Frankfurt weather was a dull sky and Germanic efficiency. Alexia stepped off with a black briefcase and a perfectly rehearsed neutral smile.

She decided she wouldn't waste any time. The walls of the British consulate reeked of politics, well-rehearsed posturing, and... distrust. She was greeted directly by the ambassador, a good-natured, bald, and gentle man named Philip Wallace . He shook her hand with a gesture he'd rehearsed thousands of times and nodded briefly to himself after reading her fake ID.

—"Temporary communications technical assistant, huh?" — she muttered, looking at her badge as if pretending to happily accept the cover story Alexia had presented. After all, there were plenty of Secret Service agents wandering around the building. One more. What difference would it make? She said affably. —"Anyway, we could use some reinforcements. As you know, things have been a bit... complicated since Dalton disappeared." —

—"Indeed, ambassador. I've read the preliminary report. I'll try to come up with solutions," — Alexia replied, her voice professional. —"I hope I can integrate quickly and help." —

Wallace smiled pleasantly— "I'm sure of that. The staff here is extremely efficient."— He pressed a button on the communicator and a secretary in a tight suit appeared instantly.

Wallace spoke with familiarity to the secretary. —"Call Heller in telecommunications. Have him come meet our new expert." —

Minutes later, a tall, thin, pale man appeared in the anteroom. He wore rectangular glasses and his hair was so perfectly combed it looked plastic-coated. He was about forty, maybe younger, but he radiated exhaustion.

—"Richard Heller," — he introduced himself as he shook her hand. —"I... work... used to work with Dalton." —

—"Alexia Stevens. Nice to meet you. Could you show me around, please?" —

He nodded without much enthusiasm. As they walked through the carpeted hallways, she noticed the pressure of silence. There were no photos. No noise in the offices. Just doors, neutral tones, and glances that slid like shadows across the glass. It seemed like a tremendously boring world.

—"This is the telecommunications department," — Heller said , opening a metal door and showing them the offices as they entered. —"This is, or was, Dalton's desk." —

The workstation looked as tidy as an operating room. Nothing stood out. Not a single note was out of place. Too perfect, as was the custom of a good Brit.

—"I'm going to have to review everything. Documentation, system, protocols. You know, to take possession."—

—"Of course. Do you need privacy?" — he asked solicitously. Alexia had a feeling that what Richard Heller wanted most at that moment was to be quiet and run away.

—"I need it, yes. Thank you."—

Heller quickly disappeared without asking any questions. The agent thought the first thing the man would do was have some tea. Or coffee. When he left, Alexia sat down at the desk. She opened the top drawer. Nothing. The second: labeled folders, in obsessive handwriting. One was sticking out slightly. She carefully pulled it out. Among the documents, time and again, a name appeared, sometimes written in the margin: Irina .

Irina this. Irina that. Irina in internal reports, cross-references in printed emails, a loose sheet of paper with a partially crossed-out address. Alexia frowned. It wasn't just a professional contact. The tone was too personal and insistent.

He closed the drawers and turned on the computer. He plugged in his flash drive and saw that the system wasn't reading it. He cursed under his breath, but didn't get impatient. He restarted the computer, entered the BIOS , and enabled USB port reading. He rebooted with the flash drive inserted and checked the user accounts. He saw that Heller had created a user account on Dalton 's computer and made a note of it.

He left Heller 's password untouched and rewrote Dalton 's , replacing it with a twenty-two-character password. He rebooted the computer and finally logged in. The interface was old-fashioned and easy to manipulate. He reinserted the flash drive and began running some utilities, searching for traces Dalton had left behind. Connection sessions with external servers, empty logs—too empty, he saw—and, in one of the temporary folders, a series of files labeled QRY-Irina, QTDelta, and some binary logs that the recovery programs couldn't identify as known files.

After the initial review, he paused his investigation for a moment and leaned back in his chair. Irina. He had to find that woman.

A little later, he wandered around the other offices to meet the staff, asking questions in a friendly voice and with a charming smile. Some spoke naturally, others shrugged. It seemed Dalton wasn't the type to make many friends. He had an air of distance, they said. Professional, but reserved. A few pieces of gossip suggested he would disappear for hours some days, although his card always recorded him coming in and out on time. No one seemed to know anything about this Irina .

The agent thought she should go to the missing Dalton's apartment if she wanted to know more.

Finally, in the server room, a sullen-faced technician with a scruffy beard handed him a cup of coffee.

—"I heard you're taking Dalton's place," — he said, splitting his attention between Alexia and his work screen.  —"My name's Janek. I've been on several projects with him." —

Alexia tried to sound uninterested. —"That's great! And what did you think of her work?" —

—"He's intelligent, but somewhat reckless. I warned him not to mess with Qryptonix."—

Alexia raised her eyebrow. —"Yes?" —

—"That company has no flag. They sell encryption, hardware, and exploits to the highest bidder. Today they're working with a university; tomorrow with a totalitarian regime. I took it with humor, but he knew. I told him: 'Qryptonix is ​​going to eat you alive.' But he just smiled."—

—"Do you think Qryptonix's people could be behind his disappearance?"—

Janek looked at her suspiciously. —"I think Dalton wanted to play a game too big for anyone. And that algorithm... if it still exists... may be worth more than the entire building we're sitting in." —

Alexia didn't respond. Putting all the puzzles together, it seemed Dalton was working on the algorithm, letting everyone know. All he had to do was nod and leave, taking with him the name already etched in indelible ink: Irina .

The hunt had begun.

The silence of the German night was barely disturbed by the faint hum of the city. Alexia Stevens glided like a shadow through the hallway of the apartment building. She was dressed in black, with a light, inconspicuous jacket and a backpack with essentials. Upon arriving at Dalton 's apartment , she bent down in front of the lock, took out the lockpick, and in less than thirty seconds, the door opened with a soft click.

The interior smelled of loneliness. A bachelor pad without sentimental decor. Minimalist, clean, with functional and expensive, but impersonal, furniture. He saw an Italian coffee maker on the stove, a shelf of technical books on corporate espionage and advanced cryptography.

In the living room, a 70-inch TV and a black leather armchair faced a table with a single glass ashtray. In the bedroom, the bed was made, but showed signs of recent use. The only personal touch was an old guitar in the corner, covered in a layer of dust.

Alexia checked every drawer, every corner, every forgotten folder in the closet, but nothing brought her closer to the truth. Until she turned on the laptop on the bedroom desk. The computer had a password, but it was no match for the intrusion software Alexia downloaded from her USB flash drive.

Once inside, the screen lit up his face with blue tones. He scanned emails, temporary files, social media. What he found confirmed his suspicions.

—"Wow, Dalton..." — he murmured, hovering over a series of photos . —"You got sucked in like a schoolboy." —

In several images, a tall, blonde woman with thin lips and icy eyes posed with a provocative expression. She appeared in some encrypted messages, personal emails, even in a hidden folder labeled " financial files ." In each clue, her name hovered above the others: Irina .

He reviewed the message metadata, extracted the IP addresses, and created a folder on his external drive with the collected information. But that wasn't the only thing that caught his attention. Another name appeared in multiple entries: Nik or Nik Adleres . He assumed they were the same.

—"And who the hell are you?" — she muttered intrigued.

He ran an internal search and found several emails exchanged between Dalton and Adleres . All encrypted, but with two clear routes. The same IP addresses were repeated repeatedly. He downloaded everything to his external drive and encrypted the data before sending it to MI6 with an urgent trace request.

He finished searching the apartment without finding anything more than that digital trail, but it was enough to keep him moving forward. He locked everything up as he had found it and disappeared without a trace.

Hours later, back in her own apartment, Alexia slowly undressed, feeling fatigue take hold of her muscles. She stepped under the hot shower, letting it run down her back, washing away the traces of the night. She closed her eyes for a second… and her cell phone began to vibrate.

—"Really?!"— he growled.

She came out soaked, dripping onto the floor, grabbed a towel as she passed, dried herself enough to avoid getting her phone wet, and wrapped herself in a white bathrobe.

—"Stevens, this is me," — he said, answering in a firm voice.

—"We have information."— the MI6 analyst's voice didn't apologize for the time —"Some of the IPs you sent match public locations: cafes, restaurants... but several of the messages were sent from Qryptonix's offices. And all of Adleres's, too."—

—"Does Nik Adleres work there?"—

—"Yes. He's a senior cryptographer. He has access to advanced encryption systems, biometric algorithms, and quantum security protocols. MI6 has been tracking him for several years. And the photo of the woman... it matches Irina Markov."—

Alexia pressed her lips together. The name sounded familiar from the darkest reports.

—"Confirmed?" —

—"100% Stevens. Agent of the Russian SVR. He's been in Berlin under various identities. Based on what you found, everything points to him seducing Dalton and manipulating him to gain access to the algorithm prototype."—

—"And Dalton fell like an idiot..." — she said in a low voice, more to herself than to the analyst.

—"Now you must find Irina, track Adleres. We believe Dalton is still alive. If possible, rescue him. We need to find out if the algorithm was compromised. If it was, Dalton is probably history."— the analyst's voice hesitated for a second. —"Wait. They want to talk to you."—

Alexia took a deep breath, wiped the water still running down her legs, and looked out her bedroom window, where the city was sleeping. "Time to go ghost hunting," she said to herself, with a half smile. She walked over to the coffee machine to pour herself a cup.

A new voice came over the phone— "We don't believe Niklas Adleres is engaged. Not yet." —

She recognized Langford 's voice , one of her direct contacts at MI6 , his tone sounding more tired than confident. The man appeared on her phone screen, his face pale as gray as a sleepless night.

—"And the rest of Qryptonix?"— asked Alexia , who ended up sitting in front of her laptop, with her freshly poured cup of coffee.

—"We do have suspicions there. A couple of names appear in the cross-references with Irina's messages. But Adleres... seems clean."—

Alexia didn't respond immediately. She looked at the cryptographer's photo on her screen. Thirty-two years old. Specialist in biometric coding and information theory. Brilliant academic profile, zero social life, no social media, and a routine as predictable as it was boring.

—"What if he isn't?" — he finally replied.

—"So Dalton is dead. And so are we, politically."—

The woman unceremoniously hung up. Time was running out.

By the next day, the agency had arranged for Adleres to be followed . She headed to Europa Galerie , a shopping center in Saarbrücken . Alexia arrived there and opted for a simple plan: eye contact, a well-timed smile, a casual drop of papers on the stairs. There was no time for anything else.

He waited for the perfect moment: Adleres was distractedly climbing aboard, a technical textbook under his arm. Alexia stepped out with a determined air, a folder tucked under her elbow. The collision was inevitable.

—"Oh! I'm sorry..." — she said, bending down to pick up the papers.

—"No, it was me... I wasn't looking where I was walking."—

Niklas spoke in a low, sharp voice. He wore round glasses and a dark jacket that didn't hide his social awkwardness. When their eyes met, Alexia noticed the spark. A flicker of doubt, of intrigue.

—"Do you work at Qryptonix?" — he asked, as if he was really hesitant.

Niklas blinked. He hesitated.

—"Yes... do we know each other?"—

—"No, but I've read one of his papers. The one on adaptive coding with floating qubits. Brilliant."—

He blushed. —"Nobody reads that..." —

—"I do" — Alexia replied , smiling. A knowing silence hung over her.

After a moment of doubt about her luck, the man proposed— "Shall I buy you a coffee?"—Alexia waited a couple of seconds.

—"I thought you'd never say that."—

She took him to a small café on a side street, a place with closed curtains, designated a “ safe spot ” by MI6 . They ordered two espressos. She watched him stir the sugar with methodical movements. A man trapped in a world of symbols and structures, unable to read other people's.

—"I'm working with a British delegation. We're interested in Qryptonix's developments in quantum algorithms."—

Niklas looked up, alert. —"Is that why you approached me?" —

—"Does it bother you?"—

—"No..."— he hesitated —"It's just that we're not allowed to talk about our progress."—

Alexia tilted her head slightly. —"But you're not like the others. You're the one who created the foundation of the algorithm. The one with the elegant programming." —

He looked at her cautiously. —"Who are you really?" —

Alexia didn't respond immediately. The silence thickened like the aroma of coffee. —"Someone looking for answers. Like you. And time is running out for Dalton. But you already know that. If it's not too late." — Her hand rested gently on the man's arm.

The gesture seemed to crumble Niklas 's defenses , and he swallowed. The man seemed to be living in hell. The minutes passed, and little by little, he began to talk. About Dalton . About the internal tensions. About the suspicions.

—"Dalton and I created the core together. But in the last few months, he's started acting... strange. As if his interests had changed. Or someone had made him change."—

—"Irina?" — Alexia asked , testing the waters.

Niklas nodded slowly. —"I only met her once. Tall, elegant. Cold. She introduced herself as a consultant for the German government, but... something didn't add up. Her math was poor. Then Dalton disappeared. And no one ever saw them again. I've been scared ever since." —

Alexia placed her hands firmly on the table. —"Niklas... if we don't do something, Dalton will talk, and that algorithm will end up in the wrong hands. And believe me... they'll use it." —

He looked down. He hesitated. —"So what do you suggest?" —

—"Trust me. Or the British government. If only for today." —

Niklas 's eyes met hers. There was a great deal of fear and distrust, but also something deeper. A shared urgency. He knew that if Dalton didn't speak, he would be next.

—"I don't trust anyone," — he said finally, —"but I need help." —

—"So you're with us. With me."—

The waitress cleared the cups without interrupting. Alexia knew the first step had been taken. Now came the hard part: surviving the rest.

—"The algorithm code is in Frankfurt," Niklas said , his voice tense . "In a biometric safe deposit box at Weissfeld Bank. It can only be opened with my fingerprint... or Dalton's." —

Alexia was silent for a second. There was no surprise on her face, only determination. —"Then let's go after him." —

The bank vault was a fortress. To get in with Niklas , Alexia used fake diplomatic credentials. She had the backing of two MI6 support agents stationed in the bank's entrance hall.

Everything was clean, fast, and cold. When the biometric hatch opened, a hiss of sealed pressure confirmed that the algorithm was still there: a solid-state hard drive inside a tungsten-alloy armored case. Niklas held it with trembling hands.

—"This... in the wrong hands..."— he muttered.

Alexia stared at him. "We don't know how much Dalton told them. That's why we have to stop them."

After leaving the bank, Alexia and Niklas walked through a soft drizzle that covered Frankfurt .

They stopped in front of his apartment. For the first time in days, Alexia let her guard down.

—“Thank you for trusting me, Niklas.” —

—“It wasn’t easy.” —

—"I know." —

As she turned to leave, he gently took her arm, his gesture firm, without violence.

— “Be careful, Alexia,” — he said, with an intensity that made her stop. His eyes shone with something more than fear. — “This isn’t just a mission anymore.” —

She looked at him with a mixture of surprise and recognition. She said nothing. She approached slowly, bringing her fingers up to his face to caress his cheek with her fingertips.

—“It never is...”— the MI6 agent murmured .

Niklas pulled her toward him for a kiss. It wasn't a long, passionate kiss. It was a suspended moment, as if time had broken and, for once, allowed them to simply be two people in the midst of chaos.

She slowly pulled away, still looking at him. Then she left without looking back. He stood in the doorway, knowing something had started, even though he couldn't continue.

Tracking Irina wasn't difficult for MI6 , which had deployed several agents to track her down. They eventually spotted her in a black Mercedes entering a suburb on the outskirts of Berlin . Alexia , alerted by MI6 , made her way to the surveillance van.

—"That neighborhood... is a Cold War graveyard," — an agent told Alexia , looking at the abandoned buildings . —"The Stasi trained here." —

—"Exactly," Alexia replied . "The Schatten." —

—"Who?" —

—"A cell of ex-Stasi agents. Some were KGB. They reinvented themselves as traffickers of gold, weapons, and secrets. Irina never worked for Russia. She works for them... and whoever pays the most."—

—"And Dalton?"—

—"We'll find out soon enough. Dalton was always a big question mark," —  he said evenly.

The operation was swift. Three MI6 agents dropped down from the back of the building while Alexia and another team entered through the main door. The apartment was on the third floor, B. It had a reinforced door. They heard only silence. Alexia raised her fist. One of the agents placed a small charge of plastic explosive. The explosion was sharp.

—"MI6! Get down!" —  an agent shouted, bursting in with his gun out in front of him.

Two gunmen responded from inside. A fierce exchange of gunfire erupted: bullets whizzing by, wood splintering, smoke in the air. One of the guards fell instantly. The second tried to flee, but Alexia brought him down with a clean shot to the leg.

—"Clear!" —

They entered panting. In one of the side rooms, with the door barely ajar, a hellish scene awaited them. Dalton .

Strapped to a metal bed, with tubes sticking out of his arms, his eyes were half-open and dull. He looked dehydrated and drugged.

—"We've got him! Get an ambulance urgently!" — Alexia shouted into the communicator.

An officer watched him take off his Hood — "God!" — he stammered — "He's alive..." —

Alexia took his pulse. Weak, but present. The man mumbled almost unintelligibly. —"Irina?" — He was trembling.

Alexia looked out the window. A dark vehicle was moving away through the narrow streets. —"It was gone... by seconds." —

He didn't escape by long.

Hours later, Irina was located in an old building in East Berlin , an abandoned Soviet-era complex. The agents fanned out. Alexia entered one of the hallways alone.

Footsteps echoed in the seemingly empty hallway.

Without saying a word, Irina stepped out from between the columns, a silver pistol in her hand.

—"Your mistake"— Alexia said to herself.

The exchange was brutal. Between the shots, Irina moved with the precision of a dancer and the ferocity of an assassin. Alexia , agile and lethal, responded with suppressed rage. Irina fell after a precise shot to the shoulder.

—"Who do you work for now? China? India? Qatar?" — Alexia spat, pointing at him.

Alexia wordlessly subdued her as the rest of the officers began to arrive. The struggle had lasted less than a minute.

Niklas was waiting outside the hospital. Night was falling with a light drizzle over Berlin , turning the city lights into liquid reflections.

When he saw her approaching, he felt a pressure in his chest that was neither fear nor relief, but something harder to codify.

—“Dalton will survive” — Alexia said , unceremoniously . — “The algorithm is safe. For now.” —

He nodded, unsure of what to say. She, too, seemed to be searching for the right words in a language they both understood.

—“And you?” —he asked —“You’re leaving now, aren’t you?”—

—“I always leave, Niklas. That’s what I do.”—

—“And do you ever stay for someone?”—

She looked at him for a moment. And just for that moment, she lowered all her defenses.

—“Only once. But that was before I understood the price you pay for staying.” —

He took a step toward her. There was no kiss. Just a touch of hands. An electric current impossible to ignore.

Alexia took out a small black card and put it in her pocket.

—“When you decode this, you’ll understand why I can’t stay.”—

—“A clue?”—

—“More like a confession. In my own way.”—

Then he turned around and disappeared into the shadows of the city.

Niklas stood in the rain. He didn't stop her. He just took out the card, turned it over in his fingers, and, for the first time in a long time, smiled.

END

Tags:

#ActionStory
#Espionage
#InternationalThriller
#SecretAgent
#AlexiaStevens
#MI6
#DarkBerlin
#Cryptography
#Stasi
#ModernFiction
#ContemporaryStory
#RodriacCopen