Chapter 25 - The Faculty House Gala
The Faculty House at Columbia was a masterpiece of neo-Georgian brick and limestone elegance, featuring crystal chandeliers, polished walnut parquet floors, and long banquet tables laden with silver chafing dishes and chilled white wine.
At twelve-fifteen, the hall was packed with two hundred of the university's most distinguished scholars, department chairs, and trustees. At the center head table sat Professor Harrison, wearing his formal academic robes with velvet doctoral stripes, smiling benevolently as he raised a crystal flute of champagne to toast the incoming class of research fellows.
Casey stood three feet away from him on the raised oak dais, her black academic gown feeling like lead armor. Her palms were slick with sweat inside her velvet sleeves. In her left pocket, resting against her thigh, was the brass USB drive Dominic had given her in Hoboken twelve hours ago.
"And now," Harrison’s rich, patrician voice echoed through the vaulted hall via the wireless microphone clipped to his lapel, "it is my distinct personal honor to recognize our most brilliant recent graduate—Dr. Casey Miller—whose groundbreaking work in archaic maritime compliance has set a new standard for our department."
Polite, thunderous applause filled the room. Dozens of smiling faces turned toward her, raising their glasses in silent tribute.
Casey took a slow step forward to the mahogany podium. The built-in touch-screen terminal glowed softly beneath her fingertips, linked directly to the university's central media server and the main projection screen behind her head, which currently displayed a tasteful slide of Philosophy Hall bathed in autumn sunlight.
She looked out across the sea of faces. In the third row, sitting quietly with a leather-bound notebook in his lap, was an old man in a tweed jacket with patched elbows—Alastair Vance. He gave her a single, imperceptible nod.
Do it, his eyes seemed to say.
Casey reached into her pocket, pulled out the brass USB drive, and slid it smoothly into the side port of the podium terminal.
On the massive projection screen behind Harrison, the scenic view of Philosophy Hall instantly vanished. In its place, a wall of scrolling green hexadecimal code began cascading down the white canvas at blinding speed—followed by the scanned, unredacted bank records of the university's secret Swiss accounts, detailing sixty years of illegal arms shipments, asset-seizure kickbacks, and political slush funds.
May you like
The room went dead silent. The applause died mid-beat.
Harrison froze, his champagne flute hovering halfway to his mouth, his face draining of color until he looked like a piece of bleached chalk.
