The Bjorn Identity
Chapter 1
The alarm died mid-chirp under Justine Leclerc's precise tap.
5:00 AM.
She allowed herself three seconds of stillness before sliding from between sheets she’d put on fresh the night before, lavender-scented and still crisp with starch, a little treat she’d already moved past to spend precisely five minutes in the shower, four to dress in the charcoal suit laid out the night before, and three for makeup, just enough to appear professional but not enough to stand out in Paris. The young woman who looked back at her from the mirror, dark hair cut in a practical bob, eyes the colour of winter steel, radiated an almost painful intensity that, more than once, had driven people away before they ever got too close.
That would not do. Not today. Justine closed her eyes and took a minute to breathe in and out, to think of nothing but her breathing. The intensity was still there when she opened her eyes on the last exhale, but only she knew that. The world would see a young woman, a professional, one of many in the great city.
The coffee machine hissed quietly in the kitchen, steam rising behind her as Justine pressed her thumb to the biometric scanner hidden in the closet wall. The false back clicked open, revealing a matte-black safe embedded in concrete. A SIG Sauer disappeared beneath her black jacket, its weight in the shoulder harness familiar against her ribs. Cleared for field carry as of today, her first as a full-status operative. No more training wheels. No more senior agent oversight.
She permitted herself the ghost of a smile.
Outside the kitchen window, Le Blanc-Mesnil sprawled in shades of grey, flat rooftops, shuttered shops, the tired geometry of a place that never tried to be beautiful. Morning light barely warmed the edges of it. She sipped her coffee, bitter and black. She’d lived here since graduation. And soon, probably, she’d leave. Move closer to the centre and step into the life she’d spent years reaching for.
Nonetheless, she had grown up in this concrete mess. Among the shopkeepers, the shift workers, the women in worn headscarves, their hands lined from years of piecework in the off-the-books clothing factory two streets over. A part of her ached, quietly, knowing that when she left, she wouldn’t be able to take any of this with her.
Her apartment was tiny, barely room to move unless the secondhand furniture was arranged with precise mathematical care. A battered bookshelf she’d scavenged off the street during her student days stood crooked in one corner, forever pitching forward despite the dog-eared romance paperback wedged under its front leg. The shelves held a modest library of literary classics in three languages. Three oversized ferns clustered near the kitchen window, thriving despite the weak light. She was quietly proud of them. Nothing betrayed her chosen profession besides the hidden gun locker, not even the reinforced door and the triple dead-lock system. Most of her neighbours had the same sort of security.
Standing at the narrow kitchen counter, she ate quickly, finishing the second half of last night’s baguette with a scrape of butter and a spoonful of jam. It was dry but still edible. There were no perishables in her small refrigerator. She could now be on a flight to Bangkok or Damascus or, God help her, New Zealand before lunchtime. She rinsed her mug, left it upside down in the sink, and slipped on her coat. Peering through the window one last time, Justine traced the two familiar routes to the RER station, mentally mapping alternatives. There weren’t many. She checked her watch. Pulled out her ID card and glanced at her credentials one last time.
Justine Leclerc. Agent de terrain, Station de Paris. Classe A.
Justine locked her door with three separate keys, then descended all five flights rather than risk the temperamental elevator. At street level, she performed the instinctive scan that had become a deep body reflex, checking parked cars, loitering figures, and windows with a view. The morning air carried a hint of diesel fumes and yesterday's rain. She lengthened her stride. She was a few minutes ahead of schedule. Today was not a day for tardiness.
The RER station at Le Blanc-Mesnil greeted her with its usual charm: graffiti overlaying peeling municipal paint, the sharp ammoniac scent of urine in the corners, and a homeless man curled against his possessions. She maintained an appropriate distance without obvious avoidance. The platform quickly filled with the morning’s commuters, office workers, cleaning staff, and students. Justine registered each face. Those she did not know, she remembered for the future, taking sight pictures of each. The heavyset man in blue coveralls, the teenage girl in a uniform from a school two arrondissements over, a young guy with earbuds and no rhythm, pacing just slightly offbeat with the crowd. The train arrived four minutes late. Her jaw tightened.
Justine wedged herself into the standing space between a man whose powerful cologne could not quite compensate for his even more powerful body odour and a woman who made a fortress of her shopping bags on the floor. Everyone pressed closer at each stop. Châtelet-Les Halles brought the inevitable announcement of a delay due to a "technical incident." The automated voice supplied no timeline. Ten people now occupied space designed for six. A businessman's elbow dug into her ribs. A teenager's backpack hovered millimetres from her face.
The claustrophobia would have triggered some people's anxiety. Justine used it as an exercise. She categorised her fellow passengers by threat level. The construction worker had calloused hands and powerful arms, but his eyes were unfocused and fatigued. Low risk. That businessman with the expensive watch, but scuffed shoes, checking his phone constantly, always with his left hand. In a different context, she’d mark him as a possible carrier, low confidence. But he was an unlikely combatant here, shoulders hunched, attention locked on the screen, no spatial awareness. Her gaze lingered. Who was he texting? A partner? A lover? Maybe a fight resolved with a few terse words. The thought brushed her like static, unwelcome and unnecessary. Next to him, an elderly woman, facial structure suggesting North African heritage, hands gnarled with arthritis, shopping bag containing bread and what appeared to be medication. Non-threat.
Twelve minutes behind schedule, the train lurched into Les Halles. Justine pried herself free from the crush, breath shallow, skin damp where strangers had pressed too close. She took the concrete stairs two at a time, passing shuttered storefronts and stale air, chasing the sting of daylight above. Annoyed. But also gratified. She’d called the delay, planned for it, and beaten the system by minutes.
This was no ordinary day after all.
Justine quickened her pace along Rue des Francs Bourgeois. The discomfort of the commute receded against her anticipation of the day's promise. She checked her watch. Still a few minutes early. And only three blocks to the unremarkable limestone building that housed Paris Station.
She rechecked the time, though nothing had changed. Despite the delay, she’d arrive precisely on schedule. As always. And yet, something buzzed beneath her calm for the first time in months. A flicker of something she couldn't quite name.
Ash Durham balanced a cappuccino in one hand and a chocolate croissant in the other as he navigated the waking Marais. Delivery vans disgorged their cargo to cafés preparing for the day. Shopkeepers arranged displays beneath facades that had stood since Napoleon III's renovation of the city. The morning light touched the stonework with a softness he never quite got used to. He loved this place, the way it loved itself without shame. He passed a woman sweeping her doorway, and a young couple sharing an umbrella even though it wasn’t raining. He didn’t wonder why. Their closeness gave him a little noogie, right under the ribs, and he loved that too.
Ash hadn’t meant to wake up this early. Again. But jet lag was a monster, and there was no punching through it after a long haul from Auckland. Not that he minded. He’d picked his apartment for this walk, at this hour. The all-you-can-feel buffet of it. Coffee scenting the air, the wild philosophical argument between two florists arranging a sidewalk display, and even the taxi driver who cursed him for stepping out into traffic without looking.
Ash grinned. “Good on you, mate,” he called out, raising his cup in salute.
Five years with the Agency had cured him of any childlike wonder at waking up somewhere new, but not the thrill of landing somewhere far, far away from where you began and just letting it gather you up in a big, messy hug of colour and chaos and the shock of the new. He'd seen twenty-three countries during his training and internship, but Paris remained special, maybe because the first time he’d been here, he’d seen the All Blacks give Les Bleus an absolute hiding at the Stade de France in Saint-Denis.
He crossed Rue des Filles du Calvaire near the National Archives, just as the sun burst free from behind a cloud. The light caught him full in the face and for a second—just a second—it was Raglan Beach at dawn. That West Coast shimmer sliding across the Tasman, the hush before the first perfect wave. Before uni. Before recruitment and all of… this.
He took a long pull on his double-shot cap and looked around, grinning like a tourist. Made it. His first morning as a full field operative. It deserved nothing less than Caffè Stern’s finest. The cup warmed his hand as he turned onto Rue des Francs Bourgeois. The baristas had stopped complimenting his French months ago. No one clocked his accent anymore, at least not in French. Or Spanish. Or Italian.
His German was still a bit dodgy, though.
And his Mandarin? Well, luckily, he hadn’t been posted to Echelon South or East.
He resumed his stroll towards Paris Station, maintaining his situational awareness without interrupting his enjoyment of the morning. The delivery van that looped by a second time? Legit—driver was clearly lost, judging by the map tapped on the dash next to a blank GPS unit and all the swearing. The businessman stepping out of the boutique hotel, glancing at his watch, then pivoting hard away from the security camera? Yeah. The old dog was having an affair, Ash would bet a big wedge of the folding stuff on it. The ring-twisting gave him away.
The last few bites of the croissant flaked against his lips, and he stopped to check his reflection in the shop window. Wouldn’t do to front up to Mister Rowland with a faceful of chocolate. Of course, the pastry wasn’t nearly as good as Farioli’s in Auckland, but it was better than a seagull’s breakfast, wasn’t it? A drink of water and a look around.
He’d had plenty of those on his training runs.
Ash checked his watch. Sweet. Right on the knocker. Mr Rowland was a big fan of punctuality. And today, Mr Rowland was gonna assign Ash Durham his first solo op.
The Agency building appeared at the corner. Not much to look at, not from the outside, anyway. He brushed a few invisible crumbs from his freshly pressed suit. Off the rack, sadly. Apprentice spook pay wasn’t exactly flash. Still, he was due a tasty little bump to his foldables this week, and it was time to clock on for his first day as a grown-up spy.
As he approached the building's entrance, a familiar figure materialised from the opposite direction, shoulders squared, expression composed to the point of defiance.
“Ah shit. Perfect timing”, he thought without pleasure.
Justine spotted him from across the street. The languid stride. The enormous bucket of terrible coffee. The self-satisfied smile, as if the whole world existed purely for his amusement. Her jaw tightened.
"Durham." She managed to compress five years of grinding contention into those two syllables.
“Clarky,” he grinned, because that’s what idiots did when they couldn’t think of anything better to do.
They reached the revolving door at the same time. There was a beat of hesitation—too long to be accidental, too short to be polite—before Durham made an exaggerated after-you gesture. Justine swept past him with glacial reserve and stepped into the compartment. He followed too quickly, and they ended up in the same segment.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she muttered in heavily accented English, as her shoulder brushed his chest.
She could speak with a polished, mid-Atlantic anonymity when needed, but experience had taught her that most Anglos wilted completely under the blowtorch of un accent rive gauche and a military-grade Gallic sneer.
“Jeez, mate, you could’ve at least bought me dinner first.”
“If you spill that coffee on me, you will enter this Agency castratum,” she said, not turning her head.
They emerged on the other side, with Durham all but tripping over his own feet to maintain separation. The front desk, staffed by Agency personnel disguised as building management, processed them quickly: credentials, biometrics, and a weapons check.
“How was the train this morning?” Durham asked, his voice hitting that narrow band just shy of a taunt. She knew the Agency had put him up in one of their apartments in the Marais.
The security guard interrupted before she could think of a suitably scathing reply.
"Conference Room Three."
Justine frowned. “And?”
"Conference Three,” the man repeated, this time adding. “Together," he said, not looking up from his terminal.
They did not exchange wary glances or make any further enquiries. Until this morning, they hadn’t exchanged a single word since graduating from the orientation program—top of their year, neck-and-neck with a shared score of 98.5.
The elevator ascended silently, broken only by Durham tapping his security badge against his thigh. Seven taps in, her glare cut the beat short.
“Don’t hate me because I got rhythm, Clarky.”
She didn't answer. Most of what came out of his mouth was not worth responding to. The elevator doors opened to reveal the secure uppermost floor of Paris Station: polished concrete floors, recessed lighting that cast no shadows, and climate control that maintained a perfect 21 degrees regardless of the weather outside.
They found two identical folders lying on a polished table in Conference Room Three. Two chairs sat side by side. Justine moved hers two feet to the left. Durham mirrored her, sliding his in the opposite direction. They sat, now six feet apart, and opened their folders without a word.
The title page contained a single word: BJORN.
The door opened before either could comment. Both agents rose automatically.
It wasn't Walter Rowland.
Durham shot upright so fast his chair screeched back and bumped the wall. He coughed, adjusted his jacket, and gave the chair a filthy look, as if it had made a scene.
Justine didn’t move because she couldn’t. Her spine had locked up somewhere around “not Walter Rowland.”
She was pretty sure her pulse had just stopped.
The door swung open, and Samantha McAvoy entered like a combat algorithm wrapped in a power suit. Not a strand of hair out of place, not a hint of warmth in her expression. She looked like the answer to a question you didn’t dare ask. Everything about her—eyes sharp, posture unyielding, hands perfectly still—radiated control so precise it felt like a threat. Her heels made almost no sound on the floor, and her presence arrived like a cold front. Beside Justine, Durham stiffened. She felt it, even six feet away, a ripple of tension that jumped the gap between them.
Justine didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
"Agents," McAvoy said without preamble, setting her own folder on the table. "Sit."
They complied, after which Justine didn’t move a muscle. Durham, on the other hand, shed his usual slouch like it had betrayed him. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted. He swallowed twice, as if his throat had forgotten how, the first time.
“Mister Rowland won’t be joining us this morning. He’s been held up in London.”
Justine couldn’t place McAvoy's American accent, and she wondered if Durham could.
"The contents of your briefing folders are incomplete. Intentionally so." McAvoy studied them with diamond-cutter focus. "The full parameters will be disclosed en route."
"En route, where, Madame?” Justine asked.
McAvoy's thin smile contained zero warmth. "The Orient Express. You're booked on tonight's departure from Gare de l'Est. Paris to Istanbul. Nine days, six countries, one target."
Durham leaned forward. “I’m sorry, ma’am—are we being sent on two assignments?”
“I’m not convinced you’re capable of pulling off one,” McAvoy said flatly.
Justine felt the smirk bloom before she could stop it. McAvoy’s gaze snapped to her. “Something funny, Ms Leclerc?”
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
“Non, Madame!”
"Good,” McAvoy said. “Because there’s nothing funny about this. We’ve already detected chatter that six competitor agencies are placing assets on that train, and we have no idea why beyond a few snippets of signals intelligence indicating that they are all searching for someone called Bjorn. Your mission will be to locate Bjorn and secure him or her, I suppose, for the Agency. Any question?”
“No ma’am.”
“Non, Madame.”
Durham adjusted the edge of the file in front of him. Then again. Then, he lined up the corner with the groove in the table. His thumb found the corner of the folder and began working it back and forth, softening it into a curl that hadn’t been there when they sat down.
“Don’t play with your food,” Samantha McAvoy said. She didn’t seem to be joking, but Justine couldn’t tell. Her hard-earned facility with the English language, with every language she had mastered, including her own, had deserted her.
“There's nothing in that file about Bjorn,” McAvoy continued. “Just details of the trip and some of the hostiles you will likely come up against. I understand you were part of the same intake. Is that correct?”
“Yeah, I mean yes ma’am,” Durham said, sounding like he was choking on his tongue.
“Oui Madame,” Jusinte replied so quietly she wasn’t sure McAvoy heard her.
“And you both topped your class. Good. I need a couple of agents who know each other as well as you do. You'll be travelling as newlyweds."
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was dense and compressed.
It contained multitudes.
“Your honeymoon suite's been booked." McAvoy's eyes narrowed with precision cruelty. "Try to get some work done. Don't waste my travel budget fucking each other from here to Constantinople. I want to know who this Bjorn is before your train leaves the station. I want to know why everybody's after him. And I want to bathe in a luxurious salt bath of their fucking tears when you deliver him to me. Understood?”
They stared at each other across the conference table, five years of rivalry swept aside by a single, unifying emotion: horror.
"Newlyweds?” Durham finally said, testing the word like a suspicious package.
“This is a mistake,” Justine said flatly, her voice sharp as snapped wire.
“I don’t make mistakes,” Samantha McAvoy said. “And if you want a future in this agency, you won’t either.”
She let that sit for a beat.
“This is your first day as field agents. The job is simple: find someone and bring them to me.”
Her gaze cut between them.
“The evaluations say you’re the best. I want to believe them. But sitting here now, looking at you both, I’ve got a sick feeling I’m wrong.”
A pause. Just long enough to chill the air even further.
“That would be my first mistake.”
She leaned in slightly.
“It will be your last.”
Durham turned to Justine. “Hey, honey,” he said, voice all sunshine and desperation.
Justine’s glare could’ve frozen the Seine.
McAvoy didn’t miss a beat. She leaned forward, eyes locked on Justine.
“Work on your goo-goo eyes, Leclerc. You look like the shittiest newlywed I’ve ever seen. And I binge-watch Bridezillas.”