Charlotte, my Charlotte: I loved your surprises.

I was her way in, of course. It wasn't just her--she convinced me of the need for her infiltration, and I promised her over fine wine in discrete clubs that I could get her there. And if I believed her when she smiled at me and took my hand and kissed me on the cheek, I still believed her when she said that what I was doing would save millions.

So I pulled strings. I bribed guards. I told her how to bypass our security protocols. All perfectly discretely. She had more supporters than she knew on the duty roster that night, all of them more than willing to look the other way. And when I told her it was all done, she kissed me farewell and said that perhaps we'd meet again one day.

That night they flew me out of town and I watched the news from my hotel room. They reported on the murder--police tape everywhere, statements from government officials refusing to identify the victim. And they showed her picture, smiling and innocent. There was no talk of politics or causes. No talk of the lives she'd saved.

Then they showed footage of her being dragged into the police car. The next morning I flew back home. I was there as they transferred her to a higher security facility, among the cameramen and journalists. I shouted her name but she looked right past me, like I was just another faceless bureaucrat. Perhaps I was. Or perhaps she just wanted to protect me.

No letters or secret messages. Not even a glance. The prosecutors talked to me but decided that I knew nothing. And at her trial she never looked at me once, but she seemed to be smiling, just slightly. At least one of us thinks it was all worthwhile.

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