The letterbox clacked, and the paper hit the hallway floor with a soft thud. Berle rushed, bent down and snatched up the evening paper. The corner was stamped “RUSHED” in bright red ink.

“The Royal Family Saved, Tod on the Loose, Berle: Topic of Confusion.” read the headline. Berle gave a deep sigh and continued reading the article. He barely made it past the first sentence. 

A loud knock filled his small Liverpool home. Berle froze, his heart skipping a beat. He regained focus by the second round of knocking. 

He opened the door and was face to face with a Royal Guard. He showed no emotion, dressed from head to toe in his Royal Golden garments. A harsh contrast to the simple residence.

“Her Majesty the Queen requests that you meet her tomorrow morning at nine in the Buckingham Palace,” said the guard. “Do not delay.”

His eyes fell right back in the article.

All over England the search for Tod was top priority, Berle’s house was no exception. Just 20 meters away two guards hid in the trees with their eyes fixed on his house through heavy metal binoculars. 

At 10:03 the guard clicked his radio button, “a tall man covered in black is approaching the door.”

“Don’t move until I say,” said his commander, “we are listening through the bug.”

A low voice played on the speaker in the SIS headquarters. It sat in the center of a large conference table, surrounded by England's top intelligence team.

“We don’t have much time” said the voice, everyone around the table leaned in. “My name is Daucel, Tod sent me here. He must meet with you tonight, it’s a matter of life and death.”

“I knew this would happen,” said Berle, taking a deep breath. “It’s life or death for me as well.” The speaker went silent.

It was then that the commander’s radio played “He's handing a stack of cash” 

“He took the money”

The speaker played again, “Daucel, before you leave let me give you a note for Tod, I’m afraid tonight's meeting may not happen”.

Berle hurried to the kitchen, grabbed a fountain pen and wrote a few short lines on a piece of paper. He rolled it up and gave it to Daucel.

Daucel disappeared into the darkness.

The letter read:

Dear Tod,

In case our meeting doesn’t happen tonight I want you to know the following:

The issue with the bridge was not the length nor the weight of the train. Your bridge was never going to last from the day you started sketching it. A million hours more of studying the blueprints, wouldn’t bring you an inch closer to a strong structure.

You are the deepest warper of my heritage. 

Berle.