the smuggler’s bible


Zvonomir waits in his office until the other relevant parties have arrived and are seated, then gives it five more minutes before making his own entrance. It’s petty, yes, but the delay will save time later. They’d almost certainly become suspicious if he didn’t try some sort of power play.

The meeting is in a simple annex conference room—and decidedly not on the filed itinerary. Three men in crisp black suits are waiting. One, with a sweep of dark grey hair and a grim expression, jumps protocol slightly.

“Tabellarius, thank you for taking this seriously,” he says. “I’m Nor.”