At Hogwarts, the story begins with deconstructing Avada Kedavra.

Chapter 108 Picking Up the Girl at the Airport

Washington, D.C., State Department Building, third floor, east wing.

At 4:17 a.m., the corridor of the State Council’s European Affairs Office was brightly lit.

Deputy Secretary of State Robert Zoellick sat in his office piled high with papers, his tie loosely draped around his neck and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

On the table in front of him were at least six memos from different departments, each stamped with a red "TOP SECRET" seal on its header.

He was on the phone.

"No, George, I understand your concerns."

But the president's order was clear: full cooperation.

On the other end of the phone was the Deputy Secretary of Defense, a hawk who had spent twenty years at the Pentagon.

Even through the telephone line, you could feel the gritted teeth and resentment in his voice.

"Robert, how am I supposed to cooperate? We don't even know his full name!"

They have no nationality, no records, and no verifiable identity information.

The CIA searched for 72 hours and found nothing.

Now you're telling me to hand over the nation's most core military industrial capacity and top scientists to this ghost?

"I'm telling you it's the president's order."

66

Zoellick rubbed his temples. "Project Prometheus has been signed, and Professor Feynman has arrived in Detroit."

The screening process for the "squirt" is underway. The only problem now is that the person is arriving in the US mainland today, and we need to ensure that the reception is handled flawlessly.

"Hospitality duties?"

A cold laugh came from the other end of the phone. "Robert, his request is to conduct the Squib selection in the auditoriums of major universities across the United States. Do you know what that means?"

This means we need to expose the existence of the Prometheus Project in public places.

Any Soviet spy who walked onto the campus of Harvard or Stanford could see what we were doing.

66

Zoellick remained silent for a moment.

This is indeed a tricky problem.

Lucian was very clear about Feynman's proposal over the phone: he wanted to conduct a large-scale open screening on university campuses.

The reason is simple: the duds are scattered all over the United States, and concentrating them in one place would not only be inefficient, but would also cause unnecessary panic.

However, the Pentagon and the CIA rejected the plan almost immediately.

The reason is equally simple: safety.

To openly conduct any activity related to Project Prometheus on a university campus would be tantamount to exposing the entire project to the Soviet intelligence network.

Everyone here knows how powerful the KGB's infiltration capabilities are in the United States.

The final compromise was to transport all the initially shortlisted candidates to the Red River plant in Detroit for closed-door testing and screening.

This plan is impeccable in terms of administrative efficiency.

But Zoellick knew that it went against Lucien's original demands.

"George, we've made a decision. The security level at the Red River factory is sufficient to ensure that information will not be leaked, and candidates are already arriving one after another."

"Does that person know we changed the plan?"

Zoellick's fingers paused on the table for a second.

"Professor Feynman has already informed him of the revised arrangements over the phone."

What did he say?

"He didn't say anything."

There was another silence on the other end of the phone.

A supernatural power user who says nothing is more unsettling than someone who gets furious.

"Robert, let me reiterate my position."

66

The Deputy Minister of Defense lowered his voice, "We cannot let someone of unknown origin lead us by the nose."

Whatever he did in Berlin, whatever technology he acquired, the United States of America will not relinquish its sovereignty to any individual.

The president signed the Prometheus Plan, but the power to implement it is in our hands, not his.

"I see.

6

"Then make sure the reception team understands this."

Respectful attitude is important, but proper posture is essential.

He is a partner, not a savior.

We conduct technical exchanges on an equal footing, not by kneeling and begging for handouts.

After hanging up the phone, Zoellick sat alone in his office for a long time.

He pulled a bottle of whiskey from the drawer, poured himself a two-finger-high amount, and downed it in one gulp.

The spicy liquid burned his throat, and he grimaced.

"The foundation of equality." He repeated the word with a wry smile.

A person who can destroy thirty mechs in thirty seconds, a person who can single-handedly restore transatlantic communications, a person whose background even the CIA cannot uncover—talking about "equality" with such a person is like an ant saying to a child, "Let's sit down and have a proper talk."

But he understands the Pentagon's position.

Fear can cause people to react in two ways: either to surrender completely or to desperately defend their last shred of dignity.

Americans chose the latter.

Zoellick picked up another document from the table. It was today's reception plan.

Lucian will fly from West Berlin to Detroit aboard a C-20B executive plane provided by the U.S. Air Force.

The plane is scheduled to land on the military runway at Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport at 2 p.m. today.

The reception team consisted of the State Department Protocol Office, a Department of Defense liaison officer, and two CIA observers.

The event was of a high standard, but deliberately no officials at the ministerial level or above were invited to attend.

This is the Pentagon's insistence; we can't let him think we're too eager.

Zoellick signed the last page of the document and then pressed the intercom on the table.

"Let Thompson in."

Three seconds later, a lean young man in a dark gray suit pushed open the door and walked in.

David Thompson, a 29-year-old third secretary in the Protocol Division of the State Department, is a graduate of Georgetown University's School of Foreign Service and has been with the State Department for three years.

The highest-ranking person he ever received in his career was Iceland's Deputy Foreign Minister.

He has now been appointed as Lucian's "chief liaison officer".

It's not because he's experienced enough; quite the opposite, it's because he's inexperienced enough.

The Pentagon was unwilling to send any important figures to "welcome" a teenager of unknown origin, as that would seem too grand.

When Thompson walked into the office, he had an expression on his face that showed he was trying to remain calm, but his eyes were full of tension.

"Mr. Deputy Secretary of State."

"Sit down, David." Zoellick gestured to the chair opposite him. "Have you looked at the reception plan?"

"I've seen it, sir. Two o'clock in the afternoon, Wayne County Airport military runway."

I and Lieutenant Colonel Gray from the Ministry of Defense led a team to pick them up at the airport, and then escorted them to the Red River Factory by convoy.

6"

Did the other party make any special requests?

"No, sir. At least not in Professor Feynman's message." Thompson paused, "but—"

"But what?"

Thompson hesitated for a moment, as if carefully choosing his words.

"Sir, I would like to confirm something."

The other party requested that the screening take place in university auditoriums, but we ultimately arranged it at the Honghe factory. Did they have any objections to this?

Zoellick glanced at him.

Professor Feynman said that after hearing the proposed changes, the other party only said one sentence: "Do as you please."

Thompson frowned slightly.

"Sir, if I may be so bold, the phrase 'whatever you want' is usually not a good omen in a diplomatic context."

Zoellick remained silent for a few seconds.

"I know. But it's the Pentagon's decision, not mine."

Your task is to ensure the reception runs smoothly and avoid any unforeseen complications.

Do you understand?

"Understood, sir."

Thompson stood up, but stopped at the door.

"Sir, one last question."

"explain."

"Who exactly is this person we've picked up?"

I read all the briefings I could get my hands on, and they contained nothing but a name and a vague description of "possessing supernatural abilities."

I don't even know what he looks like.

66

Zoellick picked up his whiskey glass and found it was empty.

"David," he put the empty glass back on the table, "if I knew who he was, I wouldn't have just sent a third secretary to pick him up at the airport."

"Go ahead. Good luck."

Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport, military zone.

1:30 PM.

Thompson stood at the edge of the tarmac, his coat collar turned up, his hands in his pockets, and stamping his feet incessantly.

The runway was deserted, with several gray-painted C-130 transport planes parked next to the hangar in the distance.

There were three people standing next to him.

Lieutenant Colonel Gray, the Department of Defense liaison officer, and two observers from the CIA.

A man and a woman, dressed in ordinary casual clothes, but their posture and the way they constantly scanned their surroundings betrayed their professional identities.

There were also two black Chevrolet Suburban armored SUVs, their engines still running, exhaust fumes rising into white mist in the cold air.

"Lieutenant Colonel Gray," Thompson rubbed his fingers together, "have you seen this man before?"

"I've seen it." Gray's reply was brief.

"What kind of person is he?"

Gray paused for a few seconds. "When he walked into my command post, none of the thirty-seven fully armed soldiers present were able to fire a single bullet."

Thompson swallowed hard.

"You mean—he has some kind of bulletproof ability?"

"I mean, he disassembled all of our guns into parts in a second."

Thompson opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He decided not to ask any more questions.

1:45.

The aircraft slowed down at the end of the runway and then slowly taxied to the designated parking position.

Thompson straightened his tie, took a deep breath, and led his small team toward the plane.

The gangway is lowered from the side of the fuselage.

Two Air Force crew members in flight uniforms disembarked.

Their expressions looked pleasant.

The pilot was still chatting with the co-pilot when he chuckled.

Thompson went up to him and showed his identification.

"Good afternoon, I am David Thompson from the Protocol Department of the State Department."

Where are our guests?

The pilot paused for a moment, a look of confusion on his face.

"guest?"

"Yes, Mr. Lucian, a passenger who boarded in West Berlin."

The pilot and co-pilot exchanged a glance.

"Uh—Mr. Thompson, this flight is not carrying any passengers."

Our mission order was to ferry aircraft empty from Ramstein Air Force Base to Detroit.

66

Thompson's smile froze on his face.

"Idle? That's impossible."

Our orders are:

He turned to look at Lieutenant Colonel Gray. Gray's expression had changed.

Gray rushed up the gangway in three quick steps.

Thompson followed closely behind.

The interior of the C-20B's cabin was modified to the standard layout of an executive jet:

The front cabin features four face-to-face leather seats with folding tables and individual reading lights; the rear cabin is a small conference room.

Every seat was empty.

The bathroom door was open, but no one was inside.

In the conference room, on the table lay a neatly folded copy of The Washington Post and a cup of untouched coffee, still warm.

But there was no trace of any living person inside the entire plane.

There was no luggage, no coat, and no evidence that a single passenger had ever been there.

Gray stood in the center of the cabin, slowly circled around, and then muttered a single word: "Damn."

He strode back to the cabin door and looked down at the bewildered crew members on the tarmac.

"Captain, did anyone board this plane before you took off from Ramstein?"

The pilot shook his head: "No, Lieutenant Colonel."

I swear, from the time of boarding check to takeoff, there were only four of us in the cabin.

Our task list states that the aircraft is being shunted empty; there is no passenger list or special cargo.

Who issued your task orders?

6"

"The dispatch center at Ramstein Air Base."

The procedure was standard and there were no abnormalities.

A vein throbbed in Gray's temple.

He turned to Thompson, his voice barely audible: "Contact Washington. Now."

66

Thompson was already covered in cold sweat.

With trembling hands, he pulled the encrypted satellite phone from the inside pocket of his coat and pressed the preset emergency channel.

Those few seconds before the signal was connected were the longest few seconds of his 29 years of life.

Countless possibilities raced through his mind:

Did the other party never board the plane? Did they jump off en route? Were they intercepted by the Soviets?

Or

From the beginning, did the other party not intend to take this plane?

If someone can disassemble 37 guns in a second and destroy 30 mechs with a single radar, would they really need an airplane to travel from Europe to America?

This thought completely soaked Thompson's back.

The operator on the other end of the phone was still going through a lengthy identity verification process.

"Codename 'Watchman-Seven', please confirm your 66."

"This is Thompson! Third Secretary! Wayne County Airport!"

He practically yelled, "The target isn't on the plane! Repeat, the target isn't on the plane! The plane is empty! There's no record of any crew boarding! I need to speak with the Deputy Secretary of State immediately." "Put the phone away, Mr. Thompson."

A voice came from directly behind him.

Thompson froze instantly. He was absolutely certain that there was no one within three meters behind him before he turned around.

He was a diplomat with professional security training. Even if he wasn't a secret agent, he was alert enough to sense if someone was approaching from behind.

But that voice seemed to appear out of thin air.

Thompson slowly turned around, and on the concrete ground of the tarmac, a young man in a black trench coat was standing less than two meters away from him.

He just stood there, as if he had always been there.

The cold wind blew the hem of his trench coat, the black fabric fluttering against the gray-white airport background.

He looked so young, too young for his age, that Thompson would almost have thought he was just a lost middle schooler.

The four well-trained security personnel seemed to be pulled by invisible threads at that moment.

Lucian tilted his head slightly.

"C-20B, the military version of the Gulfstream III."

The range is 6,800 kilometers, and the cruising speed is Mach 0.77.

The flight from Ramstein to Detroit takes about nine hours.

"I don't have nine hours to waste."

Thompson opened his mouth.

His education at the Foreign Affairs College taught him that at this moment he should say something like, "Welcome to the United States" or "On behalf of the State Department, I extend my warmest greetings to you."

But his mouth seemed disconnected from his brain, and what finally came out of his throat was a sentence that was not in any diplomatic etiquette manual: "You—how did you get here?"

"Walk," Lucian said.

Thompson blinked.

"From—from West Berlin?"

Lucian did not answer the question.

"Professor Feynman told me that you changed the screening location from the university campus to the factory."

Thompson's heart clenched suddenly.

It was a kind of indifference that said, "I already expected you would do this."

In that instant, Thompson suddenly understood the true meaning of Deputy Secretary of State Zoellick's words: "If I knew who he was, I wouldn't have just sent a third secretary to pick him up at the airport."

He wasn't belittling Thompson.

He was saying that it makes no difference whoever is sent to this person.

Thompson took a deep breath, forcing his brain to get back to work.

He is a diplomat.

A diplomat's duty is to remain calm and composed in all circumstances.

Even if the person standing in front of you is a supernatural being who can appear out of thin air on the tarmac.

"Mr. Lucian,"

"The adjustment of the screening locations is due to security considerations."

The Honghe factory is currently under the highest security level, which can ensure that…

I understand your considerations.

Lucian interrupted him, his tone still calm, "University campuses are too open, making it easy to expose plans. Centralizing them in factories makes it easier to control personnel and information."

At the same time, bringing me to your territory makes it easier for your intelligence agencies to observe me up close.

His gaze shifted slightly, sweeping over the two CIA observers who were pretending to be nonchalant.

"Is it right?

Thompson didn't speak. He didn't need to. Lucian's words had already laid bare everyone's true colors.

Lieutenant Colonel Gray stepped forward.

"Mr. Lucien, whatever your dissatisfaction with the arrangements..."

"I have no complaints."

Lucian interrupted him again.

"Your high-ranking officials need to maintain their self-esteem and prove to the politicians and generals at home that they are not groveling before a teenager."

I understand.

When he said this, a very faint smile even appeared on the corner of his mouth.

"But I want to remind you of something."

66

Lucien's smile faded, and his voice lowered slightly.

"From a security perspective, it is indeed convenient for you to concentrate seventy-eight duds in one location."

But from another perspective, you have also put seventy-eight high-value goals into one basket.

66

"If Voldemort's Death Eaters want to wipe them out in one fell swoop, you've just saved him the trouble of searching the whole world for them."

6

The cold wind howled across the tarmac.

Thompson felt his blood freeze for a moment.

He turned to look at Gray, whose expression had also changed.

These are rare talents with magical perception abilities, selected from across the United States. They are all gathered in a factory outside Detroit.

"If the enemy finds out this information," Gray said, referring to the security at the Red River Factory.

"Your security can't stop Apparitions, Imperius, and Dementors."

You can't even detect the Death Eaters approaching.

Lucian looked at the ashen-faced Americans and remained silent for two seconds.

Then he took a step forward.

"So instead of standing here discussing your security vulnerabilities, why don't you take me to the factory now?"

66

"I need to complete all the screening before the Death Eaters arrive."

Thompson wanted to ask, "Are you sure the Death Eaters will come?", but he swallowed the words back.

Because he suddenly realized that someone who could appear directly at Detroit Airport from West Berlin without using any transportation...

If the Death Eaters are going to come, then they definitely will come.

"Please come with me, sir."

Thompson turned around and walked toward the two black SUVs.

He walked much faster than when he arrived.