The café was hidden down a narrow lane off West 31st. It had no signboard, only a small brass plate on the door and the scent of warm cardamom bread spilling out through the seams of its old wood frame. I arrived fifteen minutes early. I could not help it. My nerves had been sharpened all morning, wound tight from the moment the encrypted message confirmed the meeting time. Eleanor Chen had given no explanation, only a date, a location, and one line: You’ll want to hear this in person.

I ...