Chapter 9 - Outside the System

Lea found Simon in the stairwell the next morning.

Not the lift lobby.

The stairwell.

That was enough to make him stop.

She was standing one floor below his, holding a coffee she had clearly brought from home.

“You wanted to know what happened with Marek.”

Simon waited.

“He was flagged by Security.”

“For what?”

“A cumulative exfiltration alert. Repeated exports, large queries. Endpoint DLP events tied to local processing.”

“Patient data?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know or you can’t tell me?”

“I don’t know.”

She looked up the stairs, then back at him.

“His access was restricted. Security opened a review. HR got involved. Then he was gone.”

“When?”

“The review started before Anna Weber died.”

Simon felt something shift.

“How long before?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

“Weeks?”

“Simon.”

“Before or after the January rollout?”

“After.”

“That matters.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Because you weren’t part of the review.”

“I was responsible for the rollout.”

“You were responsible for the rollout. Not for Marek.”

There it was again.

A boundary.

Data belonged to one team, decisions to another, people somewhere outside the diagram.

“What did he export?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

“Could it have been the subgroup analysis?”

“Yes.”

“Could it have been evidence?”

Lea looked at him.

“Could have been stolen data.”

Simon said nothing.

“If he exported data, that doesn’t make what he has true,” she said. “It could make it unusable. It could make him the problem.”

“Or it could mean he thought the record wasn’t safe.”

“That’s the sentence I was warning you about.”

“What did he say?”

“When?”

“Before he left.”

Lea looked down at the cup in her hand.

“He said he wanted something outside the system.”

Simon waited.

“That’s all.”

“Outside the system.”

“Yes.”

“Did you ask what?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because by then I had learned that knowing less was sometimes a professional skill.”

“Do you believe that?”

“No.”

It was the first answer she gave without hesitation.

Simon looked at her.

“Thank you.”

Lea looked at him as if deciding whether she had already said too much.

“I know,” Simon said.

She walked upstairs.

Simon stayed where he was.

Something outside the system.

It could mean a copy.

It could mean evidence.

It could mean Marek had taken data he had no right to take and was now building a story around it.

The timing mattered.

If Security had flagged him before Anna died, then whatever he had been doing had not begun as a response to her death.

That did not make it legitimate.

But it made it older.

Simon thought of January.

The deleted slide.

The missing table.

The recommendation.

The approval.

If Marek had started preserving material then, he had been anticipating a problem.

Or constructing one.

Both possibilities were bad.

· · ·

Reiner asked him to walk at lunch.

They went toward the river.

Zurich was bright and almost aggressively normal. Cyclists, trams, people sitting outside with food they had bought from supermarkets and carried to benches in the sun.

“You’ve been asking about Marek,” Reiner said.

“Yes.”

“And old project files.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Simon looked at the water.

“Because the record doesn’t match what I remember.”

“Memory isn’t evidence.”

“I know.”

“Then what do you have?”

“A meeting minute referencing an analysis that no longer exists. An email from Marek saying the subgroup wasn’t represented accurately. A risk acceptance that doesn’t contain the section I remember approving.”

Reiner walked a few steps before answering.

“And what does that prove?”

“That I need to keep looking.”

“No. It proves old project folders are messy.”

“The version history is empty.”

“That still doesn’t tell you why.”

“No.”

Reiner stopped.

“Simon, listen to yourself. You found a dead claimant and now you’re looking backward for a crime.”

“I’m looking backward for a decision.”

“You already found it. We raised the threshold. You recommended it. I agreed. The system improved.”

“And Anna Weber died.”

“Yes.”

The word came without hesitation.

Reiner looked at him.

“She died. That is terrible. But you cannot turn every terrible outcome into evidence that the decision producing the overall better result was wrong.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying to find out whether the record of that decision changed.”

“Why would it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who would change it?”

“I don’t know.”

“For what purpose?”

“I don’t know.”

Reiner spread his hands.

“Then you have three questions and no accusation.”

“I haven’t accused anyone.”

“Not aloud.”

Simon looked at him.

There was no triumph in Reiner’s face.

No fear either.

Just fatigue.

“Use the proper process,” Reiner said. “Legal. Compliance. Internal Audit. If you think something is wrong, take it there.”

“The audit signed Anna off.”

“That audit had a different purpose and you know it.”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t misuse it because you dislike the result.”

Simon thought of Petra Vogel.

We’re not checking the decisions. We’re checking the process.

Reiner was right again.

It was becoming exhausting.

“The original decision can be defensible,” Simon said, “and someone can still have changed the record afterwards.”

Reiner stared at him.

“You have no basis for that sentence.”

“Not yet.”

They stood beside the river.

After a moment Reiner said, “This isn’t about protecting the company.”

“What is it about?”

“You.”

Simon almost laughed.

“That’s convenient.”

“No. Convenient would be letting you keep going until someone else stops you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s concern.”

“I’m touched.”

“You should be.”

Reiner started walking again.

Simon followed.

“Martin.”

Reiner stopped.

“If Marek contacted me, would you want to know?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if he took patient-linked data outside authorised systems, this stops being a disagreement about a model.”

“What does it become?”

“Something with consequences you don’t understand yet.”

Then he walked away.

· · ·

At 16:17 Simon’s phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

One message.

Stop using company channels.

Simon stared at it.

A second message arrived.

If you want to know what was there, stop looking where they can see you look.

No name.

No explanation.

None needed.

Simon read the sentence again.

He had spent six months learning Marek’s way of writing.

Short.

Precise.

No wasted reassurance.

He knew who it was.

He did not reply.

Not yet.