The following day was officially declared a non-working day. The entire population of the country was left alarmed and stunned by the rapid succession of recent events. However, the most profound despondency and anxiety were experienced by the numerous government officials and members of parliament. With a sort of collective sixth sense, they realized that the Time for Changes had truly arrived—and these changes did not bode well for them at all.
An emergency government meeting commenced at 8:00 AM. Every minister in the room understood that their calm, lavish lifestyles had come to a sudden end. Many were profoundly shocked, though they tried desperately not to show it on their faces.
According to the Constitution, the next successor to the late President was the Minister of Economics, Bartosz. Although he tried to refuse the position, citing a total lack of experience, the remaining cabinet voted unanimously in favor of his appointment. Desperate to escape the suffocating room, they decided to postpone any discussion of economic tasks, political maneuvers, or cabinet reshuffles to a later date, abruptly ending the morning's conference.
"And where is... Martin at the moment?" the newly appointed President Bartosz asked, referring, of course, to the fleeing former Prime Minister.
"Somewhere over South America," the Minister of State Security, Walter, replied coldly. "He left on his private plane last night with his wife and relatives. He managed to grab half a cargo container's worth of luggage."
Upon arriving home, Acting President Bartosz broke the news of his appointment to his wife, Adelina.
"I warned you—I told you not to agree under any circumstances!" she said with sharp disapproval.
"Yes, I refused at first, but they persuaded me... they forced me," Bartosz explained, his voice hollow. "It was heavily hinted that I could lose my position altogether, along with everything else we own. I suspect they just want to see if something happens to me next."
"Most likely, something will happen!" his wife countered, her eyes wide with fear. "It's not for nothing that Martin refused the presidency yesterday. He abandoned everything and fled abroad with a pack of his relatives. People don't do that for no reason. He must have known something. These threats about burning photographs—it's not a bluff!"
This is exactly what I was thinking while sitting right there in the meeting, Bartosz thought, a cold sweat breaking out across his neck.
"What if, just like Martin, I announce my resignation?" he said aloud to her. "We could immediately catch a flight to France and stay with our daughter. Of course, it's a pity to leave everything behind—the estates, the apartments, my entire car collection… But we can take some things with us. We have more than enough secured for a prosperous life. And you're right. This whole situation is sinister and unnatural. Being president in this country has become a mortal danger."
"Well, since you've made up your mind, it's settled. Our lives are worth far more than all this accumulated wealth," his wife said. "Let's start getting ready. I suppose my jewelry can fit into two suitcases. And don't forget your watch collection," she added, attempting a weak, fragile joke.
"Don't even think of telling a soul about this, not even your closest relatives. We need to prepare for our departure in absolute, strict secrecy," Bartosz warned her sternly. If the other ministers find out I am running, they will lock down the airfields. "For now, pack the bags. I'm going to return to the Ministry one last time. I need to clear out everything inside my personal safes."
However, absolute secrecy was an impossible luxury in the Republic. Every single conversation inside his house was already being actively tapped and recorded. Many years ago, under a highly classified decree signed by the late President Konstantin, a special intelligence unit had been established to covertly spy on ministers and government officials. Only the Minister of State Security, Walter, and his deputy, Bolek—who directly managed the surveillance units—knew of its existence, alongside the deceased President and the exiled Prime Minister.
When Bartosz left his office carrying two bulging suitcases, he received an urgent call from the presidential administration requesting his presence to resolve several pressing managerial issues.
Although the late President Konstantin had preferred to work from his palace residence, the majority of his administrative staff—along with the official briefing rooms designated for high-level meetings and negotiations—were located in the main government building.
Once Bartosz finished signing the official documents and executive orders as Acting President, a security officer handed him the keys and access codes to the safes in his new executive office. Yielding to temptation, Bartosz decided to inspect their contents immediately. The larger safe contained thick folders of classified documents and a velvet-lined box overflowing with cases of rare, priceless wristwatches.
Collecting luxury timepieces had long been Bartosz's weakness and ultimate passion, and he had never seen models quite like these before. He quickly decided to pocket them.
Anyway, he won't be needing them anymore, Bartosz reasoned grimly.
Unlocking the second, smaller safe proved far more difficult, as its cryptographic cipher was incredibly complex. When the door finally clicked open, Bartosz found a heavy jewelry box inlaid with precious stones. It was forged from solid gold and platinum, secured by its own built-in combination lock. A strip of white paper was taped across the lid, bearing a single handwritten word: Pandora.
I should take this too. My wife will absolutely love it, Bartosz thought, sliding the heavy box into his luggage.
Upon returning home, he frantically continued to pack his bags. He recorded a formal video message announcing his total resignation from all government posts, even going so far as to declare the immediate forfeiture of his real estate portfolio and car collection to the State. He then ordered his personal assistant to deliver the video disc directly to the television studio, explicitly commanding him to ensure that no one viewed it before its designated airtime.
Later that evening, a heavily loaded minibus carried Bartosz, his wife, and two loyal guards toward a restricted government airfield. His private business jet stood waiting on the tarmac.
After corralling the few airfield employees—who were utterly stunned by the unannounced arrival of the new Acting President—into a single room, Bartosz confiscated their communication devices and ordered them to wait for further instructions. Leaving his guard-driver behind to keep watch over them, Bartosz and the two remaining guards loaded ten heavy suitcases into the belly of the plane.
"As long as everything goes well. Just wait for me here and watch the flight crew," he instructed his wife. "I am going to wait inside the airport administration building until my resignation message is broadcast on television. That way, I can fly out of here not as the Acting President, but as an ordinary citizen."
Half an hour later, after watching his own televised surrender, he dismissed his bodyguards and walked back toward the aircraft. His departure had already been covertly cleared with the local air traffic controllers.
However, he was not the only one waiting for this exact moment. The second his minibus passed through the airfield's security gates, a formidable black limousine swept onto the tarmac, heading directly for the business jet where the now-former minister and failed president was preparing to board.
The limousine screeched to a halt right next to the boarding stairs, and the Deputy Minister of State Security, Bolek, stepped out. The moment Bolek had received the interception report from his clandestine surveillance unit regarding Bartosz's plot to resign and flee, he had decided to keep the intelligence to himself. He wanted to catch the man red-handed on the tarmac. Bolek had never liked Bartosz, despite the fact that President Konstantin had always favored the man, rewarding him at every opportunity and even granting him personal use of this executive jet. A massive, secret dossier had been compiled on Bartosz over the years, detailing his endless financial fraud and flagrant abuses of power. But until now, Bartosz had been untouchable because he knew exactly which officials to share his bribes with. With Konstantin dead, however, all old alliances and safety guarantees had dissolved. No one owed anyone anything anymore.
Bartosz felt his entire world collapse the moment he saw the black limousine pull up.
"Where are you headed, Citizen Bartosz?" Bolek asked, barely hiding the cruel irony in his voice as he approached the aircraft.
"On vacation, for two weeks," Bartosz said, his voice straining to maintain a composed facade.
"And why are you using a government official aircraft for a personal vacation? That is highly illegal. Let us go upstairs," Bolek said, gesturing for his armed guard to follow.
Climbing the stairs, Bolek summoned the flight crew—two pilots and a stewardess—who recognized his face instantly. He confiscated their smartphones and dropped them into the small leather briefcase he notoriously refused to part with, ordering the crew to remain locked inside the cockpit. He then stepped into the main cabin, where Bartosz's wife, Adelina, sat waiting. Because all domestic wiretaps and espionage logs passed directly across his desk, Bolek was intimately familiar with her insatiable appetite for stolen jewelry and lavish living. Since she was no longer the wife of a minister but of a common suspect, he skipped any formal greetings and offered only a cold nod. Spotting two diplomatic passports resting on the table, he snatched them up and flipped through the pages.
"Just as I thought. Another severe violation," Bolek murmured, tossing the documents back down. "There are no customs stamps crossing the border, meaning you were attempting an illegal departure. And your luggage has clearly bypassed all mandatory customs controls."
Bolek looked at the large pile of suitcases, turned back to the cabin door, locking eyes with his guard. "Bring the customs inspector up here. Tell him I am summoning him immediately."
A few minutes later, the terrified airport customs officer boarded the aircraft, officially confirming that no inspection had been performed on the luggage. Every single one of the ten suitcases was a diplomatic model, sealed tightly with top-secret combination locks.
But the customs officers possessed a specific override key to unlock them in special emergency cases. Bolek told his bodyguard to step off the plane and wait for him in the car, then ordered the inspector to open the suitcases.
The first suitcase was filled to the brim with thick bundles of foreign currency in crisp bank packaging. In the second was an exquisite collection of expensive wristwatches. The third contained a glittering scattering of jewelry, and the fourth was packed with shares, bonds, and other corporate securities.
When the customs officer reached to unlock the next suitcase, Bolek cut him off. "That's enough. You will need to make an official inventory of the contents later."
Then, acting with cold efficiency, he confiscated the customs inspector's smartphone and walkie-talkie. "Wait for me here."
"Everything is perfectly clear with you two," Bolek said, turning his harsh gaze to Bartosz and his wife. "Come with me."
After stepping down the aircraft's gangway, he barked a command to his personal security guard to roll a heavy cargo container over to transport the seized luggage.
"And you, follow me," Bolek told the former minister and his wife, heading toward the administrative building. But as they approached the structure, he bypassed the doors entirely and walked straight to the perimeter gate. Ordering the security officer to open the wicket door, he stepped through and beckoned the spouses—who were utterly stunned by the unfolding nightmare—to follow him outside.
"I have decided not to arrest or handcuff you out of respect for your former ministerial status," Bolek said flatly. "However, I am officially placing you under house arrest as a strict measure of restraint. I am keeping your passports, but I will leave you your smartphones. You must call a taxi and return to your residence immediately. Wait there for further instructions."
Without waiting for an objection, he turned on his heel and walked back into the airport.
Left alone on the gravel road, the couple looked around in sheer bewilderment. Bartosz had fully expected to be thrown into handcuffs and driven away for a brutal interrogation to the sound of police sirens.
This unexpected delay is a miracle, Bartosz realized, a desperate spark of hope flaring in his chest. It gives us the exact window we need to gather our thoughts and prepare a real escape.
To get back to their estate, they didn't call a commercial taxi; instead, they phoned their official government minibus, which hadn't had time to drive too far away.
Approaching the aircraft once more, Bolek informed his guards that he intended to fly to a different airfield alone, instructing them to drive there by road to meet him. Climbing back on board, he ordered the customs inspector to close the suitcases, took the override key from his hand, and escorted the man back down to the tarmac.
"Check inside that cargo container to see if there is anything left," he told the inspector.
The customs officer dutifully lifted the heavy lid and peered into the dark space. At that exact moment, Bolek pulled a silenced pistol from his leather briefcase. As the inspector began to straighten up and turn around, Bolek aimed and calmly pulled the trigger. The bullet entered the back of the man's skull; the inspector's body immediately went limp and tumbled deep into the container, leaving only his legs awkwardly sticking out.
Bolek scanned the empty tarmac. Silently, he hid the pistol back inside his briefcase, walked over to the container, pushed the dead man's legs inside, and shut the lid before rolling the container away into the shadows.
Back on the plane, he stepped into the main cabin and ordered the stewardess to remain in her quarters until further notice. He then entered the cockpit. The captain informed him that according to their original flight plan, their final destination was a small private airfield in France. After calculating his options for a brief moment, Bolek issued a definitive command to take off.
Once they crossed the nation's air border, Bolek ordered the pilots to change course immediately and head south toward Africa—specifically, toward the West African Republic. To avoid any airspace violations or grounding protocols when entering foreign territories, he handed the pilots a highly classified, emergency clearance code. It granted them a "green corridor," a medical priority bypass usually reserved for emergency flights delivering human donor organs.
Bolek had frequently flown to this particular Republic in the past, both for covert official business and for lavish recreation. He maintained highly lucrative, mutually beneficial business relations with the directors of the local state security service. He was even personally acquainted with President Jelani, who had previously thanked him in person for his assistance in neutralizing domestic political opponents.
Over the years, Bolek had repeatedly smuggled them a highly specialized chemical compound developed in the Ministry of State Security's clandestine laboratories. After a single dose, even the most volatile opposition leaders completely forgot their past lives, becoming quiet, submissive, and entirely hollowed out.
Bolek spent the entire duration of the flight in the cockpit, supervising the flight crew, as he possessed a basic understanding of navigation and aircraft controls. As an added precaution, he ensured every smartphone on board was powered down, including his own.
The remote airfield they eventually landed on was situated just outside the capital, within close proximity to the majestic presidential palace. The massive estate towered in the center of a sizable plot of land, complete with ornamental ponds, climate-controlled greenhouses, and dense groves of exotic plants—the entire compound heavily fortified by a five-meter concrete block fence.
It was early morning. The Minister of State Security, Mozi—Bolek's close handler and friend—was still asleep. However, entering the secure zone proved effortless; the local security officers recognized Bolek's face immediately, though they were visibly surprised by his unannounced arrival.
Exhausted from the long flight and the weight of his stolen cargo, Bolek requested that they notify him the exact moment Minister Mozi woke up. Carrying his briefcase tightly, he headed to a hotel nearby to get some sleep.