Chapter 82 - Flight Over the Abyss
Three weeks later, the Gulfstream G650 banked sharply over the snow-draped jagged peaks of the Swiss Alps. Below us, Lake Zurich shimmered like a sheet of hammered obsidian under the gray winter sky. Sitting across the cabin in an understated charcoal suit, Julian Harrow tapped rhythmically on a secure slate tablet, his face pale from months spent in hiding.
"The invitation comes from Madame Geneviève de la Tour," Julian said, rotating the screen toward me. An archival photograph of a woman in her late seventies appeared—regal, razor-sharp cheekbones, eyes the color of glacial runoff, adorned with a single pearl necklace that had once belonged to Empress Maria Theresa. "She is the hereditary dean of the Sovereign Council. When your great-grandfather established the offshore trusts after the Second World War, her family provided the vault keys beneath the Paradeplatz."
"Why did she let Arthur crash and burn?" I asked, sipping black tea to calm the hollow ache in my chest.
"Because Arthur was vulgar," Julian answered with dry contempt. "He made mistakes. He let domestic scandals spill into the press, he got sloppy with his mistresses, he tried to embezzle from the Council’s inner treasury to cover his real estate debts in Boston. But most of all, he was afraid of you. And the Council despises fear above all else."
Liam sat next to me, checking the micro-transceiver concealed inside the lining of his leather watchband. "The federal liaison in Bern confirmed they have no jurisdiction inside the de la Tour chateau. The estate operates under an ancient canton treaty dating back to 1848. Once we pass through those wrought-iron gates, whatever happens is governed strictly by Council law."
"Council law is an illusion painted over brute violence," I said, watching the snowy runway rush up to meet the landing gear. "They only respect power, leverage, and the willingness to burn the room down rather than surrender."
When the jet touched down at Zurich Airport’s private terminal, there were no customs agents waiting. Instead, two black Maybachs with diplomatic plates idle on the tarmac, their exhaust plumes rising into the biting alpine air. A chauffeur in a slate-gray uniform stood by the rear door, holding an umbrella against the light flurries of snow.
As I stepped down the metal staircase, the chauffeur bowed with immaculate, terrifying deference. "Welcome to Zurich, Miss Thorne. Madame de la Tour has prepared lunch at the Villa Dolden. She requests that your security detail remain in the city."
"He isn't security detail," I said coldly, gesturing to Liam. "He is my associate. Where I go, he goes. If that is unacceptable, turn the plane around and tell Madame de la Tour she can explain her missing bearer bonds to Interpol."
May you like
The chauffeur held my gaze for three excruciating seconds, measuring the steel behind my words. Then, bowing slightly lower, he pulled open both rear doors. "As you wish, Miss Thorne."
***
