Chapter 23 - The Sanctuary at Lake Geneva
The wheels of the Gulfstream screeched violently onto the damp tarmac of Geneva Cointrin Airport just as the morning mist began to curl off the waters of the lake.
The cabin door had barely unsealed before Arthur and I descended the metal stairs directly into a waiting perimeter of three black, armored Mercedes-Benz SUVs. Men in discreet charcoal suits and tactical earpieces flanked the motorcade, their jackets unbuttoned over concealed sidearms.
"Madame Vance, Counselor Sterling," the lead security commander—a former Swiss Federal Police tactical officer named Jean-Paul—greeted us with a crisp nod. "We have surveillance on the Laurent estate. Lucian Meyer sent two private investigators to scout the perimeter twenty minutes ago. My men detained them at the private gate under Swiss trespassing laws. The local cantonal police have them in custody. The perimeter is secure."
"And Daisy?" I gasped, breathless, clutching my coat as the sharp, clean mountain wind whipped my hair.
"She is inside with Dr. Laurent. Safe. Waiting."
"Drive," Arthur commanded. "Now."
The convoy surged through the outskirts of Geneva, winding upward along the serpentine mountain roads toward the pristine, pine-draped slopes overlooking Lake Geneva. The beauty of the scenery—the sparkling turquoise water below, the majestic snow-capped peaks of the French Alps in the distance—was entirely lost on me. Every passing second felt like an eternity stretched across a bed of nails.
Finally, the lead SUV turned off the main alpine route onto a secluded cobblestone road flanked by towering wrought-iron gates bearing an ancient crest. The gates swung inward, and we entered a magnificent estate. At the center of the grounds stood a three-story timber-and-limestone chalet surrounded by manicured alpine gardens, glass greenhouses, and sweeping stone terraces.
The moment the SUV stopped in the circular driveway, I didn't wait for Jean-Paul to open the door. I threw it open myself, stumbling out onto the gravel.
The massive oak front door of the chalet swung open.
Stepping out onto the stone porch was an elderly gentleman with silver hair, wearing a warm wool cardigan over a crisp white shirt. His face was lined with deep wisdom, his eyes warm and compassionate. Dr. Christian Laurent.
Beside him, holding his wrinkled hand, stood a small girl wearing a yellow hand-knit sweater and blue denim overalls.
My feet froze. The air was sucked entirely from my lungs.
She was tall for six years old, her posture proud, her face glowing with the rosy health of alpine mountain air. She had my high cheekbones, my arched eyebrows, and a small constellation of faint freckles across the bridge of her delicate nose.
In her other hand, she clutched a wooden drawing board.
Dr. Laurent gently knelt beside her, whispering something in her ear and pointing toward where I stood paralyzed on the driveway.
Daisy tilted her head. Her hazel eyes widened. She stared at me across the twenty feet of gravel that separated us. She looked at my face, down at my hands, and then her eyes locked onto the faded, ragged plush rabbit I was clutching against my coat—the rabbit with the frayed velvet ears she had slept with every night of her infancy.
"Mommy?" she whispered.
May you like
The word cut through the crisp mountain air like a bell rung in an ancient chapel.
***
