Chapter 12 - The Ghost of Zurich
The Hotel Eden Roc perched on the edge of Lake Zurich like a white palace carved out of alpine stone, its terraced gardens descending toward the glassy, turquoise water where multimillion-dollar yachts bobbed gently against their moorings.
Julian Vance sat at a corner table on the outdoor patio, a glass of vintage Pinot Noir in one hand and an encrypted satellite phone in the other. The morning sun was warm, the air crisp with the scent of pine and distant snow, but Julian couldn't shake the cold knot of dread that had settled in his stomach ever since the news broke about Arthur Sterling’s arrest in Boston.
His phone buzzed violently against the marble tabletop.
Julian cursed under his breath, swiped the screen, and pressed it to his ear. "I told you not to call this number unless the federal marshals were already at the dock—"
"They're not marshals, Julian," a voice cut through the speaker. It wasn't Arthur’s panicked whine. It was smooth, calm, and unmistakably American.
Julian’s blood ran cold. "Who is this?"
"Emily Parker," the voice replied, perfectly even. "Head of operations for Carter Global. We met briefly eight months ago when you interviewed me for the maid position in the west wing. You asked if I had any experience with industrial chemistry. I told you I graduated third in my class from Johns Hopkins."
Julian stood up so fast his wrought-iron chair scraped loudly against the stone paving, drawing the attention of a waiter carrying a tray of pastries. He forced a strained smile, waved the waiter away, and hissed into the phone, "You have no jurisdiction here, girl. This is Swiss territory. You can't touch me."
"Jurisdiction is a funny thing when you own the shipping lanes," Emily said calmly. "If you look out across the lake toward the private harbor, Julian, you'll notice that the three luxury yachts anchored beside yours have just had their registry flags revoked by the Swiss maritime authority."
Julian spun around, dropping his phone to his shoulder as he rushed to the stone balustrade overlooking the water. Sure enough, three sleek motor yachts bearing the Vanguard logo were currently surrounded by Swiss harbor patrol vessels, their boarding ramps lowered and armed federal officers swarming their decks.
"That's... that's impossible!" Julian screamed into the phone. "Those vessels belong to an independent holding company! You don't have the leverage—"
"I bought the holding company's debt at four o'clock this morning through three separate shell accounts registered in Liechtenstein," Emily’s voice came back, smooth as glass. "Which means your yacht, your bank accounts in Zurich, and the trust fund paying for your retirement villa in the Alps are currently frozen under suspicion of corporate terrorism and attempted infanticide."
Julian stared at his own reflection in the glass screen of his phone, his face gray and distorted with absolute terror. "What do you want?"
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"I want you on a private cargo flight back to Boston within the hour," Emily said, her tone dropping into a flat, lethal register. "Frank Miller is waiting at Zurich International with a set of federal papers and a first-class ticket. If you're not on that plane, Julian, you'll spend the rest of your life wishing you had stayed in the water."
The line went dead with a soft click.
