Geneva Trust and the Mirabauds
Dieter Schwarz
Burning down the house.
The next day, Dieter boarded the Geneva Trust jet at the Hannover airport and flew to Switzerland. His sisterOcéane had sent the plane and the car that met him when he disembarked.
Nerves rattled in his flesh, but the weights of the gun under his arm and the other one at his ankle steadied him.
The car slid to a stop in front of Geneva Trust, the antique white building on the Rue de la Croix-d’Or, the Gold Cross Street. The name was supposed to be a religious reference because the southern part of Switzerland was predominantly Catholic, but Raphael had always thought of the bank as worshipping the gold of the cross for its wealth.
Not Raphael.
Dieter.
Who you are in life is a choice,and Dieter was choosing the path that led him back to Flicka.
The driver ran around the car and held the door open for him, a welcome change from the Ilyin Bratva’s prison guards that had dogged him everywhere he’d gone. The chilly air cut through the black pea coat he’d borrowed from one of the Rogues and rustled the Christmas baskets of spruce branches high on the lamp posts. He blinked, andthe bright morning sunlight made his eyes water.
In front of him, the steel and glass door to the bank buzzed open. He pushed it and walked inside.
The scents of furniture polish and old coins washed over his face as he walked inside. Dust motes danced in the early morning sunshine streaming through the front windows.
Océane was standing inside the door of the bank. “Hello, Raphe—Dieter.”
She was wearing a severe black suit with a red blouse. Instead of looking Christmas festive, the stark colors reminded him of a power tie on an undertaker. Her gray eyes, so like his own, looked even lighter against the dark colors. “Hello, Océane. Are we ready to begin?”
“You’re the last one to arrive. Sorry about the flight delays.”
“No one’s fault. Let’s go.”
He followed his sister throughthe narrow hallways of the old bank, past offices and sitting rooms to the conference room.
The conference room was about three-quarters full, though most of the people were the younger shareholders. Evidently, the older generation had not been invited or notified.
Dieter’s other sisters, Ambre and Chloé, stood when he walked in and offered their hands over the table to shake, smiling wanlyover the pleasantries. His uncleBastien’s handshake was slower, and he didn’t meet Dieter’s eyes.
Dieter’s mother sat at the far end of the table. Her hands rested in her lap, and her eyes barely rose when Dieter held out his hand. She did shake his hand, holding onto him for a moment longer than he’d thought she would. “Can you talk for a few minutes, afterward?”
“Of course,” Dieter said,taking a chair and adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. None of the Rogues had had a suit he could borrow, so he wore black dress slacks and a white shirt.
For perhaps the first time in his life, he was looking forward to shopping. Borrowing other guys’ clothes was beginning to gross him out, if he thought about where those clothes had been.
Océane called the meeting to order and took roll, anunusual procedure for an unusual meeting.
Then she sighed and said, “The resolution before the stockholders’ meeting today is the dissolution of Geneva Trust. In consideration of the recent subpoenas served to the bank—”
The result of that thumb drive of data that Dieter had passed to Magnus that chilly night at the Port of Rotterdam.
“—and the impending legal action, this seems to be the mostprudent course of action.”
Everyone nodded or stared at their notebooks in front of them. This motion was not a surprise to anyone. Indeed, the meeting attendees had likely been selected carefully.
Bastien sighed and sipped from a glass of honey-colored liquid at his elbow. Ice clinked in the glass.
“Let’s call the vote,” Océane said.
In the end, eighty-two percent of the voting stock waspresent, and all of them voted to end Geneva Trust, includingBastien andDieter’s mother, who had inherited Valerian Mirabaud’s estate.
