Chapter 12 - Midnight at Paradeplatz
The grand neoclassical facade of the private bank on Paradeplatz loomed like a fortress of polished granite and iron. The streets of Zurich were deserted, slick with the sheen of midnight rain. Streetlamps cast long, distorted reflections across the wet asphalt.
The limousine pulled into the underground entrance of the private wealth pavilion. Heavy hydraulic gates hissed shut behind them, cutting off any connection to the outside world.
Julian was escorted out of the vehicle, his arms flanked tightly by two armed operatives in dark overcoats. His legs felt like lead weights. Every step toward the reinforced steel elevator took him closer to the reveal of his fatal lie.
Lady Beatrice stepped into the elevator behind them, leaning on her gold-headed cane.
The elevator descended deep into the bedrock of Zurich, far below the city’s sewer lines and railway tunnels. The air turned noticeably cooler, sterile and conditioned, smelling of ozone and polished brass.
When the elevator doors slid open, an elderly man in a bespoke three-piece suit bowed deeply. ""Madame Vance. It is an honor, as always. The inner sanctum has been cleared per your instructions.""
""Lead the way, Herr Weber,"" Beatrice commanded.
They moved down a corridor lined with private biometric vault rooms. Julian looked wildly around, his pulse thumping in his ears like a tribal drum. He needed a distraction. A fire alarm, a power outage, anything. But Swiss high-security facilities were built to withstand nuclear blasts; there were no loose wires to pull, no emergency axes behind glass.
Herr Weber stopped before a massive vault door of brushed titanium, emblazoned with a seven-digit alphanumeric code.
""Safety deposit tier 88-Alpha,"" the banker said, turning to Julian. ""Registered under the secondary corporate alias provided. Please provide your retinal scan and passkey, Monsieur Sterling.""
Julian froze. His hands were trembling so violently he had to shove them into his pockets to conceal it.
""Go on, Julian,"" Beatrice whispered from behind him, her voice dripping with venomous anticipation. ""Open the vault. Let us see the ghost you threatened us with.""
Julian stepped up to the optical scanner. The red laser beam swept across his eye with an indifferent hum.
A mechanical beep echoed through the vaulted hallway: IDENTITY CONFIRMED. ENTER PASSKEY.
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Julian stood paralyzed before the alphanumeric keypad. If he entered an incorrect code three times, the vault would lock down automatically for seventy-two hours. It would trigger an international security alert. It might buy him time—or it might prompt Beatrice’s men to shoot him right there on the polished marble.
He raised a shaking finger. He had to guess. He had to gamble.
