Jean-Pierre Marchand's words lingered in the fragrant air of the conservatory, a final, somber tolling of a bell before battle. He rose from the bench, moving slowly but deliberately; his frailty betrayed the iron resolve that had just returned to his eyes.
"The bank is now called OmniBank Capital," he said, his voice low and instructive, as if he were a professor starting a critical lecture. "They kept me on as a consultant for a year during the transition. A courtesy. They thought I was a harmless old relic. But a relic remembers where the old doors are hidden."
Leo, who had been a silent, watchful presence by the door, spoke into his wrist. "Sir, we are mobile. Escorting the assets to OmniBank Capital, downtown Brussels."
"Stay on high alert, Leo," Dante's voice commanded in my ear, the sound of the jet engine growing closer, more urgent. "You are walking into the serpent's den. I'm thirty minutes out."
Marchand led us from the conservatory through a private exit, bypassing the main lobby of the retirement community. A second, nondescript vehicle was waiting, with one of Leo's men at the wheel. The switch was seamless, a professional dance of shadows. As we drove away, I glanced back at the tranquil Villa Hemelberg, knowing we had just shattered its peace forever.
The drive into the city was filled with tense silence. I sat beside Marchand in the back, the brass key a heavy weight in my hand. He stared out the window, his expression unreadable, a man adrift in his memories.
OmniBank Capital stood as a monument of modern architecture, a gleaming tower of glass and steel that screamed new money. It was the exact opposite of the mythological secret hidden in its foundations. Marchand ignored the bustling main entrance. He led us down a quiet side street to a small, unassuming service door marked only with a faded brass number.
"The new owners spent millions on biometric scanners and digital firewalls," he said with a wry, humorless smile. "But they never bothered to change the old, mechanical locks on the maintenance shafts. They considered them obsolete."
He pulled a key from his pocket, identical to the one I held, and inserted it into the lock. With a heavy, grinding click, the door opened into a dimly lit, dusty corridor.
The air grew cooler as we descended a series of spiral staircases. The modern hum of the bank above faded, replaced by the deep, tomb-like silence of the earth. We were walking back in time, into the foundations of the old Fafnir Private Trust.
Finally, we reached a circular chamber, its walls made of thick, polished granite. In the center stood the vault. It was a masterpiece of old-world engineering, a massive, circular door of burnished steel. Etched into its surface, so subtly it was almost invisible, was the faint image of a serpent eating its own tail.
"The Heart," Marchand breathed, his voice filled with strange, reverent awe.
He approached the door. There were two keyholes, set far apart. He took my key, the one from Colette, and inserted it into the right lock. He then placed his own key in the left. He looked at me, a silent, final question in his eyes. Are you ready? I gave a firm nod.
Together, we turned the keys.
There was no whirring of electronics, only a series of deep, resonant thunks as massive internal tumblers, each the size of a man's arm, shifted into place. With a low groan of protesting metal, the enormous door swung inward, revealing a wall of gleaming, stainless-steel safe deposit boxes.
Marchand checked a small, leather-bound notebook from his pocket, a relic from his past. "Box 333," he said.
He led me to the box. It was larger than the others, unassuming and anonymous. It required both keys to be turned simultaneously to open. As the small door swung open, I held my breath.
Inside was not gold, jewels, or bonds. It was a single, heavy, leather-bound book. The leather was dark, almost black with age, and completely unmarked. It felt cold to the touch, a repository of secrets and sins. Beside it lay a single, sealed envelope of thick, cream-colored parchment. It was addressed simply, to 'The Incorruptible Man'.
Marchand took the letter, his hands trembling slightly as he broke the wax seal that had been untouched for nineteen years. He read the contents, his face a mask of profound sorrow.
"It is from Jacques," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He looked at me. "He writes that this ledger is his confession and his life insurance. It contains a partial record of the Syndicate's activities—names, dates, accounts he was forced to process through the port. He knew if he came forward, he would be silenced. He knew the only person he could trust to keep it safe was a man whose integrity was his only true asset."
He folded the letter carefully. "He made one final request. He knew that one day, his daughter or someone she trusted would come for this. And he knew the Syndicate would have a plan for its discovery."
A cold dread washed over me. "What plan?"
Marchand pointed to the floor of the box. I hadn't seen it before. A tiny, almost invisible pressure plate. The ledger had been sitting on it for nineteen years. The moment he lifted it, the plate moved.
"It was a silent alarm," Marchand whispered, his face pale. "Jacques designed it himself. Opening this box wasn't just about finding the truth. It was a declaration of war. It's a signal sent to the very people we are hunting that their most dangerous secret is now in play."
My earpiece crackled to life. It was Leo, his voice tight, urgent, and filled with an emotion I had never heard from him before: alarm.
"Isabella, we are compromised! We have multiple hostiles converging on the bank's perimeter! They're not police! They're professionals! Get out of there, now!"
The trap had been sprung. But it wasn't for the Syndicate. It was for us. And we were in the heart of it.