The midday sun streamed through the tall French windows of Marcus Hofmann's private club in Küsnacht, casting a pale golden glow across the Persian rug.
Shane stood near the window, an unlit cigar resting between his fingers. Outside, the plane trees rustled in the spring breeze, and sunlight filtered through the leaves, dancing softly across his sharp, youthful features.
He turned the cigar slowly between his thumb and forefinger — a quiet ritual that helped him focus.
Just two nights earlier, through a discreet watch shop Marcus maintained in Zurich's Old Town, Shane had finally located Mikhail, who had been in hiding there for days.
Together, they had rushed overnight to a private clinic on the outskirts of the city, where Jay and Olki were under medical care. Jay's collarbone was tightly bandaged, but he was in good spirits; Olki, though pale, could already sit up and exchange jokes with the nurses.
They also visited Dr. Reinhardt Krause, who was recovering in the intensive care unit. The old man, though still shaken, had escaped with only minor injuries.
When they returned to Marcus's villa overlooking Lake Zurich, Shane meticulously inspected every piece of Zeiss equipment and every blueprint. Only when he confirmed that nothing had been tampered with did he finally exhale in relief.
But a greater problem loomed — how to leave Zurich unnoticed. Though the authorities had tried to suppress reports of the gunfight at the lakeside hotel, such chaos could never truly be concealed from the spies and informants who haunted Europe's financial capital.
Shane knew that, even now, unseen eyes were combing Zurich's streets and railway stations in search of them.
As dawn's light crept across the parquet floor, he laid an evacuation plan before Marcus Hofmann.
For three solid hours, they debated every detail in hushed tones.
"Which customs link can we rely on?"
"Which manufacturer can modify vehicles to medical standards?"
"Can we obtain the latest border duty roster?"
Marcus, with the precision of a staff officer, filled in the blanks — names, addresses, and coded references written neatly within the framework Shane had outlined.
Shane's mind worked with mechanical precision. He reorganised routes, erased steps, added contingencies — each adjustment refining the plan like a jeweller cutting a flawless stone.
By the time the clock struck eleven, what had begun as a rough outline had evolved into a layered, self-contained escape network: complete with backup routes, false identities, and fallback contingencies for every conceivable event.
Marcus studied the final draft. A faint glint of admiration appeared behind his spectacles. This Irish youth — no more than seventeen — possessed the nerve of a gambler and the logic of a strategist.
Those seemingly offhand questions were, in truth, the precise coordinates of a master tactician.
Now, all that remained was to await Mikhail's return from the clinic to confirm a few final details before activating the plan.
The door opened with a soft click, letting in a breath of warm air. Mikhail entered, offering a respectful nod to Marcus Hofmann before turning to Shane.
"Their conditions are stable," he said, his voice still hoarse from exhaustion. "Jay's collarbone was pierced cleanly. No nerve damage, but he'll be immobile for two months. Olki took a bullet to the ribs — successful surgery, no infection. Ten days' rest should have him back on his feet."
Marcus rose from behind his century-old oak desk. The fifty-something banker, with his neatly trimmed silver temples and dark grey tailored suit, exuded the composed dignity of old-world Europe. Each step revealed the gleam of his hand-polished Oxford shoes, the soft fabric of his suit moving as if moulded to him.
He adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses; sunlight glanced off the signet ring on his finger, its gold face engraved with a stylised Solomon's Star — the crest of the Hofmann family for three generations.
Those eyes behind the lenses had seen much: the hyperinflation that crippled Germany in 1923, the chaos of collapsing markets, and the fragile rebirth of European finance.
For the first time in years, emotion disturbed that polished calm.
He recalled the transatlantic call he had received from New York only a week earlier — from Henry Hill himself. The voice that travelled across the Atlantic cables had carried unmistakable warmth.
"Marcus, you must meet this young man," Henry had said, his words cutting clearly through the static. "He reminds me of myself when I first set foot on Wall Street — though perhaps with a little more fire."
Marcus had known that tone — a rare, paternal fondness Henry reserved only for his most trusted protégés.
Now, as he studied Shane Cassidy — this astonishing youth who had risen from obscurity to prominence in a single year — Marcus finally understood.
More remarkable still were those around him: loyal men who had followed him through gunfire, a Polish officer who had fought beside him, and a young sister waiting in London whom he hoped to see again.
Marcus thought of the myth of King Midas, but this young man's gift was not gold — it was intellect. A touch of insight that turned every risk into opportunity.
His hand brushed the ring on his finger again. The banker in him should have dismissed such recklessness; yet, as Henry's friend, he could not help but feel a flicker of admiration.
The coffee on the desk had long gone cold, dark residue clinging to the porcelain. But by then, the plan was complete.
Mikhail would lead the group in a specially modified ambulance painted with the yellow insignia of Ciba, the Basel-based chemical manufacturer. The livery was common across Switzerland and drew no attention.
Its outer shell matched any ordinary ambulance, but its interior had been rebuilt to serve a more secret purpose. Beneath the stretcher lay a concealed compartment large enough to hide the Zeiss instruments. Weapons and supplies were stowed within a false-bottomed medicine cabinet.
At customs, Inspector Wilt — whose fondness for Burgundy wine kept his discretion well lubricated — would ensure their passage remained unremarked.
Their route was chosen with care. Basel, at the tri-border of Switzerland, France, and Germany, was Europe's industrial crossroads. Hundreds of lorries and transport vans passed through daily, making anonymity their best disguise.
Once over the French frontier, the vehicle would divert into the Basel industrial zone, where new licence plates and papers awaited. Reclassified as a French freight van, it would take the Mulhouse–Belfort road under cover of darkness, avoiding every major checkpoint.
Their destination: the American Hospital of Paris. There, Dr. Grayson — an ageing physician who had served in the Spanish–American War — would issue official medical records and X-rays, complete with bullet wound treatments. The "recovery week" would buy them valuable time and legitimacy.
From there, Shane's ingenuity shone brightest.
He had arranged for first-class tickets aboard the Golden Arrow, the luxury express linking Paris to Calais. Purchased with cash and under false names, the tickets left no trace. The timing — three days in advance — was deliberate: early enough to secure seats, late enough to avoid scrutiny.
At Calais, a private suite aboard the Royal Mail Ferry to Dover awaited them, with a VIP corridor connecting the train platform directly to the ship.
By the time Europe's intelligence agencies realised what had happened, their quarry would be long gone — transformed from fugitives into a handful of inconspicuous travellers crossing the English Channel under the Union Jack.
It was a masterstroke of misdirection.
While every rival agency laid traps at Zurich's railway stations and airports, Shane had chosen the simplest, most visible route — and thereby the safest.
Marcus stood again at the French windows, fingers tracing the grain of the walnut frame. Each detail of the plan played out in his mind — the contacts, the forged papers, the timing, the psychology. Every step displayed not recklessness but rare, clinical insight into human behaviour.
He thought of the elaborate stock market ruses he'd seen on Wall Street — men who could manipulate nations with a whisper — yet this boy's design surpassed them all.
The soft ticking of the cuckoo clock filled the silence, marking each second with mechanical precision. Marcus smiled faintly.
He recalled Henry Hill's words over the wire:
"That lad draws up a plan tighter than Morgan's ledgers."
Now, he saw the truth of it. Every cog fit seamlessly, every risk accounted for — logic intertwined with instinct.
Outside, the low rumble of an engine drifted up the drive. The modified ambulance was waiting.
Marcus withdrew his hand from the window and gave a slow, deliberate nod — the kind of acknowledgment one financier grants another after a perfect deal.
It was not praise. It was respect.