At five o'clock the next morning, the private club overlooking Lake Küsnacht, near Zürich, was still veiled in a thin, silvery mist. A black Daimler limousine rolled quietly out of the cast-iron gates, its tyres crunching faintly over the gravel drive.
At the wheel sat Jakob, a middle-aged Jewish driver, his gloved hands steady on the steering wheel. In the rear seat, Shaneleaned back against the cool leather upholstery, watching the half-awake city slip past through the bulletproof glass.
The outlines of Zürich stirred in the soft dawn light. Gas lamps still burned on the street corners, their glow blending with the first pale rays of morning. Beside him, Marcus Hofmann methodically polished his gold-rimmed spectacles with a silk handkerchief — a small, habitual gesture of composure before any serious undertaking.
They soon left the city behind, following the winding road along the Aare River. The early spring countryside lay wrapped in a gauzy mist. In the distance, the snow-capped Alps appeared and vanished like ghosts, their white peaks glimmering as the sun broke through the clouds.
Sunlight fell in golden patches across emerald pastures. Smoke rose lazily from small farmhouses. In the villages they passed, bakers were just unlocking wooden shopfronts, and the scent of warm bread drifted into the crisp air.
Marcus rolled down his window, drawing a slow breath. "The morning wind from the Alps always carries the scent of cedar," he remarked.
Shane smiled faintly, his eyes still on the passing landscape. "And opportunity," he murmured.
After four hours, the Daimler turned down a secluded gravel road. A uniformed guard stepped from a gatehouse, saluted, and opened the iron gates without question.
The car stopped before a two-storey building — plain, grey-white, and utterly unremarkable. A small brass plaque beside the door read:
PRECISION TIMING INSTRUMENTS LTD.
It looked no different from any other small Swiss watch factory.
Inside, the faint scent of oil and metal filled the air. Rows of lathes and precision tools were neatly arranged, and several technicians in blue work clothes bent silently over benches. The rhythmic clicking of gears and the hiss of lubricated machinery gave the workshop an air of ordinary diligence.
But it was a disguise.
At the far corner of the workshop stood an inconspicuous steel door, painted the same grey as the wall. Few would have noticed it — fewer still would have had the means to open it.
Marcus reached into his inner pocket, withdrawing a small brass key engraved with a serial number. He inserted it carefully into the lock and turned it three times.
A faint hum of internal gears sounded. Then, with a deep metallic groan, the heavy door slid open to reveal a narrow staircase descending into shadow.
This was Shane's secret investment, begun just after Christmas. Through Henry's Zurich accounts, he had quietly transferred sixty thousand dollars — enough for Marcus to purchase this bankrupt watch factory and convert its foundations into something far more valuable.
Above ground, it remained a modest repair business. Below, however, lay a hidden research laboratory dedicated to one of the boldest industrial experiments of the decade: the reverse-engineering of the Tri-Ergon sound-on-film system — the revolutionary German invention that had stunned Hollywood.
Marcus descended first, his footsteps measured. Shane followed, his mind alive with anticipation. The soft echo of their steps down the iron stairs mingled with the rhythmic thrum of distant machinery.
When they reached the bottom, the basement door swung open — and Shane stopped short.
The hidden laboratory stretched before him, bathed in the white glare of electric lamps. Every surface was alive with purpose: walls pinned with soundwave charts, blueprints, and frequency graphs; blackboards scrawled with formulas in chalk; tables lined with precision instruments — oscilloscopes, spectrographs, microscopes, and vacuum-tube amplifiers.
In the centre stood the heart of their enterprise: a Tri-Ergon prototype, dismantled to its smallest screw, each component catalogued in labeled trays.
At the far end, a 35mm projector played a test reel from Metropolis. For the first time, the haunting cityscapes of Lang's masterpiece were accompanied by synchronized sound — imperfect but astonishingly clear. Beneath the steady hum of the projector, a faint current crackled in the speakers — the ghost of static whispering through the miracle.
Around the room, half a dozen engineers worked in focused silence. One adjusted an optical lens, another recorded data from an oscilloscope, two more argued quietly in German over a circuit design. The air smelled of coffee, solder, and warm metal.
Marcus led Shane toward the centre workbench. "Allow me to introduce the project's lead engineer," he said with quiet pride. "Dr. Heinrich Müller."
The man who rose from the bench was elderly but imposing. His hair was snow-white, his shirt sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. The wrinkles on his face spoke of long years in laboratories, but his brown eyes shone with the restless curiosity of youth.
"Dr. Müller," Marcus continued, "formerly head of Acoustics at the Berlin Technical University — one of Europe's foremost experts in electroacoustics."
Müller set down his calipers and extended a hand with measured confidence. "Mr. Cassidy," he said in a firm German accent, "your foresight gives our work a future."
Shane returned the handshake respectfully. "The honour is mine, Doctor. It's men like you who turn ideas into history."
Marcus guided him further down the row. "Here is Fritz Lange, senior optical engineer — formerly with Zeiss, now designing our new photocell array."
Lange straightened immediately, pushing his round spectacles higher on his nose. "A pleasure, sir," he said nervously, before returning to his meticulous lens adjustments.
"And here," Marcus said, indicating a bald man soldering a circuit board, "Erich Wolf, a former military engineer at Leitz — our resident expert in electrical noise reduction."
Wolf looked up briefly, his face marked by concentration and the faint scorch of solder. "Good morning," he said simply, raising his hand in greeting before returning to his work.
Finally, Marcus gestured to a young woman hunched over a drafting table. "And this is Miss Clara Meyer, our mechanical designer. She built the new film transport mechanism herself."
Clara looked up, brushing a loose strand of golden hair from her cheek. Despite the shadows beneath her eyes, her gaze was bright — a spark of inventive energy. A miniature screwdriver twirled lightly between her fingers.