Chapter 101 - Beneath the Silent River
The air in the subterranean conduit was ice-cold and smelled of stagnant river mud and century-old limestone. We hurried down a steep, narrow flight of wet stone steps, our only light the narrow beam of Marcus’s tactical flashlight sweeping across the slick walls. Far above us, the muffled detonations of automatic fire and breaking timbers echoed through the drainage shafts.
Maya was holding the third punch card tightly against her chest. "The second card was destroyed in the blast," she panted, her boots splashing through three inches of frigid, slow-moving water at the base of the conduit. "We only have the third."
"What does that mean?" I demanded, supporting Arthur, whose breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps as he stumbled beside me. "Can the transmission still be completed?"
"Without the second card, the protocol can't verify the public broadcast addresses," Maya replied, her voice taut with frustration and focus. "It can only do one of two things: execute the burn protocol, which destroys the assets forever, or divert the entire sovereign trust into an unverified proxy account."
"The proxy account," Arthur gasped, leaning heavily against the damp stone wall of the tunnel. His hand reached out, trembling, clutching Maya's sleeve. "Eleanor... Eleanor established a contingency proxy in 1974. A blind foundation in Liechtenstein. If you route it there, Katherine, we survive. We retain leverage."
"Leverage for who, Arthur?" Clara snapped, turning to face him in the beam of the flashlight. "For you to trade away to the next syndicate that offers you a suite in Geneva? You still don't understand. We aren't trying to survive with the money. We are trying to survive *from* the money."
"Quiet," Marcus commanded suddenly, raising a hand.
We froze in the subterranean passage. From behind us, down the dark stairwell we had just descended, came the faint, rhythmic splashing of tactical boots stepping through the water. Three men, moving with synchronized precision.
"They have night optics," Marcus whispered. "They'll close the distance in sixty seconds. Henri didn't make it out of the shop."
A cold ache tightened in my throat. Henri had been Eleanor’s loyal chauffeur before he was our guardian. He had spent thirty years protecting the Vance women from the Vance patriarch, and now he was gone, buried under the rubble of Münstergasse.
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"There's an egress point ahead," Clara said, her voice trembling but determined. "It leads up through the foundation vaults of the Fraumünster church across the bridge. But the iron gate at the water line is secured with a four-pin mechanical lock."
"Then let's move," I said, shoving Arthur forward. "Before they turn this tunnel into our crypt."
