The city of Geneva sat like a cold, silent diamond under the heavy shadow of the Alps. I drove through the winding, rain slicked streets, the stolen SUV feeling like a moving target in a city that specialized in keeping secrets. My hands were cramped, my knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel for six hours straight, but the adrenaline in my veins was far from fading. It was the only thing keeping me upright.
I finally reached the address Silas had given me a minimalist estate made of grey glass and reinforced steel, hidden behind a fortress of black poplar trees. This was the sanctuary of Othman Njaidi.
I stepped out into the courtyard, the air so cold it felt like breathing in broken glass. The only sound was the rhythmic splash of a fountain in the center of the yard. Followi
