Geneva is three hours by air and thirty years by every other measure.
We land just after noon. Four of us, Faye, her mother, Nadia, and me. Reth wanted to come, but I told him the compound needed him more than I needed another person at a table already crowded with history. He accepted it with the quiet professionalism of a man who disagreed completely.
The address leads us into the old city. Stone buildings. Narrow streets. Window boxes and polished brass and the careful civility of a place that has been stable for centuries. The kind of street that does not need to announce its wealth because it has never doubted it.
The foundation occupies the second floor of a residential building.
Irina Laurent.
The name is printed plainly beside the bell.
No titles. No security presence. No per
