Zurich was clean.
Too clean. The streets were swept. The buildings were old but perfect, like someone polished them every morning. No trash. No graffiti. No noise. Just quiet money and people who looked at you like they knew you didn't belong.
We got a room in a cheap hotel near the train station. Small. One window that looked at a brick wall. Elena spread papers on the bed. Borealis had his pad. Caiman stood by the door, watching the hallway through the peephole.
Maja sat in the corner. Quiet. Watching everything.
"The bank," Elena said. "Kantonal Privatbank. Been there since 1873. They don't advertise. Don't have a website. Don't take new clients unless you're introduced by an existing one."
"Vogler," I said.
"Vogler's been with them for forty years. His family is longer. He has a
