The Cologny hangar was a hollow shell of corrugated steel and salt-crusted concrete, smelling of jet fuel and the stagnant, icy breath of Lake Geneva. Outside, the Alpine wind shrieked against the metal siding, a rhythmic drumming that masked the approach of anything short of a tank division.
Seraphina stood at the center of the floor, the red emergency lights of the Eurocopter casting her shadow long across the oil-stained pavement. She wasn't looking at the maps anymore. She was looking at the three figures standing in the pool of light near the service entrance.
"You're late," Seraphina said, her voice a flat, dangerous vibration.
"Neutrality takes time to navigate, Director," a man replied, stepping forward. He was gaunt, his skin the color of old parchment, wearing a suit that cost
