The silence of the Swiss Alps was not the peaceful kind; it was the heavy, suffocating silence of a grave. Moreau did not disappear with the theatrical flair of a fallen titan. There were no flashing blue lights reflecting off the Lake Geneva waters, no grim-faced agents in windbreakers hauling him through a gauntlet of shouting reporters.
Charles Grey had learned long ago that a public arrest was a mistake. If you put a man like Moreau on trial, you gave him a microphone. You gave him a chance to wear a suit, look into a camera, and lie until his lies became a political movement. Martyrdom creates followers. It gives the rot a name and a face to rally behind.
Charles preferred erasure.
The truth of Moreau’s life was now contained within a sealed, soundproof room beneath a private aviat
