The late September air descending upon the Goldcoast of Lake Zurich was crisp, cool, and rich with the damp scent of alpine cedar, crushed oak leaves, and the still, pristine waters stretching toward the horizon.
High above the eastern shore, the private lakeside estate of the Villa Hasliberg stood framed against the darkened outline of the distant Glarus Alps. Constructed from dark-hued Swiss granite, polished bronze, and sweeping glass, the estate served as our primary private residence whenever operations pulled us away from the mountain fortress at Bürgenstock. Below the stone-paved terrace, the lake lay like a mirror of black glass, reflecting the cold, brilliant pinpricks of the stars above.
I stood near the edge of the cantilevered marble balustrade, holding a crystal flute of vin
