The private helipad on the eastern bank of Lake Geneva was slick with icy autumn rain by 3:00 PM.
Across the dark, glass-like water, the snow-capped peaks of the Mont Blanc massif towered into a thick blanket of slate-gray clouds. The air was razor-sharp and freezing, smelling of pine needles, wet granite, and high-altitude ozone.
As the twin rotors of the AgustaWestland spun down into a low, rhythmic whine, four private security vehicles swept onto the tarmac in a tight defensive formation.
I stepped out of the aircraft first, my midnight-black wool trench coat belted tight over a tailored charcoal wool suit, my dark hair pinned into a flawless, intricate knot. My leather-gloved hands held a sleek, titanium-cased encrypted satellite drive containing the real-time debt architecture of t
