Chapter 191. Arrival in the Lion’s Den

Geneva in the pre-dawn was a ghost of itself—a city of mist-shrouded spires and still, dark water. The private train carriage was decoupled and shunted into a secure, windowless hangar at a military-grade rail yard. The transition from the moving sanctuary to the static stage was jarring. The air in the hangar was cold, smelling of diesel and concrete.

Leon was waiting with a new convoy—not the sleek black cars of corporate royalty, but two identical, armour-plated Renault vans, the kind used by Swiss banks to transport bullion. They were anonymous, impregnable, and fast. Maya was already inside the lead van, her screens alive with feeds from the summit venue.

“The narrative is holding,” she reported as they clambered in. “The leaked tension is being picked up by the financial gossip blogs. Dr. Reinhart’s monitoring channels are showing increased interest. She’s taken the bait.”

Sabatine gave a tight nod, his senses already expanding to fill the new, hostile environment. The kiss on the train was a sealed memory, a fuel cell now buried deep. The operative was fully present, his eyes scanning the empty streets as the vans moved out with a police escort towards the Palexpo convention centre.

The Global Tech Security Summit was the world’s most exclusive gathering of its kind. Not a public spectacle, but a closed-door, invitation-only convening of fewer than three hundred individuals: the CEOs of the Fortune 50 tech and finance firms, the heads of G7 cyber-security agencies, a handful of crown princes and chancellors, and their most trusted advisors. It was a place where the future of digital sovereignty was bartered in whispers. And it was the most heavily secured non-governmental event on the planet.

As they approached the Palexpo complex, the layers of security became visible like the rings of a fortified tree. Outer perimeter: Swiss Army patrols with assault rifles and bomb-sniffing dogs. Middle ring: private security details in dark suits, communicating via encrypted burst transmissions, their eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses. Inner sanctum: biometric checkpoints, full-body scanners that could detect non-metallic explosives, and AI-driven facial recognition cross-referenced against a live global threat database.

Their convoy was waved through the outer rings—Anton’s credentials, even tarnished, still held weight here, and his security team’s clearances were impeccable, forged in the fires of the blackout crisis. But at the final checkpoint, the glass-and-steel entrance to the main conference hall, they had to disembark.

This was the moment. The transition from the mobile fortress to the exposed ground.

Sabatine stepped out first, his body a subtle shield between Anton and the imposing facade. The air was crisp, cold, and thick with invisible tension. He could feel the weight of a hundred hidden cameras, the scrutiny of a dozen rival security details assessing the infamous Anton Rogers and his “problematic” protector. He kept his posture relaxed but ready, his eyes doing a constant, slow sweep of the plaza—the rooftops, the windows, the crowds of aides and junior executives milling under the strict watch of guards.

Anton emerged beside him, straightening his suit jacket. He looked every inch the resurgent titan—calm, composed, a faint, unreadable smile on his lips. But Sabatine, standing close enough to feel the minute tremor in the air around him, knew better. The fear was there, honed into a razor-sharp focus. Anton’s hand brushed against his, a fleeting, deliberate contact. I’m here. With you.

They moved through the final security gauntlet. Anton placed his palm on a scanner, looked into a retina reader, submitted to a pat-down by an expressionless guard whose hands were swift and professional. Sabatine underwent the same, his weapons temporarily relinquished to a secure locker—a rule even he couldn't bypass. He was issued a summit security badge that granted him access only to the periphery of the main hall and Anton’s private green room. He was being deliberately separated, boxed into a prescribed role. It was standard protocol, but it felt like a prelude.

Inside, the Palexpo was a cathedral of cold, modern power. Vast, soaring ceilings, polished granite floors that echoed with the hushed conversations of the powerful. The lighting was subdued, dramatic, leaving pools of shadow in the corners. Every corridor seemed to lead to another security checkpoint. Every smiling aide had the assessing eyes of a potential threat.

Sabatine’s instincts screamed. This wasn't just security; it was a maze. A perfect hunting ground for someone who knew the prey’s psychological profile. The Portraitist would have studied the floor plans, the schedule, the pressure points. A crowded corridor during a session change. A private meeting room booked under a false name. A moment of forced solitude.

He stayed glued to Anton’s side, a half-step behind and to the left, his presence a constant, silent declaration. He didn't speak unless necessary, his communication with Leon and Maya limited to pre-arranged signals via a sub-dermal earpiece. He watched the faces in the crowd—not for outright hostility, but for the wrong kind of interest. The gaze that lingered a second too long. The aide who seemed to be tracking their progress without appearing to.

They reached the private green room reserved for keynote speakers. It was a spacious, elegantly appointed suite with a monitor showing the main hall stage, a coffee machine, and a sofa. A sanctuary, and another potential trap.

“Thirty minutes until you’re on,” Sabatine said, his voice low as he conducted a swift, professional sweep of the room. He checked for listening devices, for any sign of tampering with the water carafe, the monitor feed. It was clean. Too clean.

“The stage manager will come for me,” Anton said, pouring a glass of water with a steady hand. “I’ll be escorted directly to the wings. You won't be able to follow past the security line at the hall entrance.”

“I know,” Sabatine said, turning to face him. The plan required this moment of separation. It was the vulnerability they had to offer, the bait in their own trap. “Stay with the escorts. Don't deviate. Don't accept anything to drink or eat from anyone, even if it’s a summit official. The moment you step off that stage, you come straight back here. No interviews, no handshakes.”

Anton met his gaze, his own eyes fierce. “And you? While I’m up there?”

“I’ll be watching. And hunting.” Sabatine’s smile was a thin, dangerous thing. “If the Portraitist makes her move, it’ll be when I’m forced to be a spectator. She’ll think I’m powerless. She’s wrong.”

A soft knock at the door. The stage manager, an efficient-looking woman with a headset. “Mr. Rogers? Five minutes to stage a call.”

This was it. The point of no return.

Anton set down his water glass. He stepped close to Sabatine, not for a kiss, but to adjust his tie—a gesture for the watching stage manager, a performance of normalcy. As his fingers fumbled with the silk, he leaned in, his lips brushing Sabatine’s ear.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words a private weapon against the coming trial. “Now let’s go win our future.”

He turned and followed the stage manager out the door, leaving Sabatine alone in the green room.

The silence was immediate and profound. Sabatine moved to the monitor, his eyes fixed on the empty stage. The lion’s den was not the conference hall. It was this entire building, this entire summit. And the lion was not a person, but a pervasive, intelligent malice that knew them intimately. He could feel its breath in every shadowed corridor, its gaze in every lens.

He tapped his earpiece. “Leon. I’m static in the green room. Anton is en route to the stage. All eyes on the feed. Maya, anything on the Portraitist’s network?”

“Increased activity,” Maya’s voice came back, tense. “She’s triangulating. I think she’s in the building.”

Sabatine’s blood ran cold, then hot. Good. Let her come. Let her think she had them where she wanted them—Anton exposed on stage, Sabatine trapped in a box.

He stood before the monitor, a sentinel in an empty room, every sense extended into the digital and physical web of the Palexpo. The arrival was over. The hunt was now. And in the lion’s den, he was no longer the protector on the perimeter. He was the predator in the centre of the maze, waiting for the true enemy to show her face.

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