The winter snow fell softly over the classical cobblestones of Geneva.
Across the wide plaza of the Place Neuve, the gilded facade of the Grand Opera House glittered with festive floodlights. Directly across the promenade stood the fortress-like marble headquarters of the Lombard-Vane Swiss Private Bank, its neoclassical limestone pillars draped in dark velvet banners bearing the gold-leaf crest of the Maison de Lumiere.
On the heated second-floor terrace of the bank’s private salon, four outdoor gas heaters radiated a gentle warmth.
Baron Victor Julian von Lombard-Vane leaned against the polished stone balustrade, swirling a crystal flute of vintage champagne. Beside him stood Lord Arthur Vance, Director Dupont, and Baroness Richter, all dressed in bespoke evening capes, white silk neckties, and imported Russian sable stoles.
Standing right beside the bankers, puffing on thick Havana cigars, were Zhao Kai and Liu Yan.
Zhao Kai wore an oversized camel-hair coat with a heavy gold watch chain dangling from his vest. His face was flushed with expensive whiskey, his voice slurred with fawning desperation.
“Baron Lombard-Vane,” Zhao Kai said, blowing a cloud of gray smoke into the freezing air. “You really showed those Eastern peasants what real power looks like. In our homeland, Lin Mo thought he was an emperor because he bought a few factories and handed out free wontons to street sweepers. But what does a mountain parvenu know about Swiss banking?”
