The Peace Palace's guest wing had a single point of vulnerability—a service elevator that led to a subterranean garage used by catering staff. Helena discovered it during a restless hour of pacing, her legal mind mapping the building's security layout with the precision of a cartographer. She returned to Leo with a folded blueprint she had photocopied from the clerk's office, her eyes alight with a dangerous spark.
"We leave at dawn," she said, spreading the blueprint on the small dining table. "The garage has a side exit that opens onto a public alley. From there, we take a pre-arranged taxi to Rotterdam—a friend of mine from the ICC has a private jet fueled and waiting. He owes me a favor from the Celenia arbitration. He will fly us to Zurich. We land at Kloten, take a train to the city center, and walk to the bank. The safety deposit box is at the Schweizerische Kreditbank, on Bahnhofstrasse. Obasi gave me the account number and the access codes before we parted. I have them committed to memory."
Leo studied the blueprint. "What about surveillance? Meridian will have eyes on every exit from the Peace Palace. They know we are here. The hearing in 36 hours—they will expect us to prepare, not to flee."
Helena nodded. "That is why we are not fleeing. We are creating a diversion. I have arranged for a decoy—a court clerk who resembles you in stature and build, wearing your jacket and a hood, to leave through the main entrance at 6 AM and take a tram toward the city center. That will draw any watchers. We will slip out through the service elevator ten minutes earlier. The timing is tight, but it will work."
Leo packed his backpack—the clean clothes from Okonkwo, the satellite phone, the portable charger, and the USB drive, which he wore around his neck on a lanyard. He had not let it leave his skin since the hearing. He also pocketed a small Swiss army knife he had found in the apartment's utility drawer—a pathetic weapon, but better than nothing.
At 5:45 AM, they left the apartment. The corridor was empty, the surveillance camera's red light blinking steadily but unmonitored at this hour—the night shift was understaffed, a fact Helena had confirmed through casual conversation with a tired guard. They descended the service elevator, its cables groaning with age, and emerged into the dimly lit garage. A single sedan was parked near the exit—a grey Opel that Helena had arranged via a burner text. The keys were under the mat.
They drove through the empty streets of The Hague, the sky a pale violet above the spires and canals. The taxi handoff at Rotterdam was seamless—a nondescript Mercedes with a driver who did not speak, who simply drove them to a private airstrip where a Learjet waited. The pilot, a grizzled man named Daan, gave them a curt nod and taxied onto the runway within minutes. The flight to Zurich was short—barely an hour—and Leo spent it staring out the window at the patchwork of European farmland, his mind churning.
They landed at 8:15 AM. The train to the city center was crowded with commuters; they blended in, two tired travelers among hundreds. Leo wore a cap and sunglasses; Helena had changed into a conservative blazer and carried a leather briefcase that contained nothing but a legal pad and a pen. They walked the final block to the Schweizerische Kreditbank, a neoclassical edifice with marble columns and a bronze door that gleamed like a mirror.
Inside, the bank was hushed, its vaulted ceilings echoing with the soft shuffle of feet. Helena approached the reception desk and presented a key card—the one Obasi had given her in Lisbon, though Leo had never seen it. The receptionist, a young woman with immaculate hair, scanned it and nodded. "Box 847—your access code, please?" Helena recited a string of digits from memory. The receptionist's brow furrowed. "That code was updated three days ago. The new code is required. Do you have the new code?"
Helena's face remained composed, but Leo saw the faintest tremor in her hand. She said, "I was not informed of an update. Can you verify the account holder's identity by alternative means?"
The receptionist hesitated, then said, "Please wait." She disappeared into a back office. Helena leaned close to Leo and whispered, "Obasi did not mention an update. This is either a bank policy change—or a trap. Be ready to move." Leo tensed, his hand brushing the knife in his pocket.
The receptionist returned with a manager—a tall, thin man with wire-rimmed glasses and a practiced smile. He said, "Ms. Marchetti, Mr. Voss, we have been expecting you. The account holder, Mr. Obasi, authorized a change of access protocol six days ago, and he left a sealed envelope for you. However, I must inform you that the envelope can only be opened in the presence of a bank officer and a notary public. We have a notary on staff. Would you like to proceed?"
Helena exchanged a glance with Leo. The offer was plausible—banks often required notarized access for sensitive boxes. But the timing was suspicious. Leo said, "We'll proceed. But we want to see the envelope first."
The manager led them to a private room with a mahogany table and a secure intercom. He returned with a sealed envelope bearing Obasi's name in a script that Leo recognized from the Lisbon apartment. He broke the seal. Inside was a single sheet of paper, handwritten: "The box is empty. I retrieved the contract three days ago. I am in hiding. Follow the second dead drop—the one in the Reykjavik greenhouse, which you never fully searched. The contract is there. Trust no one in Zurich. —K.O."
Leo's heart sank. Obasi had taken the contract from the bank before the greenhouse explosion. But the greenhouse had been destroyed—or had it? He remembered the fireball, the collapsing dome. But he also remembered that only the main building had burned; the surrounding storage sheds and geothermal tunnels might have survived. He turned to Helena, who was reading over his shoulder. She whispered, "The greenhouse was a decoy. Obasi used it to hide the contract, but he told us the truth in a roundabout way. We need to get back to Iceland. Now."
The manager cleared his throat. "Will you be accessing the box, or should we close the account?"
Leo spoke before Helena could. "We will not access it. But we need a copy of the transaction log for this box—all visits in the past 30 days. That is our right as authorized representatives." The manager's smile faltered, but he nodded and requested a printout. The log showed only one visit: three days prior, by a man matching Obasi's description. No other entries. That confirmed Obasi had retrieved the contract and left the note.
They left the bank without incident, but Leo could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. A man in a dark coat lingered at a newsstand across the street, not reading. A black van was parked near the tram stop, its engine idling. Helena grabbed Leo's arm and steered him into a pedestrian tunnel that led to a busy shopping arcade. They weaved through crowds, ducked into a department store, and exited through a service alley. The watcher did not follow—or if he did, he was too skilled to be seen.
They boarded a train back to the airport, their breath short. Helena booked tickets to Keflavík on the next flight—a red-eye that left at 10 PM, giving them a window of nine hours. They spent the time in a quiet café near the airport, rotating between coffee and nervous silence. Leo used the satellite phone to call Okonkwo's emergency line. She answered on the first ring.
"The contract is in Iceland," he said. "Obasi moved it from the Zurich box to the greenhouse before it was destroyed. We need transport and extraction. Can you arrange a team?"
Okonkwo's voice was crisp. "I have a resource in Reykjavík—a former fund analyst who runs a tour company as a cover. His name is Jón. I will text you his contact. He can provide a vehicle and local intel. But be careful—Meridian has been active in Iceland since the greenhouse event. They may have planted surveillance there. Do not go to the main site directly. Approach from the geothermal field on foot. I will have a drone operator provide overwatch. You have 18 hours before the ICJ hearing. Use them wisely."
The flight to Keflavík was uncomfortable—a cramped seat, a screaming infant, and a headwind that added an hour to the journey. Leo slept fitfully, his dreams a collage of white rooms, red watermarks, and the face of the man who claimed to be Elias Vane. He woke with a start as the wheels touched down on the lava runway.
Jón met them at arrivals—a burly man with a thick red beard and a worn wool sweater. He drove a modified Land Rover that smelled of moss and diesel. He said little, only confirming that the greenhouse ruins had been cordoned off by police after the explosion, but that the geothermal tunnels beneath it were still accessible via a maintenance hatch three hundred meters to the north. "I can drop you at the hatch. The tunnel runs directly under the greenhouse foundation. The fire did not reach the lower levels—the heat from the geothermal vents actually kept the ground temperature stable. If Obasi hid something down there, it is still there."
They drove through the mossy lava fields, the grey sky pressing down like a lid. Jón stopped at a rusted metal grate set into the ground, half-hidden by a clump of dwarf birch. He pried it open with a crowbar, revealing a ladder descending into a warm, steamy darkness. "The tunnel is about 200 meters long. Take this—" he handed them a pair of headlamps, "—and follow the pipe that runs along the left wall. It will lead you to the foundation of the main building. The fire damage above may have collapsed some debris, but the crawlspace under the floor should be accessible. Good luck."
Leo descended first, his headlamp cutting through the mist. The ladder was slick with condensation, but he reached the bottom without slipping. Helena followed, her breathing steady. The tunnel was narrow, barely wide enough for two, and the air was thick with the smell of sulfur and wet stone. They walked in silence, their footsteps echoing. After ten minutes, they reached a tangle of rebar and charred concrete—the collapsed floor of the greenhouse. Leo squeezed through a gap and found himself in a low crawlspace, the ground still warm from the geothermal pipes.
He scanned the area with his light. There—wedged between two pipes, wrapped in a fireproof sleeve—was a slim metal cylinder, identical to the one he had retrieved from the tracking station. He pulled it out, his heart pounding. It was sealed with a screw cap. He unscrewed it and withdrew a rolled document—the original Annex B, on heavy vellum, with Silas Durand's wet ink signature at the bottom. The ink was slightly smudged, but unmistakable. He showed it to Helena. Her eyes glistened.
"We have it," she breathed. "Now we need to get out and get to The Hague."
They retraced their steps, emerging from the hatch into the grey Icelandic afternoon. Jón was waiting, but his expression was grim. "We have a problem," he said. "A vehicle approached the main road while you were underground. I saw it through binoculars—a black van with no plates. It stopped at the greenhouse cordon. Two men got out and started searching the ruins. They are working their way toward the north side—toward this hatch. We have maybe five minutes."
Leo and Helena scrambled into the Land Rover. Jón floored the accelerator, spraying gravel. The black van appeared in the rearview mirror, giving chase. The road was rough, winding through lava fields. Jón drove with the desperation of a man who had done this before—he took a sharp turn onto an unpaved track, bounced over a ridge, and plunged into a shallow river. The van followed, but its clearance was lower; it got hung up on a rock. Jón accelerated, and within minutes, the van was a distant speck.
They reached the airport with minutes to spare. Jón dropped them at a private charter hangar—Okonkwo had arranged a turboprop. The flight to The Hague was silent, the contract secure in Leo's inner pocket. They landed at 6 AM, just in time for the hearing. Helena reviewed the legal procedure in the car. Leo clutched the vellum, feeling its texture under his fingertips. He was ready.
But as they walked into the ICJ's main hall, a court officer intercepted them. "Mr. Voss, Ms. Marchetti—the hearing has been moved up. It begins in ten minutes. The man claiming to be Elias Vane is already in the courtroom. So is Silas Durand. They are seated together." The officer paused, his face pale. "One more thing. The forensic expert who examined your USB drive has recanted his testimony. He claims he was coerced by the Celenian Fund. He is now a witness for the defense."
Leo felt the ground shift. Durand had turned the expert. The evidence was no longer unimpeachable. But he looked at the contract in his pocket—the original, the wet signature, the only piece of physical truth that could not be digitally fabricated or coerced away. He whispered to Helena: "Let them come. I have the only thing that matters."
They walked into the chamber, and the doors closed behind them.
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