The evidence from Anton Voss's cabin filled three vans and took four days to catalogue. Sabine and her team worked around the clock in the warehouse, sorting through decades of research notes, genetic profiles, and correspondence that mapped the entire history of the gene-editing program. The photographs of the children—dozens of them, their innocent faces staring out from the walls of the basement—had been carefully removed and scanned into the database. Each image was now a potential lead, a thread that might lead back to the man who had created them.
But Anton Voss himself remained a ghost.
Maeve stood at the window of the warehouse on the fourth morning, watching the gray October rain streak down the glass. The capital had settled into an uneasy autumn, the celebrations of the Vane verdict fading into the mundane rhythms of daily life. But for the prosecution team, there was no respite. Every day brought new discoveries, and every discovery raised new questions.
Isolde appeared beside her, a sheaf of documents in her hand. "Sabine found something in the correspondence files. Letters between Anton Voss and a woman named Margot Hale. Do you recognize the name?"
Maeve shook her head.
"Margot Hale was a midwife. She worked at a private clinic in the southern province until about twenty years ago, when she lost her license and disappeared from the public record. Sound familiar?"
Maeve pulled out her notebook and wrote: "Brigid Clery."
"Exactly. Brigid lost her license and went underground, helping women escape the surrogacy rings. Margot Hale did the opposite. She went underground to help build them. According to these letters, she was Anton's primary assistant during the early years of the Meridian Project. She recruited women for the gene-editing trials. She managed the surrogates at the northern facility. And she's still alive."
"Where?" Maeve wrote.
"That's what we need to find out. Sabine traced her last known address to a village in the northern province called Halton Cross. It's about thirty miles from the Meridian Research Institute. If Margot is still there, she might know where Anton is hiding."
The drive to Halton Cross took five hours, through landscapes that grew steadily more remote and inhospitable. The northern province was a region of ancient forests and dark lakes, its villages small and insular, its people suspicious of outsiders. Margaret drove with her usual steady confidence, but Maeve could see the tension in her shoulders. They were far from the capital now, far from the protection of Swift's task force and the scrutiny of the international press.
Niamh had stayed behind at Margaret's house, her pregnancy too advanced for such a long journey. Anya had stayed with her, along with two of Swift's officers for protection. But Isolde had insisted on coming. She had been chasing Anton Voss's shadow for months, and she was not going to stop now.
"Halton Cross," Margaret announced, pointing to a cluster of stone buildings huddled around a narrow crossroads. The village was small, barely more than a hamlet, its streets empty in the gray afternoon light. A single pub stood at the crossroads, its sign creaking in the wind. A church tower rose above the rooftops, its bell silent.
"There's a cottage on the edge of the village," Isolde said, consulting Sabine's notes. "Number Twelve, Mill Lane. That's where Hale was last registered."
They found Mill Lane at the northern edge of the village, a narrow track lined with ancient oak trees. Number Twelve was a stone cottage with a slate roof and a garden overgrown with brambles. Smoke was rising from the chimney. Someone was home.
Isolde knocked on the door. It was opened by a woman in her seventies, her white hair pulled back into a bun, her sharp eyes watchful. She looked at Isolde, then at Maeve, then at Margaret. Her expression did not change.
"You're from the capital," she said. "I've been expecting someone. You'd better come in."
The interior of the cottage was small but comfortable, a fire crackling in the hearth, the walls lined with bookshelves. Margot Hale gestured for them to sit and then settled into a worn armchair by the fire.
"I saw the trial on the television," she said. "I wondered when someone would trace the operation back to me. It took longer than I expected."
"You're not going to deny your involvement?" Isolde asked.
"What would be the point? The evidence is overwhelming. I've spent twenty years helping Anton Voss build his dream. I'm not proud of what I did, but I'm not going to lie about it now."
"Then tell us about Anton. Where is he?"
Margot was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was heavy with memory.
"I met Anton at a medical conference thirty years ago. He was brilliant, charismatic, full of ideas that seemed impossible. He believed that genetic engineering could eliminate disease, extend human lifespan, create a better future for all of humanity. I was young and idealistic, and I believed him."
"And the surrogacy operation? The gene-editing program?"
"That came later. Anton's ideas were rejected by the scientific community, but he found allies in unexpected places. Aldric Vane offered him funding. Viktor Rourke offered him protection. And Anton offered them something in return: a way to create perfect children for the wealthy and powerful."
Isolde leaned forward. "Where is he now?"
Margot looked into the fire. "I don't know. I haven't seen Anton in ten years. He disappeared from the Meridian facility without warning, just as the construction was nearing completion. He left everything behind: his research, his journals, his photographs. I thought he might have been killed, but there was no body, no evidence of foul play. He simply vanished."
"And Ingrid Voss? Did she know where he went?"
"Ingrid was as bewildered as the rest of us. She and Anton had been divorced for years, but they still spoke regularly. His disappearance devastated her. She threw herself into the work to cope, managing the Thistle Cay operation with the same cold efficiency she had always shown. But she was never the same after Anton left."
Maeve pulled out her notebook and wrote a question, holding it up for Isolde to see: "Why did he leave?"
Isolde read the words and relayed the question.
Margot shook her head slowly. "I've asked myself that question for ten years. The only answer that makes sense is that Anton saw what was coming. He saw that the operation was becoming too large to hide, that the risks were growing, that eventually someone would expose it. He was a true believer in genetic optimization, but he was not a fool. He knew when to walk away."
"Or he was eliminated," Isolde said. "By Rourke, or by someone else who saw him as a threat."
"That's possible. Anton made enemies as easily as he made allies. His obsession with the gene-editing program alienated people who might otherwise have supported him. If someone decided he was more of a liability than an asset, they might have removed him."
"Do you have any idea where he might have gone? Any place he talked about, any refuge he might have used?"
Margot considered. "There was one place he mentioned, years ago. A research station in the far north, beyond the mountains. He called it the Sanctuary. He said it was where he would go if he ever needed to disappear completely. But I don't know where it is. He never told me, and I never asked."
The room fell silent. Outside, the rain had stopped, and the afternoon sun was breaking through the clouds. Maeve looked at the fire, at the dancing flames, at the woman who had spent twenty years helping to build a system of exploitation and was now facing the consequences of her choices.
Isolde stood. "Thank you for your honesty, Ms. Hale. We'll be in touch if we have more questions."
Margot looked up at her. "When you find Anton, if you find him, tell him that I'm sorry. Tell him that I wish I had walked away when I still could."
Isolde nodded. "I will."
They returned to the capital in the gathering darkness, the headlights of Margaret's car cutting through the fog that had descended over the northern roads. Maeve sat in the passenger seat, her notebook open in her lap. She had written a single word: "Sanctuary."
"The Sanctuary," Isolde said, reading her thoughts. "If it exists, it's not on any map. Not in any registry. Anton Voss spent ten years building a place where he could disappear completely. Finding it could take years."
"Then we start now," Maeve wrote. "Sabine can search satellite imagery. Swift can reach out to contacts in the northern province. Someone must know where it is."
Isolde nodded slowly. "We'll find it. Whatever it takes."
The lights of the capital appeared on the horizon, a constellation of gold against the dark sky. And somewhere beyond the mountains, hidden in the frozen wilderness of the far north, the Sanctuary was waiting.
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