Chapter 14 - The Swiss Emissary
A week after the court hearing, the spring thaw had arrived in full, turning the harbor waters into deep, shimmering sapphire. The shipyard was humming with work. The sound of pneumatic wrenches, welding torches, and diesel engines felt like music after the suffocating silence of the Vale estate.
I was in my father’s restored corner office overlooking the slips when my receptionist buzzed the intercom.
"Mrs. Bennett? There is a gentleman here from Zurich. He says he has an appointment with the managing director of Vance-Corbin’s regional interest."
I looked out the window. Down in the parking lot, a sleek black Mercedes with tinted windows was idling quietly next to the line of dockworker pickups.
"Send him up, Sarah," I said, reaching for the intercom button to alert Nathan on the shop floor. "And tell Nathan to come to the executive landing."
Two minutes later, a tall, impeccably groomed man in his late fifties stepped into the office. He wore a cashmere overcoat over a bespoke charcoal suit, carrying a slim leather portfolio. His hair was iron-gray, his steel-blue eyes cold and assessing.
"Mrs. Vale," he said, speaking with a clipped, precise European cadence.
"It is Grace Bennett," I replied coldly, remaining seated behind my father’s desk. "And you are in the private offices of Bennett Maritime."
"Of course," he said, bowing his head an inch without the slightest hint of warmth. "My name is Henrik Vance. Senior director of the Vance-Corbin Group."
Nathan entered through the side door, grease on his forearms, a heavy steel spanner hanging from his work belt. He didn't say a word; he simply leaned his massive frame against the door jamb, his arms crossed over his chest.
Henrik Vance did not even flinch. He placed his portfolio on the desk, unzipped it, and slid a single document across the polished oak.
"We have no interest in Mr. Preston Vale’s domestic theatrics," Vance said plainly. "His personal brutalities were an embarrassment and an operational failure. He was hired to secure terminal access, not to make international headlines by assaulting his pregnant spouse in front of seventy witnesses."
"Then why are you here?" I demanded.
"Because Mr. Vale was carrying fifty million dollars in bearer bonds belonging to our consortium," Vance stated, his voice dropping into a flat, deadly whisper. "When your brothers emptied his vault on Ocean Drive, those instruments were not listed on the public court inventory. We know they are not with the federal marshals."
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"We don't have your bonds," I said evenly.
Henrik Vance smiled—a thin, bloodless curve of the lips. "Mrs. Bennett, you have your father’s harbor, and you have your child. If you wish to keep both intact, I suggest you look through Mr. Vale’s private caches once more. You have fourteen days before our board decides to collect the principal through alternative maritime means."
