Chapter 35 - The Verdict Before the International Court
The alpine highway winding up toward Mont Blanc was a ribbon of ice and fog.
Henrik Roth sat in the rear leather seat of his armored Maybach limousine, watching the mountain snow whip past the tinted glass. He was seventy years old, with thin, aristocratic features, silver hair combed straight back, and a face that had never felt the sting of consequences.
Beside him sat his legal counsel, sweating profusely despite the freezing altitude.
"The helicopter is idling on the pad at the Chamonix chalet, Herr Roth," the lawyer stammered. "Flight clearance to Milan has been logged. Once we enter Italian airspace, our maritime vessel is under Panamanian registry. The Americans cannot board without an act of war."
"The Americans are children," Roth sneered, swirling an amber glass of scotch. "They think morality governs the world. They think a few dead soldiers in a desert twenty years ago matter to the international banking system. David Bennett was a fool, and his daughter is simply an annoying dog barking at the gates of an empire."
Suddenly, the limousine’s driver slammed on the brakes.
SCREECH!
The heavy car slid sideways across the icy pavement, coming to a halt twenty feet from the entrance of the high alpine tunnel.
Blocking the tunnel was not a snowplow.
Hovering fifteen feet above the road, its rotor wash whipping the snow into a blinding white hurricane, was an unmarked Eurocopter utility helicopter bearing the insignia of the Swiss Federal Judicial Police.
And standing in the center of the frozen highway, alone, wearing her dark combat overcoat with the silver eagles gleaming on her shoulders, stood Colonel Ruby Bennett.
The Maybach’s doors flew open. Roth’s two personal bodyguards stepped out into the snow, drawing their weapons.
"Put them down," a voice boomed from the cliffs above.
Stepping out from behind the snowdrifts were twenty Swiss tactical police officers in white winter camouflage, their sniper rifles locked onto the guards' chests with bright green laser dots.
The guards looked at the mountain ridge, looked at the helicopter hovering overhead, and slowly placed their weapons onto the hood of the car, raising their hands in surrender.
Roth climbed out of the vehicle, his expensive cashmere overcoat fluttering in the bitter wind. He gripped a gold-topped cane, trying to maintain his aristocratic sneer, but his thin lips were trembling with cold and fury.
"You have no jurisdiction here, Colonel Bennett!" Roth screamed over the roar of the helicopter blades. "I am a Swiss citizen! I am protected by international commercial charters! You cannot touch me!"
I walked toward him, my boots crunching rhythmically in the fresh snow, stopping two paces away.
I reached into my overcoat pocket.
I didn't pull out a gun.
I pulled out a blue document bearing the gold seal of the International Court of Justice at The Hague and an Interpol Red Notice signed by the Swiss Minister of Justice himself.
"Henrik Roth," I spoke, my voice cutting through the freezing alpine wind with the absolute clarity of an executioner’s bell. "You are under arrest for crimes against humanity, financing unlawful wartime insurgencies, and the premeditated murder of Captain David Bennett and seventy-four allied service personnel."
Roth took a step back, his cane slipping in the slush. "This is an outrage! My lawyers will have this dismissed within an hour!"
"Your lawyers are currently being detained in Zurich, Herr Roth," another voice called out.
Catherine Vance walked out from the tactical police line, holding a set of official judicial binders.
"The Liechtenstein accounts have been unsealed," Catherine said, looking at the man who had corrupted her father. "Every wire transfer you signed, every shipment of defective ceramic armor, and every kickback you funneled to Marcus Vance is laid out in black and white. You are done, Henrik. Your empire is being seized to fund the medical care of the soldiers you maimed."
Roth dropped his gold cane. It clattered against the ice, rolling into the snowdrift.
He looked at me—at the young woman standing before him with the green eyes of David Bennett—and he saw the ghost that had pursued him across a quarter of a century.
"Who are you?" Roth whispered, his voice cracking into a pathetic, broken whimper.
I reached up, pulled my father's silver dog tags out from my collar, and let them catch the cold, pale sunlight breaking over the peak of Mont Blanc.
May you like
"I am the little girl who returned the wallet," I said softly.
Two Swiss federal officers stepped forward, clicked steel handcuffs around Roth’s wrists, and led the shivering billionaire toward the waiting police transport.
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