Part 10: The Mask of Paris
The cabin of the jet suddenly seemed to shrink. The cold draft of the air conditioning felt like ice against my sweaty forehead. I stared at the photo on the paper, my fingers pinching the edges so hard the paper tore.
The scar.
Thirteen years ago. The rainy night in Paris. I was there for a convention held by my employer at the time. A chic hotel by the Seine. A man who spoke to me at the bar, a man with a soft voice, a mysterious gaze, and a star-shaped scar on the back of his left hand. I had always thought—because Mark and my sister later convinced me—that that man had been Julian Vance. Julian, the tragic billionaire who died young.
But the photo didn't add up. The man with the scar wasn't Julian.
It was Gabriel. The uncle.
"Mrs. Van Dijk?" Frank looked at me concerned from the aisle. "Is something wrong? You look as pale as a sheet."
I hastily shoved the paper into my pocket and looked at Luuk, who had fallen half asleep next to me. My brain raced at a breakneck speed. If Gabriel was Luuk's true biological father... why had Julian drawn up a will leaving the baby billions? And why was Gabriel trying to undo the will?
It was a web of deceit that went far deeper than a family feud over money.
"Nothing," I rasped out. "Just... fatigue."
Frank nodded, though his eyes remained suspicious. "We're almost there. Keep your belongings handy."
The plane landed smoothly on the runway in Zurich. The doors swung open, and the freezing alpine air hit our faces. At the foot of the stairs, a convoy of three black Mercedes sedans awaited us, flanked by two Swiss police motorcycles.
"Everything is arranged," said Frank as he led us to the middle car. "The bank's management is waiting for us in the main building on Paradeplatz. It's six o'clock in the morning now. The market opens at eight, and before then, the deed must be signed."
We got in. Luuk sat quietly beside me, his hand clutching mine tightly. As the cars drove in a tight formation through the lit, silent streets of Zurich, I looked out the window at the imposing, gray bank buildings standing like impregnable fortresses along the streets.
The car stopped in front of a giant neoclassical building with marble columns: Vance & Cie Private Bankers.
The car doors were opened from the outside by men in sharp, dark suits. Frank stepped out first and motioned to us. We were led through a massively tall hall of gleaming marble, where our footsteps echoed loudly. A private elevator took us to the top floor: the executive level.
At the end of a long hallway lined with paintings of old masters, two heavy oak doors swung open.
In the middle of the giant room, before a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Lake Zurich, stood the man from the photo.
Gabriel Vance.
He wore a dark gray wool tailored suit. His white hair was parted perfectly. As we entered, he slowly turned around. His blue eyes slid over Frank, then over me, and finally settled on Luuk's face.
A shudder ran through the old man's body—it was a fraction of a second, but I saw it.
"Welcome to Zurich, Emma," said Gabriel. His voice was exactly as I remembered it from the bar in Paris thirteen years ago: warm, civilized, and ice-cold at the same time.
"Mr. Vance," Frank said rigidly, stepping forward. "We are here to execute Julian Vance's will. The documents have been verified by the Dutch authorities. We have the boy's original identification with us."
Gabriel laughed softly. He walked slowly toward a large wooden desk upon which lay a thick leather book.
"Frank," Gabriel said without looking at the security chief. "You've done an excellent job. You may wait outside."
Frank hesitated. "My instructions from the trust board are to be present at the signing."
"Your instructions," said Gabriel strictly, placing his left hand—with the star-shaped scar clearly visible—on the desk, "come from me. I am the chairman of the trust board, Frank. Go outside."
Frank looked surprised, but he nodded obediently, stepped back, and closed the heavy doors behind him.
We were alone. Me, Luuk, and the man who had been a ghost for thirteen years.
"Who are you really?" I asked, pushing Luuk behind my back.
Gabriel looked at me, a sad smile on his lips. "You remember now, don't you? That night in Paris."
"You said your name was Julian!" I snapped at him. "You used me! And now you're using your own son!"
Gabriel slowly shook his head. "I didn't use you, Emma. What happened in Paris wasn't a planned crime. It was an escape. An escape from the prison of my own family."
He took a step closer, but I didn't flinch.
"Julian... my nephew... was gravely ill," Gabriel continued, his voice lowering. "He had an incurable blood disease. He knew he didn't have much longer to live. But my sister Helena and her son Victor wanted to keep that secret to prevent the bank's stock price from falling. They forced me to take on Julian's identity on international travels. I was Julian to the outside world."
My head was spinning. He was Julian to the outside world.
"When you became pregnant," Gabriel said, "I knew the child was mine. My biological son. But if the world found out the child wasn't Julian's, Helena would have had the child destroyed to protect the inheritance. So Julian—the real Julian—drew up a will before his death. He legally accepted the child as his own, to give Luuk the protection of the law."
Luuk looked with wide eyes from the old man to me. "Mom... is he my dad?"
Gabriel knelt on the marble parquet, right at eye level with Luuk. The hard banker look completely vanished from his face; only an old, broken man remained.
"I am your father, Luuk," Gabriel whispered, his voice trembling. "And for thirteen years, I had to watch Helena and Victor destroy my family. I couldn't look for you without putting you in mortal danger. But now... now that Helena and Victor are gone..."
He stood up and pointed to the leather book on his desk.
"Sign the papers, Emma," said Gabriel. "Give Luuk his rightful place. And let me pay the debt of thirteen years of lies."
I stared at the book. It all sounded so logical. Salvation. The resolution of a tragedy.
But as I looked toward the edge of the desk, I noticed a small, steady detail on the satellite monitor sitting next to the book.
It was a security camera feed of the street in front of the bank building.
In a black delivery van across Paradeplatz sat a woman. An old woman with tight gray hair, a bandage around her head, and a silver pistol in her lap.
Helena Vance wasn't dead.
And on the monitor's small screen beneath her image, red letters typed out:
INITIATE ATTACK PROTOCOL - 08:00 AM.
It was ten to eight.
