The house sat above Lake Geneva, accessed by a single road that wound through seven kilometers of private vineyard. Silas arrived at three in the morning. He drove himself, which he had not done in years, and his hands felt awkward on the wheel. The electronic gate recognized the car and opened without a sound. Inside, the compound was dark except for the entrance lights, which he had disabled remotely before leaving London.
He walked through the rooms alone. The house had six bedrooms, a conference chamber built into the hillside, and walls lined with stone that dampened every frequency except the ones they explicitly allowed. Silas checked the windows. He checked the vents. He checked the jamming equipment in the utility closet and found it humming at the correct pitch. Then he poured a glass of water and waited.
