Chapter 19 - THE VOICE IN THE RECEIVER
The SUV tore through the wet perimeter roads surrounding Teterboro Airport, trailing twin sprays of grey water.
Through the chain-link fence, the silhouette of a sleek matte-black Gulfstream G650 stood parked on the private apron.
Its twin jet engines were already spooling up, high-pitched whines cutting through the drumming rain.
Two black Mercedes sedans were parked at the foot of the mobile boarding stairs.
Through the rainy window, Christian saw Elena Rousseau guiding a hooded, trembling figure in a grey detention sweater toward the steps.
It was Clara.
Behind them, leaning on his ivory cane, Arthur Sterling-Vane watched the boarding process with absolute authority.
"Owen, ram the secondary service gate," Christian commanded, his voice cold as a winter grave.
"Hang on," Owen muttered.
The heavy front bumper of the reinforced SUV smashed through the airport perimeter gate with a deafening crash of tearing chain-link and twisted steel.
The vehicle slid across the tarmac, coming to a halt thirty yards from the Gulfstream's wingtip.
Three private security men in dark suits immediately drew their weapons, forming a defensive line around Arthur.
Christian kicked his door open and stepped out into the pouring rain.
He was not holding a weapon.
He held the blue leather 1982 ledger high above his head in his left hand, and his satellite phone in his right.
Julian stepped out beside him, entirely unbothered by the drawn guns, holding the tablet running an active video uplink.
"Arthur!" Christian’s voice cut through the roar of the jet engines like an artillery shell.
Arthur turned slowly, his cane resting firmly on the wet asphalt.
A smirk appeared on his lined, weathered face.
"You are too late, nephew," Arthur called back over the noise.
"The clearance has been logged with the FAA."
"This aircraft is sovereign territory under international convention."
"You take one step closer, and my security detail is authorized to fire under federal diplomatic protection laws."
"I don't need to take a step closer, Arthur!" Christian shouted back.
"I have Henri De Montmirail on this phone!"
Arthur’s smirk vanished instantly.
His body went rigid.
Henri De Montmirail was the chairman of the private Geneva investment syndicate that held the collateral for Arthur's diplomatic mission.
Julian held up the tablet, turning the screen directly toward Arthur.
On the screen was the face of an elderly, white-haired Swiss banker sitting in a paneled boardroom in Zurich.
"Arthur," the banker's voice boomed through the high-output speaker of Julian's tablet, amplified by the wet air.
"We have just received the forensic scans of the 1982 ledger from Mr. Christian Sterling."
"We see your signature surrendering all future testamentary claims."
"We see the wire transfer receipt for five million francs into your Zurich account."
"And we see the forensic proof that Clara Rousseau was registered under a false identity to bypass our syndicate's integrity checks."
Arthur took half a step backward, his walking stick slipping slightly on the slick painted tarmac.
Elena Rousseau stopped on the metal stairs, turning around with sudden, naked panic in her eyes.
Clara pulled her hood back, her wet hair clinging to her pale cheeks, looking down at Christian with a mixture of terror and pleading despair.
"Henri, listen to me," Arthur stammered into the void, his aristocratic composure cracking for the first time in thirty years.
"That ledger was signed under duress!"
"Duress or not, Arthur," the banker's voice sounded cold, merciless, and final.
"The twenty million euro guarantee is revoked as of this second."
"Your diplomatic credentials have been suspended pending an emergency review by the Swiss Foreign Ministry."
"You are no longer an attache."
"You are an unauthorized alien on an American runway."
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The sound of emergency sirens began wailing in the near distance.
Four Port Authority police cruisers, followed by two unmarked black federal vehicles, burst through the breached service gate, their blue and red lights painting the rain-drenched runway in brilliant flashes of fire.
