Some time later, the taxi driver pulled up in front of an impressive building that sat behind a high wall. The bank was located on Rue des Alpes, near Lake Geneva.
“I can’t pull in.” The driver pointed to the enormous iron gates and the security guards posted on either side.
Raven thanked the driver and paid him, exiting the taxi.
She approached the gates, but the guards stopped her immediately.
“Bonjour,” she greeted them nervously. She handed one of them the piece of paper.
The guard indicated that she should wait, and he entered the guardhouse, leaving her with his companion. She watched as the first guard lifted a telephone and began speaking to someone.
In short order he returned, and one of his associates appeared on the other side of the iron gates.
The gates opened, and the associate, who was armed, addressed her in Italian. “This way, please.”
Raven shuffled behind him, following him to a large, metal door that led into the central stone building. The door swung open, and she followed the guard inside.
“Good morning.” An attractive woman wearing a white lab coat greeted Raven, once again speaking Italian. “Before we can admit you, we need to conduct a DNA test.”
Raven’s mouth dropped open. “DNA? Is that necessary? I gave you the number.”
“We need to know you are the person associated with the number.” The woman’s tone was firm.
“What about my passport?”
The woman’s forehead wrinkled, as if Raven was asking a very silly question.
“Will you take blood?” Raven asked, beginning to feel squeamish.
“Just a mouth swab.” The woman pointed to a small office and ushered Raven inside.
Raven sighed. She’d come this far. Presumably, she was safe inside the bank. At least for the present.
The woman snapped on a pair of latex gloves and opened a small kit while Raven sat in an armchair.
She was very tired. She hadn’t slept much on the train, fearful as she was of someone accosting her.
“Open,” the woman instructed.
Raven opened her mouth, and the woman scraped the inside of her cheek, placing the sample in a plastic tube. She sealed it, placed tape over the top of it and wrote something on the label.
“How long will it take?” Raven asked.
“Not long. Wait here.” The woman took off her gloves and placed them in a waste can. She took the tube and the kit and disappeared down the hall.
Raven leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, just for a moment.
A throat cleared above her.
“Madame?”
Raven startled awake. “What is it? Who are you?”
She looked up into the face of an older man with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, who was wearing small, wire-rimmed spectacles and a very expensive-looking suit and tie.
He extended his hand. “Good morning, madame. Welcome to Trivium. I am Henri Marchand, the director.”
Raven shook his hand, still in a daze from having been fast asleep only a moment before.
“I’m sorry it took so long for me to greet you. Because it’s Sunday, I was not in the building when you arrived. And we had to confirm your identity. This way, please.” He waved his arm toward the corridor.
“What were you testing my DNA for?” Raven struggled to her feet.
“We were matching it against the sample your husband provided some time ago.” The director lifted her bag to his shoulder and paused as she got her bearings.
She leaned on her brace. “My husband?”
“You and he are our most important clients, and I do apologize for the invasive measures. But they are necessary, as I am sure you can appreciate.” He waited for her to enter the hall and followed her.
“I should mention immediately that the artwork your husband had transferred from your home has arrived. Everything is in excellent condition. We have an art conservation specialist on staff, and he matched the items with the inventory sent by your husband. It appears the entire collection has arrived safely.”
Henri smiled down at her. “Of course, with your expertise in art restoration, you will probably want to assess the condition of the collection yourself. Would you like to see it now?”
Raven stopped. She closed her eyes, more confused than she’d been in a long time. “When you say my husband, you mean William?”
“Of course, madame.”
“And when you say art collection, do you mean the pieces from Florence?”
“Yes, madame. As I said, everything appears in excellent condition, but of course we defer to your expertise.”
“You spoke to William?” she whispered.
The director pushed his glasses up his nose. “We have always spoken through his staff, which is why your presence here is a great honor. We’ve been expecting you.”
They continued walking down the hall.
“When did the art begin to arrive?”
“Two months ago. The last piece arrived yesterday. The shipment was divided up and sent via different routes for security reasons. Can I offer you breakfast or some sort of refreshment before we visit the collection?”
Raven stopped, the wheels of her mind turning over this new revelation. William had been murdered over two months ago, which meant Ambrogio and Lucia must have begun transferring the art collection to Geneva around that time.
Raven wondered if the Geneva protocol she’d heard William mention before his death included the evacuation of his artwork.