stride to mine. My father stays close on my right. In the first few weeks after my kidnapping, they circled like this, hovering like a president’s security detail. However, I am no longer certain whether they are protecting me or imprisoning me.
In the security line, we—François, Lizette, and Adeleine Dubois—smile demurely at one another and speak French in hushed voices. Four hours later, we land in Geneva. Before leaving the terminal, my mother steps into a duty-free store.
A shuttle drives us to the long-term parking lot at the periphery of the airport. My father leads us down two rows and over one. He pushes his phone against the key lock of an Audi hatchback.
As my father drives, my mother hands me her purchase—a slate-gray Longchamp nylon backpack. It is folded into a tiny two-inch square with a leather snap.
“You don’t need to put anything in it now,” she says as I tuck the square away.
We drive a short distance and, at midnight, check into a bed-and-breakfast.
Early the next morning, I shower and change into my black pants, boots, and a clean sweater.
In the center of Geneva, the narrow streets are empty. Cradled between the mountains, the city is calm and sleepy. Most Genevese go to their country homes for the weekend; the remaining citizens stroll leisurely to church or Sunday brunch.
We drive on Rue des Moulins over the Place de l’Île with the windows cracked.
On the south side of the Rhône River, my father stops adjacent to the Cathédrale Saint-Pierre. Farther down the road is the Geneva branch of the Swiss National Bank, with an eleven-story stone facade with no windows above the sixth floor.
My father opens my door.
There is only one wardrobe in Geneva in December—an expensive ankle-length coat. My mother has one ready. Putting it on, I step onto the sidewalk and face my father.
His steel-gray eyes, the color of washed-out rain, meet mine. “We’re good?”
I peer down the road. They’ve been flanking me like security for hours; now they want me to proceed alone?
“We’re good,” I murmur softly.
Stepping away from the curb onto the cobblestone sidewalk, I walk south along Rue Guillaume-Farel, in the direction of the bank. Behind the thick, bulletproof-glass windows, the gleaming lobby is awash in a fluorescent light to deter theft—should anyone dare to approach the burly, armed security team pacing the marble floor.
Inhaling long, steady breaths, I near the entrance to the bank—a pair of tall antique wood doors with matching brass handles—and keep walking.
Within a few strides, I have passed the building. A few meters farther down, I casually cross the street.
I walk several blocks, past rows of tidy buildings with painted blue doors and shutters, until I reach an old building with a brass doorframe lodged into stone.
Through the window is a beveled-glass case of pastries. In front of it, chairs are tucked in to tables covered in lace tablecloths.
Gently, I push the door open, ushering in the familiar smell—chocolate and almond cream and fresh yeast dough.
Patisserie Claudette is quiet except for the hushed conversation of two elegant Swiss women wearing their ankle-length coats and pearl earrings.
I wait for the women to collect their pastries from the white-haired boulangère, Claudette, then I step up to the counter—an intricate etched-glass dome conceals rows of fruit tarts, pear galettes, and petits fours with lavender frosting.
Immediately, Claudette looks over my shoulder. I turn. The only other person inside is an old man reading a paper while drinking a cup of coffee.
She watches me apprehensively. I run my hand along the supple velvet trim on my wool coat, unsure what to say. However, Claudette steps out from behind the counter, walks to the glass door, and flips around the sign—Closed.
“Suivez-moi,” she says reluctantly. So, I follow her.
Behind the counter, past the ovens, around the thick slab of marble on which she rolls out dough, Claudette leads me through the building and down a steep spiral staircase into the basement.
I follow her to the far side of the room where she opens a door to a closet and motions for me to step inside.
Protruding from the back wall of the closet is a shiny brass knob. The wall around the knob isn’t wood like the rest of the basement, but metal—titanium alloy—like the outside of a jet.
I look at Claudette expectantly, but she only sighs and leaves. I listen to her feet pass through the kitchen and into the front of the shop. Then, silence.
I stare back at the vault. I run my forefinger along