Chapter 5 - The Geneva Summit
The conference room at the Grand Hotel in Geneva was a masterpiece of polished mahogany, bulletproof glass, and suffocating tension. Around the long oak table sat seven men in bespoke suits—bankers, regulators, and syndicate leaders.
Viktor Vance sat at the head of the opposing side, a silver-haired man with cold, calculating eyes and a permanent smirk of condescension.
Tariq and I took our seats across from them. As expected, Viktor immediately attempted to dominate the room in French, dismissing our delegation as junior players who lacked the clout to handle a multi-million-dollar maritime portfolio.
"Mr. Rahal isn't even here," Viktor sneered in French, looking down his nose at me. "He sends children to do men's work. This negotiation is a waste of our time."
The other delegates murmured in agreement.
Tariq remained stone-faced, letting me take the lead.
I waited a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make them uncomfortable. Then, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, and switched seamlessly to a sharp, flawless Damascene Arabic dialect—the exact dialect Viktor's bodyguards spoke among themselves.
"A wise merchant does not judge the sharpness of a blade by the sheath it rests in," I said smoothly in Arabic, locking my eyes directly onto Viktor's. "Especially when that blade was forged in the alleys of Bab Touma."
Viktor’s smirk vanished instantly. The color drained from his face. Bab Touma was a specific old district in Damascus—one Viktor hadn't mentioned in public documents in over twenty years.
He stammered in surprise, switching instinctively back to Arabic. "How do you know that name?"
"I know more than where you were born, Mr. Vance," I replied, maintaining a calm, unshakeable poise. "I know about the unpaid debts in Beirut, the compromised customs manifests in Piraeus, and the exact offshore account where you’re funneling bribe money to undermine this very syndicate."
The room erupted into murmurs. Viktor’s associates turned to stare at him, demanding explanations.
Viktor slammed his palms on the table, standing up in a fury. "You are bluffing! Who are you?!"
"I am Nia Brooks," I said clearly, standing up to match his height. "And granddaughter to the woman who taught me that truth is the only currency that never devalues. Now, Mr. Vance, you can sign the logistics agreement on our terms, or I can share the rest of my notes with the Swiss federal prosecutor sitting right outside this door."
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Tariq suppressed a smile as he slid the contract across the table.
Viktor stared at me for ten long seconds, sweat beading on his forehead. He realized he was completely outmatched. With trembling hands, he picked up a golden pen and signed every single page.
