The chalet itself sat on expansive grounds only a few thousand feet below the Alps’ spring snowline. A mountainside retreat, overlooking the quaint town of Thonon-les-Baines and Lake Genève’s wide blue waters, the building’s steeply pitched roof and narrow windows were common to the local architecture. Though Julian doubted that many such estates were built from ferrosteel and hardened, fusion-formed bricks stronger than the best steel-reinforced concrete. The site was as physically secure as any military bunker. Gardens and flagstone paths, and the gingerbread-house trimmings of scalloped gables and picket fences notwithstanding.
The hidden defenses were just as impressive, Julian knew, especially after a month of being worked over by the prince’s advance teams. New video surveillance and an installed sensor suite package sensitive enough to pick up the armored column at five kilometers. Spider holes on the grounds, manned by armored troopers. A “panic room” below the wine cellar where Harrison could bolt in case of any security breach.
As the column approached, a pair of Kinnol main battle tanks split away from the column and took up station before the front walls. A trio of armored personnel carriers fit—barely—into bays of a seven-car garage.
Except for approved military aerospace craft, the entire area was a no-fly zone.
The site was secure as Julian could make it.
He left his Templar standing vigil off to one side of the chalet, near the helipad. Scaling the three-story drop down a chain-link ladder, Julian breathed deeply of the brisk mountain air. It tasted of wildflowers and alpine conifers. And snow. His breath frosted in front of his face, and the skin on his arms puckered with gooseflesh. He had pulled a simple jumpsuit over his military togs, and now had cause to regret not planning for warmer clothing. He saw a great deal of fleece in his immediate future.
“We aren’t going through this every trip into Geneva?” Harrison called over.
His strong voice carried across the garden that separated Julian’s BattleMech from the chalet’s main drive. The prince stood next to the Fox armored car, bundled quite warmly in a full-length coat of brown faux fur. More than ever, he looked the part of his namesake, the Bear.
“Not usually,” Julian promised, jogging over.
From the drive, all that could be seen now of the military guard was McKinnon’s lone Atlas astride the road at the main gates. Julian tossed the paladin a casual salute in farewell, thinking that McKinnon would return to Geneva now. But the one-hundred-ton machine simply turned and set itself in a wide-legged stance, a massive titan guarding the chalet.
Frowning, but taking the added protection at face value, Julian turned toward the chalet’s large stone porch and heavy lodge-style doors. The latch was heavy brass, cold to the touch. The doors were hung perfectly. Heavy, but opening easily at the lightest push.
“I have a Warrior VTOL coming in later today,” he told the prince. “We’ll use your body double on the road, as a diversion, and fly you into Geneva. Faster. Safer.”
“And a very good idea,” a hearty voice greeted them as they stepped into the chalet’s common room.
Julian had never met Jonah Levin, but had no trouble recognizing the one-time paladin and current exarch. His face was probably the second-most popular on newsvid programs and scandal sheets throughout The Republic. Right behind Tara Campbell, of course.
Exarch Levin waited in front of the fire, which crackled and snapped on the hearth within a massive stone fireplace. Julian had slept in DropShip berths that were smaller. The heat was enough to warm the common room, with its vaulted ceiling open to the rafters high above. Levin seemed to welcome the warmth, though, standing close enough to the flames that Julian would be surprised if the man’s eyebrows weren’t singed.
The man might have stolen a march on Julian, but Harrison Davion rolled with the unexpected visit as if he’d expected it the entire time. He shrugged out of the heavy fur coat, and tossed it with casual aplomb over the back of a nearby chair.
“Sire Levin, may I congratulate you on your ascension to exarch.”
It wasn’t exactly a question, and Levin answered it in kind. “Thank you, First Prince Davion.”
“Harrison.” The gruff man waved off the titles with an easy brush of his hand. “A perquisite of the job, Jonah. You get to first-name the rest of us.” He grinned. “Except for any of the Marik wannabes. They will insist on their Captain-General rank, all three of them. Part of their cock-swinging contest.”
“Isn’t one of the captains-general female?” Levin asked.
“My point exactly.”
Such earthy humor would no doubt have crashed a high-society function into cold, uncomfortable silence. But Harrison Davion had read the other man well for never having met him. Julian watched as Exarch Levin relaxed with a tired smile and a hard glint sparkling in his dark brown eyes.
“So noted,” the exarch said. He crossed the room in quick strides, reaching out to trade clasps with the prince of the Federated Suns. “Welcome to Terra.”
“We’ve been enjoying the hospitality around Annemasse’s DropPort for five days, actually. But the sentiment is welcome.” Harrison introduced Julian, who also traded brief clasps with The Republic’s most powerful man. “Since we are all here, I trust arrangements have finally been taken care of?”
By which Julian assumed Harrison was speaking about the Markeson Pride. And two companies of House Davion’s finest, landed on Terra in clear violation of the terms of the exarch’s original invitation.
“It wasn’t an easy request to handle, given the short time frame and other… complications. But yes, we’ve managed to arrange for a ‘tour’ of Terra, starting with the Groom Lake Operational Proving Area in North America. It’s a small step, Prince Davion, but I welcome the gesture. And your presence here.” His gaze measured Julian again, and the obvious absence of anyone else. “But weren’t you traveling in a larger party?”
Silence stretched out after that question, until Julian realized that Harrison was staring at him. He felt the silent prodding, and stepped forward to fully join the conversation.
“Duchess Amanda Hasek and her ward, Sandra Fenlon, will join us from the Annemasse DropPort later this evening. I did not want them making the journey until the full security force was in residence. Caleb Davion, the prince’s son, will arrive in a few days to a week. And Sterling McKenna”—Julian glanced at Harrison—“remains in orbit aboard her own DropShip.”
Which left out a lot of the undercurrents, having traveled for several weeks with Duchess Hasek’s disapproving gaze and Khan McKenna’s casual disregard for anyone other than Harrison. Separating those two women, and the prince, had been the highlight of Julian’s morning.
Levin nodded, as if reading the champion’s mind and offering his sympathy. “And Duke Corwin Sandoval?” he asked.
Harrison took up the thread. “Was convinced at the last moment that the needs of the Draconis March were too important to waste for a family reunion.”
A politic way to separate Corwin from the entourage, Julian had thought. If there were any deals to be made within The Republic, after all, it should be Harrison Davion making them. And there were already too many Sandovals in play.
A sentiment Exarch Levin must also agree with. He smiled and nodded.
“Please.” He spread his hands at the sectional couch and the large armchairs which helped section off part of the common room into its own smaller space. “Don’t let me keep you standing. This is, for the next few months anyway, Federated Suns soil. Be comfortable.”
All three took seats. Harrison easing his large frame back into the corner of the sectional, spreading his arms out to either side along the back. Julian took one of the arm chairs only after the exarch had claimed the other for himself. The prince’s champion ended up sitting closest to the fireplace. The wave of heat emanating from the stone hearth began to cook the left side of his face.