Page 59 of Only the Hunter

The contrast with the slums where FBI raids yield witnesses and informants couldn’t be starker.

“That’s the trick,” I say as we walk. “Here, legitimacy is assumed.”

Gabe glances at me but doesn’t comment. He’s always been like that. A listener. He lets me run the logic. It matters more than he probably realizes.

The first address on my list is in Plainpalais, a narrow building wedged between a tailor and a tax consultancy. Clean windows. A brass directory of tenants. Exactly what I expected—and for whatever reason, that bothers me.

I scan the directory, my finger tracing the etched names. “Here,” I say. “Third floor.”

Inside, the lobby smells faintly of citrus cleaner and maybe a recently used photocopier.

We locate the elevator, enter, and silently rise to the third floor. The elevator opens onto a silent corridor—gray carpet, harsh lighting, no art. No indication of people actually working here.

Suite 3B isn’t an office.

It’s a mailbox wall. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. There’s no warmth here, no personality. Just metal slots and corporate anonymity, exactly as designed.

Dozens of identical metal slots, each labeled with a different entity. Some abbreviated. Some meaningless strings of letters. I count automatically—thirty-two.

My jaw tightens and nausea surfaces.

“This address appears on the transfer authorization,” I say. “They represented themselves as a funding partner.”

A woman sits behind a small desk at the far end of the room, scrolling her phone. She exhibits zero curiosity or interest in us.

I approach her, voice steady. “Excuse me. We’re looking for the Geneva Initiative Foundation.”

She blinks once. “I don’t believe that’s a tenant.”

“They’re registered here,” I say, gesturing to the mailbox.

She scans a typed list on her desk, presumably verifying I’m correct. “We receive mail only,” she says. “No offices. No staff. Forwarding service.”

“How long have they been listed?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Months, maybe longer. I log packages that require signatures.”

“Do you have a forwarding address? Somewhere the mail actually goes?”

“Forwarding instructions come with each account. I don’t have access to that—it’s handled through our parent company’s system. You’d need a subpoena for that information, and even then, I’m not sure what you’d get. These accounts change forwarding details often. Standard for privacy-conscious clients.”

In other words, she has no valuable information she's willing—or able—to give us.

We thank her and leave without pressing. Outside, I draw in a slow breath, trying to quiet the irritation crawling up my spine.

“Shady,” Gabe says, photographing the directory with his phone. “But they’re not even trying to hide it with that many entities at one address.”

I nod. “It’s not unusual for offshore structures. But it’s also not reassuring.”

“The woman inside didn’t ask why we were looking,” he adds. “Didn’t even pretend to care. Likely trained indifference.”

It’s a leap to think anyone instructed her to behave with indifference, but his theory has merit. In my experience, legitimate businesses show at least mild curiosity.

The second address is closer to the financial district. Glass and steel. Actual offices this time, not just a mailbox. The kind of place you lease when you want to look permanent without being memorable.

We buzz the intercom.

The property manager who greets us is polite. Swiss-German accent. Late fifties. Hands clasped behind his back as he lets us in.