Chapter 3 Will
Will
Ipulled my coat tighter and headed toward the bakery on the corner, my breath fogging in the frosty morning light. The Baroness wanted chocolate croissants. Thomas wanted me out of the flat so she could reorganize our kitchen without my interference.
I wanted a moment alone to think.
We were about to do something reckless.
The Baroness’s revelation had changed everything.
A murdered monk. A resurgent Order. Compromised ministers and Soviet connections and a conspiracy that reached into the heart of Swiss government.
She needed our help, and we had agreed to give it without hesitation.
But we were CIA operatives, not freelance adventurers. We had protocols, chains of command, and obligations that didn’t disappear simply because a friend asked for help. If we vanished into Switzerland without authorization, without even informing our handler—
I stopped walking.
There was a pay phone on the corner, its glass booth fogged with condensation. The receiver hung crookedly from the hook. I stared at it for a long moment, my hands shoved deep in my pockets against the cold.
I knew what I had to do.
I also knew what the answer would be.
The emergency contact number for Manakin routed through a series of cutouts—a furniture store in Virginia, a shipping company in New York, finally a crackling overseas line that connected to wherever our handler happened to be at two in the morning Washington time.
He answered on the fourth ring, his voice sharp with the particular alertness of a man who had learned to wake instantly.
“This had better be fucking important.”
“Manakin, Emu.”
A pause. I heard him shifting, probably tossing back covers and sitting upright in bed.
“Paris station said you’d gone dark. I was about to send someone to check on you.” His tone carried a warning. “Where the hell have you been?”
“We had a visitor. The Baroness von Hohenberg.”
Another pause, longer this time. When Manakin spoke again, his voice had changed. It was still sharp, but with an undercurrent of interest.
“What did she want?”
I gave him the summary. The glass of the phone booth fogged even more with my breath as I spoke, and I had to wipe it clear to watch the street. When I finished, Manakin was quiet for a long moment. I heard a flick and knew he was lighting a cigarette. The man smoked far too much.
“The Order,” he said finally. “You’re sure?”
“She’s sure. Everything matches what we saw in Rome. The method is consistent, and they left their calling card on the body.”
“Goddamn it.” Another exhale. “We’ve picked up chatter about something brewing in Switzerland, nothing concrete, just whispers about Soviet interest in the region. I thought it was just noise.”
“She’s asked for our help,” I said. “She wants us to come to Bern to help her investigate.”
“Absolutely not.”
The refusal was immediate and unequivocal.
“Emu, I know she’s a friend and you have history, but this is a Swiss domestic matter.
You two would be American intelligence officers operating on foreign soil without authorization.
If you got caught poking around, it wouldn’t just be your careers on the line.
It would be a huge fucking international incident. ”
“Sir—”
“I’m not finished.” His voice hardened. “The Baroness is a valuable asset, and I have no desire to see her harmed, but I can’t authorize an operation on Swiss soil without clearance from above.
That means State Department, possibly the Director himself.
Hell, the President might want his eyes on this. It takes time.”
“How much time?”
“I’ll make some calls. If everyone’s on board, it could move quickly.”
“But?” My hand tightened on the receiver.
“But it could take a week or more for the brains in Washington to come to a decision, and I doubt this will fly anyway. The Reds are all over our asses right now. You know that. We can’t afford to go pissing in their bathwater.”
“Sir, Switzerland isn’t—”
“I fucking know what Switzerland is. And so does Stalin.”
“We may not have weeks,” I said. “She’s being targeted. Her sources are being eliminated. If we wait—”
“Then she uses her own resources. She’s the head of fucking Swiss intelligence, for God’s sake. She has people and capabilities, and other European countries would offer aid if she asked for it. This is her backyard, not ours.”
“Her backyard is compromised. She doesn’t know who she can trust.”
“That’s her problem, Emu. Not yours.” Manakin drew on his cigarette and breathed out loudly, then his tone softened slightly.
“Look, Will, I know this is hard. I know you want to help. But I’m ordering you to stand down until I can get proper authorization.
Stay in Paris. Maintain your cover. Do not—repeat, do not—follow her to Switzerland. ”
He’d used my name, not my code name. There really wasn’t a path forward.
I closed my eyes.
This was the choice I had known was coming since the moment I’d stepped into the phone booth.
“Understood, sir,” I said. “We’ll stand by for further instructions.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have clearance. And Emu?”
“Sir?”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
The line went dead.
I left the phone booth and walked to the bakery.
When I stepped back into our home, the flat was filled with the bitter scent of freshly brewed tea.
Thomas sat at the kitchen table. He was studying the Baroness’s documents.
She stood at the stove, doing something complicated with eggs that I suspected would put my own cooking to shame.
They both looked up when I entered. Something in my expression must have told them I had news, because their brows creased in an almost comical unison.
“You were gone a long time for croissants,” Thomas said carefully.
I set the paper bag on the table. “I made a phone call.”
The Baroness went very still, her spatula frozen mid-motion. “Manakin.”
Of course, she knew.
The Baroness had spent decades navigating the invisible networks of international intelligence. She would have expected us to contact our handler. She probably would have been disappointed if we hadn’t.
“Yes,” I said as I deposited the pastries on the kitchen counter.
Thomas leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And?”
“He ordered us to stand down.” I pulled out a chair and sat, suddenly tired.
“He called this a Swiss domestic matter. With no standing authorization for American operatives on foreign soil, he said he needs clearance from State, possibly the Director. He said an answer might come quickly, but he doubted it.”
None of us moved for the longest moment.
“I see.” The Baroness finally turned back to the stove, her movements mechanical, her earlier grace gone. “You have your duties. I would not ask you to—”
“He also said they’ve picked up chatter,” I interrupted. “Whispers about instability in Switzerland and Soviet interest in the region. He thought it was noise.” I paused. “But he’s not sure anymore.”
Thomas straightened. “So the Agency knows something’s brewing.”
“They know something, just not enough to act on.” I looked at the Baroness’s back, at the rigid line of her shoulders. “Not enough to help.”
She turned off the stove and faced us, her expression carefully controlled.
“Then I thank you for your honesty, and for everything you have already done. I will proceed alone. Bisch and Otto are capable, and I have other resources I can—”
“We’re coming with you,” I said.
She froze and stared at me.
Thomas was watching me, too, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“We’re coming with you, Baroness,” I repeated. “To Bern. Tomorrow. Manakin can file his paperwork and shuffle his bureaucrats, but we’re not going to sit in Paris while you walk into danger alone.”
“But your orders—”
“‘Understood, sir’ isn’t the same as ‘yes, sir,’” Thomas said. He was grinning now, that sharp, reckless grin I loved and feared in equal measure. “Will’s very good at technically accurate responses that don’t actually commit to anything.”
The Baroness looked between us, her composure cracking. “You would risk your careers, your standing with your own government?”
“You’ve risked a great deal more for us,” I said simply.
“That was different. That was—”
“That was exactly the same.” I held her gaze. “You didn’t wait for authorization when you smuggled us across the Austrian border. You did what needed to be done because we needed help and you were there to give it.”
“Now we’re here,” Thomas added. “And you need help.”
For a brief moment, I saw the Baroness’s eyes glisten. She blinked rapidly, her throat working, and I realized I was witnessing something rare: Isabella von Hohenberg, spymaster, aristocrat, and force of nature, on the verge of tears.
Then the mask snapped back, and she was the Baroness again.
“You are both fools,” she said, her voice rough. “Magnificent, impossible fools.”
“We prefer ‘loyal friends,’” Thomas said.
“That, too.” She crossed the kitchen and took our hands—one of hers in each of ours—and squeezed with surprising strength. “Thank you. I do not have words for what this means to me.”
“You don’t need words,” I said. “Just tell us what time the train leaves.”
She laughed. It was a wet sound, choked with emotion. “Seven o’clock. Do not be late. I refuse to storm the gates of conspiracy with men who cannot manage basic punctuality.”
“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Thomas said.
She released our hands and turned back to the stove, composing herself with visible effort.
“Now, the eggs are ruined thanks to this touching display of sentiment. Thomas, you will make fresh ones. William, you will eat your croissants and stop looking at me like I am made of glass. We have a great deal to do before tomorrow, and I will do none of it while weeping like a schoolgirl.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Thomas said, snapping off a mock salute as he rose to take her place at the stove.