Chapter 4 Thomas
Thomas
Ihave never understood people who enjoy train travel.
Will loves it—the rhythm, the scenery, the way time seems to stretch and slow as the world slides past the window. He finds it meditative, he says. Peaceful, even. An invitation to reflection.
I find it maddening.
So I buried myself in the Baroness’s documents, spreading them across the small table in our private compartment and attacking them like they had personally offended me. Names, dates, connections, payments—the raw material of conspiracy waiting to be assembled into something that made sense.
Will sat beside me, his shoulder warm against mine, watching the French countryside transform into the Swiss Alps.
He had that distant, contemplative look that meant he was thinking deep thoughts about beauty or meaning or the fragile nature of human connection.
I loved that look, even when I didn’t understand it.
Will saw the world in ways I never could.
He noticed depths and textures that slid right past me.
The Baroness sat across from us, her tea long cold, her gaze fixed on some middle distance that probably contained strategic calculations I couldn’t begin to fathom.
She looked tired, but not just physically exhausted, worn down in some deeper way, like a general who had been fighting too many battles on too many fronts for too long.
“Tell me about Bisch,” Will said, breaking the silence.
The Baroness turned from the window, one eyebrow arched. “Bisch?”
“When we stayed at your estate, I assumed he was merely a household butler. Now, you tell us he’s a trusted member of your network. If we’re going to be working with him, I’d like to know what we’re walking into.”
“Ah.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Heinrich Bisch has been with me for years. He was part of the Austrian resistance, caught by the Gestapo in 1943 and held for seven months before the liberation. They did terrible things to him. He walks with a limp now, and there are days when the pain is considerable; but his mind is sharp, his loyalty absolute, and there is no one in the world I trust more completely.”
“High praise coming from you,” I said, glancing up from the papers.
“It is simply the truth. Bisch knows things about my operations that could destroy me if they fell into the wrong hands. He has never wavered, never questioned, never given me cause to doubt him.” Her expression softened.
“He is not a warm man—the Gestapo burned that out of him—but he is good. Genuinely good, in a way that is rare in our world.”
The Baroness didn’t hand out trust like party favors. If she said Bisch was solid, he was solid.
“And Otto?” I asked.
“Otto is . . . Otto.” Her smile warmed considerably—the first I’d seen from her since Paris.
“He has been with me even longer than Bisch.” She shook her head, something fond in her expression.
“He talks too much, has opinions about everything, and once spent an entire drive from Bern to Geneva explaining to me the proper technique for growing alpine potatoes; but he would die for me without hesitation, and I would do the same for him.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy,” I said.
She turned back to the window. “Otto will meet us at the train station. From there, we will go directly to a safe house in the Niederdorf. I have not been back to my residence since I left for Paris. There are too many eyes there.”
The train climbed higher, and I watched the landscape transform through the window. Snow-capped peaks, picturesque villages, valleys so perfect they looked like paintings.
It was Switzerland in all its postcard glory.
And I didn’t trust it.
Pretty places hid ugly secrets.
I’d learned that lesson the hard way, in a dozen countries and a hundred operations. The more beautiful the facade, the darker the rot beneath.
I turned back to the documents, trying to force the pieces into a pattern that made sense.
Sternberg AG. Ministers Lüthi and Brenner.
The Order of Saint Longinus. Soviet connections.
Nazi financial networks. It was like trying to assemble a puzzle where half the pieces were missing and the other half were from different boxes entirely.
“You’re going to give yourself a headache,” Will said quietly.
“I already have a headache. I’m trying to give myself answers.”
“Any luck?” the Baroness asked.
“Only more questions.” I tossed down the paper I’d been reading.
It was a shipping manifest that told me nothing useful.
I rubbed my eyes. “Someone’s spending a lot of money to rebuild something that should have stayed dead.
The Order wasn’t exactly a budget operation to begin with, and this—” I gestured at the scattered documents.
“This is serious funding, the kind that requires backing few individuals could provide.”
“A state actor?” Will asked. “The Soviets?”
“Maybe. Probably. But why? The Order’s ideology doesn’t even align with Marxist materialism. Religious zealots and atheist revolutionaries make strange bedfellows.”
“Unless they have a common enemy,” the Baroness said, still watching the window. “Think about the West and NATO from their perspective. It is European unity and the American-led alliance that both Moscow and the Order’s remnants wish to see weakened.”
“The enemy of my enemy,” I muttered.
“Precisely.” She turned to face us. “I do not believe the Soviets care about the Order’s religious pretensions.
They see useful tools. They seek fanatics who can be aimed at targets, networks that can be exploited, and chaos that can be weaponized.
The Order, in turn, sees resources funding, protection, and access.
It would be a partnership of convenience, if not conviction. ”
“That’s terrifying,” I said.
“Yes.” Her voice was flat. “It is.”
Will reached over and rested his hand on my thigh. I covered his hand with mine and squeezed once before releasing it.
“We need to retrace Aldric’s steps,” I said, forcing my mind back to the problem. “He was investigating the Order’s resurgence before he was killed. Whatever he learned, whatever got him murdered, that may be the key.”
“Agreed,” the Baroness said. “But we must tread carefully. Whoever silenced Aldric knew exactly where to find him. And they knew about his correspondence with me. That suggests either surveillance or a source inside my network.”
“A mole?” Will asked.
“I do not know. I do not wish to believe it, but I cannot rule it out.” Her expression darkened.
“Until we know more, we should trust no one outside this compartment. Bisch and Otto, they are loyal. I would stake my life on it, but we share information carefully, and we watch for any sign that our movements are being tracked.”
The train began its descent toward Bern, and I watched as spires and rooftops and the gray-green ribbon of the river spread out before us.
It looked peaceful. Orderly. Imminently Swiss.
I didn’t trust that either.
Otto was impossible to miss.
He stood at the platform like a bear in a chauffeur’s uniform, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a magnificent white mustache that belonged on a nineteenth-century cavalry officer or a man about to tie a woman to a train track. He held a hand-lettered sign that read simply: SONGBIRD.
“Subtle,” I murmured to Will.
“I don’t think subtle is in his vocabulary,” Will replied.
“Baroness!” Otto’s voice was deep and warm, heavily accented. “You are too thin. Have you been eating? Of course, you have not been eating. You never eat when you are worried. I will make you Rosti tonight, with extra cheese. You cannot refuse my Rosti.”
“I would not dream of it.” She stepped forward and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks. “You look well, my friend.”
“I am ancient and creaking, but I endure.” His bright blue eyes shifted to Will and me, sharp despite the jovial demeanor. “And my American friends. It is good to see you. Have you visited Idaho since your last visit?”
Will nearly spat as he laughed.
“No, I’m afraid not. We’ve been enjoying the hospitality of the French,” I said.
“French. I see.” Otto frowned. “Well, there is nothing to be done for that. You have returned to civilization. We will see you are well cared for.”
“Otto—” The Baroness’s tone held a gentle nudge.
“Right. Sorry, ma’am. The car is this way, and we should not linger.” His expression sobered. “There are eyes everywhere in Bern these days. The Baroness’s absence has been noted. Questions are being asked.”
We followed him through the station and out into winter’s grip. A black Mercedes waited at the curb, polished to a mirror shine. Otto held the door for the Baroness as we climbed in from the opposite side.
The drive through Bern was an education.
Otto talked constantly about the weather, the roads, his nephew’s new baby, his sister’s troublesome cat, and the shocking decline in Swiss chocolate quality (“They use less cocoa now, can you imagine? It is a national disgrace!”).
He had opinions about everything and shared them with the enthusiasm of a man who had never met a thought he didn’t want to express out loud.
He was amusing, but his eyes kept flicking to the mirror, and his route through the city doubled back on itself, cutting through narrow alleys and quiet residential streets in a pattern that seemed random but wasn’t.
Otto Hartmann was very good at appearing harmless, but this man wasn’t harmless at all.
“Otto,” the Baroness said during a brief lull, “tell them about 1940.”
The car went quiet.
“1940,” Otto said finally. “Yes. That was the year the world ended. Or began, I suppose, depending on how you look at it.”
He turned onto a narrow street lined with medieval buildings, their facades painted in faded pastels.