Chapter 6 Thomas
Thomas
The man we were looking for was named Weber, and he was scared out of his mind.
I could see it the moment he walked into the café in his darting eyes, his hunched shoulders, and the way he scanned every corner of the room before committing to a single step forward. He moved like a rabbit who had just noticed the shadow of a hawk, all twitchy with barely suppressed panic.
Bisch had arranged the meeting.
Weber had been one of Aldric’s wartime contacts, a minor functionary in the Swiss banking system who had helped move resistance money during the occupation.
He had stayed in touch with the monk over the years through occasional letters and a few rare visits, the kind of tenuous connection that survived more on habit than necessity.
When Bisch reached out to him through intermediaries, Weber had agreed to meet.
But looking at him now, I wasn’t sure he’d survive the conversation.
The café was a small establishment in the Altstadt, all dark wood and brass fittings.
Had it not reeked of fresh coffee, I might’ve thought it one of my favorite pubs back home.
We arrived early, claimed a table in the back corner with clear sightlines to both exits, and ordered drinks we had no intention of finishing. It was all standard tradecraft.
Weber spotted the Baroness. She was difficult to miss even when trying to be inconspicuous. He made his way toward our table with the enthusiasm of a man approaching his own execution.
“Baroness.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I should not be here.”
“And yet you are.” She gestured to the empty chair across from her. “Please, Herr Weber, sit. We only wish to talk.”
He lowered himself into the chair but didn’t relax. His hands remained in his lap, clenched into fists, and his eyes kept flicking toward the door like he expected armed men to burst through at any moment.
“I knew Aldric,” he said, still whispering. “We worked together during the war. He was a good man. A holy man until the end.”
“He was,” the Baroness agreed. “And now he is dead.”
Weber flinched as if she had slapped him. “I heard. I—” He swallowed hard. “When I heard, I almost did not answer Herr Bisch’s message. I thought perhaps it would be safer to pretend I knew nothing, to disappear.”
“Why didn’t you?” I asked.
He looked at me for the first time, clearly trying to decide if I was a friend or a threat. Whatever he saw must have reassured him, because some of the tension eased from his shoulders.
“Because Aldric was my friend,” he said simply. “And because whatever is happening is bigger than my fear.”
Will leaned forward. “What do you mean, ‘whatever is happening’?”
Weber’s gaze fell to the table. He spoke so quietly I had to strain to hear him over the murmur of the café.
“Three months ago, I was approached by a man. He was well dressed and professional, the kind of man who belongs in boardrooms and government offices. He said he represented certain interests that were concerned about the stability of Swiss banking. He asked questions about accounts I had handled during the war, about the networks we used to move money.”
“What kind of questions?” the Baroness asked.
“Specific ones. He knew names, routing numbers, and contacts in other countries, information only someone with intimate knowledge of our operations would know or think to ask.” Weber’s hands emerged from his lap.
They were trembling. “I told him nothing, of course, but he did not seem surprised. He said he already knew most of it. He said he was simply verifying.”
“Did he identify himself?” Will asked. “Give you a name, an organization?”
“I do not remember it.” Weber hesitated, his face contorting with something that looked like fear warring with the need to unburden himself.
“I know this will sound strange, but I did not write it down. I did not want to remember him. There was something about him, about the way he spoke, the phrases he used. I recognized them.”
“Recognized them from where?”
“From the war.” Weber’s voice dropped even lower. “From the Order.”
“You’re certain?” the Baroness asked, her voice carefully controlled.
“No. And that is the problem. I am uncertain of anything.” Weber ran a hand over his face, and I saw the dark circles under his eyes and the gray pallor of his skin.
“His rhetoric and coded phrases were the same, but something was also different. During the war, the Order was . . . religious. They were fanatics, yes, but their fanaticism was directed toward God or some twisted vision of divine purpose. This man—” He shook his head.
“This man spoke of politics. He spoke of power and restoration.”
“Restoration?” I repeated.
“He used that word several times.” Weber leaned closer, his eyes wide and urgent. “I have heard whispers, Baroness, whispers of something being rebuilt. I do not believe it refers to the Order, but something new, something that wears the Order’s face but serves a different purpose.”
“Different masters?” Will asked.
Weber nodded, a jerky motion. “Perhaps, but I can prove nothing. I have only whispers, fragments, and the feeling that something terrible is taking shape.” He looked at the Baroness with something approaching desperation.
“Aldric believed it, too. He wrote to me a month before he died. He said he was close to understanding what was happening. He said he had found connections between the old Order’s networks and new money flowing through channels that should have been closed years ago. ”
“Do you have that letter?” the Baroness asked.
“I burned it.” Weber’s voice cracked. “After I heard he was dead, I burned everything. I was afraid. I am still afraid they will come for me next.”
“Who is ‘they’?” I asked.
“I do not know.” The words came out almost as a moan. “That is what terrifies me so. I do not know who to fear or where the danger may come from. I only know that Aldric is dead, and that he died because he knew too much, and that I—”
He stopped mid-sentence, his face going white.
He was staring at something over my shoulder.
I resisted the urge to turn around. Instead, I reached for my coffee cup, using the motion to shift my position and glimpse the café’s entrance in the mirror behind the bar.
A man had entered.
He wore a dark coat and possessed the kind of unremarkable face that would blend into any crowd. He was ordering at the counter, not looking in our direction.
Weber was already pushing back from the table. His chair scraped loudly against the floor.
“I must go,” he said, his voice high and tight. “I should not have come. This was a mistake.”
“Herr Weber—” the Baroness began.
“No.” He was on his feet, backing toward the rear exit. “I have told you what I know. It is all I have. Please—please do not contact me again. Do not send your man. Do not—”
He turned and fled.
Just like that.
One moment he was there, the next he was pushing through the kitchen door and disappearing into whatever back alley lay beyond. The other patrons barely glanced up from their conversations.
Will was already half out of his seat. “Should we—”
“No.” The Baroness’s voice was calm, but I saw the tension in her jaw. “Let him go. He has given us what he can. Pursuing him now will only frighten him further.”
“And the man at the counter?” I asked quietly.
The Baroness didn’t look toward the entrance. “What about him?”
“Weber recognized him. Or he thought he did.”
“I noticed.” She lifted her coffee cup and took a deliberate sip, the picture of casual unconcern. “He is still at the counter. He has not looked in our direction once.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“No, it does not.” She set down the cup. “We will finish our coffee and leave by the front entrance. We will see if we have just acquired a shadow.”
We did exactly that. Once outside, we walked three blocks through the winding streets of the Altstadt, taking turns at random and doubling back once through a covered passage.
No one followed.
But that didn’t make me feel any better.
The safe house felt colder when we returned.
Bisch met us at the door, his pale eyes sweeping over us. He didn’t ask how the meeting went. He didn’t need to. Our faces must have told him everything.
“The kitchen,” he said simply. “I have tea.”
We gathered around the scarred wooden table. Otto had remained outside to watch the street.
“Weber confirmed what we suspected,” the Baroness said, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea she hadn’t tasted. “The Order’s networks are being reactivated, but the ideology has shifted. It is no longer about religious crusade. Rather, it is about political restoration.”
“Soviet involvement?” Bisch asked.
“Almost certainly. Weber spoke of new money flowing through old channels.”
Bisch nodded slowly, processing the information. “And Weber himself? Will he help us further?”
“No.” The Baroness’s voice was flat. “He is too frightened. He ran from the meeting before we could learn more.”
“Ran?”
“He saw someone who spooked him.” I leaned back in my chair, watching Bisch’s face for any reaction. “There was a man at the counter. Weber recognized him, or thought he did. He panicked and fled through the kitchen.”
Bisch didn’t flinch. “That is . . . unfortunate. Weber was our best connection to Aldric’s wartime network. Without him—”
A knock at the door interrupted him.
We all tensed.
Bisch rose smoothly, one hand moving to the small of his back where I suspected he kept a weapon, and moved toward the entrance. A moment later, I heard the low murmur of voices. Bisch and Otto spoke in rapid German.
When Bisch returned, his granite face had somehow grown even harder.
“There has been a development,” he said. “Otto just received word from one of our contacts in the police.”
The Baroness set down her untouched tea. “What now?”
“A body was discovered twenty minutes ago in an alley behind a café in the Altstadt,” Bisch said. “The victim’s name was Heinrich Weber.”
“How was he killed?” Will asked, his voice rough.
“His throat was cut. The wound was precise.” Bisch’s gaze moved to the Baroness. “A card was found on his body. It was old and worn, bearing the symbol of a spearhead.”
The Baroness closed her eyes. When she opened them, her expression was controlled, but I could see the weight of another death pressing down on her.
“They are cutting the threads before we can follow them,” she said quietly.
“Not just that,” I said. “They are anticipating. Weber ran less than an hour ago. They were already in position. They knew.”
Will’s eyes met mine, and I saw the same thought forming behind them.
“Someone told them,” he said. “Someone knew about this meeting.”
The Baroness’s jaw tightened. “The only people who knew were in this room. And Otto.”
“And whoever Bisch contacted to arrange it,” I said.
Bisch’s expression still didn’t change, but I saw something shift in his posture. It was a subtle stiffening.
“I used secure channels,” he said, his voice flat. “Intermediaries I have trusted for years. If there was a leak, it did not come from my end.”
“I’m not saying it did.” I held up my hands. “I’m just saying we need to consider all possibilities. Weber was terrified before he even sat down. He was convinced someone was watching him. Then someone killed him within an hour of our meeting. That’s not coincidence. That’s compromise.”
The Baroness remained quiet. I could practically see her mind working, running through the possibilities, weighing loyalties against evidence.
“We will discuss this later,” she said finally. “For now, we grieve for Herr Weber, and we consider what his death means for our investigation.”
“It means we’re running out of sources,” Will said grimly.
“Yes.” The Baroness rose from the table. “It means we will have to find other paths, other connections.” She looked at Bisch. “Bisch, I need you to reach out to Maurer, the forger in Basel. He worked with Aldric during the war. He may know something.”
“I will make contact tonight,” Bisch said.
“Carefully, through different channels than before.”
If the implication stung, Bisch didn’t show it. He simply nodded once and left the room.
When he was gone, Will turned to me and whispered, “You think it’s him?”
“I don’t know.” I shook my head slowly. “The Baroness trusts him completely, and she’s rarely wrong about people.” I paused, running through the timeline in my head. “But someone knew about that meeting. Someone told them where Weber would be. Bisch is the common thread.”
“He’s not the only one who knew,” Will pointed out.
“No, but he’s the one who set it up. He chose the café, the time, and the method of contact.” I rubbed my eyes, suddenly exhausted. “I’m not accusing him. I’m just . . . noting.”
“Note quietly,” Will said. “If we’re wrong about him, we lose one of our only allies. If we’re right . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence.
The Baroness had moved to the window and was staring out at the darkening street. Her reflection in the glass looked haunted, the face of a woman watching her world crumble one piece at a time.
“Whoever the leak is,” she said without turning around, “they will show themselves eventually. Traitors always do. It is simply a matter of watching, and waiting, and not dying before they reveal themselves.”
“How comforting,” I muttered.
“It is not meant to be comforting, Thomas.” She turned from the window, and her eyes were hard.
“It is meant to be true. We are in enemy territory now. Every step we take, every contact we make, someone is watching. Someone is reporting. The only question is who. Until we know the answer, we trust no one absolutely, not even each other.”
She left the room without another word.
Will and I sat in silence for a long moment, listening to her footsteps fade up the stairs.
“Well,” he said finally. “That’s not ominous at all.”
I reached over and took his hand.
“We trust each other,” I said quietly. “Whatever else happens.”
He squeezed my hand.
“Whatever else happens,” he agreed.
Outside, somewhere in that darkness, enemies were moving, circling, closing in.
And somewhere—maybe in this very house—a traitor was feeding our secrets to the wolves.
I held Will’s hand tighter and tried not to think about how few of us might be left standing when this was over.