Chapter 7 Will
Will
Ilay in the narrow bed of our safe house room listening to Thomas breathe beside me and tried to quiet the thoughts that churned through my mind.
Weber’s terrified face.
The spearhead card.
The Baroness’s warning: We trust no one absolutely. Not even each other.
It was the “each other” that kept me awake.
I had spent my career learning to read people, to assess threats, to identify the hidden fault lines in loyalty that could crack under pressure.
It was a necessary skill in our world, a survival skill, but it came with a cost. You started seeing betrayal everywhere.
You started doubting everyone. You started lying awake at three in the morning wondering if the people you trusted most were the ones most likely to destroy you.
Thomas shifted beside me, his arm tightening around my waist.
“You’re doing that loud thinking thing again,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep. “It’s like a foghorn. Honk, honk, honk.”
I wanted to laugh. It just wouldn’t come out. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just talk to me.” Thomas propped himself up on one elbow and waited.
I was quiet for a moment, still staring at the ceiling. The room was dark, but I could see the faint outline of cracks in the plaster spreading like the branches of a dead tree.
“Someone told them about Weber,” I said finally. “Someone in our circle, most likely. I keep running through the list trying to figure out who.”
“And?”
“The list is short. The Baroness. Otto. Bisch.” I paused. “You and me.”
Thomas was silent for a moment. Then he looked down at me with those warm brown eyes that had always seen too much.
“You don’t suspect the Baroness.”
“No. This is her operation, her network, her source who was killed. If she wanted to betray herself, there are easier ways.”
“And Otto?”
“Otto was with us. He drove us to the café and waited outside. He drove us back. Unless he’s some legendary spy, there’s no way he could’ve signaled anyone without us noticing.”
“Which leaves Bisch.”
“He did arrange the meeting,” I said. “He’s the only one who communicated with Weber directly before we arrived.”
“That doesn’t make him guilty.”
“No. But it makes him possible.” I turned my head to look at Thomas. “I don’t want to believe it. The Baroness says he’s the most loyal man she’s ever known.”
“And you think she’s wrong?”
“I think . . .” I hesitated, trying to find the right words. “I think trust can be a blind spot. The Baroness is brilliant, but she’s also human. She sees what she wants to see, sometimes, like we all do.”
Thomas was quiet for a long moment.
“We don’t accuse,” he said finally. “Not yet, not without proof.”
“No. We watch. We’re careful what we say around him, what information we share, and we wait.”
“For him to make a mistake?”
“For the truth to show itself.” I reached up and touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw in the darkness. “Like she said, one way or another, it always does.”
He turned his head and kissed my palm.
We lay there in the darkness, holding each other, and I tried not to think about all the ways the people we trusted might be planning to destroy us.
Morning brought coffee, cold light, and the Baroness in full command mode.
She had taken over the safe house’s cramped study, spreading documents across every available surface until the room looked like a war room—which I supposed it was.
There were maps of Switzerland with locations circled in red, financial statements covered in her elegant handwriting, and photographs of men I didn’t recognize, their faces marked with question marks or crossed out entirely.
“Sit,” she said when Thomas and I appeared in the doorway. “I have been working through the night, and I believe I finally see the shape of what we are facing.”
Bisch materialized from somewhere with fresh coffee. It was strong and black, exactly what I needed. After handing us each a cup, Bisch took up a position by the door, his pale eyes watchful. I noted his placement. He was close enough to hear everything and positioned to block the only exit.
Stop it, I told myself. You’re seeing threats everywhere.
But I couldn’t quite make myself stop.
“The conspiracy has three layers,” the Baroness began, pointing to a diagram she had sketched on a large sheet of paper.
“At the top, we have the architects. These are the people directing the operation. I do not yet know who they are, but I believe they include elements of the Order’s surviving leadership and their Soviet handlers. ”
“Cardinal Severan?” Thomas asked.
“Perhaps. It is possible—even likely—that he survived Rome.” Her expression darkened. “If he is involved, this becomes considerably more dangerous. Severan is not merely a fanatic; he is a strategist. One might call him a visionary, in his own twisted way.”
She moved to the second layer of her diagram.
“Below the architects, we have the facilitators, the people who make the operation possible. These are the money men, primarily. This is where Sternberg AG comes in.” She tapped a cluster of documents.
“Sternberg is a shell company, originally created to move stolen art for the Nazis. Now, it is being used to move funds between Soviet sources and Swiss recipients. The money flows through a maze of subsidiaries and front organizations, but I have traced several payments directly to accounts controlled by Ministers Lüthi and Brenner.”
“You’re certain they’re compromised?” I asked.
“I am certain they are receiving money they should not be receiving. Whether they know where it comes from—whether they understand what they are part of—that I cannot say.” She shrugged. “It may not matter. Once you have taken the money, you are compromised regardless of your intentions.”
“And the third layer?”
“The operatives.” She gestured at the photographs scattered across the desk.
“These are the people who carry out the actual work. They perform surveillance, intimidation, and elimination.” Her jaw tightened.
“These are the Order’s foot soldiers, rebuilt and reorganized under new management.
They are disciplined, professional, and utterly ruthless. ”
I studied the diagram, trying to absorb the scope of what she was describing.
Three layers.
Dozens of people, maybe hundreds or more.
An organization that had survived what we thought was its destruction and rebuilt itself with Soviet backing.
“How do we fight something this big?” I asked.
“We do not fight all of it,” the Baroness said.
“We cannot. We are four people—five, if we count Otto—against an organization with resources we can barely imagine.” She paused.
“But organizations have weaknesses. They have pressure points. If we can identify the right ones and apply force in the right places, we can make the entire structure collapse.”
“What pressure points?” Thomas asked.
“The money.” She pointed to a name on one of the financial documents.
“There is a banker in Bern called Engel. He helped move resistance funds during the war. He was invaluable, absolutely invaluable, and he has remained a friend ever since.” Her voice softened.
“I trust him, perhaps more than I should trust anyone right now, but he knows things about the financial networks that no one else knows. If Sternberg is moving money through Swiss banks, Engel will know how to trace it.”
“And the forger you asked Bisch to contact?” I asked. “What was his name? Maurer?”
“Maurer was one of Aldric’s closest wartime associates. If anyone knows what Aldric discovered before his death, it will be him.”
“Assuming he’s willing to talk,” Thomas said. “Weber was, and look where that got him.”
“Maurer is . . . different.” The Baroness’s expression was complicated.
“He owes me his life several times over. He knows the risks, but he also knows that some debts can only be paid in blood.” She took a moment.
“We will meet with him another day. Today, I must see Engel. I need you to come with me.”
“Why us?” I asked.
“Because I am being watched. I have been since I returned to Bern. Whoever is coordinating this operation knows I am investigating, and they are keeping close track of my movements.” She smiled grimly.
“Two American tourists accompanying a Swiss aristocrat on her errands will attract less attention than a woman known to be head of Swiss intelligence meeting privately with a banker who handles sensitive accounts.”
“We’re your cover,” Thomas said.
“You are also my protection.” Her eyes met mine, and I saw something there I hadn’t expected—vulnerability. “I am not too proud to admit that I feel safer with you beside me, William. Both of you. Whatever shadows are closing in, I would rather face them with allies at my back.”
It was as close to asking for help as the Baroness ever got.
Otto wound the Mercedes through Bern’s streets, past elegant facades and winter-bare trees, through neighborhoods I didn’t recognize, toward a destination the Baroness hadn’t named. She sat in the front and spoke quietly with Otto in German, while Thomas and I occupied the back.
“We have a tail,” I said quietly after we’d been driving for ten minutes. “Gray Opel, two cars back. It’s been with us since we left the safe house.”
Thomas didn’t turn around. “You’re sure?”
“Made the same three turns we did. Hung back when we slowed down, sped up when we did.” I kept my voice low, pitched beneath the murmur of the Baroness’s conversation. “Either it’s a coincidence or we’re being followed.”
The Baroness had stopped talking. She was watching me in the rearview mirror, her expression alert.
“The gray car?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Otto?” She looked at her driver.
“I see it.” Otto’s voice had lost its usual warmth. “Hold on.”