Chapter 23 Will
Will
The Sternberg AG offices occupied the top three floors of a limestone building on Bahnhofstrasse, Bern’s most prestigious address. At two in the morning, the street was empty. Shop windows were dark. The only movement was the occasional patrol car gliding past on its rounds.
Thomas and I watched from the shadows of an alley across the street.
“The service entrance is around the back,” I murmured, consulting the map Bisch had drawn. “Through the courtyard, past the loading dock. He said there’s a door with a simple pin tumbler lock.”
“Simple for him, maybe.” Thomas shifted his weight. I watched him wince. His arm was out of the sling only because he’d insisted, but he was still moving stiffly and favoring his wounded shoulder. “Let’s hope my lock-picking skills are up to the task.”
“Are you sure you’re—”
“If you ask me if I’m okay one more time, I’m going to pick the lock with your face.” He flashed me a grin that was almost convincing. “I’m fine. Let’s move.”
The courtyard was dark, sheltered from streetlights by the surrounding buildings. I led the way, keeping close to the walls while listening for any sound that might indicate a guard or a late-working employee. There was nothing beyond the distant hum of cars moving about the city.
The service door was exactly where Bisch had said it would be. It was a heavy metal thing, painted the same drab gray as the building, almost invisible in the shadows. Thomas kneeled in front of it, his lock picks appearing in his good hand.
“Keep watch,” he said, starting to work his magic.
Seconds stretched into minutes.
I heard Thomas curse softly, heard the delicate scratch of metal on metal, then heard him curse again. His injured shoulder was making the work harder. I could see it in the tension in his back and the careful way he was holding himself to minimize the strain.
“Thomas—”
“Got it.”
Click.
The door swung inward, revealing a dark corridor.
Bisch’s map proved to be better than good.
It was precise and detailed, the work of a man who had spent years memorizing buildings and geography for one operation after another.
We waited a moment, listening and watching for guards who might be patrolling the interior.
When none appeared, we navigated the service corridors, climbed a back staircase to the third floor, and found ourselves outside the records room.
This lock was more complicated, a Kaba system, Swiss-made, and designed to resist exactly the kind of manipulation Thomas was attempting. He worked at it for five minutes, then ten, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold.
“I can’t—” He stopped, took a breath, tried again. “The pins aren’t seating right. My hand keeps shaking.”
“Let me try.”
“You’re worse at this than I am.”
“Maybe, but my hands aren’t shaking.”
He looked at me for a long moment, pride warring with pragmatism, then he handed me the picks.
“Third pin is sticky,” he said. “And the fifth has a false set. Don’t let it fool you.”
I kneeled in front of the lock and went to work.
Thomas was right. I was a lot worse at this than he was, but my hands were steady, and I had more patience. After another seven minutes of careful manipulation, I felt the cylinder turn.
“We’re in,” I whispered.
The records room was larger than I expected. Rows of filing cabinets stretched back into darkness. Shelves rose to the ceiling, stacked with ledgers and folders, the accumulated paperwork of a company that had been operating for decades.
“Where do we start?” Thomas asked.
“Recent correspondence. Look for payment records from the last six months.” I pulled out my flashlight and shielded the beam with my hand. “Bisch said the active files would be in the cabinets along the east wall.”
Thomas took the left side. I took the right.
Our flashlight beams cut through the darkness, illuminating labels and dates and the occasional spiderweb.
I found the payment records first. There were thick folders full of invoices, wire transfers, and account statements.
I flipped through them quickly, looking for names I recognized.
Sternberg AG had hundreds of clients with thousands of transactions.
Money flowed in and out of accounts like blood through a circulatory system.
A half hour into our hunt, I found a folder labeled simply “L/B.”
Lüthi and Brenner? The compromised ministers? Could it be that obvious?
I flipped open the folder to find carbon copies of wire transfers, each one documenting a payment from a numbered Swiss account to accounts in their names. The amounts were substantial. The dates went back eighteen months.
“Thomas,” I hissed. “Over here.”
He appeared at my shoulder. After a quick look at what I was holding, he let out a low whistle.
“That’s actual, concrete proof of bribery.”
“It’s a start.” I set the folder aside and kept searching. “There has to be more. Look for correspondence or instructions, something that shows who’s giving the orders.”
Twenty minutes later, Thomas found the correspondence files.
They were in a locked drawer at the back of the room, a drawer that took him another five minutes to crack while cursing steadily under his breath. Inside was a leather portfolio, and inside the portfolio were letters.
Dozens of them. The letters were careful, coded, but not careful enough.
I spread them out on the nearest table. We read them together by flashlight.
13 November 1951
Our mutual friend in Munich reports satisfactory progress. The young woman continues her studies. We trust this arrangement remains agreeable to all parties.
In consideration of this ongoing courtesy, we expect continued cooperation regarding the Swiss matter. Our banker has proven most helpful in facilitating introductions, and we anticipate his assistance with travel schedules and meeting arrangements as the project advances.
As the deadline approaches, precision will be essential.
“The young woman,” Thomas said quietly. “That has to be Engel’s daughter.”
“That makes ‘our banker’ Herr Engel,” I replied.
Thomas whispered the next letter aloud.
27 January 1952
Phase One proceeds on schedule. Our Eastern friends confirm that financial transfers have been received and acknowledged. L and B remain committed to the arrangement, though L has requested additional assurances regarding his role in the new structure.
Personnel placement continues across all target sectors. Transportation and communications assets are now at eighty percent readiness.
The mountain is fully operational.
Our banker reports the woman has begun asking questions. She visited him last week seeking information about property acquisitions. He provided what was requested—nothing more, nothing less. She suspects nothing.
The Chamber Session remains fixed for 15 February. All elements must be in position by midnight on the 14th.
“L and B,” I said. “Lüthi and Brenner. And the mountain—”
“Adlerhorst.” Thomas’s voice was grim. “‘Useful for managing complications.’ That’s one way to describe a torture chamber.”
“Our ‘Eastern friends’?”
Thomas let out a breath. “The Soviets. Who else?”
“Damn it. We need to report to Manakin.”
Thomas nodded. “We don’t have time to read all these here. Pack them up and—”
“Wait.” I held up a hand. “Look at this one. Goddamn it.”
I held the letter I was scanning as he spoke up to the light for Thomas to read.
11 February 1952
Priority.
The banker has confirmed the woman’s travel plans. She will arrive in Bern on the 12th and intends to meet with the journalist at the Grand Hotel Bellevue on the 14th. Suite 412. She should be alone.
This is the opportunity we have discussed. Once she is secured, the remainder of her network can be dismantled. The Americans are a complication, but our friend assures us they have no official sanction and will not interfere.
The Shadow has been notified.
“Son of a bitch,” Thomas breathed. “He sold her out. He told them exactly where she’d be.”
I stared at the letter, feeling something cold settle in my chest. Engel, the nervous banker with the trembling hands, the man who owed the Baroness his family’s lives, had looked her in the eye, given her information, and then turned around and told her enemies exactly how to find her.
They had threatened his daughter, and he had made his choice.
I understood it. In some terrible way, I sympathized with it. If someone had threatened Thomas, if they had told me they would hurt him unless I cooperated—
Still, understanding didn’t make it better.
The Baroness had been tortured because of Engel.
Otto had died because of Engel.
And Engel had sat in his office, sweating and stammering, feeding us information that was just true enough to be useful while feeding our enemies everything they needed to stay ahead.
“We take all of it,” I said. “The payment records, the correspondence, everything. The Baroness needs to see this.”
“And then?”
“And then we confront him.” I gathered the papers, began stuffing them into the satchel I’d brought. “We find out what else he’s told them. What else they know.”
Thomas nodded grimly. “And if he won’t talk?”
“He’ll talk,” I said. “One way or another.”