Chapter 29 Will
Will
The last day was the hardest. Not because of the work—there was plenty of that, and it kept our hands busy with equipment checks, route planning, and contingency reviews.
The CIA woman ran us through the operation three more times, probing for weaknesses, while testing our responses to scenarios that grew progressively more catastrophic.
What if the warehouse is empty?
What if it’s a trap?
What if the radios fail?
What if someone gets captured?
We had answers for all of it. Whether those answers would hold up under fire was another question entirely.
No, the hardest part was the waiting.
The hours stretched like taffy, thick and slow and impossible to rush. The knowledge that everything we’d done—every risk, every sacrifice, every drop of blood—came down to what happened tonight.
I’d felt this before.
Endless tension always filled the night before a mission, when the planning was done and there was nothing left but the doing. It never got easier.
I spent the morning with Danny and Eddie, reviewing our route through the city.
We would hit three targets: the power station on Hardstrasse, the communications hub near the university, and a secondary power facility on the western edge of the city. That gave us three chances to catch the Order’s people in the act.
“We stay mobile,” I said, tracing our path on the map. “No more than fifteen minutes at any location. We photograph what we can, then move. If we see sabotage in progress, we document it. We do not engage.”
“And if they see us?” Danny asked.
“We disappear. These streets”—I tapped the map—“are full of alleys, courtyards, and dark places to vanish. We know the routes. They don’t know we’re coming.”
“You’re assuming they don’t know we’re coming,” Eddie said quietly.
I looked at him. His face was calm, but his eyes held the wariness of a man who had learned not to trust assumptions.
“You think they might?” I asked.
“I think, from what you’ve told us, they’ve known where you would be since the moment you arrived in Switzerland, possibly before you even left France.
I think they’ve been operating for years without getting caught, which suggests competence.
” He shrugged. “Competent people assume they’re being watched and prepare accordingly. ”
He wasn’t wrong.
I’d been trying not to think about it—the possibility that we were walking into a trap, that somewhere in the Order’s hierarchy or the Soviets’ planning, someone had anticipated exactly this response. Eddie’s words dragged those fears into the light.
“Then we stay sharp,” I said. “Trust nothing and assume the worst.”
“I always do,” Eddie said. And somehow, that was reassuring.
The afternoon brought a visitor.
Bisch had gone into town that morning on a supply run, he’d said, though I suspected he was also checking on his own network of contacts. He returned around three with groceries, ammunition, and a man I didn’t recognize.
“This is Vogel,” Bisch said, ushering the stranger into the kitchen. “Werner Vogel, the reporter.”
Vogel was younger than I’d expected—late thirties, maybe, with a lean face and sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a rumpled suit and carried a battered leather satchel that bulged with papers.
The Baroness rose to greet him. “Werner. Thank you for coming.”
“Baroness.” He took her hands gently, mindful of the bandages. “When Bisch told me what happened to you . . .” He shook his head. “I had to see for myself.”
“As you can see, I am still standing.” The Baroness withdrew her hands. “Barely, but still standing.”
Vogel looked around the room, taking in the maps on the table, the equipment stacked against the walls, and the collection of armed strangers watching him with varying degrees of suspicion.
“You’ve assembled quite a team,” he said.
“Necessity makes strange alliances. I trust you will never mention the men you see gathered here? I would take it quite personally if you did.”
Werner blanched, clearly understanding the unstated threat in her words. “Of course, Baroness.”
The Baroness gestured for him to sit. “You received the documents?”
“I did, and I’ve been through them twice.” Vogel pulled a folder from his satchel. “The payment records are damning, the correspondence even more so. My editor is . . . cautious, but interested.”
“Cautious?” The Baroness cocked a brow.
“He wants verification, independent confirmation that what you’re claiming is actually happening.
” Vogel spread his hands. “I believe you, Baroness. I’ve known you for many years.
I know you would not fabricate something like this, but my editor doesn’t know you, and the people you’re accusing are very powerful.
If we publish this information without ironclad proof and we’re wrong . . .”
“You won’t be wrong,” she said.
“My editor needs proof.” Vogel leaned forward.
“Tonight. If what you’ve told me is true, the Order will move against our infrastructure.
If you can get me photographs and evidence of coordinated action, something I can put in front of my editor and say, ‘This is real. This is happening,’ I believe he will run the story as quickly as our presses can print. ”
“That is the plan,” the Baroness said.
“Good.” Vogel checked his watch. “I’ll be at my office all night. The moment you have something, send it to me. If the evidence is solid, I can have a story ready for the morning edition.”
“The morning edition,” I said. “That’s cutting it close. The Council convenes at ten.”
“The paper hits the streets at six. That gives the Council members three hours to read it before the session begins. It also gives us time to leak the story to the world’s press.
I believe that is where it will make the largest impact.
” Vogel met my eyes. “It is not much time, but it might be enough to change the calculus.”
Or it might not.
Three hours wasn’t much time to absorb the revelation that your government had been infiltrated by Soviet-backed conspirators.
“We’ll get you your proof,” I said.
Vogel nodded. He gathered his papers and rose to leave.
“I am afraid you must remain with me until this is over,” the Baroness said, freezing the man in place. His eyes widened as he staggered back a step.
“Baroness?”
“You have seen too much, Werner. If the Soviets or the Order picked you up—”
Horror spread across his features, morphing into outright terror.
“You are not a hostage, Werner. I say this only to keep you safe.” The Baroness rose and placed a bandaged hand on his arm. “Until our men return, you have no story to report. Would you not like to be here when they return with your editor’s proof?”
“I . . . well . . . yes, I suppose—”
“Excellent. I made coffee. Please help yourself.” She spun and returned to the table, all interest in the reporter lost as she once again stared at the assembled maps.
Sometime in the mid-afternoon, Thomas found me in the bedroom we’d been sharing. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the camera in my hands.
“You’re going to wear out the shutter,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.
“Just making sure it works.”
“It worked an hour ago. And two hours before that.” He crossed the room and sat so our shoulders brushed. “Talk to me.”
I set the camera aside. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re quiet, which means you’re thinking too much.” He bumped his shoulder against mine. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I was quiet for a moment, trying to find the words.
“I keep thinking about everything that could go wrong,” I said finally. “The Order could know we’re coming. The warehouse could be a trap. Vogel’s editor could refuse to publish even with proof. Hoffmann’s Council contacts could be compromised. There are so many ways this falls apart.”
“That’s true,” Thomas said. “There are.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to be.” He took my hand. “Every operation has a hundred ways to fail. How many times have we seen that? We plan as best we can, prepare for the worst, and then go anyway, because the alternative is doing nothing, and doing nothing is much, much worse.”
“Is it?”
“You know it is.” He squeezed my hand. “If we don’t try, the Order wins and Switzerland falls.
Moscow gets its foothold in the heart of Europe.
Hell, Stalin controls banking across half the globe.
Everything the Baroness suffered, everything Otto died for, everything we’ve risked—it all means nothing. ”
I looked up at him—at the lines of fatigue around his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw, the quiet certainty that had carried him through a dozen impossible situations.
“When did you get so wise?” I asked.
“I’ve always been wise. You just don’t listen.”
I choked on a laugh. “That’s probably true.”
“It’s definitely true.” He leaned over and kissed my temple. “We’re going to be fine, babe, both of us. We’re going to do the job, get the proof, and come back here in one piece. And then I’m going to make good on my promise.”
“The brain-screwing one?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“I’m counting on it.”
The sun set while we were talking. By five o’clock, the light had faded to gray; by six, true darkness had fallen.
We gathered in the kitchen for a final briefing.
The Baroness held court, her bandaged hands folded in front of her.
Bisch stood by the door, ready to move. The CIA team clustered around one end of the table, while Thomas and I took the other.
The reporter hovered near the stove, a cup of steaming tea cradled in his hands.
“You know the plan,” the Baroness said. “You know your assignments. What I have to say now is not about tactics.”
She looked at each of us in turn.
“Tonight, you are risking your lives for a country that is not your own. Some of you are doing this against orders and at great personal cost. I cannot promise you success. I cannot promise you safety. All I can promise is that what you do tonight matters. If we succeed, you will have helped save something precious, something worth saving.”
She straightened in her chair, and for a moment I saw the woman she was before all this began—proud, fierce, and unbroken.
“Whatever happens,” she said, “know that you have my gratitude and my respect.”
Silence followed.
Then the woman—the American team leader whose name still evaded us—nodded once.
“Let’s go to work,” she said.
We dispersed to our vehicles.
The warehouse team would take the diplomatic sedan—the woman, Thomas, and Marcus. They would position themselves by eight o’clock and wait for activity to begin.
My team had a nondescript Opel that Bisch had acquired through channels I didn’t want to know about. Danny drove, Eddie rode shotgun, and I sat in the back with my camera and my fear.
Before we left, Thomas caught my arm.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
He pulled me close and kissed me—hard and desperate, the kind of kiss that said everything words couldn’t.
“Come back to me,” he said against my mouth.
“I will if you will.”
“Deal.”
He let me go. I climbed into the Opel. Danny started the engine.
I rolled down the window before he could drive away and called, “Condor!”
Thomas turned, his face a question mark.
“Try not to get shot again.”
The smile on his face as we drove away filled my heart—then I prayed to anyone who would listen that I would see it again.
The night of the 14th had begun.