Chapter 30 Thomas
Thomas
The cold was a living thing. It crept through my coat, through my sweater, through my skin. It found the wound in my shoulder and settled there like a second bullet, a dull throb that pulsed with every heartbeat. I’d stopped feeling my fingers twenty minutes ago. My toes had followed shortly after.
But I didn’t dare move. I couldn’t move. Movement was death.
I was wedged into a gap between two shipping containers on the west side of the warehouse, thirty meters from the building.
I was close enough to see, and hoped I was far enough away to run if I had to.
The gap was barely wide enough for my shoulders, and the metal walls magnified the cold like ice blocks.
Above me, a sliver of sky showed stars and only a teasing sliver of the moon.
The radio crackled in my ear with the CIA woman’s voice. It was barely a whisper: “Condor, status.”
I keyed the mic twice. Two clicks. All clear.
“Copy. Warehouse team, holding position. Comms blackout now. Clicks only.”
Silence returned. Like the cold, it was the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears and made you hear things that weren’t there.
I’d been in position for two hours.
Two hours of nothing.
Two hours of watching the west side of the warehouse and seeing exactly what Eddie had predicted.
Absolutely nothing.
The blind spot was real. From my position, I could see a loading dock, a service door, and a stretch of chain-link fence.
What I didn’t see was guards or activity of any kind, only concrete and shadows and my own breath leaking out in a billowing stream.
I cupped my hands and breathed into them both for the warmth and to hide the plumes that might give me away.
Maybe they weren’t using the west side.
Maybe all the action was happening at the main loading bay, where the woman and Marcus were watching.
Maybe I was freezing to death for nothing.
Or maybe I just hadn’t seen it yet.
The first truck arrived at 23:47. I heard the growl of a diesel engine and the crunch of tires on gravel before I saw it lumbering into the yard.
Headlights swept across the fence, briefly illuminating my hiding spot.
I pressed myself deeper into the gap, making my body small and holding my breath for fear my very existence might be heard over the roar of the engine.
The truck pulled around to the west side loading dock.
My heart kicked against my ribs.
The west side.
They were using the west side.
I keyed the mic.
Three clicks.
I have activity on my watch, they said to the team.
Five clicks answered.
Confirm and report.
I waited until the truck’s engine cut before responding. When I spoke, my voice was barely a breath. “Base, Mobile. One truck, west loading dock. Diesel. Canvas-covered bed. Can’t see the cargo.”
One click.
Copy. Remain in place.
I returned one click to acknowledge.
The truck’s doors opened, and two men climbed out. Both wore dark clothing and moved with the graceful economy of professionals. One went to the back of the truck and began unfastening the canvas. The other walked to the service door and knocked.
Three raps, then two.
We weren’t the only ones using signals.
The door opened. Light spilled out, harsh and yellow. I glimpsed movement inside where more men stood chatting or moved crates and equipment.
Then the door closed, and darkness returned.
The men at the truck had pulled back the canvas.
They were unloading now—long wooden crates, the kind I suspected held rifles, and smaller metal boxes that could have been ammunition or explosives or electrical components.
It was hard to tell in the darkness, but the shape of them and the way the men handled them with careful efficiency told me this wasn’t a delivery of office supplies in the dead of night.
I needed photographs of the contents. Snapshots of crates wouldn’t be enough.
My camera was inside my coat, protected from the cold. I’d have to move to get a clear shot, but shifting my position meant exposing myself to the loading dock’s sightline.
The risk was significant. If they saw me . . .
But if I didn’t get photographs, none of this mattered.
I eased the camera out, moving slowly, keeping my elbows tucked. The Leica was cold in my hands, even through my gloves. Its metal bit into my already numbed fingers. I brought it to my eye and found the loading dock in the viewfinder.
It was too dark. I could see shapes but no details. Photographs from this position would be useless.
I needed to get closer.
The gap between the containers ended ten meters from where I crouched. Beyond that lay a wide expanse of open ground, a stretch of cracked concrete, exposed and illuminated by the spill of light from the loading dock.
That way was suicide.
But I spotted another option.
To my left, about five meters away, rose a stack of pallets piled haphazardly against the fence. If I could reach them, I’d have a better angle and moderate cover. It might be close enough for the camera to capture something useful.
I keyed the mic. “Moving to secondary position. Going silent.”
One click replied.
I counted the men at the loading dock. Two were unloading, one was supervising, and one stood by the door.
Four sets of eyes.
None were looking my direction—yet.
I moved low and fast, staying in the shadows, my boots silent on the frozen ground.
Five meters felt like five miles.
Every step was a chance to be seen, a chance for someone to turn their head at the wrong moment, a chance for a stray beam of light to catch my movement.
I reached the pallets and pressed myself against them, trying to calm my breathing.
No shouts came. No alarms sounded. No bullets flew in my direction.
I allowed myself to suck in a lungful of frigid air and immediately regretted its bite.
From here, the angle was better.
I could see the truck clearly now, could see the crates being passed hand to hand, could see the faces of the men doing the work. I raised the camera.
Snap.
Wind the film.
Snap.
Wind the film.
Snap.
Three shots.
Three chances to capture something that mattered.
The men finished unloading. One of them checked a clipboard, made a notation, and handed it to the supervisor. It was a manifest, maybe? I was surprised they kept documentation of what they’d delivered and where it was going. When did conspirators record their treason in files?
I wanted that clipboard.
I wanted it badly enough that my fingers twitched toward it.
But the clipboard wasn’t the mission. The mission was photographs and surviving the night without getting captured.
I took three more shots as the men closed up the truck and headed inside, then retreated to my original position, sliding back into the gap between the containers, making myself invisible again.
“Condor, base,” I breathed. “First contact complete. Six photographs, one truck, four men, cargo appears to be weapons or equipment.”
One click.
I checked my watch.
00:14.
The night was still young.
The second truck came at 00:31. This one was bigger, a military-style transport, the kind that could hold twenty men or several tons of equipment. It pulled into the loading dock with a confident rumble like it owned the place.
Or like it had done this a hundred times before.
More men emerged from the building. More crates were unloaded. This time, I glimpsed stenciling on one of the boxes. The letters meant nothing to me but might mean something to the Baroness or her people. I photographed everything I could.
Then things went wrong.
One of the men—he was younger than the others, nervous in a way that stood out—dropped a crate. It hit the concrete with a crash that echoed off every surface in Bern. The supervisor swore, loud enough for me to hear thirty meters away.
His invective was clearly Russian.
That’s when the nervous man looked up.
He looked directly at the pallets where I’d taken my photographs.
He looked directly at me.
I didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
The darkness was my only shield, and I pressed into it like a lover, willing it to swallow me whole.
The young man stared, squinted, then took a step forward.
“What is it?” the supervisor demanded in Swiss German.
“I thought I saw something over there, by the pallets.” The young man pointed to my hiding place.
“There’s nothing there. Pick up the crate.”
“I’m telling you, I saw—”
“Pick up the crate, or I’ll put you in one.”
The nervous man hesitated. For five eternal seconds, he stood there staring into the darkness where I was hidden.
Then he turned, picked up the crate, and went back to work.
I waited another fifteen seconds before allowing myself to breathe again.
By 01:00, three more trucks had come and gone.
The warehouse was a hive now, alive with activity.
Men moved in and out of the service door, carrying equipment, checking lists, and receiving instructions.
Through brief glimpses when the doors opened, I could see the interior transforming.
Crates were being sorted, vehicles being loaded, and teams being assembled.
I recognized the small huddles and single speakers.
They were exactly how we might provide a final briefing to a team before an operation.
This was it.
The staging operation.
In a few hours, these men would fan out across Bern, hitting the infrastructure targets, creating the chaos that would justify the Chamber Session.
And I was watching it happen.
I’d used two rolls of film by that point. There were thirty-six photographs each, seventy-two total. I’d snapped faces, vehicles, license plates, and cargo. There was more than enough to prove coordination, to prove this wasn’t random or some simple criminal enterprise.
If we got it all to Vogel, if his editor believed, if the story ran in time . . .
A lot of ifs.
The radio crackled, and the Baroness spoke. “Status.”
The CIA woman’s voice: “Warehouse primary. Main bay is dark. Zero activity.”