That word again.
That terrible, empty word.
“He could be hiding,” Marcus offered. “Lying low until the heat dies down. It’s what I’d do.”
“Don’t.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “Just . . . don’t.”
Silence.
The candles flickered.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windows.
Somewhere in Bern’s darkness, Thomas was either alive or dead, and I had no way of knowing which.
The CIA woman cleared her throat. “We have work to do. Whatever’s happened to Condor—”
“I don’t care about the fucking photographs.”
The Baroness flinched. The CIA woman didn’t.
“You should.” The woman’s voice was hard. “Because if we don’t get this evidence to the press, everything he did tonight was for nothing. Every risk, every photograph, every—” She stopped herself and took a breath. “Wherever he is, he wouldn’t want you to throw it all away. You know that.”
And I did.
Thomas would tell me to focus, to finish the mission, to make sure every sacrifice meant something. He would be furious if I let emotion cloud my judgment.
But Thomas wasn’t here, and the not knowing was eating me alive.
“Let me try the radio,” I said. “One more time.”
The Baroness nodded, and Bisch handed me the equipment. It was a field radio acquired from Swiss military surplus. It had a better range than our handhelds.
I keyed the mic. “Condor, Emu. Do you copy?”
Static.
“Condor, respond. Just . . . please respond.”
Static.
“Thomas.”
I dropped the code name and any hint of propriety.
Nothing mattered anymore.
Nothing but Thomas.
“Thomas, if you can hear me—I’m here. I’m not leaving. Just give me something. Anything. Please.”
The static hissed and crackled.
I lowered the radio.
My hands were shaking.
“We wait, and we work,” the Baroness said softly. “It is all we can do.”
