“That, too.” She crossed the kitchen and took our hands—one of hers in each of ours—and squeezed with surprising strength. “Thank you. I do not have words for what this means to me.”
“You don’t need words,” I said. “Just tell us what time the train leaves.”
She laughed. It was a wet sound, choked with emotion. “Seven o’clock. Do not be late. I refuse to storm the gates of conspiracy with men who cannot manage basic punctuality.”
“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Thomas said.
She released our hands and turned back to the stove, composing herself with visible effort. “Now, the eggs are ruined thanks to this touching display of sentiment. Thomas, you will make fresh ones. William, you will eat your croissants and stop looking at me like I am made of glass. We have a great deal to do before tomorrow, and I will do none of it while weeping like a schoolgirl.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Thomas said, snapping off a mock salute as he rose to take her place at the stove.
4
Thomas
Ihave never understood people who enjoy train travel.
Will loves it—the rhythm, the scenery, the way time seems to stretch and slow as the world slides past the window. He finds it meditative, he says. Peaceful, even. An invitation to reflection.
I find it maddening.
So I buried myself in the Baroness’s documents, spreading them across the small table in our private compartment and attacking them like they had personally offended me. Names, dates, connections, payments—the raw material of conspiracy waiting to be assembled into something that made sense.
Will sat beside me, his shoulder warm against mine, watching the French countryside transform into the Swiss Alps. He had that distant, contemplative look that meant he was thinking deep thoughts about beauty or meaning or the fragile nature of human connection. I loved that look, even when Ididn’t understand it. Will saw the world in ways I never could. He noticed depths and textures that slid right past me.
The Baroness sat across from us, her tea long cold, her gaze fixed on some middle distance that probably contained strategic calculations I couldn’t begin to fathom. She looked tired, but not just physically exhausted, worn down in some deeper way, like a general who had been fighting too many battles on too many fronts for too long.
“Tell me about Bisch,” Will said, breaking the silence.
The Baroness turned from the window, one eyebrow arched. “Bisch?”
“When we stayed at your estate, I assumed he was merely a household butler. Now, you tell us he’s a trusted member of your network. If we’re going to be working with him, I’d like to know what we’re walking into.”
“Ah.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Heinrich Bisch has been with me for years. He was part of the Austrian resistance, caught by the Gestapo in 1943 and held for seven months before the liberation. They did terrible things to him. He walks with a limp now, and there are days when the pain is considerable; but his mind is sharp, his loyalty absolute, and there is no one in the world I trust more completely.”
“High praise coming from you,” I said, glancing up from the papers.
“It is simply the truth. Bisch knows things about my operations that could destroy me if they fell into the wrong hands. He has never wavered, never questioned, never given me cause to doubt him.” Her expression softened. “He is not a warm man—the Gestapo burned that out of him—but he is good. Genuinely good, in a way that is rare in our world.”
The Baroness didn’t hand out trust like party favors. If she said Bisch was solid, he was solid.
“And Otto?” I asked.
“Otto is . . . Otto.” Her smile warmed considerably—the first I’d seen from her since Paris. “He has been with me even longer than Bisch.” She shook her head, something fond in her expression. “He talks too much, has opinions about everything, and once spent an entire drive from Bern to Geneva explaining to me the proper technique for growing alpine potatoes; but he would die for me without hesitation, and I would do the same for him.”
“Sounds like my kind of guy,” I said.
She turned back to the window. “Otto will meet us at the train station. From there, we will go directly to a safe house in the Niederdorf. I have not been back to my residence since I left for Paris. There are too many eyes there.”
The train climbed higher, and I watched the landscape transform through the window. Snow-capped peaks, picturesque villages, valleys so perfect they looked like paintings.
It was Switzerland in all its postcard glory.
And I didn’t trust it.
Pretty places hid ugly secrets.
I’d learned that lesson the hard way, in a dozen countries and a hundred operations. The more beautiful the façade, the darker the rot beneath.
