“Moscow was a means to an end! The money and resources—we areusingthem, don’t you see? We are building something stronger, something that could resist the rot.” Lüthi’s eyes were bright now, fevered. “The Order understands what none of you will admit. Democracy is failing. It has always been failing. It is too slow, too weak, and too easily corrupted by sentiment and cowardice. What Switzerland needs—what Europe needs—is strength and discipline. It needs leadership that is not afraid to make difficult choices.”
“Leadership that tortures women, too, apparently,” Huber said flatly. “Leadership that murders journalists and plants bombs in power stations and blames foreign agents.”
“Those were necessary sacrifices for a greater cause!”
“You’re insane,” Steiner breathed. “My God. You’re actually insane.”
Lüthi laughed—a harsh, bitter sound.
“I am the only sane man in this room. The rest of you—you will wring your hands and form committees and debate endlessly while everything crumbles around you. That is what democracy has given us, endless talk while the world burns.” He looked around the table with something like pity. “You had a chance, a chance to be part of something that mattered, and you are throwing it away for newspaper headlines.”
“No.” Frei rose slowly from his chair. “We are throwing it away for Switzerland. The real Switzerland, not your fantasy of strongmen and secret orders.” He turned to the door and raised his voice. “Guards!”
The doors burst open, and military police in crisp uniforms poured into the chamber, their faces impassive, their movements precise.
“Federal Councilor Rudolf Lüthi,” Frei said, and his voice did not waver, “you are under arrest for treason against the Swiss Confederation.”
Lüthi didn’t resist as the guards took his arms. He looked almost relieved, as if the weight of pretense had finally become too heavy to bear.
“You are fools. You are making a terrible mistake,” he said quietly. “All of you. When the Order risesagain—and it will rise—you will wish you had made a different choice.”
“Take him away.”
The guards shoved him toward the entrance and led him out, the chamber’s heavy wooden doors slamming shut behind them.
Brenner had collapsed in his chair, his face buried in his hands. He was weeping—ugly, gasping sobs that shook his entire body.
“I did not want this,” he said, over and over. “They said it would be better. They said Switzerland needed this. I did not want—I—”
“Hans.” Keller’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “Hans, look at me.”
He raised his head. His face was a ruin of tears and snot and terror.
“You have a choice now,” she said. “Cooperate. Tell us everything. Give us names, accounts, and operations. Help us root out what’s left of this conspiracy.” She paused. “Or don’t and spend the rest of your life in a cell, forever fearing one of Stalin’s assassins and knowing you could have made a different choice.”
Brenner stared at her for what felt like eternity.
Then he nodded, slowly, a man surrendering to the inevitable.
“I will tell you everything,” he whispered. “Everything I know.”
The remaining guards escorted him out. He wasn’t in handcuffs, not yet, but he clearly strode out with the understanding that his freedom was conditional on his cooperation.
The chamber grew quiet.
Five councilors remained—Frei, Huber, Weber, Keller, and Steiner.
Five people who had nearly watched their country be stolen from them.
Frei stood at the head of the table, his hands braced against the wood, his head bowed. He looked every one of his seventy-two years.
“This session is suspended,” he said finally. “The emergency powers proposal is withdrawn. A full investigation will be launched immediately.” He raised his head, and his eyes were wet. “God help us all. God help Switzerland.”
“Josef.” Anna Keller’s voice was firm. “Switzerland does not need God’s help. It has us. It has the people who refused to look away in the face of tyranny.”
Frei met her gaze. After a moment, he nodded.
“Then let’s get to work,” he said. “We have a country to save.”
