Thomas had done exactly that.
He’d photographed the warehouse, stayed hidden, and avoided confrontation.
And he’dstillnearly died.
I wanted to kill him for that alone. The stupid man just couldn’t manage to keep from getting shot or stabbed on missions. With his luck, he’d probably get assaulted by a carrier pigeon if there were no guns around.
I’d probably lost a decade of life while worrying over his broken body—and we’d barely been in this spy game for a decade. How was I supposed to survive our next ten or twenty years of slinking about the world in shadows?
Despite being a good little spy and following Manakin’s instructions, the Order had found Thomas anyway. They’d hunted him through the streets of Bern, chased him into the river, and shot at him in the middle of the night.
He’d done everything right, and it hadn’t mattered.
I wondered what Manakin would say about that.
The village was barely large enough for a name. The tiny sign welcoming us to the community was filled with so many letters and accent marks that I knew I’d never be able to pronounce, much less remember, it. A handful of buildings clustered around a single street. At the center stood a church with a pointed steeple. To its right was a post office that doubled as a general store. Bright lights inside illuminated two rows of mailboxes. Beyond them were aisles of shelves filled with food and sundries.
This village looked like the kind of place where everyone knew everyone and strangers stood out like blood on fresh snow.
Bisch pulled the car to a stop in front of the post office but kept the engine idling.
“I will wait here,” he said. “It looks like the power is still on in this town, so you should be able to make your call. If there is trouble—”
“There won’t be.”
He shot me a look that said he’d heard that before, but didn’t argue.
I got out of the car and walked into the post office. A middle-aged woman blinked at me through thick glasses from behind the counter. Her gaze held the wary curiosity of someone who didn’t see many outsiders. I smiled, asked about the telephone in mybest German. She stared a moment before pointing toward a wooden booth in the corner.
The booth smelled like cigarette smoke and varnish. Neither was pleasant. Inhaled together, I nearly gagged.
I closed the door, lifted the receiver, and dialed.
The line crackled. Clicked. Hummed.
Then: “Yes?”
It was Manakin’s voice, flat and tired. I checked my watch and did the mental math. It was the middle of the night in Washington.
“Manakin, Emu,” I said.
A pause.
His voice sharpened. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for six hours.”
“We’ve been busy, sir.”
“Busy?” The word dripped with something between anger and exhaustion. “I get a flash report about shit going down in Bern, and then I hear nothing. For six fucking hours, you give me nothing?”
I didn’t respond.
Another pause.
“Is Condor alive?”
“Yes, sir. He’s alive.”
I heard Manakin exhale—a long, slow breath that carried more emotion than he’d ever admit existed.
