“The train was punctual. Bisch, you remember our American friends, yes?”
He shook our hands without warmth. He wasn’t hostile, just distant. His was the handshake of a man who had learned not to waste energy on social niceties.
“I have heard a great deal about your recent . . . travels. Rome, Vienna, and that business in Berlin.” His pale eyes lingered on me. “You have a reputation for surviving situations that should have killed you.”
“What can I say? It’s a gift,” I said lightly. “Also, I’m very good at running away.”
“I see.” Something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. He turned back to the Baroness. “I have prepared the files you requested. Also, there have been developments while you were away. Inspector Gerhardt, the Landjäger1 officer who agreed to meet with you, was found this morning in the river. The official report states suicide.”
The Baroness closed her eyes briefly. “And the others? The remaining officers from the St. Gallen investigation?”
“Transferred or resigned, all of them. As of yesterday, there is no one left in the Landjäger who has any connection to the case.” Bisch’s expression didn’t change, but something coldmoved behind those pale eyes. “Someone is cleaning house, Baroness, thoroughly and efficiently.”
“Then we will work faster.” She moved to the desk, where stacks of documents waited. “Bisch, I need everything you have on Sternberg AG. Also, find the surveillance reports on Lüthi and Brenner, and see if you can locate any of Aldric’s former contacts, anyone who might know what he discovered before he was killed.”
“Of course, Baroness.” He inclined his head, then paused at the door. “Ma’am, it is good to have you back.”
“Thank you, Bisch. It is good to be home.”
He left without another word, his uneven footsteps fading down the corridor.
“So,” I said, settling into a chair by the fire. “Where do we start?”
The Baroness looked up from the documents. I saw the familiar light of battle in her eyes. It was sharp, determined, and utterly refusing to be defeated.
“We start at the beginning,” she said. “At St. Gallen, the place where Brother Aldric died.” She spread a map across the desk, her finger tracing the route. “Tomorrow, we visit the monastery. We will speak with the surviving monks to find out what Aldric knew and why it was worth killing him to keep it secret.”
1. The Landjäger is the Swiss national police force, similar to the American FBI. It is fictional, created by the author for this novel.
5
Will
The road to St. Gallen wound through a landscape that belonged on a Christmas card. Snow-dusted valleys gave way to evergreen forests, then opened again onto vistas of even greater beauty. I watched it all slide past the window of Otto’s Mercedes and thought about the man who had died at the end of this road and the secrets he’d carried with him into the dark.
I wondered if he had found peace in those cloistered halls, or if every prayer had been haunted by the things he had done before. I wondered if the Order had ever truly let him go or if they had simply been waiting, patient as stone, for the right moment to reclaim what they considered theirs.
Thomas sat quietly beside me. He had barely spoken since we left Bern, his restless energy compressed into something tighter and more focused. I knew that silence. It meant he was thinking, turning the problem over in his mind like a locksmithexamining a mechanism, and searching for weaknesses that would make it yield.
The Baroness rode in the front seat beside Otto, her hair swept back from a face that revealed nothing. She had not visited the monastery since Aldric’s death, since her friend and source had been murdered. I could only imagine what this journey was costing her.
“We are getting close,” Otto announced, his usual chatter subdued. “Another five minutes.”
The road climbed one final rise, and the Abbey of St. Gallen appeared before us like something conjured from the medieval past. Ancient stone walls weathered by centuries of Alpine winters held twin towers that reached toward the sky. The monastery complex sprawled across a snow-covered plateau, wrapped in an atmosphere so heavy with history that I could almost feel it pressing against my skin.
Otto brought the car to a stop outside the main gate.
A young monk in black robes stood waiting beneath the arched doorway, his breath fogging in the cold air, his hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.
“He looks terrified,” Thomas murmured, too quietly for anyone else to hear.
“Can you blame him?” I replied.
As we climbed out of the car, the young monk scurried forward, his eyes darting between us with barely concealed anxiety.
“Baroness von Hohenberg.” His voice cracked on her name. “The Abbot is expecting you. If you will follow me?”
We followed him through the gate and into a world that time had forgotten. Cloistered walkways and stone corridors worn smooth by centuries of sandaled feet were filled with the lingering scent of incense and candle wax. Our footsteps echoed against the ancient stones.
