“She works in the Ministry building on Bundesplatz. But Isabella—” Engel gripped her hand tightly. “Be careful how you approach her. If they see you together, if they suspect she has been talking to you . . .”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” His voice cracked. “Because I am uncertain I do anymore. I thought I understood. I thought I knew what we were fighting against. But this—” He gestured helplessly at the folder in her hands. “This is something else, something patient and methodical and utterly without mercy. They are not just planning a coup, Isabella; they are planning to remake Switzerland.”
We left the bank with the folder tucked inside the Baroness’s coat. Engel watched us go from his window, a small figure silhouetted against the winterlight, his hand pressed against the glass like a man watching his last hope walk out the door.
8
Thomas
Fräulein Hoffmann was dead before we could reach her.
We found out the next morning in a newspaper that carried the story in small print on page six:
Ministry Employee Found in Limmat River. Apparent Suicide. No Foul Play Suspected.
“No foul play suspected. Of course not. Because when a woman who had been asking inconvenient questions about government finances turned up floating in a river, the obvious explanation was that she had simply decided to take a swim in January.” I threw the newspaper across the table.
“They’re ahead of us,” Will said. “Every step we take, they’re already there. Every source we try to reach, they reach first.”
He picked up the newspaper, scanning the article. “The timing is too precise. We spoke to Engel yesterday afternoon. Hoffmann was found this morning. That’s less than eighteen hours.”
“Which means either Engel told them immediately after we left—”
“Or they were already watching her, and our meeting with Engel triggered the decision to eliminate her.”
“Or both.” I stood up, too agitated to sit still, and began pacing the length of the safe- house kitchen. “Either way, someone knew we were interested in her. Someone knew she was a threat.”
The Baroness sat at the head of the table, her face carved from stone. She had barely spoken since Bisch brought the newspaper. Her tea sat untouched before her, and her hands—usually so expressive, so precise in their movements—lay flat against the table as if she were afraid of what they might do if she let them move.
“I should have gone to her immediately,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “The moment Engel mentioned her name, I should have seen her.”
“This isn’t your fault, Baroness,” Will said. “There’s no way you could’ve known this would happen.”
“Ishouldhave known. I should have anticipated.” Her jaw tightened. “Thirty years in this business, and I am still making mistakes that cost people their lives.”
I stopped pacing. “Baroness—”
“No?” She looked up at me, and I saw doubt. Real, corrosive doubt. “Weber is dead. Hoffmann is dead.Aldric is dead. Everyone I try to protect, everyone I try to reach, they die, Thomas. And the common factor in all of it is me.”
“The common factor is the Order and whoever is feeding information to them,” I said. “That’s not you.”
“Then who?” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “Who is telling them where to look? Who is handing them our contacts on a silver platter?”
The question hung in the air like smoke, poisoning everything it touched.
Bisch appeared in the doorway, his face unreadable. “I have more news.”
“Oh great, just what we need right now,” I said, not bothering to hide the bitterness in my voice.
“I have a lead.” We all perked up as he moved into the room, his limp more pronounced than usual. “I spoke with Maurer this morning, the forger in Basel. He is willing to meet, but he has conditions.”
“What conditions?” the Baroness asked.
“He wants a guarantee of safe passage out of Switzerland if things go wrong. And money. And a new identity. And he will only speak to you, Baroness. In person and alone.”
“Absolutely not,” Will and I said in unison, practically jumping up to restrain the Baroness from going.
