We had gathered in the kitchen after the fire—the Baroness, Thomas, Bisch, Otto, and me—and the silence between us was thick enough to choke on. The smell of smoke still clung to the Baroness’s clothes, and there were ash smudges on her face that she hadn’t bothered to wipe away. She looked older than I had ever seen her.
“Maurer is dead,” she said flatly. “Or he never intended to come at all. Either way, that avenue is closed.”
“Someone told them,” Thomas said while staring at Bisch, not bothering to hide it. “Someone told themexactlywhen and where you would be.”
“Yes.” The Baroness’s voice was cold. “Someone did.”
Bisch stood motionless by the door. He didn’t react, didn’t flinch or protest, didn’t respond in any way. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, theway his hands hung too still at his sides. He knew he was being accused. He knew, and he was choosing not to defend himself.
That bothered me.
An innocent man would protest, wouldn’t he?
He would demand to know why he was being suspected, would point fingers elsewhere, would dosomethingother than stand there like a statue accepting judgment. Bisch’s silence felt less like dignity and more like resignation, like a man who had already been convicted and was simply waiting for the sentence.
Or like a man who was very, very good at playing innocent.
“We still have Engel’s information,” I said, trying to steer the conversation toward something productive. “The properties, the personnel placements, the date. February 15th. We know more now than we did yesterday.”
“And what good does that knowledge do us?” The Baroness’s laugh was bitter. “Every time we try to act on what we know, people die. Every time we reach out to a source, that source is eliminated. We are not investigating a conspiracy, William. We are feeding it.”
“Then we stop reaching out,” Thomas said. “We stop using intermediaries. We go directlyto the source.”
“Adlerhorst.” I nodded slowly. “We saw it today. We know there’s a way in. If we can get inside, find evidence, maybe even find whoever they’re holding in that detention wing—”
“And if it is a trap?” Bisch spoke for the first time, his voice flat. “If they are expecting you? You saw the security. Two men against that?”
“Three,” Otto said quietly. “I will not sit in the car while the Baroness is in danger.”
“Four, then.” Bisch’s pale eyes swept over us. “It changes nothing. You cannot assault that fortress. You will die trying, and the Baroness will be left without protection.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Thomas’s voice was sharp. “That we sit here and wait for them to pick us off one by one? That we hide while they complete whatever they’re planning?”
“I suggest we find another way.” Bisch turned to the Baroness. “You still have contacts in the government, yes?”
“My contacts are compromised.” The Baroness’s voice was hollow. “My network is bleeding, and every person I trusted is either dead, disappeared, or under suspicion.” Her eyes met Bisch’s. “Every person.”
“Then we are alone,” he said. “And we must act accordingly.”
The conversation fractured after that, splintering into arguments about tactics and timing thatwent nowhere. Thomas wanted to move immediately, to strike before the enemy could consolidate. Bisch counseled patience, gathering more intelligence before committing to action. Otto sided with Thomas.
The Baroness listened to all of it without speaking, her face unreadable. I watched her, trying to gauge what she was thinking. The Baroness I knew was decisive, always three moves ahead of everyone else in the room. This woman—this exhausted, ash-streaked woman sitting at the kitchen table—looked lost and afraid and very much alone.
It was nearly dawn when she finally spoke.
“There is one person who might help us,” she said slowly. “Someone outside my network and outside the government. He owes me nothing and therefore has no reason to betray me.”
“Who?” I asked.
“A journalist. His name is Schweizer. He has been investigating Sternberg AG independently. I have seen his queries crossing my desk for months. He does not know what he has stumbled into, but he may have pieces of the puzzle we lack. And he is meeting with a source today, a clerk from the Interior Ministry who has been feeding him documents.”
Thomas leaned forward. “How do you know this?”
“Because the clerk contacted me three days ago asking for protection. I told him I could not help,that my resources were stretched too thin.” Her voice tightened with self-recrimination. “I turned him away, and now he is meeting with Schweizer instead, hoping that public exposure will protect him where I could not.”
“Where’s the meeting?” I asked.
“The Grand Hotel Bellevue. The journalist keeps a suite there when he is in Bern.” She rose from the table, her movements stiff with exhaustion. “I am going to intercept them. If I can reach the clerk before the meeting and convince him to share what he knows with me instead of the press, we may finally have leverage that our enemies cannot simply eliminate.”
