“The walls in this flat are paper, Thomas. I heardeverything.” She took a delicate sip of her tea. “It was rather sweet, actually. I had almost forgotten what genuine affection sounds like.”
Will had gone still, his expression carefully neutral. I reached out and squeezed his hand.
“Well,” I said brightly, “at least we provided entertainment.”
“You provided reassurance.” The Baroness set down her cup, and her tone shifted—the teasing warmth fading into something more serious. “In our line of work, one sees a great deal of ugliness. Betrayal, manipulation, the casual cruelties that powerful people inflict upon those beneath them. It iseasy to forget that love exists. Watching the two of you reminds me that not everything in this world is shadow and deception. It gives me hope, which I find I need rather desperately at the moment.”
The weight of her words settled over the kitchen.
Will moved to the stove, beginning the ritual of making coffee. I observed the Baroness watching him, saw the way her eyes tracked his movements with something like maternal concern.
“You said you would tell us everything this morning,” I said. “We’re listening.”
The Baroness nodded slowly.
She lifted the document she’d been reading. I could see now it was covered in handwritten notes, including names, dates, and connecting lines. She laid it on the table between us.
“Two weeks ago,” she began, “a monk was murdered at the monastery of St. Gallen.”
I exchanged a glance with Will. St. Gallen was one of Switzerland’s oldest religious sites, home to a medieval library that scholars had studied for centuries. Murder in such a place would make headlines but hardly seemed cause for a nation’s spymaster to flee to Paris.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said carefully, “but what does a dead monk have to do with—”
“He was not merely a monk.” The Baroness’s voice was sharp. “He was one of my sources, mymost valuable source, in fact. He had been feeding me intelligence for twenty years.”
“Twenty years?” Will turned from the stove, coffee forgotten for the moment. “Who was he?”
“His name was Aldric. Before he took holy orders, it was something else entirely.” The Baroness paused, her fingers tracing the edge of the document. “He was a member of the Order of Saint Longinus.”
I felt my stomach clench.
“He renounced them,” the Baroness continued. “Twenty years ago, he came to me in desperation. He had seen and done things that he could no longer reconcile with his conscience. He wanted out. The Order has never permitted members to simply leave. They consider it apostasy, punishable by death. So I arranged his escape. We arranged a new identity, a new life, and sanctuary in the monastery at St. Gallen, where he spent the rest of his years doing penance for his sins.”
“And feeding you information,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “He maintained a few contacts within the Order, other members who had grown disillusioned, others who simply liked to gossip. He reported to me on the Order’s movements, their recruitment, and their operations. It was through Aldric that I first learned of Cardinal Severan’s rise to power within the brotherhood.” Her jaw tightened. “And it was through Aldric that I learned, three weeks ago, that something new was stirring.”
Will brought coffee to the table and sat down beside me, close enough that our shoulders touched.
“What kind of stirring?” he asked.
“The Order’s remnants are being contacted. They have stepped up their recruitment and organization.” The Baroness tapped the document. “Aldric sent me reports of meetings in Munich and Vienna, even in Bern itself. Old members are being approached, new members initiated. Someone is rebuilding the network, but Aldric could not determine who, or why.”
“Severan,” I said. “It has to be. We never found his body after Rome.”
“That was my assumption as well, but Aldric was uncertain. He said the secrecy, the rituals, and the codes were all similar, but something was different. The rhetoric had changed. They spoke less about divine judgment and more about restoration.”
“Restoration of what?” I asked.
“Politicalrestoration. A new order for a new age.”
“You suspect Soviet involvement,” Will said quietly, a statement rather than a question.
“Perhaps.” The Baroness spread her hands. “The Order has always attracted zealots, men who believe they are instruments of a higher power. Such men are useful to intelligence services. They can be manipulated, directed, and aimed like weapons attargets they believe are enemies of God. If Moscow has taken control of the Order’s remnants and turned them into assets . . .”
Her voice trailed off as her eyes found the window again.
“Aldric was killed because he knew too much,” I said. “Because he was reporting to you.”
