“Yes, sir.”
Another silence. I could picture Manakin in whatever office he was in, cigarette burning between his fingers, processing the human cost of our unsanctioned operation.
“My team arrived in Bern yesterday,” he said finally.
I straightened. “Sir?”
“Four men. They’re operating under diplomatic cover as cultural attachés and trade representatives, the normal bullshit. They’re working with limited resources, but they’re there.” He paused. “I can’t officially authorize them to support you. You’re still off the books, and what you did at that fortress—if any of that blows back on us, you understand what happens.”
“We’re burned, disavowed, and probably prosecuted.”
“Noprobablyabout that.” His voice hardened, then softened again. “Regardless, my team is in-country. If you need to make contact, there’s a dead drop at the Hauptbahnhof. Locker 247. Check it daily. They may not assist you directly, but should you be in the same place at the same time . . .”
“Understood, sir.”
“I’m also pushing hard on the political side. The President and the Secretary of State are aware of the situation. If you can get proof, something concrete we can take to the Swiss President through official channels, it might be enough to shut this thing down before February 15th.”
“We’re working on it,” I said, though I wasn’t sure what we’d actually accomplished toward that end. The Baroness was barely recovered, Thomas was wounded, and we were hiding in a farmhouse, hunted, with no clear next move.
“Work faster.” Manakin’s voice was grim. “Eight days isn’t long.”
“I know, sir.”
“And Shaw?”
“Sir?”
“Tell Jacobs to stop getting shot. That’s an order he might actually follow.”
Despite everything—the cold, the fear, the weight of everything we’d done and everything still to come—I laughed.
“I already told him that, sir. I don’t think he listens to me any more than he does to you.”
Manakin grunted, the closest to a laugh I might ever hear.
“Check in again before the 15th. Whatever happens, I need to know.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line went dead.
I stood in the phone booth for a long moment, watching my breath fog in the cold air.
Church bells began to toll—slow and mournful, counting out the hour.
The old woman was gone.
The dog had wandered off.
It was just me, standing alone in a glass box, carrying more secrets and questions with only a thin hope of finding answers in time.
22
Thomas
Will came back from the village with color in his cheeks and news in his eyes. I was sitting at the kitchen table, my arm in a sling, pretending to read a three-day-old newspaper I’d found in Dr. Müller’s study. In truth, I’d been watching the clock, counting the minutes since Will had slipped out to find a phone. Every minute he was gone was a minute something could go wrong.
But here he was.
