“Are you sureyou’re—”
“If you ask me if I’m okay one more time, I’m going to pick the lock with your face.” He flashed me a grin that was almost convincing. “I’m fine. Let’s move.”
The courtyard was dark, sheltered from streetlights by the surrounding buildings. I led the way, keeping close to the walls while listening for any sound that might indicate a guard or a late-working employee. There was nothing beyond the distant hum of cars moving about the city.
The service door was exactly where Bisch had said it would be. It was a heavy metal thing, painted the same drab gray as the building, almost invisible in the shadows. Thomas kneeled in front of it, his lock picks appearing in his good hand.
“Keep watch,” he said, starting to work his magic.
Seconds stretched into minutes.
I heard Thomas curse softly, heard the delicate scratch of metal on metal, then heard him curse again. His injured shoulder was making the work harder. I could see it in the tension in his back and the careful way he was holding himself to minimize the strain.
“Thomas—”
“Got it.”
Click.
The door swung inward, revealing a dark corridor.
Bisch’s map proved to be better than good. It was precise and detailed, the work of a man who had spent years memorizing buildings and geography for one operation after another. We waited a moment, listening and watching for guards who might be patrolling the interior. When none appeared, we navigated the service corridors, climbed a back staircase to the third floor, and found ourselves outside the records room.
This lock was more complicated, a Kaba system, Swiss-made, and designed to resist exactly the kind of manipulation Thomas was attempting. He worked at it for five minutes, then ten, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold.
“I can’t—” He stopped, took a breath, tried again. “The pins aren’t seating right. My hand keeps shaking.”
“Let me try.”
“You’re worse at this than I am.”
“Maybe, but my hands aren’t shaking.”
He looked at me for a long moment, pride warring with pragmatism, then he handed me the picks.
“Third pin is sticky,” he said. “And the fifth has a false set. Don’t let it fool you.”
I kneeled in front of the lock and went to work.
Thomas was right. I was a lot worse at this than he was, but my hands were steady, and I had more patience. After another seven minutes of careful manipulation, I felt the cylinder turn.
“We’re in,” I whispered.
The records room was larger than I expected. Rows of filing cabinets stretched back into darkness. Shelves rose to the ceiling, stacked with ledgers and folders, the accumulated paperwork of a company that had been operating for decades.
“Where do we start?” Thomas asked.
“Recent correspondence. Look for payment records from the last six months.” I pulled out my flashlight and shielded the beam with my hand. “Bisch said the active files would be in the cabinets along the east wall.”
Thomas took the left side. I took the right.
Our flashlight beams cut through the darkness, illuminating labels and dates and the occasional spiderweb.
I found the payment records first. There were thick folders full of invoices, wire transfers, and account statements. I flipped through them quickly, looking for names I recognized. Sternberg AG had hundreds of clients with thousands of transactions. Money flowed in and out of accounts like blood through a circulatory system.
A half hour into our hunt, I found a folder labeled simply “L/B.”
Lüthi and Brenner? The compromised ministers? Could it be that obvious?
