11 February 1952
Priority.
The banker has confirmed the woman’s travel plans. She will arrive in Bern on the 12th and intends to meet with the journalist at the Grand Hotel Bellevue on the 14th. Suite 412. She should be alone.
This is the opportunity we have discussed. Once she is secured, the remainder of her network can be dismantled. The Americans are a complication, but our friend assures us they have no official sanction and will not interfere.
The Shadow has been notified.
“Son of a bitch,” Thomas breathed. “He sold her out. He told them exactly where she’dbe.”
I stared at the letter, feeling something cold settle in my chest. Engel, the nervous banker with the trembling hands, the man who owed the Baroness his family’s lives, had looked her in the eye, given her information, and then turned around and told her enemies exactly how to find her.
They had threatened his daughter, and he had made his choice.
I understood it. In some terrible way, I sympathized with it. If someone had threatened Thomas, if they had told me they would hurt him unless I cooperated—
Still, understanding didn’t make it better.
The Baroness had been tortured because of Engel.
Otto had died because of Engel.
And Engel had sat in his office, sweating and stammering, feeding us information that was just true enough to be useful while feeding our enemies everything they needed to stay ahead.
“We take all of it,” I said. “The payment records, the correspondence, everything. The Baroness needs to see this.”
“And then?”
“And then we confront him.” I gathered the papers, began stuffing them into the satchel I’d brought. “We find out what else he’s told them. What else they know.”
Thomas nodded grimly. “And if he won’t talk?”
“He’ll talk,” I said. “One way or another.”
24
Thomas
We returned to the farmhouse as dawn broke over the mountains. The Baroness was pacing in the living room. She looked up when we entered, and I saw the question in her good eye before she asked it.
“Well?”
We stepped into the kitchen. Will set the satchel on the table and opened it. The folders spilled out.
“We found what we were looking for,” he said. “And more.”
She reached for the letters first.
I watched her face as she read them, watched the understanding slip into place, piece by piece. When she reached the final letter, the one that gave her exact location at the Grand Hotel Bellevue, she went very still.
“Engel,” she said.
“Yes.”
She set the letter down carefully, as though it might shatter. For a long moment, she didn’t speak. I found myself holding my breath, waiting for the rage, the fury, and the cold promise of vengeance.
They didn’t come.
