The Baroness held her gaze for a long moment, then she nodded once.
“The Order is not the true threat,” she said. “They are merely an instrument. The hand that holds the knife . . .” She paused. “Belongs to Moscow.”
That got the woman’s attention. She leaned forward.
“Explain,” she said.
“Stalin is not a fool. He knows he cannot take Western Europe by force without triggering a war he cannot win, certainly not after what Hitler did to his countrymen. So he has found other methods.” She tapped the table. “He has turned his gaze toward Switzerland.”
“NeutralSwitzerland,” the woman said slowly.
“Neutral, yes, but also the banking center of Europe. We are the heart through which money flows.” The Baroness’s eyes were hard. “Whoever controls Switzerland controls the financial arteries of the continent. Stalin understands this and has been planning this for some time.”
“And the Order?” the woman asked.
“Useful idiots. Or perhaps not so idiotic, as their leaders know exactly what they are doing.” The Baroness spread her ruined hands. “The Order believes they are saving Europe from communism by installing strong, traditional leadership. They do not understand—or do not care—that Moscow is funding their operation. Soviet money flows through Swiss banks, into the Order’s accounts, paying for bribes, personnel, and infrastructure. Stalin lets them believe they are fighting godlessness while he uses them to deliver Switzerland into his sphere.”
The woman was quiet for a moment, processing. “You have proof of the Soviet connection?”
“We have payment records showing money flowing from accounts linked to Soviet intelligence. We have correspondence referencing ‘friends in the East.’ And we have documentation of a systematic campaign to bribe and further compromise Swiss federal ministers.” The Baroness gestured to thestack of documents. “Emu has seen it. Condor nearly died obtaining it.”
She looked at me.
“It’s real,” I said, nodding. “Soviet fingerprints are all over it.”
The woman turned to her team. There was serious calculation in her eyes. We weren’t facing a fringe group anymore. This was Stalin making a play for the heart of European finance—and, by extension, the world’s money flow.
“All right, we’re tracking,” she said to the Baroness. “Please go on.”
The Baroness drew in a breath, then spoke again, “The Order intends to manufacture a crisis severe enough to trigger an emergency session of the Federal Council. Every document we have recovered points to February 15th—three days from now. The Chamber Session is an old, mostly forgotten procedure from 1847 originally designed to counter existential threats. It grants expanded executive powers and suspends normal oversight.” The Baroness’s voice was flat. “When the Council convenes, the compromised ministers will push through decrees that consolidate power in the hands of men who answer—knowingly or not—to Moscow.”
“Sounds like a coup,” Marcus said quietly, his first words since entering the kitchen.
“A quiet coup. There would be no Soviet tanks rolling through Bern, no Red Army soldiers, justSwiss ministers passing Swiss laws in a Swiss emergency session.” The Baroness met the woman’s eyes. “By the time anyone realizes what has happened, resistance becomes treason. Switzerland falls—not to invasion, but to subversion. Stalin gains control of Europe’s neutral ground and its banking center without firing a single shot.”
The weight of the Baroness’s words settled over us like the snow falling outside.
The CIA woman was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, she chose her words carefully. “If this is real—if Moscow is actually making a play for Switzerland—then it changes everything.” She looked at her team, then back at the Baroness. “But it doesn’t change my orders. I’m only authorized for observation and security. What you’re describing—stopping a coup—that’s very active intervention. That would be the United States taking sides in a Swiss internal matter.”
“I am not asking you to stop the coup,” the Baroness said. “I am asking you to help me stop it.”
“With respect, ma’am, I don’t see a difference.” The woman’s voice was firm but not unkind. “If my team engages Order or Soviet operatives, even if we only sabotage their sabotage, that’s an act of war. Without authorization from Washington, I can’t do that.”
“Even knowing Moscow is behind it?”
“Especiallyknowing Moscow is behind it.” She met the Baroness’s eyes. “If this goes sideways—if we act and it blows up—it’s not just my career; it’s a massive international incident. We would be handing the Soviets ammunition to claim American interference and paint us as the aggressors. It could make things worse, not better.”
I watched the Baroness absorb this, watched her calculate, reassess, adapt. Forty years of intelligence work had taught her when to push and when to pivot. This was clearly one of those moments.
“Very well,” she said after a moment. “Then let us discuss what youcando.”
She looked around the table—at the four Americans, at Thomas and me, at Bisch pacing behind where Thomas sat. We were eight people, nine counting the Baroness, though her hands limited her to command.
“I had hoped for more,” she admitted. “With active support, we might have disrupted their operation directly.” She shook her head slowly. “But you are right. We do not have the numbers for that. Even with your team fully committed, we would be spread too thin. Four heavily guarded targets, possibly more, against eight operatives. The mathematics do not favor us.”
“So what do you propose?” the CIA woman asked.
The Baroness was quiet for a moment, her gaze turning inward. “The Order’s plan depends on the crisis appearing genuine, something that demands emergency action. If we can prove it is orchestrated or if we can document their people at the sabotage sites and capture evidence of coordinated action, then the crisis will be exposed as manufactured.”
