“You want photographs,” the woman said slowly.
“Photographs, descriptions, license plates . . . anything that proves multiple sites were hit by the same organization at the same time.” The Baroness tapped the map. “I have a journalist who writes for theNeue Zürcher Zeitung. I have given him copies of our documentary evidence, and he is preparing a story, but he will not publish without verification. He requires proof that what we claim is actually happening.”
“And if we get him that proof?” the woman asked.
“If he publishes, and the story breaks before the Council convenes, whatever ‘crisis’ they attempt to create will be exposed as a conspiracy.” The Baroness’s eyes were bright now, the plan taking shape. “The compromised ministers cannot push their decrees without revealing themselves to all of Switzerland and the rest of the world. Even if the sabotage succeeds, the political objective will fail.”
I watched the CIA woman working through everything she’d just learned—therisks, the boundaries, and whether this fell within her authority.
“Observation and documentation,” she said finally. “That’s technically within my mandate.”
“What I suggest is observation,” the Baroness agreed. “With cameras.”
A hint of a smile crossed the woman’s face. “You’re good at this.”
“I have had a lifetime of practice.”
The woman looked to her team. Some silent communication passed between them, then Marcus shrugged and Danny nodded. Eddie’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted toward acceptance.
“All right,” the woman said, turning back to the Baroness. “Talk us through it. Let’s hammer this out.”
The Baroness pulled the map closer. “First, you should know we are not operating alone. General Werner Hoffmann met with me yesterday. He is retired but still well connected. He has seen our evidence and believes us.”
“The meeting we provided security for,” the woman said.
“Yes, that meeting. By morning, the general will have quietly briefed three Council members he trusts. When the session convenes, they will be prepared to oppose emergency measures.” The Baroness sighed. “Unfortunately, I do not believethat will be enough. Hoffmann may be wrong about who can be trusted, and the compromised ministers may outnumber the loyal ones. Or the crisis may be severe enough that even honest men feel they must act.”
“So we’re the insurance policy,” Thomas said.
“We are the parallel effort,” the Baroness corrected. “If Hoffmann succeeds politically, we win. If Vogel’s story breaks in time, we win. If both succeed, the Order is crushed from two directions, and Stalin receives well-deserved mud on his putrid face.” The Baroness spread her hands. “I do not gamble on single points of failure.”
She turned to the map and pointed to the warehouse on the eastern side.
“This should be our primary target. Based on the Opel your man followed yesterday, we believe this is their staging area where men and equipment gather before dispersing to the infrastructure sites. If we can photograph activity there on the night of the 14th, we should prove coordination.”
“What kind of activity?” Marcus asked.
“Armed men loading vehicles, equipment being distributed. Ideally, we capture faces we can identify later.” The Baroness traced routes on the map. “From there, they will fan out to their targets. Power stations here, here, and here. Communications hub here. Possibly others we have not identified.”
Eddie leaned forward, studying the map. “That’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“It is, which is why we must prioritize.” The Baroness tapped the warehouse again. “This is where we focus our main effort. The infrastructure sites are secondary. We photograph what we can, but we do not spread ourselves too thin.”
The woman nodded slowly. “Eddie does reconnaissance tomorrow, a daylight pass on the warehouse to assess security, access points, and patterns of movement. We need to know what we’re looking at before we commit.”
“Carefully, please,” the Baroness said. “If they spot him—”
“They won’t.” Eddie’s voice was quiet, confident. “This is what I do.”
“The night of the 14th,” the woman continued, “we position teams for observation. Primary team on the warehouse. Secondary team mobile, covering whatever infrastructure sites we can reach.”
“Who goes where?” I asked.
She considered for a moment. “Emu, you’re with me and Marcus on the warehouse. You’ve got tactical experience. If something goes sideways, I want you there. I would suggest Condor, too, but his injury rules him out of direct action.”
I nodded, grateful she’d accounted for Thomas’s shoulder, because I knew my stubborn man wouldinsist on throwing himself in front of a moving train if everyone allowed it.
“Condor, you take Danny and Eddie. You’re our mobile team with a list of likely targets. Stay invisible, photograph everything, don’t engage.”
