“You’re going to wear out the shutter,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.
“Just making sure it works.”
“It worked an hour ago. And two hours before that.” He crossed the room and sat so our shoulders brushed. “Talk to me.”
I set the camera aside. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re quiet, which means you’re thinking too much.” He bumped his shoulder against mine. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I was quiet for a moment, trying to find the words.
“I keep thinking about everything that could go wrong,” I said finally. “The Order could know we’re coming. The warehouse could be a trap. Vogel’s editor could refuse to publish even with proof. Hoffmann’s Council contacts could be compromised. There are so many ways this falls apart.”
“That’s true,” Thomas said. “There are.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
“It’s not meant to be.” He took my hand. “Every operation has a hundred ways to fail. How many times have we seen that? We plan as best we can, prepare for the worst, and then go anyway, because the alternative is doing nothing, and doing nothing is much, much worse.”
“Is it?”
“You know it is.” He squeezed my hand. “If we don’t try, the Order wins and Switzerland falls. Moscow gets its foothold in the heart of Europe. Hell, Stalin controls banking across half the globe. Everything the Baroness suffered, everything Otto died for, everything we’ve risked—it all means nothing.”
I looked up at him—at the lines of fatigue around his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw, the quiet certainty that had carried him through a dozen impossible situations.
“When did you get so wise?” I asked.
“I’ve always been wise. You just don’t listen.”
I choked on a laugh. “That’s probably true.”
“It’sdefinitelytrue.” He leaned over and kissed my temple. “We’re going to be fine, babe, both of us. We’re going to do the job, get the proof, and come back here in one piece. And then I’m going to make good on my promise.”
“The brain-screwing one?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
“I’m counting on it.”
The sun set while we were talking. By five o’clock, the light had faded to gray; by six, true darkness had fallen.
We gathered in the kitchen for a final briefing. The Baroness held court, her bandaged hands folded in front of her. Bisch stood by the door, ready tomove. The CIA team clustered around one end of the table, while Thomas and I took the other. The reporter hovered near the stove, a cup of steaming tea cradled in his hands.
“You know the plan,” the Baroness said. “You know your assignments. What I have to say now is not about tactics.”
She looked at each of us in turn.
“Tonight, you are risking your lives for a country that is not your own. Some of you are doing this against orders and at great personal cost. I cannot promise you success. I cannot promise you safety. All I can promise is that what you do tonight matters. If we succeed, you will have helped save something precious, something worth saving.”
She straightened in her chair, and for a moment I saw the woman she was before all this began—proud, fierce, and unbroken.
“Whatever happens,” she said, “know that you have my gratitude and my respect.”
Silence followed.
Then the woman—the American team leader whose name still evaded us—nodded once.
