I took three more shots as the men closed up the truck and headed inside, then retreated to my original position, sliding back into the gap between the containers, making myself invisible again.
“Condor, base,” I breathed. “First contact complete. Six photographs, one truck, four men, cargo appears to be weapons or equipment.”
One click.
I checked my watch.
00:14.
The night was still young.
The second truck came at 00:31. This one was bigger, a military-style transport, the kind that could hold twenty men or several tons of equipment. It pulled into the loading dock with a confident rumble like it owned the place.
Or like it had done this a hundred times before.
More men emerged from the building. More crates were unloaded. This time, I glimpsed stenciling on one of the boxes. The letters meant nothing to me but might mean something to the Baroness or her people. I photographed everything I could.
Then things went wrong.
One of the men—he was younger than the others, nervous in a way that stood out—dropped a crate. It hit the concrete with a crash that echoed off every surface in Bern. The supervisor swore, loud enough for me to hear thirty meters away.
His invective was clearly Russian.
That’s when the nervous man looked up.
He looked directly at the pallets where I’d taken my photographs.
He looked directly at me.
I didn’t move, didn’t breathe.
The darkness was my only shield, and I pressed into it like a lover, willing it to swallow me whole.
The young man stared, squinted, then took a step forward.
“What is it?” the supervisor demanded in Swiss German.
“I thought I saw something over there, by the pallets.” The young man pointed to my hiding place.
“There’s nothing there. Pick up the crate.”
“I’m telling you, I saw—”
“Pick up the crate, or I’ll put you in one.”
The nervous man hesitated. For five eternal seconds, he stood there staring into the darkness where I was hidden.
Then he turned, picked up the crate, and went back to work.
I waited another fifteen seconds before allowing myself to breathe again.
By 01:00, three more trucks had come and gone.
The warehouse was a hive now, alive with activity. Men moved in and out of the service door, carrying equipment, checking lists, and receiving instructions. Through brief glimpses when the doors opened, I could see the interior transforming. Crates were being sorted, vehicles being loaded, and teams being assembled. I recognized the small huddles and single speakers. They were exactly how we might provide a final briefing to a team before an operation.
This was it.
The staging operation.
