In a few hours, these men would fan out across Bern, hitting the infrastructure targets, creating the chaos that would justify the Chamber Session.
And I was watching it happen.
I’d used two rolls of film by that point. There were thirty-six photographs each, seventy-two total. I’dsnapped faces, vehicles, license plates, and cargo. There was more than enough to prove coordination, to prove this wasn’t random or some simple criminal enterprise.
If we got it all to Vogel, if his editor believed, if the story ran in time . . .
A lot of ifs.
The radio crackled, and the Baroness spoke. “Status.”
The CIA woman’s voice: “Warehouse primary. Main bay is dark. Zero activity.”
My turn: “West side. Very active. Seventy-plus photographs. Heavy traffic, heavy equipment. Teams are prepping to move.”
Then Will’s voice, and something in my chest unclenched at the sound of it: “Mobile team. Hardstrasse position. Power station quiet. No activity. Moving to secondary target in fifteen.”
“Copy all,” the Baroness said. “Maintain. Next check-in at 01:30.”
I settled back into my position.
The cold had become part of me now, a companion I’d stopped fighting. My shoulder had stopped throbbing. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. My fingers were so numb I wasn’t sure I could work the camera anymore.
But I was still here, still alive and watching.
I was still gathering the evidence that might bring these bastards down.
01:15.
Forty-five minutes until the Baroness thought the teams would begin dispersing to their targets.
Forty-five minutes until the real chaos began.
At 01:23, someone stepped out of the service door and lit a cigarette. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with the bearing of a man who expected to be obeyed. He wore a heavy coat over what looked like a military uniform, though I couldn’t make out the insignia from this distance. He smoked slowly, savoring it while gazing out at the night like a general surveying his domain.
Then he turned, and the loading dock’s light caught his face.
Iknewhim.
Not personally, but I’d seen his face before—in photographs, in intelligence briefings,andin the files we’d pulled from Sternberg AG.
I raised the camera and found him in the viewfinder, then held my breath.
Snap.
The man finished his cigarette, ground it out under his heel, then went back inside.
I was fairly sure he was one of the architects of the coup.
One photograph of the man standing outside a warehouse might be enough, but combined with the other images I’d captured? I certainly hoped our evidence would convince the world of what we’d seen.
At 01:47, the trucks started leaving. They drove away in intervals five minutes apart, each heading in a different direction, dispersing to their targets like poison through the veins of the city. I photographed each one as it passed.
The warehouse emptied slowly.
The lights went out, section by section.
By 02:30, the building was dark and silent, a shell of what it had been only hours before.
