Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 928: Operation Bern Junction

Annemarie stood in an art gallery in Geneva. The paintings were of a style that had been swiftly swept under the rug in Germany and much of Europe as a whole after Germany won the Weltkriegs of the 20th Century and became the center of the new world.

But here in Switzerland so called “modern art” survived and was in fact the primary style displayed in certain halls like this one.

The painting in front of Annemarie was, from her own personal sensibilities a horrid mess, one that lacked the foundations of perspective and shading. But to the locals it was considered a “poignant deconstruction of traditional hierarchy.”

It was a load of nonsense… The so called “painting” was completely abstract, without any relation to a single legible theme. The onlookers simply projected their own ideological upon it.

It required her utmost strength not to sigh and shake her head in disdain. Because she knew that would immediately blow her cover.

Instead, a man approached her side, as the two of them stood three feet apart. Seemingly having no connection to one another.

He whispered to her casually, but not intimately.

“I wonder what the artist was thinking when he painted such a masterpiece?”

Annemarie’s hands curled into fists just for a second before she forced a full release. Putting on the mask she always wore outside the fatherland, she was quick to whisper back, her eyes still staring straight at the painting in front of them.

“I believe he meant to convey his grief for the loss of our dear republic. And imagined how he would tear down the monarchs and their aristocratic generals, given the chance.”

“I see you have been well, Conférencière. How has the son of de Gaulle been since our last meeting?”

Annemarie gave Pierre the side eye, a subtle smirk etching on her rose lips before turning her attention back to the painting.

“What? No ’you are the ghost that haunts my heart, Marianne?”

Pierre sighed and shook his head, still gazing at the painting, his eyes never lingering in the slightest.

“Unfortunately, you have left my love entirely unrequited. Still, if anyone is to speak for the son of de Gaulle, I am glad it is a woman who is the living personification of our beloved republic. But I noticed you didn’t answer my question.”

Annemarie didn’t say anything not at first, she simply tilted her head ever so slightly as if she were in deep thought examining the painting. Then and only then did she mutter under her breath.

“He has been well enough, considering the circumstances. What with that nasty business last year in Zurich, he has been overwhelmed with trying to keep the authorities off his back. And by extension, their German masters. I will convey your love for him when I next see the man.”

He did not smile at that.

Instead, Pierre let a brief silence settle between them, the kind that allowed both of them to remain nothing more than strangers sharing a moment in front of a painting.

“See that you do,” he replied quietly. “Some of us would very much like to know that he is still… committed.”

Annemarie’s gaze never left the canvas.

“Commitment has never been his weakness,” she said. “Circumstance, perhaps. But not conviction.”

Pierre hummed softly, as if that answer satisfied him. Or at least, satisfied him enough.

Around them, the gallery continued to breathe with quiet life. Soft footsteps against polished floors.

Murmured interpretations of meaning where none existed. A curator explaining to a small group how the chaotic splashes of color represented “the fragmentation of identity in a post Republican France.”

Annemarie almost found it amusing: fragmentation of identity…. If only they understood how accurate that truly was.

Pierre shifted his weight ever so slightly.

“There is to be another operation,” he said, his tone unchanged. “I have coordinated with the other cell leaders… While the operation in Zurich was a success from a tactical perspective. The fallout with Philippe’s cell has left the others desiring certain… assurances.”

Annemarie’s eyes flickered for just a fraction of a second.

“Zurich was not meant to cripple infrastructure,” she replied. “It was meant to draw out the mole in our ranks.”

Pierre paused.

“…That is not what we were told.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” Annemarie said calmly.

There was no arrogance in her voice, no condescension, just certainty.

“The fewer who understand the full scope of a plan, the less likely it is to unravel prematurely.”

Pierre let that sit for a moment.

It was not an unfamiliar concept. Not in their line of work. But there was something about the way she said it, so absolute, so unquestioning, that made it difficult to challenge.

“And this next operation?” he asked.

Annemarie finally shifted her gaze, not toward him, but toward a different painting along the wall. A similar mess of color and chaos.

“Will be more visible,” she said. “More… persuasive.”

“In what way?”

“A railway junction outside Bern.”

Pierre’s breath hitched, ever so slightly.

“That is… ambitious.”

“It is necessary.”

His brow furrowed, though he kept his posture relaxed.

“That line handles both civilian and industrial traffic,” he said. “If we strike it, the disruption will not just affect German operations. It will—”

“—affect Switzerland,” Annemarie finished for him.

There was a brief pause. Then Pierre’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“Yes,” he said.

Annemarie tilted her head slightly, as if reconsidering the painting before her.

“Tell me, Pierre,” she asked softly, “how many times have we struck at German targets directly?”

He hesitated.

“…Few.”

“And how many times have those strikes produced meaningful results?”

He did not answer.

“They are too entrenched,” Annemarie continued. “Too prepared, too resilient. You do not weaken such a system by attacking it head-on. You weaken what supports it.”

Pierre’s jaw tightened.

“Switzerland is not the enemy.”

“No,” Annemarie agreed. “But it is the battlefield.”

That answer lingered longer than either of them cared to acknowledge.

Across the room, a pair of students laughed quietly at one of the exhibits, pointing at a canvas that looked as though someone had simply thrown paint at it in frustration.

Pierre exhaled slowly.

“And the civilians?” he asked.

Annemarie did not respond immediately.

Instead, she stepped forward slightly, closing the distance between herself and the painting by half a step.

“Collateral is an unfortunate reality of all conflicts,” she said at last. “You know this as well as I do.”

“That is not what we tell the others.”

“No,” she said again. “It is not.”

Pierre turned his head just slightly, as if considering her for the first time since the conversation had begun.

“…You’ve changed.”

Annemarie smiled faintly.

“No,” she said. “I’ve simply stopped pretending. I have spent my best years attending to the son of de Gaulle. And being his voice to the people that he cannot speak himself…. And I am running out of patience.”

That answer seemed to settle something in him, or perhaps unsettle it. He straightened his posture and cocked his head.

“When?”

“Three days,” she replied. “Your cell will receive the details through the usual channels.”

Pierre nodded once.

“And the Son?” he asked again. “Does he approve?”

Annemarie’s smile did not fade.

“Every action we take is in accordance with his will.”

Pierre seemed satisfied with that. The simple mention of the son of de Gaulle being on board was all the assurance he needed.

Only one person knew his location, only one person had ever spoken directly with him. And this was done to protect him.

Because of that, Conférencière’s word was worth its weight in gold as far as the members of Réveil de France were concerned, and Pierre was among the most faithful.

“Then I will inform the others,” he said.

He took a step back, already beginning to detach himself from the conversation.

“To France,” he added quietly.

Annemarie did not echo the sentiment.

Instead, she remained where she stood, her eyes fixed on the painting long after Pierre had walked away and disappeared into the quiet flow of the gallery.

Only when he was gone did her expression finally shift.

The faint smile faded, her eyes hardened.

Slowly, she reached into her coat and withdrew a small notebook, no larger than the palm of her hand. Flipping it open with practiced ease, she turned to a blank page and began to write.

Her handwriting was neat. Precise.

Clinical.

Operation Bern Junction proceeding as scheduled.

Local cell remains compliant.

Psychological alignment with central directive: stable.

She paused for a moment, her pen hovering above the page. Then added one final line.

Projected outcome: increased public demand for external security assistance.

Annemarie closed the notebook and slipped it back into her coat. Around her, the gallery continued as it always had.

Quiet. Civilized. Orderly.

Untouched.

Outside, however, the foundations of that order were already beginning to shift.

And somewhere beyond the mountains, in offices far removed from the soft light of Geneva’s galleries, men like Maximilian von Zehntner would soon receive her report.

Not with surprise, but with quiet confirmation. Everything was proceeding exactly as intended.