Page 51 of Beehive
I could practically hear Visla sigh.
“It’s their main spy school. Think Camp X on steroids,” Thomas explained.
At that, Visla actually snorted—or scoffed—I couldn’t tell which. “Crude, but not incorrect. Perhaps also an understatement. Russians have been the masters of our game for centuries. Catherine the Great’s paranoia drove them to another level, and they have advanced since. They pour resources into intelligence in ways we have only begun to ponder. Antonov is a product of that system.”
“Great.” I let out a sigh of my own. “So, he’s a pro.”
Thomas brought us back to the present. “Anything about the Reichsbank itself? Why would the Soviets prioritize it?”
“My guess is it is a deception of some kind, a place they can show you while revealing nothing. Though, with Soviets, it could be anything. If the place really does store as much as Antonov claims, it could also contain secrets in its vaults, documents buried in the wreckage, or could simply be a convenient place for meetings. Your job is to find out.”
The moment stretched so long I wondered if Visla had abandoned us; then her voice again cut through the night air.
“One more thing,” she said. “We should not meet unless it is absolutely necessary. For simple messages, use the dead drop at Café Morgenrot in Wedding, behind the northmost planter near the back-alley entrance. It is small, but secure.”
“A café in theBritishsector?” I asked, mildly impressed.
“They will think you are drinking tea and reminiscing about grand empires,” she said dryly. “It is safer than a Soviet-controlled district.”
Thomas rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “And if we need to meet again?”
“Three nights from now, the bell tower at St. Agnes Church in Kreuzberg, twenty-three hundred hours. No tails—be surethis time.”
“Understood,” Thomas said.
I cast a quick glance over my shoulder at the half wall. Visla was well concealed. I couldn’t even see her shadow, and her voice betrayed no movement, no emotion, just facts delivered with icy precision.
“Anything else?” Thomas asked.
“There is an event in two nights, the reopening of the Kulturhistorisches Museum Viktoria,” she said.
I whistled, drawing a curious gaze from Thomas.
“Think the Louvre, but German.”
“Are you Americans always so crude?” Visla’s voice dripped with derision. “The French and their garish gilding have nothing . . . Never mind. It is a soirée you must attend. Dignitaries from across Europe will be there. The place will be crawling with agents. Find an excuse to have Antonov get you an invitation. Do whatever it takes.”
I was dying to make a snarky comment about “whatever it took” to get Antonov to act, but decided better of it.
“Get into that party,” she said. “Like I said, it will be swarming with Soviet agents. Keep your eyes open and do not waste timeon what is irrelevant. Listen, observe, and prioritize. If you find anything, use the drop site. If not, report at the bell tower.”
“Do you think they would be so bold as to hide their secrets out in the open—”
She cut me off. “They are masters at deception. You must expect everything, especially what you do not.”
“That explains everything,” I muttered.
Thomas grunted.
Another gust of wind stirred the trees. I turned, half expecting her to step out from behind the wall. All I saw was stone and shadow.
Thomas gave a dry chuckle. “At least tell us you’re not going to disappear mid-sentence like in the picture shows.”
Silence.
“Visla?” I turned fully around.
Still no answer.
