Page 57 of Beehive
“A stately man, is he not?” A wispy voice speaking Russian startled me.
I turned to find a man behind us. He was tall and thin, with gaunt features and piercing blue eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. His suit was well tailored, though not ostentatious, and he held his champagne flute with the air of detached elegance bred into society’s elite.
Will’s eyes remained fixed on the piece as I chatted with our mysterious guest.
“Indeed,” I said, struggling to transition from German to Russian, a language I rarely spoke. “Do you know its history?”
The man smiled. “Only what the placard says, but a piece like this . . . it speaks for itself, no?”
Playing the part of a connoisseur, I extended a hand. “I’m Wilhelm Müller.”
The man hesitated for a fraction of a second, then gripped my hand. “Viktor,” he said. “I am . . . an admirer of history, you could say.”
Viktor glanced at Will, then back toward me. I switched to German to rescue my language-challenged partner. “This is Viktor.”
Will’s face brightened as he followed my lead and extended his hand. “A pleasure. My name is Tobias, Tobias Richter.”
I opened my mouth to translate, but Viktor seized Will’s hand and switched effortlessly into German. “The pleasure is mine. The way you study this piece, you are a lover of art, yes?”
Will smiled, and the room brightened. “I am, very much indeed. It is my passion—and my profession.”
Viktor looked from Will to the rabbi, then back to me. “It was nice to meet you both. Have a pleasant evening.”
With a lazy turn, he vanished.
“Well, that was fucking weird,” I muttered so only Will might hear.
Viktor hadn’t asked why we were there or what we sought. He hadn’t asked where we were from, despite Will’s German ormy obvious non-native Russian. He hadn’t asked many things one asks of new acquaintances who might share an interest at a party.
Was he MGB? French intelligence? A former Nazi? Some other player on our three-dimensional board with far too many pieces already?
Or was he a Soviet stationed in Berlin who simply loved art?
The possibilities made my head hurt.
I looked back at the statue.
My mind was racing.
If the Soviets were using this event as a display of their cultural dominance, then every artifact here had to be significant; but the statue—small, unassuming, and tucked away in a side gallery—felt out of place.
Was ittooout of place?
Was this the piece they’d sent so many assets to find? Could it really be sitting here, under glass in the open, where anyone with a bit of knowledge could recognize it?
Was this a trap?
The Soviets loved their nested dolls. They loved their nested rouses and false flags even more. As Churchill had said about the Russians in 1939, they were “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.”
“What do you think?” I asked quietly.
Will didn’t answer immediately. His eyes scanned the room before settling back onto me. “Too much of a coincidence that ‘the Keeper’ was among the few words of chatter our people picked up?”
“There arenocoincidences in our business.”
“Right,” Will said, staring down at the statue.
“Humor me. What do youreallythink?”
