Page 63 of Beehive
Will grinned triumphantly. “See, that’s what you get.”
“I shall never again besmirch your honor, good sir.” I offered a mocking bow from my seat as the proprietor arrived with a cloth and began wiping the table.
He chuckled and stared out the window.
The rest of the afternoon stretched its lazy legs. The day was unplanned and unsupervised in a way that felt almost indulgent.We walked without knowing our destination. We talked without any hidden meaning or purpose. We watched those around us without pondering their loyalties or ambitions.
It was an unexpected day of respite, one we needed, though I wasn’t sure either of us knew how badly until the sun began to set.
As we passed a dilapidated theater, Will stopped, his gaze fixed on a faded poster barely clinging to a wall. The image was torn, the colors faded, but the title was legible:Doktor Zhivago. “A romantic,” he said, his tone amused. “Who would’ve guessed?”
“Not all of us are hopeless cynics,” I replied, nudging him.
He smirked. “Touché.”
The rest of the day slipped by in a blur of streets and faces.
Occasionally, I caught sight of Boris and Sergei, their presence a constant reminder that we weren’t truly alone; but mostly, they kept their distance, giving us a rare sense of freedom.
Our walk back to the hotel was quiet, the streets bathed in the soft glow of twilight. As we reached the hotel, Will paused, his gaze lingering on the building. “Do you think Antonov will be back tomorrow?”
“Probably,” I said. “And I’m sure he’ll have plenty of questions.”
“Let’s hope he likes boring answers. We basically played tourists today.”
Stepping inside, the worn carpet and dim lighting of the lobby was a surprisingly welcome sight. The day had been quiet, peaceful even, but some of what we had seen left a mark. Questions were raised, tensions revealed; Berlin was a kettle boiling, its pressure building towardsomething.
I reached for the handle to our room’s door, but Will placed his hand over mine, stopping me from opening it.
He leaned in and whispered in my ear, his breath tickling tiny hairs, “Are we ready for tonight?”
I hadn’t thought about our mission much that day. The park and cafés had provided a much-needed distraction. The concern creasing Will’s brow and the hushed tones of his voice brought me back to why we had traveled east in the first place.
My heart grew heavy once more.
“I think so.”
“I mean . . .reallyready? We’re walking into the lion’s den.”
I stared into his eyes a moment, losing myself in the sight of him, then replied, “We have to do this—whether we’re ready or not.”
23
Thomas
The museum loomed ahead, its facade illuminated by a pair of floodlights casting long shadows across the cobbled street. The Soviets had done their best to renew its appearance and keep the place functional, but the building carried the scars of war. Cracks spider-webbed across a few of its columns, and the faint outline of shrapnel damage marred once-pristine stone.
It looked tired, like the city itself, but it wasn’t dead yet.
Will and I crouched in the shadow of a boarded-up storefront across the street, our breaths shallow, hearts racing. Despite the night air clinging to my skin, my mind was sharp, tuned to every detail.
Two guards lingered near the main entrance, their rifles slung lazily over their shoulders. One slouched against the wall. The other paced in a slow, methodical rhythm, his boots scraping against the pavement.
“Shift change soon?” I whispered, barely moving my lips.
Will checked his watch and shook his head. “Not for another hour. This is our window.”
Our window, the time when the current guards would be most exhausted and least likely to react quickly. It wasn’t much of an edge, but we needed every advantage we could find. The guards might have looked bored, but they were still armed, still alert enough to make this more than dangerous. Still, the window helped.
