Page 96 of Beehive
Will’s face hardened. He kneeled beside me as his steady hands checked my wound.
“You’re tougher than you think, du Pont,” he said. “And I’m not leaving you.”
His words gave me strength, or maybe it was his faith in me. Either way, I pushed myself to my feet and bit back a groan.
Will slipped an arm around my waist. “Let’s go.”
A block later, we found a sewer grate, half hidden beneath a pile of debris. The metal groaned in protest as we pried it from the street. The stench that wafted out was nearly unbearable, but this was our best path.
“In,” Will said, helping me down. “Keep your shoulder out of the muck.”
“Oh, God.” I choked back bile. “I’ll try.”
The sewer was oppressive, the air thick with the smell of decay. Thankfully, the water was only ankle-deep. As hot as it was outside, I was surprised how the filthy river chilled my toes.
Will led the way again, flicking on his flashlight. A few rats who’d been curious enough to check out their home’s intruders scattered.
“The soldiers won’t follow us down here,” Will said, though it sounded more like a hope than a certainty.
“Probably not. It would violate some communist protocol for equal work or something.”
I couldn’t see his face with the light pointing in front of us, but I was fairly certain he’d turned and grinned.
The pain was a constant now, a throbbing reminder of how fragile our escape was. I was certain my shirt was now crimson from neck to tail. The inside of my coat was probably ruined, too.
One hour, maybe two, later—it was hard to tell underground—we emerged above another street. I couldn’t understand it, but the world felt less hostile, though no less dangerous. I sucked in a deep breath of fresh air.
Will helped me stand and pointed to a silhouette fluttering in the distance. I squinted to make out the shape. A cloud parted, and the full moon reflected her glory on a blue, white, and red banner, the most beautiful sight I’d seen in a very long time.
34
Will
Two days. Two interminable days.
That’s how long it took for Thomas to recover enough for the French doctor to let us leave. I slept in the chair beside him, appearing to everyone as a dutiful partner unwilling to leave his wartime companion alone while he battled an infected wound. I was a soldier, not unlike thousands—no, millions—who’d sat beside their wounded brothers and prayed they would heal.
I doubted the doctor knew it—the nurse certainly did—but Thomas was so much more than just my partner in the spy trade. He was my life.
He slept for two days. I couldn’t sleep a wink.
I watched and clung to every shift of his eyes beneath his lids, anxiously awaiting when his drug-induced haze would lift so the light of my world would shine once again.
Was it possible for a heart to stop beating for days on end?
It felt as though mine had.
When he finally stirred and the doctor relented, the French sent us west in style. Not taking any chances with Uncle Joeand his sleuth of bears, theGouvernement Militaire Français en Allemagne1 insisted on sending an escort of a dozen heavily armed Frenchmen and a caravan of military vehicles to take us back to Paris.
Thomas thought the whole thing was overkill.
After seeing the Soviet commitment to threat management, I was grateful for the added protection.
Arty was waiting near the Embassy’s entrance, right behind where several Marines stood almost as stiffly as the rifles they held. He nearly knocked me down when I emerged from our car. When he tried to barrel into Thomas, I yanked him back lest the good doctor’s work come undone.
“It’s good to see you, too, little buddy,” Thomas said, ignoring my protest and pulling him into an embrace with his good arm, wincing as he did. Arty buried his face in Thomas’s chest and held on for dear life.
As much as the war had left its mark on the guy, he was stillourArty.
