Beehive (Of Shadows & Secrets #4)

2. Heinrich

2

Heinrich

Berlin, Summer 1938 (eight years earlier)

T he first half of the year had been orchestrated chaos. Every train departing Berlin carried whispers of what was to come, steel wheels grinding against tracks that would lead us to war.

For most, the preparations were invisible; but for those of us within the machinery of the Reich, the signs were impossible to miss. They were etched into every telegram, every shipment manifest, every hushed conversation in corridors where secrets lived and thrived.

I arrived at the Ministry’s headquarters under a gunmetal sky and air thick with the weight of something inevitable. My office was a modest room tucked into the heart of the intelligence wing, its walls bare save for a map of Europe marked with red and black pins. Each pin represented a target, an asset, or a potential threat. Together, they told the story of a continent teetering on the brink.

I shrugged off my coat and hung it on the rack. My desk, as always, was a battlefield of papers: reports, intercepted communications, photographs. While my work was not glamorous, it was vital.

I analyzed. I interpreted. I uncovered.

If the Gestapo was a sword, I was a scalpel.

A file waiting for me was stamped with the crimson insignia of utmost secrecy. Inside was a name I recognized: “Leonid Markov,” a Soviet trade delegate stationed in Prague. Markov was no mere bureaucrat. He was suspected of coordinating intelligence operations across Central Europe, operations that threatened to hamper the Führer’s aims. Our evidence was circumstantial, but circumstantial evidence was my specialty.

Technically, Soviets were off limits.

According to leadership, Hitler had secured our eastern flank. They would never say how, only that the Father of the Fatherland had worked his magic, and there was no need to worry about Stalin moving against us.

Who was I to argue? The Führer had worked one miracle after another. He could do no wrong. In the eyes of his people, he was nearly a god. If he said there was no need to worry about Stalin and his Red Army, so be it.

Within the intelligence community, confidence was high that it was only a matter of time before the war turned and our Führer aimed his swords at the bear. And so, as with every other major power on the globe, I studied the Soviet Union, watched them, and planned for the day when our blades would swing at Russian throats.

Running my fingers across the edges of the file, its texture felt rough against my skin. Markov’s photograph stared up. A man in his forties, his black hair was slicked back, and he maintained a thick, bushy mustache. His eyes were heavily lidded, betraying nothing. I admired that about him. Secrets, after all, were a kind of currency, and Markov was a wealthy man.

He was also my first major target, the first mission to offer me real advancement and the attention of our most senior leaders. In short, this Soviet and his careless dalliances were everything I had hoped for.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.

“Come in,” I said, not looking up.

The door creaked open, and Major Koch entered. His presence filled the room like a gathering storm. Koch carried authority effortlessly, his shoulders broad and his every movement calculated. He wore the black of the SS with silver accents gleaming in the light.

“Heinrich,” he said, his voice clipped. “Walk with me.”

I shoved the file in a drawer, locked it, and followed him into the corridor. The clicking of typewriters and hum of muffled conversations created a symphony of efficiency.

As we walked, Koch spoke in low tones.

“Markov,” he began. “Our sources indicate he has been frequenting certain establishments in Prague. Places where men like him exchange more than pleasantries.”

I nodded, understanding the implication and the way Koch practically spat his words. Homosexuals were among the more vile of creatures, almost as detested as Jews, perhaps even more so. Stalin had not hidden his dislike of their abhorrent ways. I was confounded at why this man was allowed to rise in Soviet ranks. In the Fatherland, he would already be in prison or dead.

“Do we have specifics?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Koch admitted. “But the Abwehr 1 has been monitoring him closely. They have identified a pattern. He is cautious, but even the cautious make mistakes, especially when passions are involved.”

We reached a window overlooking the courtyard where a truck loaded with crates was being inspected by guards. Koch turned to face me, his expression grave.

“I need you to compile a full profile,” he said. “Habits, weaknesses, vulnerabilities. If Markov is a threat, we must neutralize him before he compromises us.”

“Understood, sir.”

Koch’s eyes narrowed. “Do not underestimate him, Heinrich. Men like Markov are dangerous because they believe in something greater than themselves. He may be a deviant, but he is a faithful follower of the communist dogma.”

I almost laughed at the irony of his statement but kept my expression neutral. No loyal Nazi would ever equate Hitler’s truths to other men’s hollow creeds. “I won’t, sir.”

Koch nodded once, then turned and marched away, his strides—and likely his mind—already shifting toward whatever was next on his day’s agenda. I stared a moment into the courtyard before returning to my office.

I spread Markov’s file across the desk. Each page, each photograph, was a piece of the puzzle. How did they fit together? What story did they tell? I studied his movements, his associates, his coded messages. Patterns began to emerge, faint but discernible.

As I sat back to ponder everything that lay before me and sort through what I knew, not just of the man’s actions but of the history that led him to this moment, my thoughts drifted to my own past.

My mother died when I was little. I barely knew her. My younger sister Julia and I had to fend for ourselves while Father worked to provide for what was left of our family.

Julia was everything.

Her smile was as wide as her eyes were bright. Her laugh made the world a better place. I took my role as her big brother every bit as seriously as Father did his as our provider. I vowed to protect my baby sister, to shield her from the world, to keep her smile shining brightly.

Tuberculosis didn’t care about my promises. It didn’t fear my vow.

Julia’s was the first death I witnessed. She was only five years old.

I never knew a person could hurt so intensely.

As much as I believed in the Reich and the better future we sought to build, I would have given anything to return to when Julia’s smile spread sunlight across my face. I would have moved mountains to hear her laugh, just one last time.

Alas, despite all my wishes and wants, the world moved on.

Father was a schoolteacher, a man who valued knowledge above almost all else. He said understanding the world and our past helped us shape a better future. He said it also helped us understand those around us. He once told me that divining a person’s motivations was the key to grasping their actions.

At the time, the wisdom of his words had fallen on fallow ground.

Now, they guided everything I did.

He was a kind man, yet stern in the way German fathers often were. I wasn’t old enough to remember how he struggled with Mother’s loss, but in the years that followed, there were lingering signs of the scars her death had left.

He bore remarkable strength for such a broken man.

When Julia died, what strength remained in him shattered.

Despite my youth, I knew, in my soul, how he felt. Something deep inside me had shattered, too.

The first time I betrayed someone, I was twenty-two.

It was a small betrayal—a friend who’d spoken out of turn about the Party. I reported him because it was expected, because loyalty demanded it. It was my patriotic duty, and I was proud to do my part.

The guilt that followed had been a dull ache. Over time, that faded, replaced by a deeper sense of purpose.

Betrayal, I realized, was simply another tool.

Two women chatting loudly passed by, their too-loud conversation snapping me back to the present. I refocused, lifting a photo of my target from his file and searching for hidden clues.

Hours slipped by as I pieced together Markov’s web.

By evening, I had a clearer picture. He was methodical, disciplined, but not infallible. His greatest weakness, I suspected, was his humanity. Like all men, he had desires, fears, and blind spots. Unlike most in clandestine service, he acted on his.

Exploiting his weaknesses would be my task.

Someone knocked at my door.

“Enter,” I called.

A young courier, no older than twelve or thirteen and wearing the uniform of the Hitler Youth, stepped inside. Unruly brown hair poked out the sides of his too-small cap.

The boy extended an envelope. “For you, Herr Müller.”

The moment the door closed behind him, I opened the envelope. It was brief but significant:

MARKOV CONFIRMED AT RENDEZVOUS POINT. ORDERS TO FOLLOW.

The game had begun.

1. The Abwehr wasthe German military-intelligence service for the Reichswehrand the Wehrmacht from 1920 to 1944.