Beehive (Of Shadows & Secrets #4)

6. Thomas

6

Thomas

Paris, May 1946 (present day)

“ T hat’s the OSS 1 signal, not the French,” Will whispered.

Since returning to France, all of our communication had been with former French resistance or representatives of the new French government. Their network was extensive, if a bit fractured, and the leaders of the Fourth Republic spent more time trying to get streetlights repaired than worrying over which German might be hiding under which rock. Economic reconstruction, social welfare reforms, political stabilization, and, shockingly, reasserting their role as a leader on the world stage, consumed the French leaders’ attention.

Will and I marveled that, following an occupation by a foreign power and the subsequent bloody liberation, the French would be so worried about jockeying for position among the league of nations; and yet, they were, enthusiastically, passionately, in the most French ways possible.

We were there to support, but, as always, the United States had its own interests and concerns. Will and I were part of a small army scattered throughout Europe who stood ready to further those interests, albeit quietly. In the year or so since we’d set foot back in Paris, we’d received numerous requests to meet with French authorities or agents.

This was the first time, the only time, Uncle Sam had summoned us for a chat.

I nodded and leaned in to minimize the risk of being overheard. “We need to head to the dead drop. Something’s happening. This can’t be good.”

Will stepped back and tossed me a lopsided grin. “You’re such an optimist. That must be why I love you so.”

I rolled my eyes. “You love me for my massive—”

“Sense of humor,” he interrupted before I could complete my crude reference. “Definitely your sense of humor.”

I grinned. “You head home. I’ll go to retrieve the message and meet you in an hour.”

Will reached out and squeezed my arm, letting his hand linger before pulling away. “Be careful. I know it’s just a drop, but something is making my stomach flip.”

“You, too,” I said, reaching up and grasping his hand before it could drop to his side. “Love you.”

“Love you more.”

With our ritual complete, I turned and strode down the street, knowing Will’s eyes wouldn’t leave my back until I vanished around the corner of the next block.

I would never understand why that was so comforting. It wasn’t as though I could see him staring; but somehow, knowing he wanted to see me until he couldn’t, sent a special warmth flowing through my veins no other person alive could produce.

The city was draped in twilight purples and blues, its shadows deepening around doorways and spilling into alleys like ink tumbling from wells. I moved at a measured pace, watching the beauty of the Parisian sunset as it lulled its residents into closing their shutters and turning on the first lamps of the evening. My mind was alert, cataloging every bird taking flight, every couple strolling by, even the make of each car parked along my path.

Tradecraft lived within a world of countless details.

Turning down a narrow street, I slipped between murmuring patrons gathered outside a bistro. The smell of cigarette smoke rose around me as I wove through tables. I tipped my hat to an older gentleman whose gaze lingered on me just a second too long.

Perhaps it was curiosity, or maybe it was nothing, but I noted it all the same.

In postwar Paris, everyone had their secrets.

Will and I had learned to be just two more shadows in a city still trying to forget its occupation, a city where small gestures carried enormous weight.

Crossing the boulevard, I listened for footsteps or whispers that might indicate I’d been noticed. The city’s hum was layered, voices fading in and out, the clink of glasses, the swish of fabric from people brushing past.

At each storefront window I passed, I pretended to examine a hat or coat or piece of jewelry. In truth, I was scanning the reflection for any signs that I was being followed. It was an old habit ingrained in us at Camp X, the training facility Will and I attended while we were studying at Harvard. Back then, we’d laughed at the games we played. Our instructors had been so series, so intense. We’d been so carefree.

After harrowing missions behind enemy lines, the lifetime of knowledge our teachers had tried to impart served a singular purpose: to keep us alive.

Thankfully, and no thanks to my constant use of SDRs, 2 there was nothing out of the ordinary. It was just me in a dark coat, my fedora pulled low, blending into the last traces of the evening’s fading light. Turns down two of Napoleon’s perfectly designed streets brought me to my destination.

The park containing our American dead drop lay ahead, its iron gate showing rust around the edges. This pocket of green was a refuge for students and artists—a place many visited to read beneath the trees, watch couples stroll hand in hand, or stroke memories onto canvas or paper. For the briefest moment, I allowed myself to drift into a world where two men could walk together in public without drawing stares.

Dreams were only real while one slept.

I blinked away visions of Will and me, returning to the task at hand. The park was a familiar landmark. Its pathways and benches were part of a web of safe spaces and hidden channels.

It was the perfect place for a dead drop.

The gate gave an eerie creak when I swung it closed.

The park was empty, a rarity. The earlier rain had left puddles in the gravel, their murky reflections blurring as I passed. I took a long, deliberate route about the perimeter, pretending to admire flowers that lined pathways, checking for anyone who might have lingered too long near the benches.

Trees cast long shapes across the gravel path.

The flutter of leaves echoed louder than it should in the quiet of the evening.

I slowed as I approached a sycamore near the back wall of the green space. The aged tree was one of many, less colorful than most, with thinning leaves and scraggly branches. Anyone seeking the peace and beauty of nature might pass by it without a second glance. Others were far more colorful and majestic.

The wall, an ancient collection of stones that had somehow remained perfectly stacked without mortar through times of both peace and war, appeared solid and whole.

And yet, if one knew where to look—just under the trailing ivy, between two old stones—one stone could be pried free.

I crouched, my fingers brushing over the rough rock as if adjusting my shoe. My hand slipped into the crevice, and I felt the edge of curled paper beneath my fingertips. In one smooth motion, I slid the note into my coat pocket and rose, my gaze trailing over the edges of the park one last time.

A figure stood near the opposite gate, half lit by a streetlamp.

My heartbeat quickened.

The man—he appeared to be a man—was staring down at his watch, looking entirely ordinary, but something about his posture seemed practiced, too casual.

I noted details: a dark fedora, a charcoal coat, and a thin shadow across his jaw I thought might be a scar.

Every one of my senses screamed.

I was suddenly glad Will wasn’t here. Our tradecraft dictated we service dead drops alone. Two men raised suspicion. If this man was more than a casual passerby, I was grateful Will remained safe behind the anonymity—and locked door—of our flat.

Forcing myself to take another turn about the park, I slipped back through the gate. My easy steps belied the tension buzzing beneath my skin. My footsteps echoed softly against the cobbles as I wound my way through streets where I wouldn’t easily be followed.

I took extra turns, ducking through a covered passage, then circling back toward the street in a pattern that Will and I had practiced hundreds of times. As I passed a vendor’s cart, I stopped and bought an apple, checking to see if my scarred companion lingered nearby.

He was nowhere to be seen.

That might’ve unnerved me more than if I’d spotted him holstering a gun. At least, then, I would know—

You’re seeing things that aren’t there , I chided myself, chomping another bite of the sweet fruit. There’s caution and then there’s paranoia. Take a breath.

The streets began to thin out as I approached our flat, a nondescript building that blended in with its neighbors on a quiet, narrow lane. I slipped into the courtyard, closing the heavy iron gate behind me, and climbed the stairs, letting myself in with one last, wary glance down the stairwell. Once inside, I turned the lock and let my weight rest against the inside of the door.

“What happened?” Will appeared before I could blink.

“Why do you—”

Fingers of iron gripped my arms and spun me around. Will’s eyes blazed with annoyance and concern. “Don’t fuck with me, Thomas. I see it on your face. What happened?”

I let my head fall back to rest against the wood. “Nothing happened, babe. There was a man at the park . . . It was nothing. He was just a guy lighting a cigarette.”

His eyes narrowed before relaxing. “Was there anything?”

I pulled the scrolled paper from my pocket and held it up.

“What’s it say?”

I shrugged and held it toward him. “We’ve been together long enough for me to know better than to read our mail without you.”

He snorted, finally smiling and letting the light return to his eyes, the twinkle that made every cell in my body brighten and burn. Then he snatched the scroll and spun away.

“Read it aloud.”

Without looking back, he raised one indignant finger, then began to read.

TVC

The peak

Red scarf

“Huh,” I huffed. “A meeting in the open at noon?”

Will nodded. “At the Vend?me Column. Are you wearing red or me?”

I laughed and punched his arm. “Idiot. The red scarf is what we’re looking for, not what we’re wearing.”

“This is Paris. One must match.” He smirked and tossed the scroll at my chest.

1. Office of Strategic Services, the American intelligence service during World War II.

2. Surveillance Detection Routes, intelligence tradecraft used to ensure no one was following.