8. Thomas
8
Thomas
I made it back to our apartment before Will. He’d chosen to take the circuitous route, pretending to take in the sights of Paris and shop along a few of the better traveled avenues, while I took a more direct route, ignoring anything interesting and walking at the pace of an Olympic athlete.
My mind raced even faster than my feet.
One question spun faster than the others. What has the Russians so worked up that they’d redirect half their European theater resources to Berlin?
The Nazis had done extensive work on chemical, biological, and nuclear weaponry. Any one of those would send our teams into high alert; but following the cessation of hostilities, much of that research had either been secured or destroyed. As antagonistic as the Russia-America relationship was becoming, they had worked well with us to root out anything that might carry disastrous consequences. Besides, if anything of the sort had been discovered, our agents embedded within the Soviet and German structures would have picked up at least a whiff.
We had nothing but some drivel about artwork.
What did that even mean?
For all we knew, it was a game piece from some medieval fantasy thought up by a child, and now the world’s most powerful spy agencies were chasing their tails over a fever dream.
Logically, I knew better.
The Soviets were good.
No, they were better than good. They were the best.
Our OSS had worked wonders during the war, gearing up in record time and coordinating with all the major powers; but since before the time of Catherine the Great, the Russians spied at a level beyond even their most skilled adversaries. If they thought something was worth rallying the troops, it probably was.
Hence, we rallied, too.
So, if this painting or statue or game piece wasn’t a weapon, what was it?
A defector? Would whatever crazy name they gave the thing turn out to represent an asset’s code name?
That didn’t make sense.
We weren’t friends anymore, but we weren’t exactly enemies.
A dozen other scenarios rattled around my brain, causing my head to hurt, before a key turning heralded Will’s return.
“Honey, I’m home,” he singsonged as the door swung closed. I rose from the couch to find him standing in the doorway surrounded by several packages from local clothiers. He’d let his hair grow out over the winter, and straight brown locks danced as his head tilted to one side in a gesture I’d come to learn meant, “Look what I just did.”
“Um, babe, did you go shopping after our dead drop meetup with our handler who told us the Soviets are going bananas over something super secret that might impact the fate of the world?”
His grin was so wide I thought my heart might burst.
“If you can’t shop when the world might end, when can you? Besides, you needed new shoes, and I am finally tossing out that awful blue thing you wear around the apartment.”
“William Shaw! You are not—”
He held up a palm. “I am. Not another word.” He reached into a bag and pulled out a sweater of the deepest royal blue and held it to his chest like he was sizing it for himself. “This is your replacement. You’re welcome.”
I lost my will to jest. “That’s . . . babe, it’s sexy .”
“The sweater’s pretty nice, too, right?”
I laughed and shook my head. “I’ve been wrestling with the fate of the world, and here you go, making me laugh. This is why I love you so much, isn’t it?”
“Nope. Wrong answer.” He tossed the sweater aside, closed the gap between us, and gripped my crotch. “I’m about to show you why you love me.”
I coughed in surprise when his lips found mine, forcing him to pull back.
“Don’t give me any guff about having a secret meeting later. We don’t have any answers, only questions, and sitting here thinking won’t help. I have a much better idea of how we can prepare for our handler that definitely involves some handling of my own.”
His hand released its grip on my boys and inched upward. He began stroking me through my trousers. My body’s reaction was immediate. This time, when he kissed me, all thoughts of Nazis or Soviets or Stalin vanished. There was only Will, his hand, and my desire to plant my flag in his not-so-virgin territory.
“Fuck, I love you,” I breathed the moment our lips parted.
“Show, don’t tell. Isn’t that what the writers say?”
I grabbed his coat and yanked it off his shoulders. “That enough showing for you?”
He reached under my shirt and pressed his palms to my stomach.
“Holy mother of fucking—shit on a stick. Your hands are like ice!”
His hands shot upward and gripped my chest. “One of us went shopping so the other could sit in our warm apartment and brood. It’s still wintery outside, yet I sacrificed for you.”
“You’re such a giver.”
He groaned. “I would be if you’d stop talking and take off those clothes.”
“Damn. That wasn’t my plan, but—”
His tongue dove into my mouth as his fingers fell to the button of my pants. Before I could blink, they were tangled around my ankles and he’d dropped to his knees.
“Jesus, Will, you’re gonna kill me.”
His lips teased the sensitive skin of my cock as his tongue slid up and down my shaft. Shivers of pleasure trailed up and down my spine in time with each lick.
“Do you think Soviet spies love their partners as much as I do?” I’d meant it as a tease, but he took it as a distraction, releasing me and looking up with ire in his eyes.
“If they do, I seriously doubt they talk about American spies in the middle of getting their dick sucked.”
“Um, right. Good point. Carry on.”
He shook his head, then applied his tongue once more. When his icy digit began fiddling its way inside my crack, I surrendered to the moment and let Will become the only other person in the world.
We spent the afternoon asleep in each other’s arms, still sweaty and sticky from our post-shopping exertions. Will had been right. There was no better way to prepare for a world-ending spy mission than naked with the man I loved. I vowed to listen to him more and send him shopping as often as our government paychecks allowed.
When we arrived back at the café, everything was as our mystery woman had predicted. No lights shone in the café or any of the nearby buildings.
Paris conserved electricity. They conserved most everything, still.
That meant the street wasn’t dark; it was black.
Only a few houses showed flickers of life, but even those were cloaked behind curtains or shutters.
We agreed Will would go first. I was supposed to remain around the corner between the buildings, but curiosity and caution overrode good sense. I peeked around the corner as he approached the café’s back door.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
Nothing.
Will stepped back and stared expectantly.
Still nothing.
A minute passed, then another, then five.
He looked to where I hid, knowing I wouldn’t be able to resist.
I shrugged, though I doubt he saw it in the night.
He was turning away from the door when a series of clicks drew his attention back to it. Dim light flowed out as the door swung open. I could hear hushed tones as someone spoke, then he vanished inside.
I waited a moment before stepping out of the shadows for my turn.
The door opened as soon as my fourth knock sounded, even before I could get my knuckles off the splintered wood.
The woman from earlier in the day stood there. Her hair was now loose and hanging about her shoulders, while round, wire- framed spectacles sat atop her nose. Where she had dressed fashionably before, she now wore loose-fitting clothes more appropriate for a night on the couch with a good book than a social outing—or secret mission. Will watched over her shoulder from a few paces away.
“Come in quickly,” she instructed, then stepped aside.
The moment I entered, she pulled the door closed, turned three different bolts, and lowered a metal crossbar.
Will’s brows nearly reached his hairline.
“We can never be too safe,” the woman said in hushed tones. “Come with me, and please, do not speak until we are behind the metal door.”
“Metal door?” Will mouthed in my direction.
All I could do was shrug and follow our hostess. Will trailed behind.
We’d entered through the delivery door, the way men hauling cans and cases of supplies might enter when dropping off items for the kitchen’s use. The woman stepped past a long wooden table used for food preparation, stopping at an ancient wood-burning stove whose worn pipe flowed into the ceiling. Without so much as a glance back, she reached out, grabbed the crank that opened the flue, and yanked. The entire thing lifted on unseen hinges that wailed in protest, revealing a set of stairs that descended into the depths below the shop. A lone candle burned in a sconce attached to the rough-hewn wall of the stairwell, creating more eerie shadows than casting light.
“The others are already here; otherwise, this passage would be black as coffee,” she said, pointing to a thick chain dangling from the bottom of the stove. “Pull that when you are on the staircase.”
I glanced back to find Will looking as shocked by the woman’s caution as I felt. By the time he entered and pulled the chain, we were several stairs below. I nearly slammed into the woman at the sound of the stove thudding back into place.
Her chuckle echoed off the rock walls. “That gets most when they enter for the first time. The humor of it never gets old.”
“Great. Now that we’re descending into the depths of Paris, you have a sense of humor?”
Will giggled behind me.
The fucker actually giggled.
That caused the woman to bark a very unladylike laugh.
“Traitors,” I groused.
Twelve stairs.
That’s how many we took before reaching another candle in another sconce mounted beside a rusty metal door with a thick handle.
The woman rapped four times, four crisp, precise knocks.
A bolt turned.
Then another.
Then a third.
When the door swung open, a man with straight brown hair and thin spectacles looked past the woman into my eyes and smiled. “Hello, Condor.”
“Manakin?” I stammered, suddenly off balance by the appearance of the man who served as our tether to the American OSS when we’d studied at Harvard. The use of my original code name also brought back a flood of memories from our first missions.
A shudder ran through me at a flashback of my capture at the hands of the Nazis.
Will reached the bottom step and bumped into me, shoving me forward into the woman who, for her part, let out a loud, French-sounding, “Oof,” before righting herself against the doorframe.
Manakin’s grin widened. “I see Emu is as graceful as ever.”
“Sorry,” Will muttered.
Manakin stepped aside and motioned for us to enter. “Come in. There is someone here I believe you will both enjoy seeing again.”
The room we entered was far larger than I expected, likely spanning more space than the dining room and kitchen above us combined. Bare lights hung from cords draped across the ceiling, looking almost like holiday lights whose bulbs were far too large for the celebration. On the wall spanning one side of the room hung maps of every size and variety, making me wonder if the entire world was displayed in this underground cavern. Several tables made to seat six or eight sat in the room’s center, a mirror image of the restaurant above.
A lone figure sat at the table closest to us.
“It took you long enough,” the man said.
I gaped, unable to speak.
Will brushed past me, shouldering the woman out of the way, before plucking the man from his chair and lifting him off the ground.
“Arty! Oh my God, what are you doing in Paris?” His voice smiled almost as wildly as his face.
Arty, Will’s roommate from Harvard and the smartest person I’d ever met, short of his girlfriend Elizabeth, giggled like a schoolgirl—or like Will on a staircase.
“Can you put me down? I want to be able to breathe when this is over.”
Instead, Will spun him toward me so I could join in a group hug, squeezing Arty as hard as the pair of us could muster.
“Manakin! Help! I think the Nazis are back, and they have me!”
Manakin’s laugh bordered on a hyena’s shrill.
The woman muttered, “I take it they are acquainted?”
“Emu and Stork were roommates at university,” Manakin explained.
The woman nodded and continued observing.
I released the boys so Will could drop Arty back into his chair, where he promptly adjusted his glasses and fiddled with his now-out-of-place hair. Arty was no older than Will, but fine lines had formed around the edges of his eyes, and there was a stern set to his jaw I didn’t remember seeing before. He’d always been thoughtful, lost in his own head, but now he appeared serious to the point of grave.
Where had our nerdy little friend gone? What had he seen during the dark days of war to change him so?
“We have a lot to discuss. If you two are done manhandling me, take a seat,” Arty said in a clipped tone carrying an unfamiliar air of authority.
Will looked up at me with his brow knitted, then sat.
I took the chair on Arty’s other side, while Manakin and our hostess took two of the chairs opposite where Arty sat.
Manakin spoke first, extending an upward palm toward the mystery woman. “Before we begin, allow me to introduce Loon.”
“Loon?” Will nearly spat a laugh.
The sharp look Loon gave him schooled his expression faster than a slap.
“It is a perfectly fine code name, thank you very much,” she said, stretching her neck in a frighteningly accurate approximation of her namesake.
“Loons are serious. Look at her scowl,” Arty said. “Besides, neither of you truly match your code names. They were randomly generated.”
“That’s a good thing,” I quipped. “Otherwise, everyone you met would end up pregnant, Mr. Stork.”
Will lost his composure as bright red flooded Arty’s face. It was reassuring to see how simple, childlike embarrassment still lived within our friend’s fragile frame, no matter how serious he might’ve become over the years.
“All right, you three. Let’s get to the briefing.” Manakin cleared his throat, his mouth pursing into a thin line. “The Soviets are no longer our allies. In fact, Roosevelt now considers them adversaries bordering on enemies.”
“Enemies?” I sat back, all humor drained from my face. “Hitler kicked the shit out of the Ruskies, killing millions in his failed invasion. Stalin might not be an ideal partner, but he sent troops chasing the Nazis back across the snow before helping liberate the rest of Europe.”
“Berlin,” Loon interjected.
“And Poland, and a few other countries in the East,” I added.
Manakin shook his head. “Eastern Europe is no more liberated than they were under the Nazis. They simply traded a swastika for a hammer and sickle.”
Will blew out a breath. “A little harsh, don’t you think?”
“Ask the Pols,” Loon said, her voice retaining the warmth of an ice cube. “They share no freedom, no liberty. Their vote is irrelevant. Their voice is irrelevant. Soviet troops occupy their lands and require their compliance. Polish farmers feed Soviet troops and work in factories to resupply their arms. Does any of that sound different to you?”
“They aren’t killing Jews,” I said, unsure why I felt the need to defend the Soviets.
Loon cocked one brow and turned toward Manakin.
The older man crossed his arms. “I can neither confirm nor deny intelligence of such actions, but rest assured, their hands are not as clean as you may believe.”
I held up my palms. “I’m not a sympathizer. Stalin’s vile. I just haven’t seen—”
“No, you haven’t, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened,” Loon snapped. “Manakin, please get to it before I lose my sparkling personality.”
For a brief instant, I thought she’d told a joke; then she glared across the table, and I knew there was no jest in her words.
Manakin sighed. “The Soviets control a significant portion of Berlin. The French, Brits, and US run the rest. On the surface, the four nations work together to ensure the rebuilding of Germany without Nazi sympathies returning to the fore.”
“Beneath the surface?” I asked.
“The Soviets have turned hostile to all other powers. They control their sector, ruling with Stalin’s iron fist and keeping virtually everyone out of their zone. Most of our agents have been expelled, chased out, or killed.”
“Killed?” Will leaned forward, his eyes wide.
Manakin shrugged. “The agents met with unfortunate accidents . The Soviets claim they merely found them in . . . how did they put it? ‘An unrecoverable state.’ They were kind enough to return the bodies.”
“Jesus,” I breathed. Will sat back and clamped his mouth shut.
“Our network in their sector is fractured but has not been fully eliminated; otherwise, we would not know what I am about to tell you.” Manakin flipped through a couple of pages, then looked up. “Over the past four weeks, the MGB has flooded Berlin with operatives.”
“By flooded—”
“Over a hundred arrived through every route imaginable within days of each other.”
Will whistled.
“Our assets have vanished, either captured, killed, or frightened into hiding or silence. The MGB is shaking down every shop owner, barkeep, policeman, you name it. They have ransacked countless houses and apartments and virtually destroyed offices of major businesses. In short, they are searching for something, something they want so badly they are no longer hiding their actions. The Soviets are many things; subtle has never been one of them. However, we have never seen them behave so overtly . . . desperate.”
“And you have no idea what they’re looking for?” I asked.
Manakin’s smile was sardonic. He shook his head. “All we have heard is a name. The Keeper. We do not know if that is a goalkeeper in a game, a zookeeper, or a code name as unrelated to the term as your bird monikers.”
“So, you want us to go in and find out what has the bees buzzing?” Will asked.
Manakin nodded.
“How the hell are we supposed to do that without any clues? Where would we even begin? And what possible cover would fool the whole MGB at their own party?” I sat back and mirrored Manakin’s crossed arms.
Arty, who hadn’t spoken since we’d mussed his hair, coughed into his balled fist. “Will studied art history. His cover will be as an art conservationist searching for Jewish artifacts to repatriate. You will be his bodyguard. No one visiting the sector travels without one.”
“Why art?” Will sounded incredulous.
Manakin pulled an aerial photo of Berlin from his folder and slid it across the table. Red markings littered the black-and-white images. “The red indicates MGB actions within the past week, those our assets noted, at least. I am sure there were many more we are unaware of.”
I lifted the page and stared. Red dots clustered like wildfires, flaring at various points throughout the devastated urban sprawl.
“They’re so clustered, like they found something and decided to swarm a location,” I said, thinking aloud more than engaging the others.
“What are those places?” Will asked, leaning across Arty to stare at the page in my hand.
Arty pointed to the one with the most dots, the hottest and largest blaze. “Kulturhistorisches Museum Viktoria, one of the last surviving imperial museums in Germany.”
“It’s massive.” Will grabbed the page out of my hand and stared closely at the complex that spread across two entire blocks. “How did something that large make it through all the bombing runs?”
Manakin grunted. “Good luck, we suppose. As you can see, most of the surrounding buildings were devastated.”
Now it was my turn to lean across Arty and point at the page Will held. “What about these smaller clusters? There’s four—no, five where the Soviets conducted ten or more actions last week.”
Will’s eyes widened. “They’re art galleries. I know that one. It housed some of Germany’s rising artists’ works. And that one, there. It’s—”
“They’re all art houses,” Loon cut in. “Get on with it, please.”
Will lowered the page. We both stared at the sour woman. Her lips were more puckered than a duck’s ass.
“You see our dilemma?” Manakin said. “We believe whatever the Soviets are looking for is related to art somehow. Perhaps there is a recipe for some chemical weapon Hitler was working on taped onto the back of a painting. What if nuclear secrets were sealed in a concrete slab made to look like a King’s tomb? We have no idea—and having no idea worries Washington more than if we knew they’d designed a new type of submarine and were sailing toward San Diego.”
“That would be something,” Will muttered.
Arty elbowed him.
Loon rolled her eyes.
“All right,” I said, trying to keep us on track. “We go in using the artsy cover. Our German is solid, but Russian? I’m all right. Will couldn’t order vodka in a bar.”
“Hey!”
I reached across Arty again and patted Will’s arm. “Sorry, it’s true, comrade.”
Loon’s whole forehead shot upward as she looked from Will to me then down at my hand on his arm. “Are you two—”
“Longtime OSS partners, yes,” Manakin cut her off, shooting me a meaningful glare.
Damn if the man didn’t know all our secrets despite being separated by an ocean and a war for half a decade. “This is going to be dangerous. The Soviets are ruthless and not afraid to use locals to get what they want. Their agents are everywhere , and they’ve bugged every hotel room in the sector. Hell, they’ve probably bugged every hotel in all the sectors by now. You will need to assume you are being watched and listened to every moment of every day.”
“They can’t be more brutal than the Nazis,” Will said.
“They’re different but no less brutal. They’re vengeful .” Manakin grimaced. “This is where Stork comes in. He has a few things for you that should help even the odds a bit.”
Will and I turned to face Arty.
Rather than shrink beneath our scrutiny like he did back in college, he seemed to grow larger and sit up straighter under the weight of our gazes. Without acknowledging our stares, he reached under the table and produced a wooden box the size of several loaves of bread. Removing a key from a chain about his neck, he unlocked the box and lifted the lid.
“You remember my job before you left for the war, what I was doing at Harvard?” he asked looking between us like an unfortunate tennis fan seated on the center line.
“Yeah,” Will answered. “Researching better bombs and shit.”
“ And shit. That’s accurate, if a bit vague.” Arty chuckled. “My job shifted after you left. Lizzy—sorry, Elizabeth continued working on weapons. She now works in a highly classified section a thousand miles above your pay grades. I, on the other hand, moved into a more specialized group helping arm our intelligence community with more effective tools for, um, more delicate work.”
“Arty, it feels like we’re back on campus,” I said. “I still have no idea what you’re saying.”
He grinned. “I make gadgets even you two can’t screw up.”