Beehive (Of Shadows & Secrets #4)

13. Heinrich

13

Heinrich

I should never have stayed so long.

Paranoia had whispered in my ear that someone might recognize me. I doubted anyone knew the true value of the statue I had entrusted to the museum’s collection; still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Bider’s questions about my “unorthodox” donation had been more than idle curiosity.

Had I just handed the Russians everything I was trying to protect?

Or had MGB agents spotted me entering the museum?

That was a more likely explanation.

I peered around the back of the museum to watch a black GAZ-67 military jeep screech to a halt at the museum’s front entrance.

Then another.

Men wearing stark uniforms and the unmistakable red armbands of the NKVD, the Soviet People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, poured out. Every network I kept in touch with believed Stalin was shutting down that particular agency, to be replaced with leadership more loyal to the State—and to him personally. To see them here, on German soil, was beyond unexpected.

Someone in Moscow was seriously upset.

Two more cars arrived, and a handful of overly muscled men in casual clothes leaped out. The MGB had also arrived.

Damn it.

I watched and waited.

Alarms didn’t sound around the city, but they may as well have.

I was sure telephones were ringing across the sector.

As casually as any local, I strode from the back of the museum to the back of a series of high-end shops that neighbored the art center. Most of the shops were shells of their former selves, barely able to reopen, as many ceilings and walls were badly damaged. Still, rubble was cover, too, and I intended to use everything I could find.

Two blocks flew by.

My heart pounded against my rib cage, a rhythmic warning of the dangerous net closing in.

Heavy clouds had opened since I’d entered the museum, and I was getting soaked.

It was impossible to keep my steps quiet, as my boots squished loudly despite my best efforts at stepping around the largest puddles.

The downpour redoubled as I crossed a main street and entered another narrow alley. Thunder clapped in the distance, an angry flash and boom filling my mind with memories best left behind.

My hand slipped inside my coat, brushing against the cold steel of my Luger. It was my last resort—a weapon to buy time, not survival. I could never outgun the Soviets, not when Stalin had sent every last one of them to hunt me down.

My real insurance was back in the museum, hidden within that damn statue.

Shouts erupted behind me, sharp and guttural.

I broke into a sprint.

Adrenaline surged as I barreled through the twisting labyrinth of Berlin’s backstreets, my breath coming in sharp, icy bursts.

The sound of the Soviets’ boots slapping against the pavement was muted by intermittent thunder and sheets of biting rain. I heard their voices in the distance but didn’t bother trying to decipher their words.

My path veered toward the Spree River. The narrow streets widened slightly, but that only left me more exposed. A tram clattered ahead, its passengers oblivious to the deadly pursuit playing out just meters away. I darted across the street, narrowly avoiding a cyclist who cursed at me in German and gestured wildly.

He was as soaked and miserable as I was.

I didn’t stop to apologize.

A black jeep roared into view again, its engine growling like a wolf closing in on its prey. I surged forward, my lungs screaming in louder protest than even my legs.

The rain blurred my vision.

I was so winded.

My legs ached.

There was no way I could keep going at this pace, so I found a stair that descended to a subterranean apartment and huddled beneath its awning. Shivering, both from the rain and fear of pursuit, my mind wrestled with one question.

How did they find me?

I’d been careful. No contacts, no loose ends. Sergei was my only lifeline, and I was certain he had not given me up. He wouldn’t. I was sure of it.

As sure as I could be.

The microfilm—that damned strip of celluloid—was my only leverage, my last card to play in a game that was quickly unraveling. I’d hidden it well. There was no way they could link it back to me.

A shot rang out, splintering a lamppost only a few yards away at street level.

I swore and surged up the stairs and down another alley, this one narrower and darker. Two more shots rang out, sending concrete shrapnel from nearby buildings in all directions.

I vaulted over a stack of discarded crates. My fingers grazed damp walls for balance as I careened forward.

The Soviets were relentless.

Another gunshot cracked the air, ricocheting off the brickwork near my head.

Too close.

Far too close.

I turned sharply, emerging onto a busier street. Faint hope that a crowd might shield me was short-lived. The NKVD’s men didn’t hesitate to shove aside civilians. The MGB would simply shoot their way through.

A delivery truck idled near the curb, its driver arguing with a pedestrian. I leaped onto the back and clung to the cold metal railing. The truck lurched forward, the driver oblivious to his new passenger. For a fleeting moment, I thought I might have gained the upper hand.

Then another jeep appeared, its headlights slicing through the rain.

One of the Soviets leaned out the passenger side, a rifle trained on me.

I dropped from the truck just as the shot rang out, rolling painfully onto the pavement. The impact knocked the wind from my lungs and drove my sidearm into my ribs, but I forced myself upright and stumbled toward a bombed-out shell of a building. Broken furniture littered the floor, and the faint smell of mildew clung to everything. Only a portion of the roof had survived. Rain pelted my head and shoulders as hard as when I’d been outside.

I ducked behind an overturned table, pulling my Luger free.

The sound of tires screeching sent a fresh wave of panic through me.

The first man entered cautiously, his silhouette framed by the dim light from the street. I steadied my breathing and tightened my grip on the pistol.

He took another step forward, his rifle raised.

I fired.

The shot was deafening in the confined space. The man crumpled to the ground.

Shouts erupted outside.

They now knew that I was armed.

Good. Let them hesitate.

I slipped out the back of the building, my boots crunching over broken glass and fragments of brick. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the chill in the air was sharper. The rain had brought an unseasonable chill.

My strength was waning. I could feel the cold seeping into my bones. The chase was taking its toll.

The Soviets were on me within minutes.

This time, there were no more alleys, no more abandoned buildings to duck into.

I found myself cornered in a narrow courtyard, its high walls offering no escape. The jeep’s headlights pinned me in place, the glare blinding. When a second jeep pulled up and flipped its search light to high beam, shadows moved toward me.

Rifles glinted.

“Бросьте пистолет. Сейчас же!”

I couldn’t understand the man’s words but suddenly realized they weren’t shooting.

They wanted me alive.

That was the last thing any sane person would ever want. The Soviets were brutal. Their enmity was aimed differently than my Führer’s had been; and still, theirs was enmity and brutality to match any regime.

They could not take me alive.

I raised my hands and let the Luger slip from my grasp and clatter to the ground.

Commands were shouted.

Voices were sharp and venomous.

I dropped to my knees and clasped my hands behind my head, my breaths coming in ragged gasps.

One of the men stepped forward, his pistol trained on me as he barked something in Russian. Two more men assumed positions to my right and left, one pointing a rifle, the other a handgun.

They thought they’d won. They’d finally cornered me, the man who dared to defy Stalin himself. They didn’t know where I’d hidden my prize, a bane that would shatter the illusion Stalin painted on the world stage.

I might die, but they would not win.

As they closed in, I bit down hard.

The cyanide capsule hidden in my molar released its lethal contents.

Pain seared through my body, a white-hot agony that quickly gave way to darkness.

My last vision as the world faded into nothingness was of an aged Jewish rabbi and his wizened face—and a world filled with irony.