Beehive (Of Shadows & Secrets #4)

15. Will

15

Will

T he straps of my satchel dug into my shoulder. I reached up to adjust them, anything to keep my hands from trembling.

Across the narrow, dusty street, Thomas leaned against the side of a battered truck. His hat cast a shadow over his face, but his posture was the relaxed kind that said, “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Me? I felt like a fish flopping on a bank.

As casually as possible, I stepped onto the street and crossed to lean against the truck a few feet from Thomas.

“You’ve got the look of a man who just swallowed a bad oyster.”

“I’m fine,” I lied, straightening my tie and smoothing down my jacket. Thomas was always so brave, almost to the point of stoicism. In our first mission, when we rode a rickety submarine across Nazi-infested waters, Thomas never showed the slightest fear. I tried to put on a good show, but inside, I felt like a small boy who shouldn’t be anywhere near any of this. “I’m just . . . taking it all in.”

“You take it in any harder and I’ll get jealous.” He didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “Relax, Will. We’ve done all this before.”

“Not here. Not like this.”

My eyes flicked to the checkpoint ahead, where two Soviet guards leaned lazily against a concrete barricade, their posture a poetic mirror image of ours against the truck. The soldiers’ rifles hung loose over their shoulders, but I didn’t doubt they could snap to attention and shoot a man dead before he could even think about running.

Thomas straightened and brushed invisible dust from his jacket as though he weren’t preparing to cross into the lion’s den. “Come on. It’s just a checkpoint. Smile, be polite, and let me do the talking. Besides, our friendly neighborhood minder should be here to whisk us through.”

He led the way, the clack of our shoes on the cracked pavement sounding much louder than it should have. As we approached, one of the guards raised a hand and barked something in Russian.

“ Guten tag ,” Thomas said with easy confidence, pulling out his forged papers and offering them to the guard. His German was crisp and deliberate, every syllable polished to sound like he belonged here. “We are here on official business.”

The guard’s face was unreadable as he flipped through the documents.

I stood perfectly still, resisting the urge to wipe damp palms on my trousers. Thomas looked at ease, his hands resting lightly at his sides, though I knew one was close to the knife hidden inside his jacket.

The other guard stepped closer, his beady brown eyes scanning us both.

My breath hitched. For a moment, I thought they’d ask questions about our forged seal, the American accents beneath our carefully practiced German, about why we’d dare to enter their territory.

I clamped my mouth shut, gripping the strap of my satchel as though it were the only thing anchoring me to reality. The guard scanned our papers with the practiced boredom of someone who’d seen too many documents to care about them anymore.

“Kunst?” (Art?)

The man cocked one brow. He’d mangled the German word worse than American bombs had Berlin.

I nodded.

Seconds stretched.

Finally, the soldier handed the papers back with a curt nod. “ Nach innen gehen ,” he said in heavily accented German, basically telling us to “Get to the inside” and waving us through. His pronunciation was almost as atrocious as his word choice, but correcting an armed man at a border crossing seemed like a poor life choice, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Your escort is waiting in the building over there.” The guard pointed to a mid-sized brick home the Soviets had apparently turned into a border crossing office. Thomas offered a polite smile, touched the brim of his hat, and strode forward.

The Soviet sector greeted us with the stench of coal smoke and despair.

We walked at a steady, unhurried pace. The moment we entered the house, the gaze of a steely-eyed young man no older than twenty snapped to us. The man, dressed in a Soviet corporal’s uniform, scowled and said, “You are the Americans?”

Thomas shook his head. “Germans, but we are here at the behest of the American regime.”

The corporal squinted at Thomas, looked through me, then looked down to scan a binder sitting open on his desk. A moment later, he glanced back up. His glare shifted from suspicious to bored.

“Go that way.” He pointed down a hallway. “Second door on the right. Do not stray.”

“Thank you,” Thomas said, giving the man another of his warm smiles. The clerk did not return the gesture.

A dozen paces brought us before the aforementioned door.

“Ready?”

I nodded once.

He turned the knob and stepped inside to enter a stifling office whose air was filled with tobacco and stale paper mingled with something else—shoe polish?

One window was cracked open. The weak breeze did little against the oppressive weight of the place. The room was supremely Soviet: utilitarian, furnished with a mismatched desk and chairs that had seen better days.

On the far side of the desk, a man with bushy black hair and darker eyes glared as though his stare might bore holes in our chests. He didn’t bother to rise. Instead, he leaned back, one hand resting on the edge of the desk, while the other held a cigarette whose ash was nearly as long as the remaining paper. The man’s officer’s uniform fit him with the kind of rigidity that seemed less tailored and more imposed. Everything was perfect with nothing out of place.

“Ah, our American allies,” the man said at last, his Russian accent rolling English words like marbles in his cheeks. He gestured to the chairs opposite his desk, the motion sharp and dismissive. “Sit. Make yourselves comfortable—though I expect you are accustomed to greater comforts than this.”

I exchanged a confused glance with Thomas, then stared at the man as though I hadn’t understood a word he’d spoken. Thomas shrugged, joining my act.

Thomas said in German, “We are German, not American.”

The man cocked one brow, and a flicker of a smile appeared and vanished as quickly as I could blink. “Of course, you are. My mistake,” he said in horribly accented German. “I am Matvey Antonov. I will be your . . . guide.”

Thomas smiled. “We appreciate any assistance you might offer.”

“You are here to find art, yes?” Antonov said, drawing out the word as though it were an unpleasant taste. “The great cultural treasures stolen by the fascists. How noble of you.”

He stubbed out his cigarette with unnecessary force in an ashtray already overflowing. “While you concern yourselves with paintings and statues, my people are still digging bodies out of snow; still, I am told this mission is important.”

The way he said it, important sounded anything but.

I kept my expression neutral, though the tightness in my chest betrayed my irritation. “We are here to recover what was stolen and return it to rightful owners,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Including pieces taken from Jewish families who lost everything during the war, as many of your people did. We are deeply saddened by so many deaths. Your people sacrificed much.”

I hoped paying a small tribute to the millions of this man’s countrymen who gave their lives might soften him up. I was immediately reminded that some men had no soft side.

Antonov tilted his head. “And what justice for them, hm? A few paintings returned to empty homes. How generous.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I suppose it is easier to focus on such things when the war never reached your soil. When you did not bury millions of your own people.”

I felt Thomas shift beside me, his knee brushing against mine in a silent warning. It grounded me, kept me from rising to Antonov’s bait.

“Forgive me.” Antonov waved a hand in the air. “You are German, not American. I forget myself. The war most clearly reached your borders.”

“We are not here to debate suffering, Comrade Captain Antonov.” I met his gaze. His title was a deliberate choice—a subtle reminder that I knew more than I let on and was aware of his rank within the MGB, that he wasn’t the only one who saw through smoke screens. “Our job is to do what we can to set things right.”

Antonov’s smile widened without reaching his eyes. “Setting things right is a luxury afforded to those who were not bled dry.” He leaned back again and lit another cigarette. “But you will find no resistance from me. You have the full cooperation of the Soviet state.”

The word cooperation felt more like a challenge, and I couldn’t miss the way his eyes narrowed as he said it.

“Good,” Thomas said. “Then I trust we can start immediately?”

Antonov took a long drag from his cigarette, turning his head away from us and exhaling the smoke in a slow, deliberate stream. “Of course, but you will understand, gentlemen, that I must accompany you. For your safety, naturally.”

Thomas spoke again, his voice calm but edged with steel. “We appreciate your . . . protection, Captain Antonov.”

For a moment, Antonov’s mask slipped. His eyes flickered with something darker: resentment, perhaps, or curiosity. Whatever it was vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by practiced indifference.

“Very well,” he said, stubbing out his freshly lit cigarette. “Let us begin this noble endeavor of yours. While we search for your precious art, perhaps you will see the scars left behind by your people.” He pretended to catch himself. “Forgive me again. You are German, very much not American. My memory can be so short at times.”

He stood, gesturing toward the door with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “After you, comrades.”

It was impossible to miss the mocking tone in his voice or the way his gaze lingered on us as we stood. His eyes were sharp and watchful, like a predator waiting for a misstep.

Antonov rounded his desk. “We will start by getting you settled into your accommodations. A room in the Hotel Leninplatz has been reserved for you. It is a short drive. Come.”