Beehive (Of Shadows & Secrets #4)

22. Thomas

22

Thomas

T he next morning started differently than our prior days in the eastern quadrant.

Antonov, ever punctual, didn’t appear at our hotel. Instead, a young soldier in a loose-fitting uniform delivered a message with all the enthusiasm of someone assigned to clean latrines. “Comrade Antonov is unavailable today. You are free to see the city at your leisure.”

“Free?” Will repeated, his brow arching in mock surprise. “How generous.”

The soldier grimaced. His inexperience and youth shone through his next words. “You will probably be followed.”

Will and I chuckled as the boy darted away, leaving us “free” beneath the watchful eyes of our most faithful goldfish.

“Think Antonov finally decided we’re not worth the trouble?” Will asked as we stepped into the sticky morning air.

“Doubtful,” I replied. “The Soviets don’t really allow for independent decision-making. He’s probably dealing with something more urgent than a couple of faux art experts.”

“Faux. Speak for yourself.” Will smirked. “Do you really think he sees us that way? How many times has he referred to us as Americans?”

“Exactly.” I shrugged. “Soviets suspect everyone of spying, even their own, so I’m not surprised he sees shadows around every corner; but that doesn’t mean he’s guessed more than our nationality.”

“I guess so,” he said. “What do you want to do first? We have a whole day to see this lovely city. Allied bombers have a certain flair when it comes to decoration, don’t you think?”

I shook my head. Only Will would joke about a decimated city while we stood in the midst of its rubble. Then again, the adage, “You either laugh or you cry,” seemed apt, and I much preferred laughter.

“I need coffee in a very real and legally binding way.”

Will snorted. “You want to marry it?”

“If they bring a whole carafe filled with the stuff—and throw in a hot croissant—I just might.”

Our first stop was a café that overlooked a park close to the museum district. The tiny shop barely had three tables, but the aroma of fresh baked goods drifting from their open windows made my stomach churn.

The park itself was a rare pocket of green in a city of gray. Its grass was patchy and trees leaning like weary sentinels, but the smear of nature on a canvas of rubble was a reminder that things can—and will—grow back and be beautiful again.

In a world where hope was a scarce commodity, the park offered it freely.

Children played near a fountain that sputtered sporadically, their laughter with each spurt of its jets a stark contrast to the somber adults seated on benches nearby.

Boris and Sergei lingered near the park entrance.

As we took our seat at one of the café’s few outdoor tables, I looked across the street and asked, “Think Goldfish One and Goldfish Two know we’re onto them? Or do they suppose they’re so clever as to stand in the open without us noticing?”

Will savored his first sip. “Who knows? They have a shit job, following two strangers around a city no one really wants to visit.”

We ate and drank in silence, enjoying the peace of a carefree moment. For the first time in days, the heat wasn’t so oppressive I feared my clothes might drip from sweat. In another time and another place, it would’ve been a perfect morning.

When we finished the last of our coffee, we made our way across the avenue onto the park’s grounds and ambled toward the fountain.

“You think they’ve ever known anything but this?”

I followed Will’s line of sight. The children’s clothes were worn but clean, their faces lit with joy as they squealed and chased each other. “Probably not. The war started around the time some of them were born. Most of those kids were probably born after the tanks rolled. They haven’t had a chance to know peace until now. Still, they’ve adapted. It’s what kids do.”

“Adaptation,” Will murmured. “A brutal survival mechanism, but I guess that’s part of war.”

“You’re brooding,” I said, nudging his shoulder. “Not a good look.”

“Just observing.”

“Let’s move before Boris and Sergei think we’re plotting treason against the fountain.”

We walked a few blocks before stumbling across an impromptu marketplace, its stalls crowded with goods that ranged from practical to peculiar. There were stacks of crusty bread, jars of pickled vegetables, and the occasional treasure —a hand-carved wooden toy or an embroidered handkerchief, maybe a bit of jewelry.

The air was thick with the scents of sweat and cabbage.

The hum of conversation was punctuated by the occasional bark of a vendor.

Will picked up a small statuette, its form crude but charming. “A keepsake?” he asked, holding it up.

“Not unless it comes with a side of secrets.”

“Ah, the ever-practical Herr Müller,” he teased, setting the statuette back down.

We moved through the stalls, and I focused on snippets of conversations—complaints about rationing, whispers about a neighbor who’d been taken away, the occasional praise for the Soviet regime that felt as forced as the smiles accompanying the words. We heard nothing useful, but the undercurrent of tension was unmistakable.

“Anything?” Will asked as we stopped near a stall selling old books.

“The usual,” I said, examining a tattered volume whose leather cover and gilded pages looked as worn as the city itself.

“Pity,” he said, though his tone was now light. “Move on?”

By midday, we found ourselves in front of yet another restaurant. I wondered if our lives were a series of meals punctuated by a few hours of activity. Were we put here to eat, and all the rest was extracurricular? Had we misread our assignment as humans? I chuckled to myself at my own silliness. When Will quirked a brow, I shook my head to say, “It’s nothing.”

The sign above the restaurant’s door was faded, its letters barely legible, but the aroma of fresh something was enough to lure us inside. Boris and Sergei waited outside, their expressions unreadable.

“Should we ask our friends to join us? They’ve got to be hungry.”

Will snorted. “No way. It’s date day, and I’m not sharing you with a pair of goldfish.”

I smiled as the proprietor approached and showed us to our seats.

The dining room was small, its tables mismatched and chairs creaky, but it held a warmth that felt out of place—and most welcome. The woman who’d greeted us wore a broad smile that appeared genuine. I glanced down to find her hands were dusted with flour.

We ordered tea and a plate of roasted vegetables. There was no meat to be had.

The vegetables were al dente and well seasoned with a hint of garlic and an herb I couldn’t name. The tea was strong, almost bitter.

The moment was . . . a blessed moment of normalcy.

“This,” Will said, gesturing to the plate, “almost makes up for Antonov’s absence.”

“Almost,” I agreed. “Though I can’t say I miss his company.”

“Come on, he’s a sweetheart once you get to know him.”

I cocked a brow. “Do I need to take a walk later so you two can—”

“Don’t even joke about that!” Will snapped. “Besides, he’s not really my type. I bet his gun doesn’t even fire.”

I had just taken a sip, and tea splattered all over the table.

Will grinned triumphantly. “See, that’s what you get.”

“I shall never again besmirch your honor, good sir.” I offered a mocking bow from my seat as the proprietor arrived with a cloth and began wiping the table.

He chuckled and stared out the window.

The rest of the afternoon stretched its lazy legs. The day was unplanned and unsupervised in a way that felt almost indulgent. We walked without knowing our destination. We talked without any hidden meaning or purpose. We watched those around us without pondering their loyalties or ambitions.

It was an unexpected day of respite, one we needed, though I wasn’t sure either of us knew how badly until the sun began to set.

As we passed a dilapidated theater, Will stopped, his gaze fixed on a faded poster barely clinging to a wall. The image was torn, the colors faded, but the title was legible: Doktor Zhivago . “A romantic,” he said, his tone amused. “Who would’ve guessed?”

“Not all of us are hopeless cynics,” I replied, nudging him.

He smirked. “Touché.”

The rest of the day slipped by in a blur of streets and faces.

Occasionally, I caught sight of Boris and Sergei, their presence a constant reminder that we weren’t truly alone; but mostly, they kept their distance, giving us a rare sense of freedom.

Our walk back to the hotel was quiet, the streets bathed in the soft glow of twilight. As we reached the hotel, Will paused, his gaze lingering on the building. “Do you think Antonov will be back tomorrow?”

“Probably,” I said. “And I’m sure he’ll have plenty of questions.”

“Let’s hope he likes boring answers. We basically played tourists today.”

Stepping inside, the worn carpet and dim lighting of the lobby was a surprisingly welcome sight. The day had been quiet, peaceful even, but some of what we had seen left a mark. Questions were raised, tensions revealed; Berlin was a kettle boiling, its pressure building toward something .

I reached for the handle to our room’s door, but Will placed his hand over mine, stopping me from opening it.

He leaned in and whispered in my ear, his breath tickling tiny hairs, “Are we ready for tonight?”

I hadn’t thought about our mission much that day. The park and cafés had provided a much-needed distraction. The concern creasing Will’s brow and the hushed tones of his voice brought me back to why we had traveled east in the first place.

My heart grew heavy once more.

“I think so.”

“I mean . . . really ready? We’re walking into the lion’s den.”

I stared into his eyes a moment, losing myself in the sight of him, then replied, “We have to do this—whether we’re ready or not.”