24. Will
24
Will
M y heart stopped for a beat before roaring back to life. Thomas yanked me forward, his grip a vise. We charged out of the room into another corridor.
“Move!”
I didn’t need to be told twice.
My feet slapped, echoing down the passage like a drumbeat marking our flight. Behind us, guard’s shouts grew louder, more frantic, joined by the clatter of boots.
The passage twisted sharply.
Thomas ran ahead of me.
The weight of the satchel slung over my shoulder was an anchor, its precious cargo weighing heavily.
“Through here!” Thomas hissed, shoving open a door that creaked loudly on its hinges.
We slipped inside. Darkness swallowed us whole.
A click told me Thomas had locked the door.
A moment later, its handle rattled.
The door flew open.
A beam cut through.
I crouched, pressing myself against the side of a crate, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
A guard stepped inside.
His flashlight swept the room.
Thomas was still. I could almost feel his body coiled like a spring.
The sound of a distant crash echoed through the building, shattering the silence. It was so loud I wondered if the Russians had crashed their cars outside.
The guard spun on his heel, his flashlight jerking toward the door.
Another crash followed, louder this time, accompanied by insistent shouting.
Then something outside exploded.
The whole building rattled, and chips of paint or chipped concrete rained from the ceiling.
The guard hesitated, his body taut, before retreating.
“What the hell was that?” I whispered.
Thomas didn’t answer.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the far end of the room where another door waited. We slipped into another corridor, this one pitch black and blessedly empty. We reached the back of the building.
Our rusty egress was just ahead.
Thomas paused, his hand on the handle, his head tilted as he listened.
He pushed the door open, and we stepped outside.
Soldiers shouted in the distance. Arriving vehicles roared.
We rounded the corner to make our getaway, but I drew up short at the sight of a lone woman standing casually against a lamppost.
She raised a hand, the glow of a cigarette lifting with it.
Visla.
It had to be.
The woman crossed the street to stand a dozen yards away. Nearby streetlamps had been extinguished, but the clouds parted enough for me to get a better look. Visla was dressed plainly, a red scarf tied loosely around her neck, her face partially obscured by the shadow of her chapeau . Her expression was strikingly calm, her eyes sharp.
“Nice night for a walk, is it not?” she said dryly.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Thomas demanded, his head turning one way, then the other, searching for guards or soldiers.
“Saving your asses, obviously,” she replied, flicking her cigarette into the distance. “We need to go. My little diversion will only work for so long.”
“That was you?” I stammered.
She smirked. “You are lucky I like you. Now, move. They will figure it out soon enough.”
We raced through the streets, Visla leading the way.
She slipped through alleys and side streets with the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times before. I kept close, my hand never straying far from the satchel. Thomas brought up the rear.
“How much further?” Thomas asked after we’d crept down more city blocks than I could count.
“Not far,” Visla hissed. “Keep moving. No talking.”
We rounded another corner, and voices in Russian stilled our steps.
Guards.
Their tones were sharp and urgent.
They were close.
Visla cursed under her breath, yanking me back into a narrow alley. The space was cramped, the walls pressing in on either side. The stench of garbage and rotting something nearly made me gag.
“Wait,” she mouthed and held up a palm.
Boots on stone echoed down the street.
More shouts.
My pulse was a drumbeat in my ears. I was sure anyone nearby could hear it.
The guards passed the alley.
One shadow.
A second.
Three more.
They didn’t stop. They didn’t even look our way.
Their voices and footfalls faded into the distance.
“Keep your head down, Will,” Thomas hissed, his tone low. “And for God’s sake, don’t look like you’re taking notes on everything you see.”
“Right,” I muttered, adjusting my hat.
Thomas never snapped at me. That he’d done so told me just how badly I was executing our well-practiced tradecraft. I tightened my grip on the strap of my satchel and forced my gaze to stay fixed ahead, though my eyes itched to take in the scene around us.
I had no idea where we were.
The streets were narrower, more broken. Rubble from bombed-out buildings spilled into the walkways, forcing us to step carefully. Every step kicked up a fine layer of ash and dust that clung to our shoes and pants.
A woman bundled in layers of threadbare clothing dragged a child by the hand. She didn’t look at us, her eyes fixed somewhere far away. Like us, she was breaking curfew. I wondered what drove her to risk the ire of her Soviet governors.
Visla adjusted her stride.
“Turn left up ahead,” Visla murmured without looking back.
“Why?”
“Because the patrol two blocks over will be here in less than five minutes,” she said, her tone calm as ever.
How did she know?
We turned left, slipping into a narrow alley that smelled of rot and urine. Visla paused at the far end before motioning for us to follow.
As we turned down another narrow street, we encountered a group of soldiers unloading crates from a truck. Their shouted orders and grunts of effort echoed through the ruins. Visla didn’t alter her pace, but she did adjust her posture, adopting a slightly more deferential air.
I lowered my gaze and again avoided eye contact.
“Whatever you do, do not look at the crates,” Visla hissed.
Naturally, my curiosity flared, but I forced myself to keep my eyes forward.
Visla nearly missed a step. Turning her head quickly, she whispered, “They have seen us. We cannot run away. We must walk by as though we belong here.”
“After curfew?” Thomas asked.
“Even so.” Visla’s nod was curt. “Follow my lead.”
She had planned our route carefully, but plans rarely survived first contact with reality on the ground. A checkpoint she hadn’t anticipated blocked another street we were meant to take.
“Detour,” Visla said, veering down a side street without hesitation.
Buildings loomed, reminding me of an ancient forest where trees that reached the clouds held court. Aging walls were pocked with bullet holes. A twisted metal staircase jutted from one facade, leading to nowhere.
Visla stopped abruptly, holding up a hand.
She then crouched, picking up a small piece of shattered mirror from the ground and angling it around the corner.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“Two soldiers,” she said.
“Do we wait?” Thomas asked.
“No. We move. Quietly.”
We slipped into an alley that ran parallel. At the end of the alley, we emerged onto another quieter street. A single soldier stood at the far end. He repeatedly flicked a lighter beneath a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Keep to the shadows,” Visla whispered.
The soldier didn’t even glance in our direction, too absorbed in his attempted smoke to bother looking up.
By the time we reached the neighborhood near Visla’s safe house, utter darkness had enveloped the city. Thick clouds hid even a hint of the moon and her stars.
“That is our destination,” Visla whispered and pointed across the street.
The building that contained our safe house looked as though it might collapse if someone sneezed too hard. Half the windows were boarded up, and the door sagged on its hinges. It was perfect for our purposes—nondescript, forgotten, and unlikely to draw attention. What it lacked in charm or comfort, it more than made up for in anonymity.
We crossed the road, and Visla rapped on the door in a quick, deliberate rhythm: twice, pause, then once.
We waited.
Seconds dragged painfully.
Finally, the door creaked open just wide enough to reveal the pale face of a man wearing wire-rimmed spectacles. The moment he saw Visla, his eyes widened to almost comical proportions.
“Visla? What are you—?”
She shoved the man aside and said, “We barely made it. Stop talking and let us in.”
The man glared, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is out at night? Every minute out there increases your chances of being exposed.”
Visla shrugged out of her jacket. “Thank you for your hospitality. Now, I would like a drink, a very stiff one. I assume our guests would like one, too.”
I nodded. Thomas forced a grin and said, “You know us well.”
The man’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t argue. “I assume you are staying the night?”
Visla nodded. “Yes, but only tonight.”
Looking from Thomas to me, the man said, “The room upstairs is prepared. Do not light any lamps near the windows. Assume the Soviets are listening. Despite our efforts, they likely are. You will have to share the bed. Allied bombs were bad for business.”
Had the angry little German just cracked a joke?
“Thank you,” Thomas said, his voice betraying the exhaustion I knew we both felt.
The man turned to Visla. “Your room is always ready. I will make your drinks. Come to the kitchen when you have settled in.”
I set the satchel on the bed, my shoulders sagging with relief. Thomas leaned against the door and stared blankly across the room.
He turned to close the door, but Visla held it open with a hand, surprising us both.
“Well,” she said, stepping inside. “That was exciting.”
I looked up. “Exciting? We were almost shot!”
“But you were not,” she pointed out, her expression maddeningly smug. “You should learn to savor the moment. Life will be richer for it.”
My mouth opened to respond, but words failed. The woman was maddening. She might not have been human. I wasn’t sure.
Thomas stepped across the room, sat on the bed beside the satchel, and opened it. He hesitated a moment before removing the statue, turning it over in his hands a few times, then setting it on the writing desk opposite the bed.
“What now?” His voice was quiet.
Visla shrugged. “Now? Now we figure out what our rabbi is hiding . . . and quickly. The Soviets will not stop looking, and I doubt it will take them long to learn that it was you two who ‘liberated’ him from the museum.”
I stared into the eyes of the Keeper.