Beehive (Of Shadows & Secrets #4)

27. Thomas

27

Thomas

T he smell of bitter coffee drifted upstairs as I woke. I pried my arm from beneath Will’s neck.

“Mmm, morning,” he said, his voice dreamlike.

I kissed the tip of his nose. “Morning, sleepyhead. Smells like Mister Happy has coffee brewing.”

“You get ready first. I’ll be up in a minute.”

Will could sleep ’til noon on the right day. I knew I’d have to wrestle him out of bed before our morning began in earnest.

Roughly a half hour later, we sat at a round wooden table. Visla sat across from us, giving us our first real look at the taciturn handler. Her thick brown hair trailed to her shoulders and a scar stretched under her left eye. Her jaw was almost as severe as her cheeks and nose. If any woman’s appearance ever screamed Eastern European, hers did, and not in the flattering, “I dance in the ballet” sort of way. Her appearance was the kind of forgettable the OSS looked for in its spies.

I glanced at Will.

He looked drained, his eyes heavy-lidded as he spooned watery oatmeal from a chipped bowl. His normally neat hair had gone haywire overnight. He would be horrified if he found a mirror. I thought it was adorable.

Our host hovered near the doorway, leaning against the frame.

The man hadn’t exactly said we were unwelcome, but his eyes spoke volumes: You don’t belong in my house, or my country. His scowl could’ve peeled paint. He and Visla might’ve been bookends if they hadn’t disliked each other so much.

I wondered if either of them liked anyone.

Then I wondered if either of them had heard us in the night.

If they had, they’d gotten an earful. Despite Will’s promise to remain silent, his moans and groans still rang in my ears.

He caught me grinning and quirked a brow.

I shook my head and reached for the coffee tin, more to have something to do with my hands than for any comfort the bitter brew might provide. Half the beans were chicory. The taste was awful. I sipped anyway, trying to focus on what we should do next.

We still had the statue.

The Soviets were likely scouring all of Berlin for it—and for the pair of men who snatched it from under their noses.

Despite all our efforts, the darn thing refused to open. Whatever secrets the rabbi possessed, he kept them well secured.

Should we go back to our sector and let Arty and the others pry the wisdom from the Keeper? That would’ve been the easy course, assuming we could slip past the border guards. It would’ve put the Soviet sector in the rearview, and that was a very pleasant thought.

Unfortunately, without being able to open the statue, there was no way we could verify that we’d stolen the correct piece. For all we knew, the Keeper of Wisdom was just a relic of the past, a Jewish wise man whose words bore the weight of religion rather than statecraft.

What if we reached the safety of another zone only to discover what lay inside our rabbi was a note from a father to his son? Precious to them, but useless to us.

We couldn’t return without the prize the Soviets sought.

With the Ruskies worked into a frenzy, it would be a while before the OSS could sneak more operatives into East Berlin. This mission was ours, and no one could save us from it.

We had to be sure.

“Wilhelm.” Visla turned toward me, her accent softened by fatigue. “Did you have a restful night?”

I nodded. “It was very quiet.”

Meaning: I searched and didn’t find any bugs.

She gave a curt nod and took a thin slice of bread.

The old man grunted and spat something in German under his breath.

I shot him a look.

He folded his arms across his chest and stared past us, as if hoping his silence could propel us out the door.

A loud scrape from above snapped my head up.

The sound was our only warning. It came from upstairs.

Will froze, his spoon halfway to his lips. Visla lowered her bread. The old man’s eyes flicked to the ceiling. We listened to the hush that followed.

Then another sound: the sudden crash of a desk chair toppling over.

My stomach lurched. “They’re here!”