Beehive (Of Shadows & Secrets #4)

34. Will

34

Will

T wo days. Two interminable days.

That’s how long it took for Thomas to recover enough for the French doctor to let us leave. I slept in the chair beside him, appearing to everyone as a dutiful partner unwilling to leave his wartime companion alone while he battled an infected wound. I was a soldier, not unlike thousands—no, millions—who’d sat beside their wounded brothers and prayed they would heal.

I doubted the doctor knew it—the nurse certainly did—but Thomas was so much more than just my partner in the spy trade. He was my life.

He slept for two days. I couldn’t sleep a wink.

I watched and clung to every shift of his eyes beneath his lids, anxiously awaiting when his drug-induced haze would lift so the light of my world would shine once again.

Was it possible for a heart to stop beating for days on end?

It felt as though mine had.

When he finally stirred and the doctor relented, the French sent us west in style. Not taking any chances with Uncle Joe and his sleuth of bears, the Gouvernement Militaire Francais en Allemagne 1 insisted on sending an escort of a dozen heavily armed Frenchmen and a caravan of military vehicles to take us back to Paris.

Thomas thought the whole thing was overkill.

After seeing the Soviet commitment to threat management, I was grateful for the added protection.

Arty was waiting near the Embassy’s entrance, right behind where several Marines stood almost as stiffly as the rifles they held. He nearly knocked me down when I emerged from our car. When he tried to barrel into Thomas, I yanked him back lest the good doctor’s work come undone.

“It’s good to see you, too, little buddy,” Thomas said, ignoring my protest and pulling him into an embrace with his good arm, wincing as he did. Arty buried his face in Thomas’s chest and held on for dear life.

As much as the war had left its mark on the guy, he was still our Arty.

He was still family.

“Come on,” my old roomie said. “Manakin is waiting. If he has to come out here to greet you, there’ll be hell to pay. He’s anxious about the gift you brought him.”

“Glad he’s so happy to see us ,” Thomas grumbled. “He knows we almost died several times while shopping for that . . . gift, doesn’t he? Besides, it’s just a box of tissues.”

My snort bounded off the stone facade of the embassy.

Arty’s brow scrunched, then his gaze shifted from Thomas and back to me.

Neither of us offered an explanation.“Just come inside, okay?” he finally said, not taking the bait.

We followed him through a towering marble foyer, up a set of stairs designated “Embassy Staff Only,” through a series of ornate hallways, finally turning to enter a richly appointed conference room. High-back leather chairs with gleaming buttons surrounded a highly polished cheery table whose inlay of gold conveyed a decidedly French brand of elegance.

At the head of the table, opposite where we entered, sat Manakin. He was hunched over a stack of papers, studying or reading intently, allowing his balding pate to greet us before his head snapped up.

“Emu, Condor,” he said, standing and motioning to his end of the table. “Come, join me. Would either of you like a drink?”

It would’ve been an odd first question coming from anyone else. From Manakin, it was the perfect query.

“God, yes,” Thomas said before I could even open my mouth. “A double of whatever you have. Hell, just give me the bottle and a straw. The straw is optional.”

“Aren’t you on painkillers and antibiotics? Is it wise—”

“You offered,” Thomas said, standing his ground. “Alcohol will help the happy drugs be . . . more happy.”

Manakin’s laugh rumbled throughout the paneled room as he turned and filled crystal tumblers with amber liquid. “You boys had quite a visit to Berlin. Condor, what the hell were you doing getting shot? I don’t pay you to collect bullets.”

Thomas glared at Manakin as he took a proffered glass. Without so much as a “thank you,” he tossed it back, downing several fingers of whiskey in a single gulp, then stretched the empty glass back toward Manakin.

The spymaster grunted, shook his head, and turned to refill the tumbler.

“Are we secure?” Thomas asked, his voice shifting from cordial to coldly professional.

“There is no place more secure in Paris.” Manakin handed him his refilled glass, then glanced at our empty hands. “Where’s the statue? I understood the Soviets were searching for some sort of carved relic.”

“Thomas was carrying it when he was shot,” I explained. “The good news is that we managed to retrieve what was inside. We’d tried to open the thing for hours with no luck. When the Soviets’ car dropped off the bridge, the impact must’ve knocked the trap door loose. It was open when we found the statue floating in the half-submerged GAZ.”

I stepped past Thomas and took a glass of whiskey, then the four of us sat.

“Okay, so where is the statue now?” Manakin pressed.

Thomas retrieved the film canister from his pocket and set it on the table. “I was bleeding pretty bad and couldn’t really use my right arm. It took forever to make it through the underground. I almost lost consciousness several times. We’re not sure when the statue fell from my grasp, but we think it’s somewhere beneath the city in the sewer.”

I turned to Arty. “I’m so sorry, Arty. You would’ve loved it. We think it was over a hundred years old, maybe several hundred years. The Keeper was a rabbi reading some sort of text. The carving was more intricate than anything I’ve ever seen. I really wanted to bring it back for you.”

Arty’s shoulders slumped. He would’ve loved the carving. His family would’ve cherished it if Uncle Sam allowed them to keep the piece.

“Each of us follows his own path,” Arty intoned, as if reciting someone else’s words.

I wasn’t sure if that was our friend trying to stay positive or some ancient adage. Either way, I took his firm nod as permission to move on and began sorting through the events of the past few days.

Thomas beat me to the punch and began to speak. An hour later, our tale was told, and our glasses sat empty.

Manakin steepled his fingers and sat back.

“Visla betrayed you,” Manakin said, more to himself than to us. “I . . . I don’t even know what to think about that. She’d been with us since the beginning of the war.”

“Sounds like she flipped to Uncle Joe’s side,” Thomas said. “Or was on his side all along and was playing us.”

Manakin shook his head. “This is such a terrible business. How does one respond to such betrayal?”

“She’s dead,” Thomas said. “That’s how we responded.”

Manakin looked up. He and Thomas stared at one another so long I thought they’d either make out or break into fisticuffs.

Neither spoke. Neither budged. I’m not sure either of them breathed.

Finally, Manakin rubbed his eyes and let his head fall back against his chair.

The film remained untouched on the table between Thomas and Manakin. All four of us stared in silence, as if words might erase whatever secrets it held.

Finally, Arty broke our trance.

“I’ll be right back.” He stood and shuffled out of the room, giving no hint of why he’d left or where he was going. A moment later, he returned with a uniformed Marine in his wake. The sergeant pushed a cart holding a microfiche machine into the room, plugged it in, and left.

Without asking, Arty leaned across the table and snatched the film.

“Hey!” Thomas reached for the canister but was a heartbeat too slow.

Arty’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Give me a minute.”

“Stork, stop right there,” Manakin said, his voice low but firm, the way a father might scold a son for reaching into the cookie jar before dinner.

Arty ignored him, threading the film onto the device with a precision that belied his trembling hands. He was too invested now, too curious to let it go. Thomas leaned forward, his elbows on the table, hands clasped tightly as if in prayer.

The room felt suddenly small and cramped, as though the secrets we carried had sucked the air out of it.

“Stork, for God’s sake,” Manakin said, his patience fraying. “This is classified above your pay grade. Hell, it’s probably above mine.”

Arty pointed toward Thomas and me. “Those two almost died retrieving this film. They deserve to see what it contains.” He finished threading the film and stepped back, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Whatever’s on this is worth more to Stalin than his own men. He might be hatching some scheme, and our recovery of the film might accelerate those plans. We can’t wait for this to get back to Washington, and you know it.”

Indignation rolled off Manakin in waves. I’d never seen the man so angry. Insubordination was not his favorite pastime, apparently. And yet, for some unfathomable reason, he looked up at Arty and nodded once, then crossed his arms and sat back.

I glanced at Thomas.

He caught my eye, his expression heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts. We’d been through hell to bring this film here, dodging bullets, lies, and shadows. The question that hung in the air now was whether knowing the truth would be worth whatever cost that might follow.

Arty flipped a switch, and a motor whirred to life, casting a soft glow against the far wall. The first few frames were blank, but when the third image appeared, the room fell silent, save for the mechanical hum of the machine.

What appeared was grainy, black and white, but vivid enough to punch the air from my lungs. A Soviet officer stood in the snow, his uniform crisp against the chaos around him. Rows of civilians—men, women, even children—stood and kneeled in the frozen mud, their faces etched with terror. Soldiers loomed over them, rifles aimed.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sand.

The scene shifted: bodies crumpling, blood staining the snow like ink spilled on parchment. The camera’s lens was unflinching, capturing every grotesque detail. The executioners had moved with mechanical efficiency, stepping over the fallen to line up the next group. Whoever held the camera had captured every wicked movement perfectly.

“My God,” Thomas breathed, his voice a shell of itself. His hands were clenched, his knuckles white.

Manakin stood, his eyes fixed on the screen. Even he, with all his rigid discipline and years in intelligence, seemed shaken.

“This is what they’re hiding,” Arty said. “This is what Stalin doesn’t want the world to see.”

I felt sick.

The camera panned to the Soviet officer, his face a mask of cold indifference. His lips were parted, issuing commands we couldn’t hear. Behind him, a truck was unloading more prisoners.

The cycle began anew.

“Stalin’s trying to rewrite history, paint his troops and the whole Soviet Union as some idealistic society, a fairer alternative than capitalism and democracy,” Thomas said, his voice steadier now but no less heavy. “If this gets out, it’ll shatter the image he’s building for himself and his new Russian Empire.”

“It’s not just about image,” Manakin said, finding his voice. “This would destroy any trust the world still has in him. The Allies are already uneasy about Stalin, have been since early in the war. If the world sees this . . .” He gestured to the screen where another group of prisoners met their end. “It will confirm every fear, every suspicion. No leader will be able to deny what they see with their own eyes. The Soviets wouldn’t just lose their moral high ground; they’d become the world’s new enemy.”

Manakin took a few steps to the sideboard, refilled his glass, and took a long sip. I got the impression he wanted time to think more than he needed another drink. “This is exactly why we can’t let this get out. Do you think Stalin will sit back and let his empire crumble? He’d burn the world to ashes before he’d let that happen.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Arty squared off from across the table, his frustration spilling over. “Bury it? Pretend it doesn’t exist? How many more atrocities will he commit while we turn a blind eye? How many did Hitler commit before American righteousness finally stirred? If you had something that could have stopped Hitler before . . . before the war, would you have done it? Of course, you would!”

“That’s not our call,” Manakin said sharply. “Our job was to recover the film, nothing more. It’s Washington’s call, not ours.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Arty snapped. “We all knew this wasn’t just another mission. The moment you saw that canister, you knew it, too.”

I leaned forward and gripped Arty’s arm. He was dancing on the line between respect and defiance.

“That’s enough,” I said, my voice firm. “Arguing won’t change what’s on that film. The question is, what do we do with it now?”

Arty glared at Manakin a moment longer before turning and shutting the microfiche off. The room plunged into an uneasy silence.

The air was thick with the weight of impossible choices.

“Stalin has already shown his hand,” Thomas said, breaking the silence. “The resources he poured into East Berlin, the agents he’s deployed . . . he’s terrified of this getting out. This, and however many other pieces of evidence that might point to his handiwork across Eastern Europe. That’s why he’s moving so fast to consolidate power. He’s not just securing territory; he’s building a wall of silence.”

I nodded, the pieces falling into place. “If this gets out, it’ll fracture the Allies even more than they already are. Truman and Eden 2 —hell, even De Gaulle—they’d never trust Stalin again. The postwar won’t just be a political standoff; it’ll become another open conflict.”

“And millions more will die,” Manakin added quietly.

“But how many will die if we let this stay hidden?” Arty said, his voice breaking. “How many more executions, how many more purges, how many will live in perpetual fear before someone finally says, ‘Enough’?”

The room fell silent again, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

Manakin was right, but so was Arty.

How did leaders choose between terrible options? Each led the world down a decidedly different path. Which would foster goodwill and peace? Which led to bloodshed and strife? How was anyone supposed to know which to take when the stakes were incalculably high?

I looked at Thomas. His face was lined with worry, his eyes meeting mine with an unspoken question.

“We’ve always been good at following orders,” I said softly. “But maybe this time, we need to make our own choice.”

He nodded, his gaze steady. “For the people in those images, and for those who come after them.”

Manakin exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping as he ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t understand what you’re proposing. If this gets out, it’ll change everything. The people who need to know about this—who need to see this—are the Allied leaders. They’re the ones making the decisions. They already suspect Stalin isn’t the partner he pretends to be. This will drive an unmovable wedge between them.”

“A good wedge, if you ask me,” Arty said, a hint of his old snarky humor returning.

“We can’t trust Eden or Truman to go public. Hell, I’m not even sure they’d share this with each other, despite what they say on stage. This needs to come out. The whole world needs to see what life under Stalin really means.”

“That’s quite a risk,” Manakin said so quietly I barely heard him. “And it’s a decision we are not empowered to make. Our job is to gather information so those in power make wise decisions. We are not paid to do the thinking for them. That isn’t how democracy works.”

“Who said democracy’s working? Looks like a shit show to me,” Thomas snarled.

“Those may as well be Stalin’s words.” Manakin stared at Thomas for a long moment. Then, without a word, he turned and walked to the window and stared out at the city beyond.

Arty looked toward me, his eyes pleading. “So, what do we do?”

“The only thing we can.” Manakin’s voice was so quiet I almost had to lean in to listen. He didn’t turn around, just kept staring out the window. His shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh.

“God help us all.”

1. The French Military Government for Germany, the body was responsible for the administration and rebuilding of the French-occupied areas of Germany, including parts of Berlin, during the Allied occupation.

2. Anthony Eden (Lord Avon) became British Prime Minister after Churchill’s party lost the 1945 election.