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I already knew what was coming, but I still braced myself as he pushed the next dossier forward.
“Dr. Charles Beckett,” he said. “British. Science and Technology Advisor. MI6 liaison for post-war cryptographic studies. You’re the delegation’s lead encryption specialist.”
I took the file. The moment I saw the stamped approvals, the forged credentials from the British Foreign Office, and the attached diplomatic papers, my stomach tightened.
This was dangerous, a spy game within a spy game.
I kept my voice neutral. “A bit on the nose, don’t you think?”
Manakin lifted a brow. “It’s believable. You know basic cryptography, you speak Russian, and your name is on official British diplomatic registers. No one will question it.”
I flicked through the pages, reading the manufactured backstory of a man I was supposed to be. Dr. Beckett had studied at Cambridge, had worked on post-war cryptographic recovery projects, had been selected for this trip because of his expertise in classified encryption methodologies.
It was airtight.
It was also a goddamn invitation to get shot.
“This makes me a target,” I said flatly.
“Everyone in this room is a target,” Raines shot back.
He wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t make it less infuriating.
I forced myself to set the file down, keeping my expression blank. Will glanced at me from across the table, his blue eyes knowing, but he said nothing.
I could feel the tension in the room shifting.
Manakin took another long drag of his cigarette before picking up the next folder. He slid it toward Sparrow.
“Juliette Moreau,” he said. “French. Telecommunications analyst, specializing in cryptographic networks and post-war communications security.”
Sparrow accepted the folder without a word, her expression as composed as ever.
“You’re here to evaluate Hungary’s telecommunications infrastructure. You ask questions about encrypted transmissions, observe their technology, and make recommendations on ‘international collaboration.’ The French were heavily involved in European cryptographic recovery, so your presence makes sense.”
Sparrow nodded once, flipping through the documents, her fingers smooth and unhurried. She wasn’t showing it, but I knew she didn’t like this either. I couldfeelher displeasure creeping across the table.
Manakin turned to Egret last.
The man hadn’t moved the entire time, but his growing irritation was a living, breathing thing, threatening to break free of its flimsy cage and ravage the civility of our proceedings. It was clear in the way he gripped his whiskey glass just a little too tightly, the way his eyes darkened.
Manakin slid the final file across the table.
“Dr. Hans Weiss,” he said. “Austrian industrial science observer. Assigned to assess Hungary’s post-war technology sector.”
Egret stared at it as though Manakin had just slid a pile of shit in front of him.
“You can’t be fucking serious,” he said, voice clipped.
Manakin exhaled.
Here we go.
“It’s a good cover,” Manakin said.
Egret scoffed, finally picking up the file and flipping it open with unrestrained disgust.
“Hans Weiss? Industrial science observer? This is ridiculous. Austria’s scientific community was ransacked after the war—half of my supposed ‘colleagues’ were either executed or absorbed into Soviet projects. If anyone starts digging, I’ll be compromised before we even get past the first meeting.”