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“He’s under watch?” I asked, letting the code name coincidence drop for the moment.
“Not constant, but close. His institute is swept daily. So is his home. His routine is brittle.” She leaned forward, voice dropping lower.
“How can a routine be brittle?” Her word choice was almost as odd as her quirky, sharp movements.
She puffed out a breath, apparently annoyed at my lack of understanding.
“His routine appears regular and predictable, but it’s fragile—easily disrupted, under stress, not fully under his control. His whole life is barely held together by political tension, surveillance, and personal anxiety.”
Her gaze darted around so quickly I almost got dizzy.
“He’s under watch, and while the Soviets allow him a routine, it’s a leash more than a liberty. A single slip, a wrong turn, or a missed appointment could raise alarms on both sides. We believe he is looking for ways to signal or break free, that even though he maintains a daily rhythm, he’s walking a very thin line, and a well-timed approach could exploit that vulnerability.”
Interesting. Her addict’s eyes shone in contrast to the well-formed words flowing from her lips. My throat tightened. I nodded for her to go on.
“Two days from now, he visits the old telecom site on the Danube. On paper, it is for ‘evaluation of signal range improvements.’ In truth, he does this more for recreation. He likes the walk, and there are no guards there. It is open ground.”
“And that is when we approach?”
“You—no.” She pointed at me, then shook her head. “Your partner. The American. He will be seen as less threatening. FarkaslikesAmericans, likes their illusion of liberty.”
I almost smiled at that. Almost.
“Fine. Approach in two days. What about tomorrow? Our minders will want to see us working.”
She pulled a crumpled folder from her coat. Inside were passes, already stamped and approved.
“You are touring the Budapest Central Switching Yard—a rail and telecom expansion hub. They are rebuilding the Soviet rail-comm grid.”
I flipped through the documents.
“And what are we expected to find there?”
She leaned in close. Her breath smelled of coffee and something medicinal.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “Tomorrow is a performance for the Soviets watching. Walk the floor. Take notes. Ask questions no one can answer.”
“It’s a distraction.”
“Call it what you like.”
The silence after was thick. A tram groaned above us. Something splashed in the river a dozen yards away.
Lark’s head whipped sideways.
Not turned.Snapped. Like an owl.
Her eyes went wide. Her mouth parted.
She stared into the gloom behind me.
I turned, my heart hammering.
There was nothing.
Just a rusted trash bin, a line of dark bricks, a flicker of light two blocks down.
When I turned back, Lark was gone.