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“I’m pretty sure our presence in Hungary was provocation enough, but we’ll go with what you said.”
Thomas’s face scrunched up, then a laugh slipped from between his lips. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” With a hand hidden from view of other diners, I brushed his knuckles and was rewarded with a visible shiver. I grinned in triumph. “Let’s get this over with.”
25
Thomas
Thenightairslicedlike glass as we stepped out into the street.
Will stepped to my left, his hand brushing mine just briefly before settling into his coat pocket. We didn’t speak—not yet. The night carried everything too easily in this part of town, and even whispers had a way of arriving in the wrong ears.
Will played his part well—laughing about a joke I hadn’t told, murmuring about duck and paprika and how he didn’t trust Hungarian fish. To anyone watching, we were just two diplomats enjoying a late walk after dinner.
To the men across the street, we were something else entirely.
I didn’t look at them. I didn’t have to. The moment we emerged, one peeled off the wall, stepping into a slow, measured pace about twenty meters behind us. His coat was dark, nondescript, but the way he moved betrayed his purpose—deliberate, but not too obvious. Government issue.
We turned left. The second man didn’t follow.
Good, I thought.He’s going after Sparrow and Egret.
Will and I walked in silence for two blocks, our boots slapping against wet cobblestones. The fog was low, licking the ankles of the buildings like it was trying to drag them down.
We crossed toward the river, walking like men with nowhere in particular to be. And that was the act: two minor diplomatic staffers, fresh from dinner, enjoying the still beauty of the city before bed. One American. One British. Both forgettable.
I couldfeelour tail closing the gap.
He was good. He kept a steady rhythm and didn’t rush. He was the kind of operative who knew the balance between presence and pressure. He kept close enough to discourage deviation but far enough back not to spook his prey.
“He’s better than the usual ones. Posture like a wolfhound. But that coat—”
“Standard issue,” I murmured.
“They really do hate tailoring.”
That earned a twitch of my mouth, almost a smile.
We turned left at a corner café, its windows fogged and glowing, the scent of coffee and old sugar drifting onto the sidewalk. No one paid us any mind. That was the goal.
“Just the one?” Will asked.
“Maybe. Probably . . . Who knows?”
I wanted to sound confident, to offer him the reassurance he clearly sought, but there was no way I could lie, not to Will. The Soviets were good—no, they were the best. If they wanted us tailed, they’d pull out all the stops to ensure we weren’t able to sneak away. They’d throw teams of men and women in our path, some posing as shoppers, others strolling arm in arm, while a few, like our tail, brazenly followed with their eyes boring holes in our backs.
We were three blocks from the river when I saw it.
A lonely bench.
Just like we’d agreed back in Paris, when Manakin and Raines laid out contingency after contingency, this one was scenario C, my personal favorite. There was no drop necessary. All we had to do was leave a passive visual cue for Lark. She would pick up the thread and set the meet into motion.
The bench had a small brass plate affixed to the backrest: “To the Heroes of the Danube, 1945.”
It was a token gesture, easy to miss.
Unless it was turned upside down.