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No one important.
Nothing worth watching.
The number board above the platform was old, its white paint cracked and faded with time, but I wasn’t looking at the paint. I was looking at the chalk.
Two marks.
Thin, horizontal, one beneath the other. They were subtle, nearly invisible unless you knew to check for them.
Two watchers.
I didn’t stop walking, just let my pace carry me another ten feet before veering toward a bench by a newspaper kiosk. I sat, settled in, and crossed my legs, careful to keep my face tilted toward the tracks.
A flicker of movement to my left revealed the first watcher standing under the flickering light of the station arch. He was trying too hard not to look interested with a cigarette in his right hand and his left hand tucked inside his coat—where the bulge of a Makarov pistol formed a clear outline against the strained wool.
The second one I saw in the mirror of the vending stall across from me. He sat on a bench, his legstoostill, spinetoostraight, coattoonew. He was watching nothing—and missing nothing.
They weren’t amateurs.
Every quarter hour, a pair of uniformed guards strolled past. The patches and pins adorning their uniforms spoke of loyalty to the Hungarian people, but the rifles slung over their shoulders served an ever-present reminder of the real world in which those of Budapest lived.
Will didn’t look at me when he passed, but I caught the flick of his eyes—one heartbeat too long on the chalk marks. He slowed by the station’s vending stall, pretended to peruse the rows of tasteless cigarettes and imported sweets, then stepped toward the edge of the platform, turning his face into the wind like he was just passing time by enjoying the chill breeze.
The second watcher watched him.
He barely moved. Just darted his eyes and took a long drag of his cigarette.
Will leaned on the railing, one elbow braced, his other hand cupped at his side. He appeared casual, but I knew his posture like my own breath. That lean was loaded. It was tension buried beneath charm.
I crossed one leg over the other and turned a page in the paper I wasn’t reading.
Then Sparrow arrived.
She came from the east gate, her walk uneven, limping. I could only guess how large the stone lodged into her boot must’ve been to create that level of hobble. She wore a too-large coat and carried a brown paper parcel cradled in both arms, like she was holding a baby or guarding something delicate—a glass lamp, perhaps, or a child’s birthday cake.
She looked entirely unremarkable. For the second time in as many days, I noted how brilliant she was at the craft. The Soviets assumed women were useless as spies. Sparrow was all the evidence I needed to the contrary.
She wasn’t good. She was perfect.
She caught sight of Will and veered toward the opposite platform edge, sitting on a bench three meters behind the second watcher. I caught her reflection in the window glass. Her eyes flicked once to the sign, then away. She shifted her weight, then palmed something from her sleeve—a small comb—and began dragging it through her hair.
A tick?
A signal?
She was nervous, but it wasn’t the nervousness of a woman in danger. No, this was the tension of a person waiting for something that might not come.
Finally, Egret sauntered in.
He came up the rear stairwell and never quite stopped moving. He passed me, brushed my shoulder, and didn’t look down. His voice was low and even as he muttered, “One more by the ticket booth.”
I resisted the urge to nod.
That made three.
The train hissed on the tracks behind us. Steam bled from beneath its frame. The guards posted at the access steps were dressed in standard black—boots high, coats stiff with cold and starch. Their submachine guns were slung in the relaxed way that didn’t comfort anyone. One of them laughed at something. The sound cracked across the platform like a misfired round.
Will turned his head.