Page 11

11

Thomas

W ill didn’t speak when I reached for my coat. Not at first.

He sat on the edge of the narrow hotel bed, watching me fasten the last button with precise, silent fingers. The light from the window cast a dull gold over the room, over the sloping line of his back, over the quiet worry carved into his brow.

I knew what he was thinking.

I also knew he wouldn’t say it—not until he had to.

“You sure you don’t want company?” he asked, soft and flat, like the words had to be pressed out of him.

“I just need a little air,” I replied. “You know I think better alone.”

Will blew out a long, tired breath. “Yeah. I know.”

I glanced at him, reached to touch his shoulder. There was so little we could say, given all the bugs scattered about the room. Every movement was a message. Every silence, a calculated risk. So, I gave him what I could—a look that said, “I hate this, too,” and a small, dry smile that only deepened his frown.

“Don’t take too long, okay?” he said. “New cities are . . . confusing. I would hate for you to get lost and kick up drama for yourself.”

“Have I ever been dramatic?”

“You’re British. You seethe dramatically.”

That earned a ghost of a smile. I opened the door, paused.

“If I’m not back in an hour—”

“I’ll wait thirty more,” Will interrupted, “then start knocking on doors.”

We didn’t say, “I love you.”

We rarely did, forever afraid it might be overheard. Even back in Paris—or home in the States—the risk of discovery was too much. But the air between us thickened with what we felt as I slipped into the hall and vanished into the hush of Budapest’s winter-dark afternoon.

I exited the hotel at a predictable time, coat buttoned, briefcase in hand, head down like a man weighed down by state business. Rather than head straight toward the Chain Bridge, I cut across the avenue, boarded a tram for three stops, then stepped off to double back on foot.

I paused at a corner café, pretending to adjust my scarf in the reflection of the glass. A man in a cap paused half a block behind me—then moved on when I ducked into the entrance, walked through the café, and exited out the back onto a narrow-cobbled alley.

My tail was sloppy.

Maybe green.

Or maybe not mine at all.

Still, I didn’t like the timing.

By the time I reached the underpass near the river, dusk had begun to smother the city. The girders overhead held up the world like iron bones, and the Danube hissed dark promises nearby.

A woman waited there, in the shadow of a rust-streaked pylon. She was reed-thin, her dusty gray coat several sizes too large for her waifish frame, her faded scarlet scarf wound tight like she feared her own breath might escape and betray her. Her nose was sharp, almost avian, hooked just enough to make me think of a beak.

I didn’t need to guess.

This was Lark.

I resisted the urge to laugh at the perfection of her code name.

“The fog rolls in from Vienna,” I said, using the few Hungarian words I’d learned before leaving France.

She flinched, nodded, hugged herself with both arms, and replied, “But the lights are stronger in Budapest.”

Lark’s eyes darted behind me, as though a wrong answer might’ve brought a firing squad.

“You’re late,” she snapped.

“I wasn’t followed.”

“They always follow. You lose one, another picks you up.”

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She was jittery—too much so. I didn’t think it was nerves—well, not just nerves. She moved like her bones itched, like her skin didn’t fit right.

Amphetamines?

Or fear so deep it rewired her?

It was hard to tell, though the dilation of her eyes screamed self-medication.

“You’re our only contact?” I asked, just to test her steadiness.

She nodded. “For now. Others were burned, some fled, some turned. I’m clean.”

I almost laughed. Given how her fingers never settled, “clean” was the last word I would’ve used to describe her.

Worse, she didn’t sound like she believed it.

“You asked for me to come alone.”

“Yes. Shadowfox can’t be approached casually, not with what’s at stake.”

“Shadowfox?” That was the operation’s code name. How did this woman—or anyone outside our circle—know it? A jolt shot through me, as every instinct screamed for me to bolt from the bridge and leave the bird woman to the night.

Her head cocked to one side. “The man you were sent here to meet. I was instructed to use only his code name.”

Huh. The target’s code name is the same as the mission?

That struck me as odd—and something I’d need to take up with Manakin when this was all over. Something about it sat like a stone in my gut.

“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. Farkas likes Americans, 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.

She wasn’t walking away.

She was gone.

I stood, alone, under a bridge in a foreign city, holding a folder full of fake passes and the smell of her panic.