Page 12

12

Will

T he Budapest Central Switching Yard looked like it had been cobbled together from leftover war machinery, rusted bolts, and bureaucratic optimism. Steel beams angled up into the gray sky like half-formed thoughts, while workers in threadbare uniforms trundled between massive spools of cable and squat concrete transmission bunkers.

And there we were—a foursome of foreign “observers” walking through the heart of Soviet infrastructure, pretending to care about commutator frequency and routing protocols, while knowing full well this entire performance was for the benefit of the eyes watching us from the catwalks above.

Thomas walked beside me with his hands clasped behind his flagpole-straight back. He was the very image of British propriety and diplomacy. His brow was furrowed in a way that made it look like he was deep in thought, but I knew it just meant he was calculating risk.

I did my part, of course—poking my head into breaker boxes, scribbling into a notepad I hadn’t actually written anything useful in, making approving noises when someone pointed at a bank of dials like it meant something.

But, my focus wasn’t really on the machinery.

It was on the way Sparrow and Egret kept looking at each other when they thought no one was watching.

The first time, it was a lingering glance over a control panel. I was fairly certain Sparrow never even looked at the flashing lights before her, so consumed was her stare with Egret’s lips.

The second time I noticed, it was the way her shoulder brushed his arm as they walked side by side down a row of bundled copper lines. His lips twitched—so quickly I almost missed it—but I was sure there was a smile threatening to explode all over the Hungarian electrical grid, held back only by a mutual fear of discovery.

The third time, they stopped speaking altogether and stood too close while a Hungarian official droned on about relay conversions. Egret said something under his breath, and Sparrow’s mouth quivered, as though she fought back a laugh. It was subtle—but I caught it.

Thomas noticed, too.

He didn’t say anything, but I saw the quick flicker of disapproval in his eyes. It wasn’t anger, not exactly, just the calculation of what affection looked like through the lens of surveillance operatives. We were supposed to be careful. That was our job, but love had a way of showing up even when we weren’t looking.

Especially then.

Still, I was curious.

And nosy.

And if anyone on this team could poke the metaphorical bear, it was me.

So at the first chance I got—during a staged “break” in a drafty storage hallway, while our Hungarian hosts argued about someone’s missing paperwork—I sidled up to Sparrow and bumped her with my elbow.

“Come with me,” I said cheerfully. “I need to pretend to care about switchboard shielding.”

“I’m sure Egret would love to—”

“Nope. You. Alone.” I grinned and tugged her sleeve before she could protest. “Resistance is futile.”

She rolled her eyes but followed, letting me lead her down a quiet side corridor lined with cracked windowpanes and empty wire spools. We ducked behind a stack of bundled cable reels, out of direct sight from the workers and, more importantly, from our minders.

I leaned against the wall, my arms folded in accusation, and raised an eyebrow at her.

“So,” I began. “We need to have a little chat about what happens when . . . researchers . . . get too handsy during a telecom inspection.”

Sparrow froze, then scowled—adorably.

“We weren’t—”

“You were.” I pointed at her with theatrical accusation. “You and Dr. Weiss have been writing love poetry with your eyebrows all morning. You bumped into him like a girl in a romance serial at least three times. Hell, I think one of the guards outside lit up a cigarette after we passed by.”

“It was a tight corridor!”

“We were outside!” I whispered through a chuckle.

She groaned and covered her face with one gloved hand. “God, you’re impossible.”

“So Dr. Beckett tells me,” I said, barely remembering to use our cover names.

She laughed despite herself, the tension bleeding out of her shoulders. That laugh—light and real—was a rare sound in such a dank place. It made the ruined yard feel almost human, if only for a moment.

I leaned closer, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Okay, spill. What happened? Did you throw him against a radiator in the Astoria and confess everything with a dramatic monologue?”

Sparrow snorted. “Hardly.”

“ Hard ly?” I teased. “Did he throw you against the radiator?”

“There was no radiator-throwing!”

“There was something .” I grinned, delighted. “Do not lie to me, Juliette Moreau. I know when a woman’s been compromised by a razor jaw, hunky arms, and an attitude problem.”

She sighed, leaned against the wall beside me, and looked out through the dusty window slats.

“He was kind,” she said. “Softer than I thought he’d be. We found three bugs in his room within ten minutes, but even then, he never stopped watching me like I was the only real thing in the city.”

That hit me harder than I expected. I knew that look. I lived that look.

“So . . .” I nudged her. “What did you do after your little search?”

Sparrow gave me a look.

Then a wicked smile.

“We made sure the fourth bug got an earful.”

I burst into laughter and had to muffle it in my coat sleeve. “That’s vile.”

“You asked.” She looked around the corner, ensuring we were still alone. “You know we’ve been together since Paris, right?”

“Juliette Marie Curie Moreau!”

She nearly doubled over.

“All this time?” I was stunned. Then again, we’d been sent on back-to-back missions since she and Egret had left for the States. We hadn’t exactly kept in touch.

She nodded, her eyes dropping to her shoes but shining as broadly as her smiling mouth.

“Well, fuck a duck.”

“Shh!” Her eyes flew around, searching for a minder. “You can’t curse around these people. You know that.”

I ignored her warning and smirked in triumph.

We shared a moment of conspiratorial silence, just two people wrapped in too many coats and secrets.

“So how was it?” I asked, then after a moment added, “Being alone with him, I mean.”

She stared at her boots. “Better than I could’ve imagined. Worse than I feared. He lets the world in only one sliver at a time. But when he lets you in . . .” She trailed off.

I nodded.

“I get it,” I said. “Dr. Beckett is like that, too.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm. He acts like he’s made of stone, but if I cough in the middle of the night, he’s up like the bloody Queen’s Guard.”

Sparrow smiled, then nudged me. “And what about you two? Have you—?”

“Oh please,” I said with a dramatic sigh. “We are practically married. We argue about who made the tea too strong. We’re very domestic, even when . . . traveling.”

“Do you ever get time together?”

“Only between disasters.” I grinned. “But we make do.”

She laughed, the sound bubbling out of her like she’d been holding it in for months.

For a moment, we were just two friends whispering about stolen kisses and creaky hotel beds, giggling like teenagers hiding behind the gym. Except the gym was a Soviet-run comm yard, and the principal had a revolver.

A sharp whistle echoed from somewhere beyond our view.

Thomas’s signal. Time to reconvene.

I straightened my coat, glanced at Sparrow, and softened my voice.

“Be careful,” I said. “People in love tend to make stupid mistakes.”

She met my gaze. “So do people afraid of losing it.”

That was fair.

And far too close to the mark.

We strode back in together, two professionals, shoulders squared, but our steps were lighter, our eyes just a little warmer than before.

The sun was already sagging against the rooftops by the time we wrapped up our “inspection” of the switching yard, the final rays casting a pale sheen over the cracked concrete and rust-flecked stairwells.

We’d walked the perimeter three times, asked just enough technical questions to satisfy any observers, and smiled through hours of guided nothing. The Hungarians had prepared an hours-long presentation in which we sat around a conference table and struggled to remain awake while an elderly man droned about electrical currents or the effect of bird shit on power lines—I wasn’t sure which. Thomas made a show of scribbling a list of “recommendations” into his notebook, which I’m fairly certain included several recipes for potato soup just to see if anyone would notice.

When we finally stepped outside the facility’s gates and onto the quiet street beyond, I could feel the four of us exhale, like we’d been holding our breath in sync. Sparrow tugged her gloves tighter as her eyes scanned the rooftops. Egret lit a cigarette with practiced flair. Thomas adjusted his coat sleeves like they’d personally offended him.

And me?

I just stretched, rolled my shoulders back, and let out a theatrical sigh. “Well. That was as thrilling as being audited by a goat.”

Thomas’s eyes flicked toward me. “Goats audit you often, do they?”

“Only the Swiss ones. They’re very judgmental.”

He gave a small shake of his head, but I saw it—and my heart skipped a beat.

We began the short walk back toward the waiting cars, our boots scuffing against worn cobblestones, the kind of silence between us that wasn’t awkward so much as wary.

Still, there was warmth in the way Sparrow fell into step beside Egret, their arms brushing just a little too often to be accidental—and there was something steadier in the way Thomas kept half an eye on me even when he was pretending to study a map in his coat pocket.

“Dinner at our hotel?” I asked Sparrow as we approached the cars.

“It’s a date. Give us an hour to clean up and change.”

I smirked. “Clean up, not get dirty.”

Her eyes glittered as she swatted my arm, then climbed into her car.

About halfway on the drive back to our hotel, Thomas leaned over and whispered, “You all right?”

“Always,” I said.

“You looked . . . pensive. After your talk with Sparrow.”

I flashed him a smile. “Just girl talk. We braided each other’s hair, plotted a revolution—you know, the usual.”

Thomas arched a brow. “Did it help?”

“A little. It turns out, love is hard when you’re being followed by men with a fondness for prisons and violence.”

“A universal theme.”

“I might write a book under Juliette’s name,” I said. “‘Sapphic Secrets and State Secrets: One Woman’s Tale of Passion Behind the Curtain.’”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll write the foreword.”

“Only if you include the recipe for your anxiety-inducing potato soup.”

We rode in silence, the weight of the day pressing more lightly now.

By the time we reached the Gellért, the sun had vanished behind Parliament’s dome across the river.

The doorman nodded without smiling.

The chandelier above us tinkled in the draft, as though eavesdropping.

We slid into a half-moon booth in the back of the main dining room under a wide painting of a river that looked like the Danube. A waiter approached with the stiffness of a cadaver.

Sparrow ordered wine in flawless French.

Egret asked for something unpronounceable and made the poor man repeat it back three times, just to be difficult.

I asked for whatever passed for a house red.

Thomas ordered water, which was somehow the most suspicious request of all.

As the waiter left, Sparrow leaned her chin on her hand and looked around the room like it was a chessboard.

“You think we’re the only pieces in play?” she murmured.

Egret tapped his cigarette against a porcelain saucer. “Statistically, no. Emotionally, yes.”

I leaned back against the cushioned bench and crossed my legs. “You know,” I said, “there’s something almost romantic about dining while being watched. It’s like a theater, except the actors are exhausted and emotionally compromised.”

“A very experimental theater,” Thomas deadpanned.

Sparrow laughed.

Even Egret’s smile looked real this time.

For a brief, flickering moment, it didn’t feel like we were in the middle of a nation controlled by our country’s greatest growing threat. It felt like we were just . . . four people sharing a meal.

Joking over wine.

Letting the weight of the day slip just a bit from our shoulders.

Of course, it wouldn’t last. It never did.

But for the moment?

I’d take it.

Even if the chandelier was listening.