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Thomas

T he night air sliced like 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 could feel our 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.

“Up ahead,” I murmured.

Will glanced at me but didn’t speak.

I stopped just in front of it, bent down to adjust my bootlace—not a performance, just enough movement to make the act seem ordinary. Will kept walking a few paces ahead, then turned back like he’d forgotten something.

“Lose a glove again?” he asked loud enough to cut through the chilly wind.

I didn’t answer.

My fingers found the edge of the plaque, subtle and cold, and flipped the brass nameplate upside down. One screw was already missing, so the flip took little effort.

And less than two seconds.

I stood, and we resumed walking.

Half a block later, Will slowed to let me catch up.

“You did it?”

“Yes.”

“And our friend?”

“He’s still behind us,” I said.

Will didn’t look back. Neither did I.

We passed a pharmacy with a cracked sign, then turned down a street with no streetlights. The shadows were thick, syrupy.

But we didn’t need to vanish. We just needed to get home.

“You think she’ll see it?” Will asked.

“She’s watching. She’ll know.”

“And our friend?”

He didn’t have to use a name or code name. He really didn’t even have to ask the question. We’d grown so close, year after year, operation after operation, that we just knew what each other was thinking. That should’ve frightened me, terrified me to my core. No one had ever known me like that. I’d never let anyone else in so deep. But with Will, there was no fear, no holding back. He was my one person, my one safe place where I could truly be free.

The urge to turn and grip his shoulders, to pull his lips to mine and never let him go, was almost too much to resist; but mid-operation was a terrible time to toss one’s cover out the proverbial window, no matter how one’s heart yearned for intimacy. Kisses would have to wait.

I lowered my voice to a whisper. “If she sets the meet in time, we’ll know by morning.”