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Sparrow

T he sidewalk outside our hotel was slick with frost, glittering beneath weak sunlight as though it was dressed for a celebration that never arrived. A tram clattered blocks away, its bell echoing sharp and distant through the chill. I stood beside Egret under the awning, trying not to let my breath shake when it clouded the air between us.

He looked good this morning, clean-shaven, his tie knotted just crooked enough to be charming. He looked like a man who belonged in a government sedan, playing at diplomacy. I’d seen him in uniforms, in blood-soaked field gear, with cigarette ash smudging his cheek, but somehow this—this false civility—made him seem vulnerable.

It was a good look for him.

He spoke about his day’s agenda, but neither of us cared about the script anymore. “We’ll be back before four,” he murmured. “Maybe earlier if the engineer talks too much. You know how they love their transformers.”

I forced a smile. “You love your transformers, too, you hypocrite.”

“Only the sexy ones.” A wink, like always, but his smile faded faster than usual.

He stepped closer, his coat brushing mine, and pulled me into an embrace. His movement wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t performative. It was just . . . quiet, somehow grounded. His hands slid around my back like he wanted to memorize the shape of me before we separated.

“Be careful,” he whispered into my ear. “Don’t do anything brave . . . or stupid.”

I huffed against his collar. “There’s a difference?”

He didn’t let go. Not right away.

I felt seconds stretch.

There was a warmth in his hold that had nothing to do with his coat or the cold. When he pulled back, his hands lingered on my arms. A thumb brushed my elbow.

“Come back to me,” he said, and something inside me cracked open.

I nodded, not quite trusting myself to speak.

His government car pulled up, engine idling, exhaust curling into the morning air like a ghost reaching toward the heavens. Egret looked at me one last time. His eyes were too clear, too raw. Then he crawled into the back seat without another word.

I watched until the sedan rounded a corner and vanished from view, then turned the opposite direction, tucking my gloved hands deep into my coat pockets, and walked.

Frost crunched beneath my boots.

Behind me, I heard the subtle echo of footsteps.

My tail was right on cue.

This was where the game got tricky. My goal was to not lose my tail. If he thought I’d caught onto him, despite us undoubtedly knowing he was back there, I would blow my own cover of ignorance. He would be forced to become more aggressive, possibly even report to his superiors about the spy in their midst. It would make him look like he’d failed, while shoving me into a spotlight I didn’t want.

No, my goal wasn’t to lose him; it was to keep him close enough until that perfect moment when I could execute my mission. Only then would I let him find me again, quick enough that he would assume nothing was amiss.

In the world of tradecraft, “finding the gap” was one of the most difficult maneuvers. If done correctly, the tail was none the wiser. If poorly executed, well, I didn’t want to know what that would mean.

A taxi rolled to a stop just as I stepped off the curb and lowered my hand. I opened the door before the driver could even greet me, flashing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. My gloved fingers tightened on the edge of the doorframe, my other hand still in my coat pocket, wrapped around the sealed manila envelope.

“ F? utca , please,” I said.

The driver blinked, nodded once, and glanced at his mirror.

We drove for a quarter hour, weaving in and out of residential areas, before reaching a small shopping district. I paid my driver and stepped into the wintry air.

Across the street, just behind a line of early shoppers, a second taxi pulled up to the curb. The passenger door opened, and my tail appeared.

He didn’t move quickly.

He didn’t need to.

His coat was long, too new, and his hat pulled low like he thought it made him invisible. He paused just long enough to check the time on his watch—a performative gesture—then lifted his head and looked directly at me.

It was poor tradecraft on his part. Not every team was the A Team, even among the Soviets’ vaunted ranks. I looked away, hopefully quick enough that my man didn’t think I’d seen him. I still needed him to believe the illusion of his superior skills.

The shopfronts blurred past—a women’s clothier with warm light in the windows, a butcher’s that smelled like steel and bone, a watch repair shop whose clicking and ticking echoed off the pavement as I pretended to examine its wares.

In each reflection, I caught slivers of him.

His shadow ghosted mine.

And then—at the corner of Károlyi Mihály Street, just beyond a shuttered café—I made a sharp right, turning down an alley just wide enough for a delivery cart. The alley opened onto the back of a narrow three-story building whose windows were warped with age. The door was coated in weathered green paint, peeling like old wallpaper. Above it hung a faded, hand-painted sign:

Antikvárium . Rare Books & Curiosities.

The door creaked, as I pulled the handle and stepped through.

The air inside was dry and thick with the smell of vellum and faint hint of tobacco. It was blessedly warm. Shelves rose like old sentinels around the room, and in the far corner, behind a desk cluttered with cracked spines and spectacles, sat the bookseller. He was a stooped man with ink-stained fingers and a face like a walnut.

I made a show of running my fingers across a row of ancient, gilded tomes.

“ Valami külonlegeset keres? ” The shopkeeper smiled, revealing deeply stained teeth.

Looking for something special?

I only knew a few words in Hungarian, things like, “Where is the restroom?” or “It’s so cold, isn’t it?”

So, switching to French and hoping for the best, I said, “ Pardonnez-moi. Parlez-vous francais? ”

The bookseller’s face brightened as he switched effortlessly into French. “I do, though I rarely find someone to speak it with. What an unexpected pleasure.”

I smiled and stepped to his desk, holding out the sealed envelope. “This is a book for a friend of mine. Would it be inconvenient if I left it with you for him to retrieve? It is only a book.”

The man’s brow furrowed, then his smile returned at the mention of the word “book.”

“There is no such thing as only a book, my dear.” He reached out and took the package, his weathered hands tested its weight. On the envelope’s front, in hastily scrawled black ink: Geza. “And this Geza is important to you, is he not? A love, perhaps?”

The man’s eyes glimmered, as though begging for the story behind the envelope.

“Oh, no. I mean, yes, I love him dearly, but as any sister might. The book is only a trifle for an old friend.

He will pick it up this evening. Or tomorrow.”

“But, of course.” His already wide smile grew as he shoved the envelope into a cubby below his desk. Glancing up again, he added, “Let me know if you need any help.”

“Thank you so much.” I waved a hand around the shop. “Now, let me see if I can find something for myself, yes? This place is a wonder.”

He brightened at my praise, then returned to his own reading.

I stepped toward a towering wall of shelves that reached to the second story. All the titles were in Hungarian, but I didn’t care. I only pretended to shop.

One heartbeat.

Then two.

Then the bell over the front door jangled.

I resisted the urge to turn and look.

Footsteps. Deliberate. Confident.

They grew closer, then stopped.

Still, I didn’t turn, just pulled a book off a shelf, lowered my eyes to a random page, and let the moment stretch.

Out the corner of my eye, I saw my tail shifting his weight from one foot to the other, desperately searching for a reason he was standing far too close to his target. From his sharp inhale, the soft click of his boots against the wooden floor, and the almost-smirk in his tone when he spoke to the shopkeeper in halting Hungarian, I knew:

He thought he’d won.

I returned the book to its dusty shelf, offered a perfunctory goodbye to the shopkeeper, and headed out, knowing my shadow would soon follow, knowing there had been only one victor in our game that day—and it had not been him.