63

Thomas

T he walls of the conference room were painted in that bland, beige shade governments seemed to prefer—an aesthetic designed to discourage emotion or thought. The chairs were metal-framed and stiff. The table was wide, but not wide enough to feel like a barrier.

Will sat beside me, his arm draped along the back of my chair. Sparrow was across from us, hands folded in her lap, her posture still stiff from days of tension. Egret leaned against the wall near the door, his arms crossed, his jaw tight. He hadn’t shaved since the river. It gave him a manly, lumberjack vibe that I was sure Sparrow enjoyed.

Manakin entered without fanfare. He was thinner than I remembered, his face drawn, the lines around his mouth deeper. His gray coat was damp from the late Austrian drizzle, and the brim of his hat was dripping when he took it off and laid it on the end of the table.

No one stood. We were well past silly protocols.

He didn’t sit right away.

He just looked at us.

We were four battered survivors who’d come back from something most never would.

He took a long breath and sat, opening the black folder he carried as though it contained either the gospel or the gallows.

“This is your official debrief,” he said, voice flat. “The room has been swept, the music’s volume in the hallway has been increased, and there are Marines standing guard outside. You may speak freely.”

“As if Egret knows any other way to speak,” Will jabbed, earning a grin from the wooly mammoth leaned against the wall.

Manakin blinked, as though Will had spoken in a language he couldn’t comprehend, then continued, “Here’s how this will work: I ask questions. You answer. No one here reports to anyone but me. Understood?”

“No paperwork? I’m in,” Egret said, shoving off the wall to take the seat beside Sparrow. His arm immediately draped about her shoulder, fingers rubbing her arm.

Manakin noted the movement but said nothing.

Each of us nodded our assent to his ground rules, none of us eager to begin, but all knowing there was no alternative.

Manakin glanced at the page in front of him. “Operation Shadowfox was initiated with the objective of extracting Hungarian cryptographer Dr. László Farkas and his in-progress machine, codenamed Vega. Contingency was in place for Plan B—destruction of the machine and neutralization of the target in the event of compromise.”

We all nodded. That summed up what we’d been sent to do.

Manakin launched into one question after the next. Minutes turned to hours as he knocked over every stone, forcing us to recall every move, every step, the features of every minder and follower and guard.

Midway through the interrogation—because that’s what it felt like—he looked up, his eyes sharper than his voice. “Why didn’t you execute Plan B?”

I leaned forward, my shoulder aching from the movement. “Because Farkas had a daughter who’d become a Soviet hostage.”

Manakin waited.

Will picked up my answer. “She was kidnapped before the meet. She wasn’t in the brief. He didn’t show at extraction because she was being held. He told us he would go only if we got her out.”

“And so,” Manakin said, “you chose to abandon the mission as outlined and start a rogue third option. Extraction plus rescue.”

“Yes,” I said.

“And the result?”

“Farkas is dead, and his machine was destroyed.”

“Eszter is alive,” Will added, quietly. “We got her out.”

Manakin’s eyes flicked to him. “Yes. Eszter Farkas. Thirteen years old. IQ of 148. Knows Enigma theory and cryptographic patterning at a post-graduate level. We’ve already intercepted inquiries from the Soviets asking about a girl matching her description. They are most displeased.”

“Well, if Uncle Joe’s pissed—”

Manakin silenced him with a glare.

“She’s alive,” Will repeated. “They don’t get to be pleased.”

Egret shifted in his seat. “We didn’t abandon the mission. We adjusted.”

“You lost the target,” Manakin said.

Sparrow bristled. “The target was a man held hostage by his child’s life. He turned against his captors the second she was safe. He shielded her with his body. We lost him doing the right thing. Farkas died a hero.”

Manakin closed the folder. “I’m not disputing anyone’s courage.”

His voice didn’t rise. That was the thing about Manakin—he never needed volume to dominate a room.

“But I am responsible for reporting results. From Washington’s perspective, this was an expensive mission with zero deliverables and a dead scientist.”

“And a living prodigy,” I said, locking eyes with him.

“And a lost prototype.”

“The prototype wasn’t usable,” Egret snapped. “Farkas had the processor. It was in the damned box. That bullet didn’t just kill him; it also shredded every hope of that machine seeing daylight. We had the thing at the border, but the Reds shot it out from under us.”

Manakin sat back, lips pressed tight. “So you claim.”

My fists clenched beneath the table. “We were there. We watched it go under. We saw the current drag its shattered parts away.”

Silence.

For a beat, it was just the rain against the windows and the sound of Will’s fingers tapping the tabletop.

“I believe you,” Manakin said at last. “But belief isn’t enough. You’ll be interviewed separately. We are no longer in the good ole days of the OSS. This new CIA, the one that isn’t fully formed yet but is still in charge, thinks and acts differently. This isn’t a change in leadership; it’s a whole shift in philosophy and direction. We’re all . . . adjusting. The Agency wants a full reconstruction.”

“That sounds fantastic.” Egret’s sarcasm stripped the shine off the table.

Manakin cocked one brow.

Sparrow sighed. “When?”

“When what?”

“When will they want a deeper dive?”

“Tomorrow. Tonight, you rest. There’s a secure house waiting for you. Wear civilian clothing—and no comms for forty-eight hours. Standard lockdown.” Manakin looked at each of us in turn. “You’re a fine team. I’m supposed to spend another few hours making you replay every detail of your mission, but I think we all know how that would go. Take my advice, and don’t play games with these CIA guys. They’re pros, and they don’t give a shit about you or me, only their mandate.”

“And Eszter?” I asked.

“She’s already on her way to Paris. We have her under protective custody with the French Directorate. She’ll be safe, educated, and watched. No one’s letting that mind drift far.”

Will leaned closer to me. “So she made it.”

I nodded.

“She made it,” I whispered.

Manakin stood and gathered his folder. He looked like a man whose job required him to clean up blood with paper. “I’ll be filing this as a partial success. You kept a weapon of unfathomable power out of the hands of our adversary. It was unorthodox execution with maximum disruption.”

Will snorted. “He already sounds like those CIA guys.”

Manakin’s lips almost curled. Almost.

“We all do what we must.”

He paused at the door.

“Get some rest. Our country needs you, each of you.”

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut.

None of us moved for a long time.

Then Egret broke the silence with a soft, bitter chuckle. “Partial success. Is that like half pregnant?”

Sparrow jabbed him with her elbow, but her eyes glimmered with amusement.

After a moment, her features smoothed, and she said, “We made it out. We saved the girl. That’s not partial. That’s everything.”

I looked down at my bandage, the remnants of pain still clinging like smoke from a fire.

“She’s the future,” I said.

Will nodded. “And we gave it back to her.”