Page 19 of Beehive

Thomas held the door.

Inside, the place felt timeless. The air was warm, carrying the mingling scents of strong coffee, fresh bread, and the faint, ever-present haze of Gauloises smoke. The floor was a patchwork of worn tiles, some cracked, some chipped, all uneven enough that you had to mind your step. Our target, the woman in the red scarf, dabbed her cigarette, then laid it on the edge of a saucer-turned-ashtray. Her eyes remained fixed on the newspaper held in her other hand until Thomas entered, and the petite proprietor approached and told us to sit anywhere we liked.

“Michele, come, sit with me. Bring Guillaume over here,” the woman said as she tossed her paper on the table and waved to us. Her French flowed faster than the Seine in summer and was so clipped I could barely make out her words, but the warmth in her tone matched the smile that bloomed on her face. She appeared to be in her thirties, though guessing ages of women in Paris was as futile as fighting against Napoleon’s troops.

“Go on, Michele,” Thomas muttered, a grin in his voice.

The woman stood, embraced each of us and pecked our cheeks, then sat and snatched her cigarette. Thomas settled into the chair next to her, so I sat opposite, thankful to be out of the line of her smoke.

“It is quite cold today, is it not? How do you boys walk this city in such thin clothing?”

I glanced down at my coat, a thick, woolen affair that was far too warm, even on a late winter’s day.

Thomas didn’t miss a beat. “I have always run hot. It is an American trait, I believe.”

The woman’s brow arched as her lips curled. “Yes, you Americans can be . . . how do you say . . . quite steamy.”

Thomas smiled broadly and nodded. I blinked, unsure whether she’d just flirted or called us out as a couple.

Saucers arrived with sturdy cups of piping coffee, along with a small plate of assorted pastries. I took a miniature croissant and savored a bite. Thomas scanned the dining room.

Aside from the owner, we were alone.

The woman released a long exhale of smoke, then pointed her cigarette at my croissant and said casually, “I prefer eclairs.”

Thomas, picking up on the coded phrase, responded, “The chocolate is not so sweet as it once was.”

The woman stared a moment, then nodded and leaned across the table. When she spoke, any hint of a French accent vanished, replaced by the flat expanse of a Midwestern American tongue.

“I will stay until he finishes his pastry.” She pointed at my croissant again. “Not a moment longer. You will leave together but take separate routes once you reach the street. We will not meet again.”

Thomas eyed her thoughtfully. “Understood.”

The woman continued, “Stalin’s boys are up to something in Berlin. Hundreds of MGB1 agents have flooded the zone and are searching for something. There’s a desperation to their hunt. You two are to enter the city and find out what Uncle Joe is up to.”

Thomas glanced toward me, then looked back at the woman. “Do we know anything about what they’re looking for?”

“Only that it has something to do with a statue or carving, some kind of artwork.”

“Art?” I said, leaning forward to mirror her posture. “Their side captured a lot when they entered the city. Why would they lose their minds over one statue?”

“It isn’t safe to speak more of that here. We are never truly alone, are we?” The woman spread her hands in a very French gesture, then shrugged. “What I can say is that we have never seen them send so many agents into one theater. It is like watching bees swarm their queen. Our people were alreadyoverwhelmed. Now . . .” She sucked in a lungful, then blew it out. “Return to this café tonight at ten o’clock. It closes at nine and will be dark. One at a time, circle around back and knock exactly four times on the door marked for deliveries. Whichever of you enters second, remain out of sight until the first enters, then repeat the knocks.”

“If one of us is already inside, why do we need to—”

Her glare could’ve melted an iceberg. “Do as instructed.”

She eyed the last quarter of my pastry before reached down, snatching it up, and popping it into her mouth. With crumbs spilling out and a quick wink, our unnamed contact stood and exited the café.

1. The MGB, the Soviet Ministry of State Security, predecessor to the KGB, handled intelligence, counterintelligence, and internal security.

8

Thomas

Imade it back to our apartment before Will. He’d chosen to take the circuitous route, pretending to take in the sights of Paris and shop along a few of the better traveled avenues, while I took a more direct route, ignoring anything interesting and walking at the pace of an Olympic athlete.

My mind raced even faster than my feet.

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