Page 46 of Beehive

“You’re in your head again,” Will said, lifting his cup to his mouth and taking a sip. “Get out of there. We’ll sort it out.”

“You think you know me,” I teased before glancing at my watch. “We have another hour. What do you think we should do?”

Will reached for another scone and held it up. “I’m content hanging out here a while. These things are ridiculous.”

As he lifted the crumbly treat to his mouth, the bells attached to the shop’s front door tinkled, and MGB Captain Matvey Antonov appeared in the doorway.

17

Will

Antonov cut an imposing figure, his Soviet officer’s uniform immaculately pressed, his boots polished to a mirror shine, his hair now slicked back with some grease akin to motor oil or shoe polish. The lines of his face were sharp, his nose hawkish, his jaw set in a way that suggested perpetual dissatisfaction. He swept the room, his near-black eyes narrowing briefly before landing on us.

“Good morning, comrades.” His voice carried over the quiet hum of the café. It wasn’t a greeting so much as an announcement.

Thomas gestured to the empty chair at our table. “Care to join us?”

The man didn’t bother answering. He simply pulled a chair back with a sharp scrape and sat, then leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table.

“You are enjoying our hospitality, yes?” His eyes flicked to my half-eaten scone. “How fortunate for you, to have time for breakfast while my people work tirelessly to rebuild this city.”

“The espresso is quite good.” Thomas ignored the jabs. Picking up his cup and waving toward the Soviet, he asked, “Would you care for one?”

“No. I prefer tea.” Antonov snapped his fingers at the waitress and barked in Russian. Moments later, she reappeared with a cup of tea, which he took without a word of thanks.

Silence stretched as Antonov sipped, his sharp eyes darting toward the suited men across the street, then back to us. Finally, he set the cup down and leaned back.

“We have a full day ahead,” he said. “I have arranged for your first stop to be one of our depots, a location where we store items confiscated from fascists during our liberation of Berlin.”

“Confiscated?” Thomas asked, arching a brow.

“Yes,” Antonov snapped. “Confiscated. Stolen from the Nazis, as they stole from others. You Americans call it justice, do you not?”

“We do not care what the Americans call it. WeGermansbelieve it is simply the right thing to do,” Thomas protested.

Antonov smiled at that. “Yes, of course, youGermansdo.”

I decided to steer the conversation before Thomas provoked the man further. “We appreciate the access, Captain. The more we can see, the better our chances of identifying pieces that can be returned to their rightful owners.”

“Rightful owners,” he muttered. “Very well; but I warn you, comrades, this is not a museum. It will not be delicate on your eyes.”

Long moments passed as we waited for Antonov to finish his tea. Our sentinels barely moved. I hadn’t seen the one man change to a new cigarette, though the one he held looked freshly lit. The other man had yet to turn a page of his newspaper, marking him a rookie in our game.

Theclankof Antonov’s cup on the table was the only indication that our leisurely morning had concluded. He stood,adjusted his coat, and strode purposefully toward the door without looking to see if we followed.

Thomas shrugged with his eyes, then stood.

I offered a mental farewell to the remaining scones, consciously deciding not to shove them into my pockets, then followed Thomas.

A short drive later, we stood before a nondescript warehouse, its exterior still pockmarked with bullet holes. Most—but not all—of the windows had been replaced. Those still shattered by war were masked with plastic nailed to the frame. A Soviet flag fluttered above the entrance, its vivid crimson a stark contrast to the grimy stone and rusted metal.

“Do not touch anything without asking first. The curator of this facility is quite, how do you say, anxious.”

With that admonition, Thomas and I followed our host as he stepped through the warehouse door. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the tang of mildew. Rows of wooden crates stretched into the dimly lit corners of the space. Some were neatly stacked, while others appeared tossed about in a rush. A handful of workers in Soviet uniforms toiled among the crates, their movements disinterested and unhurried.

“This is our primary recording office, the central repository for information. Other locations we will visit house more of the actual items, but I thought this would be a good place to begin.” Antonov’s voice echoed off the high ceiling as we stepped inside. “Some of these crates have not been opened since they arrived. Others contain artifacts we are still cataloging.”

“Efficient,” Thomas mumbled a little too loudly. Antonov shot him a glance but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he gestured for us to follow him down one of the aisles.

---