Page 98 of Beehive

Manakin shook his head. “This is such a terrible business. How does one respond to such betrayal?”

“She’s dead,” Thomas said. “That’s how we responded.”

Manakin looked up. He and Thomas stared at one another so long I thought they’d either make out or break into fisticuffs.

Neither spoke. Neither budged. I’m not sure either of them breathed.

Finally, Manakin rubbed his eyes and let his head fall back against his chair.

The film remained untouched on the table between Thomas and Manakin. All four of us stared in silence, as if words might erase whatever secrets it held.

Finally, Arty broke our trance.

“I’ll be right back.” He stood and shuffled out of the room, giving no hint of why he’d left or where he was going. A moment later, he returned with a uniformed Marine in his wake. The sergeant pushed a cart holding a microfiche machine into the room, plugged it in, and left.

Without asking, Arty leaned across the table and snatched the film.

“Hey!” Thomas reached for the canister but was a heartbeat too slow.

Arty’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Give me a minute.”

“Stork, stop right there,” Manakin said, his voice low but firm, the way a father might scold a son for reaching into the cookie jar before dinner.

Arty ignored him, threading the film onto the device with a precision that belied his trembling hands. He was too investednow, too curious to let it go. Thomas leaned forward, his elbows on the table, hands clasped tightly as if in prayer.

The room felt suddenly small and cramped, as though the secrets we carried had sucked the air out of it.

“Stork, for God’s sake,” Manakin said, his patience fraying. “This is classified above your pay grade. Hell, it’s probably above mine.”

Arty pointed toward Thomas and me. “Those two almost died retrieving this film. They deserve to see what it contains.” He finished threading the film and stepped back, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Whatever’s on this is worth more to Stalin than his own men. He might be hatching some scheme, and our recovery of the film might accelerate those plans. We can’t wait for this to get back to Washington, and you know it.”

Indignation rolled off Manakin in waves. I’d never seen the man so angry. Insubordination was not his favorite pastime, apparently. And yet, for some unfathomable reason, he looked up at Arty and nodded once, then crossed his arms and sat back.

I glanced at Thomas.

He caught my eye, his expression heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts. We’d been through hell to bring this film here, dodging bullets, lies, and shadows. The question that hung in the air now was whether knowing the truth would be worth whatever cost that might follow.

Arty flipped a switch, and a motor whirred to life, casting a soft glow against the far wall. The first few frames were blank, but when the third image appeared, the room fell silent, save for the mechanical hum of the machine.

What appeared was grainy, black and white, but vivid enough to punch the air from my lungs. A Soviet officer stood in the snow, his uniform crisp against the chaos around him. Rows of civilians—men, women, even children—stood and kneeled in thefrozen mud, their faces etched with terror. Soldiers loomed over them, rifles aimed.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sand.

The scene shifted: bodies crumpling, blood staining the snow like ink spilled on parchment. The camera’s lens was unflinching, capturing every grotesque detail. The executioners had moved with mechanical efficiency, stepping over the fallen to line up the next group. Whoever held the camera had captured every wicked movement perfectly.

“My God,” Thomas breathed, his voice a shell of itself. His hands were clenched, his knuckles white.

Manakin stood, his eyes fixed on the screen. Even he, with all his rigid discipline and years in intelligence, seemed shaken.

“This is what they’re hiding,” Arty said. “This is what Stalin doesn’t want the world to see.”

I felt sick.

The camera panned to the Soviet officer, his face a mask of cold indifference. His lips were parted, issuing commands we couldn’t hear. Behind him, a truck was unloading more prisoners.

The cycle began anew.

“Stalin’s trying to rewrite history, paint his troops and the whole Soviet Union as some idealistic society, a fairer alternative than capitalism and democracy,” Thomas said, his voice steadier now but no less heavy. “If this gets out, it’ll shatter the image he’s building for himself and his new Russian Empire.”

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