Page 102 of Beehive

Before he could ask another question, Stimson’s voice cut through like a blade. “Why was a Nazi blackmailing the Soviets?”

Will’s jaw tightened. For a moment, I thought he might violate Manakin’s instructions, but he held his tongue.

“Intel here is thin, but we believe the Nazi officer wanted an escape from Berlin, perhaps a new identity,” Manakin answered. “We suspect he knew our side would never agree to such demands, so he turned to Stalin.”

Truman groaned. “As if anyone believeshispoppycock.”

I had to fight to keep my jaw from dropping. Did the President already see through Stalin’s claims? Had we underestimated what he knew, what he believed, about our rising adversary?

Truman’s fingers tapped lightly against the armrest of his chair, the only sound in the room besides the faint hum of the air conditioning. He finally broke the silence. “So, you’re telling me we have evidence of Soviet war crimes that make the Nazis look civilized?”

Manakin cleared his throat. “Sir, what the Nazis did was unimaginable. We’re not here to draw comparisons—”

“But comparisonswillbe drawn,” Truman interrupted, his tone sharp. “Not just by us, but by the entire world if this gets out.”

“Which is precisely why it can’t get out,” Steelman said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of warning. “If this were to become public, it could upend the fragile postwar peace we’ve worked so hard to foster.”

“Do you actually think the Soviets don’t know we have it?” Stimson jabbed. “If our boys are right, and I am sure they are, the Ruskies have been scouring Berlin for this film with every agent they could throw at it. Mr. President, they’ll escalate. It’s what they do.”

Will and I exchanged a glance, the shared understanding passing between us unspoken.

“What do you think?” the President asked, looking directly into my soul. I’d never thought of myself as the squeamish sort, but when the President of the United States stared into your eyes and demanded answers, it was time to change your underwear. At least, that’s how I felt in that moment.

“Mr. President,” I said, clearing my throat. “We’ve already seen what lengths they’ll go to. This wasn’t just about intelligence—it was about control. The Soviets want to erase this record entirely.”

Truman’s expression darkened. “And what do you propose we do with it?”

“Sir, I’m not—”

The President held up a palm. “Speculate.”

I hesitated, weighing my words. “Use it strategically. The Soviets are already positioning themselves as our adversaries. They don’t care that the world hates them or disagrees with their governing model. They want to impose their dominance overtheir area of influence, expand it where possible. This film could provide leverage in future negotiations with them—orwarningsto them.”

“Leverage is a dangerous game. Ask our dead Nazi.” Steelman folded his arms. “If Stalin gets wind of this, he might see it as an act of aggression, maybe even an excuse for war.”

“He seeseverythingas an act of war,” I shot back. “This film won’t change that.”

“Gentlemen,” Truman said firmly. “Let’s not lose sight of the larger picture. The postwar world is a chess match, not a barroom brawl.”

The President’s gaze then settled on Will. “You’ve been in the thick of this. What do you think?”

“Sir, I think,” he began slowly, “that the Soviets won’t stop killing to cover this up. As the Secretary said, we need to be prepared for escalation, but hiding the film entirely . . . that’s not a solution either. It’s evidence—evidence that could hold them accountable, at least in the court of public opinion.”

Truman’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And what happens in the meantime?”

“We use it,” Manakin interjected, seizing control from his agents, whom he clearly wanted to remain silent. “Surgically. The Soviets will think twice if they know we have it and that we’re willing to act.”

The debate continued for another half hour. It felt like hours.

Truman’s final call was neither satisfying nor unexpected. “We’ll keep the film secure,” he said with a tone of finality. “It will inform our actions against the Soviets for years to come. Publicly, this would be viewed as just another Soviet killing spree, another chapter in Stalin’s bloody ledger.”

“The death of one man is a tragedy; the death of millions is a statistic,”3 I muttered, not realizing I’d spoken aloud until Ilooked up and saw everyone—including the President—staring at me.

I wanted to fight, to demand more from the leader of the free world, but I held my tongue. We’d done our jobs. We’d retrieved the evidence and brought it to the highest authorities. What they chose to do with it was beyond our control. As much as I hated to admit it, Manakin was right.

The weight of our conversation lingered as we left the Oval Office. Will leaned in, his voice so low only I could hear. “Another Soviet killing spree. Just one of many?”

I didn’t respond. There was nothing left to say.

---