Page 14 of Beehive

The Führer and his inner circle spoke of Soviets as a vengeful, backstabbing nation who betrayed the Reich’s greater intentions. It was only after Stalin stabbed Hitler in the back that our Father sent men to liberate the Soviet Union. Our failure to subdue the Soviets—largely due to the claws and teeth of the Russian bear’s winter—drove Stalin to send what remained of his forces on a vengeance-filled quest for retribution.

But were they killers of Jews?

Was that how they sought to be viewed by the world?

Was that what Joseph Stalin would want to be printed on the front pages of American or British papers?

“Of course not,” I mumbled as an odd spark flickered to life, a pinprick of something I’d not felt in far too long: hope.

Rolling up the film as carefully and quickly as I could, I returned it to its canister and set it beside its wooden guardian. I’d spent years serving my country, protecting its secrets, unraveling the mysteries of its enemies.

It was time to make a new future for myself, and the Soviets would pave that path.

1. Despite the volume of information about the Nazi extermination plans now publicly available, during the war, not every soldier had direct, detailed knowledge of the “Final Solution.” Many would have had a general understanding that Jews and other groups were being systematically removed, segregated, and faced severe violence or death. Some actively participated, some turned a blind eye, and others may not have fully grasped the scale and horror of the genocide until the full horror was reported in the years following the war’s conclusion.

6

Thomas

Paris, May 1946 (present day)

“That’s the OSS1signal, not the French,” Will whispered.

Since returning to France, all of our communication had been with former French resistance or representatives of the new French government. Their network was extensive, if a bit fractured, and the leaders of the Fourth Republic spent more time trying to get streetlights repaired than worrying over which German might be hiding under which rock. Economic reconstruction, social welfare reforms, political stabilization, and, shockingly, reasserting their role as a leader on the world stage, consumed the French leaders’ attention.

Will and I marveled that, following an occupation by a foreign power and the subsequent bloody liberation, the French would be so worried about jockeying for position among the league of nations; and yet, they were, enthusiastically, passionately, in the mostFrenchways possible.

We were there to support, but, as always, the United States had its own interests and concerns. Will and I were part ofa small army scattered throughout Europe who stood ready to further those interests, albeit quietly. In the year or so since we’d set foot back in Paris, we’d received numerous requests to meet with French authorities or agents.

This was the first time, theonlytime, Uncle Sam had summoned us for a chat.

I nodded and leaned in to minimize the risk of being overheard. “We need to head to the dead drop. Something’s happening. This can’t be good.”

Will stepped back and tossed me a lopsided grin. “You’re such an optimist. Thatmustbe why I love you so.”

I rolled my eyes. “You love me for my massive—”

“Sense of humor,” he interrupted before I could complete my crude reference. “Definitely your sense of humor.”

I grinned. “You head home. I’ll go to retrieve the message and meet you in an hour.”

Will reached out and squeezed my arm, letting his hand linger before pulling away. “Be careful. I know it’s just a drop, but something is making my stomach flip.”

“You, too,” I said, reaching up and grasping his hand before it could drop to his side. “Love you.”

“Love you more.”

With our ritual complete, I turned and strode down the street, knowing Will’s eyes wouldn’t leave my back until I vanished around the corner of the next block.

I would never understand why that was so comforting. It wasn’t as though I could see him staring; but somehow, knowing he wanted to see me until he couldn’t, sent a special warmth flowing through my veins no other person alive could produce.

The city was draped in twilight purples and blues, its shadows deepening around doorways and spilling into alleys like ink tumbling from wells. I moved at a measured pace, watching the beauty of the Parisian sunset as it lulled its residents into closingtheir shutters and turning on the first lamps of the evening. My mind was alert, cataloging every bird taking flight, every couple strolling by, even the make of each car parked along my path.

Tradecraft lived within a world of countless details.

Turning down a narrow street, I slipped between murmuring patrons gathered outside a bistro. The smell of cigarette smoke rose around me as I wove through tables. I tipped my hat to an older gentleman whose gaze lingered on me just a second too long.

Perhaps it was curiosity, or maybe it was nothing, but I noted it all the same.

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