Page 55 of Beehive

“Damn,” I whispered, staring down as he worked my tie. “You should wear a tux more often.”

He patted the tie, as if telling it to be a “good boy,” then leaned up and pressed his lips to mine.

“We need to go down. Antonov is probably waiting.”

I nodded and held an open palm toward the door. “After you, my good sir.”

Antonov was, as we suspected, sitting in his car with the motor running. Smoke curled out of his open window from a cigarette that dangled from his lips.

“Are you ready for a party?” he asked with a smile that looked more like a grimace.

“A party in postwar Berlin. What more could anyone want?” I deadpanned.

Will elbowed me. “We’re visiting a historic museum. This will be amazing.”

Antonov’s eyes rolled in the rearview mirror.

When we reached the museum, Antonov parked the car, climbed out, and opened my door before I had the chance. His uniform looked as impeccable as ever, though there was a trace of weariness in the set of his shoulders.

“This way,” he said, gesturing toward the grand entrance.

As we entered the museum, Will paused for a moment to let it all soak in.

The lobby was a vast expanse of marble and gilded molding, the opulence of its pre-war days evident despite the scars of conflict. Given my family heritage, I’d seen my share of palaces and dynastic homes. I was used to a certain level of grandeur. While I appreciated the German architecture, I had seen far more impressive places on my family’s travels.

Will, on the other hand, appeared awed by the majesty of the place.

“This,” Antonov said, “is what the Nazis—and American bombs—could not destroy.”

I couldn’t understand why he kept referring to Americans destroying Germany. The Soviets claimed to have liberated the country from Hitler, the Nazis, and anyone who might’ve endangered a sausage or stein over the last thousand years. They took credit so liberally one might’ve thought they’d established the German empire all those years ago.

In truth, the Soviets had inflicted as much damage as anyone upon their entry into Berlin. They had looted—or “liberated,” asthey called it—more liberally than any of the other occupying powers.

Never mind that we’d also been allies, comrades in arms, as it were. He continued to deride our efforts as wantonly destructive. Sure, we’d fallen out recently, Uncle Sam not caring for how Uncle Joe governed his people and threatened the world’s tenuous new order. Still, barely a year earlier, we’d been united and fighting a common foe who’d slain far too many of our countrymen.

I was coming to appreciate the Soviet Union’s skill at outdoing itself where hypocrisy was concerned.

A waiter in a crisp white jacket with a spotless towel draped over his arm approached and offered champagne flutes from a silver tray. Antonov took one without hesitation, though he didn’t raise it to his lips. I suspected he wouldn’t. Will and I followed suit, the chilled glasses a welcome contrast to the warmth of the room.

“Enjoy your evening.” Antonov raised his glass, his tone clipped. “But remember, you areguestsof the Soviet Union. Never forget that.”

“Well, isn’t he pleasant?” Will snarked as Antonov vanished into the crowd. Many in attendance were uniformed men, but a fair number of couples in tuxedoes and gowns also milled about. I recognized a few dignitaries—Americans, French, and British—visiting from their sectors. Delegations from Switzerland and a few other nations chatted quietly in clumps of three or four.

The opening of this storied museum was a bigger deal than I’d realized.

Will took a sip of his champagne and wriggled his nose.

“Bubbles get you?” I smirked.

“Always do. Right up my nostrils.”

I stifled a laugh and handed him my cocktail napkin.

The first hour was ponderous as we waded through pleasantries, false smiles, and shallow greetings. Will couldn’t stop bouncing from one painting to another. He was a kid in a candy store. I’d known of his art studies in college but had no idea just how much he loved the subject. Watching him marvel at the work of masters was more satisfying and amusing than anything I had witnessed in a very long time.

Antonov never strayed far. He occasionally introduced us to officials whose names I promptly forgot and steered us away from conversations that might stray from the curated narrative of Soviet cultural heroism.

Our intention was for Will, ever the charmer, to handle most of the talking. His easy smile and quick wit disarmed even the most rigid apparatchiks. I was supposed to play the quieter counterpart, the dutiful bodyguard, offering thoughtful nods and the occasional pointed question. It was a dynamic that had served us well in the past, though that night it felt more like a performance than usual.

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