Page 60 of Beehive

“Are you certain?” Visla asked. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, her usual superiority replaced with a touch of respect.

“Are we ever certain in this game?” Thomas asked.

Another pause.

“Then we have a window. It is a small one. The Russians are too good for it to remain undiscovered.”

“That was our thinking,” I said.

Visla’s voice hardened. “You know what needs to be done. That statue must be retrieved. It is not simply a piece of art; it is a key. To what remains uncertain, but if the Soviets figure that out first, I suspect we may be in deeper trouble than we already are.”

“A heist?” Thomas said, his tone dry. “Why am I not surprised? It’s such a cliché.”

Visla ignored his sarcasm. “You must act quickly. The museum is never empty, even at night. There will be guards—likely soldiers—and MGB agents searching for their prize. There may also be civilian workers. The museum is one of their primary cultural facilities. Staff works around the clock.”

“This is sounding easier by the moment,” Thomas said.

Again, Visla ignored him. “In addition, the Soviets now use surveillance cameras in their more sensitive operations. If theymaintain classified documents or items in the museum’s vaults, you should expect eyes everywhere. You will need to disable them without drawing attention.”

“Great, cameras.” I leaned my head back against the rough stone of the tower’s interior.

“And you will need an exit plan,” Visla concluded.

“And how do you suggest we pull all this off?” Thomas asked. “It’s not as if we’re walking into a quiet gallery in the middle of London.”

“I will acquire tools,” Visla said. “A package will be waiting for you tomorrow night at the drop site. It will be too large for the drainage pipe, so you will need to enter the café and speak with a waitress named Elisa.”

“And if we get caught?” I asked, my voice steady despite the tension coiling in my chest.

“You must not,” she said sharply. “Because if you do, no one will be able to help you.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and final.

Thomas didn’t need to say anything; I already knew what he was thinking.

“When do we do this?” I asked.

“Tomorrow night. You will only have thirty minutes. No more,” Visla replied, then her voice softened to a level I hadn’t thought capable of the icy woman. “You know what is at stake. The Soviets are not collecting art. They are piecing together something far more insidious. This may involve information regarding troops or operations—or it may have something to do with terrible weapons. For all we know, there may be photos of Stalin in ladies’ underwear.”

I was so caught off guard by Visla’s sudden use of humor that I barked a laugh.

“We do not know what the Soviets seek,” Visla continued. “But the statue . . . We believe it is the key. If they get their hands on it first, the balance of power may shift. Permanently.”

“We’ll do it,” Thomas said with a confidence I wished I shared.

“Good,” she said. “Then we have nothing further to discuss.”

Thomas locked eyes with me, a silent plea for support. In his gaze, I was surprised by how much of my fear he shared, despite the strength of his words. I wanted to reach out, to pull him close, to feel his warmth.

But such things waited for the cloak of privacy, one the world demanded we drape about our shoulders when no one else stood near.

“Visla?” I said, feeling a sudden lack of eyes peering from the darkness.

There was no sound or movement—just silence, as if she had never been there at all.

“Well,” Thomas whispered. “We wanted answers. Now we’re stealing them.”

I reached up and rubbed his arm. “Just another day in paradise.”

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