Page 64 of Beehive

Will adjusted the satchel slung across his chest. His face was a mask. I envied that about him—how he looked like this was just another day, while I felt like my pulse might give us away. I was supposed to be the Navy man, the one who’d trained for battle and could smile in the face of adversity; yet here he was, composed and ready to take on the world, while I fidgeted with my fingers and struggled to steady my breathing.

“You ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” I replied.

I gave a single nod and moved, slipping from the shadows and darting across the street. He followed. Busy with their cigarettes and pacing, the guards didn’t notice us.

We made it to the side of the museum and pressed our backs flat against its stone.

The rear entrance was exactly where Visla’s map said it would be. It was a nondescript, rusted metal door partially obscured by dangling, overgrown ivy. Thankfully, the Soviet security apparatus didn’t seem to think anyone cared about the place enough to actually break in. No guards stood—or smoked—anywhere in sight.

I scanned above the door, across the back wall, and up the corners of the building, searching for cameras.

There was nothing but cold, pockmarked stone.

Will pulled a key from his pocket, its jagged edges glinting faintly in the moonlight, and slipped it into the lock. The mechanism turned with a soft, barely audibleclick.

We slipped inside, and closed the door carefully behind us. This time, itsclickechoed so loudly I worried those working in the Kremlin might’ve heard it. I raised a closed fist. We froze and waited for the Soviet cavalry.

Nothing stirred.

The service passage we entered was narrow and dark, lit only by the faint glow of a single shaded bulb swinging from the ceiling. Will pulled a flashlight from his satchel, but I shook my head. We had enough light to avoid making noise. There was no need to call attention to our passing by waving a torch around. He nodded but kept it ready.

I motioned for us to proceed, leading the way down the corridor.

The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the floor beneath our feet. Every step felt too loud, every movement a calamity. I kept my ears tuned, listening for anything out of place—the shuffle of boots, the murmur of voices, the rattle of a rifle being shifted.

The service hallway dumped us into the main gallery. The grand hall was darker than I expected, its shadows deep and heavy. Faint light from the street that streamed through the ornate gallery’s tall windows barely penetrated the gloom, leaving only the dim glow of emergency lights to illuminate outlines of paintings and sculptures, casting them in eerie hues of crimson and black.

The space was enormous in daylight. In the stillness of night, it felt cavernous.

Every sound was amplified, every breath a potential giveaway.

We followed the path we’d taken during the party, arriving at the antechamber in which the statue held court.

The space was blacker than pitch.

No emergency lights led to escape routes. No bulbs dangled from the ceiling. There wasn’t even enough light in the roomto cast shadows, which was somehow more unnerving than the specters of the darkness we’d passed on the way inside.

We waited a moment to allow our eyes to adjust.

I heard voices, distant and faded, masked by walls and halls. Whether they belonged to guards or workers, there was no way to tell. It didn’t really matter. Either would spell disaster.

The darkness refused to yield.

Reluctantly, I tapped Will’s wrist, hoping he’d understand to switch on his flashlight.

A weak beam of dull yellow bloomed a heartbeat later.

The statue stood only a few yards away, directly in front of us.

“The Keeper of Wisdom,” the placard read. The rabbi sat beneath glass, his back hunched as he poured himself into his reading. How was it possible for the man to appear more wise, more aware? I knew this was just a carving, but in the bent man’s gaze, I saw the troubled history of a people. There was power in that gaze—power and empathy and wisdom. How was all of that possible in a block of wood?

In the silence of the gallery, it felt even more significant.

More important.

Moredangerous.

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