Page 78 of Beehive

The Soviets were likely scouring all of Berlin for it—and for the pair of men who snatched it from under their noses.

Despite all our efforts, the darn thing refused to open. Whatever secrets the rabbi possessed, he kept them well secured.

Should we go back to our sector and let Arty and the others pry the wisdom from the Keeper? That would’ve been the easy course, assuming we could slip past the border guards. It would’ve put the Soviet sector in the rearview, and that was a very pleasant thought.

Unfortunately, without being able to open the statue, there was no way we could verify that we’d stolen the correct piece. For all we knew, the Keeper of Wisdom was just a relic of the past, aJewish wise man whose words bore the weight of religion rather than statecraft.

What if we reached the safety of another zone only to discover what lay inside our rabbi was a note from a father to his son? Precious to them, but useless to us.

We couldn’t return without the prize the Soviets sought.

With the Ruskies worked into a frenzy, it would be a while before the OSS could sneak more operatives into East Berlin. This mission was ours, and no one could save us from it.

We had to be sure.

“Wilhelm.” Visla turned toward me, her accent softened by fatigue. “Did you have a restful night?”

I nodded. “It was very quiet.”

Meaning:I searched and didn’t find any bugs.

She gave a curt nod and took a thin slice of bread.

The old man grunted and spat something in German under his breath.

I shot him a look.

He folded his arms across his chest and stared past us, as if hoping his silence could propel us out the door.

A loud scrape from above snapped my head up.

The sound was our only warning. It came from upstairs.

Will froze, his spoon halfway to his lips. Visla lowered her bread. The old man’s eyes flicked to the ceiling. We listened to the hush that followed.

Then another sound: the sudden crash of a desk chair toppling over.

My stomach lurched. “They’re here!”

28

Thomas

My heart hammered as I reached for the pistol hidden at my ankle. Will sprang up, nearly knocking his bowl to the floor.

Visla hissed, “Don’t fire inside if you can help it.”

The old man moved aside as we rushed past him and up the staircase. Every step I took felt like a thunderclap in my ears. The old stairs screamed beneath our boots.

We reached the upper landing in time to catch hurried footsteps and the rattle of a window frame. I turned the knob. It was locked. Lowering my shoulder, I battered the door once, then again. On the third try, it sprung open.

Will and I burst into our room, guns ready. It was empty. The curtains fluttered as wind streamed through the now-open window.

The desk was overturned. The bed lay half on its side, as if someone had searched under the mattress. The window at the far end was shattered outward, glass hanging on like jagged teeth. I darted across the room and leaned out the window. Twofigures dressed in dark clothes dropped onto the street below. One carried the statue.

“Damn it! They have the Keeper,” I snarled.

Will was already on the move, crossing the room in three strides and leaning out the window beside me. The Soviet agents—who else could it be?—were getting away.

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