Page 97 of Beehive

He was still family.

“Come on,” my old roomie said. “Manakin is waiting. If he has to come out here to greet you, there’ll be hell to pay. He’s anxious about thegiftyou brought him.”

“Glad he’s so happy to seeus,” Thomas grumbled. “He knows we almost died several times while shopping for that . . . gift, doesn’t he? Besides, it’s just a box of tissues.”

My snort bounded off the stone facade of the embassy.

Arty’s brow scrunched, then his gaze shifted from Thomas and back to me.

Neither of us offered an explanation.“Just come inside, okay?” he finally said, not taking the bait.

We followed him through a towering marble foyer, up a set of stairs designated “Embassy Staff Only,” through a series of ornate hallways, finally turning to enter a richly appointedconference room. High-back leather chairs with gleaming buttons surrounded a highly polished cheery table whose inlay of gold conveyed a decidedly French brand of elegance.

At the head of the table, opposite where we entered, sat Manakin. He was hunched over a stack of papers, studying or reading intently, allowing his balding pate to greet us before his head snapped up.

“Emu, Condor,” he said, standing and motioning to his end of the table. “Come, join me. Would either of you like a drink?”

It would’ve been an odd first question coming from anyone else. From Manakin, it was the perfect query.

“God, yes,” Thomas said before I could even open my mouth. “A double of whatever you have. Hell, just give me the bottle and a straw. The straw is optional.”

“Aren’t you on painkillers and antibiotics? Is it wise—”

“You offered,” Thomas said, standing his ground. “Alcohol will help the happy drugs be . . . more happy.”

Manakin’s laugh rumbled throughout the paneled room as he turned and filled crystal tumblers with amber liquid. “You boys had quite a visit to Berlin. Condor, what the hell were you doing getting shot? I don’t pay you to collect bullets.”

Thomas glared at Manakin as he took a proffered glass. Without so much as a “thank you,” he tossed it back, downing several fingers of whiskey in a single gulp, then stretched the empty glass back toward Manakin.

The spymaster grunted, shook his head, and turned to refill the tumbler.

“Are we secure?” Thomas asked, his voice shifting from cordial to coldly professional.

“There is no place more secure in Paris.” Manakin handed him his refilled glass, then glanced at our empty hands. “Where’s the statue? I understood the Soviets were searching for some sort of carved relic.”

“Thomas was carrying it when he was shot,” I explained. “The good news is that we managed to retrieve what was inside. We’d tried to open the thing for hours with no luck. When the Soviets’ car dropped off the bridge, the impact must’ve knocked the trap door loose. It was open when we found the statue floating in the half-submerged GAZ.”

I stepped past Thomas and took a glass of whiskey, then the four of us sat.

“Okay, so where is the statue now?” Manakin pressed.

Thomas retrieved the film canister from his pocket and set it on the table. “I was bleeding pretty bad and couldn’t really use my right arm. It took forever to make it through the underground. I almost lost consciousness several times. We’re not sure when the statue fell from my grasp, but we think it’s somewhere beneath the city in the sewer.”

I turned to Arty. “I’m so sorry, Arty. You would’ve loved it. We think it was over a hundred years old, maybe several hundred years. The Keeper was a rabbi reading some sort of text. The carving was more intricate than anything I’ve ever seen. I really wanted to bring it back for you.”

Arty’s shoulders slumped. He would’ve loved the carving. His family would’ve cherished it if Uncle Sam allowed them to keep the piece.

“Each of us follows his own path,” Arty intoned, as if reciting someone else’s words.

I wasn’t sure if that was our friend trying to stay positive or some ancient adage. Either way, I took his firm nod as permission to move on and began sorting through the events of the past few days.

Thomas beat me to the punch and began to speak. An hour later, our tale was told, and our glasses sat empty.

Manakin steepled his fingers and sat back.

“Visla betrayed you,” Manakin said, more to himself than to us. “I . . . I don’t even know what to think about that. She’d been with us since the beginning of the war.”

“Sounds like she flipped to Uncle Joe’s side,” Thomas said. “Or was on his side all along and was playing us.”

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