Page 26 of Shadowfox

Egret grinned. Sparrow almost smiled. Almost.

We exited the train into a wave of cold, wet air and something heavier—the oppressive weight of being watched.

Keleti pályaudvar was far from a bustling station. People moved with purpose but without hurry, like they’d been trained to avoid drawing attention. The place reeked of coal smoke, iron, and fear—or maybe resignation.

Soviet soldiers stood near every archway, AKs slung in front of them. Their eyes moved, missing nothing, recording everything.

We split up without a word or backward glance.

Thomas and I headed east across the platform, toward the hired car waiting near the station’s side entrance. Egret and Sparrow peeled off to the left. Sparrow pulled her trench coat tight, while Egret lit a cigarette with theatrical flair.

The way we parted was like watching shadows detach from a wall—silent, smooth, professional.

“They’ll be fine,” Thomas murmured beside me, as if reading my mind.

“I know,” I replied. “But I don’t like not being able to watch their backs.”

He nodded but said nothing more. Neither of us liked this part.

The Gellért stood at the foot of Gellért Hill like a grand, old queen holding her breath—regal but wary. Her stone façade bore the scars of war, wounds that were patched and painted over but not erased. Inside, the lobby gleamed with too much polish. Marble floors, heavy velvet curtains, and brass fixtures—all a little too perfect—were likely designed to distract from microphones in the light fixtures.

At the front desk, a woman with thick eyeliner and sharper eyes checked us in without smiling. She barely glanced at our forged passports.

“Dr. Beckett, Mr. Calloway,” she said, handing over our key. “Room 305. Breakfast is from six to nine.”

“Lovely,” Thomas replied in his crisp, British tone. “I am sure the coffee is dreadful.”

She blinked once, then said, “Yes.”

Thomas arched a brow at me as we turned toward the elevator.

“Charming people,” I muttered.

“This place is one missed appointment away from a military prison,” he replied under his breath. “Keep your tie straight.”

We entered the lift and rode in silence. The elevator groaned like it resented us for making it move.

Our room was what one might expect: two twin beds, a writing desk, a chipped armchair, and heavy curtains that barely held back the pale light from the square below.

Thomas closed the door and flipped the lock, then paused, staring at the ceiling.

“Vent,” he mouthed, nodding upward, then pointed to several other likely hiding spots for our host’s listening devices.

I moved to the desk, opened a drawer, and found the usual courtesy items: a notepad, a single sharpened pencil, and a matchbook from the hotel’s bar. I struck one of the matches and held it near the vent. The flame bent inward.

Thomas nodded. The flame drew air, which meant there was likely a wire stashed inside.

So we don’t say anything stupid while we’re here, I thought.

Thomas grabbed the notepad and scribbled, “We need to arrange the meet now. Talk about the train ride or the weather, maybe the friendly reception. Nothing more. I’ll get the dead drop note ready.”

I nodded and went to the window, pulling aside the curtain to glance down at the square.

Two trams rolled past.

A mother herded two children across the street.

A man in uniform leaned against a lamppost, reading a newspaper upside down.

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