Page 54 of Shadowfox

“I have a letter of introduction,” I added, lifting the perfectly forged stationery from my folder.

She took it like it offended her fingertips.

“Basement records. Archives. Room 17,” she said in flat, flawless English. Then she gestured with the faintest flick of two fingers as if to say, “Go. I can’t stand the sight of you a moment longer.”

So much for my irresistible charm.

The basement smelled like damp regulations and moldy paper one might find shredded in the bottom of a rodent’s cage. I descended the stairs, my footsteps echoing off the walls. Each floor down dropped a few degrees in temperature and at least one level of hospitality.

When I reached Room 17, I knocked on the frame and peeked inside. It looked like a bunker designed by bureaucrats, filled with rows of battered filing cabinets, heavy steel drawers labeled in smudged Hungarian, and a single radiator groaning in the corner like it hated its job.

Three women sat at desks near the back, sorting papers with the robotic rhythm of lifelong government workers. They looked up in unison when I entered. All three wore wool coats. All three had the posture of statues. None of them smiled.

“Good morning,” I tried again, all diplomatic brightness. “I’m hoping to review some records on energy infrastructure and municipal distribution planning.”

They stared at me.

There was no recognition, no familiarity, in their gazes. Unlike the woman upstairs, none of these ladies spoke my language—and I most definitely didn’t speak theirs.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

On a whim, I switched to my almost-terrible Russian and asked, “Where are your records regarding energy infrastructure and municipal distribution planning?”

Two of the women were unmoved. The mouth of the third twitched, as though it wanted to form a smile but couldn’t remember how. After an eternal moment, she lifted a hand and pointed to a row of filing cabinets.

None spoke to me in English, Russian, or any other language that required more effort than the flick of a forefinger.

I made my way to it, unstacked a few folders, and took a seat.

For the first hour, I played the part, leafing through decades-old reports, pretending to read blueprints, scribing meaningless notes. I asked an occasional question, just enough to maintain my illusion. The mouth twitcher answered, eventually, with Cyrillic syllables so clipped I wasn’t sure they were actually words.

I tried small talk once.

“It’s cold down here,” I said.

Silence.

Thoughtless blinking.

“I imagine summer’s no better.”

Nothing.

Barely even eye contact.

“I haven’t seen any rats down here. That’s a plus.”

The nearest one looked up.

Her eyes were like the Danube in February: deep, unforgiving, and frigid.

I smiled again, more tentative this time.

She blinked and returned to her folder.

Not long after, I heard the scuffing of boots in the hallway outside. Men moved through the hallways above and beyond the doorway. Always wearing suits two sizes too large, with lapels like sails and ties of unfortunate patterns that reminded me of Arty’s mother’s lamps. One wore a hat indoors. One smelled of onions so strongly I caught the scent from a dozen yards. One passed the doorway three times in half an hour and never once looked at me.

Not directly.

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