Page 71 of Shadowfox

“Romantic,” Will muttered, squinting at the twisted iron rails. “You really know how to pick a place for a date.”

“It has the benefit of shadows and silence.”

Will tried to rub warmth into his arms as he said, “It could do with a heater.”

We waited.

Ten minutes passed, maybe twelve.

The cold worked its way beneath my collar and settled into my spine. My fingers ached. Will shifted beside me, rubbing his gloved hands together, tapping one foot in a slow rhythm that echoed off the stone.

Then, finally—

A figure appeared from the far end of the platform. His shoulders were hunched, coat pulled tight, hat low over glasses that caught the glow from a distant streetlamp just enough to flash once. The man—we could tell it was a man—walked with a slight limp. Not affected. Real.

It was Dr. Farkas.

He was alone.

Farkas stopped four paces from us and said nothing at first. He just stared, sizing us up.

“You are not who I expected,” he said in Hungarian-accented English. His voice was dry, cracked, like parchment folded too many times.

“We are never who anyone expects,” I replied.

Farkas hesitated and shifted his weight.

“Where is my contact?” Farkas asked, his voice taking on a demanding edge. “And who are you?”

“She isn’t part of this phase. You’ll understand why shortly.” I let that sink in, then added, “You don’t need to call us anything. Just know we are here to help.”

His eyes narrowed. “I am a scientist. I don’t like changes in plans . . . or mysteries.”

“None of us do, but that’s life.” I glanced at Will, who stepped back, giving us space. “You have built something, Doctor, something that makes many people nervous.”

His jaw clenched.

His glasses fogged at the corners.

“You do not know what it is?” I wasn’t sure if it was more question or statement.

“Not the full shape, but we know enough to understand what it can do. More importantly, we know what the Soviets would do with it.”

Farkas looked away, as if the shadows beyond the platform could answer for him.

“I didn’t build it for them.”

“And yet—”

Silence again.

Then: “You can get me out?”

“We can.”

“The machine—” He stopped, exhaled through his nose. “It is too large. It is not portable in the way you think.”

“We will handle it,” I said, unsure if my words were true.

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