Page 9 of Shadowfox

4

Thomas

Manakintappedastackof folders against the table, straightening them with that irritating precision of his before setting them down. I already didn’t like wherever this was going. Will looked like he wanted to vomit.

The tension in the room shifted. Our warm camaraderie of earlier cooled as we prepared to step onto dangerous ground.

“What’s the current situation on the ground? What’s Budapest like? I’ve never even thought about the place, much less been there,” I said.

The others of our team nodded, as though I’d spoken words already rattling around in their heads.

Manakin exhaled, rolling a cigarette between two fingers before speaking. His voice was steady, almost detached, but there was something hard beneath the surface.

“Budapest isn’t a city anymore. It’s a wound that has yet to heal.”

He flicked ash into the tray, watching the embers die. A sliver of smoke curled and danced before dissipating.

“The war tore through it like a rabid dog. The Siege of Budapest was supposed to only last a few weeks, but it lasted almost four months. The Red Army and the Nazis fought street by street, block by block, and by the time it was over, the city wasn’t just broken—it was gutted. You will still see the scars. Bombed-out buildings, rubble where homes used to be, entire districts that still stink of smoke if you stand there long enough. People barely survive in the cracks, in the spaces the Soviets haven’t paved over with their boots yet.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“And the Soviets, well—” He let out a humorless chuckle. “They came in as liberators, sure, but I doubt you need me to tell you what they really are. The Red Army didn’t just take the city. They consumed it. They ransacked it. Hundreds of thousands of Hungarian women were raped. Tens of thousands of men were dragged away, sent east, never to be seen again—and those were just the first months. What is left is a city that’s alive on the surface but rotting underneath.”

Manakin tapped his cigarette against the edge of the table.

“You will see it when you get there. The way people move . . . too fast or too slow, trying to be invisible . . . the way they talk—never too much, never too little, always looking over their shoulder. The Soviets run everything now. The Hungarian Communist Party is a puppet held up by Russian hands. Anyone with ties to the old government was arrested and sent to internment camps or put on trial for ‘war crimes’—which, let us be honest, is a nice way of saying ‘eliminate the opposition.’”

He exhaled sharply.

“The Hungarian secret police, the ÁVH, they’re everywhere. Half of them do not wear uniforms. Neighbors turn each other in for a loaf of bread. The city is afraid—and for good reason. If you are Hungarian, you keep your head down. If you are a foreigner, you are either an asset to the regime or an enemy of the state. And if you are an enemy, you disappear.”

His gaze flicked to me, then to Will.

“Thatis what you are walking into. A city that is still trying to figure out whether it survived or was conquered by something worse.”

Silence settled over the table.

Manakin flipped open the first folder in his stack, revealing another set of documents, photographs, and typed dossiers. He pulled one out and slid it toward Will.

“Henry Calloway,” he said. “American. U.S. State Department representative. Here to oversee ‘scientific collaboration’ and promote post-war industrial partnerships.”

Will picked up the file, flipping through it without expression. The photo they’d given him looked suitably dull—close-cropped hair, a formal expression, a man who looked like he lived and breathed paperwork.

“I don’t look very fun,” Will quipped. I resisted the urge to elbow him.

“You’re not supposed to,” Manakin replied.

Will raised an eyebrow, but Manakin ignored him.

“Your job is to be the official face of the delegation. You talk when necessary, stay out of technical discussions, and make sure Hungarian officials buy into the story. If anyone asks what you actually do, you ‘facilitate diplomatic cooperation.’ Say nothing. Mean nothing.”

“So, I’m the clueless bureaucrat.” Will hummed, tapping his fingers against the file. “At least I don’t have to put on an accent.”

“Exactly right . . . on both counts. We have all heard you try your hand at a British accent, and the Crown was offended.”

Will rolled his eyes, then closed the folder and leaned back, arms crossed. I could tell he didn’t like any of this, but he wasn’t about to argue.

Manakin turned to me next.

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