The man eyed Gabe again, rubbing his mouth and chin, disrupting the weft of his thick, dark mustache. “I was not informed of this,” he said again. That lovely Slavic devotion to hierarchy, tinged with the bitterness of being left out of the loop. Gabe had used it to his advantage more than once.
“So check it with Alestair. Please—be my guest.” Gabe smiled with only a hint of teeth. “Bring him down here, make him explain the need for inventory. I’m certain he’d be just thrilled to step away from his sensitive operation to have to repeat himself when you missed his message . . .”
The man’s other hand, the one not rubbing at his chin, was dipping toward his waistband.
“Of course,” Gabe said in a rush, “I have my credentials.”
The man rocked back on his heels. Just a fraction.
“From Alestair. Yes? Is that what you’re looking for?”
“Let me see it.” That accent made everything sound like a death threat.
Gabe reached into his satchel. “It’s right in here. I’m going to take it out very slowly. See?” He’d been on the other end of this sort of exchange enough to do the work for both of them. Didn’t stop the fresh bead of sweat from running down his temple as the man hovered over him. “Showing you my bag . . . taking it out very slowly . . .”
Gabe’s fingers curled around the main body of the charm Alestair had given him, an involuntary reaction. A thousand different sensations played across his mouth, his nose, his skin, his inner ears. Alestair had said it required a fairly sophisticated ritual to craft a charm like this one. Gabe just hoped that it was sophisticated enough to mark it as Alestair’s own work.
The man’s hand moved away from his waist and he reached for the charm.
“Oh,” the man said, as his fingers brushed against the charm. “Oh. I see.”
Gabe resisted the urge to gloat, though it took some effort. “Is that enough of a credential for you?”
Something whispered between the two of them; Gabe might have thought it was only a breeze if he hadn’t been training with Alestair. Now, though, he knew better. The man was channeling something. Testing the charm, maybe, to verify its provenance. Perhaps there was some sort of ritual he could conduct to prove that Gabe hadn’t killed Alestair and ripped the charm from his cold, dead (but still well-moisturized) hands. Who knew what magic was capable of? Not Gabe—he was humble enough to admit that to himself.
Depending on what he discovered inside the boat’s hold, though, maybe it was finally time he learned.
“Yes,” the man said at last. “That will be acceptable.”
The boat guard wrapped his fist around the lock; if he noticed it had been picked, he gave no hint of it. Another whisper, strumming across Gabe’s senses in a subtler, sweeter-tasting way, and the lock popped off.
“You go ahead,” the man said. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
Only because he was looking for it did Gabe notice the tension in the man’s throat, in his upraised chin. Whatever was inside, the guard wanted no part of it.
Gabe raised the hatch’s lid and lowered himself into the hold.
3.
Somewhere in the depths of the Soviet embassy, a clock chimed. Zerena Pulnoc looked up from the letter she’d been writing and pressed her lips together. Her guest was late. Not that she expected any better from him, but it disappointed her all the same. This was Prague, after all. The jewel of Eastern Europe, the glittering gold gate of the Iron Curtain. She shouldn’t have to resort to such primitive, unreliable sources to get things done.
And yet. Here she was.
She turned back to the letter before her—the tangle of Roman letters and Arabic numbers spaced out into a long and rambling message, its secrets illegible to anyone but the intended recipient. A one-time pad was a precious thing, unbreakable, as long as it was used properly. Which was to say, exactly once.
Zerena found that the same applied to most things and people in her life.
A short knock at the door, hesitant and light. A sneer curled her upper lip as she lifted her head, mentally marking her place in the message she was encoding. “What is it?”
One of the maids—Erzebet, something of the sort—stuck her head through the office door. “They’ve brought your dress choices for tonight’s party. Did you want to select one now?”
Zerena let the pen tip rest against her lips for a moment, then glanced back at her correspondence. “No. Leave them in my dressing room. I’ll deal with them later.”
“Of course, ma’am.” The maid dropped into a curtsy without coming fully through the doorway, then left with a soft click of the latch.
Zerena smiled to herself. How bourgeois. She was a student of the revolution, an architect of the cold snap that put an end to the Prague Spring, and here she was, ensconced in her castle, with the servants bending to her will like flowers to the sun.
But she’d earned her place here. She’d done what anyone had the capacity to do, if not the fortitude. And there was plenty more work to be done.
Zerena finished transcribing her notes, waved the paper dry, then folded it up. She had just unlocked the drawer where she kept her seals when another knock came on the door.
“Come on in.” Zerena slipped the letter into the drawer and settled into the wingback chair.
Marcel. One of the Komsomol Youth League students at the university she’d taken under her wing. Only—she checked the slender watch on her wrist with no particular effort to conceal that she was doing so—twenty-three minutes late. “I trust you’re late because you were being thorough.”
She could toss the rope to him, but he had to swim to it himself, and Marcel did not. “I—I’m sorry, ma’am. I had to speak to Professor Hašek after class, and then drop some books at the library on my way over here, and . . . Well, it’s not important to you.”
Zerena leveled her gaze at him.
“Anyway, you did get my—my message, yes?” He shifted his bag from one shoulder to the other. “For our ‘friends’ in Moscow?”
Zerena considered a withering response, informing him he wasn’t half so subtle as he believed himself to be, but decided against it. The information he thought was invaluable was useless; it was everything else she needed from him. But to get that everything else, she had to keep him happy and his ego sufficiently stroked. For now.
“Oh, yes.” She gave him a cold smile. “I’ve already cabled it back to them. I know they will be very pleased with your work.”
The tension in his shoulders dissipated at that, and he hazarded a grin.
“You’re providing a very valuable service to the cause, Marcel. Turning the tide in the university, leading them away from all those foolish Dubček sycophants.”
Zerena picked up her pen again, and let it dance through her fingers for a few seconds, as if hesitant. “I do worry, though. About your attention to detail.”
He swallowed, Adam’s apple twitching at his unbuttoned collar. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve heard some troubling things about your friend. The girl who presented Professor Hašek at the lecture, yes? With the . . .” Zerena pantomimed over her own razor-straight hair.
“Andula?” Marcel ventured.
“Yes. That was it.” Zerena snapped her fingers. “I have not seen her around in several days. And none of your other friends have, either.”
Marcel puffed up his chest. “Andula’s clever, but she’ll never be loyal to the cause, if you don’t mind my saying. I think it’s a waste of your efforts if you’re looking to recruit her.”
Zerena peered down her aquiline nose at him. Didn’t say anything, just held the stare for several seconds until the boy took a step back.
“I—” He swallowed again and clutched his satchel higher against his chest. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It was only my opinion . . .”
“It was a very limited one,” Zerena said. She tossed her head back, pale hair cascading. “Her willingness to aid us is only a very small part of what use she
can serve.”
Marcel raised one eyebrow. “How do you mean?”
“You did not notice the American men who took an interest in her, after the presentation?” Zerena laid the pen back down before her. “The blond man, and his curly-haired friend. Trying to speak to her. Perhaps too eagerly.”
Marcel shook his head. “No, I—”
“And who do you suppose those men might be? No, no, it doesn’t even matter—any permutation is unwelcome. What matters is that they showed her too much interest. The reason, too, is unimportant. They believe Andula has some use to them. And so, we must make her useful first.”
“You think the Americans have detained her?” Marcel asked. “I just don’t think they—they would have taken her, or—I mean, she has family in the countryside, and maybe she went to see them for a sudden illness, or—or who knows? It could be anything.”
Now it was Zerena’s turn to lift a brow. “You never mentioned her family in the country before.” She made a note in an open leather-bound journal before her. “What else have you forgotten to bring up?”
“No, I’ve told you everything else I know.” He frowned. “I’m sure she’s fine. I’ll do my best to find out where she’s gone. Maybe Professor Hašek knows—we attend his class together. Or our friend—”
“You understand why I must worry for her,” Zerena continued. “You would wish me to worry the same way for you, yes?”
He lowered his gaze, speaking to his shoes. “Yes, ma’am.”
“There are so many unfortunate things that can happen to people like us. To people who dare to take risks.”
He worked his jaw. “I’ll do whatever it takes, ma’am, for the good of the cause. I promise you.”
“I know you will.” Her smile bared just a sliver of teeth. “But you must remain vigilant of these dangers. From the Americans. From other forces besides. I would hate for something similar to befall you—all because you could not pay attention.”
“I—I understand.” He held one palm up, wincing away from her.
“You understand. And you will find out what happened to Andula, as well?”
He nodded again, backing up into the door.
“I’m so very glad to hear it.” Zerena reached for the drawer once more. “Best of luck on your exams, Marcel.”
• • •
Tanya couldn’t shake the restlessness that she’d felt since she delivered Andula safely into the Ice’s care. Usually, when a mission was complete, she slipped into an easy state of bliss—everything was a little sunnier, a little softer, gold-tinted in her eyes. This assignment, though, carried the pinch of a chore left undone.
But she’d done everything. She found a Host, rescued that Host from the Flame (even if it had been closer than she’d liked), and gotten her safely into Ice custody. What was left? True, there had been—complications. (A good Russian euphemism, like a scrap of gauze over a gaping wound.) That rogue witch, or whatever Alestair was considering him, stalking her over half of Prague. Gabriel. The American. The other shpion.
Tanya watched him now, from the far side of the French embassy’s great hall. He was laughing with his other spy friend, the young one, without the slightest whiff of concern. Winthrop swore he was “on the up and up,” and that even if he wouldn’t join the Ice in their efforts, he’d at least try not to actively sabotage them. But they’d said the same of that Rhemes woman, and she’d caused more than a few “complications” herself.
Tanya didn’t like to leave things unfinished. Loose ends had a way of unraveling further, and tangling up into a noose. Maybe Andula was safe for now, but she couldn’t risk Gabe interfering with the next Host they encountered, or deciding he himself was better off casting his lot in with the Flame.
American or not. CIA or not. The world of magic was too dangerous to leave open—the damage he could cause, too great. She needed to make him understand.
• • •
“Thank God,” Gabe said, draining what Josh estimated to be his third or fourth glass of champagne. “I thought I’d never get the taste of Sovyetskoye Shampanskoye out of my mouth.”
“You know, they make mouthwash for that,” Josh said.
But Josh already knew what Gabe was going to say. In communist Czechoslovakia, vodka tastes like mouthwash and mouthwash tastes like vodka. Josh knew this less from an eerie sense of déjà vu and more from a certainty that they had had this exact conversation before. That was the problem, he was finding, with these embassy parties. There was an impossibly narrow band of safe topics along the spectrum that comprised Joshua Toms. He had to keep threading the same needle, over and over.
Sometimes, though, it couldn’t be helped. No matter who might be listening, Josh had to shed his character for the sake of the team. Like when he caught Tatiana Morozova glancing their way a second time. The second time he’d noticed, anyway.
“Soooo,” Josh said, drawing the vowel out while he shuffled to place himself between Tanya and Gabe. “What’s the word with that Russki broad? From the lecture?”
Gabe’s knuckles went white around the stem of his empty champagne flute. He brought it to his lips and tried to take a swig, but there was nothing left to chug.
Was Gabe afraid? Embarrassed? Whatever emotion was now etching itself into Gabe’s too-blank face, it wasn’t the reaction Josh had been hoping for. He tried to shrug away the doubt Frank had draped around him like a shroud. If there was anything between Gabe and a KGB agent—Josh’s mind spun, whirling around and around on that thought with unstoppable force. It didn’t matter what it was—sex, espionage, even a shared love of Spartak hockey. It would only end badly for Gabe.
Josh had to be wrong. Please, God, let me be wrong.
“Which one?” Gabe asked, lowering the glass. “The frosty-looking blonde, or the brunette who looks like she could punch your lights out?”
Josh forced himself to smile. Gabe was indulging him—that had to be a good sign, right? If he really, really didn’t want to throw a spotlight on his relationship with the KaGeBeznik, he would have evaded the conversation. Unless he was all too aware of how conspicuous such avoidance would be, and was compensating. “The blonde. I could swear she’s making eyes at you.” Josh made his grin wider; it came a little easier. “Maybe you could play her, let her think she’s honeypotting you. She’s not so bad-looking, right?”
“Right.” Gabe wheezed out a laugh. “Thanks, Toms, but I’m not quite desperate enough to start taking your advice on the ladies.”
Josh laughed too, because he wanted to be able to laugh with Gabe again. He hoped it didn’t sound too hysterical.
Gabe slung his arm around Josh’s shoulder. Josh noticed a smell clinging to him—not alcohol, which he would have expected; it was sharp, a little metallic, like rust or—or blood. Josh didn’t want to consider that possibility.
“Lemme give you a freebie, Toms. See that fellow over there?” Gabe gestured through the curtained doorway that led to the gentlemen’s lounge, thick with cigar smoke and the scent of cognac. “The German in the cheap suit.”
“Cheap to you, maybe.” Josh grinned and fingered the nap of his corduroy blazer, which was looking a bit worn despite his best efforts.
Gabe nudged him and clung tighter. “He works a lot of business ventures in Berlin, east of the wall. Manages to play nice with both the DDR and the Stasi enough that they look the other way.”
“Sounds like a fun guy.”
“And,” Gabe added, leaning forward with more emphasis than he would if he were sober, “I hear he loves nothing more than to blather away about musty old German tomes.”
“Now who’s trying to play matchmaker?” Josh nudged Gabe in the ribs. “Really, though, I’ve got my hands full with the new friend you introduced me to. You sure you don’t want this one? Might give you a slam dunk.” Might put you back in Frank’s good graces, Josh added silently, and hoped Gabe wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t pick up on the implication, too.
“Psssh. I’ll b
e fine. I’ve got some long-term plans I’m developing. This one has you written all over it.”
Josh stepped forward, just enough to make Gabe’s arm fall away from him. Then he spun on Gabe. Looked him over—his . . . coworker? His friend? Could he still lay claim to that, with that uneasy tension sliding between them so much these days, their third wheel?
Gabe smiled at him. Sloppy, but genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Surely they could mend whatever this rift was. Gabe’s dry spell, his off-year, his slump. Josh hadn’t been in the business long enough to hit his yet, but he’d heard they were always looming. No way to avoid it entirely. He hoped that when his came, he could plow through it, same as Gabe.
“Thanks. You’re a real pal.” He clapped Gabe on the shoulder, then began to ease his way toward the boys’ club. A dozen possible opening lines shuffled through his mind. The game was on.
4.
Gabe staggered forward the moment Josh left his side.
Shit. He needed to—dammit. No. He did not need another drink. He was already feeling wobbly after skipping lunch. The hitchhiker, which had been strumming at elemental chords for most of the day, was now returning to its old state of maniacal hammering. Pounding at his head. Josh had said Tanya was watching him, which was about the last thing he needed, and there were no signs of Alestair, the first thing he needed. Alcohol-sharpened anger flashed through Gabe. Alestair and his dumb face, just begging for Gabe’s fist. His fingers curled reflexively; he dug his knuckles into his thigh. He’d rather claw his own skin off than spend another fucking minute in the French embassy with all these stupid fucking people.
Like worrying about the KGB wasn’t enough to keep him stressed out and paranoid; like that blonde witch bitch wasn’t twelve different kinds of bad news. Now he had a whole new set of magic-related problems to worry about, distracting him from his real job. The drafty embassy was barely warmer than the winter night beyond the glass windows, but sweat made a waterfall down Gabe’s back as he wove through the crowd. He was done. He was just done with everything.
His headache turned sharp, like the hitchhiker already knew what he was thinking. Hell, maybe it did. But it didn’t matter. To hell with magic, to hell with how “useful” it might prove—Gabe was going to find a way to tear it out.
The Witch Who Came in From the Cold - Season One Volume One Page 14
