Operation Albatross

4. A Guest at the Table

Leipzig, East Germany — Safehouse Apartment

The knock came again. Miles opened the door with the chain still on.

"Herr Wolfram!" The man on the landing beamed, holding a cheap bouquet of tulips like a flag. Pale hair, sharp glasses, coat that tried too hard to look civilian. "You left your paperwork at the consulate."

"Paperwork," Miles repeated. Neutral tone. Tail still.

Lillian appeared at his shoulder, smile polite, paw resting lightly on Miles' arm. "And you are?" she asked.

"Kaspar," he said. "Just Kaspar." Of course it was, she thought. Men like this always had one‑word names, words as simple and lethal as knives. "You must be the attaché from London," he added, his eyes lingering too long over her.

"Technically," she replied.

They let him in. The tulips sat on the counter like a joke no one quite wanted to explain.

At the table, Miles poured wine. Lillian steered conversation through safe topics like a pianist working scales: books, architecture, where to find good meat and decent coffee in Leipzig. Kaspar smiled, nodded, agreed too readily. His gaze flicked to the bugged light, to the photos on the shelf, then back to Miles and to the table. "Agent Wolfram," he said once, too smoothly.

Miles's paw tightened on the bottle. Lillian's paw brushed his knee under the table. Warning.

"I'm a trade liaison," Miles said. "Paperwork and polite lies. Nothing as glamorous as agents."

Kaspar laughed. "Then I must be confused." His glasses flashed. "It happens."

Later, as he drifted near the bookshelf, pretending to admire their fake holiday, Lillian stepped in close enough that he had to tilt his head back a fraction. "You've made your point," she said quietly. "Tell your friends in Normannenstraße they're late. The party started without them."

His smile slipped. "You're not just an attaché."

"Technically," she said. "I'm the one with the cake knife," she said, making him feel the sharp tip of the knife at his reins.

"You've made your point, too," he replied politely.

He left with the same smile he'd brought, but the bouquet stayed behind. Tulips, she thought, were terrible at listening devices.

When the door closed, Miles exhaled.

"You knew he was Stasi," he said.

"He files his nails," she said. "And wears a specific type of knock‑off cologne that only comes through one procurement officer. MI6 has been reading their post."

He poured another glass, more for something to do with his hands than the taste. "What are you really doing here, Lillian?" he asked. "MI6 doesn't throw Cambridge prizes into Leipzig for a routine courier."

She met his eyes. "Discovering," she said, "whether the Americans' favourite defector is worth my time."

He laughed once, without warmth. "Congratulations," he said. "You've picked the losing team."