She slid a heavy brass key across the table. It was etched with the number . "The safe house?" Elias asked.

Clara took a slow sip of his drink, her eyes scanning the room. At the far table, three men in grey suits were pretending not to watch them. "The 'Continental' doesn't just give up its secrets for free. We had to play the long game tonight."

Elias looked around the room—the smoke, the ghosts of the Cold War, the silent 'Playbirds' watching from the shadows. The Continental No. 49 was a place where stories ended, but as they stood to leave, he realized theirs was just beginning.

He didn't turn. He knew the scent: jasmine and cold rain. It was Clara, the most dangerous of the flock. She slipped into the leather booth beside him, her silk dress shimmering like oil on water.