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."
"The border was tighter than usual," Elias replied, keeping his voice low. "Did you get the microfilm?" Playbirds Continental No 49
Elias adjusted his cufflink, the gold catching the amber glow of the chandelier. He wasn’t here for the cognac, though the 1948 vintage in his glass was exceptional. He was here for the —the legendary underground network of informants who operated out of the club’s high-stakes card rooms. "You’re late, Elias," a voice purred. Clara took a slow sip of his drink,
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. We had to play the long game tonight
"Better," she whispered, leaning in so close he could feel the hum of her pulse. "The flight plan. They’re moving the prototype at dawn. If we leave now, we can beat the sunrise to the airfield."
She slid a heavy brass key across the table. It was etched with the number . "The safe house?" Elias asked.