As the small tugboat slowly approached Pier B7 in Red Hook, Mikhail stood at the bow, his gaze fixed on the familiar figure waiting on the iron pier. In the gray morning mist, Shane cut a calm, unyielding silhouette, straight-backed and steady.
Mikhail's thoughts drifted back to their parting three months prior at the private club in Küsnacht, Zurich.
"Take good care of them."
"Take care, Mr. Cassidy. See you in New York."
The memory tugged at him. Three months of treacherous travel, evading constant threats, and maintaining strict vigilance had brought them to this moment. After a brief respite in London — and narrowly escaping the Begu men in Paris — he had fulfilled his promise.
The metallic scrape of the gangway being lowered cut through the dawn silence. Mikhail descended first, the journey leaving him thinner than before, yet a soldier's discipline kept his back rigid.
"Sir… everything went smoothly. We're back." His voice was hoarse but carried relief.
Shane's grey-blue eyes lingered on him, a faint ripple of emotion flashing before he stepped forward, patting Mikhail's shoulder with restrained warmth. He simply nodded — every feeling contained in his gaze.
Mikhail unfolded a damp shipping manifest from his inner pocket. The paper crackled softly.
"Twelve items, all transshipped via Liverpool, labeled as 'agricultural machinery parts.' One box nearly got inspected in Charleston."
"And?" Shane asked.
Jay, smiling lightly but scanning the surroundings, answered, "Two hundred dollars… plus a polite request for last month's busybody's resignation letter."
Under Volker's meticulous command, all cargo was swiftly loaded onto the white 1.5-ton armored trucks. Shane handed a silver-plated flask to Dr. Klaus:
"Welcome to America, Doctor. Unfortunately, these masterpieces will wait in a Brooklyn basement for now."
Klaus held the flask but did not drink, eyes tracing the fading silhouette of the Olympic in the fog. "From Jena to New York… hiding light in darkness. One day, it will shine where it belongs."
Orki approached from the truck, winking at Mikhail. "All seals intact. Box three's shock absorbers need recalibration."
"The main camera unit?" Klaus tensed.
"No, the backup," Orki reassured him. "The main equipment is in container seven. Volker is personally overseeing it."
The distant foghorns of New York Harbor signaled the awakening city. Shane glanced at his watch and turned to the team.
"Time to move — early shift workers are starting." He fixed Mikhail with a steady gaze. "We'll take you to the safe house to rest. More discussions tonight."
Mikhail nodded, exhaustion finally catching up. He realized their months-long escort mission, spanning half of Europe, had finally concluded.
In the Brooklyn safe house, the brass mantel clock chimed eight. Dr. Klaus sat on a dark leather sofa, steam curling from his coffee, fogging his gold-rimmed glasses.
Shane placed a brown paper file folder on the mahogany desk.
"Doctor, this is your new identity. Karl Weber, Swiss optical engineer, immigrated three years ago, now employed by Pioneer Optics' Special Projects Department."
Klaus opened the folder. Inside were neatly arranged identification documents: a dark blue passport, social security card, driver's license, and two faded photographs of him strolling through Central Park. A gold-embossed employment contract and a Citibank deposit slip completed the package, the numbers causing him to pause briefly.
"Your lab is on Long Island," Shane continued, "officially a film equipment testing center." His gaze swept to a stack of yellowed technical evaluation reports.
Klaus examined the reports, noting that the lenses they had retrieved were nearly 40% sharper than those currently used in Hollywood.
"MGM scrapped two thousand feet of film last week," Shane said, holding a 35mm reel. The heroine's face appeared unnaturally blue, the cloud gradients lost in blur.
Klaus strode to his suitcase, unbuckled the belt, and retrieved a roll of blueprints wrapped in oiled paper.
"Have you seen this?" He unrolled complex drawings of aspherical mirrors, annotated with curvature formulas and director's veto notes from the Zeiss laboratory.
"A failed Zeiss project; they feared distortion from the wide-angle structure."
Shane leaned over the blueprint, eyes scanning. The date, November 1927, marked Klaus' last project before leaving Zeiss.
"Combine it with the high-refractive-index glass we brought," Klaus said, pencil in hand. Calculations quickly exceeded theoretical limits published in the Journal of Optics, achieving the shallow depth-of-field effect akin to human vision.
The muffled thud of crates hit the basement floor. Vanio directed workers moving "agricultural machinery parts" into storage.
"Current three-color cameras are too heavy," Shane noted, tracing the film sprocket holes. "The cinematographer risked dislocation filming one scene. Reducing weight by a third while improving quality…"
Klaus' finger traced a blueprint point. "Magnesium alloy lens barrels, combined with our lightweight focusing mechanism, can achieve that. The special glass you supplied will reduce weight and correct color anomalies."
A salty breeze drifted through the half-open window, ruffling papers. The numbers and formulas on the desk seemed to dance in the morning light, forming the blueprint of a revolution that would reshape the film industry.