Denton let out a groan. He sank down in the seat, pulling Nate with him. “I know that guy! He calls himself ‘Mr. Smith.’ ”

“See!” Hannah exclaimed, triumphant. “I told you! Aharon—didn’t I say he was Mossad? I told you the Mossad was here.”

“Yes, Hannah, and I’m so happy you’ve been spending your time following such people.”

Nate was being crunched in Denton’s grip.

“You guys need to look like you’re doing something,” Denton whispered urgently to Aharon and Hannah. “Look natural.”

“It’s fine. They’re going the other way; he’s not even looking,” Aharon said dismissively.

Nate sat up cautiously, taking a look for himself. “He’s right. They went around the corner.”

Denton sat up, looking a bit chagrined. “Sorry. I’m trying not to be a wimp these days; it’s just that my body has a very real memory of being pummeled by that guy.”

“So he is Mossad?” Nate asked.

“Well, he never actually introduced himself as such, but I think so.”

“What about the woman?” Aharon asked Denton. “Did you recognize her?”

“No.”

“She’s here to make them look like a couple,” Hannah explained. “She’s a katsa.”

“Yes, thank you, Mata Hari,” Aharon said with mock enthusiasm. “So now what?”

“Someone should check into the hotel,” Hannah suggested, “pretend to be vacationing. We might be able to overhear them or even get into their room.”

Nate nodded. “That’s smart. There are four of us. We should spread out. Two can cover these guys and two can take the guys at Anatoli’s house.”

Aharon shrugged as if to say he couldn’t argue. “Fine, someone will check in here. But not you, Hannah.”

“Who then?” she asked.

“It can’t be me,” Denton said regretfully. “Smith would recognize me in a heartbeat.”

“I’ll do it,” Nate volunteered.

“Do you speak Hebrew?” Hannah asked.

“Um… not last time I checked.”

She gave her husband an “I told you so” look.

“Hannah, you’re not going in there.”

“Not alone…” she said leadingly. “It would be more convincing if a husband and wife checked in.”

Aharon grunted. “Then that settles it. Look at me!” He ran an open hand to indicate his countenance. “You think they wouldn’t be a little suspicious? You think they don’t have my picture?”

Hannah studied his face. “You know, I’m looking forward to seeing what you look like under that beard after all these years.”

“Hannah, are you crazy?” Aharon was aghast.

Nate couldn’t stop a smile. Welcome to my world, he thought.

It was mid-morning and Pol waited outside the airport in the cold. He stood still, almost like one at attention. But his mind was not at attention. Most of it was shut down. He was functioning with the mindless automation of a mortally wounded soldier crawling away from the enemy’s bayonet. He hated this place, with its snow and trees and strange little villages. Even the people did not strike a chord. He did not recognize their language. He was more lost here than he’d ever been in Centalia.

That could overwhelm him if he allowed it to. Instead, he allowed himself a goal: to find the familiar. He had to find Lt. Calder Farris.

Last night he’d followed the road signs toward Kraków because it was the largest name on those signs and must, therefore, be a city of good size. He’d gotten a ride, sitting in the front seat with a farmer who’d had a truck bed full of birds in cages. As they’d approached Kraków, Pol had seen a commercial jet plane in the air. He’d recognized it at once, understood it down to the basic principles of its aerodynamics—wingspan ratios and quantities of fuel—even though he knew very well that this particular type of aircraft did not exist in the world he’d just come from. He’d pushed aside all the ways that wanted to screw with his head. The plane could take him to Washington, D.C. He would ride the devil’s tail if it took him to Washington, D.C.

But he could not remember how one got onto the plane. So he’d sat inside the airport until past daybreak, observing the security guards, observing the buying of tickets, taking it in through a heavy filter, discarding everything that wasn’t need-to-know.

Need-to-know: He’d need identity papers and money to get on a plane.

Now he waited outside the airport. It was cold, almost as cold as Centalia. After a long time a man got out of a car. He was blond and of the right age and he was alone. Before the man could enter the terminal, Farris approached him.

“Can you tell me which is the road to Budapest?” Pol asked him in his old language.

The man tried to converse with him, pointing toward the city and speaking carefully in English. Pol wore a chilly smile. He grabbed the man’s arm and pushed the neck of a bottle in his pocket into the man’s side.

“Come with me,” Pol said.

The man looked around for help, but no one was paying any attention to them.

“What do you want? Please—”

Pol led the man away, quickly, before he could overcome his surprise. Around the terminal they went, to a place scoped out in advance, a small park.

In the trees, the man grew desperate. His face tightened as images of what Pol might want to do to him crossed his mind. Pol was operating swiftly and with deadly certainty, yet part of him was curious; part of him wished the man would fight back. But it was clear this creature was no warrior. His first instinct was not to fight but to offer money. He did so, pulling out a packet full of bills and the identity papers Pol needed. The man pleaded for his life in Polish and English.

It was time to act. Pol hesitated. He hesitated so long, the man sensed his weakness and tried to run. Before he had taken two steps, Pol brought the bottle from his pocket and down hard on the back of the man’s head. The man cried out in surprise and crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Pol took the man’s wallet, passport, and plane tickets. He put the things in his pockets. He stripped the man of his shirt and tie and put them on, taking the man’s heavy outer coat as well. He dumped out the contents of the man’s bag and put his old clothes in there. He did not think he would need them again, but he did not want them to be found here.

Kneeling down, he wrapped the scarf around the man’s throat, pulled it tight, prepared to pull it tighter. And knelt there.

He should kill this man. If the man was left alive, he would be able to describe his attacker. He would be able to give the name on Pol’s new identity papers, a name the authorities might otherwise take days to track down. Still, Pol hesitated.

He could not get the images out of his mind, images of the night he killed the Silver, Pol 137, how he had to hack and hack, how the blood had flowed like burgundy wine. Or of Gyde standing over the body of the Bronze rare book owner, putting out his cigarette in the blood.

Sweat dripped down Pol’s back inside his new shirt. His hands gripped both ends of the scarf tightly. They shook as if the scarf were alive with a current.

He couldn’t do it. He dropped the scarf.

There was a cracking branch behind him. He spun, a snarl on his lips, guilt and fury over his own weakness dogging him.

“Lieutenant Farris?”

The blond woman stepped closer. For a moment he was sure he was hallucinating completely now, his enfeebled senses finally giving in to delusion. But she looked nervous and she looked cold. A glisten of moisture on her red nose testified to her reality.

She looked at the man on the ground, then at him. Pol hated the approval in her eyes. She should be afraid of him. He would make her afraid.

She rubbed her arms to warm herself. “Did you get his passport?”

Pol took it out of his pocket and looked at it.

“Credit cards?”