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asking.”
    “Forgive me,” said Weiss awkwardly. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’m looking for some personal protection in the form of a pistol. If you please.”
    “Nay, ye aren’t,” replied Lockerbie, bits of apple fighting to escape the corners of his mouth. “Shoot yourself in the foot, ye will, then yer wife will come back complainin’ ta me.”
    Before Weiss could protest, Lockerbie crooked a finger at Weiss to follow him. He limped past carved tobacco pipes, silver pocket watches, and gaudy broaches. The old man wiped a hand wet with juice drippings on his vest, then produced a knotted walking stick from a brass stand. He tossed the staff to Weiss, who was surprised by its heft.
    “You don’t understand,” Weiss protested. “I need protection—”
    “Ack,” interrupted Lockerbie, grabbing the cane back. He held the stick in one hand, grunting to get the German’s attention, and tossed what was left of the apple on the floor. With a quick twist of the handle, a cruel six-inch blade sprung from the cane’s end and locked into place with a satisfying metallic
thunk.
The old man stabbed the apple clean through and offered it to Weiss.
    Weiss removed the apple and inspected the sturdy blade. In close quarters, a blade might prove more dependable than a pistol. He was not much of a shot, and guns could misfire. Hidden inside the cane, the knife was certainly more discreet. “Yes,” he said, “this should do very nicely indeed.”
    Now Weiss leaned on his new stick as he surveyed the enormous crowd of passengers, gawkers, and well-wishers. Motor cars full of trunks honked their way through the assembly, while men in bowler hats checked their pocket watches and hurried to the proper gangways. Then with a start, and cursing his complacency, Weiss suddenly hurried to blend into the throngs of people. Tugging his cap down and shuffling toward the boarding lines, he thought,
I must remember to be more inconspicuous.

7

    ROOFTOP. SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND .
    WEDNESDAY, APRIL 10, 1912. 10:10 A.M .
    The Agent stood atop a building overlooking the Southampton harbor. His perch was the perfect vantage point to watch a line of fidgeting third-class passengers boarding the ship. Gawkers clapped along with the band, competing with screeching gulls and the cheering crowd to create a boisterous din.
    It had been seven years since the pogrom in Kishinev destroyed his life. He hated Weiss for delaying his revenge even one day longer. The wait would end today. The traitor hadn’t shown himself as yet, but he would.
    The Agent was confident he could spot Theodor Weiss in the black of night during a thunderstorm, and on this morning, the bright sun shone in a clear blue sky. Weiss would travel as a third-class passenger: scientists were logical to a fault. To disappear, he’d pick the most unassuming form of passage. Weiss was among this crowd; of that, the Agent was certain.
    No one who knew the real Vitaly Jadovsky would mistake the Agent for the propagandist, but a bit of disguise went a long way. The Agent was now a fair match for the Russian’s grainy passport photo. Dressed in a black top coat with black tie and gray whiskers (attachedto his chin with spirit gum), he should easily pass through customs. Then again, perhaps he wouldn’t need to …
    For there was Weiss!
    The Agent established the vial’s hiding place instantly—in the worn black satchel the scientist clutched tightly in his left hand. Even from the rooftop, the Agent could see the tension in Weiss’s fist and forearm.
    The Agent swiftly made his way to street level and entered the moving current of the crowd, keeping Weiss in his sights. The scientist was clearly traveling alone, with no companion to call for help or play the hero. Perfect. The raucous mob scene provided sufficient cover, but also a logistical problem: How to snatch the bag with the least fuss and fewest witnesses?
    Closing in on his target, the Agent quickly considered his