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Jake. When Jake didn’t say anything, Kurt said, “Albrecht hire you for protection?”
    â€œMakes sense considering what happened.”
    â€œYou must have just been hired,” Kurt said.
    Finally an opening, Jake thought, smiling. “You’ve been watching Albrecht. Why?”
    Kurt shook his head and said, “Can’t tell you.”
    â€œYou just did. At least that you were watching him. I’ll find out why. You might as well tell me now. Save me a little time.”
    â€œGod, you’re a relentless bastard.”
    â€œTrue. But just call me Jake. God is so pretentious.”
    Kurt laughed. “Okay. You want me to finish this story? Bring you up to date. Up to this moment.”
    â€œWhat the fuck.”
    â€œSo, you drive Albrecht to the east train station,” Kurt said, “or at least close to it, and hop a train to Bratislava.”
    He was guessing now, Jake thought. No way he could know about the two of them going to Bratislava. He had paid for the tickets with cash. “Finally, you made a mistake.”
    â€œActually, Jake, we got video of you in the train station. We also know about the priest killed in Bratislava.”
    Shit. “Well, you’ve been busy, Kurt. But why?”
    Kurt shrugged and shoved his hands into his coat pockets.
    â€œYou can’t be interested in the murder of a parish priest. How in the hell is that Agency business?”
    â€œJake. Someone sent a digital photo, along with a thirty-second movie clip, of you kicking the shit out of two Bratislava cops. You can still kick some ass for a guy your age. The images are from a night-vision lens, so you are not identified completely to the untrained eye, but I had no problem identifying you. Neither did Toni.”
    Jake’s eyes shifted right at Kurt. “Toni is in Austria?”
    â€œShe’s the Vienna station chief.”

    Bratislava, Slovak Republic
    Toni Contardo had tracked down the former Brother of the Teutonic Order at his cousin’s house on the hills in the western part of the city, with a view of the old town. The Agency had suspected Jiri Sikora knew something about the murder of the two priests. Sikora had been picked up by Slovak police three times in the past few months for what they called “suspicious behavior.” Which Toni knew, based on her experience with the Slovak authorities, could be anything from spitting on the sidewalk to raping a four-year-old.
    She had sat in her Alfa Romeo two blocks from Sikora’s suspected location, a second floor apartment in a row house in a Soviet-era building that more resembled a nuclear power plant than residences. When the guy finally showed up, parking his VW Polo only a block in front of her car, she slouched down in her seat.
    It was Sikora. The man glanced her way for a second and then shuffled into the apartment complex.
    Toni sat up, ran her fingers through her dark curly hair, and then got out. With slow, measured steps, she casually made her way to the building, stopping once to check out a storefront window display, looking at her reflection, and to see if anyone had followed her. She wore black slacks that accentuated her figure more than she wanted and made her look taller than her five-nine. But the black leather jacket was bulky, allowing her to keep her Glock under her left breast. Looking further back in the reflection, she scanned the street behind her and saw nothing out of the ordinary.
    Satisfied, she walked off and entered the building. She skipped steps on her way to the second floor and entered a long corridor with doors offset. At least the Russians had enough sense to not put the doors directly across from each other, she thought.
    How to handle this guy? The direct approach. She’d use womanhood to her advantage. There was no peep hole. Great. She knocked on the apartment door and waited, hearing footsteps come toward the door and then stop. Would he be too arrogant to