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say?
    Stop.
    He needed to know why. Why Adriana Stanescu had been condemned to death.
    He’d picked through their garbage, tracked down bank accounts, took some time to shadow the Stanescus’ acquaintances, working around the clock. The only spot on their records was an uncle, Mihai, who worked in a bakery near the Tiergarten. He’d twice been arrested for bringing Moldovans illegally into Germany. A humansmuggler, but small-time; otherwise, why would he rise at four each morning and not leave work until after four in the afternoon, flour dusting his hair and stuck to all his hard-to-wash spots?
    By all appearances, the Stanescus were precisely what they seemed: a hardworking immigrant family with a lovely teenaged daughter.
    Yet even as he investigated, he prepared. On Wednesday, he visited a bar not far from Alligator Taxi’s central office and struck up a conversation with Günter Wittinger, a young driver who’d been with Alligator only one year. He’d introduced himself as someone looking to break into the business, someone who needed advice. Despite what Radovan had said, his accent was good enough for this to work. Six beers later, Sebastian lifted Günter’s Alligator ID, then slipped out while the man was in the toilet.
    By Thursday—which (he saw by the incongruous pink hearts filling store windows) was Valentine’s Day—it was prepared. He knew the way in and the way out. The method of execution and the method of disposal. He had the tools—the coarse wire, duct tape, a large roll of plastic, a backsaw—but when the cashier slipped the saw into a stiff paper bag, he nearly collapsed, imagining its use.
    Though he could go through all the motions, the fact was that he was ruined. He was no longer Sebastian Hall, Tourist, but Milo Weaver, father. Then he broke all the laws of good sense and called his own father.
    It was irrationally stupid. If his Voice of God found out he was whispering secrets to a senior UN official, he’d be dead. Even the old man became short with him on the phone. “You don’t
need
me, Misha. You just think you need me.”
    “No, I do need you. Now.”
    “It’s a simple thing. You’ve got it all planned out. So go do it.”
    “You don’t understand. She looks just like Stephanie.”
    “She looks nothing like Stephanie. This girl is twice Stephanie’s age.”
    “Doesn’t matter,” Milo said, because now he knew. “It’s done. Our deal is finished. I’m not killing that girl just so you can have your source.”
    Milo noticed that parental responsibility had done nothing to move the old man. This, though—the threat of losing an informer within the CIA—led Yevgeny Primakov to sigh and say, “Meet me in the Berliner Dom at nine in the morning. We’ll join the crowds.”
    Before leaving that morning, Milo had scrubbed down the Friedrichshain pension and thrown away his toiletries and the two changes of clothes he’d picked up at KaDeWe. No matter what happened, he’d decided, today he would be finished with this damned city. To ensure that no one back at the Avenue of the Americas could follow his treasonous path, he’d taken apart his phone.
    Now it was nine, and the Bavarians were trickling inside.
    He approached the ticket window. The vendor, an old woman who’d lived in Berlin since its former life as three hundred and fifty square miles of rubble, squinted suspiciously when he said he wanted to see the church. He looked as hungover as he was, but his five-euro bill was clean enough.

4

    Somehow, Yevgeny Primakov had gotten into the cold church before him, though Milo had entered just behind the last Bavarian. The old man was standing beneath a window topped by a biblical painting and the beatitude
Selig sind, die reines Herzens sind
. Blessed are the pure of heart. Milo’s alcohol-stunted vision wasn’t strong enough to read this, but he’d visited the church before and knew it was there.
    His father didn’t bother looking at him. He stood with long,