The stone under his feet was an intricate mosaic, clearly a matter of some honor to a craftsman centuries ago. According to the driver who’d brought him here from Luqa, a chatty amateur historian, the Roman legions had arrived two thousand years ago, and in their wake the island was subsequently pillaged by Arab hordes, sacked by the Aragonese, and occupied violently by Byzantines. So perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised he has ended up here, Bloch mused.

Though his body was travel-weary, Bloch’s mind was sharp, and he followed the directions he’d so meticulously memorized. He passed lines of white-stone villas rife with dull corners, and pairs of querulous old women rife with sharp opinions. There were shops and grocers, and the occasional municipal building, the latter distinguished by that universal air of managed demise. Bloch was completely out of breath when he reached the end of the winding lane, where the path funneled open into a broad piazza.

He decided the address he’d been given was most likely allotted to a restaurant on one corner of the square, although the place lacked any numbers to prove the point. The building had yard-thick walls, pockmarked from one invasion or another, and the tables were no more than slabs of bleached stone. Bloch kept to the sidewalk as instructed, and where it ended he paused at a scenic overlook to take in the glistening Mediterranean, a view that had certainly not changed since the day the Romans had arrived. Rolling cobalt swells met the bases of cliffs, having built and traveled for days to reach their churning end. He turned the other way and saw a lazy Monday on the square. Waiters on patios moved languidly in the rising heat to arrange place settings for lunch. Under an olive tree a workcrew was taking a break from plastering the walls of an old church.

Bloch was watching a priest cross the road, black robe flowing and a gold cross dangling from his neck, when David Slaton appeared out of nowhere. He was standing on the sidewalk a few steps away, relaxed but observant. He said, “Thanks for coming.” There was nothing more, no offer of a handshake or pat on the shoulder. For a man like Slaton, social graces were no more than tradecraft—exhibited when necessary for appearances, but otherwise superfluous.

“It’s been a long time, David.”

“Over a year. How is retirement treating you?”

“It was good until you came along. Then somebody shot me in the spine.”

“And your recovery?”

“A little stiffness. But maybe I’m only confusing it with old age.”