“You’re Jacob Yost?” His voice betrayed his incredulity.

The man nodded. “I am the son of the man you called several days ago. I am Jacob Yost the second—or junior, as you Americans refer to it.”

Searching for words, trying desperately to collect his thoughts, Seth replaced Yost’s driver’s license in his wallet and slid it back across the table.

“I don’t understand,” he stammered. “Why would you—why follow me like this?”

“Because someone who said he was you came to our house last night. He had men with him and he wanted to hurt my father. The man is not alive. Neither are his friends.” Yost’s voice was matter-of-fact

“But who? Why?” Seth asked.

“They had no identification,” Yost said, “and they spoke German with Russian accents. I believe they worked for the KGB.”

Seth nodded knowingly. “That makes sense,” he said, and then stopped himself. “No, that doesn’t make any sense at all. None of this does. But at least it fits. They tried to kill me before. I thought you…”

“Might be one of them?” Seth nodded. Jacob Yost smiled for the first time. “No, Mr Ridgeway?” Seth nodded. “We are both on the same side.”

Yost extended his hand across the table. Ridgeway looked at it warily. Was it a trick? Identification can be faked, Seth reminded himself. And the best of killers are also the best of actors. As he looked at the proffered handshake of friendship, he thought of Weinstock, of the priest of Amsterdam, of George Stratton. They had all come to him in friendship and they had all proven they were worthy of trust.… Stratton had saved his life; the other two had died.

Reluctantly, Seth decided he had to trust this man. Stifling a chill that skated down his spine, he slowly relaxed his grip on the Magnum and pulled his hand from his pocket.

“All right,” Seth said finally as he took Yost’s warm, dry grip and shook it. “We’re on the same side.”

“That’s good,” Yost said, shaking Seth’s hand and then letting it go. “Because the man at the next table”—he nodded to his left—”has a gun more powerful than your own, pointed at your head.”

Ridgeway whirled to his right and saw a stocky man with long straight brown hair. The man smiled at him, looked down at his lap, then quickly back up at Seth again. Seth followed the man’s eyes downward and immediately spotted the muzzle end of a silencer hidden under the folds of a paper napkin.

Seth looked back at Yost and watched as Yost nodded at the man with the long hair. The man nodded back, reached down, and plucked a forest-green knapsack from underneath the table. He then slid the silenced gun into the knapsack, placed a banknote on the table, and left without further communication.

“You don’t take many chances, do you?” Seth remarked.

“I am a very, very careful man, Mr. Ridgeway,” Yost said.

“But you’re taking one now, aren’t you?” Seth asked, as he turned his full attention to the man across the table from him. Yost’s raised eyebrows described the arc of an unspoken question on his forehead.