Buildings rose beside him, five-, six-, seven-story structures standing shoulder to shoulder, outlining a city block and forming a hollow core: ground floors occupied by restaurants and mom-and-pop stores, which opened to the street, and apartments above them, which were accessed through the Hof—the communal center courtyard, which, in this case, had been turned into tenant parking. He knew it from satellite images that he’d measured to the meter, and knew it by scent-triggered memories he couldn’t quite grasp.

The Berlin Savoy was through that courtyard, face to the parallel street.

It didn’t seem possible that out of all the hotels in Berlin, Dmitry would have chosen this one by chance. He assumed it was another nod, some secret handshake, like the way their birth names had been used for the Lufthansa tickets.

But Jack had been nine the last time they’d lived in Berlin.

The Savoy was where they’d stayed at first.

The hotel had a long history of secrets and spies, Clare had said, and she’d navigated the halls like she’d been there before, moving through staff-only spaces as if they belonged to her.

She owed someone a favor, she’d told them, and she’d left them for two days. Even then he’d known favors meant someone would die. Or live, depending on the circumstances and whose side she’d taken in whatever war went on inside her head.

They’d lived in the city another three months, he and his sister confined to a flat not far from here, assigned a stack of schoolwork, while Clare disappeared for weeks at a time. That apartment had been his prison until he’d mastered what Clare said should be mastered and knowledge had earned him freedom. For him, Berlin had been two weeks of running wild, and then they’d moved again. If this hotel choice was a message, he didn’t have the means to decode it. For that, he’d need Clare and, well . . .

For all he knew, it was Clare who’d sent the message in the first place.

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 9

JACK

HE REACHED A GAP BETWEEN BUILDINGS, A DRIVEWAY OF SORTS, AND followed it in toward the courtyard center, cautious of windows and balconies and rooftop positions he’d have taken if it were he waiting for someone like him to arrive.

The sound of engine and tires approached from behind.

He tracked the vehicle’s path, keying location, distance, speed.

A silver Mercedes passed by, and he quickened his stride.

The vehicle pulled into a reserved parking space. The driver exited for an inner entrance, and Jack followed, mental radar spinning. This was exactly the type of scenario Clare would have used to pop him in the back.

He reached the door, grabbed it before it shut, stepped inside.

The foyer became its multiple parts.

Mailboxes, garbage bin, umbrella holder, elevator, stairs.

Stairs up, stairs down.

The driver thumbed the elevator call button.