Marinov said, “He was forced to detour to Prague for a work emergency. We tried to reach you, but our previous communication channel was already disconnected. This”—he finger-drew a circle around the table—“the sudden notice, and the suspicion it would cast over his motives, was what he most wanted to avoid. The Savoy was the only remaining option, but it seems the message was . . .” He paused. “Not well received?”

Jill studied him, unblinking, neutral.

Not a good look had shifted from trying to force a baseline understanding into attempting to preempt objections, or as Clare would put it, showing a person the horseshit up front so they stopped looking for a bull. But the bit about the message did explain Jack’s request for silence. He didn’t want the guy across the table to know she didn’t know whatever she didn’t know.

This whole who’s-your-daddy adventure had shunted hard off the rails.

Marinov reached into the satchel, retrieved several pages, nudged them across the table in Jack’s direction, and rested his hand atop them to keep the breeze from carrying them away. “I sent these express to the Savoy, expecting you’d already have them before this morning,” he said. “Your father still very much wants to meet, but it will be a week, possibly longer, before he can leave Prague. He asked me to arrange for travel and a hotel, hoping you’d understand this was a situation over which he had no control.”

Jill tugged the pages from beneath his hand and glanced at them.

The hotel was Kings Court Prague, prepaid for a week as of tomorrow.

The tickets were Eurail Passes, which would allow them to plan their own routes.

She handed both to Jack who, still looking at Marinov, said, “I’d prefer to skip dealing with the messengers and speak with Dmitry directly.”

Marinov said, “That’s perfectly understandable and I’ll be sure to tell him. His English isn’t very good, though, so it’s possible he thinks he’ll make a better impression by first communicating face-to-face. That said”—Marinov dragged a cell phone from the satchel—“as a way to avoid repeating today, he did want you to have this. Maybe it’ll give him a chance to—as you said—skip the messengers. My number is in there. If you run into trouble, have questions, need anything, feel free to give a call. The lock-key code is your birth date.”

He slid the phone in Jack’s direction, just as he’d done with the papers—not toward the middle of the table, where they both would have access to it—directly to Jack, as if this was Jack’s decision to make.