The bartender was a woman in her late fifties, with arms men half her age would envy. She glanced his way, sized him up the way he sized up the room, and he continued in her direction, navigating the tight walkway between bar top and tables. He asked for svaák—mulled wine, popular in the colder Czech months—headed out back to a small patio, where remnants of warmer times were still evident on the trellis, pulled a chair free at one of the tables not yet put up, tucked his chin into the scarf, and wrapped his hands around the mug for warmth.

Late, late fall in Prague was a shitty time to be outdoors.

A light turned on in an upper-floor bathroom window across the courtyard.

That he was out here freezing, trying to catch a glimpse of her through the back side of a youth hostel, instead of across the street, watching its entrance, was case in point for why Prague had filled Cold War legends with intrigue and spies.

Forget geography and centuries of political alliances.

The lure was in the architecture, tight streets flush up against the buildings, solid walls, solid doors, limited ground-floor windows, block after block of man-made canyons, which left pedestrians exposed to the elements and to watchful eyes, and made it difficult to hide while out on the streets but easy to disappear once off them. The real living went on in the open spaces behind the walls, which was why a cold backyard patio was as close as he could get to her right now.

He sipped the svaák and watched the light.

Another half hour and he’d head back around the block, walk in through the front, and inquire about a room of his own, though there was a chance, as with everything she did, that the hostel was a ruse—that the light he watched wasn’t even hers—and that she’d slipped away while his back was turned.

Part of him would be relieved to discover that she had.

Trying to keep up with her was exhausting.

He tracked people to kill them and did what was necessary to stay invisible to those who wanted to kill him, but thirty-six hours of hopping trains and crossing borders, of sleeping in short bursts and second-guessing and triple-questioning every damn move, while tailing someone whose entire life had been a lesson in strategic evasion, had turned grueling patience, lateral thinking, and meticulous attention to detail into mental mush. He was ready to be done.

The upper-floor window dimmed with shadow.

He recognized its shape and averted his gaze, as if somehow that lessened the creep factor or made any difference at all if she knew he was watching.