“There you go,” Carmody said and cocked a finger at him. “Don’t spit at me for being considerate.”

Dixon looked at him.

“I thought we were done with Romania,” he said.

“Almost,” Carmody said. “Let’s call this trip in honor of the good old days.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Also, we have to stop there before heading to Crimea.”

“Well, hey now, Crimea,” Dixon said.

Carmody’s face grew serious. “I’m assembling a strike team,” he said. “This will be a lot for us to handle.”

Dixon was quiet a minute. He nodded at the training theater. “They’re heading down to be ambushed in that pit under the castle. What’d Wheeler call it?”

“An initiation well,” Carmody said. “It was built by the Knights Templar.”

“Right,” Dixon said and laughed ruefully. “Romania. Christ.”

Carmody looked at him. He motioned to the television tattoo on his bicep.

“There’s extended leave waiting for you when we’re done,” he said. “You and Else in the Bavarian Alps.”

Dixon was quiet a minute. “It’s gonna be bad, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Now you’re scaring me.”

Carmody shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Better you know than have to guess,” he said.

Grigor stayed one or two car lengths behind Musil after watching him drop his daughters off, following along as he drove toward the Manhattan-bound Queensboro Bridge. When the agent turned onto the entrance ramp, he continued past it on the busy avenue for a short distance, then swung onto a side street and found an empty parking spot.

Cutting his engine, he took out his phone and navigated to a home buyer’s website. The search bar asked for a preferred zip code, address or neighborhood for the desired purchase, and he typed in WOODMERE MIDDLE SCHOOL.

Five listings instantly came up. The third one down the screen read: “Beautiful bungalow at the end of an incredibly private cul-de-sac. 3 bedroom, 2 bath, elegant sunroom. Short walk from Main Street, Flushing. Situated near subways and intermediate school. For sale by owner. Available for immediate occupancy. Call: 718-555-7834.”

Grigor looked over the photos of the property, then reviewed its position on the GPS map inset that accompanied the listing. The home was a few blocks away from where he was parked.

He pulled out of the spot and drove over. The street was called Meadows Court. He rolled up past the bungalow, giving it a quick scan as he went on toward the dead-end sign, then cut the engine again.

The place was vacant. The street was quiet and tree-lined. Scrub brush and weeds had overgrown the metal rail marking the roadway’s terminus. Looking out his windshield, Grigor could see that he was at the crest of a low hill.

Perfect.

He dialed the number on the listing. A male voice answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Good morning,” Grigor said. “My name is Wendell Balen and I’m calling about your home ad. Forgive me for bothering you this early.”