Rhodes strode confidently into the room, his hand extended. “You’re Paul Brown, aren’t you? You probably don’t remember me. I think we might have met at an embassy function a while ago. My name is Weston Rhodes.”

Paul stood and took his hand, now even more startled that the famous spy, Weston Rhodes, knew his name. He nearly knocked over his steaming cup of tea. “Everybody knows you, Mr. Rhodes. It’s an honor—”

Rhodes waved away the compliment. “Nonsense. We all have our parts to play, don’t we? Speaking of which, I was wondering if you were terribly busy at the moment.”

Paul turned around in his cramped little office, taking in the stacks of ledger books, notepads, cardboard boxes, a typewriter, a personal computer, a dot matrix printer, spreadsheets, and everything else he was using to conduct his current forensic investigation.

“Not really. What can I do for you?”

“Can you drive a stick shift?”

“Every Iowa farm boy does. Why?”

“I’ve got a little problem, and I need your help.”

“Name it.”

—

Rhodes talked their way through the few checkpoints they encountered on the way out of the city, doling out generous wads of paper lev to the Bulgarian policemen, resentful and bitter as always, but who nonetheless waved them through as they pocketed the cash in their coats.

Paul sat stiffly in the broken-down driver’s seat, his white-knuckled hands clutching the steering wheel like a life preserver, even after they cleared the city.

“You can relax now. This is the easy part,” Rhodes said. He took a swig from a flask, then offered it to Paul.

“No, thanks. Never touch the stuff.”

“Helps take the edge off,” Rhodes said, taking another swig and capping the flask.

“You do this kind of thing all the time?”

“Oh, you know, ‘When duty calls’ and all of that.”

“I think I like accounting better.”

“I’d shoot myself if I had to sit in an office all day.”

“It’s not that bad. Numbers are interesting. They tell a story—”

“Yes, I’m sure they do. Let me check the map.”

Paul tried to talk away his nervousness over the course of the next hour, but Rhodes wouldn’t have any part of it. He lit a cigarette and filled the cramped cab with smoke. Paul kept waving his hand in front of his face and even rolled his window down in the chill night air, but Rhodes didn’t give a damn and smoked one after the other.

The Lada wheezed and creaked over the two-lane asphalt, winding its way up the grade and into wooded farm country. Paul began to fidget. He’d forgotten to use the restroom before they left the embassy, and three cups of tea were battering against his tiny bladder.

“Slow down, I think we’re close,” Rhodes said, checking the map. “There, the next turn.”