He closed the cases and sat down, patting his pockets for something to feed the animal. Found nothing. There was a wallet, though. Stuffed with currency from four different countries. Plenty of euros.

The photo ID was his face, but the name was different. Kurt Grobler.

The man stood up slowly, took several long breaths, and then picked up the cases. He walked and walked until he found a convenience store. In there, on a local paper, he discovered that he was in Florence.

There were cans of dog food on a shelf, and he bought a dozen, as well as every kind of treat he could find. He paid for it, asked where he could find a cab, and took the taxi to the Hotel Bernini Palace on the Piazza di San Firenze. Big hotels were easier to become lost in. Fewer people noticed. And they allowed service animals.

Once he was inside his room, he fed Ghost, ordered room service, went into the bathroom to shower.

And was gone again before the water even hit his skin.

CHAPTER 39

PHOENIX HOUSE

OMFORI ISLAND, GREECE

“Explain to me what it is you’re doing.”

Scott Wilson pulled up a chair and sat next to Bug. He’d brought a peace offering of a quadruple-shot espresso with four Red Bull pumps and topped with chocolate whip and mocha sprinkles made special by the RTI barista, Mustapha. Wilson had winced while watching the drink being made because there was enough caffeine in there to give a coronary to a bronze statue of Atlas. It was known around Phoenix House as Bug’s Chug.

Wilson watched Bug sip—and sigh. The RTI’s chief of operations sipped from a cup of green tea with a drop of alfalfa honey.

“Which part of what I’m doing do you need explained?” asked Bug, dabbing at foam on his upper lip.

“You know what I mean,” said Wilson mildly. He was a short and very thin man who—to a casual stranger—looked like someone wasted by sickness. That was deceptive, though, because he was actually very fit, slender, and wiry. With his quiet business suits, striped club tie, pocket square, and thinning medium brown hair brushed straight back, he looked like a merchant banker or perhaps an estate lawyer for old money. Wilson had exceptionally pale skin and ice-blue eyes, both of which gave him a somewhat washed-out look. His Eton accent was precise and clipped, and his smile often looked more like a wince.